CHAPTER ONE

Fair Winds and Black Ships

JACK SPARROW, FIRST MATE of the East India Trading Company merchant vessel Fair Wind, stood on the quarterdeck, glaring down at most of his hastily assembled crew. Beside him rested a large cask. It sloshed faintly as the brig glided over the topaz waters of the Caribbean Sea, three days out from Port Royal, Jamaica. Jack drummed his fingers on the top of the half-empty cask. “This rum,” he said, raising his voice so he could be heard over the creaking of the sails, the slap of the sea, and the rush of the wind, “is half gone. Why is the rum gone?”

The weatherbeaten faces that had been regarding him quizzically suddenly vanished as each crewman looked down, twisting his cap in hands scored by years of hard, dangerous work at sea. The men shuffled their feet on the holystoned planks of the Fair Wind’s weather deck. No one ventured a reply.

Jack hadn’t really expected any of the culprits to confess, and “peaching” on a mate was regarded as lowest of the low among the men, so the lack of a reply didn’t surprise him. He actually sympathized with the culprits. After all, the stolen substance was rum. Jack liked rum as well as any man. Well, to be truthful, better than most. But this rum was not, technically speaking, rum. It was cargo. He let his temper, until now held in check, rise.

“I will tell you why the rum is gone,” Jack roared. He thumped the top of the container. “This half-empty cask, which as of last night was full of rum bound for England, rum entrusted to this vessel to be carried in her hold until we reach our destination, rum intended to be sold to the taverns and cellars of England, to slake English thirsts, is gone because,” he paused for effect, “several members of this crew that stands before me, this same crew of misbegotten scurvy sea dogs, crept down into the hold and drank it!” He slapped his hand against the side of the cask where one of the staves had been pried out of alignment with the others, leaving a long, dark stain of spilled rum down the side of the container. Jack turned to the man standing beside him. Robby Greene was five years younger than Jack himself, which made him barely twenty. He was a slender but whipcord-strong youth, with a ready smile and a mop of golden curls that he kept tied back with a black ribbon. Greene, as second mate aboard Fair Wind, was responsible for the ship’s cargo. “Mr. Greene!” Jack said. “What, in your professional opinion, is the precise word that should be applied to the action of starting this cask and subsequently drinking half of it? Of wantonly guzzling our cargo?”

Whoever had gotten to the rum had managed to bypass the locks on the entrances leading down to the holds. They’d started the cask, siphoned off the contents, drunk their fill, then re-tied the lashings binding the cargo, no doubt hoping the damage would be attributed to the rolling of the ship. Jack had barely relieved Third Mate Edward Tomlin when Robby had appeared to show him the half-emptied cask. Devil take it, Jack had thought, eyeing the damage. And it had to happen on my watch.…

This was his and Robby’s first voyage aboard Fair Wind, and this incident was the first real challenge to Jack’s authority as first mate of the vessel. When he’d first reported for duty, minutes before sunrise, Jack had been looking forward to an uneventful watch. They’d taken on fresh provisions with their cargo, and this morning the cook had served him fresh fruit with his porridge. Savoring the last bite of pineapple, Jack had ambled onto the weather deck, pleased to see that the good weather was holding. The brig was reaching across the wind, with all plain sail set. There was nothing better than the beauty of the early morning Caribbean on a vessel that was making good time.

And then some of these misbegotten louts had to go and guzzle the EITC’s rum, Jack thought, disgustedly, as he waited for the second mate’s response. Greene glanced at the crew, swallowed, but replied stoutly, “I’d call that stealing, Mr. Sparrow.”

“Aye! Stealing!” Jack repeated. “The very word I had in mind, Mr. Greene! Drinking our cargo constitutes theft! Theft!” He turned back to the crew, who were mumbling and shuffling, scarcely daring to glance at one another. “And it is my unfortunate duty to discover the thief, or, in this case, thieves.”

Robby murmured, “It would take at least three men to move the cask silently, Jack. Nobody from the third watch reported hearing anything. I’ll change the padlocks on the hatch leading down to the hold. We can’t have this happening again.”

“Agreed,” Jack said, dropping his voice so only Robby could hear him. “Now to determine which of these wretched, flea-infested lummoxes did the deed.”

Moving with careful dignity, Jack descended the steps leading from the quarterdeck to the weather deck. The crew stepped back, muttering amongst themselves as he neared the bottom of the ladder. “Attention, you lubbers! Assemble in ranks!” Jack ordered, in scathing tones. “Toe these lines, you mangy curs! Straighten up! I want to see these lines toed!”

The crewmen surged back and forth in their ranks as they hastened to obey. Jack, standing poised on the last step but one, watched them attentively. Then silently, moving with his own unique stride, Jack slowly, deliberately paced down the lines of the ranked crewmen. His sensitive nose twitched as he passed each man, inhaling the usual odors of stale sweat, unwashed human, tar, and salt. For four of the crewmen, there was another scent—one Jack recognized immediately. But he made no sign of his discovery, only continued his silent progress. When he finished, Jack beckoned to Robby Greene, who was waiting for him by the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. “Bring me a line,” he ordered. “Long enough to rig a dunking harness.”

“Aye, Mr. Sparrow,” Robby said, and hurried away.

With great dignity, Jack turned to face his crew. “I find that this gunwale”—he gestured at the railing a few feet away—“is seriously in need of foot polishing.” The crewmen turned their heads, clearly not grasping what Jack was talking about.

“Morton!” Jack snapped. “Step lively now! Walk me that gunwale!” He gestured at the railing. The “man” he addressed was barely seventeen. He was a good topman—and he was sober. Walking the gunwale would be child’s play to him.

“Aye, aye, Mr. Sparrow!”

