Fathoms 18

Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean and such all property of Disney.
[Full headers in Chapter 1. Story notes here.]
Summary: World's End, Dragon Kings, and things that occur that are entirely Jack's fault.

The port itself appeared to be a mismatched mix of Canton architecture further from the harbor—with the graceful, white walled buildings and sloping roofs painted a variety of colors. Along with the warehouses nearer the docks, there were long rows of narrow shophouses set into spoked streets, like a half-wheel, which led to a point. World's End was dominated by a large, walled-in building at the end of the narrow streets, built up and against the sheer cliff, resembling some sort of temple. A large sculpture of an Oriental serpent-dragon traced the edge of the highest sloped roof, the head nearly touching the top of an adjoining bell-tower.

Beyond the port, surrounded by a ring of blue, a round green dome edged with black rock and white sand was visible—the island, Jack presumed. The dock was only half full, and theirs were the only ships of non-Oriental make. Pirates, armed with pistols and swords, watched them from the docks and surrounding ships as the gangplank was lowered. Few people with pigtails here—but Barbossa had mentioned something about how the societal misfits weren't allowed to wear them. The pirates, however, seemed to flaunt their lack of it.

"Anamaria, m'fraid ye'd be on guard duty again," Jack told his First Mate quietly. "They may 'ave funny ideas 'round hereabouts as t'women, just like Canton. 'Lizabeth an' Will, ye'd best be watchin' our ships, too."

"But..." Will began to protest, clearly not fully trusting Jack, given previous experiences.

"Will, ye'd also 'ave the job o' studyin', say, guard changes 'bout 'ere, an' mebbe those two towers out near th'entrance." Jack interrupted before the blacksmith could insist that he go along. "An' ye might not want t'let anybody get too close t'Lizabeth or Anamaria, them boy's clothes not bein' too much o' a disguise, close up."

"All right, Jack," Will said, doubtfully. "I don't think I can come up with anything about that sea chain, though."

"Going t'do abit o' trade, an' some snoopin'," Jack explained, with extravagant and unnecessary hand gestures. "I'd take Barbossa. Th'Commodore will be lookin' after Lady Luck, since th'both o' ye be here already."

"Jack..." Norrington frowned. "I'd go with you. Leave Barbossa. I don't really trust him, even with his agreement."

"An' ye be able t'speak their lingo, like 'e can?" Jack wondered aloud. "Thought not. So, ye be stayin' here, seein' as we 'ave luck enough t'have four people wot can captain th'ships between all o' us. Anamaria on th'Pearl, ye go t'Lady Luck. Gibbs. Ye go wi' th'Commodore."

"Run off t'the ring o' sea if they raise th'chain, buy yerself some time," Jack smiled, moving to the gangway. "I'd tell ye t'keep t'the Code, but yer bad at listenin'." Gibbs smiled, but uneasily—his eyes kept flickering over to the large number of armed pirates watching them.

Norrington stepped forward quickly and gripped his shoulder, bruisingly tight. In a voice pitched low so as to only reach Jack's ears, he murmured, "You'd better come back. Safe."

"M' Captain Jack Sparrow, mate," Jack didn't look back, but he patted the hand with a nut-brown one. "Don't ye worry."

With any luck, even if something went terribly wrong on the land, the whelps and Norrington could escape on the ships. Jack smiled a little wryly to himself as that thought filtered through, and felt his Pearl's amusement at the change. You're learning, she noted. Well, finally.

"Think so," Barbossa said absently. They were in a small office in one of the shophouses near the harbor—plain, the only decoration a scroll of Oriental calligraphy on one wall—most of the rest of the space covered in cabinets and bookshelves of paper. "Not too sure. M'not that confident in me grasp o' Cantonese, an' 'tis worse fer Mandarin or th'other dialects. The time we spent on our last trip an' the couple o' weeks on this one—not quite enough time, 'fraid t'say. No linguistic similarities t'the European tongues. If we get out o' this alive, I think I'd take some time t'go t'Tortuga an' speak t'Lee 'bout it."

Jack shrugged. If Barbossa said that he wasn't confident in the language, it meant that he could already speak enough to be understood for basic purposes, and understand enough in turn to work out the rest in gestures and inflexion. "Good enough. What's happenin' now?"

"e's goin' t'want t'take a look at the goods, before we get the credit t'spend," Barbossa replied, concentrating to such an extent that he didn't make any sarcastic comments as to Jack's dependency on his translations. The thin man smiled and nodded at them, grasping the gist of their conversation as he wrote things down on forms in the graceful pictorial script of the Middle Kingdom. "After 'e's done wi' writin' somethin' down."

