CHAPTER SEVEN

Lost and Found

JACK BLINKED AT CUTLER BECKETT’S new “assistant,” then glanced around at the Wicked Wench, visually checking her status. The ship was safely secured, but there were things he needed to do, such as arrange for his cargo to be unloaded, and inform the crew about shore leave. But this sounded urgent.…

“I’ll come directly,” he said. “Just let me speak to my first mate to let him know about this.”

Mercer’s face never changed. He nodded, grudgingly.

Jack was back in moments, and the two men set off on foot, down the gangplank, along the docks, then to the rutted mud of the streets, heading up the hill toward the better section of town. Brushing uselessly at a spot on his coat, Jack cleared his throat. “I hope Mr. Beckett will understand that I haven’t had a chance to…freshen up.”

“That’s been taken care of,” Mercer said, flatly. The only distinctive thing about his voice was his Scottish accent. Otherwise, his voice was toneless, lacking any emotion.

Jack glanced at Mercer out of the corner of his eye. He was fairly sure the man was carrying a brace of pistols beneath his coat. The garment itself was cut so as to conceal them, but Jack knew where to look. He’d carried pistols slung beneath his arms himself, a few times.

Who is this man that doesn’t even take a mile walk in broad daylight on a public street without going out armed? What kind of trouble can he be expecting? And WHY does Mr. Beckett need a man like this to handle things for him?

Mercer strode along quickly, forcing Jack to lengthen his stride. Even though Mercer was shorter than Jack, Jack’s gait was perforce unsteady, since it had been many weeks since he’d been on dry land. By the time they’d climbed the hill to Beckett’s home (Jack was surprised by their destination; he’d been expecting to be taken to the EITC office) his “land legs” were working again.

Mercer led him inside the beautifully appointed town house, stopping in the foyer. “Mistress Goodwright?” he called out.

A plumpish middle-aged woman appeared, wearing a white fichu crossed over the bosom, and the matching cap worn by married ladies in England. “Yes, Mr. Mercer?” She glanced at Jack. “Is this the young man we’re expecting to lunch with Mr. Beckett and His Lordship?”

“Yes, Mistress Goodwright,” Mercer replied. “Please attend to him.”

The housekeeper gave Jack an appraising glance, from his sun-faded old tricorne, to his battered buckled shoes. She then made a little “tch” with her tongue against her teeth, but didn’t…quite…shake her head. “Very well, please come with me, Mister…er, Sparrow, is it?

Jack swept off his battered tricorne, bowed slightly, and smiled. “Captain Jack Sparrow, madam.”

As she took in his smile, Mistress Goodwright’s plump cheeks turned even redder; smiling back, she actually dropped a little curtsy. “La, and aren’t you the one,” she said, to no one in particular. “Come with me, please, Captain Sparrow.”

Jack followed her down the hallway, through the family living quarters, to the back of the house that seemed to be part of the laundry area. A portion of it had been cleared of sheets and clothes, and there stood a cast-iron tub full of water, a big ewer that was likewise filled, a cake of soap, a razor, and several large towels. A comb and brush waited on the washstand. Hanging from a clothes tree was a bright blue coat, a canary colored waistcoat, an ivory lawn shirt, and a pair of fawn-colored britches. Creamy white stockings were draped alongside the britches. All of the clothes appeared to be new. “We didn’t do the shoes,” Mistress Goodwright said, regretfully, eyeing Jack’s battered shoes. “But you can brush ’em off, a bit, maybe.”

Jack stopped in the doorway. “What’s all this?” he asked, surprised. “New clothes? For me?”

“You’re to meet His Lordship, Viscount Penwallow,” Mistress Goodwright said, bustling around. “Methinks we’ve got a hat that will fit…one of footman’s old ones, perhaps. I’ll see about it, while you’re having your bath. Hurry up, it’s almost time to serve luncheon.”

Jack was mesmerized by the water in the iron tub. Reaching out, he touched it, finding it tepid. “What’s this for?” he asked.

“La, lad!” Mistress Goodwright giggled, “’Tis for you! Very particular, Mr. Beckett is, ’bout his hygiene. That is his own tub! He ordered us to haul it down here and fill it for you, Captain.”

Jack frowned, confused. “What does Mr. Beckett want me to do with it?”

She giggled harder. “I know, I know…outlandish idea, isn’t it? But ’tis becoming the fashion among some of the gentry, they say. At least once a month, they takes off all their clothes, and they SITS in those ‘bathtubs’ and they washes themselves. All over. Mr. Beckett says the Romans did it all the time.”

“No wonder their empire fell,” Jack muttered. Turning back to Mistress Goodwright, he drew himself up and fixed her with a reproving glare. “Madam, I am clean.” Catching sight of his hands, he tucked them behind him and amended, “Well, mostly.”

Silently, the goodwife shook her head, pursing her lips.

“I’ll have you know I went for a nice long swim on a lovely beach, not much more than three months ago,” Jack said, indignantly.

Mistress Goodwright stepped forward, biting her lip. She swallowed. “Mr. Beckett told me that if you said no, I was to tell him and he’d instruct Mr. Mercer to see that you did it,” she whispered.

Jack moved forward and stared down at the nervous little housekeeper. His voice, when finally spoke, was very soft and cold. “Did he now? That’s…interesting.”

The thought of having Mercer and some footman ripping his clothes off and throwing him into that tub was not only unappealing, it was terrifying. For a moment, Jack was tempted to say to hell with the whole bloody thing and go back to his ship. Still…he worked for Beckett…and Beckett had made him a captain…and there was the Wicked Wench....

He hesitated.

Mistress Goodwright nodded fearfully. “Oh, please, Captain Sparrow. Mr. Beckett ordered me to see that you bathed. He’ll be powerful angry with me if you don’t. He’s always so particular about things when Lord Penwallow comes to visit.”

The goodwife’s eyes were suspiciously bright, and her plea was obviously heartfelt. Looking down at the clear water, Jack shrugged. How bad can it be? “Oh, very well,” he grumped. “But I’m sure it’s unhealthy. I’ll probably catch me death.”

“Thank you, Captain Sparrow!” Mistress Goodwright hesitated in the doorway as Jack placed his tricorne on a row of hooks, then stepped out of his shoes. He took off his coat, then looked back up at her, wondering why she was still there. “Um…” she cast her eyes down modestly as she blushed, “Captain Sparrow, would you like me to…scrub your back?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Madam,” he said, patiently, “I thought time was of the essence?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right, of course,” she moved backward.

“And close that door, if you please,” Jack ordered, shrugging out of his waistcoat.

The door swung closed…but he didn’t hear it click. Jack began unbuttoning his shirt. “All the way, Mistress Goodwright,” he said.

The door clicked shut.