Morton leapt up onto the railing; then, bare toes curving to fit the shape of the wood, he walked along the four-inch wide surface. He didn’t even bother to extend his arms for balance. When he’d reached the end of the fifteen-foot gunwale, he jumped lithely down.

Jack nodded. “Very good, Mr. Morton! I am pleased to see that not all of the crew of the Fair Wind are thieves!” He clapped the crewman on the shoulder as he passed him on his way down the ranks, noting that Robby now stood by the gunwale, a coiled line and harness rigged. Morton, vindicated, grinned broadly as he stepped back into ranks.

“Mr. Farmer!” Jack said, stopping before a middle-aged sailor whose balding head gleamed in the sun. “I believe you could use a bit of a constitutional. Walk me that gunwale!” Farmer stood rooted, his look one of wary disbelief mixed with general fuddlement. “NOW!” Jack roared. “Step lively!”

Farmer shuffled over to the gunwale, casting looks back over his shoulder at several of his mates, who studiously ignored him. He barely noticed when Robby fastened the harness around his midsection, and he needed a hand up to reach the railing. Swaying to the motion of the ship, arms extended, he stood there, trying to gain his balance.

“Did I not order you to walk said gunwale, Mr. Farmer?” Jack demanded, acidly.

“Aye, shur!” slurred Farmer. Raising his foot, he took a step forward, then with a yelp and a whirl of arms and legs, he fell over the side. His yell of protest ended in a tremendous splash.

Jack casually examined his dirty fingernails, while mentally counting, slowly, to twenty. Only then did he nod at Greene. “Haul him out, Mr. Greene. Bring him up halfway, then give our ruddy sot another ablution. Even without the stink of stolen rum on his breath, he was an offense to my nose.”

While the crew stood at attention, Robby did as ordered, using a block to winch the inebriated sailor part of the way up the hull, then letting him loose again. Jack stood there, covertly watching the crew’s reaction, while Farmer was dunked a total of three times.

When the drunken seaman was finally hauled back up to the railing, he was gasping for breath. Robby Greene prudently waited until he’d finished spewing seawater mixed with stolen rum before pulling him back onto the deck, with the help of Morton, hastily commandeered as an assistant. By the time Farmer lay sprawled limply on the deck, half- conscious, Jack knew he wouldn’t have to repeat the test.

“Morton, Phelps, take him below, lock him in the chain locker until he sobers up,” Jack ordered. Then he turned to the crew. “Mr. Barton—”

“Please, no, Mr. Shparrow!” the young, redhaired crewman said, clutching his cap, almost blubbering. “Don’t make me walk it! I’ll fall for sure, and I could break me neck! I drank th’ rum, shur, I did, please shur…I’m sorry.” He turned to one of the older crewmembers, a habitual troublemaker. Jack searched his mind for the man’s name. Anderson, that’s it…

“It were his idea!” Barton said, pointing a dirt-encrusted finger. “I didn’t want to, but he—”

Anderson lurched forward. “Why you dirty—”

“Stow it!” Jack ordered, his voice cutting across theirs. “Barton, Anderson, Nelson, step forward.”

Sullenly, the three remaining rum thieves shuffled out of ranks to stand before Jack. “You three and Farmer are hereby deprived of your daily rum ration for the remainder of this voyage,” Jack said, his voice low and cutting. “The cost of the damaged cask will be taken out of your pay for this voyage, plus a suitable fine, to be determined by Second Mate Greene.”

The three miscreants looked askance at each other. The penalty was stiff, but fair. Jack knew, however, that Captain Nathaniel Bainbridge, who was still reposing in his cabin, would demand even harsher penalties. Even though Fair Wind was a merchant vessel, it wasn’t unknown for Bainbridge, a half-pay naval officer, to treat his men as though they were in the service and use the cat on their backs. Jack knew that if he didn’t order a significant enough penalty, Bainbridge would have the four of them out here on the weather deck, stripped to the waist, and seized to the shrouds for flogging. Jack had no intention of ordering lashes. He knew only too well that crews had mutinied and turned pirate in these waters on far less provocation. Dunking will serve, Jack decided. I’ll give them all a good sluicing, and then confine them in the chain locker for the rest of the day. Bainbridge should consider that sufficient.…

Jack had just opened his mouth to begin that order, when a shout floated down from the topman poised on the foremast. “Sail ho!”

Everyone turned. Jack quickly strode forward, shading his eyes against the brilliant sun, squinting up at the topman. His heart quickened. He was back in the Caribbean—the Spanish Main. There were many pirates plying their trade in these waters. Even the infamous rogue pirates, who had been flying their red no-quarter flag for upward of six years now, tended to go after the rich pickings in the Caribbean. Jack glanced at Robby, who was standing beside him, and saw that he was thinking the same thing. Both he and Greene had history with the rogues—history they’d like to forget, but couldn’t. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Jack shouted, “Where away?”

The topman, a lad of no more than sixteen, pointed and shouted, in a strong North Country accent, “Two points for’ard of the starboard beam. Almost in the wind’s eye.”

Jack nodded, then turned and dashed up the ladder to the quarterdeck, heading for the binnacle. From the shelf behind it, he grabbed his spyglass in its leather carrying case, then headed back down the ladder to the foremast, the mast closest to the bow. Robby was already waiting for him, and reached out to take the spyglass case, but Jack shook his head. “I’m going aloft myself.”

In preparation for the climb, Jack took off his neat, sober tricorne hat, then his long, snuff-colored coat. Beneath it he wore a loose-sleeved shirt and a waistcoat. Leaning over, one hand bracing himself against the roll of the ship, Jack pulled off his brown shoes with the big silver buckles, then he stripped off his knee stockings. The deck planks were warm against the soles of his feet, still calloused from his days as an able seaman. He’d been a topman, working high in the rigging, making sail high above the deck. Jack bundled up his clothes and handed them to Robby. “Watch my effects, please, Mr. Greene.”

