Longitude--chapter three (potc fic, Beckett, OFC, Norrington, rated PG)
Title: Longitude
Chapter: Three
Author: pink_bagels
Rating: PG
Characters: Beckett, OFC, Norrington, and in this chapter, Murtog and Mullroy
Summary: Supply and demand. Mother's business depends on a free market economy.



Longitude--chapter three

An uneventful day passed, and though Beckett was still uneasy about Larry's demise, he refused to feel any remote semblance of sadness for a woman who clearly had little to no social standing. That he had any curiosity left for her was a demeaning act upon his intellect. His chamber pot had been placed back where it belonged, the accursed book she had left behind locked in a drawer where it would no longer disturb his sleep. It would crumble into mold and dust and in time, Larry herself would become no more than the barest fragment of memory.

Though his wool coat still did not fit him perfectly, it was spotlessly clean and pressed, his cravat suitably pinned at his neck with a gold and sapphire broach. He smoothed down any wayward threads of hair from his white wig as he stood in front of his looking glass, and polished the top two buttons of his coat to shiny brilliance with a piece of suede. He had given himself a close shave and his countenance was not displeasing, though he was far too pale even for fashion as a result of his recent illness. He pinched his cheeks to give his skin a healthier hue and smoothed his fingers upwards to give the red marks a more natural appearance.

Unbidden, the memory of his feverish night descended upon him, bringing with it the softness of shadows and the warm, comforting touch of Larry's palm upon his cheek. His hand lingered at the spot where she had caressed him, his body filled with an unfamiliar longing.

"We've reached port, sir."

Reflected in his mirror was Lieutenant Grietzer, his hat removed in respect. Regaining his composure, he once again adjusted his cravat and turned to his first lieutenant. "What is the status of the crew?" Beckett asked.

"They are eager to go ashore, sir," Lieutenant Grietzer said.

Beckett inwardly smiled at this. Norrington had been correct in his observation that the crew was comprised of simple men, for though they were tied to a ship with such an obviously soul-endangering ally as Davy Jones, they were also easily appeased with a good bottle of rum and a couple of willing tavern whores. This leave would do wonders for healing the rift Norrington had tried to cultivate. A few more casks of wine might do the trick to keep them regarding his favour. Morale would never be better.

"Lieutenant, send a few men into the market for provisions. Rum, brandy, the usual necessities..."

"What of meat, sir? The men have been longing for a good side of beef."

Beckett's stomach churned at the very thought of red meat, the blood draining from his face and leaving him as pale as he'd been on his deathbed. "No. Live produce only. And plenty of root vegetables and fruits."

"As you wish, sir," Lieutenant Grietzer replied, though it was clear he was unsure of this list's reception. No matter, Beckett thought. With enough wine any food was a mere accompaniment, and the fact that Davy Jones periodically haunted their decks would hold a far less sting upon their judgement with ample wine to dull their doubts.

Grietzer left him, and Beckett was once again alone in his meeting room, his appearance one of cold confidence, every thread of his fashion exuding success. The port he had chosen for shore leave had not been a random one, and he picked up the letter he had received only a week before and reread it, the hand it had been inked in comprised of sprawling, overly-curled letters. The prose within the letter was equally insipid, but it was not the content of the correspondence that inspired Beckett to add a touch of perfume to his coat more-so than the realisation of certain ambitions. A fortuitous arrangement was falling into place, and a new gleam shone in his eye as to what power this could wield in his future.

This was no easy prospect, however, for there was still the tiresome exertion of charm to be utilised, along with careful flattery mixed in with gentle boasting of his own accomplishments within the East India Trading Company. His war on piracy had met with positive agreement from those whom he most wished to influence. If he played his part well, he could secure his position within this most upper class echelon of aristocracy, as was already clear by letter he had received.

No, he was not content to be remembered by a mere footnote. Lord Cutler Beckett was due an entire chapter.

