The black market of Tortuga was a festering sore hidden in the labyrinthine slums of the town's eastern district. There were no grand storefronts or signs here; only temporary stalls made of driftwood and canvas, smelling of wet gunpowder, stale sweat, and cheap, high-proof rum.
It was a place where stolen jewels were traded for bread, and where a man could buy a naval cannon as easily as a sack of grain, provided he had the coin and the steel to back his claim. Everyone here moved with a predatory vigilance, their eyes darting between the shadows and the purses of their neighbors.
Hugo walked through the center of the market with Gibbs and Billy at his flanks. They moved with a practiced arrogance, their hand-me-down flintlocks loaded and visible. Hugo, however, looked entirely out of place. His clothes, though salt-stained, were of a cut and quality that signaled wealth, and his face lacked the desperate, hollowed-out look of the local cutthroats.
"Look at the silk on that one," a voice rasped from a dark alleyway. "Is some little lordling lost his way home?"
"Probably a fat lamb from a merchantman, lookin' to buy his way back to the King's favor," another sneered.
Gibbs and Billy tensed, their hands hovering near their cutlasses, but Hugo didn't even turn his head. He was focused on the far end of the market, where a massive, scar-faced man was bare-chested in the heat, meticulously wiping a brass cannon with an oiled rag.
Behind him sat a collection of iron and bronze barrels, the "teeth" of the Caribbean.
"I'm here to see the hardware," Hugo said, stopping in front of the stall. He didn't ask; he stated.
The scar-faced man paused, his single eye scanning Hugo from boots to brow. He let out a harsh, dry snort of derision. "Hardware? Lad, my pieces cost more than your life is worth ten times over. Get back to the tavern before you lose something you can't replace."
"My purse is deep enough to buy your whole stall, and your loyalty along with it," Hugo replied calmly. "But I'm not here for scrap metal. I want the pieces that haven't been bored out by rust or cast with bubbles in the iron."
"Scrap?" The man stood up, looming a full head taller than Hugo. His subordinates, a group of three hulking brutes stepped out from behind the crates, their expressions murderous. "You dare call my stock scrap? I've served the Spanish Main and the Royal Navy! I know my iron, boy!"
The air in the market grew suddenly cold. Onlookers stopped their haggling, sensing a slaughter.
"Knowing iron and knowing physics are two different things," Hugo said, stepping past the brutes and walking toward the first cannon. He didn't draw his sword. He simply extended a hand and tapped the side of the brass barrel with the hilt of his knife.
In his vision, the golden lattice of the System flared to life.
[Scanning Object: Bronze 12-Pounder.]
[Composition: 88% Bronze, 12% Tin.]
[Status: Critical Defect Detected. Internal hairline fracture along the touchhole due to rapid cooling during casting.]
[Warning: 45% chance of barrel-burst if fired with a double charge.]
Hugo moved to the next one, a rusty, ugly iron piece. He ran his hand along the inner bore, his eyes narrowing.
[Scanning Object: Iron 9-Pounder.]
[Status: Pristine. Material: High-carbon Swedish steel. Minimal bore-wear. High resonance.]
Finally, he walked to a corner where eight inconspicuous, short-barreled 12-pounders sat beneath a canvas tarp. They looked identical, well-maintained, and surprisingly sleek.
"This brass beauty of yours," Hugo said, pointing back to the dealer's prize piece. "It's a coffin for anyone standing behind it. You've got an internal fracture at the breech. Use a high charge, and she'll turn into shrapnel and take your gun-deck with her."
The dealer opened his mouth to shout, but Hugo didn't stop. He pointed to the rusty iron cannon. "This one looks like garbage, but the steel is Swedish and the casting is perfect. It'll outlast ten of your brass toys."
Then, Hugo pulled back the tarp on the eight short-barreled guns. "And these. British Navy pattern. Carronades, or close to it. Taken from a grounded frigate, weren't they? They're the only real guns in this entire yard."
The silence that followed was absolute.
The scar-faced man's expression shifted from rage to a pale, sweating shock. He looked at Hugo as if he were a demon. He had lied about the brass gun to a dozen buyers, knowing it was a "hot" casting that would eventually fail. He had kept the Swedish iron because he didn't think anyone would pay for its weight. And the British guns... he had stolen them from the wreck of the HMS Achilles just three days ago.
No one knew. No one could have known just by touching them.
"How..." the man stammered, his bravado vanishing. "Who told you? Did the dock-master speak?"
"I don't need gossip when I can hear the metal," Hugo said. He reached into his belt and pulled out one of Barbossa's heavy gold pouches. He tossed it onto the table, where it landed with a loud, metallic thud.
"Eight British cannons. All the twelve-pound solid shot you have. And every bag of grape and chain-shot in the back. Name a price that doesn't make me want to come back and 're-evaluate' your inventory."
The dealer didn't even try to haggle. He looked at the gold, then at the young man who saw through iron, and he realized that Hugo was a man who lived in a world of truths he couldn't comprehend.
"Take 'em," the man whispered, his hand trembling as he reached for the pouch. "Take the lot. I'll have 'em hauled to the docks by sunset."
As Hugo turned to leave, Gibbs leaned in, his single eye wide with wonder. "By the powers, Master Hugo... how did you know about the fracture? I've been around guns my whole life and I couldn't see a thing."
"Everything in this world has a frequency, Gibbs," Hugo said, his eyes fixed on the distant masts of his ship. "You just have to know how to listen. Let's go. Our lady is about to get her teeth."