“Aye, Mr. Sparrow,” Robby said.

Slinging the spyglass case on its leather strap over his shoulder, Jack walked over to the windward gunwale on the starboard side, hopped up on the railing, then started up the ladderlike ratlines. The wind pushed gently against his back, and the lines were harsh against his feet and hands. He climbed steadily, not looking down, ignoring the way the ratlines swayed with the roll of the ship, and gave slightly beneath his weight. He’d done this thousands of times before, in fair weather and foul. Furling sails in the teeth of a fierce squall was one of the most dangerous jobs aboard a ship.

He paused halfway to his goal to breathe, after pulling himself over the side of the “top,” the small platform above the futtock shrouds. As he caught his breath, he looked out over the water. The color of the Caribbean Sea was unlike any other body of water he’d ever sailed—and he’d sailed a lot of them. The Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic, and Aegean seas, the Black Sea, the South China Sea, the Indian Ocean, even the Coral Sea lapping the shores of New Holland on the opposite side of the world.

Jack had spent most of his life at sea, and he loved it. Automatically, he glanced at the eastern sky, smiling faintly to see that horizon clear of any threatening clouds. Squalls could come up with amazing speed. No matter what else they were doing, sailors kept an eye on the weather.

Leaning back, he grabbed the foretopmast shrouds and began going up hand over hand, letting his legs dangle over thin air. He was winded again by the time he reached the crosstrees where the topman perched. Jack glanced over at him, searching his memory for the lad’s name. Barnes? That’s not it…Bates! Yes, Bates.

“Good sighting, Mr. Bates,” Jack said, hooking a leg over the cross-trees to secure himself.

Bates flushed with pleasure. He was a stocky lad, his chin still downy, who wore a scarf wrapped around his head to protect it from the sun. “Thankee, Mr. Sparrow,” he replied. “She be right over there.” He pointed.

Jack took out his spyglass, focused it, and searched the sea to windward. He had to brace himself hard against the rolling of the ship and the movement of the sails in order to hold the brass cylinder steady, but that was second nature to him, and he wasn’t even conscious that he was doing so. After a minute of searching the waves, the ship swam into his view. He adjusted his focus and studied her. He was looking at her in profile. She was heading south, not toward them.

Jack made out three masts. A full-rigged ship… He focused the spyglass again. “Probably eight miles away,” he muttered. A frigate. Not a cargo vessel like the heavily laden Fair Wind. She was good-sized, probably four to five hundred tons burthen—which made her twice as large as Fair Wind. Frigates were built for speed, and war. This was probably a Royal Navy vessel. Black hull…that wasn’t unusual. But her rigging…there was something familiar about her rig. Bloody hell! It can’t be…

He lowered the spyglass. His heart was pounding, and not because of this climb up the rigging. He tried to reassure himself. I must be imagining it. He rubbed his eyes hard on the sleeve of his shirt, then raised the spyglass again. The stranger swam in his vision for a second, then he could see her, more clearly than ever. Her white sails gleamed in the sun. Her masts were strongly raked, to lend her speed. Her bowsprit was steeved almost level, giving her larger headsails.

Jack sucked in his breath. A Blackwall frigate…Oh, no…He looked again at the ship, trying to see if she had a red stripe just above her waterline, above and below her gunports, and red gunwales. But she was still too far away to make out those details. She wasn’t flying any flag, but that wasn’t unusual. Fair Wind wasn’t flying her ensign either. Flags were expensive, and wore out quickly when exposed to the elements. Ships usually hoisted their colors only when they expected to come alongside for a visit, to exchange news, or perhaps supplies.

Or when they’re in pursuit, because they’re pirates.…

Pirate ships were usually much smaller than this vessel. He’d only ever known of one pirate who had “acquired” a frigate. But the more he saw her, the more certain he became. He’d seen this ship before and she was no naval vessel.

Jack Sparrow lowered his spyglass as memory rushed back, to the day he’d first seen this particular ship.…

Shipwreck Island was a legend on the Spanish Main. The stories held that it had been an impregnable pirate stronghold and sanctuary for hundreds, nay, thousands of years. Most seafarers who heard of it regarded it as nothing more than the rum-soaked invention of tale-spinning pirates. A chimera…a myth.

The island was, however, quite real. Real, that is, in the sense that pirates who knew of it could usually find it…though not always. The island’s position was difficult, if not impossible, to pinpoint on a map. Some said that it had no fixed location, but that it…moved. Others laughed at this contention, but, on pain of torture unto death, refused to point out its coordinates.

One of the few pirate maps that bore correct (at least at some times) coordinates for Shipwreck Island showed it as lying a day’s sail off the northeast coast of South America. Any ship chancing upon it could sail all the way around it, and unless the captain knew where to look, it would seem like nothing but a gigantic solid stone mountain rising out of the sea—a stubby, flattened mountain without a peak.

This mountain, however, was not solid. Long, long ago it had been a volcanic hell spewing lava up out of the sea. But the lava was long gone, and now the volcano lay dormant, its interior hollow. That hollow interior contained a quiet, sheltered freshwater cove that could be reached only by a narrow river that twisted and turned its way through the southern rock wall. The opening to the outside lay beneath a shadowed overhang of rock—difficult to spot even when a navigator knew to look for it. Many ships had passed it by, never realizing there was a way in. A small band of defenders could hold off an attack on the entrance, and there were cannons mounted on outcrops of the exterior cliffs. Even the most determined attacker learned quickly that Shipwreck Cove was basically impregnable.

Sometimes the winds would sweep along the tunnel in such a way that a ship could sail into, or out of, Shipwreck Cove. When there was no wind, captains dispatched crews in longboats to tow their vessels to the docks surrounding Shipwreck City.