"Don't know what we can do wi' shore leave, since none o' us speak much, er, Cantonese," Jack said mildly. "An' m'not sure in yer middlin' ability t'mingle."

"Apparently there are some around who speak basic English, especially the tavern, an' ship supplier," Barbossa replied, ignoring the jibe, after a brief conversation with the trader. "He says that World's End is, of late, fairly popular fer 'foreign devil' pirates." A faint smirk. Barbossa evidently was deeply amused by the term. "And apparently, one o' the advisors t'the Dragon King is indeed a 'foreign devil'. Black skin, like ink."

More conversation, then, "It was the Black Devil's idea t'step up patrols around the middle island... which we aren't supposed t'go near. An' he don't want t'say what it is that's in it."

The Oriental finished writing, and stood up, speaking as he did so. "An' we're off t'check the cargo." Barbossa glanced at Jack with a faint smirk. "Hope ye kept it in good condition, or we're going t'be thrown out."

Jack snorted. They strolled back to the harbor, the thin man talking all the while. Jack could actually see Barbossa's grasp of the difficult language slowly improving. If he didn't dislike the man, he'd have been impressed—but as it were, being left out of the conversation was merely annoying. As if sensing this, Barbossa turned back to him at one point, with that annoying smug grin. "Sorry 'bout that, Jack. 'e's right taken wi' a 'foreign devil' who can speak abit o' his lingo."

The cargo was duly inspected, and the thin harbor official spoke a quick stream of words. Barbossa listened, asked a few questions, then turned back to Jack, from where they stood just before the Black Pearl. "We're good. Enough t'get us supplies, an' silver bars t'use 'round town. 'e'd also give us a map o' the places that we can get food or drink an' such." That smug grin. "Seein' as, 'e says, I'm a very curious individual, an' men who sail under me must also be very interestin', an' so deserve t'experience the best o' this fine freeman's port."

"Now what?" Jack asked, marveling at the intricacy of the brushwork and the rather elaborate, ostentatious way of conveying an invitation, which was what it had to be. "When do we 'ave t'go?"

"Right now," Barbossa said, unsurprised that Jack had immediately guessed what the scroll was. "An' yer invited. Along wi' anybody else who wants t'go."

"Well, lead on, then," Jack waved in the general direction of the large building in the distance, with a bright grin that gave lie to his apprehension. "We'd go see th'Dragon King. Do we 'ave t'dress fer th'occasion?"

"I meant it when I said 'right now', Jack," Barbossa said dryly, as an armed escort approached them from the street.

It was a pirate port, but it didn't feel like one. Could be cultural differences, perhaps. Jack vaguely remembered Barbossa's rambling discourse, many years ago, when they were drunk in Canton (or perhaps on the Pearl, things got blurred) about the curiosities of the civilization in Cathay. How past emperors got their jollies from roasting people alive by strapping them on hollow metal pillars and stoking the iron with fire, how their female relatives and harems were manned (haha) by eunuchs. Eunuchs, in fact, could come into power as officials—Barbossa wasn't clear whether they had to, indeed, do the painful deed to obtain power. It had all been very disturbing, and Jack distinctly remembered wishing that Bootstrap wouldn't ask so many damned questions. When Barbossa had talked about how they would store their 'bits' in little jars, or summat, Jack had proceeded to drink himself under the table. After that, he'd tended to eye Orientals suspiciously.

As he was doing now, standing on a red carpet over individually painted ceramic tiles, an armed guard around them. They hadn't been allowed to keep their weapons—surrendered at the door. The carpet led up to a set of low steps to an exceedingly ornate throne of carved rosewood, the design of many writhing dragons entangled together. Plush robin's egg blue cushions on the seat, and several on either side of the throne. Ornately painted red paper lanterns hung above them, for illumination.

There was a beat of a hidden drum, and then several brightly robed men strode out from the side doors, cleverly hidden by tapestries, and took up positions on the wide stairs. When the beat rose to a crescendo, the Dragon King arrived from the curtained door behind the throne. He wore a crown of a curled serpent-dragon—a silver belly, each scale picked out in gold flecks over his high forehead, slanted-eyes so empty of emotion that for a moment, Jack thought he was blind. Black hair had been cropped short, beard trimmed, white at the right cheek where an ugly scar slashed down to his neck. Other than the elaborate crown, however, the man was dressed like a European buccaneer—at least on first glance. The coat with thick cuffs was heavily embroidered with brocade and designs of serpent-dragons. The belt across his chest had a jade buckle over fine leather, and the white shirt was clasped with Oriental embroidered thread. The breeches had sweeping designs of scales down the outer thigh, and the leather boots too were stitched in a design of concentric mandalas.

