Characters: James Norrington, Mercer

Word Count: 1,356

Prompt: Squander

Summary: Even Mercer could not guess the ultimate outcome of this little exchange.

A/N: Special thanks to Freedom of the Seas for beta-ing!

I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.

The Devil's Contract

Mercer followed the potboy out of the Faithful Bride's taproom, up the stairs and along the shabby hallway to the farthest door. The boy raised his hand to knock, but paused and shot a questioning glance at Mercer, who nodded curtly.

The boy banged loudly on the door. "Oi! Y've a visitor, mate!" he bellowed, as though trying to wake the dead. Mercer pushed the boy aside and let himself into the room.

Inside, heavy curtains blocked the tropical sun and the furnishings smelled strongly of countless pipes smoked and spirits consumed by previous occupants, who had evidently indulged in every imaginable activity except rudimentary hygiene. The dirty bedclothes were creased and twisted like ropes entangling the limbs of the sleeper sprawled across the lumpy bed.

The man Mercer sought to interview was in his thirties, and showed signs of having once been quite handsome; however, his unshaven face, oily, unwashed hair, and the red blotches that marred his complexion all told of his habitual drunken excesses. He had raised himself clumsily on one elbow and lay glaring resentfully at his visitor.

"Damn you and your noise, man! Who are you?" he demanded, sluggish and bleary-eyed.

"Not quite the introduction I intended," Mercer said sourly, by way of apology for the potboy's boisterous shouts. "You and I have a mutual friend..." he began.

"With cloven hooves, no doubt," retorted the disheveled man, slurring his words. "There's more than a whiff of brimstone about you."

". . . who is concerned for your welfare, Commodore—I beg your pardon—Mister Norrington," Mercer continued respectfully, laying gentle stress upon the humble honorific. "It is through his generosity that you occupy this room, rather than the gutter where I found you last night. Or is that a time too distant for recollection?"

Norrington shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead with an unsteady hand. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked in icy tones. "Get on with it."

Mercer, who had been silently assessing the likelihood of nits in the upholstery, dragged a small deal chair towards the bed. Once seated, he crossed his legs and rested his hat upon his knee; he appeared not to have noticed Norrington's question or the hostility in his voice.

"How do you find your quarters?" he enquired in a solicitous tone. "Oh, I know it isn't much, but to many it would appear luxurious." He gazed thoughtfully at his hat. "For example," he continued, "I grew up in a highland crofter's cottage - ever visit one of them? No, of course not. Well, it was a hard road to better m'self. My old mamm would have thought the world of a room like this. But when you're accustomed to ease and comfort, you don't always appreciate it until it's gone."

Norrington did not reply, so Mercer reached down and took up a bottle and dirty glass from the floor. He sniffed at the inside of the glass and made a face. Then, filling it from the bottle, he recited:

"For wilful waste makes woeful want,"
And you may live to say
'How much I wish I had the crust
That then I threw away.'

With a forced smile on his hardened features, he handed the glass to Norrington. "Easy to squander your life, laddie – not least when filthy rogues have ruined the best of it."

"Tell your friend that I shall repay him for the room," Norrington declared, taking a quick gulp, "Just as soon as . . ."

"Just as soon as you are able?" Mercer suggested, in soothing tones. "Ah, well, that's the question, isn't it. What if you are able, at this very moment?"

Norrington was silent for some time, but finally said, "Go on."

"Wouldn't you like your old life back?" asked Mercer softly. "To have your former honours restored? And you would have only to discharge the merest of duties." He took several coins from his pocket as though he intended to count them. "Pass along a little information, seize a trinket our friend has ta'en a fancy to ––"

"If you think me a thief or a spy, you mistake me," Norrington interjected coldly.

"Wouldn't want to do that," Mercer replied, unperturbed. He dropped the coins back into his pocket. You'd think a swordsman would recognise a feint, he thought with amusement. You'll thieve, spy, and worse, laddie, once I find the whip and spur you'll answer to.

"Many have said the same as you," remarked Mercer, "but the truth is, they'd rather be in the good graces of a certain pirate captain than on the side of England's laws . . . perhaps that's the way of it with you?" he asked casually.

"When next I see 'Captain' Sparrow, he'll pay, either at the point of my sword or the end of the hangman's rope," Norrington replied through his teeth.

I've almost got you, thought Mercer. Then he added another question, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "By the by, Mister Norrington, whatever happened to that lass of yours – Elizabeth, was it?"

His sharp eyes caught the momentary spasm of pain on Norrington's face, and the way the glass shook ever so slightly. So that's what you can never forgive, he concluded.

"Ah..." Mercer said with fatherly understanding. He nodded and leaned closer to Norrington as if to avoid being overheard. "T'was Jack Sparrow that did this to you, was it not?" he enquired in a whisper. "Then the rumours are true – he ruined you and stole the heart of your lady love."

"Not her heart – not Elizabeth," Norrington protested. "She – she loved another - a friend of long acquaintance."

"You don't say?" answered Mercer. "That's odd then, that she would steal letters of marque and set out to find Sparrow, don't you think?"

Norrington looked at him, shocked.

Mercer refreshed the dirty glass, and Norrington pretended to study the carpet as he drank it off.

"So, what shall we do, laddie?" Mercer said, almost to himself. "That sad-faced band of ragtag cutthroats should have been dealt with long ago. And we can do it, you and I. We only need the chest Sparrow is hunting for. If, let us say, instead of killing him outright, you were to find your way onto the Pearl, you could seize the chest when he finds it, and bring it to Lord Beckett." At the mention of Beckett's name, Norrington looked up sharply.

"The rewards would be unsurpassed," Mercer pursued. "You could be the man who leads the naval force that will rid the world of all pirates, includin' Sparrow." Then, indicating the room with a nod, he added, "You and I both know you don't belong here."

The reflective look in Norrington's eyes told Mercer it was time to seal the bargain. He stood up, extracted the coins once more, and placed a small stack of them upon the chair seat.

"Enough to keep you for a week," he announced. "Then you've only to apply to the innkeeper for more." He showed what was meant to be a smile. "Just a precaution to guard against any temptation to squander it all at once."

I'll pay the innkeeper to keep the wenches and tarts off him, Mercer decided. Let him think on Elizabeth Swann and Jack Sparrow, and how spilt blood will kill more pain than rum ever did.

Norrington watched his visitor walk to the door. He had not consented to Mercer's proposal - not in so many words - but the little stack of coins remained on the chair.

Suddenly rousing himself from his ruminations, Norrington called Mercer back. "Just a moment: how do you know Sparrow will come to Tortuga?"

Mercer paused and turned around, his hand on the doorknob. "Oh, he will, laddie, he will. I pride myself on my ability to judge men," he answered, then bowed. "I'm sure we'll be having a pleasant conversation soon."

Mercer put on his hat and opened the door; but just before he departed, he added, "And I expect I'll be addressing you as Admiral Norrington when we do."