The bath wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d thought it might be. He’d never washed with anything other than a chip of laundry soap, but this soap smelled like herbs and flowers. Jack even washed his hair, dunking his head to rinse. When he climbed out, he was surprised to see how dark the water had turned.

Maybe I should try to swim more often, he thought, toweling off.

After he’d shaved, and tied his hair back, he turned his attention to the new clothes. They fit perfectly. Jack wiped the dust off his shoes with one of the towels, buffed the buckles for a moment, then pulled them on. He opened the door to the other room to find Mercer and Mistress Goodwright waiting. She handed him a plain black tricorne. “Here, Captain Sparrow. You look very…distinguished.”

“Thank you,” Jack said. The new clothes were stiff against his skin, but he had to admit they felt good. He wished he had a mirror. “About my old clothes—”

“We’ll take care of burning them for you,” Mercer said. “Come along now.”

Jack halted. “I don’t think so, mate. I’m rather partial to my clothes. I spent good coin on them, money I earned by the sweat of my brow. I want them returned to my ship, or put in a parcel so I can carry them back myself.”

Mercer’s look clearly expressed his irritation, but Jack stood firm.

“Very well,” Mercer said, and even through the man’s flat tones, Jack could tell this small concession cost him. This was a man people did not say “no” to with impunity. “Mistress Goodwright will see that your clothes are waiting for you.”

Jack glanced at the housekeeper and she nodded reassuringly at him.

He headed for Mercer. “Let’s go, then.”

Luncheon, it turned out, was to be served upstairs, in Beckett’s library. Jack stood with Mercer outside the door while the assistant knocked on it. “Mr. Beckett, Captain Sparrow is here.”

“Please send him in,” responded a familiar voice.

Jack entered the library, and thought that he had never seen so many books in one place before. He would have loved to look around, but instead went straight over to the long table in the center of the room, where Cutler Beckett was seated with a heavy-bellied man who smelled strongly of expensive perfume. No doubt this was the Lord Penwallow that had been mentioned. The older man wore an elaborate powdered wig and elegant brocaded coat in marked contrast to Cutler Beckett’s subdued business attire. His Lordship’s clothing, Jack realized, probably cost more than an EITC captain made in half a year.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Beckett,” Jack said, wondering whether he should bow or offer to shake hands. Deciding to play it safe, he gave a respectful bow.

“Ah, Captain Sparrow!” Cutler Beckett said, in his upper-class accent. “How nice that you could join us for luncheon. Allow me to introduce my houseguest. This is Viscount, Lord Reginald Marmaduke Bracegirdle-Penwallow, the EITC’s Director of African Affairs.”

Jack wished that someone had warned him beforehand about that name. He kept his features pleasant, but it was a close thing for a moment. Promising himself a good laugh the moment he was alone, he bowed, rather more deeply than he had to Beckett, to Penwallow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Penwallow.”

Lord Penwallow smiled affably. “Thank you, Captain Sparrow, and I must say the pleasure is all mine. It’s an honor to meet the captain who so nearly broke the record for sailing the Triangle—and on the vessel’s maiden voyage as an EITC ship, too! Well done, well done, Captain Sparrow!”

Jack found himself rather liking Lord Penwallow.

After Jack was seated, and while they were exchanging small talk about the Wicked Wench, chatting about her cargo capacity and her top logged speed, Mistress Goodwright tapped on the door, then entered, followed by a string of maids and footmen, all of them carrying platters, bowls, and bottles. Jack, who hadn’t eaten since dawn, heard his stomach growl, and devoutly hoped no one else had heard it. He stared at the excess of delicate wineglasses, bone china, and polished sterling with dismay, then, glancing sideways at Cutler Beckett, resolved to follow his host’s lead in navigating these unknown intricacies of table etiquette. It wouldn’t do to commit some manner of egregious faux pas and embarrass Mr. Beckett.

The meal began with a delicious consommé, and a glass of port. Jack copied Beckett’s use of his soup spoon, enjoying the flavor, but all the while wondering why such a flavorful broth had been allowed to get cold, and was lacking any actual meat, vegetables, beans, or rice. Jack noticed that Mr. Beckett didn’t clink his spoon against the china, and made not even a trace of a slurp, so he carefully followed his lead. The gentry don’t have much fun when they eat, do they? Maybe that’s why Mr. Beckett hardly ever smiles.…

The next course was a delicious white fish with a creamy sauce, accompanied by a delicate Chablis. Jack had eaten fish all his life, but never any so elegantly prepared and served. Now that he had to actually chew, he was careful to mimic Cutler Beckett and keep his lips together.

Jack sipped each wine carefully, politely refusing refills. He wanted to keep a clear head so he wouldn’t make some kind of mistake. He was relieved to discover that the main course was filet of beef, with potatoes. The captain relaxed a bit; he’d certainly had meat and potatoes before. But he’d never had beef this tender. He chewed appreciatively—but carefully. Again there was a different wine, this time a rich Beaujolais.

When the servants cleared away his plate this time, Jack figured they were finished. He was just about to push back from the table, when suddenly there was a plate of raw greens, onions, and slivers of carrot resting before him. After a glance at Cutler Beckett’s place setting for a cutlery check, he picked up the appropriate fork (he was down now to only two) and was soon crunching away manfully. How odd to eat vegetables that hadn’t been cooked! But he had to admit, they tasted better than he would have imagined, due mostly to the dollop of dressing the footman had added to them after placing Jack’s plate before him.

The last dish served was some kind of pudding, mixed up with cake, all of it topped with thick cream and a sweet liqueur. Jack had never eaten anything so sweet and rich in his life. He finished, then laid his fork down, wishing he dared lick the plate…but even pirates seldom did that—at least in public. The sweet sherry that had accompanied it wasn’t to his taste, so he didn’t finish his glass—another first. Using the damask serviette for the last time, Jack wiped his mouth, just as Beckett and Penwallow did. He found himself thinking that perhaps he’d invest in a few of these. They worked better than one’s sleeve, and would be far easier to keep clean.

Conversation during the meal had mostly been carried on between Beckett and Penwallow, with Jack only having to briefly answer a question or two about his recent voyage. As the last of the servants left with the dirty dishes, Beckett turned to him, saying warmly, “Jack, it was truly a fortunate coincidence that you arrived today, and could join us. I trust you enjoyed our modest repast?”

Jack nodded. “Oh, yes, Mr. Beckett. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Good! Jack, Lord Penwallow has an important delivery to be made to the plantation he recently purchased in New Avalon. I told him you were the very chap to transport it there for him.”

Jack nodded. “Certainly, Mr. Beckett. I’ll do my best to get it there in good time.” A sudden thought struck him. He’s not talking about slaves, is he? I don’t transport slaves.

