The place is a curious mixture of a parlor and a tavern: fine furniture and finely dressed servants, unsavory company and inappropriately loud talk. The volume of noise is, however, a convenient cover for confidential conversation that would be impossible in more well-bred society.
A butler brings a tray to a corner of the room where two armchairs are half-concealed behind a decorative screen. He unloads a gilded china cup of coffee and stands by while the occupant of one of the chairs refuses milk and sugar, before delivering the next table a bottle of rum.
Stephen sips his coffee black and looks at the other man through his blue spectacles. "To be sure, I am not privy to the captain's own log, but I can tell you what little I know. Here it is not a day that goes by without us chasing some pirate or privateer." He does not give out that Jack would tell him anything he asked; it would not do to reveal their close connection, even to one on his own side.
Mercer takes a drink from his pocket flask. "'Tis not the privateers that concern me. Milord Beckett wishes to know where the pirates are." French and Spanish nationals are for navy-boys like Norrington to chase, and are only at war when their kings are.
Stephen chooses his words carefully - he has been warned by Sir Joseph that Beckett's spy knows everything that goes on in the Caribbean and is not at all trustworthy. "Surely Lord Beckett has better sources - Customs House, the merchantmen?"
Mercer's mouth twists in a near-smile - it will not be that easy. "No, Doctor. A spy on one of His Majesty's ships is more useful by far."
The room is dark, and tallow candles are placed with the greatest economy: cream runs into dingy shadow on the walls, and the firelight caught in the curves of the rocaille is bloody. Stephen chafes at being called a spy.
"Then Lord Beckett may call upon me at his leisure when we are next in Port Royal. Dr. Stephen Maturin, surgeon of His Majesty's ship Leopard." He makes no effort to keep the steel from his voice. "And the Eleonore?"
Mercer has a dagger in his pocket should anything go wrong, but Stephen has a loaded pistol, and he is too valuable to lose. "Sailed from France two weeks ago with the Circé. She looks to join the fleet in Saint-Domingue."
Stephen rises and bows; and almost as an afterthought, but with deliberate slowness, says "We chased a pirate the other day, with black sails. I cannot recall her name," and departs.
Beckett would like this Dr. Maturin, Mercer thinks. He know how to conduct good business.
Stephen wishes he did not have to bargain like this for information, when Mercer is on the same side. It feels unclean.