He inwardly chided himself at breaking his own promise to forget the thieving pirate Larry and her insane volume of lies. He shoved the letter he had received deep into his coat pocket, and slid his sword carefully into its hilt. The carriage would be waiting for him, along with all the success of his future.

***

"Murtog! Mullroy!"

The two petty officers looked up from their post, which seemed to consist of them staring at minute cracks in one of the deck boards. They stood at attention uneasily, as though they had been kneeling and studying the board for quite some time.

"Sir," Murtog said, saluting Lieutenant Gietzer. He jabbed his partner harshly in the shoulder, reminding Mullroy to offer the same respect.

Grietzer frowned as he glared down at them from his lofty position on the bridge. "What the devil are you two doing?"

"Deck inspection, sir," Mullroy said.

"There seems to be nails missing," Murtog agreed.

Grietzer rolled his eyes and held out the master list he'd been given for provisions, accompanied by a small, lightweight bag of coins. "We'll be pulling into port before sundown. Get the pusser, Johnson, and accompany him to market..."

"We can't do that, sir," Mullroy said, emphatically shaking his head.

"Absolutely impossible," Murtog agreed.

Grietzer waited a few, stupid moments before the inevitable had to be asked. "Why?"

"He's still sleeping off the grog," Murtog said.

"We didn't want to say anything before, sir," Mullroy continued. "But he does seem to have a bit of a problem."

"It's a sad and sorrowful thing to see a man consumed by his inner demons," Murtog agreed.

Grietzer sighed in annoyance. "So, our pusser has a problem with the bottle..."

"Oh no, sir," Mullroy said, shocked at the assumption.

"He's got the tapeworm," Murtog explained.

"Right," Grietzer said, and held back the small bag of money that Mullroy was ready to take from his grasp. He searched the deck for a more suitable, able bodied replacement, and then waved over the strongest looking redcoat standing alongside the steering wheel, a long piece of rope twined between the healthy man's thumb and forefinger.

"You there!" Grietzer shouted to him. "Can you work well with sums?"

The young man hesitated, his head kept low in respectful deference to his superior. "If ye mean by adding and subtractin', I'm quite good at it, yes, sir," he said in a deep, thickly cockneyed lilt.

"Good," Grietzer said, glad to be rid of his burden. He tossed the small sack of coins to the young officer along with the list of needed supplies and food. "Murtog and Mullroy will go into market with you to fill this order. All money spent is to be tallied and there had better not be so much as a half penny missing, understood?"

The young redcoat's hand completely closed over the sack, the coins clinking together in his grip. He kept his hat lowered over his eyes, obscuring most of his face, but there was no mistaking the crooked smile of triumph at this new responsibility.

"Aye, sir," was the strangely deep reply.

***

The market of Port Bedouin was a rowdy, noisy place even when there wasn't a shipload of navy men swarming its square. Murtog and Mullroy were nearly trampled by four women of questionable repute who had latched themselves onto the arm of one lucky young redcoat. Their companion was aloof enough to rebuff any such advances, however, though Murtog did chance to look over his shoulder at his fellow officer Mullroy, whose expression was one of agonised envy.

"Gentlemen, I would not be so keen to waste your time on sluts who will give you nothing more in your lives than a disfiguring disease and/or a screaming, colicky bastard," their companion said, his voice much less cockneyed than it had been onboard, his cadence one of warm sultriness. He placed his hand on his hip and surveyed the market with a shrewd assessment. The air was thick with the smells of rotting meat and smoke, with rotting fish being the most prevalent aroma which was accented by the curses of the fish-wives as they cut and gutted the fish in the open air, the spoiled meat mixed in well with the fresh. A tannery that ran on coal was located just a mile down from the market, competing with the disgusting stench at the port, setting a grimy, poisonous layer of soot upon the produce being sold. This minor issue wasn't slowing down business, not when all manner of class could be seen searching for a deal within these bustling, dirty confines.

He unrolled the list and studied it, weighing both what he was expected to purchase with the scant amount of cash he'd been given. "This will be a challenge."

