CHAPTER NINE

Ayisha

THE WICKED WENCH SAILED into Calabar Harbor before noon on the fifth of August. As Robby Greene had predicted, the morning was hot—a steamy, airless heat. All morning Jack had stood on the weather deck, envying his hands. All his men, except for the mates, were stripped to the waist. As the ship coasted up to the dock, and the sailors began tossing out the mooring lines, bringing her to a halt, the last bit of breeze from her passage died. Jack felt as though some giant sponge had sucked all of the air out of his lungs. Rebelling in the face of the stifling heat, he pulled off his coat—and then, for good measure, yanked off his neckcloth, too. He stood there, mopping sweat from his forehead with the neckcloth, as his ship’s gangplank thudded down onto the East India Trading Company’s dock.

Hearing quick steps mounting the gangplank, Jack turned to find Cutler Beckett’s assistant, Ian Mercer, standing on his deck. This is becoming a bloody habit, he thought, grumpily. What can he want this time?

Mercer hurried up to Jack, who nodded at him politely, forcing a smile. “Ah, Mr. Mercer. Hot day, isn’t it? What brings you here?”

The operative jerked his head at the gangplank. “Captain Sparrow, Mr. Beckett wants to see you immediately,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There’s someone he wants you to meet.”

Why am I not surprised? Jack thought, barely managing not to roll his eyes. “I have responsibilities here,” he pointed out. “Cargo unloading to oversee, and shore leave rosters to—”

“Mr. Beckett sent me down here the moment he heard your sails had been sighted, Captain,” Mercer said. “It’s urgent that you come immediately.”

Jack sighed. “Very well. I suppose I should go change my clothes? Put on those nice ones Mr. Beckett supplied last time he invited me to his house?”

“Unnecessary,” Mercer said. “This will not be a social occasion.”

By now Jack was growing decidedly curious. “I see. All right, I’ll come as soon as I’ve given my first mate instructions.”

As he spoke to Robby, Jack glanced over at Mercer, to see the operative restlessly pacing the weather deck beside the gangplank. Seeing Jack looking at him, Mercer imperiously gestured toward the gangplank. Jack cursed softly, careful to keep his mouth turned away. For all he knew, Mercer could read lips. “As you can see,” he told Robby, “I’m desperately wanted. They probably asked Lord Penwallow to take a damned bath, and they need me to scrub his lordship’s sodding back.”

Robby chuckled softly. “You’d better go, Jack. You know I can handle things here.”

“I do know it,” Jack said, clapping Robby on the shoulder. He picked up his coat and hat, but didn’t put them on. “Requisition some wine or beer from the EITC,” he said, “and a hogshead of fresh water to cut it with. Make anyone working in this oven drink a flagon every hour or so. Don’t want them passing out from the heat.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Jack was assailed by a sense of déjà vu as he headed up the hill into Calabar, trying to pick up his pace, and get rid of the sense that the earth was rolling beneath his feet. “So who does Mr. Beckett want me to meet this time?” he asked the taciturn Mercer. “Oh, and I’m clean,” he added, feeling defensive. “Went for a lovely swim yesterday.”

For the first time since he’d met him, the dour Scot’s mouth quirked in what might have been either a grimace or a smile. “The person Mr. Beckett wants you to meet wouldn’t know or care whether you’d had a bath,” he said. “Personally, I believe the creature is half-witted.”

Jack raised his eyebrows at that one. Mercer volunteered nothing else, however.

They reached the top of the hill, and entered Beckett’s town house.

Jack mopped sweat from his face on his sleeve, then, with a groan of protest, donned his coat and retied his neckcloth. “I suppose you wouldn’t have anything to drink handy,” he said. “Me tongue feels like a strip cut from a cat.”

“Fur?” Mercer said, obviously uncomprehending.

“No, mate, leather. A cat o’ nine tails,” Jack explained. “Used for floggings at sea. Nasty things.” He shuddered. “I prefer dunking as a means of enforcing discipline. Works every time, and they hardly ever drown.”

Mercer gave him a sharp glance, obviously wondering whether Jack was joking, but Jack was careful not to betray any expression.

“Oh, very well,” the operative said. “Mistress Goodwright?”

Moments later, the housekeeper bustled into view. “Oh, Mr. Mercer, ’tis you,” she said, drying her hands on her apron. “And, Captain Sparrow! Lovely to see you! Hope you’re well.” She bobbed one of her little half curtsies at Jack, her plump cheeks pink.

“I am well, thank you,” Jack said, giving her a bob of a bow, “but I confess myself to be absolutely parched, madam. Might you have something I could drink, before I go up to talk to Mr. Beckett, who is, apparently, expecting me?”

“Of course, of course!” She scurried away, to return a few minutes later carrying a tall glass full of dark liquid. Jack took a gulp, expecting it to be beer or ale, and only just managed not to spray it all over Mr. Beckett’s wallpaper. He swallowed the mouthful, realizing it was English tea, tepid and quite strong.

“Mr. Beckett drinks it that way,” Mistress Goodwright said, noticing his expression. “He has me make it with boiling water, and then just set it aside to steep. He says in England they drinks it over ice in the summer. Have you ever heard the like? I could get you a few lumps of sugar, Captain Sparrow.”

“Not at all, madam,” Jack assured her, and manfully drained the glass. At least it was wet.

Feeling somewhat restored, he followed Mercer upstairs. The operative tapped on the door, gained admission, then opened it to let Jack walk past him. “I’ll be waiting downstairs,” Mercer said, “should you need me.”