Shipwreck City—the pirate sanctum—had been built on a small island in the center of the cove. No one knew precisely how old the city was, though legend had it that its foundations, now hidden, consisted of Greek triremes, Roman galleys, and dragon-prowed longships. The city was constructed of ship hulks; dozens, perhaps as many as a hundred of them, piled atop one another, rising into a ramshackle tower of both new and ancient wood. At night the lights from the ships made the unwieldy structure resemble a jagged glass tube crammed full of fireflies. Bows and sterns and ancient spars protruded, giving the city an eerie quality, as snippets of pirate chanteys rose into the still night air of the caldera. Each ship that had been chosen to become part of Shipwreck City had its own story—though in most cases those stories were long lost to the dust of history or myth.

Shipwreck City did not live by clocks, or even by day and night. At any time, one could find taverns, brothels, pubs, gaming houses, or combinations of all three open and doing a lively business.

Three quarters of the way up the tower of ships, what had once been the Spanish treasure galleon Our Lady of Divine Inspiration (some witty pirate had modified this to “Our Lady of Divine Inebriation”) had been converted into a tavern that was publicly known as The Drunken Lady.

One hot afternoon in midsummer, with all of The Drunken Lady’s ports opened wide to catch any possible breezes, Jack Sparrow and his companion, Christophe-Julien de Rapièr, captain of the pirate vessel La Vipère, sat drinking rum and playing Hazard.

Jack had long ago removed his coat and battered tricorne. He blotted sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then blew on his dice, shook them vigorously in the little cup, blew on them again and tossed them onto the table. They bounced, spun, and rolled to a stop. Jack winced. His companion laughed gleefully, while scooping up the pieces of eight. “I win again, Jacques! It is my day, not yours!”

“He who wins the day must buy the drinks,” Jack said, holding out his tankard to show it was empty. “It’s traditional.”

His companion laughed. “Another Jack Sparrow tradition. Why is it they always involve rum?” He waved to the barkeep. “Etienne! More rum!”

The barkeep, an enormous, hulking figure of an Englishman, rolled his eyes as he poured. “Don’t give me any of yer furrin’ jabber, Christophe,” he cautioned, moving toward his customers with the halting stride caused by his injured left leg and hip. “It’s Steve. ’Tis a good English name, good enough for me dad, and sure as the devil, good enough for me. I’ll thank ye to remember it.” He plunked the tankards down on the scarred tabletop.

Christophe chortled as he raised his drink. “But Etienne rolls so beautifully off the tongue, mon ami!”

Young Sparrow had first met de Rapièr when Jack was a mere stripling. The captain was the youngest man to command a pirate ship Jack had ever met. He was in his early thirties, Jack’s senior by more than a decade, and he was a dashing figure of a pirate. He was taller than Jack, with curling black hair, flashing dark eyes, and a rakish moustache and beard. He was always meticulously groomed, and a good portion of his share of La Vipère’s spoils went toward his wardrobe. At the moment, despite the heat, he was tricked out in a crimson coat with silver and blue embroidery, a blue waistcoat beneath it. His breeches were also blue, and his tall boots, with their folded-over tops, were custom-made from the finest Spanish leather.

Lace-trimmed ruffles frothed from his sleeves and throat like the whitest of seafoam. At the moment he was relaxing, so his black leather baldric with its silver buckle was slung over the back of his chair. His sword was Toledo steel, the guard and pommel chased with gold and silver.

At the moment, Christophe’s handsome features were slackened slightly by the amount of rum he’d consumed, but Jack knew he could probably still defeat most of the denizens of Shipwreck City in a swordfight.

Jack envied his friend’s skill with a sword. Two months ago Christophe had volunteered to give him lessons, and the younger man had been quick to accept. The older pirate proved to be a good, if exacting, instructor, and Jack could already tell his own technique was better.

Christophe drained his tankard, and plunked it down. “Steve!” he shouted. “More rum! And don’t serve me yourself, you big lout of an Englishman, send your sweet little French wife!”

Scowling, Steve Seymour collected their tankards and refilled them. For a moment Jack thought the barkeep might refuse the pirate captain’s order, but Christophe was well known for being generous to an attractive serving wench. Gruffly, he called, “Marie!”

Moments later, Steve’s wife appeared. Marie Seymour was as petite as Steve was large, with soft brown hair, pretty features, and a pleasant voice. In sharp contrast to the other women of Shipwreck City, she wore a gray-blue dress with a modest neckline and long sleeves. A long white apron tied at her waist accented her slender figure. Carrying the tankards over, she placed them before Jack and Christophe with a smile. “Your drinks, messieurs. Will there be anything else?”

For a moment Jack thought that Christophe would make a vulgar suggestion, but instead the captain smiled and took out a coin. “There you go, m’amie,” he said. “Something for your trouble.”

The early afternoon sunlight, shining through the stern windows, picked up the gleam of gold. Marie’s eyes widened, then she took the doubloon and bobbed a curtsy. Flustered, she murmured. “Merci beaucoup, m’sieur,” and curtsied again. Clutching the coin, she backed away. “Merci, merci…”

Jack gave his companion an incredulous glance. “A doubloon for a barmaid?”

Christophe laughed, his dark eyes holding a glint of mockery. “Why not?” he asked. “It pleased me to share my treasure.”

If Jack had been a fox, his ears would have pricked up. “Treasure?” He knew Christophe was baiting him, but he couldn’t sit still and let the remark pass. No decent pirate could.

The captain laughed and waggled a finger at Jack. “Do you think I will give away all my secrets? I came upon this little…hoard…of Spanish gold last month. They were old coins. Probably came from some mission along the coast where some Padre concealed them against attack, and died before he could reveal their whereabouts. Not a large chest, no.” He made a smallish shape with his hands. “But it was worth our trouble to acquire it, mon ami.”