"It always is," Murtog complained. "Johnson says Lieutenant Grietzer's skimming off the top, if you gets my meaning."

"It's not like poor Johnson can complain, either, what with how he don't have no tongue." Mullroy said. He gave his head a sad shake as he thought on his friend. "Lost it at cards, the poor sod."

Grimacing, their companion held a clean white cloth at his mouth, a vain attempt to keep the poisons in the air out of his lungs. "I won't be purchasing anything here," he said. "I wouldn't feed this garbage to rats."

"What do you mean?" Mullroy asked. "We've been getting quality provisions from Port Bedouin for years."

"I don't know about you, but I'd prefer to eat food that hasn't been smoked in coal and spent tannery grease," the young officer said, surprising Murtog and Mullroy with a sense of haughty propriety only afforded nobility.

"You'd have to go into the city proper for that," Murtog said. "And the food there's way too expensive for the budget Lieutenant Gietzer's given us."

Through the haze of polluted air, the most important provision on the list had been neatly stacked against the large stone wall of the winery, a cart overloaded with barrels being secured tightly with rope. A sultry smile played on the young officer's full lips, and with a single index finger he beckoned both Murtog and Mullroy to follow him towards his target.

"Wait...We can't take our wine from there," Mullroy protested. "That's the Marquis De Bedouin's private stock."

Their fellow officer did not hesitate in his pursuit, his gait confident and strong, his hand on his hip which had the characteristic sashay of a fancy noble dandy. Those of the more peasant classes gave him a wide berth, their heads nodding in acknowledgement of his apparent superior social status. Though he was not quite so destitute, the wine merchant paused in his efforts to load his cart with more barrels than it could hold, and paid this man of visibly noble blood who approached him the proper respects.

"Good day to you, sirrah," he said, bowing. The wine merchant was a rotund, red faced man with thick jowls and an unsightly spherical mole that grew from the underside of his chin. His suit was well worn and his jacket near threadbare, while his young assistant beside him was in further poverty, his body malnourished and his back humped from the constant pushing and pulling of wine barrels for hours on end. They both had ringed, hungry eyes heavy with exhaustion. Even the most casual observer could see that business hadn't been good.

"Ten barrels," the young officer said, and tossed the entire sack of coins to the merchant, sending his already red face into a brilliantly purple hue.

"You can't be doing that!" Murtog exclaimed. "We hasn't even bought the veggies yet!"

"Man can't live by wine alone, though I guess sometimes it's wiser to try to," Mullroy said. He gave Murtog a sheepish shrug. "Considering one's circumstances, that is."

"Wine is hardly the answer to any of life's problems," Murtog argued.

"Be that true, as I know it is, if I have to face the unholy throng of Davy Jones's fish people, I'd be getting a lot more comfort out of wine than a plate of boiled potatoes."

The merchant turned the meagre ration of coins out into his palm, his assistant sighing in wishful longing as he looked on them.

"It's more than three times what we've gotten for the lot," the assistant breathed. The wine merchant shook his head, and tossed the coins back into the sack. He handed it back to the surprised redcoat.

"Nay, we cannot take this, sirrah. The Marquis De Bedouin has already paid for his crate of wine."

"A crate which is already too full," the officer observed. "Those ten barrels there will be impossible to load--I'm offering you quite a bargain. You have overstock, and I am willing to overpay. I can't see the problem, everybody's winning."

"I understand this well, sirrah, but I cannot abide by your wish," the merchant said. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, sweat leaving black streaks on his hands and skin. "Look, I can gives you the two barrels on the side by the window, there. They was taken out too early and they's nothing but vinegar. You can has them for a couple of farthing."

"I'll take them," the officer said, reaching into his own pocket for the proper change. He tossed the sack of coins belonging to the Endeavour's coffers at the merchant's hungry assistant, who caught it with a firmer grip than his employer. "Along with my ten barrels."