Cutler Beckett was sitting behind his fancy desk, and for once there was no work stacked before him. He smiled at Jack as he entered, and gestured him to a seat beside the desk. “Good afternoon, Captain Sparrow. Please take a seat.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Beckett,” Jack said, complying. “I just got back, as I suppose you already know. My men are even now offloading cargo, and I have all the receipts and manifests ready to—”

He broke off, seeing that Cutler Beckett was holding up a hand to stop him.

“Yes, yes, Captain Sparrow,” Beckett said. “I’m sure all is in order, and I’m confident you’ve done your usual commendable job. Did all of Lord Penwallow’s cargo reach New Avalon intact?”

“Yes, Mr. Beckett, it came through fine, and I supervised the delivery to his plantation site myself,” Jack said.

“Excellent,” Beckett said. “Lord Penwallow has another cargo to be delivered, but I believe, in light of what I am about to propose, that I’ll send it out on another vessel. I wouldn’t want to delay its arrival.”

Jack raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“Captain Sparrow,” Beckett leaned closer and his voice dropped to a confiding level, “actually, we know each other so well after all these months, I feel that I may call you Jack.” The corners of Beckett’s mouth turned up.

Jack was immediately on the alert. What the bloody hell is he up to? he wondered. “Of course, Mr. Beckett.”

“Jack,” Beckett repeated, in those familiar, confiding tones, “I have a job for you. A…business proposition. I need your help, and I’m prepared to offer you good terms to partner with me in this venture. You’ll be very well remunerated indeed.”

Jack blinked. He knew what “remunerated,” meant, but he’d never heard anyone use that word in conversation before. “Really, Mr. Beckett? What kind of business proposition are you talking about?”

“Take a look at this,” Beckett said, unlocking his desk drawer. He removed a book, and opened it to a page. Jack instantly recognized it as the J. Ward book, My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates. Then Beckett took out a bag that clinked, and spilled its contents onto the pages of the book.

Jack drew in his breath, and felt his heart speed up. Reaching out, he picked up the pieces of jewelry, one by one—the pectoral, the earrings, the armlets, and all the rest—and turned them over in his fingers, comparing them to the illustrations in the book. “Not ancient,” he said after a moment. “Real gold, real stones…and made within the past ten or twenty years. This is a royal pectoral. These weren’t taken from some moldering tomb.”

Cutler Beckett’s gray eyes brightened. “I knew I could count on you to be quick,” he said, approvingly. “Yes, Jack. This jewelry came…” he paused for an expectant beat.

“From Zerzura,” Jack finished for him.

“Correct.”

Jack picked up the earrings, dangling them before his eyes, watching the sunlight flash off the gold and tiny emeralds. “Very nice,” he said. “You’d better start at the beginning.”

He listened intently as Beckett described his search for the source of the jewelry, and then his acquisition of the two slaves—the old man, whom Beckett characterized as a “priest,” who had died when Mercer began to “question” him, and then a female slave, a sewing woman, whom Beckett reported didn’t speak English. “We’ve been unable to get anything out of her at all,” Beckett said. “I showed her the jewelry, and for just a second I thought I saw something, possibly some recognition. But…no, it was just trick of the light. She was as blank as ever.” Beckett sat back in his chair. “And, considering what happened to the old holy man, I was reluctant to let Mercer have a go at her. If she rolled up her eyes and died on us, we’d be nowhere.”

Jack nodded. “This is amazing, Mr. Beckett,” he said. “But where do I come in?”

Beckett folded his hands on the desktop and smiled. If he keeps smiling like that, his cheek muscles are going to be sore tonight from all the unaccustomed exercise, Jack thought, cynically.

“Jack, we’ve run out of options with this woman. I fear I am not—and Mercer certainly is not—charming. But you are, Jack. You have charm in spades. People like you, when you exert yourself to be likeable. Women like you. I want you to charm this woman into telling us where Kerma is.”

“I doubt anyone is that charming, Mr. Beckett,” Jack said. “If you want people to do things for you, generally you have to offer them something to make it worth their while. At least, that’s been my experience.”

Cutler Beckett waved a negligent hand. “Jack, Jack…of course you’ll offer her something. You’ll offer her escape, and her freedom—and you’ll be convincing. After all, you have a ship, to take her away. It should be easy for you to convince her that you’re genuinely going to free her, if she’ll just give you the bearings to the lost island.”

“So what’s in it for me?” Jack asked.

“In return for the bearings to Kerma, and you must verify that they’re correct, I’ll cut you in for ten percent of the gold we find there.”

Jack shook his head, his bargaining nature kicking in. “Not likely I’d do it for that,” he said. “Think about it. I’ll have to pretend to help her escape from Calabar…and it’ll be a real escape, once we leave your property. Risky thing, helping slaves escape. If you’ll recall, slave hunters have large, fierce dogs, and they carry pistols. The slave hunters, not the dogs,” Jack added. “Then, after we leave Calabar, I’ll be the one sailing around out on the ocean, trying to find an island the legends say is hidden by illusion and spells and no doubt other unnatural and eldritch things.” Jack shook his head. “Dealing with eldritch things can be more than a bit risky, trust me. And all the while I’m out there risking me life, you sit here, safe in your nice office, behind your lovely ebony and mother-of-pearl desk, drinking tepid tea, safe as houses.” He smiled back at his employer. “Forty percent, Mr. Beckett.”

Beckett pretended not to hear him. “And besides golden treasure, Jack,” he added, “this island will provide a new source of slaves. A whole island full of them! We wouldn’t need those loathsome, venal slave traders.

