Disclaimers and rating: as in previous chapter.
A/N: 1) Cigateo is an old name for Eleutera Island. 2) Canakkale is a town in Turkey on the southern side of the Straits of the Dardanelles. 3) There are some allusions to yet another story of mine, "Maid Or Not, It Suits You", so if you'd like to know more, you're most welcome to read it.
I'd like to thank all my wonderful reviewers. Special thanks for lovely Raphe1.
------------------------------
II
I hate the Black Pearl.
She's a good ship, a beautiful ship, yet I hate her. I can't stand being aboard. First days weren't that bad, though. We sailed from La Novia harbor, around the island, to the safe bay of El Novio (La Onza de Gracia has two towns, La Novia or The Bride in the south, and the sleepy little El Novio or The Groom in the north, two of them connected with a thread of a road); then we heeled the Black Pearl over and started the careening, cleaning the hull of barnacles and sea weed, covering it with pitch. We repaired ropes and sails, replaced rotten planks of the hull - all that took several days and wasn't bad. We're working, eating, singing and strolling around El Novio's steep streets. The town was tranquil and not very interesting, with pigs and dogs sleeping around the biggest puddle I've ever seen, right under the San Ignacio's church in the main square. There aren't as many inns and taverns here as in La Novia, where we freemen spend our money - El Novio bay is mainly a safe place for careening, and the town is living from selling fresh supplies for ships leaving La Onza de Gracia.
So there came the day to board the Black Pearl and sail away. I was happy at first, for Pau Segre's sloop was too small for me, and the Black Pearl is magnificent. It's been a long time since I've sailed on the galleon. Before walking the trap I looked upon the figurehead, a lady with a shell; she was freshly painted, but her eyes were still misty.
I stopped onboard and looked at the powerful middlemast, with its newly patched sails full of wind and pride. Anamaria stood behind me and patted me on the shoulder.
"Beautiful, ain't she?" somebody asked.
I turned around and saw Jack Sparrow. He wasn't looking at the sails, but at the captain's cabin, with carved sea deities guarding the entrance.
"Aye, she is," I said watching my boots.
"Yer first time on a galleon?"
"No," I said.
"What was your first?" asked Anamaria.
"A barquentine," I said.
My first ship was a barquentine called La Aranha, and it was under Captain Barbossa's orders. We're sailing under various colours, mostly Dutch and Portuguese ones. Then after a year we acquired a galleon - Captain's first. The Black Pearl was his second and last. I didn't have an opportunity to follow him there; he spent ten years on this ship and died for her and for her crew. He was standing on this bridge deck, he was using this cabin that now Jack Sparrow is using.
I can't stand all that, I don't know what to do. I'm going to forget my promise to the Commodore - the promise that is unvoiced and therefore more binding for me. I'm working under the orders of the man I won't ever call Captain. I have him here, laughing and singing and drinking with us, I'm going with him to Cancun... No, I'm not. I still have time, for it's a long way from La Onza de Gracia, past Mayaguana, Caicos, then Tortuga. I must figure him out as soon as possible and then lure him to Port Royal. And then let Norrington hang him. Let his sense of duty prevail.
I've never imagined that a man who killed my Captain can look so frail and unalarming. He's about my height, and that doesn't mean much. He's very slender, with long fingers, protruding cheekbones, with delicate nostrils, and with big, dark, kohl-lined eyes. It's these eyes that you notice first when talking to him - eyes that try to say more than mouth, try to ensnare, try to seduce, try to talk you into some dangerous agreement. He's slurring and skipping words, his quick hands touch you, beads and trinkets and amulets in his hair are dancing, and his sleek body is talking too - he's like a giant snake, all pliant and glittering, charming and exotic, yet having nothing to offer you except a deadly grip and a venom.
He's thinking about the ship he calls his all the time. For him, she's not means or a tool, she's an aim in herself, it seems she's harbouring his own soul somewhere inside her. He's talking to her without his usual slurring, he's walking around her, feeling the handrails and ropes, even in the night - I know it, for I'm usually on first or middle watch. He seems to be lost in his thoughts, but always has some time to stop and to talk with those who are on duty.
Yes, he's kind to his men, too kind. He's talking to them like to his equals and even more. His quartermaster, Gibbs, seems to be his closest friend, speaking with an air of some father-figure, patting Sparrow on his back. The beautiful and daring Anamaria is shouting at him and putting her nose high, and there's always plenty of disagreeing and petty arguments over things he decides. Sparrow doesn't care about it, as if the title of "Captain" that the crew is putting into every sentence were all he wants. How on earth can this man rule over a ship? They don't fear him, they don't respect him, and they don't understand that their familiar, careless fondness for him can be their death some day.
As my time on the Black Pearl goes by, I start to realize that Sparrow is, in fact, the only one here who has any idea what piracy on the high seas is about. He is a skilled sailor. He knows his charts, he's good at navigation, he knows not only the Spanish Main - and therefore his men can't do without him. I've heard the story of his escape from the noose - escape that was only in one-fourth his merit, for rest of the credits go to the Governor's son-in-law's sense of friendship, the Commodore's generosity, and the Black Pearl's sudden appearance. I've wondered why they came to his rescue, now I have my answer. They needed him. The most experienced of them, old Gibbs, doesn't know much about navigation, he's been just a common gob for most of his career. The same can be said about the courageous Anamaria - she cannot read charts to save her life. The rest of the crew didn't sail on anything bigger than sloops, scurrying around Tortuga and Hispaniola, and between smaller islands - but I doubt they went further than Cigateo to the north and Montserrat to the west. They were smuggling rum and tobacco, stealing ill-guarded cargo under cover of the night, running after a flotsam, and occassionally preying on unsuspecting brigantines. And now they have a galleon - no wonder they're scared.
They are good folks, most of them don't have criminal records. As far as I know, there's a mute old man, older even than Gibbs - his name is Cotton and he's "P" branded on his right forearm, like Sparrow. Then there is a Chinese named Little Chen, and he's branded on his arm over the elbow; then me, that makes four, and the crew numbers twenty three. Nineteen men without names aboard the great Black Pearl that sailed once under Captain Barbossa's commands! I remember the former crew of La Aranha - they were men you didn't want to look at. They knew what this life means - a fast hunt in which you are both hunter and prey; once you stepped under the black flag, there's no way out. You chase gold and pleasure and freedom and above all, the blessed oblivion, but there are much more chasers after you - illnesses, seastorms, accidents, quarrels that end in swift death, punishments that end in a slow one, people's hatred, your own carelessness, everything that your Lady Death sends to you. You have to run really fast.