“You got it from a Spanish vessel?”

“Oui. Along with a respectable take of silver ingots and some very fine tobacco.” Christophe smiled. “They put up a good fight, those Spaniards. One must respect them for it.”

Jack nodded. He didn’t much care for fighting. It was much safer, not to mention more challenging, to gain a prize by outwitting an opponent. The idea of treasure hunting had always appealed to him, and he’d had some experience at it, in his younger days. “For a moment there, I thought you’d stumbled onto the lost treasure of the Incas,” he joked. “You know, the one that Pizarro, in his arrogance, lost.”

Christophe didn’t have Jack’s knowledge of history. “Pizarro? Those Spaniards! Always losing their treasure,” he said, with an impatient wave. “What I’d like to lay my hands on would be the Treasure of Cortés.”

Jack managed not to roll his eyes. “You and every other buccaneer for the last hundred and fifty years,” he said. “Nobody knows what happened to it. Even Captain Ward didn’t record any legends concerning it.”

“Who is this Captain Ward?” Christophe asked. “And what treasures did he record?”

“I’m surprised no one has translated the book,” Jack said. “It was published in England about fifteen years ago. Sold very well, I gather. My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates, by Capt. J. Ward. Teague gave me his copy to read when I was just a lad. In one of the chapters Captain Ward regales the reader with tales of treasures from all the pirates he encountered. Some of the legends go way back, hundreds, even a thousand or more years.”

“Sacre Dieu! I must find myself a copy of this book!” said Christophe. “Which is your favorite legend, mon ami?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Jack mused for a moment, then brightened. “There’s the one about the island that sank beneath the waves because the streets were paved with gold. Or, wait? Am I mixing them up?” He ruminated for a moment. “Actually, it’s rather a nuisance when everything turns into all one thing. One time in New Orleans, I—” Jack stopped himself just in time. It didn’t pay to babble about magical adventures.

Christophe blinked at him a bit owlishly. “I heard about that one,” he said. “They said it sank beneath the waves because it was cursed.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Of course it did. There’s always a bloody curse, isn’t there? Why do so many treasures have bloody curses associated with them, anyway?” He swirled the last of his rum in his cup and then drank, feeling the sweet fire course down his gullet.

Christophe grimaced. “Surely there are some without curses, mon ami?”

“Oh, sure,” Jack agreed. “Lessee…there was a big haul of Viking gold they say is buried up there on the coast of some land of ice.” He shivered. “Don’t much like cold, me. I’d rather stay down here in the Caribbean. And there are tales of treasures on magical isles in England and Ireland. Glastonbury, Camelot, Avalon, that sort of thing.”

“But England is a long sail away, Jacques. By the time we reached it, the leaves would have fallen, and the weather would be miserable,” Christophe pointed out. “Rain, rain, nothing but cold, wet rain. Something closer to hand would suit us. Ah, I have it! They say Henri Morgan robbed a Spanish monastery of a gold cross and chalice.” Christophe traced a pattern in spilled rum on the tabletop. “The monastery was located somewhere on the coast of Panama. We could go after that, Jacques.”

Jack waved his empty cup; Marie hurried forward to fill it again. “I dunno, mate. Robbing churches—that’d be tempting fate. Might as well mess with a curse, eh? No, I’d rather stick to digging up buried treasure or finding some ancient tomb or something. They say the pharaohs were all buried with heaps of gold and gems. Picture us finding some old pharaoh’s final resting place.”

“La Vipère has too much draft to make it up the Nile, Jacques,” Christophe pointed out, smiling and winking at Marie as she refilled his cup. He had perfect teeth, Jack noted sourly. Jack was a good dozen years younger, and already had a gold tooth. Life just wasn’t fair. “Besides…didn’t those Egyptian priests have magical powers? You want to talk about curses, mon ami…” Christophe trailed off and took a long swig.

“Oh, right,” Jack said. “That’s true. No Egyptian tombs, then.” He thought for a moment. “They say the Templars hid tons of treasure. They say it would take a fleet of ships to haul it all away. And they say they had several caches of it. There are hidden treasure maps and ciphers and such.” Jack sat back, ruminating. “They set traps to deter thieves. Some of those traps were mechanical. But others…” he ran his tongue along the edge of his cup, to catch the last drop of rum. “Other traps were unnatural. Magical guardians, undying sorcerers…like that.” He sighed. “I bloody well hate those magical undying sorcerers, mate. They can take all the fun out of a treasure quest.”

Christophe threw back his handsome head and laughed uproariously. “Listen to us! We must be drunker than usual, mon ami! Talking seriously of magic! Next thing you know, we’ll be discussing making love to sirens and mermaids!”

Jack managed a laugh, but it wasn’t a hearty one. He’d been exposed to magic—and mermaids, sirens, ghosts, sorcerers, and sea monsters—too many times as a lad to scoff at them now. I ought to introduce you to Tia Dalma, he found himself thinking. She’d set you straight, mate, and right quickly, too…

But he said nothing. Tia Dalma was not someone you spoke of lightly. Jack could feel the slight bump within the waistband of his breeches where he always stored the compass she’d given him. But that, too, was something he never spoke of, much less revealed. In its own way, it, too, was a treasure.

He found himself thinking of one of his favorite legends. Pirates spoke of it sometimes, and it was mentioned in Captain Ward’s book. Jack dug dirt from beneath his thumbnail, then looked up at Christophe. “Ever hear of the Legend of Zerzura? The Shining City?”

Christophe frowned slightly. “Sounds familiar, mon ami. Somewhere near Afrique, non?”

“That’s right. Off the coast of Africa, they say. On an island called Kerma. It’s one of those places that can’t be seen by mortal sight. Hidden from view by magic, illusion, that sort of thing.”

Christophe’s brow furrowed. “Treasure?” he asked after a moment, recalling what was, after all, the most important thing.

