Pirates of the Caribbean 05 The Age of Bronze (3 page)

“Either
the captain has one very creepy little girl running around on
board his ship, or this is another one of those odd little doll things," Jack said, picking it up. Closer inspection revealed that it was dressed just like the metal captain--down to a scrawny feather in its cap. Jack stuffed it into his belt."Why?"
he muttered to himself, going
back to the deck and swinging down the rope. "Why is it always magic and curses and metal ships and weird little dolls?"He leaped over the side of the Barnacle with a typical Jack flourish.

"Did you find anything?" Arabella asked anxiously."Just a bunch of metal lads and metal sails. Nothing worth taking. And this" he tossed the doll at Jean. The other boy almost dropped it, unprepared for its weight. "It seems the poor sods were turned into metal. This was a real ship, and something terrible happened to it.""Look." Jean turned the doll over. On its foot was the now-familiar dagger and snakes. "Again, the mark of Madame Minuit."

"What could she possibly have wanted with this ship?" Fitzwilliam added. "It does not even appe
ar to be carrying much cargo."
The crew was getting closer to New Orleans and the clues just kept building up. But they had a feeling that answers would a
wait them in the Cescent City.

CHAPTER SIX

As dawn broke, the city of New Orleans appeared on the horizon. It was as though it had risen up out of the water--appeared out of nowhere. There was a certain magic to the town, even from afar.No one had slept well since coming across the big metal ship and the tiny bronze doll. But now the crew, especially Jean, was in high spirits."Ah! NouvelleOrleans! How I have missed you!" he cried.
Constance mewed in agreement.
"Just so you know, Jack," Arabella said, sliding up to him, "I'm pleased we've been bringin' Tumen and Jean to their homes-- but don't feel a need to return me to Tortuga anytime soon.""Likewise," Fitzwilliam said with feeling.

Jack just rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, very well," he said dismissively. He needed most of his concentration to steer them into the
harbour
: it was a much busier one than he was used to. All sorts of ships, from sloops to frigates, from fishing boats to mano'wars, crowded the waters. It took some doing to find a convenient slip close to the city's
centre
, up the river a little way."All ashore that's going ashore . . . and remember where we parked," Jack said with a grin, straightening his bandanna. According to Jean, it was a short walk from the dock to
the back alleys of the French
Quarter. All they had to do was start asking around, show the doll, and get some questions answered. Easy stuff.So, of course, the trouble began immediately.

"Hake!"A man in a spiffy uniform marched up the dock to the Barnacle. He was flanked by two muscled men in slightly less
spiffy uniforms,"The gendarme,
the police," Jean said. "With a port official."

"What is all this, then?" the first man asked in French, then repeated in heavily accented English. He had a sharp little nose and squinty little eyes. Just the sort of man who enjoyed bureaucracy and making trouble for perfectly honest adventurers.

"Excuse me, good sir," Jack said, sweeping his cap off as he bowed. "We're just here for a bit of pleasure .
. . seeing your fine city, its
lovely restaurants. ... Just tourists, really. No trouble for you at all."

"Where are your papers?" the official demanded, shaking his hand at them. "This is a commercial port--you have to have your papers to dock."

"Well, we would have papers, kind sir, except we're not--as you can see--a commercial vessel," Jack pointed out, raising an eyebrow in the direction of the Barnacle. He had to think fast. Getting into a row with the local police as soon as they came ashore was not a good way to quietly look for the powerful Madame Minuit. He leaned over and spoke confidentially to the official. "I didn't want to have to tell you this, 'cause I'm not supposed to, but we're actually on a secret mission transporting a powerful member of the French
aristocracy. “The
offic
ial gave him a sceptical look.
"Oh, yes, I am sure a French nobleman would travel aboard such a ... a ... fishing boat with such a crew," he said, waving his hand
dismissively. Unfortunately
, Jack had to admit that the Barnacle didn't really look like a counselor ship. The beams were all warped, where it had paint it was peeling, and the whole thing reeked of ancient fish.None of them looked like French aristocracy, either. Tumen definitely didn't. Arabella was pretty enough to pass for a duchess, but her dress was worn, and she stood and glared like, well, a tavern girl. Jean spoke fluent French, but he looked about as aristocratic as Bell. And Fitzwilliam ...Well, actually, in his somehow-stillpristine blue jacket, gleaming sword at his side, Fitz really did look the part. J
ack nodded desperately at him.