And those good folks? Some of them have families, some have children; some of them dream about one big spoil that allows them to live happily till the peaceful end. They're fairly disappointed that the Royal Navy took care of the Isla de Muerte treasure, and hope to retrieve it one day. I don't know what Sparrow's plans are about Cancun, on the other hand; maybe he has a hidden map or something. I've heard of forgotten palaces and temples of the Maya... maybe Sparrow knows more. He apparently doesn't want to rob, pillage and plunder, he wants to lay his hands on a treasure that wouldn't be stained by blood - or to put it more precisely, not by blood shed by him. So there's nothing left to the crew than to seek for leftovers, it seems. And they don't want to go too far into the sea.
"No, I haven't no family," said Gibbs to me during the meal, looking at the sad everyday portion of hard-tack and salted pork. "Just an old sister o'mine. She's got no family either, an' is serving in Port Royal."
"What do you mean by 'serving'? What is she doing?"
"She's a servant, so she's serving some lady that's come here from England." He sighed. "Haven't seen poor old Sophie for like four months. Hope she's doin' well."
I sighed too almost against my will - but also for different reasons than Gibbs.
"Do you visit her sometimes, then?"
"Aye, I'm tryin' hard, mate. But 'tis not such an easy thing. I'm a deserter, you see, an' a pirate. Not a very safe business showin' myself in Port Royal. But the Captain promised me I can go while we're stayin' in Tortuga," he said with a happy smile.
I couldn't believe my own ears and was just sitting there gaping at him. Does Sparrow comply with every request of his crew? "Oh, Captain, I know we're goin' to Cancun, but I'd love to visit my poor old sister, can I?" Is this a pirate ship, or a board school?
"Don't want to leave the Spanish Main, t' tell you the truth," he continued. "'Tis good we're goin' to Cancun, that'll be not very far, an' maybe I can bring somethin' nice for Sophie. She ne'er liked me goin' with Jack Sparrow, God bless her soul. Even now, she's afraid for me, for she's heard that there are some of Barbossa's crew who might've escaped an' all that... Should calm her down an' show that I can help in her livin'." Finally he noticed my silence and added with sympathy, "what 'bout your own folks, Ritchie? Have any family here?"
I hardly suppressed a laugh and said, trying to look sad:
"Uhm, no... I regret it sometimes, though."
"Life's always hard, 'specially at sea," he nodded making a wise face, "but if you have a kind soul waiting for you, 'tis a lil' bit lighter, believe me. There are people like Jack, who doesn't like to be bound, but ev'rybody is goin' to need a family some day. Well, Jack seems not to like his family very much, with his mother bein' drunk all the time an' all that, but I'd bet he's thinkin' of her an' his folks. Blood bonds aren't to be shaken that easily, an' there's no mother in this world who doesn't love her child..."
"I'll take some more water," I said and went away, because I couldn't stand all that rubbish anymore, but I congratulated myself - at least my suffering wasn't in vain. Gibbs has a sister in Port Royal; it can come in handy later. Maybe it will help me to lure Sparrow there somehow. Anyway, I'm not going to Cancun with him. We're planning to stop at Tortuga to restock our supplies of water and food. I must talk him into going to Port Royal. He should be moved by the Commodore's feelings and pangs of conscience. After all, he's not only a good pirate, he's a good man too, right?
I've almost chuckled when I've heard Sparrow call Pau Segre a good pirate. He's a good material for a pirate, yes, but he still has to become a good one. He's afraid to kill, he trusts his first mate too much, he allows his crew to drink below the deck and doesn't know that his gunner is a lazy bastard and mistreats the powder monkey who's doing his job for him. What does count for Sparrow, then? The fact that Pau is a good drinking companion, that he likes to fraternize with his crew, or that he hesitates when he has to shoot a man? Oh, that must be the last. After all, Sparrow is said to be a man who sacked Nassau Port without firing a shot.
I'm laughing to myself, looking at the watch-glass. It's the earliest watch I've ever had on the Pearl - the last dog watch. I still have one full glass until midnight, and then I can go to sleep. We're already pretty tired of being at open sea so long, and there's still about two days to Tortuga. The crew is beginning to pick quarrels, and Gibbs had to forbid rolling dice. Anamaria has to sleep with her pistol under her right arm and doesn't allow us even to come too close to her. I'm thinking of Fanny's tender breasts. We're looking at each other like at a fresh meal.
I don't hear Sparrow's light steps. Damn, he's always moving so quietly. There's definitely more to him than he wants to show.
"Yer watch's nearly over, Ritchie," he says.
"Aye, it's my earliest one as for now."
"Who's next?"
"Little Chen. 'Twas to be Cotton, but he's on the binnacle list, poor devil."
"He'll be cured when we reach Tortuga," he smiles.
"Let's hope. Tortuga's not very safe nowadays. It's better we don't have sick people to care 'bout when we're there."
He looks at me with a long, thoughtful glance.
"'Tis nothin'. He's only one an' the ship can manage that much. Oh, but I had somethin' to ask you. Come to me cabin, when Little Chen changes you."
It's the first time I'm allowed to the captain's cabin. For a man who's practically friend with his whole crew, he's not very eager to let us in. I can understand that - the captain is the only one on board who's any privacy and it's only natural he values it. I'm wondering what he wants my advice for.
I enter the cabin and suddenly feel like running away. It's only a moment and I'm overcoming it quickly, but it's as if I was struck across the head, for it's a place I've seen before.
I've not only seen it, I've been almost living in it for nearly five years. I remember the Captain's cabin on La Aranha, and then on the galleon we got. I was serving as a cabin boy on both, I was cleaning the cabin, bringing the food, lighting the candles at night and blowing them off in the morning... and sometimes at night too, but it's another story. I was serving Captain's guests, both willing and unwilling ones. I know these curtains, these screens, these carved boxes alongside the walls. I recognize this mirror, these books, and is this tablecloth still an altar cape, embroidered with gold and silver and pearls?
I don't know if there are the same things the Captain had on his last ship before the Pearl, or if he simply got similar ones. All I know is that the place is almost the same as I knew it. There is his taste and his liking here. It's not Sparrow's cabin; it's Captain's. And it should remain his. What am I doing here, allowing his enemy to sit in his chair and to put his legs on the table? What am I doing here on this cursed ship?
"Sit down," Sparrow says.
I sit. No, it's not that altar cape I knew. It's an ordinary tablecloth, if something so rich can be called an ordinary one.
"Ye like my tablecloth? I've changed it. The former one was more interestin', though. A nice altar cape."