Cut out the middlemen entirely. The man who captured this party said they were armed with mostly bronze weapons, with only a few iron ones. No firearms. It’ll be child’s play to just swoop down and sweep them up. Black gold, Jack. It’s a wonderful business opportunity.” Cutler Beckett steepled his fingers before him, his eyes shining. “Jack, the New World needs slaves. A black river will be pouring across the Atlantic for the next hundred years, or I miss my guess.”

Jack cleared his throat. “What you do with the people of Kerma is your business, Mr. Beckett, but you know by now I have no interest in the slave trade. I’ll stick to nice, shiny, yellow gold.” He twirled the earrings again, for emphasis.

“You wouldn’t have to offend your delicate nose, Jack,” Beckett insisted. “Other captains will haul the wretches. You and I will just sit back and count our profits. Tell you what…I’ll give you ten percent of the slave revenue, and twenty from the gold we take. How’s that?”

Jack shrugged, careful to keep his features from showing his distaste. He tried not to envision fleets of EITC ships going out, trafficking in human suffering and degradation. “You can keep all of the money from the slaves, Mr. Beckett,” he said. “I’ll stick to gold. Lasts longer, and is easier to transport. Thirty-five percent. Remember, I’m the one taking the risks.” How much gold is there? Enough to buy my own ship and get free of you, that cutthroat Mercer, and your filthy slave trade, Mr. Beckett?

“Jack…” Beckett smiled tolerantly at him. “How exactly are you planning to reach Kerma? Flap your arms and fly, like the sparrow, your namesake? You’ll sail there in my ship, remember? Twenty-five percent.”

Jack considered. “Is the lady I’m to charm young?” he asked. “Attractive?”

Beckett laughed out loud, but softly. “Sadly, no, Jack,” he said. “I doubt there’s a voyage long enough a man could take that would make that creature look attractive enough to woo. If you’re not discerning, perhaps a bag over her head?” He chuckled. “No, I fear I can’t offer the lady’s charms as an inducement. How about if we compromise? Thirty percent of the gold revenue for your share.”

Jack nodded. “Works for me, as long as you throw in these baubles, here.” He indicated the jewelry spread out on the desk. “Just in case the treasure in the labyrinth turns out to be at a low ebb.”

Beckett picked up the wristlets and twirled them. “Neither of these is the right bracelet, Jack,” he said. “The book says the sacred talisman that unlocks the door is decorated with the head of the lion-god, picked out in stones…stones taken from the Heart itself. Captain Ward doesn’t say anything about where the talisman needed to unlock the door might be found. You won’t be able to get into the labyrinth, much less the treasure room.”

Jack smiled. “There’s always a nice charge of black powder, Mr. Beckett,” he reminded his employer. “That should prove persuasive to just about any door.”

“Good point,” Beckett said. “And then you’d only have the monsters and traps Captain Ward mentions to worry about.”

“That’s why I deserve my thirty percent,” Jack pointed out. “I’ve had some slight experience with eldritch things. Thirty percent of the gold, and all of your little treasure trove here,” he said, indicating the tray. “Do we have an accord?”

Beckett hesitated, then shrugged. “Oh, very well,” he said, and held out his hand. “Done.”

Jack shook it. “Done.”

“Shall we have a toast to our lucrative partnership?” Beckett said.

Jack nodded. “Suits me. I’m parched again.”

Beckett busied himself with glasses and a carafe at the sideboard, while Jack examined the jewelry again, piece by piece. Picking up the earrings, he slid them into the pocket-pouch he wore beneath the waistband of his britches, the same one he used to carry Tia Dalma’s compass. He had another such pocket on the other side where he carried coins.

Beckett came back to the deck and handed Jack a glass of wine. “A particularly fine port,” he said, and raised his glass in a toast. “To finding Zerzura.”

“To finding Zerzura,” Jack echoed, and sipped. Presuming I do find it, and I choose to share the location with you…

When he lowered the glass, Beckett was staring at him, his hand out. “Jack…the earrings, please.”

Jack smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, mate. I’m going to need something from Zerzura to show to the lady, maybe present ’em as a gift, to get a conversation going about her homeland.” He raised his eyebrows at Beckett. “I’ll tell her I light-fingered them from you, when you showed me them to brag. That will set me apart from you and Mercer.”

Beckett pursed his lips, as though he’d tasted a lemon. “Very well, Jack,” he said, grudgingly. “After all, they will be yours when you get—and verify—those bearings. But I tend to think you’re expecting rather a lot from the creature. Mercer is convinced she’s half-witted.” Beckett shrugged. “It’s possible he’s right.”

“So what does she do here in your household?”

“I converted the chamber next door to a sewing room. She spins, weaves, and sews.”

He extended his arm toward Jack. “For example, my new coat and waistcoat. She’s made me several.”

Jack studied Beckett’s attire. His coat was expertly cut and sewn, from very fine-spun, lightweight wool. Like his employer’s other clothes, it was conservative in color and cut—a muted burgundy, with a bit of tasteful, same-color embroidery on the cuffs. The waistcoat was beautifully embroidered, with an abstract design done in red and gold, with touches of lapis blue. He raised his eyebrows. “Impressive. Hard to imagine a ‘half-wit’ could produce something like that.”

“I don’t believe Mercer is correct, frankly, though one does hear of individuals who can accomplish things in one limited area and are otherwise lack-witted.” Beckett poured more port, and sipped from his glass. “My theory is that Ayisha may be like one of those individuals who has suffered some type of shock that disarranges the humors of the body. One hears of such cases. Some become raving lunatics, others…they simply withdraw. She is of the latter variety.” Beckett refilled Jack’s glass. “Perhaps it’s time for you to meet her. I could take you next door and introduce you.”