"Go on, Sebastian," his assistant pleaded. "Only ten barrels...What could it hurt?"

The sudden onslaught of horse's hooves could be heard in the distance, and the wine merchant shook his head as they approached nearer. "We don't have time for this, we're late as it is and that's a risk enough for the gallows. Much as it's appreciated, sirrah, I cannot take your money. Take the vinegar for nothing, I'll not hold it against ye."

The horses bore down on the crowd without pity, their coachman driving them well into the centre of the market, heedless of the people the carriage could have trampled in its wake. The carriage itself was an imposing monstrosity of gilded gold and white paint, with a contrasting series of pastel pink flowers adorning every panelled surface. Its rotund shape was oddly reminiscent of a pumpkin only the occupant was no Cinderella. The door to the carriage swung open, and a gangly man of noble birth stepped down, two attendants immediately coming to his assistance lest his blessed blue velvet boots come into any contact with the damp, soot-stained cobblestones of the market. He wore a curly grey wig that fell to his waist, pearls and exotic feathers dotting its surface. His overcoat was a pastel blue velvet affair that was heavily adorned with gold thread. As he walked towards the wine merchant, his tending assistants placed fresh squares of linen before every step. The wine merchant's red face paled as this ridiculous dandy man approached, and he cleared his throat as he gave his most important, and sole, customer a low bow.

The Marquis De Bedouin had tiny black eyes that sat high on his inordinately long face. "Sebastien, I do believe you are aware that I am to have company this evening," he said, betraying a slight lisp and a rather horrendous overbite that was put into further prominence by his snobbish posture. He pointed to the cart with a wave of a hand that held a perfumed piece of lace. "We have been expecting you hours ago," the Marquis complained.

"We're sorry, sirrah," the wine merchant said, his head bent. "It was such short notice and..."

"Excuses!" the Marquis snapped. "I ordered a cart of wine and I am to get it when I ask for it!"

"A cart of wine?" the officer from the Endeavour shrewdly observed. The officer gave Sebastien the wine merchant a knowing wink. "So, he's plainly said in front of all of us that he wants his cart of wine and he wants it now. You're free to give me the ten barrels I've paid for."

The Marquis tried to step closer to this person who had dared to address him so plainly, but his attendants had run out of clean white square sheets and he remained rooted to his spot. "This is *my* wine," the Marquis said, his upper lip curling above his huge front teeth. "Sebastien knows full well he cannot sell to anyone but me."

"So...You own the grapevines and the land they grow on?" the officer asked.

"Um, no, actually...Mr. Sebastien owns that, sir," the assistant said, earning a harsh stare from his employer.

"You own the equipment, the storeroom, the distillery, the labour?"

"No, sir, Sebastien owns all that hisself too. Ouch!" His assistant rubbed the back of his head, massaging the bruise his master's backhanded smack had caused him.

"You pay duties, then? Tax on that land in some complicated serf agreement?"

"No. Mr. Sebastien pays that to the king, sir. That payment has nothing at all to do with the Marquis." He cast a frightened glance at the Marquis' teeth. "That is, Marquis, sir..."

"So what you're saying is, this wine does not belong to the Marquis De Bedouin at all, but is in fact the sole property of Mr. Sebastien."

"Sirrah, please," the wine merchant pleaded. "You are leading me to the gallows or worse..."

Murtog and Mullroy stood uneasily behind their fellow officer. The argument was causing a rather dishevelled crowd to grow around them, with the fruit and vegetable sellers even going so far as to abandon their carts to get a better view of what was happening. A crooked eyed peasant near Murtog wore a particularly vicious expression, his lips curled and black, ready to utter curses at any given second. The peasant took a crisp bite out of a raw potato, and chewed it noisily, the crunches echoing over the square like crackling bones in a fire.

"There are only two things in this world that I can honestly say I hate," their companion said. "One is the overuse of pastels. Nothing says 'I'm terrified of living' more clearly than a room drowned in watered down powder blue. Honestly, if you wish to make a statement with colour, why opt for that bleached nothingness--You'd be better off whitewashing everything in bird shit. The other is an extortionist. Unfortunately, Marquis De Bedouin, you have insulted me twice."