He's very amused, looking straight into my eyes.
"Oh... why did you change it?"
"Ye think it's the sacrilegious touch? Nup. Too much pearl decoration to me likin'. The bottle doesn't stand straight on it, ye see, what a waste. Well, don't need no pearls except the greatest one, anyway."
I smile to him.
"Aye, I see. You've been a cleric of the Church of England once, after all."
He's looking at me slightly leaning back in the chair. He's already noticed that I've never called him Captain, but he's not going to ask why; he wants to find out.
And I want to get out. There's an awkward silence, I'm looking down at the ornaments of the tablecloth.
"D'ye know what I'm going to ask you for?"
I shake my head. He bends over the chair's arm with a sudden grace of a cat. Yes, it's cats that he's been learning those quiet steps and liquid moves from. In fact, it's a pleasure to watch him move like this.
"Nothin' very important. Just this."
He handles me over a lute.
It's a medium-sized one, rather old and elegant. It's been carefully stored, but the wood is a bit too damp, and the rosette in the middle... I close my eyes for a moment - this lute, I remember it. The rosette is carved so delicately into some wild, flowery, almost living shape. I remember this instrument in the white, round hands of the Captain's lover; I remember it resounding along the walls of her stony, lonely house. I've always wanted to play it, but mostly wasn't allowed to, for it was Captain's love who always held it in her little greedy fingers.
"What am I to do with it?"
"Ye see," he says slowly, "the crew's startin' to act unpleasant, fer they're pretty bored an' needin' some amusement. Anamaria told me ye can play mandoline, so I thought that ye maybe can do somethin' with a lute too. What says you?"
He's looking at me with warm, even a bit pleading eyes. It's a valuable instrument, and he's entrusting it to me...
"It'll be my pleasure," I say happily.
"So ye can play lute, too."
"I can play almost everyting that has strings. Don't like violin that much, but lute... and mandoline... I'm not that bad with vihuela, and can play Arabian 'ud and Turkish baglama... if I were under pain of death, I can try even Chinese sanxian."
"Ah, yes, vihuela, an' that Chinese one. I know 'em. 'Ud, ye say? I've heard of it. Is it like lute?"
"Aye, but lower-tuned."
"An' that Turkish one? How d'ye call it? Baglama?" He's quick to learn. "Ne'er heard of it."
"'Tis not so much known... only in Turkey. Long neck and deep box. It's small, but has a truly powerful sound. And a very sweet at that. My favourite."
He laughs. Nice, soft laugh.
"Ye've been to many countries. What were ye doin' in Turkey?"
"Had a girl there. An' she was playing baglama," I say, and Inci's little figure is waving at me from dark depths of time past. "I hope she's still playing it."
I try the lute's sound, taking some accords of the old "Uskudara" melody. I remember us - Inci and me - sitting on the window-sill of an abandoned Turkish house, in women's quarters that still have some wooden bars at the windows, far away by the seashore, with the old Canakkale fortress behind us. We're running from people who are more powerful than us, but not as smart, so we're not so scared. We have money and horses, and the whole world is for us; Inci in boy's clothes is playing baglama, I am cleaning a pistol, and we are planning where to run next. The sea is close, but the wind among olive trees is ever so sweet, we know there is a hidden rhythm to all life, like to that baglama music... What happened to this rhythm now?...
I look at Sparrow. He's observing me with a keen amusement, and I can see he's certainly pleased with himself - maybe because his crew will have their relief and joy tomorrow, or maybe because he is trying to shorten the distance between us, and he thinks he succeeded.
"'Tis a good thing, to have a musician aboard. I know captains that would've tied you up when ship's at the dock, to prevent ye from runnin' away."
"I'm not that much of a musician," I say laughing, "and I'm not planning a runaway. Maybe the men will have me thrown overboard, when they hear how I'm playin'."
"At least remember to give me my lute back," he says with a smug smile. And I suddenly remember that it isn't his lute, after all. Maybe I'd manage to steal it back. I can see now that he doesn't want to be friendly to me; he wants to figure me out just like I am trying to figure him.
"How is it?" he asks. "Will it be any good fer some playin' tomorrow?"
"Well... it's in a fairly good state, but... I think the fret needs replacement."
"The fret, ye say. Do you think..."
He hesitates. And I suddenly see in his eyes something like a painful, guilty effort.
"...do you think the former Captain was playin' it often? If so, he could... there can be a spare fret in this cabin."
He turns away from me and goes to the bookshelves. What was that?... I feel like smashing the lute on the floor. Was there a pity in his voice? Was it for me or for the man he killed? Did he just say something about "this" cabin... not "his" cabin, but "this" cabin...
He's searching through the bookshelves. I know the Captain could play lute, but was there any spare strings or frets in his cabin? I don't know, I'm not sure about anything aboard this damned ship anymore.
"Come here, Ritchie," he says. "Ye can help me lookin' fer the bloody thing. I'm no musician, I don't even know very much how it looks like."
There aren't many bookshelves in here, but still... I'm trying to move every book on the other end, as far from Sparrow as possible. Spanish, Latin, oh... "Moll Flanders"... Spanish, Spanish, Spanish... what, is this "Celestina"? And this one, it's "Guzman de Alfarache" with sprinkles of blood on it. I know this book, I know who's blood this is.
"Can ye read Spanish?" he asks me. He knows Spanish too, he was impersonating a Spanish officer once.
"Aye, I can."
"This book's pretty amusin'."
"I've read it too."
"I've read ones that were tryin' to repeat what it was sayin'. Alas, in vain. This one is incomparable."
"What do you like so much about it?" I ask. "The thing about everybody being worth salvation, if only he repents and becomes a true Christian, or what?"
He doesn't pay attention to my suddenly angry tone and answers friendly:
"I'm not much prone to sermons, really, luv. I've been almost givin' it once, an' believe me, they're not very convincing even to the very priests who're givin' 'em."
"What it is, then? The whole thing about Guzman being a Jew and a good man?"
"I don't care a damn 'bout a man bein' a Jew, a Negro, or a Chinese. A good man is a good man and whoever yokes it with a colour or a nation, is a moron, nothin' more."
"So what it would be for you? The author's claiming his work is like a watchtower of a human life, but for you it's only a dull sermon."
"Oh, I think ye know what I'm talkin' about. It's the snake and the spider little thing."
"The snake and the spider? I don't remember that."