Jack frowned. “She cannot leave the house?”

“Oh, she can. We haven’t allowed her to do so, of course. We didn’t want to risk a runaway.”

Jack thought for moment. “Mr. Beckett, if I’m to gain her trust, I must appear to be her…savior. Rescuer. The person who will help her escape, yes?”

Beckett nodded.

“Then she cannot see us together. I must meet her elsewhere than your home, or the EITC office. Can she run errands for Mistress Goodwright? Go to the market, something of the sort?”

“Yes, I believe she could manage that,” Beckett said.

“Then have Mistress Goodwright start sending her to the market, the way she would send any other servant. Give her daily errands in town. I will take care of the rest. Just tell me how to recognize her.”

Beckett smiled. “Look for the ugliest woman you’ve seen in a very long time. Oh, and also, she always wears an old gray shawl. Always, no matter how hot it is.”

Jack nodded. “Got it. I have a crewman who speaks pidgin. I’ll use him as translator. I pick up languages quickly, so I might not need him for long.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

Jack shrugged. “A week? Ten days? I won’t dally in Calabar a moment longer than it takes to get her aboard the Wench. This heat is enough to flatten a man.”

“Yes,” Beckett said. “I usually have the fan cranked in here, but of course our conversation had to be private.”

“The Wicked Wench will need reprovisioning, of course, and whatever cargo you have for me to transport loaded. If I can get her to give me the bearings quickly, I’ll bring the cargo back here, and you can dispatch it on another ship. The legend says Kerma lies to the north, off this coast.”

“Correct. Make sure you update your navigational charts.”

“Of course,” Jack said, then he thought of something. “Oh, and if I’m to go in search of Kerma, I’ll want twice my usual ration of powder. You never know what you’ll find when you sail in strange waters. And, of course, there’s the door to that labyrinth.”

Beckett nodded. “Very well. I’ll authorize that. And I’ll speak to Mistress Goodwright directly about sending her to the market. Perhaps she can dispatch Ayisha on an errand this very afternoon.”

“I’ll send my crewman to the market this afternoon, tell him to keep a watch for her. He’s a sharp lad, and reliable.”

Beckett smiled at Jack, “Very well. I am sure you will prove worthy of this assignment, Captain Sparrow.”

“I hope so,” Jack said. “Oh, and Mr. Beckett…if I’m to gain her trust, I will have to make this look good. So you may wake up one morning and find the Wench is gone, just gone. Departing like that, in the dead of night, secretly, will help convince her that I’m helping her escape. If she has any sense at all, she’d hardly believe she was escaping from you if she could just walk on board openly, at high noon.”

Cutler Beckett nodded. “A good point, Jack.”

“I’ll have me first mate bring the shipping manifests to your secretary in your office, so the record-keeping will be attended to. And, Mr. Beckett, in order to make this look like a proper escape, this had better be the last time we speak together before I go, savvy?”

Beckett nodded agreement. “That’s for the best, Jack. You have my every confidence. As you say, the more she believes you’re opposing us, the more she’ll trust you. And I’m sure you’ll return to Calabar with the bearings for Kerma.”

Beckett sat back in his ebony chair, sipping his wine, and gave Jack another smile. But there was an edge to this one; it never reached his eyes. “You are planning to return, aren’t you, Jack?”

Jack nodded. “I’ll need to return here so we can split up the treasure, Mr. Beckett,” he pointed out. “I mean…we have a gentleman’s agreement.”

“That’s right, we do, Jack.” Beckett picked up the pectoral and ran his fingers over the gold and lapis links. “And just in case you were tempted to do anything other than fulfill our agreement—to the letter, mind you—I should remind you that I am Ayisha’s legal owner, as well as the owner of the Wicked Wench. Failing to return both those items would constitute theft. And theft of a ship is piracy.” His smile vanished. “I loathe pirates, Jack.”

“Most honest people do,” Jack said, putting just the right amount of earnest indignation into his voice. “Any captain worth his pay does everything he can to avoid them, and I count myself among that number.”

“Good,” Beckett said. “I’m glad the idea of theft—or piracy—is anathema to you.”

Jack shifted in his chair, but before he could get up, Beckett held up his forefinger. “Oh, and one more thing. I do want you to remember, Jack, that the EITC has more ships than the British Royal Navy. We also have a major presence—if not a controlling interest—in the economy and administration of every major port in the civilized world. Any sailor that runs afoul of the EITC will soon discover that he’s run out of ships to sail, not to mention ports of call where he can do business. That goes double for captains, Jack.”

Jack swallowed, and looked genuinely intimidated, which at the moment didn’t require a great deal of acting. It was a sobering thought. “I grasp your meaning, Mr. Beckett.”

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other. It’s good when business partners understand each other.” Beckett smiled again, a return to the warm, approving smile he’d shown when Jack had entered his office. “I know you like the Wicked Wench, Jack. Perhaps you’d like her for your own some day?”

Jack managed to nod.

“That could certainly be arranged. But there’s no denying the Wench has a few years on her, Jack. Don’t set your sights too low. As my business partner, you could have any ship you wanted. Just think of that, Jack. Any ship you wanted.”

First the stick, then the bloody carrot, Jack thought. He rose, and nodded to his employer. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Beckett.” He waved at Beckett as the man started to rise. “No, no, don’t get up. Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Beckett. I’ll see myself out.”

“Au revoir, Jack.”

As Captain Sparrow closed the door leading out of Mr. Beckett’s office, Ayisha slowly rose from her cramped crouch before the keyhole, careful not to lose her balance or make any betraying noise.