Fitzwilliam understood immediately. He stepped forward, shoulders back, head high, classic disdain on his face."Bonjour, Monsieur," he began in flawless French.Jean whispered, translating for Jack, Tumen, and Arabella. Jack shooed him away, as if to say he didn't need a translator."What is the holdup? I demand to be let ashore at once!" Fitzwilliam continued."Excuse me, Monsieur 'Nobleman," the official said, no more polite than before. "Please enlighten me as to why you are traveling in such ... conditions. And without papers.""I am a cartographer in the employ of the King himself," Fitzwilliam said smoothly. "I was sent here to complete the survey of the territory in Louisiana we have rightfully taken back
from the Spanish. My ship here was beset upon by pirates
I believe I am the sole sur
vivor. These lowly, er .
" He looked at his friends. "... fisher
persons saved my life and are escorting me upriver until a replacement crew and ship are sent."The official sniffed and shook his head."I have had no word of any royal ship that was commandeered by pirates, or any such mapmaking expedition!"

"Have you heard any news from court at all, then?" Fitzwilliam shot back. "Please do not tell me that His Majesty's messenger ship was lost as well!"

"A likely story--first your ship is lost, then the mail boat," the agent sneered. But his men were beginning to look
unsure. “Do
you want to bring down the anger of the throne upon you?"
Fitzwilliam demanded frostily.
The port agent considered it. On the very remote possibility the young man before him wasn't lying, he and his men might face the guillotine if they didn't let him through. Or at least receive a reprimand and a demotion. And besides, look at the rest of them-- at worst, they were a bunch of young sailors come to New Orleans for some fun. What harm could they do?"All right," the port agent said, "you are free to go. But move your mighty Barnacle to the far end of the port--I cannot have a vile old fishing boat here."He even saluted Fitzwilliam--just in case. "Merci," Jack said, saluting him back. "That was fantastic, Fitz," Arabella said, hugging him. The noble boy kept his stoic expression, but blushed."I had no idea you spoke French so well," Jean laug
hed, slapping him on the back.
"You didn't make too bad a hash of it," Jack conceded.

"Now, let's go bring the mighty Barnacle to the other side of the port and finally
disembark! “The
harbormaster turned out to be just the beginning of their problems. The sun that had risen so pleasantly on their destination that morning now beat down on them unmercifully, despite the soft sky. The air itself was hot and wet, and walking through it was like taking a steam shower. With a fur coat on. Next to a hot furnace. In August."I'm used to the heat of the islands," Arabella said, pushing the hair back from her face. "But it's nothing like this. Ow!" She slapped her elbow. The mosquitoes were buzzing around them in full force.Jack already had several nasty bites on his neck. "
I'll take honest old Caribbean
bed lice over these winged buggers any day," he growled, waving his hands in the air, trying to shoo them."I only hope we do not get malaria," Fitzwilliam muttered.

Jean was still in high spirits. He pointed out familiar sights, nostalgic places, interesting features. Cobbled streets and wrought
iron balconies. Brightly painted houses and shuttered windows. And people ... people from all over the world, in all different kinds of dress. From mourning widows to real French noble ladies in bright silks. And the men here weren't all pirates, as they were in Tortuga. There seemed to be a pretty good mix of merchants, tradesmen, sailors, business-men, dockworkers, pesky French officials .... . . and more priests, street-corner magicians, mystics, and tea-lea
f readers than
seemed possible for one city. Some wore
colourful
, flowing garb and carried crystal balls. Some had the tattered, muddy dress of mystics who lived in the swamps and sported chains of skulls around their necks like the famous soothsayer Tia Dalma. Some were covered in beads and
jewellery
, clacking as they walked.

Their cries were
deafening. “Potions
, potions for sale! Help you find love!""Spells and curses for the needy . . ." "Protection charms! Sailors knots! Will keep you safe at sea!"