"Aw, but 'twas the only thing I've remembered when I read it first time. 'Tis a fancy allegory, Ritchie. Pity ye forgot it. All of us are livin' in ambush for each other, all of us are waitin' for the other to stumble an' fall, or to be off guard. The serpent is cunnin' an' powerful, but the spider waits until the serpent's asleep an' then descends his thread. If the serpent doesn't wake up, the spider'll grasp him by the neck an' kill him with his poison. But if the serpent wakes up, then he'll kill the spider with one blow. Now remember all that?"
Now I do remember. But wait, what is he going to tell me? He's looking at me with deep dark eyes, leaning on the bookshelves, with the glimmering ornaments in his hair - ornaments that are borrowing their glimmer from the candlelights.
"I believe that too," I say. "Humans are no better than animals, and even worse, for they know the meaning of pity, yet they never show it. Whoever gets killed, deserves it anyway, for he was as abominable as his killer all the same."
"Oh, but I didn't say I'm believin' that, ye know. I just said it impressed me mind greatly."
"You don't believe, but you're acting as if you believed it anyway," I say smilling. "Makes no difference for me."
He narrows his eyes, then takes "Guzman" from my hands.
"What do ye know to judge me? The very first day I met you ye're goin' to kill an innocent man - not 'cause of poor Anamaria, but 'cause ye're bored an' bold enough, an' because such was yer fancy."
"I don't think he was innocent."
"What was his fault then?"
"I don't need to look for any faults when I'm going to kill somebody. I just don't consider him innocent. There ain't no innocent people in this world."
"Ye think ye've never killed an innocent man."
"Aye, that's right. I think that Grey Inn's bloke deserved it anyway. It's just that neither you nor me know about it."
He smiles at me. His face is now only inches from mine; curse his catlikeness, I haven't even noticed when he did get so close to me.
"That's interestin'. What's that pity thing you were talkin' about, then?"
He smells faintly of rum. Only a little. I can feel the warmth from him... I want some of it.
"It's different," I say in a whisper. "You pity somebody when you surely know he's not innocent. You know that it's pity. You've received it more than once... somebody let you escape from the noose, though he knew you deserved to die."
"Who are ye talkin' about, I wonder?" he whispers too.
"You know who," I say. My hands are cold.
"Why are ye calling Commodore Norrington a somebody?" His voice is different now, there's a flicker of genuine wrath in his eyes. He doesn't want to be told anything about the Commodore. But it's because of himself. He's ashamed. He's blaming himself for something, and the thought of that escape is unbearable for him. Now there's a riddle. Why? Is it not one more thing to boast?
"Thought you may have forgotten him."
"An' what have you to do with that?"
"Nothing. Just picking up an example of what pity is," I say looking at him innocently.
"What's makin' ye think he showed me pity? I've stolen his ship, saved his little rival's life, then I've ridiculed him runnin' away from under his very nose. An' he let me go, because he pitied me? Please."
So he is suspecting it. He is suspecting Commodore's sympathy for him, but he can't believe it. He wants to believe it, but he knows that it's impossible. He knows that it's impossible, but he is himself a living proof that he was redeemed by a man who was ready to pay with his life for the happiness and security of others.
"What was it, if not pity?"
"Pity's a thing unknown to soldiers, Ritchie. He's an officer of the Royal Navy. He hates pirates more than a housewife hates cockroaches an' mice. He wants the Caribbean cleared of the likes of us. Or d'ye prefer to think you can escape with yer life, when you go to Port Royal?"
"Oh, but he let you go. Maybe you are special?"
He steps back and sighs.
"He couldn't do anything. I've fallen down an' that's it. The Pearl came to me. He knew we'd escape, she's the fastest ship in the Caribbean."
"He could've pursued you. The Pearl has not many friends in the Spanish Main after these ten years. You'd loss that fight. But he didn't go after you. He spared you. He pitied you."
He sighs again and rolls his eyes, but is listening to me.
"The Commodore's spared not only me that day."
"Right, he let that boy go free too... what was his name?"
"Will Turner."
"Whatever... the Governor's son-in-law. But I think he didn't care about him; he's lost the girl's heart for good, anyway. An' he's quite a noble man, what would he gain by hangin' the poor lad? Wouldn't win his lady back, right? 'Tis you his pity was for."
"He was goin' to see me hanged."
What's this strange emotion I hear in his voice? It's bitterness, but not about Commodore's actions. Yes, Sparrow thinks he somewhat deserved hanging; just as I used to think about myself when I was younger and had still those miserable moments of regret and remorse. But I had a good mentor who taught me to laugh at my remorse and to mock my regret; and Sparrow? He has just met a man who made him realize that there are other things than pursuing his own pleasure and greed.
"That's his job, isn't it? But he wasn't going to enjoy it. He's a good man. Just like you - plunderin' and pilferin' is your job, but you're a good man." I look down modestly.
And when I raise my eyes, he's right here by me. I catch my breath; his dark eyes are so close, he almost scares me.
"If I am a good man, who are you then?" he asks in a strangely soft voice. I feel sudden shivers. Why does he seem so composed, is he not drunk?
"I am a pirate and nothing more," I say, looking up at him. "I do know what pity is, though."
"Oh, so ye do show it sometimes? Interesting." His lips twist in a half-cruel, half-playful smile. Is he playing with me now? And I feel a sudden wave of warmth. I like this smell of rum, I like this strange closeness... I want more of it, and I draw closer too. He may be trying to play with me, but I do like it.
"Haven't met anybody deserving it," I say plainly, "for quite a long time. Besides, who'd need it anyway? But you, you are different. You're a captain, so much depends on you. There are always people who'd need your generosity one day."
"You're right," he says with this strange smile, lowering his head; his dark dreads with trinkets and amulets hide his face for a moment, then he straightens up, looking down at me. "But it seems to me ye still don't know rules here. Yer goin' to show pity, no matter ye like it or not, as long as yer under my orders. No torturin' prisoners, no rapin', no beatin', an' no random killin', savvy?"
"Aye," I say looking into his eyes. He's still so close, almost touching me. His left hand is holding up the bookshelf right by my arm, as if he were trying to keep his balance. Is he drunk or only pretending, or what? Why the hell is he not touching me?
"There's one nice exception to the rules, an' maybe it'll make ye happy. If we ever encounter anyone of Barbossa's crew, yer allowed to kill 'em or to do whatever pleases you. Savvy that?"
"Savvy," I say absent-mindedly, feeling cold again - he's stepping back from me.
"Good. Go to sleep now. Oh, an' it seems ye'll have to try playin' the lute as it is. Maybe we'll have to look for that fret again tomorrow."