Straightening her back, feeling the muscles of her haunches and thighs protest, she turned away from the door and walked back to her seat at the sewing table to resume her work. Her fingers moved automatically, stretching fabric, measuring, then marking lines to cut. Occasionally she would rise and drape cloth across the carved wooden clothing form standing in the corner of her room, not far from where she unrolled her sleeping pallet at night.

While she worked, her mind was busy, going over the conversation she had just overheard. So Mr. Beckett had given up on trying to communicate with her, and was counting on Captain Sparrow to accomplish his goal of convincing her to betray her home? And he was willing to pay him well to get that information? Mr. Beckett must indeed be growing desperate.

Ayisha knew Captain Sparrow, at least by reputation. For months the slaves of Calabar had repeated the story of how he had helped a runaway slave named Chamba escape from a master who had beaten him senseless. Ayisha reflected that this Captain Sparrow must have done so because he’d had an altercation with Chamba’s master. He freed a black man just to spite his enemy. Interesting…

Ayisha began pinning fabric into place around the wooden form, checking its drape, turning the awkward wooden torso, regarding it from various angles, so she could see how light and shadow played across the fabric.

It was nice to be making a woman’s dress again. After she’d made Mr. Beckett several new outfits, he’d told Mistress Goodwright that she could have a few new dresses and aprons made. Ayisha liked Mistress Goodwright. The goodwife had openly praised her work. And, even more valuable, she’d shown Ayisha two new ways of making garments—crocheting and knitting. Neither of those methods of making clothing was known in Zerzura.

As she tugged fabric and pinned, Ayisha wondered whether she’d be here long enough to finish this dress. The thought that soon she might be out of this house, away from Mr. Beckett and Mr. Mercer, made her knees go weak. She sat down in her chair for a moment, letting the idea of escape take shape in her mind, as though it were a garment. Escape! For so long she’d thought about it, dreamed of it…and now, it seemed, it might actually happen.

Ayisha began searching for matching thread amid her many samples. She smiled faintly. When she left, she would be sure to take all of her lovely, sharp, brass and iron needles. They stayed sharper much longer than bronze or bone needles, and they were slimmer, less clumsy. She’d also take her crochet hook, her knitting needles, and the small hand-loom she’d put together, like the one she often used back home.

The princess smiled as she ran her fingers gently over her many skeins of fine thread. For the embroidery on Mr. Beckett’s waistcoats, Mistress Goodwright had purchased silk thread in a rainbow of colors. She’d even provided a lot of the very expensive gold and silver thread, and there was still a considerable amount left. Ayisha nodded to herself. When she left, she’d take all her supplies of thread, too. All the ladies of the royal court would marvel at the silk thread. They had beautiful, fine-spun linen on Kerma, but no cotton or silk.

She wondered whether Mistress Goodwright would actually knock on her door with some errand for her to undertake this very afternoon. The goodwife had the right to walk in without knocking, of course, but she usually didn’t—which was another reason why Ayisha liked her.

It was hard to believe that Mr. Beckett had agreed to let her leave his premises. She’d been shut up here so long, the idea of walking down the hill to the harbor made her flush with excitement. And then at some point, this man, this Captain Sparrow, would arrange to meet her. He would offer her a way to escape, in return for giving him the location of her homeland.

She must not seem too eager. He must not suspect that she knew of his plans for her. She would be reserved, and cautious, and keep up her charade. She would not reveal that she spoke English.

He would bargain with her—escape from Calabar in return for the location of her homeland. It would seem a good bargain. He would tell her she would be free, never knowing that she already knew Mr. Beckett’s plans for Kerma. “Black gold” he had called her people. Things to be sold, like cattle, or horses. Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, her fingers dug hard into the fabric of her apron, twisting it, as though it were the Englishman’s scrawny neck.

But she couldn’t allow herself to be distracted. She had to stay focused.

Very well. She concentrated on her plan again. She, Ayisha, once known as Amenirdis, Princess of Zerzura, would willingly promise Captain Sparrow everything he demanded—just as long as he also agreed to her terms. First of all, she would not leave Calabar without Tarek. Closing her eyes, she whispered a quick prayer to Apedemak that her bodyguard had not been sold during the months she had been away from the Dalton plantation. If he had, there was no way she would ever find him.

But surely Tarek would still be there. She would take him with her. And so this white man, Captain Sparrow, would sail away from Calabar with not one but two runaway slaves.

But that would not be the end of her bargaining, no. She had set out to find her brother, and thanks to Cutler Beckett showing her the pectoral he’d worn, now she knew the chances were overwhelming that if he still lived—she murmured yet another quick prayer to Apedemak—he’d been taken to the New World. Ayisha took a deep breath. Her study of the globe in the Dalton children’s schoolroom had shown her what lay across the sea westward from Africa—or as much of it as was known. Shabako could be anywhere.

She raised her chin. That did not matter. She’d heard the greed in the white men’s voices as they discussed the rapine of her homeland. The lure of gold turned white men’s minds to feathers; it made them willing to do anything to get it. She would have a ship, and a captain to sail the vessel. Together, they would search for Shabako. And surely Apedemak would help her find her brother!

Once Shabako was safely aboard Captain Sparrow’s vessel, she would direct the Englishman to sail back to Africa, to the sea between the Cape Verde and the Canary Islands. Ayisha knew that was what they were called, because the guide they’d hired to take them across Africa to the ancient site of Kerma had pointed them out on a map.