Penwallow, too, was smiling and nodding. “I’m building a new plantation house, Captain Sparrow. I had everything shipped to me here in Calabar, so I could inspect it all personally before I had it sent on to its destination. I was worried that the imported window glass might have broken, but it was packed exceedingly well—just as I instructed.”

Jack relaxed and smiled. “Building materials? I’ll be happy to head right back out as soon as they’re loaded, and we’ve restocked. It’s almost time for the rainy season here in Africa, and I’ll be glad to get away before that begins.”

Penwallow nodded again. “Capital, Captain Sparrow!” He rubbed his beringed hands together, obviously in an excellent mood. “This load will need your personal supervision, Captain. Some of the objects I’ve acquired are one-of-a-kind pieces of art, and all of them would be difficult to replace. For example, there will be two types of brick, the regular brick for the sides and rear of the house, and the ornamental brick for the front. Wait until you see the rose color of it. It’s splendid! And of course the rare woods for the floors.”

“Don’t forget the more prosaic stuff, my lord,” Cutler Beckett said, still smiling. “Nails, and hinges, and fittings for the doors. Lath and plaster and mortar. And boards, of course, both finished and rough-planed. Not to mention the tools for the workers.”

“Cutler, my boy, you’re forgetting my Italian marble tiles for the pavement, plus the fountain I purchased in Venice!” the EITC director said, beaming. “It’s going to be a showplace, I declare!”

“You’ll be moving there, Lord Penwallow?” Jack asked. “To New Avalon? You and your family?”

“We’ll certainly be visiting there,” the portly man said. “Whether m’wife Hortense will agree to make it her year-round home remains to be seen. As for m’self, I spend most of my time traveling for the EITC.”

“New Avalon is lovely, much of the year,” Jack said. “Summers are much hotter than in England, of course.”

“I’ve been there, but Lady Hortense hasn’t,” Penwallow said. “Still, the climate will be good for her joints, methinks. She suffers terrible with rheumatics every winter.”

Jack nodded. “If the cold bothers her, then living in New Avalon should definitely help. Do you have children, Lord Penwallow? It sounds as though you’re building a large plantation house.”

“Yes, two,” Penwallow said. “But our daughter Anna is married, and no doubt she’ll stay in England, though I hope she might visit and bring the children. Our son Frederick will probably prefer to remain in Surrey. He wouldn’t want to miss the season at court.”

“Ah,” Jack said, nodding sagely, as though he met people who had relatives at court every day.

“I have their miniatures; would you care to see?”

“I’d like that very much, my lord.”

“Here we go…I always carry them…” Lord Penwallow brought out the painted ivory miniatures in their little gold frames and handed them over.

Jack studied them, listening as the old man rambled on about his family, particularly his son. Frederick Penwallow, it seemed, was the best rider to hounds in all of Surrey, could dance every dance at every fancy ball, hold his liquor with the best of them, and had never lost a game of chance. It was clear that the young man was the apple of his father’s eye, and something of a rake, Jack concluded, studying the pictured face. The miniature showed a young man of about Jack’s age, with dark, curled hair, and dark eyes with a hint of mischief in them, presuming that the artist had rendered a good likeness.

“A handsome young gentleman,” Jack said, handing back the picture. “Though for a young man of such high birth, I’m surprised he doesn’t favor powdered wigs.”

Lord Penwallow laughed, delighted. “That’s Frederick’s own hair!” he said. “Thick and curly as any fine wig, it is. Just between you and me, Captain Sparrow, he’s a bit vain about it.”

Jack widened his eyes appropriately. “A fine head of hair indeed,” he said. “I’ll take odds Frederick is considered quite a catch, eh? All the young ladies setting their caps for him.”

Penwallow gave Jack and Cutler Beckett a triumphant glance, then lowered his voice. “I was told by a reliable source in the Privy Council that Frederick has been referred to as England’s most eligible bachelor!”

“I knew it,” Jack exclaimed. “Didn’t I say it? All the young ladies!”

By the time the three men parted company later that afternoon, Jack knew a great deal about his lordship’s family, and Lord Penwallow was convinced that Captain Jack Sparrow was not only a notable ship captain, but a young man of great taste and discernment.

He positively beamed at Jack as they bade each other farewell.

Jack headed back down the street, carrying his old clothes in the sack Mistress Goodwright had handed to him at the door, wondering what it would be like to live in Mr. Beckett’s world—or even Lord Penwallow’s world. I suppose you get used to wearing fancy clothes all the time, and eating fancy food, food that sure beats burgoo, he admitted, recalling that memorable luncheon.

But…everything’s so bloody complicated for the gentry, it seems! You’d have to be planning and figuring and doing every moment of every day. When would you have time to enjoy yourself? No, I’ll take a good ship and a following wind any day, he concluded.

But…wouldn’t it be great if the good ship were his own ship?

Jack’s strides slowed, and his expression grew thoughtful. How could I ever buy a ship of my own? he wondered. He’d never been one to save money. But perhaps it was time to change that. If he had a ship of his own…perhaps even the Wicked Wench, say, he would be the one in charge. He’d give the orders on land, as well as at sea. And he wouldn’t have to worry about pleasing a supervisor, or a company. He’d only have to please himself.

He’d wanted for so long to be captain of his own vessel. What if the ship he commanded actually belonged to him?

Jack walked on down toward the docks, deep in thought.

By dint of pushing himself and his crew, Jack managed to get the Wicked Wench loaded and away from Calabar before the rainy season set in. With Lord Penwallow’s precious cargo safely stored and padded and fastened in place, he set sail on the first leg of the Triangle, glad to be back at sea. He’d found a new cabin boy in Calabar, and promoted Chamba to ordinary seaman, studying for able seaman. The lad was likely to make it before Etienne de Ver and Lucius Featherstone, because he was quick with his hands, intelligent, and focused—unlike the quarrelsome Frenchman and Englishman, who tended to get into one of their endless arguments and wind up not paying attention to what they were doing.

It didn’t help that Chamba, now that his English was better, proved to have a mischievous gift for getting the two bickering crewmen going. With studied innocence, he’d ask a simple question, and then they’d be off—sometimes for an hour, or until someone ordered them to pipe down.

Jack had heard about the former slave’s mischief from Robby, but one sunny spring morning, he had the opportunity to observe it for himself. The Wicked Wench was forging along at better than seven knots, making good time, all plain sail set. The ordinary seamen were practicing their knot tying on the weather deck. The captain was relaxing after a brisk bout of fencing with Robby, leaning against the rail, one foot up on the carriage of one of his two six-pounders.

“Mr. de Ver?” Chamba held up a perfect bowline triumphantly, and then began unknotting it for his next effort. “May I ask you a question?”

Etienne de Ver glanced up. “But of course, Chamba. What is it?”