Hasn't my Lady Death just winked at me? Never mind, I'm going to ignore her this time.
tbc
A/N: 1) Cigateo is an old name for Eleutera Island. 2) Canakkale is a town in Turkey on the southern side of the Straits of the Dardanelles. 3) There are some allusions to yet another story of mine, "Maid Or Not, It Suits You", so if you'd like to know more, you're most welcome to read it.
I'd like to thank all my wonderful reviewers. Special thanks for lovely Raphe1.
------------------------------
II
I hate the Black Pearl.
She's a good ship, a beautiful ship, yet I hate her. I can't stand being aboard. First days weren't that bad, though. We sailed from La Novia harbor, around the island, to the safe bay of El Novio (La Onza de Gracia has two towns, La Novia or The Bride in the south, and the sleepy little El Novio or The Groom in the north, two of them connected with a thread of a road); then we heeled the Black Pearl over and started the careening, cleaning the hull of barnacles and sea weed, covering it with pitch. We repaired ropes and sails, replaced rotten planks of the hull - all that took several days and wasn't bad. We're working, eating, singing and strolling around El Novio's steep streets. The town was tranquil and not very interesting, with pigs and dogs sleeping around the biggest puddle I've ever seen, right under the San Ignacio's church in the main square. There aren't as many inns and taverns here as in La Novia, where we freemen spend our money - El Novio bay is mainly a safe place for careening, and the town is living from selling fresh supplies for ships leaving La Onza de Gracia.
So there came the day to board the Black Pearl and sail away. I was happy at first, for Pau Segre's sloop was too small for me, and the Black Pearl is magnificent. It's been a long time since I've sailed on the galleon. Before walking the trap I looked upon the figurehead, a lady with a shell; she was freshly painted, but her eyes were still misty.
I stopped onboard and looked at the powerful middlemast, with its newly patched sails full of wind and pride. Anamaria stood behind me and patted me on the shoulder.
"Beautiful, ain't she?" somebody asked.
I turned around and saw Jack Sparrow. He wasn't looking at the sails, but at the captain's cabin, with carved sea deities guarding the entrance.
"Aye, she is," I said watching my boots.
"Yer first time on a galleon?"
"No," I said.
"What was your first?" asked Anamaria.
"A barquentine," I said.
My first ship was a barquentine called La Aranha, and it was under Captain Barbossa's orders. We're sailing under various colours, mostly Dutch and Portuguese ones. Then after a year we acquired a galleon - Captain's first. The Black Pearl was his second and last. I didn't have an opportunity to follow him there; he spent ten years on this ship and died for her and for her crew. He was standing on this bridge deck, he was using this cabin that now Jack Sparrow is using.
I can't stand all that, I don't know what to do. I'm going to forget my promise to the Commodore - the promise that is unvoiced and therefore more binding for me. I'm working under the orders of the man I won't ever call Captain. I have him here, laughing and singing and drinking with us, I'm going with him to Cancun... No, I'm not. I still have time, for it's a long way from La Onza de Gracia, past Mayaguana, Caicos, then Tortuga. I must figure him out as soon as possible and then lure him to Port Royal. And then let Norrington hang him. Let his sense of duty prevail.
I've never imagined that a man who killed my Captain can look so frail and unalarming. He's about my height, and that doesn't mean much. He's very slender, with long fingers, protruding cheekbones, with delicate nostrils, and with big, dark, kohl-lined eyes. It's these eyes that you notice first when talking to him - eyes that try to say more than mouth, try to ensnare, try to seduce, try to talk you into some dangerous agreement. He's slurring and skipping words, his quick hands touch you, beads and trinkets and amulets in his hair are dancing, and his sleek body is talking too - he's like a giant snake, all pliant and glittering, charming and exotic, yet having nothing to offer you except a deadly grip and a venom.
He's thinking about the ship he calls his all the time. For him, she's not means or a tool, she's an aim in herself, it seems she's harbouring his own soul somewhere inside her. He's talking to her without his usual slurring, he's walking around her, feeling the handrails and ropes, even in the night - I know it, for I'm usually on first or middle watch. He seems to be lost in his thoughts, but always has some time to stop and to talk with those who are on duty.
Yes, he's kind to his men, too kind. He's talking to them like to his equals and even more. His quartermaster, Gibbs, seems to be his closest friend, speaking with an air of some father-figure, patting Sparrow on his back. The beautiful and daring Anamaria is shouting at him and putting her nose high, and there's always plenty of disagreeing and petty arguments over things he decides. Sparrow doesn't care about it, as if the title of "Captain" that the crew is putting into every sentence were all he wants. How on earth can this man rule over a ship? They don't fear him, they don't respect him, and they don't understand that their familiar, careless fondness for him can be their death some day.
As my time on the Black Pearl goes by, I start to realize that Sparrow is, in fact, the only one here who has any idea what piracy on the high seas is about. He is a skilled sailor. He knows his charts, he's good at navigation, he knows not only the Spanish Main - and therefore his men can't do without him. I've heard the story of his escape from the noose - escape that was only in one-fourth his merit, for rest of the credits go to the Governor's son-in-law's sense of friendship, the Commodore's generosity, and the Black Pearl's sudden appearance. I've wondered why they came to his rescue, now I have my answer. They needed him. The most experienced of them, old Gibbs, doesn't know much about navigation, he's been just a common gob for most of his career. The same can be said about the courageous Anamaria - she cannot read charts to save her life. The rest of the crew didn't sail on anything bigger than sloops, scurrying around Tortuga and Hispaniola, and between smaller islands - but I doubt they went further than Cigateo to the north and Montserrat to the west. They were smuggling rum and tobacco, stealing ill-guarded cargo under cover of the night, running after a flotsam, and occassionally preying on unsuspecting brigantines. And now they have a galleon - no wonder they're scared.
They are good folks, most of them don't have criminal records. As far as I know, there's a mute old man, older even than Gibbs - his name is Cotton and he's "P" branded on his right forearm, like Sparrow. Then there is a Chinese named Little Chen, and he's branded on his arm over the elbow; then me, that makes four, and the crew numbers twenty three. Nineteen men without names aboard the great Black Pearl that sailed once under Captain Barbossa's commands! I remember the former crew of La Aranha - they were men you didn't want to look at. They knew what this life means - a fast hunt in which you are both hunter and prey; once you stepped under the black flag, there's no way out. You chase gold and pleasure and freedom and above all, the blessed oblivion, but there are much more chasers after you - illnesses, seastorms, accidents, quarrels that end in swift death, punishments that end in a slow one, people's hatred, your own carelessness, everything that your Lady Death sends to you. You have to run really fast.