“Indubitably,” Jack said. He was proud of himself for pronouncing every syllable with perfect clarity.

“Ah!” Christophe perked up considerably. “Gold?”

“Heaps of it,” Jack assured him. “But that’s not the most important treasure. There’s this labyrinth, y’see—”

Christophe excitedly pounded his fist onto the table, knocking over his cup. Fortunately, it was empty. “Zut alors! I’ll bring a wheelbarrow. Or a mule. Or both!”

“Good idea,” Jack said, dryly. “As I was saying, about this labyrinth…if you can get through it, through the illusions and magical pitfalls, when you reach the center, that’s where the best swag is. Silver…gold…jewelry and coins…but the greatest treasure there, you could hold in your two hands.” He held his hands cupped, not quite touching each other. “It’s at leash…er, least…this big.”

“What is it?” Christophe demanded, his black eyes gleaming.

“The Heart of Zerzura. It’s a jewel…but not just a jewel. It’s a shor—er, source of tremendous magical power. It’s the source of all the power that keeps the island hidden. It rests in the hands of some heathen god, they say. An ape-god…” Jack frowned. “No, wait. Not an ape. A kitty cat?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind that now. We’ll know it when we see it.”

“A kitty cat god is there? Holding a magical something? On an island that nobody can find?” Christophe was frowning and shaking his head. “That doesn’t sound—”

Before the pirate captain could finish his comment, there came a scream of rage, and the meaty sound of a punch. Jack and Christophe, moving with commendable speed for two men who had consumed as much rum as they had, sprang out of the way as a large pirate landed between them, smashing their table to flinders. Christophe barely had time to scoop the coins out of the way before the impact, while Jack saved the half-full bottle of rum.

It took Steve the barkeep several seconds to limp over to the still-upright combatant, grab him, and hoist him howling off the floor; then pivoting, the huge man pitched the brawler through the large, open port that, fortunately, overhung the cove. There followed a diminishing scream, then a faint splash. Steve stood regarding the unconscious pirate lying amid the remains of the Hazard table. “Who started it?” he asked, belatedly.

Several onlookers hastily volunteered that the aggressor had already been dealt with. Steve grunted, then matter-of-factly splashed half a bucket of seawater on the recumbent pirate, who sat up groggily. He was hauled to his feet and assisted out of the tavern by his friends.

Christophe resumed his seat, and looked at Jack over the remains of their table. “So…where were we?”

Jack shrugged. “Haven’t the faintest…oh. Yes. We were on the Lost Island of Kerma, making our way toward the giant gemstone of power. Figuratively speaking, of course,” he added absently, looking around for his chair.

Christophe nodded. “When you described it, I remembered. There’s something in the legend about how you have to have a talisman so you can open the entrance to the labyrinth, oui?”

Jack nodded, impressed. Christophe often tended to be a lot smarter—and more sober—than he let on. “That’s it, mate. What I couldn’t think of earlier. Talisman. A ring?” He scowled down at the rum bottle in his hand, cogitating, then absentmindedly righted his chair, sat down in it, and took a long pull from the bottle. He handed it to Christophe.

The rum proved a memory charm. Jack snapped his fingers. “No, not a ring. But round. A bracelet! That’s it. Yes, there’s a talisman in the shape of a bracelet. It’s got the kitty cat god’s head on it.”

“Bien! We shall go find this island! When shall we set sail, mon ami?”

Jack opened his mouth to shout “Tomorrow!” but then shut it as memory struck. Teague! Of course it would be Teague who would spoil his plans! Jack scowled.

Captain Teague had mentioned a few days ago that he expected Jack to set sail with him, and that they’d be leaving in a week. Teague wanted to sail north to investigate the rumors of rogue pirates wreaking havoc on merchant ships of all countries, both in the Atlantic and the Pacific. At first when Teague, as Keeper of the Code, had heard that the Royal Navies of several countries were beginning to escort merchant convoys to protect them against ruthless rogue pirates, he’d been inclined to dismiss the rumors.

But as time went by, the rumors continued and grew more numerous. It had been a full six months since Shipwreck Cove had first heard tales about rogue pirates callously slaughtering both crew and passengers without provocation. Only a scant handful of survivors had managed to escape death by playing dead.

The rogues were reported to fly the black skull and crossbones, plus a red flag that sported a demon’s horned head. Traditionally, a red flag flown by naval vessels promised a fight to the finish in wartime. But for pirates the tradition was different. Flying a red flag signaled “no quarter” to any ship’s crew that resisted, but guaranteed the safety of all aboard if the ship surrendered without a fight. These rogues did not follow that tradition. What they wrought was wholesale butchery, wanton murder, even toward ships that surrendered without firing a shot. This behavior was in direct violation of the Code. It was Teague’s responsibility, as Keeper of the Code, to investigate. And he expected Jack to accompany him.

Heading for Africa with Christophe sounded like a much more interesting way to spend the next few months than sailing around aimlessly looking for ships sporting red demon flags. Jack sighed. “I’d love to, mate. But…” he turned his head to gaze out the open port, deliberately keeping his features from betraying his thoughts. His relationship with the Keeper of the Code was…complicated. On one hand, Jack Sparrow longed for nothing more than to be free of Teague and his orders forever. On the other hand, he wished that before he departed forever, he could, for once, gain the captain’s respect. “You really mean it? I can join your crew?”

“But of course!” Christophe assured him, and then upended the bottle to polish off the last of the rum. “No doubt there would be many ships we could take in between here and Afrique. Ivory, gold, black gold…Afrique is a rich hunting ground for the wolves of the sea.”