He settled on the throne with catlike grace, just as various giggling, pretty Oriental women danced out from the curtained door, all holding a fluttering, embroidered fan in their hands, as they settled on the cushions around the throne, peering at Jack and Barbossa coyly from behind them. And finally—a black man, dressed simply in a white shirt, dark breeches and black boots, who stood behind the throne, watching them with cold disinterest, arms folded.

"Welcome to World's End," the Dragon King spoke, with a lilting accent, suggesting at an East India Company-influenced English. "Yee Ming tells me that you speak our tongue well for an Englishman, Captain...?"

"Hector Barbossa," Barbossa offered, with a quick smile. "An' ye speak English better than some Englishmen that I've 'ad the chance t'meet."

"I have had the great honor of being... educated, by Englishmen," the Dragon King said, in a voice without inflexion. "When I was a boy. It has shaped me into the person I am today."

"T'be sure," Barbossa shrugged. "'Tis a bad habit o' the English, I think. Unwanted education."

"Unwelcome, perhaps, but not unwanted, on hindsight," the Dragon King said enigmatically. "And they also have the bad habits, of making strange rules. Just like the local officials, and their restrictions on the trade of powdered gold."

"O' course, 'tis why we're here," Barbossa replied blandly. "Though we thank ye fer the audience. Great honor."

"For us both, I can assure you. But who is your... associate, Captain Barbossa?" The dead eyes peered at Jack, as if bored with the small talk.

Jack smiled engagingly, and tipped his hat. "M'Captain Jack Sparrow, of the Black Pearl."

"Yes. I have heard of you," the pirate king said thoughtfully, "From our patron, Davy Jones. No doubt you have heard of him."

Barbossa's sidelong glance at Jack spoke volumes for what his ex-First Mate thought of his current level of intelligence. Jack's smile didn't falter, fluttering his hands. "Aye, I know of him. Charmin' chap. Tentacles. Big pet, not very housetrained."

"He spoke of you with much hatred," the Dragon King said dryly, "When he was here last, to check on his soul. Apparently, he has somehow, through your intervention, misplaced his heart."

Jack blinked at this information. Apparently Davy Jones was magically capable of traversing extremely long distances in a very short time indeed. He privately thanked Lady Luck that he'd thought of getting the heart to Tia, before Beckett found out about that fact. "Well, I won't say t'was totally me fault."

"And now I find you here, and with a man who should be dead," the Dragon King continued blandly, as if he hadn't heard. "What, must I ask you, should I think of your intentions?"

"That didn't go too well," Jack ventured, peering around at the door to the guardroom.

"Amazing understatement," Barbossa drawled. "Why couldn't ye 'ave kept yer gob shut an' let me do the talkin'? Pretended ye were mute, perhaps?"

"I bet 'e knew who we were before we even docked properly at World's End, mate," Jack said, sounding injured. "We'd 'ave been caught anyway."

"An' d'ye, knowin' that, 'ave any idea o' 'ow we're goin' t'get out o' this?" Barbossa asked flatly, rolling his eyes.

"Not yet, but I'd come up wi' somethin'." Jack smirked. "Hey, this ain't th'worst scrape we've been in by a long shot. Remember th'time wi' th'Earl's daughter over at Havana an' Bootstrap trippin' over a dog when we were 'bout set t'leave?"

"Far too clearly, thank ye," Barbossa replied, but there was a faint quirk to his lips. Which quickly died away as both men realized that they were supposed to still be at each other's throats, albeit under an Uneasy Truce, of course. Silence for a while, and then Barbossa sighed. "'ow's that gel doin' fer ye as a First Mate?"

"Anamaria? She's okay. Sooner or later, she'd want t'be Cap'n o' her own ship, though." Same as you. "But she be a staunch one. Good First Mate—efficient. Tends t'bully 'er Cap'n a little too much, though."

Barbossa chuckled. "Ye always appoint First Mates who are too difficult fer ye t'handle, Jack."

"Aye. But who else at that time? Bootstrap ain't First Mate material. An' as t'this crew, neither is Gibbs. As ye probably 'ave seen," Jack leant against the grimy wall.