The closer she drew to Zerzura, and the Heart, the more her power would increase. The Heart would lend strength to her spells, increasing their power tenfold, or even more. If she could come within a day or two’s sail of home, her power would be sufficient to lay a sleeping spell on the crew, every one of them. They would fall into a deep sleep, and awaken to find Ayisha, Tarek, Shabako, and one of their boats long gone.

And from that day forward, Ayisha would truly be gone. Vanished, never to reappear. Gone forever.

Ayisha would disappear from the world, and it would be Princess Amenirdis who would bring her brother home to the Shining City in triumph. Hand in hand, they would mount the steps of the royal palace in the Shining City. Together, they would kneel before their lady mother, Queen Tiyy.

Envisioning this, Ayisha smiled with genuine happiness for the first time in months.

Suddenly realizing she was sitting idle, she knew that would not do. Rising, Ayisha hastened to get ready for her outing, ordering her dress and apron, making sure her white head-wrap was secure, and, finally, washing her hands and face in the ewer of water that stood in the corner, near her rolled-up sleeping pallet. She tied her gray shawl securely around her waist.

Ayisha returned to her work, listening all the while for the tap on the door.

* * *

Ian Mercer had just walked into Cutler Beckett’s private office, closing the door behind him, when the two men heard the thumping of feet coming up the stairs, then the rustle of skirts as a woman bustled down the corridor. Moments later the faint sound of Mistress Goodwright tapping on the sewing room door reached them.

Beckett and Mercer did not move or speak, only listened as Mistress Goodwright spoke for a moment, her voice rising and falling, but her words indistinguishable. Moments later, the housekeeper rustled back down the corridor, her shoes making soft thumps on the corridor’s carpet runner. They knew Ayisha must be accompanying her, because Mistress Goodwright was prattling away to a listener. The sewing woman made no sound at all.

Only when the two women had gone downstairs did Mercer break the silence. “Are you certain you don’t want me to follow her, Mr. Beckett?”

Cutler Beckett shook his head. “I’m sure, Mercer. I’m going to give Captain Sparrow the room he asked for. If for any reason Ayisha were to suspect that he’s working for me in this venture, he wouldn’t do any better with the creature than we have.”

“She’s a half-wit,” Mercer grumbled. He made a dismissive gesture. “If she’s even from Zerzura. I have my doubts. I’m telling you, Mr. Beckett, that creature couldn’t find her way back there if she could walk on water and had a ball of string.”

Cutler Beckett raised his eyebrows at his operative. “Why Mr. Mercer, that’s actually quite a humorous image.” He gestured at the chair Jack Sparrow had used that morning. “Have a seat.”

Mercer sat, still glowering. Beckett realized his operative actually felt threatened by the notion that Jack Sparrow, whom Ian Mercer regarded as a smelly, prattling, lower-class molly who gave himself airs, might succeed where he, Mercer, had failed. Why, I believe he’s jealous, Beckett thought, amused.

But his tone was all business when he asked, “Did you find someone to plant aboard Sparrow’s ship?”

Mercer nodded. “Yes, Mr. Beckett. One of the men I’ve used before, Samuel Newton by name, has agreed to sign on for the voyage. He’s never sailed before, except as a passenger, but he was apprenticed to a carpenter, so he’s got a very useful skill.”

“And he can read and write?”

“Yes, sir,” Mercer said. “I checked his hand myself. He’ll send us reports whenever Sparrow makes port.”

“Very good, Mr. Mercer. I know I can always depend on you,” Cutler Beckett said, nodding pleasantly at his operative.

Mercer nodded back. “Thank you, Mr. Beckett. I suppose now it’s a waiting game, to see what happens.”

Cutler Beckett sighed. “Yes, a waiting game,” he said. “That’s exactly what it is. Let us hope that Captain Sparrow will play the game by the rules…that is, our rules. If he doesn’t, he may find himself losing a great deal more than his rank and his livelihood.”

Mercer smiled. It was a rusty, not often used, expression.

Beckett smiled back. “By the way, Mercer, would you care for a glass of some excellent port I’ve acquired?”

Mercer hesitated. Beckett knew he seldom indulged. That was one of the things that made him such a treasure as an operative. Finally, he nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Beckett. One glass would be fine.”

Jack Sparrow stood with Chamba beneath a striped awning, close to a narrow alley that ran between the shoemaker’s shop and the chandler’s shop in the business district of Calabar. There were only a handful of permanent buildings in the marketplace—most of that crowded, noisy enclave consisted of carts with awnings, or makeshift stalls. Vendors cried their wares, and the air was redolent with the smells of fish, fresh baked bread, grilling yams, and the stench of unwashed humanity and raw sewage, an odor so ever-present the men didn’t consciously notice it. “She should be coming along this way any time, Cap’n,” Chamba said. “She be pretty easy to spot. Mr. Beckett, he told you the truth ’bout her.”

“What’s she wearing?” Jack asked.

“She be wearin’ a blue calico dress, with a white apron and head wrap, Cap’n. And of course that gray shawl you told me to watch for. It be tied round her waist.”

Jack squinted against the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. “I see a blue dress…” he muttered. “Must be Ayisha.” Quickly he stepped back into the alley, then peered out so he could see without being seen.

As the woman drew close enough to make out her features, Jack blinked in surprise. His quarry was not just ugly, she was extraordinarily ugly. Cross-eyed, buck-toothed, with blotchy skin, warts, heavy eyebrows…she was barefoot, and even her feet were ugly. “God’s toenails,” Jack breathed. “She is really ugly.”

“Told ya.”

