Chapter Three: Politics

They faced each other squarely over the table and two dented metal tankards. She scooted forward with a demure smile and reached for her cup; underneath the table, their knees banged together. Jack winced— she didn't notice— and felt around down there. His fingers closed over something and her eyes widened.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, luv. I thought that felt a bit— bonier than your average knee—"

"Do you mind?" Her foot connected with his shin, and he winced again.

"Well, actually, yes, that hurt—"

"Well, that was very improper of you, you know, to reach down and grab a young woman's knee when you haven't even known her for half an hour—" The foot connected again, and Jack closed his eyes, putting his hands in the air.

"Look, luv, a truce between us. I won't touch ye, and ye won't hurt me no more, a'right?"

She paused, eyes narrowed, examining his face; apparently she found nothing to object to, and so the scrutiny turned to a beautific smile and a hand outstretched above the table, the fingers slim and blue and with a peculiar texture that he could only assume was a result of minor decomposition. Even in Jack's uneducated mind, this led to all sorts of terrible puns about major and minor decomposition and composition and dead composers, and he grimaced slightly as the awful jokes jostled for position in his brain.

"Truce," she said, and he took her hand, shook it firmly, and nodded.

"A'right then, drink up. Nothing better fer bein' dead than a drink or two, or p'r'aps more. We'll see. The night is young even if I ain't. Drink up, lass."

"Tell me, first," she said, shifting the cup around in a circle by gradual degrees, "how it is that you seem to be drunk, when in reality no food or drink has any effect on you? You said yourself it slips right past your stomach and out again."

"Actually, confidentially, truthfully, and modestly," said Jack with the air of one imparting a serious confidence to a total stranger, "I'm rather like this all the time, luv."

She glanced up at him and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Honestly."

"Honestly!" he said, hands outstretched. "Would this face lie ter ye?"

"I haven't known you long enough to judge, to tell you the truth."

"That's nice," he said. "I hate ter be judged. Really, luv, though its true nothing has quite the effect on me that once it did, my memory is not t' be faulted. I remember how it was t' be alive, t' breathe, t' eat and drink. My memory serves me well."

He waited to see that she accepted this— which she did with a little nod of her head— and then nodded himself. "Drink up, now."

Unlike certain other ladies of his acquaintance, she needed no encouragement to lift her tankard to her blueblurred lips. Rumbling approval like a pleased growl somewhere deep in his chest, he lifted his own and drank deeply. Returning it to the table with a thump and a placent grin, he found that she had been waiting for him to emerge, hands folded in front of her and wearing a patient smile.

His own smile turned to a grin as he felt the rum fill his insides with a pleasant warmth that was entirely imagined, as he didn't actually have any insides to warm in the first place. The memory of it was enough for the moment, however, and he felt himself drifting into a hazy, sweat-smelling stupor as she tipped her head and said, "Seconds?"

With some consternation he found that she had emptied her own mug, whereas he had only made a sizeable dent in his. He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously; she smiled; and then he grinned.

"I think I could get along wi' ye," he announced. "Seconds indeed. Barkeep!" He was ignored by the barkeep. "Wench!" He got a slap from the wench. "Wha—"

"I'm a courtesan," she said primly, and pointed at a different girl who wore slightly worse-looking rags. "That's a wench."

Jack blinked blearily at her, and then blearily at the girl she had indicated with her beringed finger. "All this time, an' I never knew there was a difference."

"Courtesans are more expensive," explained the courtesan.

"That so? What makes ye one, then?"

"I said I am one, therefore I am."

"Then what," said Jack, following this conversation with the tenacity of one who remembers being an argumentative drunk and isn't keen to explore new waters now, "stops a wench from decidin' ter suddenly be a courtesan? Why shouldn't the wench in question—" His own beringed finger now joined her's in pointing at the other girl, though his was far less steady, wavering about on a plan of its own until several innocent— well, more or less— bystanders began to wonder why the strange man in the large hat was pointing at them. "Why shouldn't that wench there suddenly decide to enter a 'igher mode of life, shift into a 'igher tax bracket, as it were? Why shouldn't she decide to call 'erself a courtesan? Its not as if someone's goin' ter ask her t'e spell it—"

"I don't know," said the courtesan, who clearly had never thought about this, or at least not to this extent. "Perhaps a poor sense of self worth?"

"No sense of fiscal motivation at all if ye ask me," murmured Jack, lifting his tankard again with the hand that wasn't involved in pointing.

"Suppose she just doesn't have the confidence she needs," suggested the courtesan.

"Now look," argued Jack, "a modern business woman needs to 'ave confidence above everything! 'Ow else is she supposed ter function in what is essentially a man's world, I ask you that."

"You're right," said the courtesan thoughtfully. "It is a man's world. That's not bloody fair at all, is it?"

Jack shrugged at her, and grinned. "Politics is all it is. Sorry, luv, things just seem to be geared that way."

She scoffed at him. "As if you had a hand in making it like that."

"I might've, ye never know— I'm immortal, y'know—"

This, unexpectedly, earned a laugh. "That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard. And what're you botherin' with them for, anyhow? You know all you need to do is jingle your purse at me—"

"I know," said Jack apologetically, "except its just that the old purse's been a mite empty of late an' I was 'oping—"

At this point, the wench reached them.

"Don't ye know its rude to point!" she said irately, and slapped them both.

A moment of dumbfounded silence later, the courtesan had followed her to argue it out, and Jack looked back at Emily with a grin, downing the last of his ale and signaling to the nearest person who might possibly have been able to bring them more.

"I'm utterly baffled," said Emily, who was, apparently, utterly baffled.

"Ye get used to it," confided Jack.