"No, he isn't. Good officer, though," Barbossa commented, "Sense o' responsibility. Kept me an' th'whelps from killin' each other, prob'ly."

"Could o' guessed that meself," Barbossa agreed. "Both points." A faint smirk. "What 'bout the other Navy? The one yer sleepin' wi'?"

"Definitely not First Mate material," Jack said dryly, "Even if 'e's of th'inclination t'turn pirate after this. Been a cap'n himself fer too long."

Another deep silence, this time broken by Jack. "What d'ye think they're goin' t'do t'us?"

"Don't know. All 'e said was 'Take them away', in case yer interested," Barbossa glanced at the catatonic, only barely breathing person in the next cell. "Starve us, shoot us, don't know. But I've heard the people of Cathay tend t'be right vicious 'bout torture."

"Can see that meself." Barbossa looked at the massive lock at their door. "Don't think that can be picked, either, even if ye'd 'ad the presence o' mind t'anticipate this an' bring some sort o' pick."

"Looked when we came in. Fiddly design," Jack agreed, and grinned. "Ha. All we need now is Bootstrap an' his 'How th'hell are we goin' t'get out o' this one?' an' we'd be square."

"Aye." Barbossa didn't smile. Jack wondered if it was regret that the other man felt, now that the Aztec curse no longer had a hold of his soul. "I didn't know, Jack. At that time. That we were cursed."

"No, no. Not that. Droppin' 'im into the sea like that, unable t'die. If I'd known we were cursed, I wouldn'a have done it. I still would'a killed him, but I would'a found a way t'kill him clean." Barbossa said softly. Obviously not expecting Jack to believe him. "The three o' us." A quirk to his lips. "Sometimes I wish t'was ten years ago again." A laugh, now. "T'aint nothin' like possible death t'make a man maudlin, eh, Jack?"

"Aye," Jack said, with a sigh, remembering youth spent in an amazing variety of misadventures and scrapes. "Wish m'could turn back ten years." A smirk. "Leastways I'd be better prepared fer this eventuality."

Barbossa laughed. "If t'was me, I'd 'ave made a note never t'go near Canton. Ye 'ave t'look at the bigger picture, old chap."

Jack leaped to his feet; just as Barbossa jerked bodily away from the corner of wall and bars that he had been leaning against with a loud curse in French. The skeletal man's head had lolled over to look at them, though the eyes were utterly black, like pits. The parched throat had spoken in a smooth voice that should not have been possible.

"Thought ye were dead, mate. Nice recovery," Jack deadpanned, fluttering his hands. "Fair miraculous."

A snort. "Captain Jack Sparrow and Captain Hector Barbossa, the black sheep of the Caribbean. Rotting in the cell of an Oriental pirate King who has a taste for torture, and you can both still bandy all sorts of inane jokes. I'm beginning to wonder if the both of you are really the ones for the job, after all."

"Destroying the soul, sinking this godforsaken pirate island," the man 'said'. While the jaw moved, puppet like, it felt more like ventriloquism than an actual voice. "And as to your question, Captain Barbossa, you may both call me Saturday."

"Baron Saturday. Samedi," Barbossa scrambled up to his feet, next to Jack. "The man behind the Dragon King. I thought ye looked familiar, but mate, the last time I saw ye, ye 'ad a white face. Like chalk."

"I'm talking through a man with one foot in my realm, and you're concerned with my ability to change the skin color of one of my avatars?" Saturday asked rhetorically.

"Who, is Baron Saturday?" Jack tapped at Barbossa's shoulder impatiently, "Introduction, if ye please."

"The man ye see when ye die, Jack. Before ye pass t'the realm o' th'dead. I seen him once. After ye shot me." Barbossa said flatly. "Didn't ye ever talk t'Tia 'bout what she does?"

"Uh... no." Jack thought a little. "No wait, I asked her 'bout th'dolls an' pins."

"'e be the Loa o' the dead. An' sex, rum an' profanity, among others. From the voodoo religion." Barbossa said curtly.

"You don't 'send' the Loa to do anything, Captain Barbossa," Saturday said dryly. "But you can 'ask' them. Nicely."

"In a sense," Saturday nodded the desiccated head. "A long time ago, partly through her fault, the one you know as Tia Dalma caused a white man to live forever out of my grasp. In her anger she swore on her blood and the blood of her mothers that she would bring him back to my realm, and so I have bound her in service for an age. Power, but in servitude, until she fulfils her vow." A shrug of semi-rotting shoulders. "Actually it sounds worse than it is. We're rather fond of each other now, and she even gets along with the wife. However, it was foreseen that in this turn of years she would get her hands on half of the means to fulfill her vow, so I decided to help her a little."