“Nevertheless, it’s important that I make her acquaintance,” Jack said. Taking out the flask he carried beneath his coat, he poured a scant handful of its contents into his palm, then began flicking droplots over Chamba’s shirt. “Now here’s what I want you to do, Chamba…”

A few minutes later, her basket filled with yams and two coconuts, Ayisha had finished her shopping. Turning around, she started back through the marketplace, heading for the street that eventually led up the hill to Beckett’s house. She’d barely reached the first cross-street before a young man wearing a sailor’s cap, loose shirt, and rough britches came rushing around the corner, not looking where he was going. He barged into Ayisha’s basket hard enough to knock it out of her hands. Yams scattered everywhere, and one of the coconuts bounced along the cobblestones to roll right under the hooves of a horse pulling an overloaded dray.

“Watch where you going, boy!” Ayisha exclaimed, in pidgin.

Babbling apologies, the young crewman began scrabbling around, snatching up fallen yams and replacing them in the basket. Ayisha stood there, staring at the split coconut. To add insult to injury, it had landed square in the middle of a fresh pile of horse manure.

“Chamba? Chamba!” Right on cue, Jack came striding around the corner. “Blast that lad, didn’t I tell him not to—” Breaking off, he stared at his crewman, then at Ayisha. “Chamba, what happened here?” he demanded.

The young sailor explained that he’d knocked the basket down, causing one of the coconuts to be ruined. Shamefacedly, Chamba pointed to the coconut, sitting there like some kind of large, cracked, hairy egg in the middle of a dung nest.

Jack gave his crewman a severe dressing-down for his carelessness, culminating in a demand that Chamba walk back to the market before it closed and buy the woman he’d wronged a replacement coconut. With a hangdog look, Chamba confessed to his captain that he’d spent all his money in the tavern.

Hearing this, Jack turned to Ayisha, who had been watching this byplay stolidly, and doffed his tricorne. “Excuse me, miss, do you speak English?”

Ayisha did not reply, and her expression didn’t change. Jack glanced at his crewman. “Chamba, please translate.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Miss, I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, and I wish to apologize for my clumsy crewman. He should know better than to spend the afternoon drinking and spending all his money on rum. If you will please wait here, I shall give him some coins and send him back to the market, so I might make good on the damage he caused you and your coconut.”

Chamba dutifully addressed Ayisha in pidgin. Jack, watching the lad, thought that it was regrettable the youth couldn’t aspire to a career on the stage. His acting ability was remarkable. He had exactly the right mix of chagrin, embarrassment, and truculence in his voice and demeanor.

Ayisha nodded, once, in Jack’s direction, so he handed the youth a couple of coins, whereupon Chamba took to his heels and plunged back into the cheerful chaos that was the marketplace.

Jack and Ayisha waited for his return in silence.

Chamba returned, brandishing a coconut—a bigger, hairier one than the one he’d destroyed. He handed it to Jack, and Jack, with a half bow, held it out to Beckett’s slave woman. Hesitantly, she reached over and took it, putting it into her basket.

Jack tried another smile. “Miss, perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we escorted you home? My crewman would be happy to carry that heavy basket for you. It’s really the least we can do, under the circumstances.”

Chamba translated.

After a long moment, the ugly woman glanced quickly at Jack—the first time she’d looked at him directly, or as directly as she could, given the casts in her eyes—and then said something briefly. “She say ‘very well’ Cap’n,” Chamba reported, as he relieved Ayisha of her basket.

With the slave woman in the middle, they walked along the street that led to the hill where Cutler Beckett’s town house waited at the top. Jack ambled along in silence, but Chamba chattered away. Even though he didn’t speak pidgin, Jack knew the gist of what his crewman was saying, because he and Chamba had rehearsed all of this thoroughly, before Chamba had gone looking for Beckett’s sewing woman.

First, he asked the woman her name, and finally, after a long pause, she replied.

“Ayisha!” Chamba repeated. “That be a pretty name, miss. I be Chamba. I sails aboard the Wicked Wench, me. The Wench, she a fine ship tied up down at the docks. I be guessing that you be a slave, ma’am? Who be your master?”

Ayisha did not answer for a long moment, then she replied shortly, her voice still soft, but her intonation brusque. Jack regarded her out of the corner of his eye, noticing that she habitually walked with her eyes down, as if afraid to look questioners in the eye. Jack remembered when Chamba had done much the same thing. He glanced at Chamba over her bent head inquiringly, and the lad replied, “She say, ‘No man my master. My owner be Mr. Beckett.’”

Chamba began chattering again. Jack knew he was telling Ayisha that he, too, had once been a slave, but that he’d managed to escape, with Captain Sparrow’s help. Chamba would then add that all the slaves hereabouts knew his history, but they kept it from the whites, because they didn’t want the one decent white man, Captain Sparrow, to suffer because he’d helped a slave.

When Chamba fell silent, Ayisha did not respond. Jack glanced down at her, thinking this was going to be more difficult than he’d envisioned. This woman certainly wasn’t half-witted; her remark differentiating “masters” from “owners” proved that. But it was possible that she was so set against those who had enslaved her that she wouldn’t believe anything anyone told her, even if they were offering her what had to be her most cherished desire.

Just as Jack reached this point in his musings, Ayisha spoke to Chamba, the longest speech he’d heard her make. As before, she spoke softly, but her tone was cynical, dismissive. “What did she say?” he asked Chamba.

“She say that you only help me escape because you set out to spite Portmaster Blount because he tried to give you bad supplies. She tell me no white man would help a slave unless there be something in it for him.”

Jack was stung. “She’s wrong. I helped you because I wanted to help you. I admit that I enjoyed foxing Blount, but that’s not why I pulled you through that window.”