Black gold? Jack wondered. Oh. He means slaves. I want no part of that…

Jack opened his mouth, not knowing exactly what he was going to say, but was saved from having to compose a remark when his eye caught a glimpse of movement out the port. He swung around to look. A ship was coming into the cove from the tunnel through the mountain, a good-sized frigate that was as graceful and trim as any he’d seen. Hastily, Jack beckoned Christophe to join him. Together they stood looking down, watching her arrive at the dock. Her sails hung limp in the midday heat, so she was being towed by two longboats. “I’ve never seen her like, except those built for the Royal Navy,” Jack said, marveling. “A frigate…a bloody frigate! And not just any frigate, a Blackwall frigate! They can sail rings around most ships.”

“Mon Dieu, so she is! Let us go welcome this pirate who has managed to acquire for himself such a beautiful ship!”

“I’m with you,” Jack said. His curiosity was fully aroused. Scooping up his effects, he followed Christophe out of The Drunken Lady, and into the crazy-angled, many-leveled passageways that connected the piled-up ships. Experienced as they were at navigating the intricate, twisting byways of Shipwreck City, it still took the pirates nearly twenty minutes to work their way down the tower of heaped ships to dock level. By the time they emerged into the sun, the frigate was being tied up at the dock. Jack strode out of the shadow of Shipwreck City, tugging his coat into place, then running a hand over his unkempt hair before clapping his tricorne on his head. Squinting in the sun after the gloom of the passageways, he saw the frigate’s name painted on her bow: Venganza.

As Jack and Christophe started along the quay, heading for the dock where Venganza was now berthed, an imposing figure in a foppish coat and beplumed hat stepped out from a knot of onlookers ahead of them and started up the dock toward the ship. Jack hesitated, then stumbled, nearly falling. Christophe grabbed his elbow. “Too much rum, mon ami?”

Jack flushed, and was glad for the shadow of his hat and his deep tan. “I’m fine,” he said curtly, shaking off his friend’s grasp.

But his strides shortened. He didn’t want to meet up with Teague. Somehow, Edward Teague, Pirate Lord and Keeper of the Code, had a knack for making Jack feel young and foolish. He wasn’t sure just how Teague managed it, but he’d experienced it many times. His eyes narrowed, and he squared his shoulders. Damn it. I’m not going to let him control where I go or what I do!

Jack’s strides lengthened until he had almost caught up with Christophe. Ahead of them, a gangplank had been slid into place, so Venganza’s crew could move easily between ship and dock.

Ahead of them, Captain Teague stopped, and raised his voice to be heard over the everyday bustle of the docking area. “Ahoy, Venganza!”

Jack heard another voice, fainter, coming from the frigate. “Ahoy, Captain Teague! The Pirate Lord of the Caribbean presents his compliments!” Jack frowned, searching his memory. That was…Don Rafael. Yes. He’d seen him years ago, when he was about nine, and remembered a burly, weathered Spaniard with iron-gray hair. The Pirate Lord had been accompanied by his granddaughter, Esmeralda, a short, chubby brat six years older than Jack. One time Jack had teasingly yanked her thick black braid, and she’d pounced on him and given him a thrashing that had left him bruised for days.

Jack scowled at the memory.

He had just stepped onto the dock where Venganza was now moored, when a heap of rags thrown against a barrel suddenly stirred, and stood up. “Jack Shparrow!” the rags exclaimed. “You owe me fourteen sh-shillings! Pay up!”

Jack groaned inwardly. Christophe snickered. Jack looked closer at the rag-man and realized he knew him. “Baldy” Malone. And yes, Jack did owe him money. But, thanks to Christophe, his purse was now as empty as it had been that night at the gaming table. Jack essayed a friendly smile. “Baldy!” he exclaimed. “What a coincidence! I was just on my way to meet up with a mate that owes me twenty shillings. And the very next thing on my list was to come find you and settle up. Before you can dance a jig, mate, I’ll be back with the money.”

Baldy had obviously been sleeping off a bender, and he hadn’t slept nearly long enough to even glimpse sobriety. He stood there, swaying slightly, his already wrinkled brow wrinkling even further as he attempted to follow what Jack had told him. After several seconds, he abandoned the attempt. Fumbling in his purse, he pulled out Jack’s marker and waved it at him. “You owe me, Shpaarrow! Pay up!”

Jack glanced over at Christophe, wondering if he could get the money from his friend, but Christophe was turned away, studying the frigate’s clean lines and her graceful rigging. “Sorry, mate,” he told Baldy, “you’ll have to wait. I don’t have it at the moment.”

Baldy glared at Jack out of bloodshot eyes, then drew his dagger. “Then I’ll take it out of your hide!” He lurched toward the younger man.

Smoothly, Jack stepped back, drawing his cutlass as he did so. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he separated the dagger from its owner, and sent it soaring into the air. The weapon spun silver in the sunlight, then splashed into the water of the cove and sank with scarcely a ripple.

Baldy stood looking at his empty hand for long seconds as though he couldn’t believe the weapon was gone. Jack sheathed his weapon. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “Listen, I really will get you your money. Just a temporary shortage, I assure—”

He broke off as Baldy, with a howl that would have done credit to a rabid wolf, launched himself at him, hands outstretched and reaching for Jack’s throat. Jack carefully clipped the old pirate on the jaw as he stepped aside, expecting him to fold up into a heap again, but he’d miscalculated the amount of rum Baldy had ingested. The man never even felt the blow. He changed the angle of his charge and came on.

Time to end this, Jack thought. He knew Christophe was laughing at him, and he didn’t even want to think about Teague’s reaction. As Baldy rushed forward, Jack punched the old pirate in the stomach—hard.

This time, Baldy folded up. Grabbing his midsection, he bent double—and spewed used rum and food all over the dock. Jack danced backward, but he was just a fraction of a second too late to save his boots. Baldy’s inundation splashed all over them.