Chamba widened his eyes with studied innocence. “Mr. Greene, he been tellin’ me ’bout some history that happened, oh, ’bout three hundred years ago. He said you French folk had a lady warrior, and she rode a white horse. She dressed up in armor and fought battles. I said that hard to believe. He said it be true. Is it?”

The Frenchman nodded. “Oh, yes, it is true. He was speaking of Jeanne d’Arc, you would say Joan of Arc, the holy martyr. She was a peasant maid who heard the divine voices of the angels telling her to lead the armies of the King.”

“And she fought in battles?”

“Yes, she fought in battles—” de Ver glanced at Featherstone, assiduously tying knots not a dozen feet away, and pretending he wasn’t listening, “against the British invaders. She defeated them! The British army defeated by a peasant girl! But then she was betrayed and sold to the British. They were angry that she had made them look so bad on the field of honor, so they tried her in a…what do you call it…a sham trial, then they tied to her a stake and they burned her. They burned a holy maiden. Only the British, eh?”

Featherstone growled audibly. “She was a damned Popish heretic, Chamba, make no mistake. Only the French would allow a slip of a girl to lead them into battle. Hah! But I’ll give her this, at least she had courage!” He leaned forward confidingly. “Chamba, did you know that the French army is the only one that ever got their armpits sunburnt?” Lucius burst into loud guffaws at his wit, slapping his knees.

Chamba looked confused, until Featherstone, who was bare to the waist, as were most of the crew that warm day, raised his arms in a posture of surrender, then pointed to his darkly thatched underarm, and then straight up, illustrating how the sun illuminated that usually covered spot. The lad’s eyes grew wider, and then his teeth flashed on a grin. “Oooh, Mr. Featherstone, you funny!”

Etienne de Ver bristled. “At least in my country the roads are not paved with your pitiful excuses for puddings! We can cook!”

“Cook? Don’t make me laugh! Frogs legs, snails, and offal we wouldn’t feed to pigs!”

Jack, who by then had heard enough, stood up. “Belay that,” he snapped, then ordered both of them aloft to check for any sign of the Caribbees. He knew the islands wouldn’t be visible, but his ears needed a rest.

Jack then beckoned Chamba over and fixed him with a stern look. “You’ve gotten really good at that, haven’t you, lad?”

Chamba was the picture of innocence. “Oh, yes, Cap’n, I’m getting the hang of these knots, you bet! Yessir!”

Jack sighed. “I wasn’t talking about the knots, Chamba, and you bloody well know it. I was talking about Etienne and Lucius. You did that on purpose.”

Chamba gave him a “what, little old me?” look, but in the face of Jack’s irritation, he dropped his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. “I was just havin’ a bit of fun, Cap’n.”

Jack nodded. “So I saw. Tell you what, lad. Next time you feel like that, you go find that scurvy looking tomcat you and Robby sneaked aboard, and pull its tail till it yowls.”

Chamba looked genuinely startled. “Cap’n Sparrow! I like Henry Morgan!”

“Don’t you like Etienne and Lucius? They’re your shipmates, right?”

“Well, sure, Cap’n. I was just…” Chamba trailed off, looking thoughtful.

“Ah,” Jack said, with satisfaction. “The light has dawned, has it?”

Chamba looked down at his bare feet. “Yes, sir,” he said, softly.

Jack nodded, and sent him back to his knots.

When they reached New Avalon, Jack supervised the unloading of Penwallow’s cargo personally, especially the treasured window glass. He even hopped aboard one of the wagons and rode out to the site of Penwallow’s future plantation house, to make sure that the glass and other materials were delivered in good shape. With the overseer Penwallow had hired, he went over the entire shipment and got the man to sign a receipt that it had all been received intact and unharmed. The overseer took him over the entire site that had been cleared, and showed him the blueprints.

Jack made polite noises, then begged off an invitation to dinner, saying, truthfully, that he had to get back to his ship.

It was a long walk back to the docks, but Jack managed to catch a ride on another wagon that was heading into town.

He arrived back at his ship, receipt in hand, knowing that he’d safely carried out the job Mr. Beckett had entrusted to him. He figured he’d earned those new clothes—as well as his wages. And that was good, because now he had something to save for. Jack Sparrow was determined to buy the Wicked Wench.

Cutler Beckett sat in his office one Sabbath afternoon, listening to the sound of the rain as he caught up on his correspondence. This afternoon, it was a positive deluge; water ran down the windows in clear sheets, and the office grew even dimmer. Beckett frowned and shook his head as he lit a candle. The rainy season in Calabar ran from approximately April until July, and here it was, late June. As far as Beckett was concerned, this bloody weather could stop any day now.

As the candle flame flickered, it briefly illuminated a picture hung on the wall, a portrait of one of the EITC’s finest vessels, and Beckett found himself wondering where Jack Sparrow was, and how he was doing. When would the Wicked Wench come sailing back into the harbor of Calabar?

Sparrow had been gone for months now, and yet, Beckett found himself thinking of him rather often—something he found surprising. Out of sight, out of mind, as the old saying went. And yet…Beckett smiled faintly, remembering that notable luncheon with Penwallow. It had been obvious that Sparrow had never dined in that style before, but he’d pulled it off. Quick, observant, and adaptable, that was Sparrow. Beckett hadn’t missed the way the captain had copied his own impeccable table manners. Frankly, he’d looked more the gentleman than Lord Penwallow.

Cutler Beckett was aware that Lord Penwallow was even more pleased with his own work, and, especially Beckett’s assistance in the matter of his new plantation. It was only a matter of time, he figured, before the older man expressed his gratitude by sponsoring Beckett in his quest for a title.

And when he does, Beckett thought, I’ll owe some of it to Jack Sparrow, who practically charmed the old buffoon’s wig off. He chuckled, softly. Mercer had reported that Sparrow had not only captivated Lord Penwallow, but also his own matronly housekeeper. A young man of undeniable talents…

Mercer had also told him that Sparrow had sailed out of Calabar harbor with a runaway slave aboard his ship, one that he’d knowingly helped to escape. When Beckett had demanded to know how Mercer had discovered this, his enforcer had explained that the slaves in Calabar chattered among themselves, sharing their histories, experiences, and gossip. Ian Mercer apparently had sources planted among the slaves and those close to them. The runaway’s name was Chamba, and he’d been the property of the former portmaster, Benjamin Blount, the one whose accounts had been doctored, the man who’d escaped Calabar just hours ahead of Mercer and his men. He’d gone upriver, into the interior, and hadn’t been heard from since.

Mercer had reported that the news of Chamba’s escape to freedom had spread like fever amongst the local slave population, and that now they seemed to regard Captain Jack Sparrow as some kind of heroic rescuer…a white knight, so to speak. Beckett’s faint smile turned ironic.

