Silk Harbor [2]

The bridge swayed, a treacherous dance, yet it bore their weight with stoutness, revealing its deceptive stability.

"Lass, what be yer scheme for fillin' our coffers?" Jack inquired.

Mary's giggle hinted at 'hidden treasures'. "I'll reveal me scheme once we've wet our whistles, captain. Yer mind'll be clearer for it."

Suspicion crept into Jack's gaze, but he yielded to fate.

The main isle burgeoned with activity, trade ships docking, vendors unfurling their wooden stalls. Daybreak's feeble light painted the scene.

They traversed the heart of the market, their eyes scanning the wares—fruit and veg aplenty, yet silk dominated.

Jack strode ahead, lulled by the quiet, until he turned, spying Mary adorning a silk blouse, her bosom laid bare.

In an instant, he shielded her form with his own, chiding, "Mary, ye can't have a member of me crew comportin' herself thus. What would folk say, that I've a harlot aboard me ship?"

Undeterred, she continued, the silk caressing her frame. "Does it suit me?" she inquired.

He regarded her, then tested the fabric with his hand. "Aye, it suits ye well. But ye lack the coin for it."

A wry smile danced upon her lips, her gaze speaking volumes, a familiar look he'd come to know.

"Nay," he declared.

Her smile broadened, her eyes imploring, a puppy-dog plea.

Leaning close, he murmured, "Ye can't pilfer it, lass. We'd be hunted down in no time. This ain't just any harbor."

Resigned, she returned the silk blouse, revealing more than the vendor bargained for. He looked on, a smile etched upon his face, deeming the morn a fortunate one.

"Enough o' this, Mary!" he admonished, prompting her to swiftly don her white shirt, smudged but modest.

With a chuckle, she acquiesced, "Aye, captain, no more harlotry from me."

He playfully swatted the back of her head. "To the tavern then, and swiftly!"

...

Outside the Seahorse tavern, a collection of empty barrels and crates were arranged in makeshift seating. Tanned figures lounged, nursing their spirits in the salty sea breeze.

Above the entrance, a creaking wooden sign declared the establishment's name: Seahorse. Its weathered surface bore the intricate carving of a leaping seahorse, etched into the wood with meticulous detail.

As they swung open the tavern doors, all eyes briefly turned to them before swiftly returning to their merriment. Amongst the patrons, a few inebriated souls lay strewn across the floor, surrounded by spilled cups of spirits.

The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of salt, liquor, sweat, and a distinct lack of cleanliness. Iron-barred windows punctuated the tavern's walls, allowing thin ribbons of daylight to filter through.

Choosing a corner spot, Jack settled in. It was his favored vantage point for observing the eclectic mix of pirates and locals, ears tuned for any hint of treasure talk.

Jack leaned in, his curiosity evident. "So, what be the scheme?"

Mary rested her arms on the well-worn table, its surface marked by countless cuts and scars. "The scheme, Captain, be to savor the drink before we dive into action."

The unexpected response left Jack momentarily speechless. "Ye mean to say, there be no scheme at all? That would make ye mine for the night, har har!" His laughter filled the tavern.

Mary's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Nay, Captain. Once we've had a few drinks, I'll share the scheme."

Jack's expression shifted back to normal, and he nodded. "Aye, then. Let's get to drinkin'."

The older man, owner and waiter in one, approached in his weathered attire—a pair of vibrant red breeches and a bandana securing his unruly, brown locks. He greeted them with a knowing nod, ready to take their orders.

Jack's purse lightened by a mere 2 Nords, a modest sum for their chosen spirits. It was a relief, sparing their coffers from a more substantial dent.

Before the waiter departed, Jack hailed, "Ay, Flintlock, any news?"

Flintlock, the tavern keeper, leaned in, inquiring, "Jack, why the sudden interest in other treasures? Weren't ye tryin' to find the treasure yer father spent his whole life seekin'?"

With a glint of pride, Jack declared, "I've found it, old man," giving a cheeky wink.

Flintlock's eyes widened in surprise, and he declared, "Drinks are on me, me friend!" Eager to have Jack back in his tavern, and no doubt hoping for a share of the newfound riches.

Mary's eyes gleamed with anticipation. The prospect of unlimited drink was a rare treat indeed.

Flintlock pressed on, "So, how much did ye make? Any gold?"

Jack, wise to the need for discretion, spun a tale, "Just a few. Any new maps in stock? I'll part with five gold coins."

Flintlock saw his chance, "I've a handful o' maps, though I can't vouch for their accuracy. The third one looks promisin', if any."

Jack wasted no time, "Fetch me the third one, and a dozen more cups o' spirits for us."

Flintlock nodded and hastened to fulfill the order.

With a sly whisper, Jack shared his plan with Mary: down the drinks, snatch the map, and make a swift escape.

Their cups were emptied just as Flintlock returned with the coveted treasure map.

Flintlock couldn't help but remark, "Looks like there's a celebration brewin'."

To divert any suspicion about the absence of gold coins, Jack took charge, "Fetch our drinks while I search me pouch."

Flintlock, despite his age, possessed a sharp wit. Trusting in Jack's familial ties, he allowed him to inspect the map before payment, heading to the counter to prepare their drinks.

With a deft snatch, Jack secured the map in his leather pouch, unleashing a hearty laugh. He bounded towards the exit, Mary following suit, her playful taunt directed at their unsuspecting accomplices.

As they weaved through the lively crowd, Jack stole a glance back, spotting Flintlock, hindered by the chase. A triumphant realization washed over him, affirming the age-old adage: never trust a pirate.

In the aftermath of their escape, Flintlock gazed after them, a mix of admiration and reminiscence in his eyes. Jack's cunning reminded him of his father, and he couldn't help but ponder the true nature of Jack's discovery.

With a hint of nostalgia and pride, he muttered, "Morgan, yer son has left his mark."