Jack stared down at his feet in consternation as Baldy slumped to the rough wood of the dock and lay still. Christophe dissolved into laughter. Jack felt heat in his face that had nothing to do with the fierce sun beaming overhead. He stood there, looking around desperately for a handy bucket of water, but none appeared. “Ah, Jacques!” gasped Christophe, after his initial fit of hilarity had passed. “You should have seen the look on your face, mon ami!”

Jack scowled. For a second he was tempted to kick the unconscious Baldy into the water. “Go ahead,” Christophe urged him, reading his mind. “Why not?”

Jack’s mouth tightened and he shook his head. The old pirate was out cold. If he pushed him into the water, there was a good chance Malone would drown without regaining consciousness. After a second Jack stepped over to his recumbent attacker and managed to wipe his boots off on some of the rags that served the old pirate for clothing.

When he looked back up after finishing, it was to see Christophe at the end of the dock, doffing his hat with a gallant sweep and bowing with a grace worthy of the court of King Louis. Jack recognized Don Rafael as he stepped down from the gangplank, and then turned and offered his hand to…

Jack blinked. She was standing there, staring straight at him and it was obvious from her expression that she’d seen the entire incident. Esmeralda? Jack thought, blankly. But…it can’t be. She’s…beautiful.

The young woman who stood there gazing at Jack with an amused expression was dressed in the height of fashion. Her gown and hat were of rose-colored satin trimmed with ivory lace, and the color set off her olive skin and black hair perfectly. She hadn’t grown any taller; she was still petite. But her figure could no longer be termed “chubby.” Her gown, though modestly cut, revealed curves that made Jack determined to go over and greet her. He watched as Don Rafael assisted his granddaughter down the gangplank. As Esmeralda stepped onto the dock, she turned her attention to Christophe, who bowed over her hand, then kissed it. Esmeralda smiled at the Frenchman. Jack scowled.

With all his being he wanted to go over there, to bow over her hand every bit as gracefully as Christophe had. But he reeked of used rum. And despite his best efforts, there were still streaks of puke on his boots.

Jack turned with a jerk and strode away, back down the dock. As he passed the unconscious Baldy Malone, he aimed a furious kick at the old pirate’s bare pate, but his foot didn’t…quite…connect.

“Mr. Sparrow?”

The voice jerked Jack out of his memories. He blinked, and was back in the present. “Yes, Bates?”

“Can you make out what kind of ship she be, sir?”

Jack sighed. “I fear she’s a Blackwall frigate, lad,” he said. “Twenty-eight guns, and fast enough to sail rings around us.”

“Royal Navy, Mr. Sparrow?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Mr. Bates. I’m going to change course to west northwest. Prepare yourself.”

“Aye, Mr. Sparrow!”

Jack climbed back down, hardly even thinking about what he was doing, his mind filled with course corrections and orders. When he reached the deck, he hastily donned his cast-off coat, stockings, shoes, and hat.

Then, cupping his hands around his mouth, he bellowed, “All hands on deck!”

The deck began filling with sailors, including the ones rousted out of their hammocks by Robby Greene and the third mate. Jack waited until most of the crew was present, then shouted, “All hands to the braces!” As the sailors scattered, he went up the ladder leading to the quarterdeck in a rush. When the helmsman on watch turned to him, he ordered, “Mr. Richards, new course, steer west northwest.”

Crooking his finger at the cabin boy, who was up on the weather deck, watching the activity, Jack beckoned. When young Tim joined him on the quarterdeck, he spoke softly. “Tim, my compliments to Captain Bainbridge. Convey to him we’re changing course and that I request his presence on deck as soon as possible. Step lively, now.”

The lad nodded and raced down the ladder, bare feet slapping against the deck planks. Jack watched him go. He knew it was unlikely that Bainbridge would hurry. The older man was very fond of his port, and tended to drink until after midnight. He’d be hard to rouse. Jack squinted into the distance, where he could barely make out what might be a sail with his unaided vision, and sighed. And the day had started so promisingly, too!

Fair Wind had been sailing nearly due north. Jack’s orders set the helm and the sail crew to changing course by nearly ninety degrees, so Fair Wind showed the strange sail her heels. It took a quarter of an hour for the brig to complete the turn and settle to her new heading.

When the brig was on her new course, Jack ordered his men into the rigging to put on every possible rag of sail. With any luck, he thought, she just took a big prize and her holds are full of spoil. With any luck, the crew’s been celebrating with stolen spirits, and most of them are sleeping it off, and they won’t notice us. With any luck, we can slip away before she even knows we were here.…

While the crew worked busily, swarming up and down the rigging, and the t’gallants began to billow with wind, Jack paced the deck impatiently.

By the time all new sails were set, more than half an hour had passed since he’d first spotted the frigate’s sails. Spyglass in hand, Jack went aft to check on the other ship. He could see her clearly now, still on her previous course. He let out a breath of relief. Then, as he watched from the stern, his jaw tightened.

The outlines of the frigate’s sails were shortening as she altered direction, turning…turning west. There could be no mistake. The Blackwall frigate was altering course, heading straight for Fair Wind.

Jack groaned softly. Even with a good head start, the chances of the heavily laden Fair Wind outrunning the other vessel were slim to none.

Jack heard a step behind him, and turned to find Robby Greene regarding him. On seeing Jack’s expression, Robby held out a hand. “Mind if I have a look, Jack?”

Jack silently handed over the spyglass. The frigate was closer now, easy to see from the taffrail. After a long moment, Robby lowered the glass, his normally good-humored features grim. “Heaven help us. Either the sun has gotten to me, or I know that vessel.”

Jack Sparrow shook his head, grimly. “You’re not seeing things, Robby. It’s Venganza, and we’re her quarry.”

Robby sucked in an audible breath. “Of all the miserable bad luck…”

Jack nodded. “My sentiments exactly.”