And those good folks? Some of them have families, some have children; some of them dream about one big spoil that allows them to live happily till the peaceful end. They're fairly disappointed that the Royal Navy took care of the Isla de Muerte treasure, and hope to retrieve it one day. I don't know what Sparrow's plans are about Cancun, on the other hand; maybe he has a hidden map or something. I've heard of forgotten palaces and temples of the Maya... maybe Sparrow knows more. He apparently doesn't want to rob, pillage and plunder, he wants to lay his hands on a treasure that wouldn't be stained by blood - or to put it more precisely, not by blood shed by him. So there's nothing left to the crew than to seek for leftovers, it seems. And they don't want to go too far into the sea.
"No, I haven't no family," said Gibbs to me during the meal, looking at the sad everyday portion of hard-tack and salted pork. "Just an old sister o'mine. She's got no family either, an' is serving in Port Royal."
"What do you mean by 'serving'? What is she doing?"
"She's a servant, so she's serving some lady that's come here from England." He sighed. "Haven't seen poor old Sophie for like four months. Hope she's doin' well."
I sighed too almost against my will - but also for different reasons than Gibbs.
"Do you visit her sometimes, then?"
"Aye, I'm tryin' hard, mate. But 'tis not such an easy thing. I'm a deserter, you see, an' a pirate. Not a very safe business showin' myself in Port Royal. But the Captain promised me I can go while we're stayin' in Tortuga," he said with a happy smile.
I couldn't believe my own ears and was just sitting there gaping at him. Does Sparrow comply with every request of his crew? "Oh, Captain, I know we're goin' to Cancun, but I'd love to visit my poor old sister, can I?" Is this a pirate ship, or a board school?
"Don't want to leave the Spanish Main, t' tell you the truth," he continued. "'Tis good we're goin' to Cancun, that'll be not very far, an' maybe I can bring somethin' nice for Sophie. She ne'er liked me goin' with Jack Sparrow, God bless her soul. Even now, she's afraid for me, for she's heard that there are some of Barbossa's crew who might've escaped an' all that... Should calm her down an' show that I can help in her livin'." Finally he noticed my silence and added with sympathy, "what 'bout your own folks, Ritchie? Have any family here?"
I hardly suppressed a laugh and said, trying to look sad:
"Uhm, no... I regret it sometimes, though."
"Life's always hard, 'specially at sea," he nodded making a wise face, "but if you have a kind soul waiting for you, 'tis a lil' bit lighter, believe me. There are people like Jack, who doesn't like to be bound, but ev'rybody is goin' to need a family some day. Well, Jack seems not to like his family very much, with his mother bein' drunk all the time an' all that, but I'd bet he's thinkin' of her an' his folks. Blood bonds aren't to be shaken that easily, an' there's no mother in this world who doesn't love her child..."
"I'll take some more water," I said and went away, because I couldn't stand all that rubbish anymore, but I congratulated myself - at least my suffering wasn't in vain. Gibbs has a sister in Port Royal; it can come in handy later. Maybe it will help me to lure Sparrow there somehow. Anyway, I'm not going to Cancun with him. We're planning to stop at Tortuga to restock our supplies of water and food. I must talk him into going to Port Royal. He should be moved by the Commodore's feelings and pangs of conscience. After all, he's not only a good pirate, he's a good man too, right?
I've almost chuckled when I've heard Sparrow call Pau Segre a good pirate. He's a good material for a pirate, yes, but he still has to become a good one. He's afraid to kill, he trusts his first mate too much, he allows his crew to drink below the deck and doesn't know that his gunner is a lazy bastard and mistreats the powder monkey who's doing his job for him. What does count for Sparrow, then? The fact that Pau is a good drinking companion, that he likes to fraternize with his crew, or that he hesitates when he has to shoot a man? Oh, that must be the last. After all, Sparrow is said to be a man who sacked Nassau Port without firing a shot.
I'm laughing to myself, looking at the watch-glass. It's the earliest watch I've ever had on the Pearl - the last dog watch. I still have one full glass until midnight, and then I can go to sleep. We're already pretty tired of being at open sea so long, and there's still about two days to Tortuga. The crew is beginning to pick quarrels, and Gibbs had to forbid rolling dice. Anamaria has to sleep with her pistol under her right arm and doesn't allow us even to come too close to her. I'm thinking of Fanny's tender breasts. We're looking at each other like at a fresh meal.
I don't hear Sparrow's light steps. Damn, he's always moving so quietly. There's definitely more to him than he wants to show.
"Yer watch's nearly over, Ritchie," he says.
"Aye, it's my earliest one as for now."
"Who's next?"
"Little Chen. 'Twas to be Cotton, but he's on the binnacle list, poor devil."
"He'll be cured when we reach Tortuga," he smiles.
"Let's hope. Tortuga's not very safe nowadays. It's better we don't have sick people to care 'bout when we're there."
He looks at me with a long, thoughtful glance.
"'Tis nothin'. He's only one an' the ship can manage that much. Oh, but I had somethin' to ask you. Come to me cabin, when Little Chen changes you."
It's the first time I'm allowed to the captain's cabin. For a man who's practically friend with his whole crew, he's not very eager to let us in. I can understand that - the captain is the only one on board who's any privacy and it's only natural he values it. I'm wondering what he wants my advice for.
I enter the cabin and suddenly feel like running away. It's only a moment and I'm overcoming it quickly, but it's as if I was struck across the head, for it's a place I've seen before.
I've not only seen it, I've been almost living in it for nearly five years. I remember the Captain's cabin on La Aranha, and then on the galleon we got. I was serving as a cabin boy on both, I was cleaning the cabin, bringing the food, lighting the candles at night and blowing them off in the morning... and sometimes at night too, but it's another story. I was serving Captain's guests, both willing and unwilling ones. I know these curtains, these screens, these carved boxes alongside the walls. I recognize this mirror, these books, and is this tablecloth still an altar cape, embroidered with gold and silver and pearls?
I don't know if there are the same things the Captain had on his last ship before the Pearl, or if he simply got similar ones. All I know is that the place is almost the same as I knew it. There is his taste and his liking here. It's not Sparrow's cabin; it's Captain's. And it should remain his. What am I doing here, allowing his enemy to sit in his chair and to put his legs on the table? What am I doing here on this cursed ship?
"Sit down," Sparrow says.
I sit. No, it's not that altar cape I knew. It's an ordinary tablecloth, if something so rich can be called an ordinary one.
"Ye like my tablecloth? I've changed it. The former one was more interestin', though. A nice altar cape."