From what Mercer reported, Sparrow’s stealing that lad right out from under Blount’s nose required both wit and audacity. I really do need to gain his allegiance. Adaptable as Sparrow is, he would make an exemplary operative for me, serving as my eyes and ears in some exotic foreign port…

Beckett heard a small scraping sound from the little room to his right, and turned his head, listening intently. She was in there…in the room he’d had set up to be her sleeping quarters and workplace. She was his key to Zerzura, and he wanted her close to him.

Ayisha, they said her name was…what was she doing now?

The ugly creature rarely spoke, and then only a few words of the pidgin used by the slave traders and slaves. Mercer had learned it, which Beckett found very useful. There was no denying it, Ian Mercer was proving to be the best operative Beckett had ever hired. And yet, neither Beckett nor Mercer had so far been able to get the sewing woman to speak beyond murmured “yes sirs” and “no sirs” plus a few other monosyllables.

In the room next door, he heard the muffled clack of the big loom. The creature was weaving again.

Ugly and seemingly half-witted as she was, Ayisha had talent in her hands, he had to concede that much. Mistress Goodwright had waxed positively rhapsodic over the textiles and fabrics she wove, the garments she sewed, and her other skills involving thread, yarn, and so forth.

Beckett relaxed again as the loom continued its muffled sounds, and broke the sealing wax on yet another piece of correspondence. Perhaps, he thought idly, she was nothing more than what she seemed to be…a half-witted sewing and weaving woman who had one extraordinary skill. He’d heard of people like that before, though they were rare.

But the slave trader Mercer had tracked down, the one who styled himself “Duke” Ancona Wren-John, the man who had captured the people whose jewelry proclaimed them to be from Zerzura, had, when Beckett had taken him to look at Ayisha, sworn that yes, this woman had indeed been one of the slaves he’d captured that day out on the savannah of Ethiopia. “Oh, yes, the ugly one! Who could forget that face?” had been Ancona’s exact words.

The slave trader had proven his claim by showing Cutler Beckett more of that incredible jewelry, all of which now resided in Beckett’s most secure strongbox. All of it had come from the same group as the old priest and Ayisha—all of it except the royal pectoral.

Cutler Beckett’s lips tightened in annoyance. He’d questioned “Duke” Wren-John extensively about that pectoral. The slave trader could only recall that he’d taken it off a half-starved, half-grown youth his raiding party had found wandering alone on the edge of the desert. The lad had been too weak to walk for the first half of the journey, but had proved tougher than he’d looked at first. After a few weeks of regular feedings, he’d been able to march into Calabar as part of the coffle. Duke had sold the entire coffle in Calabar, and every one of them had been immediately loaded onto a ship. A ship bound where? Beckett had asked. Duke Wren-John had shrugged. He had no idea, except it had been bound for the New World, like almost all slave ships.

Cutler Beckett grimaced slightly. If only they could have gotten the boy, too. From what Duke had said, the lad at least had been able to talk, and seemed of normal wit—for a slave. Unlike Ayisha, Cutler Beckett thought.

But at least he had Ayisha. She had to have come from Zerzura—hadn’t she? And if she came from there, Beckett thought, she must know where it is.…

Beckett’s fingers tightened on the page he was holding. He had to figure out how to get the truth from her. Too bad he couldn’t just turn her over to Mercer, and let him wring it from her by whatever means his enforcer chose, but there were…complications…connected with that idea.

If only I could gain her trust. Her dull-wittedness might well be a ruse, but how to unmask her?

Beckett pursed his lips. He’d tried having her spend time with his house slaves, but Ayisha didn’t talk to them, either, any more than was necessary to do her job. She followed orders given to her in pidgin, if stated simply. So she couldn’t be completely lacking in intelligence. He allowed himself a faint sigh of frustration.

His gaze sharpened as he came to the next letter. He recognized the handwriting on the envelope as that of his cousin, Susan. Why would she be writing to him? The paper bore no telltale black border…and it wasn’t as if there was anyone left in his family he cared about…

Beckett broke the wax seal, and opened the letter.

My dear cousin,

I write to you today to ask your help. My son, John, is now twelve years of age, which means he must soon be apprenticed. John fancies that he would like to see the World, and I know you have done splendidly, cousin Cutler, earning for yourself a high place ina Company that is Known to all and Respected.

I ask you to recommend John to your superiors in one of the English offices of the East India Trading Company. If he were apprenticed here in England, I could see my boy perhaps during Christmastide, and if I traveled to the city. It is hard on a Mother’s heart to lose her son, and I would bless you for helping me keep him here in England until he is a bit more grown.

I must note that I asked your father to take John on as an apprentice and he refused me, saying that it was his perception that my son has “no head for business.”

I believe Jonathan is incorrect in his judgment, dismissing John so unfeelingly. John is a likely boy, eager to learn. He has done well with his schooling, though I must concede his Latin tutor despaired of him. But he can read and cipher, and he writes a good, clear hand, so Jonathan’s refusal made no sense to me, Except it helped me to see why you and our dear departed Jane could not Feel the familial affection normally due a father by his offspring.

I hope this letter finds you well, Cutler, and that you will find it in your heart to help us. Your cousin Matthew sends his best Regards, as do we all, as well as our Prayers, thinking of you in those distant lands filled with Heathens and who knows what else.

Please let me hear from you soonest, Cutler. And if you are able to help, please accept our grateful Appreciation.

Yr. Affect. Cousin,

Susan Beckett

Cutler Beckett read the letter impatiently. He barely remembered his second cousin as a plump and placid baby, then as a little pest that tagged around after him on the few occasions he’d visited his cousin Matthew and his wife, Susan. Still, he was minded to do as Susan requested, if only for the reason that it would annoy his father to have yet another Beckett working for a rival trading company.

Beckett reread the latter, and his eyes stopped on the phrase “no head for business.” He knew exactly how Jonathan Beckett had sounded when he’d said that, because he’d heard that very phrase one late April day. Beckett closed his eyes, remembering. For a moment it seemed he was back in Father’s office in Springhaven, feeling the warm caress of a Somersetshire spring.…

“Come in, come in, Cutler, and sit down.” Jonathan Beckett regarded his youngest with a perfunctory smile, gesturing the eighteen-year-old to a seat. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to come here today.”

Cutler nodded warily, sitting poised on the edge of the elegant leather chair. The office was a big room, smelling of pipe tobacco and whiskey, with framed hunting prints on the wall, and copies of ledgers, instead of books, lining the shelves. Even though it was spring, a small fire burned in the grate. Mornings were still chilly. His father was usually up before dawn, working…or sometimes he simply began work when he came in from London, after a long night…out.

“Cutler, have you ever thought about what you would like to do with your life?” Jonathan Beckett asked, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers.

Young Beckett hesitated. “I have, yes, sir,” he said, finally.

“And what profession have you chosen?”

“I’ve thought of several things, sir,” Cutler said, hesitantly. “Careers that I would enjoy, that I seem to have an aptitude for…” He trailed off, wondering if he’d confided too much.