"You can not speak to me in such a way!" the Marquis shouted at him. "You will take none of this wine!"

"This is not rocket science. I paid for those barrels, I'm taking them. Lads, load them up." On his cue, Mortog and Mullroy began rolling their extra barrels to their supply cart, confused, nervous glances exchanged between them.

"A word of advice," their unknown redcoat companion said to Sebastien. "If you want your business to succeed, you need to expand your customer base. You've stifled your profits by keeping your market narrowed down to this ferret-faced twit. You have to remember, he's the customer, and if he wants your product badly enough he'll pay for it."

"Arrest this thieving cretin!" the Marquis shouted, the tip of his cane pointed at the officer's head like a loaded gun.

The crowd had encroached so closely upon the Marquis it was now near impossible for the Marquis' men to get a hold of the offending officer. The caustic voice of a fish wife broke into the sombre crowd, her cackling voice as sour as the spoiled fish guts and scales that littered the skirt of her dress.

"Was you what's been thieving," she shouted. "He's right, he is, we hasn't got a fair price out of you in years. You come here and wipe us out of all and threaten to throw us in the oubliette if we so much as even thinks to ask you to pay proper."

"Halt your tongue fish-wife or I shall cut it out for you!" the Marquis shouted back.

"Thief!" a potato merchant dared to accuse.

"Scoundrel!" a fruit stand vendor dared to add.

"Arrest them all!"

The crowd had worked itself into a proper frenzy now, a fever that was only increased by the sudden eviction of a dozen drunken redcoats from a nearby inn who stumbled and cursed into the melee, making the crowd a twisted confusion of privilege and poverty. The merchant stands were abandoned as the crowd loudly began fighting within itself, the Marquis De Bedouin earning a slimy punch to his jaw from the outspoken fish-wife, and the wine merchant receiving drunken requests from the various redcoats who threw money in his direction, begging him for bottles of his red remedy.
The Marquis' squares of white cotton were now trampled into black rags within the crowd, the Marquis himself likewise consumed.

The Marquis' carriage door flung open and a young, nimble boned young woman crept out of it, her body as tiny as a mouse, the heavily ruffled dress she wore in washed out pink dwarfing her within the material. She had a fiercely tiny face, with the same small black eyes as the Marquis, and her own overbite was distinct, almost disfiguring, her face melting into her neck through a strange lack of a chin. She stepped out of the carriage with great care, placing her foot upon the cobblestones with the reluctance of one avoiding a pasture of manure. A small child belonging to one of the fruit sellers stood near to her, his large, brown eyes huge as he took her spectacle in. She shooed him away with the back of her pale hands.

"Oh go, you foul wittle cweature!" she said, her lisp clearly more pronounced than the Marquis'.

But the poor child could not help but stare, for while the woman was a tiny creature dwarfed by her dress, she was further reduced by the massive two foot wig that sprung from her head. As a result of the wig, her head was far too large for the rest of her body and she struggled beneath the weight of it, for not only was it comprised of woven hair, the two foot bouffant also contained a large, complex wooden model of a ship complete with open masts and cannons at the ready, her hair twined within the wig and upwards into the ballast like the embrace of a Kraken.

"Edwin, my bwother, what is the pwoblem?" she asked, tottering unevenly towards the melee as the weight of her hair made her wobble. The fact that the market had now descended into a full on riot was lost on her, for there was clearly more important issues on her small mind. "Edwin, we are going to be wate for the pawty!"

Murtog and Mullroy had already loaded up the cart and were heading up the main road as per their fellow officer's instructions. Their companion paused, his gaze arrested by the odd spectacle of a woman who had joined the fray, or, more specifically, at the vast ship that had been woven so tightly against the creature's scalp.

"Mother?" he asked, astonished.