"Th'heart," Jack said. His mind reeled a little. They were possibly about to be tortured to death, and he and Barbossa were talking with a sarcastic nearly dead man who was possibly also a God of Death, of some sort. Spirit. Something.

"Precisely. She has, through your intervention, acquired the heart. Now she needs the soul disposed of. After expending the necessary power required to ask me to bring you, Captain Barbossa, back to life, she then sent the most capable people she knew with you or following you to World's End, not being able to leave the Caribbean herself. Conflicting streams of magic. Hard to explain. And as for myself, I decided to work one of my avatars close to the soul, just in case I could be of aid. Making sure the wrong people are kept away, as such, until the right ones come along." The skeletal head somehow managed to still give them both a disparaging look. "Though I admit I'm a little disappointed in Tia's knowledge of capable people."

"I hope so," Saturday drawled. "Because you're going to need some of your famed luck."

"Why didn't ye go after th'soul yerself?" Jack asked, curiously. "Seein' as ye be right capable o' many strange an' amazin' things."

"Because of the rules, Jack Sparrow, of a game played that is beyond your mortal ability to comprehend," Saturday said smugly. "But in essence, to get things done us Loa are only supposed to aid our followers, and not actually do things ourselves."

"D'ye 'ave a way t'get us out o' here?" Barbossa asked quickly, obviously wary of Jack's ability to be absolutely annoying if he wanted to be.

The skeletal man gestured, and their lock clicked open. "I've also taken care of the guardroom door. There's only a minimal guard at this moment, because, rather in an odd parody of the mainland, they're celebrating the Lantern Festival tonight. Thanks to yours truly, by the way—I said it would be far more auspicious to celebrate it today, instead of at its official date. The Dragon King is engaged in some old fashioned debauchery, and I've made sure the harbor guards have been sent an anonymous bit of rum. Get past the guard, sneak to the harbor, and get to the island. Your belongings are kept in the next room after the guardroom. Can you do that, or not?"

The jail was close to the Dragon Temple, just a short ways from the main street, where many people walked around in a slow procession, chattering and looking through hastily set up stalls, all holding bright paper lanterns. Jack and Barbossa snuck quietly in the shadows, avoiding the crowds, until they reached the harbor, where they found that the guards had, as promised, dozed off.

Jack glanced at Barbossa, who nodded, and jerked his head in the direction of the Lady Luck, then pointed in the distance where the dark outline of the dragon island could still be seen, even in the night and the pale illumination of the moon. He nodded in turn, and the two men left for each of their ships.

Anamaria was gratifyingly relieved that he was back, and she roused the crew with a vengeance. Jack found himself giving a brief outline of what had happened to a sleepy Will and a worried Elizabeth, as he took the helm to steer the Black Pearl out of the harbor. A glance to the side showed that the Lady Luck was doing the same, and he waved briefly at Norrington, who was peering worriedly over the side at the black ship. He could see the man visibly relax, then leave quickly to help with preparations.

They moved a ways around the island, with Jack making sure the slower ship could keep pace, before weighing anchor—Lady Luck cruising neatly up next to the Pearl. "Keep an eye out," Jack told Anamaria. "M'goin' over t'the island. Gimme a lantern."

Jack opened his mouth to argue, and then decided that, as things were, there was likely too little time up until the alarm was raised in World's End. "Fine. Get armed. An' William rows."

"Goin' t'be trouble from over there?" Anamaria asked, pointing over her shoulder at the barely visible glow that was the pirate town.

"Mebbe. If ye see pursuit, start runnin'. At most, p'haps it'd buy us some time." Jack said, going over to where the jolly boat was being prepared. William and Elizabeth went down first, but Jack lingered, stroking the rail of the Pearl affectionately. "Be right back, missy," he whispered.

Norrington and Barbossa, both also holding lanterns and fully armed, met him on the beach. Barbossa shook his head, jerking a thumb at his Jamie. "Couldn'a shake him, even though I told him 'tis better if he stayed on the ship, bein' able t'cap'n it if need be. Must ye make such annoyin' pests o' friends, Jack?"

Norrington smirked, but moved quickly to Jack, looking him over to see that he was unharmed, then let out a sigh of relief. "Next time, I'm going with you."

"Don't want there t'be a next time, mate," Jack said, as he set off quickly towards the island interior.