(no subject)

[bringmethatnpc]

It is, indeed, business as usual.

The windows are thrown open to catch the sea breeze -- Port Royal is, like all these places, damnably hot, and damp to boot -- and Beckett's office is as an oasis to the home-hungry eye. The furnishings perfect (if getting a little warped, thanks to the damp air), the map in progress --

This is Cutler Beckett's home away from home. This is, in effect, his home territory.

And he moves within it as though he owns the world.

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[bringmethatnpc]

The elderly man painting the map does not own the world. He doesn't need to. With every stroke the Mapmaker claims more of the sea for the East India Company. The Company may have the sea, as long as the Mapmaker may keep his map.

[bringmethatnpc]

The Mapmaker may do whatever he likes so long as he remains silent and does his job.

Lord Cutler Beckett wants everything to run smoothly in this room -- and everything tends to.

Cue, therefore, the guards bringing in William Turner.

Beckett looks over his shoulder -- past Mercer, there, and at the group by the door.

(Turner looks so very sulky. He'll get a line between his eyebrows if he keeps that up.)

"Those won't be necessary." A guard removes Turner's shackles; Beckett doesn't bother watching the process, but pours brandy for himself...and for Turner. A waste, perhaps. But the proprieties must be observed -- here, if nowhere else on this godforsaken island.

A means to an end, he tells himself, every morning when he wakes up and every night when he goes to bed. This is simply a means to an end.

"The East India Trading Company has need of your services."

[turned_captain]

Will believes he has a right to look sulky, having been arrested on his wedding day, paraded in manacles in front of the woman he loves, seen her similarly shackled, and generally treated like the worst kind of dirt.

He stands silent and proud, and ignores the offer of brandy. He'll hear this, but he won't pretend they're friends.

[bringmethatnpc]

Good. The brandy won't be wasted after all.

He sets it down and goes to the fireplace. "We wish you to act as our agent in a business transaction with our mutual friend Captain Sparrow."

[turned_captain]

"More aquaintance than friend," Will corrects. He stays on the same spot and spins lsowly to follow Beckett's movements, keeping a wary eye on him constantly.

"How do you know him?"

[mr-mercer.livejournal.com]

Back where he had been standing, advising Beckett earlier, Mercer listens. He quietly continues reading through the folder of East India Company reports and dispatches in his hands.

He is very easy to overlook.

He is almost a part of the decor.

[bringmethatnpc]

"We’ve had dealings in the past," Beckett says, using the fireplace tongs to lift a red-hot brand from the coals.

The brand: a large P.

"And we’ve each left our mark on the other."

[turned_captain]

Will's seen the mark that left. He has little empathy for a man who could do that to another.

But there's something Beckett's not saying. "What mark did he leave on you?"

[bringmethatnpc]

That is none of Will Turner's business.

To say so would tell Will Turner that Cutler Beckett has a weakness.

Beckett, therefore, does not answer the question. Instead, he continues with business.

"By your efforts, Jack Sparrow was set free. I would like you to go to him, and recover some property in his possession."

[turned_captain]

"Recover," Will repeats dryly, noticing how the question was ignored. "At the point of a sword?"

He has no doubt he can best Jack in combat again, but he'd rather not.

Despite what he said, he does consider Jack a friend. Or the nearest thing Will Turner has to one.

[bringmethatnpc]

"Bargain." Said with a small amount of distaste, directed abstractly.

Swords are for those with lesser intellects.

He goes to a box, opens it, withdraws a leather packet, wound closed with a thin leather strap. "Letters of marque. You will offer what amounts to a full pardon. Jack will be free, a privateer in the employ of the East India Company."

[turned_captain]

Will regards the papers with some skepticism. He can't imagine Jack ever accepting them, and he finds it hard to believe Beckett would tink so either.

"Somehow I doubt Jack will consider employment the same as being free."

[bringmethatnpc]

"Freedom."

Beckett does not roll his eyes. With effort. Instead, he goes to the balcony.

Port Royal has changed in even the short time since he arrived; where once was sand and nothing useful there are now dwellings and the markings of industry. Noise and business.

"Jack Sparrow is a dying breed. The world is shrinking, the blank edges of the map filled in. Jack must find his place in the New World or perish. Not unlike you, Mr. Turner. You and your fiancée face the hangman’s noose."

[turned_captain]

This sounds to Will rather like a carefully plotted and well rehearsed speech. And Will only likes those when he's the one who's been rehearsing them.

But he does desparately want to save Elizabeth.

"So you get both Jack and the Black Pearl," he fills in.

[bringmethatnpc]

This is why Beckett is Lord Beckett, and Turner is a mere blacksmith with poor piratical tendencies.

"The Black Pearl?"

[turned_captain]

"The property you want that he possesses," Will explains.

He knows what that ship is capable off. Any admiral would want it under his command.

[bringmethatnpc]

"A ship?" A little disbelieving. "Hardly. The item in question is considerably smaller and far more valuable. Something Sparrow keeps on his person at all times. A compass."

That seems to elicit a reaction from Turner; Beckett's eyebrows rise fractionally. "Ah, you know it. Bring back that compass, or there’s no deal."

Turner is dull, not brainless; Beckett is fairly certain that Turner can figure out that 'no deal' yields 'dead'.

And if he can't...well. That doesn't make a very large difference, now, does it?