“Such as?” prompted his father.

“I could be a scholar,” Beckett said. “My tutors have told me I have the necessary skills, and they’ve been…complimentary…about my studies.”

His father nodded. There was an expression in his eyes Cutler couldn’t read. “What does a scholar do, Cutler? Would you become a dominie, start your own school?”

“I don’t think so, sir, that’s not what I’d envisioned. I know I would be accepted at Cambridge or Oxford. I could become a professor there.”

“Does it pay well?”

“I…don’t know, sir. But that needn’t be a major concern.” Cutler knew when his father died, he would inherit enough to keep him comfortable for his entire life. He’d had visions of a charming cottage, with a little rose garden, where he and his sister, Jane, could live, near a great university. She could keep house for him, and neither of them would have to feel like an unwanted mouth to feed ever again.

“Hmmmmmm…do they give scholars titles?”

“Sometimes, Father, if they have contributed to the sum of human knowledge. I’ve studied the work of one man that may well achieve it. His name is Isaac Newton.”

“Never heard of him,” his father said. “So is that what you’re set on?”

Cutler didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he clasped them tightly in his lap, “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps someday. But I would like to see the world, sir, before settling down at a university. So I thought…I thought…” He stammered to a halt.

“Out with it, lad!” his father said, his dark eyes glinting. He didn’t actually seem angry, so Cutler took a deep breath.

“I’ve enjoyed the times I’ve gone with you to the city, and worked in the shipping company’s office,” he said, “Going over the records, reconciling costs and expenditures, checking cargo manifests and ports of destination and bills of lading…” Cutler looked up at his father. “Sir, I know you plan to retire soon, and turn over the management of the Beckett Trading Company to my brothers. Perhaps I could join them in working there?”

Jonathan Beckett began to laugh, shaking his head. “Cutler, m’boy…won’t do. I know you write a good hand and can cipher with the best of them, but you’ve no head for business, lad,” he said.

Cutler felt his cheeks flush, and damned himself for this betraying sign. He’s wrong. I do have a head for business.

“So you’d like to see the world, eh?” Jonathan Beckett said. Languidly he polished his small, square-lensed reading spectacles. “Well, Cutler, if you were Jonathan Junior, or Bartholomew, strong, tall, strapping lads, I could purchase you a good commission in the service of the king.” His gaze traveled up and down his youngest son’s short, slight frame. “But I think you’ll agree that that’s not a practical idea, Cutler.”

The young man’s flush deepened. His father had never forgiven him for not being tall and strong. It didn’t matter how smart he was—and he knew for a fact he could reason rings around either of his brothers—all this wretched man sitting before him could see was his size and lack of brute muscle. He can go to Hades, Cutler thought, setting his jaw.

“You show no kinship to the land…never could induce you to ride to hounds with us, could I? No, you stayed home with your sister, Jane. For all I know, you both played with her dollies.” He chuckled aloud. “Don’t look so affronted, boy. I’m just having a little joke. You have no sense of humor, I swan.” The elder Beckett laid down his spectacles on the desk, and huffed an exasperated sigh. “So it’s not as though I could have you managing my tenant farms or the gristmills, either, is it?”

Cutler couldn’t manage a civil reply, so he merely shook his head.

“At any rate, I was prepared for this,” Jonathan continued. “I knew bloody well you wouldn’t be able to think of something suitable and practical, so I’ve figured it out for you, son.” He took a paper out of his desk. “I’ve made an…investment…”

He means a bribe, Cutler thought.

“An investment in a nice little vicarage for you, Cutler. You’ll be a parson, and I can’t think of any life more suitable for you. I mean, you won’t come into London with us, to have a little fun, tumble a few wenches, drink and gamble a bit, you prefer to bury yourself in your books, your Latin and Greek. You live like a parson now, boy. You might as well be one, eh?” He guffawed at his own wit.

Cutler shook his head again. He was so angry he was trembling, but he had to try and make his father understand. “No, sir,” he managed to force the words out. “That would not be an appropriate profession for me. I’m not suited to it at all.”

“Of course you are!” his father insisted. “Look at yourself! You’d make a perfect clergyman! You can write, your tutors told me, with proper grammar and even a bit of elegance when the situation demands. You’ll dash off those sermons in no time at all! And aside from that, well…it’s just a round of garden parties, and balls, afternoon teas and socials. There are always girls from good but poor families dangling after the village vicar, you know that. You might even have your pick!” Folding his hands on his desk, he regarded his son with a smile and a satisfied nod, obviously very pleased with himself.

Cutler stared at him in complete silence for a long moment, struggling to control himself. Finally, when he could keep his voice even, he said, “Father, I realize you meant well.” Do I? he wondered, but he plunged on. “But I fear I cannot accept this. I have no calling, sir.”

The elder Beckett waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, tosh, boy. When you arrive at your parish, and read some tracts, a bit of holy writ, it will come to you. I’m sure that’s how they all start out.”

I have to make him understand, Cutler thought, desperation creeping up on him like an enveloping shadow. Taking a deep breath, he made himself tell the truth. “Father, I am not even a believer.”

“Ha ha!” His father’s chuckle was genuinely amused. “Not sure I am either, Cutler my boy, for all that I sing hymns with the best of them on the Sabbath. What does that matter?”

“It matters because it’s not what I want to do,” Cutler said. Folding his arms across his chest, he sat there in mutinous silence.

“You’ll come around, Cutler,” Jonathan Beckett said. “I’ve already told your mother, and you should have seen how happy she was to hear of it. She wept with happiness. You know she’s devout.” He cleared his throat. “You also can’t have missed the fact that she isn’t…robust…these days.” He cleared his throat again. “Not robust at all, I would say she’s…well…let’s just say I believe time is of the essence, my boy. She wants to know that you’re settled, and I agree. It wouldn’t do at this time to deprive her of any bit of happiness, right? We understand each other, don’t we?”

As Cutler sat there, trying to regain enough control to speak, Jonathan Beckett looked back down at the desk. He pulled some papers over to him, then settled his reading spectacles on his nose. “I’m glad that’s settled, boy, and all for the best, I say. You run along now, I’ve work to do.”

Cutler managed to say, “Mother wants me to be happy, Father. She will understand if I choose to do something else.”

Jonathan Beckett looked up at his son over the tops of his spectacles. “Cutler, you didn’t understand me, I see. I shall have to be clearer, even though I don’t like saying such a thing aloud. Cutler, your mother has a wasting disease. Some kind of unknown ailment the doctors can’t diagnose or cure. She’s dying, boy. Seeing you settled as a clergyman is her last wish.”

Cutler Beckett felt himself fill up with rage, as though there was a hole in the top of his head, and vitriol was being poured in. How dare he? How DARE he?