He's very amused, looking straight into my eyes.
"Oh... why did you change it?"
"Ye think it's the sacrilegious touch? Nup. Too much pearl decoration to me likin'. The bottle doesn't stand straight on it, ye see, what a waste. Well, don't need no pearls except the greatest one, anyway."
I smile to him.
"Aye, I see. You've been a cleric of the Church of England once, after all."
He's looking at me slightly leaning back in the chair. He's already noticed that I've never called him Captain, but he's not going to ask why; he wants to find out.
And I want to get out. There's an awkward silence, I'm looking down at the ornaments of the tablecloth.
"D'ye know what I'm going to ask you for?"
I shake my head. He bends over the chair's arm with a sudden grace of a cat. Yes, it's cats that he's been learning those quiet steps and liquid moves from. In fact, it's a pleasure to watch him move like this.
"Nothin' very important. Just this."
He handles me over a lute.
It's a medium-sized one, rather old and elegant. It's been carefully stored, but the wood is a bit too damp, and the rosette in the middle... I close my eyes for a moment - this lute, I remember it. The rosette is carved so delicately into some wild, flowery, almost living shape. I remember this instrument in the white, round hands of the Captain's lover; I remember it resounding along the walls of her stony, lonely house. I've always wanted to play it, but mostly wasn't allowed to, for it was Captain's love who always held it in her little greedy fingers.
"What am I to do with it?"
"Ye see," he says slowly, "the crew's startin' to act unpleasant, fer they're pretty bored an' needin' some amusement. Anamaria told me ye can play mandoline, so I thought that ye maybe can do somethin' with a lute too. What says you?"
He's looking at me with warm, even a bit pleading eyes. It's a valuable instrument, and he's entrusting it to me...
"It'll be my pleasure," I say happily.
"So ye can play lute, too."
"I can play almost everyting that has strings. Don't like violin that much, but lute... and mandoline... I'm not that bad with vihuela, and can play Arabian 'ud and Turkish baglama... if I were under pain of death, I can try even Chinese sanxian."
"Ah, yes, vihuela, an' that Chinese one. I know 'em. 'Ud, ye say? I've heard of it. Is it like lute?"
"Aye, but lower-tuned."
"An' that Turkish one? How d'ye call it? Baglama?" He's quick to learn. "Ne'er heard of it."
"'Tis not so much known... only in Turkey. Long neck and deep box. It's small, but has a truly powerful sound. And a very sweet at that. My favourite."
He laughs. Nice, soft laugh.
"Ye've been to many countries. What were ye doin' in Turkey?"
"Had a girl there. An' she was playing baglama," I say, and Inci's little figure is waving at me from dark depths of time past. "I hope she's still playing it."
I try the lute's sound, taking some accords of the old "Uskudara" melody. I remember us - Inci and me - sitting on the window-sill of an abandoned Turkish house, in women's quarters that still have some wooden bars at the windows, far away by the seashore, with the old Canakkale fortress behind us. We're running from people who are more powerful than us, but not as smart, so we're not so scared. We have money and horses, and the whole world is for us; Inci in boy's clothes is playing baglama, I am cleaning a pistol, and we are planning where to run next. The sea is close, but the wind among olive trees is ever so sweet, we know there is a hidden rhythm to all life, like to that baglama music... What happened to this rhythm now?...
I look at Sparrow. He's observing me with a keen amusement, and I can see he's certainly pleased with himself - maybe because his crew will have their relief and joy tomorrow, or maybe because he is trying to shorten the distance between us, and he thinks he succeeded.
"'Tis a good thing, to have a musician aboard. I know captains that would've tied you up when ship's at the dock, to prevent ye from runnin' away."
"I'm not that much of a musician," I say laughing, "and I'm not planning a runaway. Maybe the men will have me thrown overboard, when they hear how I'm playin'."
"At least remember to give me my lute back," he says with a smug smile. And I suddenly remember that it isn't his lute, after all. Maybe I'd manage to steal it back. I can see now that he doesn't want to be friendly to me; he wants to figure me out just like I am trying to figure him.
"How is it?" he asks. "Will it be any good fer some playin' tomorrow?"
"Well... it's in a fairly good state, but... I think the fret needs replacement."
"The fret, ye say. Do you think..."
He hesitates. And I suddenly see in his eyes something like a painful, guilty effort.
"...do you think the former Captain was playin' it often? If so, he could... there can be a spare fret in this cabin."
He turns away from me and goes to the bookshelves. What was that?... I feel like smashing the lute on the floor. Was there a pity in his voice? Was it for me or for the man he killed? Did he just say something about "this" cabin... not "his" cabin, but "this" cabin...
He's searching through the bookshelves. I know the Captain could play lute, but was there any spare strings or frets in his cabin? I don't know, I'm not sure about anything aboard this damned ship anymore.
"Come here, Ritchie," he says. "Ye can help me lookin' fer the bloody thing. I'm no musician, I don't even know very much how it looks like."
There aren't many bookshelves in here, but still... I'm trying to move every book on the other end, as far from Sparrow as possible. Spanish, Latin, oh... "Moll Flanders"... Spanish, Spanish, Spanish... what, is this "Celestina"? And this one, it's "Guzman de Alfarache" with sprinkles of blood on it. I know this book, I know who's blood this is.
"Can ye read Spanish?" he asks me. He knows Spanish too, he was impersonating a Spanish officer once.
"Aye, I can."
"This book's pretty amusin'."
"I've read it too."
"I've read ones that were tryin' to repeat what it was sayin'. Alas, in vain. This one is incomparable."
"What do you like so much about it?" I ask. "The thing about everybody being worth salvation, if only he repents and becomes a true Christian, or what?"
He doesn't pay attention to my suddenly angry tone and answers friendly:
"I'm not much prone to sermons, really, luv. I've been almost givin' it once, an' believe me, they're not very convincing even to the very priests who're givin' 'em."
"What it is, then? The whole thing about Guzman being a Jew and a good man?"
"I don't care a damn 'bout a man bein' a Jew, a Negro, or a Chinese. A good man is a good man and whoever yokes it with a colour or a nation, is a moron, nothin' more."
"So what it would be for you? The author's claiming his work is like a watchtower of a human life, but for you it's only a dull sermon."
"Oh, I think ye know what I'm talkin' about. It's the snake and the spider little thing."
"The snake and the spider? I don't remember that."