An ancient woman, dark-eyed and bent, ran up to Arabella and made a croaking, cackling noise. Without warning, the crone threw a handful of something at her and screamed.Arabella'
s hands flew to her face. When
the things clattered to the street like tiny bones she realized what they were."Chicken feet!" she cried disgustedly. She jumped back from the pile of
shrivelled
and curled-up
claws. But
Constance happily began to nose through the pile, chewing on
them. A
pockmarked man with a low-brimmed hat drawn down to hide his face grabbed Fitzwilliam by the arm and fanned cards in his
face. “Read
the pretty boy his fortune?" he suggested nastily. His breath stank of rot and decay, his eyes were dark."Ah--no, thank you," Fitzwilliam said, pulling his eyes away from the hypnotic designs on the cards.A young girl in a simple blue dress tugged on Jack's pants. But when he bent down to listen, her
voice was cracked and ancient,
and her eyes were those of an old woman. One who had seen too much. Jack recoiled
disgustedly. “Monsieur
? I can help you," she hissed.She leaned forward and whispered into his ear, motioning toward Constance. "I can turn you into a cat, so you can become a little
friendlier
with your mate over here."No, thank you," Jack said, sneering, straightening his back, and walking on."Jean, my friend," Jack said, leaning in closely. "Are any of these fascinating characters the lovely Madame Minuit for whom we are so desperately searching?"Jean shuddered. "No, mon ami. As ... disturbing as they are, Madame is far worse."Jack sighed and looked around. Fitzwilliam was fending off a girl who was trying to sell him love charms. Arabella was trying to con
vince an albino Cajun that she
was not interested in purchasing the eye of a dead voodoo priest. Constance was hissing, in a standoff with an all-white cat with white eyes."I think the best place to look for her is-- Jean stopped in the middle of what he was saying. There was a strange look on his face. His eyes went blank, as if he were in a trance. He took a deep breath and didn't blink but stared straight ahead."That's done it, then," Jack said, shaking his head. "Our only native gu
ide has fallen under a spell."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Arabella and Fitzwilliam finally managed to shake off the vendors hounding them. When they made their way back to Jack, they found him glaring at a motionless Jean, whose eyes were glazed."Oh, my stars," Arabella said, alarmed. "What happened to him?

"Who happened to him?" Fitzwilliam demanded, indicating the strange people all around them."I haven
't the foggiest," Jack said dis
missively, waving
his hands and snapping
his fingers in Jeans face.Jean took several deep breaths and blinked slowly. It was as if he were coming out of a deep sleep, or surfacing after too much time
underwater. “Andouille
..." he said softly."What? Who might that be?" Jack asked, looking around.

"Is she responsible for this?"

"File ... etouffee ..." the boy continued, dazed."I think the poor lad is
talking about food ... again,"
Arabella realized with a smile. "Andouille is a kind of sausage
.”
The wind had shifted, and the smells of spicy noontime meals wafted over the square.

Restaurants and taverns were cooking up oysters, crayfish, an
d jambalaya for hungry crowds.
"Jean!" Jack said, exasperated. He whacked the boy upside the head. "Get your head out of the gumbo pot. We're on a mission here.""Oui, oui of course," Jean said, shaking his head to clear it. "But it has just been so long. . . ."We'll tend to your homesick stomach in just a moment," Jack promised, rolling his eyes. "Now, tell me, if none of these wretches and hooligans be your dreaded Madame Minuit, where else could we look? Has she set up shop on another street?"Jean shook his head, still distracted. "Madame Minuit does not solicit on the street. She does not have to. No one knows precisely where her hideout is--they say it moves around. We will have to work hard to find her "Before Jack
could get another question in,
Jean took another deep breath of the delicious air. He looked anxiously toward the stalls across the way, where plumes of brown smoke and the bubble and pop of simmering stews held his full attention.Arabella put a hand to her stomach. "I'm a wee bit hungry, too, Jack," she admitted."All right," the captain of the Barnacle sighed, pushing his hat back. "We should ruminate and digest some victuals, then, before we begin this search for the elusive witch doctress."