He sucked in air as though he hadn’t breathed in an hour, and found himself on his feet, leaning forward across his father’s desk. For once that assured, slightly mocking glint was gone from Jonathan Beckett’s expression. He leaned away from his son, clearly taken aback.

“How dare you try to use my mother to manipulate me, you devil?” Cutler said, his voice low and so full of menace that Jonathan Beckett actually looked frightened. “A ‘wasting disease’ is it? An ‘unknown ailment?’ You lying, filthy hypocrite! I know what’s wrong with my mother, and so do you! She has the damned pox, and you gave it to her!”

Cutler leaned farther forward. His father pushed back in his chair, his eyes wide and frightened. Guilt marked his features like a brand. Cutler raged on. “Why it hasn’t brought you down yet, I don’t know, but if I believed, I’d pray every day that it would! To claim you don’t know what’s wrong with her, after what you have done to her, after…cavorting…with your strumpets and trulls and legions of mistresses. My mother is a pure and chaste woman; you know that to be true. And yet she lies upstairs, dying by inches, because you brought the fruit of your whoring home to your own marriage bed, and infected her. I despise you.”

Turning sharply, Cutler strode out of the office. He took the stairs two at a time up to his room, where he quickly packed his bags, and took the small store of money he’d been saving in his strongbox, counting it quickly. He frowned, biting his lip.

“Here, Cutler,” came a voice, and he looked up to see his sister, Jane, standing in the open doorway of his room, holding out a small purse. “I’ve been saving, too. You take it, so you can get away. And then when you’re settled, you can send for me, the way we’ve always planned.”

Cutler stared at her, wondering how she knew. Guessing his unasked question, Jane smiled faintly, a smile that wrenched at his heart. “I was outside in the hall while you were talking to Father,” she admitted. “I heard it all. I’m glad someone finally stood up to that tyrant! And…and…stood up for poor Mother!” she finished, her voice breaking.

Cutler crossed the room to take the little purse. Jane put her arms around him and laid her cheek against his. Her face, he realized, was wet. Awkwardly, he returned her embrace. His throat felt so tight, he thought he might choke. “Thank you, Jane. I will send for you. You have my word.”

“Good-bye, brother,” she whispered. “May Heaven keep you.”

Then she whirled around and ran out of the room.

Slowly, Cutler Beckett walked across the hall, and set his bags down. After tapping lightly on the door, he entered his mother’s sickroom.

He was not there long. When he finally stumbled from the room, leaving his mother weeping behind him, Cutler Beckett felt as though something inside him had died forever. Picking up his bags, he headed down the back stairs. He’d leave by the servant’s quarters. If he walked quickly, he should be able to catch the mail coach on its way into London. And once in London, he knew exactly where he would go.…

Cutler Beckett blinked, and that English spring receded into memory. He was here in Africa, and both his mother and Jane were dead. If only he’d sent for Jane when he’d been assigned to the office in Nippon…but to ask her to travel to the other side of the world, alone, was impossible. When he’d received his posting to Africa, he’d written to his sister, telling her it was time, that the voyage to Calabar would take only two months, and that he would send someone to accompany her.

He realized he’d crushed Cousin Susan’s letter in his fist. Slowly, painfully, he released his fingers, making an effort to smooth out the letter. Then he took out two blank sheets of paper, dipped his quill, and began writing, quickly.

He’d just finished the letter to the EITC office in London, and the quick note to Cousin Susan, and sealed both missives, when he heard a tap on his door. “Who is it?” he called.

“Mercer, Mr. Beckett.”

“Come in, Mercer.”

As Mercer entered, Beckett looked up inquiringly. “I’ve had no luck tracing the big male slave,” his operative reported. For once, the Scotsman sounded weary. He must have just come in; he wore dry clothes, but his hair was still wet. “I’m fairly sure he wasn’t shipped out on the Triangle, but no one seems to recall who bought him, and the sales records are lacking. I’ll have to do a visual inspection, farm by farm.” His narrow features grew thoughtful. “Perhaps I’ll hire that fellow Duke to go along. That way I’d be sure I’d found the right one.”

Beckett shook his head. “Unfortunate,” he said. “If we could find this other one, the big male slave Duke spoke of, he might just prove more forthcoming than our sewing woman.”

“And if he wasn’t inclined to talk, we might be able to use each of them as a way to persuade the other to talk,” Mercer said. “Don’t worry, Mr. Beckett. I’m not giving up the search. But this weather is so foul, it’s hard to get around.”

Beckett nodded. “Wait until the end of the rainy season,” he said. “There’s no point in you slogging around in all this mud, when the rain will be ending soon.”

“As you say, Mr. Beckett,” the operative agreed, relief in his voice. “It’s foul out there, and the roads are like hog wallows.” He smiled very faintly, “Speaking of pigs, what’s she been doing today?” he asked, glancing at the door leading into the sewing room.

“Working, as far as I can tell,” Beckett said. “At least, I’ve heard her weaving, on and off.”

Mercer nodded. “You know, Mr. Beckett, with women, they’re…timid. Easily frightened. Not like a man. I wouldn’t have to actually do any lasting damage, to her, sir. Just a few minutes of…persuasion…might bring us all we want to know.”

Cutler Beckett shook his head decisively. “No, Mr. Mercer. I’m not risking that. She’s our only link, at the moment. Remember what happened with the old man.”

“I’d barely started on him,” Mercer said, and Beckett fancied he sounded a bit defensive. “The pain wasn’t even that much. No sign of an apoplexy, no clutching of his chest or anything of the sort.” He paced a bit before the desk. “I’ve handled dozens of interrogations Mr. Beckett, but I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The old savage just closed his eyes…and stopped. Like a clock.”

“I understand,” Beckett said. “And just on the chance that she can do likewise, I am not going to allow any of your persuasive methods. If we can locate the big man, my decision may change.” Beckett sighed. “If only Duke Wren-John could recall where that other one he captured was taken. But he has no idea, except the ship was heading west. Then we’d have three of them! Surely you could persuade one of them to talk.”

Mercer nodded, and Beckett could tell the operative was disappointed by the lack of subjects he might interrogate. He knew Mercer loved that part of his job the most. Beckett frowned thoughtfully. “We need someone who can gain her trust,” the EITC official said, meditatively. “Someone very likeable. Charming. Someone who can discover what she wants, and give it to her. Or promise to, at any rate. Someone—”

Beckett broke off as Mercer’s head turned toward the sewing room door. Gesturing for quiet, the operative walked across the office, shifting his weight carefully so as not to cause any betraying noise. When he reached the door, he carefully took hold of the knob with his black-gloved hand, then suddenly opened it and looked in.

After a moment, he closed it again, and came back to the desk. In answer to his employer’s inquiring glance, Ian Mercer shrugged slightly. “Thought I heard something. But she’s just sitting there, sewing.”