"Aw, but 'twas the only thing I've remembered when I read it first time. 'Tis a fancy allegory, Ritchie. Pity ye forgot it. All of us are livin' in ambush for each other, all of us are waitin' for the other to stumble an' fall, or to be off guard. The serpent is cunnin' an' powerful, but the spider waits until the serpent's asleep an' then descends his thread. If the serpent doesn't wake up, the spider'll grasp him by the neck an' kill him with his poison. But if the serpent wakes up, then he'll kill the spider with one blow. Now remember all that?"
Now I do remember. But wait, what is he going to tell me? He's looking at me with deep dark eyes, leaning on the bookshelves, with the glimmering ornaments in his hair - ornaments that are borrowing their glimmer from the candlelights.
"I believe that too," I say. "Humans are no better than animals, and even worse, for they know the meaning of pity, yet they never show it. Whoever gets killed, deserves it anyway, for he was as abominable as his killer all the same."
"Oh, but I didn't say I'm believin' that, ye know. I just said it impressed me mind greatly."
"You don't believe, but you're acting as if you believed it anyway," I say smilling. "Makes no difference for me."
He narrows his eyes, then takes "Guzman" from my hands.
"What do ye know to judge me? The very first day I met you ye're goin' to kill an innocent man - not 'cause of poor Anamaria, but 'cause ye're bored an' bold enough, an' because such was yer fancy."
"I don't think he was innocent."
"What was his fault then?"
"I don't need to look for any faults when I'm going to kill somebody. I just don't consider him innocent. There ain't no innocent people in this world."
"Ye think ye've never killed an innocent man."
"Aye, that's right. I think that Grey Inn's bloke deserved it anyway. It's just that neither you nor me know about it."
He smiles at me. His face is now only inches from mine; curse his catlikeness, I haven't even noticed when he did get so close to me.
"That's interestin'. What's that pity thing you were talkin' about, then?"
He smells faintly of rum. Only a little. I can feel the warmth from him... I want some of it.
"It's different," I say in a whisper. "You pity somebody when you surely know he's not innocent. You know that it's pity. You've received it more than once... somebody let you escape from the noose, though he knew you deserved to die."
"Who are ye talkin' about, I wonder?" he whispers too.
"You know who," I say. My hands are cold.
"Why are ye calling Commodore Norrington a somebody?" His voice is different now, there's a flicker of genuine wrath in his eyes. He doesn't want to be told anything about the Commodore. But it's because of himself. He's ashamed. He's blaming himself for something, and the thought of that escape is unbearable for him. Now there's a riddle. Why? Is it not one more thing to boast?
"Thought you may have forgotten him."
"An' what have you to do with that?"
"Nothing. Just picking up an example of what pity is," I say looking at him innocently.
"What's makin' ye think he showed me pity? I've stolen his ship, saved his little rival's life, then I've ridiculed him runnin' away from under his very nose. An' he let me go, because he pitied me? Please."
So he is suspecting it. He is suspecting Commodore's sympathy for him, but he can't believe it. He wants to believe it, but he knows that it's impossible. He knows that it's impossible, but he is himself a living proof that he was redeemed by a man who was ready to pay with his life for the happiness and security of others.
"What was it, if not pity?"
"Pity's a thing unknown to soldiers, Ritchie. He's an officer of the Royal Navy. He hates pirates more than a housewife hates cockroaches an' mice. He wants the Caribbean cleared of the likes of us. Or d'ye prefer to think you can escape with yer life, when you go to Port Royal?"
"Oh, but he let you go. Maybe you are special?"
He steps back and sighs.
"He couldn't do anything. I've fallen down an' that's it. The Pearl came to me. He knew we'd escape, she's the fastest ship in the Caribbean."
"He could've pursued you. The Pearl has not many friends in the Spanish Main after these ten years. You'd loss that fight. But he didn't go after you. He spared you. He pitied you."
He sighs again and rolls his eyes, but is listening to me.
"The Commodore's spared not only me that day."
"Right, he let that boy go free too... what was his name?"
"Will Turner."
"Whatever... the Governor's son-in-law. But I think he didn't care about him; he's lost the girl's heart for good, anyway. An' he's quite a noble man, what would he gain by hangin' the poor lad? Wouldn't win his lady back, right? 'Tis you his pity was for."
"He was goin' to see me hanged."
What's this strange emotion I hear in his voice? It's bitterness, but not about Commodore's actions. Yes, Sparrow thinks he somewhat deserved hanging; just as I used to think about myself when I was younger and had still those miserable moments of regret and remorse. But I had a good mentor who taught me to laugh at my remorse and to mock my regret; and Sparrow? He has just met a man who made him realize that there are other things than pursuing his own pleasure and greed.
"That's his job, isn't it? But he wasn't going to enjoy it. He's a good man. Just like you - plunderin' and pilferin' is your job, but you're a good man." I look down modestly.
And when I raise my eyes, he's right here by me. I catch my breath; his dark eyes are so close, he almost scares me.
"If I am a good man, who are you then?" he asks in a strangely soft voice. I feel sudden shivers. Why does he seem so composed, is he not drunk?
"I am a pirate and nothing more," I say, looking up at him. "I do know what pity is, though."
"Oh, so ye do show it sometimes? Interesting." His lips twist in a half-cruel, half-playful smile. Is he playing with me now? And I feel a sudden wave of warmth. I like this smell of rum, I like this strange closeness... I want more of it, and I draw closer too. He may be trying to play with me, but I do like it.
"Haven't met anybody deserving it," I say plainly, "for quite a long time. Besides, who'd need it anyway? But you, you are different. You're a captain, so much depends on you. There are always people who'd need your generosity one day."
"You're right," he says with this strange smile, lowering his head; his dark dreads with trinkets and amulets hide his face for a moment, then he straightens up, looking down at me. "But it seems to me ye still don't know rules here. Yer goin' to show pity, no matter ye like it or not, as long as yer under my orders. No torturin' prisoners, no rapin', no beatin', an' no random killin', savvy?"
"Aye," I say looking into his eyes. He's still so close, almost touching me. His left hand is holding up the bookshelf right by my arm, as if he were trying to keep his balance. Is he drunk or only pretending, or what? Why the hell is he not touching me?
"There's one nice exception to the rules, an' maybe it'll make ye happy. If we ever encounter anyone of Barbossa's crew, yer allowed to kill 'em or to do whatever pleases you. Savvy that?"
"Savvy," I say absent-mindedly, feeling cold again - he's stepping back from me.
"Good. Go to sleep now. Oh, an' it seems ye'll have to try playin' the lute as it is. Maybe we'll have to look for that fret again tomorrow."
Hasn't my Lady Death just winked at me? Never mind, I'm going to ignore her this time.
tbc