Beckett stood up and went over to the hiding place for his strongbox, and removed it. Taking the key, he opened it, and stood staring down at the tray containing the Zerzuran pieces. “You know, Mercer,” he murmured, “I’ve thought of something we haven’t tried. Perhaps we should show her these, and see if she betrays herself. It can’t possibly cause her harm, and observing her reaction might prove illuminating…”

Ayisha sat in her chair, her work before her, but her needle was still. She couldn’t see to sew, because she was blinded by tears.

Piye was dead. Her heart ached within her. She’d known the high priest all her life. It was Piye who had taught her the principles of magic, and how to use her power. And now, thanks to the black-gloved Mercer, the man with the death-eyes, Piye was dead.

Ayisha’s lips moved in silent prayer for the old man.

For months she’d listened at Cutler Beckett’s keyhole, and she’d heard some very interesting things—things that scared her. If Beckett ever realized she spoke English and knew what he and Mercer talked about, her life would be over. She knew that. Today, when she’d listened, she’d heard Beckett and Mercer discussing their hunt for Tarek, and her heart had pounded. Then, she’d heard them say that Piye was dead. Apparently that was the reason Beckett hadn’t allowed Mercer to torture her into talking to them—they were afraid that she could do what Piye had done, and die before revealing information.

She knew what the high priest must have done to bring about his own death. After a lifetime of dedication to Apedemak, honing his body, mind, and spirit to the worship of the god, he must have realized that he was in danger of betraying Zerzura, and the Heart of Zerzura—Apedemak’s gift to his chosen people. So he had reached out to the god, begging him to help by stopping his heart.

And Apedemak had granted his prayer.

Realizing that she could not just sit in her chair, idle, Ayisha quickly wiped her face on the edge of her gray shawl, then reached for her shuttle and began to weave. She could weave without thinking, just by feel. The loom clacked rhythmically, and her fingers flew with the shuttle even faster.

It was a good thing she had seen Mercer approaching through the keyhole. If she hadn’t, Ayisha knew that she would have been unmasked. And if she were tortured to reveal the location of Kerma, she had no confidence that she could do as Piye had done. Piye had been so attuned to Apedemak…far more than she was.

She wove automatically, while her mind scurried in circles, like a small animal trapped by a circle of hunters. Mercer was going to find Tarek. Sooner or later, he’d find him. He would take Duke with him. Her stomach clenched as she remembered the time they’d brought the slaver in to look at her. Ayisha closed her eyes and wove, fighting panic.

The door between her room and Beckett’s office opened. She heard it, but did not turn her head. Instead, Ayisha worked to compose her features to their usual blank passivity.

Footsteps approached.

“Ayisha?” That was Beckett’s voice.

She gave a realistic start, and stopped weaving, turning to look at him. Beckett was holding something in his hands…some kind of tray. Ayisha controlled her features, making sure she did not quite make eye contact, and that her face remained expressionless.

“Ayisha,” said Mercer, and continued in pidgin, “Mr. Beckett would like to know whether you recognize any of these things.” As the operative spoke, Beckett lowered the tray and held it out to her, so it was on her eye level.

Jewelry. It was jewelry, from her home, and some of it was her own. She remembered the feel of the gazelle earrings dangling from her pierced earlobes. Her eyes moved from piece to piece, and she had no trouble keeping her expression blank, since all the pieces had been hers, or belonged to her lost companions on her pilgrimage to Kerma—

NO. Not all.

Her eyes fastened on the pectoral, and her heart leaped, then seemed to stop. It was all she could do not to gasp. Her fingers wanted to reach out and grab that piece of jewelry, hold it against her cheek. She knew that royal pectoral.

It had belonged to her brother, Prince Shabako.

Mercer spoke again. “Ayisha, the slave trader Duke sold Mr. Beckett this jewelry. He told us that it had all been taken from captives he’d brought to Calabar and then sold. Do you recognize it?”

There was a dull pain in her right hand. Ayisha didn’t know why her hand was hurting, but the pain helped her to focus, to keep her head. Slowly she looked up, keeping her usual calm, blank expression, not allowing her eyes to meet the white man’s. She shook her head from side to side.

“Are you sure, Ayisha? Duke says most of this jewelry was worn by slaves captured at the same time you were captured. Surely you must have seen it before.”

Her eyes flicked to Mercer, to show that she had heard the man, but she did not allow her gaze to focus on him. Again she shook her head, this time a bit more emphatically.

For long seconds they all remained like that, no one moving, no one speaking. Ayisha concentrated on the pain in her hand, keeping her eyes unfocused, her features vapid.

Finally Beckett straightened up. “I thought for a moment that she recognized something,” he said, in English. “But she doesn’t seem to. We’ll have to think of something else.”

The two men left the room, shutting the door behind them.

Ayisha sat unmoving for many minutes, in case their leaving was a trap, and they were watching her through the keyhole, as she had watched and listened to them. But then she heard the door to the corridor in Mr. Beckett’s office open, then shut, and, then their footsteps going down the hallway, accompanied by the low murmur of their voices.

Moments later, more faintly, she heard them on the stairs.

They were gone.

She sagged in her chair, finally allowing herself to react to what she had seen. Clutching her hands to her breast, she rocked back and forth, not knowing what to do, how to feel. Her brother…her brother had been captured, just as she had been. He, too, was a slave. But at least now she had some idea of where to search for him. Almost all slaves were taken across the ocean, to those land masses she had seen on the other side of the globe. They were taken west.

Her right hand still hurt, Ayisha realized. She lowered it, staring down at it, realizing it was badly cramped. Her fingers were stiff; her palm burned with pain. It was an effort to make her fingers move, but she did, and then saw what she held in her hand, the thing that had saved her. The pain had distracted her, helped her remember not to show her feelings.

It was the shuttle she used in her weaving. She had clutched it so hard that its outline was impressed into the flesh of her palm, almost as though it had been branded there.

Ayisha sat there, staring at it, thinking of her brother, and of Piye. A tear splashed into the center of the shuttle imprint. With an effort that was painful, she closed her fingers on it, reflecting that human tears were as salty as the sea.

The sea that she must cross, if she wanted to find her brother.

Silently, Ayisha—No! For these few moments, she was once again Amenirdis, Royal Princess of Zerzura. And as Amenirdis, her true self, she renewed her vow to escape. She and Tarek would escape, and they would find a ship, somehow, and get aboard it. Together, they would sail westward, in search of Prince Shabako.

Closing her eyes, Amenirdis prayed swiftly to Apedemak. Great Lion of Lions…help me in my quest. Send me a ship. Send me a ship, and someone to sail it for me. Send me a guide to help me find my brother. I ask this of you, Great Lion of Lions. Hear my prayer.

Send me a ship.…