“I be knowing that, Cap’n, you think I don’t? Only reason I jump in that river with that log was to get to you, because I be knowing in me heart you wouldn’t be taking me to spite Blount, then selling me to fatten your purse.”

Surprised, Jack glanced quickly at his crewman. “The idea of selling you never crossed my mind, Chamba,” he said, truthfully, then added, “though I admit that I did think about just closing the window and walking away.” After a moment, Jack flashed a grin at his crewman. “It’s a bloody good thing I didn’t know just how much trouble you’d cause me.”

“I did cause you a fair bit of trouble, eh?” Chamba returned the grin.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d attempt to make the truth clear to Miss Ayisha,” Jack said. He looked up, then halted, because he could see the roof of Beckett’s town house. “I’m going to stop here, Chamba,” he said. “You carry the basket a bit farther. I don’t want to risk being seen with Ayisha. Can you please explain that to her, with my apologies for not escorting her all the way up?”

Chamba responded with a rapid spate of pidgin. Ayisha glanced over in Jack’s direction, then nodded silent acknowledgment.

Jack smiled at her, and then touched the brim of his tricorne. “Farewell, Miss Ayisha. Perhaps we’ll meet again,” he said. Turning, he headed back down the hill. He walked slowly, and before he’d reached the docks, Chamba caught up with him.

They fell into step, heading for the Wicked Wench’s berth. “How did it go?” Jack asked.

“I be explaining to—”

Jack waggled a finger at the young man. “It’s a good time to practice your ‘gentleman’s English,’ don’t you think, lad?”

Chamba nodded. “Very well, Captain,” he said, his voice changing, growing a bit deeper, his rapid speech slowing, becoming deliberate. He enunciated carefully. “I explained to Miss Ayisha that you been acting—” he broke off, then amended, “that you acted as you did because you wanted to help me, not because you wanted to spite Portmaster Blount.”

“Good,” Jack said. “Nicely phrased. Pray continue.”

“I believe by the time I left, Miss Ayisha believed me. I asked her whether she had ever thought of escaping, and she said, ‘What slave doesn’t?’”

“Very good,” Jack said, approvingly. “Anything else?”

“After I mentioned escaping, just before she took her basket and went around the back door to the kitchen area, she said, ‘Will I see you again? Perhaps we could talk about this more.’”

“Aha!” Jack said, “Clearly, we have implanted the seed of an idea. Now we need to let it grow and bear fruit.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Very good diction, Chamba.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Chamba hesitated, then said, “Do you really intend to help Ayisha escape?”

“If she’ll agree to it, yes, I do.”

Chamba looked at Jack intently for a long moment, and when he spoke again, he’d dropped back into his customary speech pattern. “Why only her, Cap’n? Why she be the onliest one? Ever think we could take more? Free a passel of slaves, ’stead of just one?”

Jack sighed. “I wish I could, but I can’t. Until the law is changed, and the filthy practice is declared illegal, rescuing slaves usually means they just end up getting recaptured and owned by someone else.” They’d reached the dock where the Wicked Wench was moored. Jack stopped at the end of it, so they could conclude their conversation in private.

Chamba nodded sadly. “I understand. But that bring me back to the first question, Cap’n. Why Ayisha?”

Jack hesitated for a long moment. Finally he said, “I want to help her escape so I can take her home, Chamba.”

Chamba took a deep breath, eyeing his captain. It was plain that he realized that Jack was holding something major back. “Ain’t no chance you mean her harm, right, Cap’n?”

“I mean her no harm,” Jack said, with perfect truth, though an image flashed into his mind of Cutler Beckett, and the greed that had flared in the EITC director’s normally cool eyes when he’d talked about a hundred years of selling “black gold.”

The young crewman waited, obviously hoping for a more complete explanation, but Jack volunteered nothing more. “Cap’n, you want I should go by there tomorrow? Talk to her again?”

“Give her one day to think it over,” Jack said. “You can go back on Wednesday. Just do what you were doing today…tell her that escape is possible, that you’re living proof, and that she can be the next escapee.”

“And what then, Cap’n?”

“Unless I miss my guess, she’ll soon ask you how she can gain her freedom. And that’s when you’ll bring me back with you, so I may talk to her. I’ll explain my terms, and we’ll talk about how she can get away.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

For the next few days, Jack, conscious of possibly having to slip away without notice, drove his crew to off-load, then reload, the Wicked Wench as quickly as possible. After the new cargo, bound for Antigua, was secured in the hold, it was time to replenish their stores. Jack was pleased that Cutler Beckett remembered his promise, and that two extra casks of powder plus extra ammunition were delivered.

He was also pleased that Robby Greene managed to hire another able seaman, plus another ordinary seaman. The ordinary seaman was a well-muscled man named Samuel Newton. A brief interview revealed that although he had little shipboard experience, he had been working as a carpenter’s apprentice. Jack promptly assigned him to assist the ship’s carpenter.

Every day Chamba disappeared into the marketplace for a couple of hours.

The Wicked Wench had been in port for a week and a day when Chamba sought out his captain to tell him that Ayisha wanted to meet with him. “In the marketplace?” Jack said.

“No, Cap’n. She told me she gonna sneak out tonight, meet us where the road end and docks begin, beside the EITC warehouse. She will come as soon as Mr. Beckett’s household asleep.”

“She’s ready to go tonight?” Jack was surprised and pleased.

“No, Cap’n. She said she want to talk to you about somethin’ first. She have questions. And you gonna have to promise her somethin’, before she come aboard and we set sail.”

Jack nodded. “She’s going to have to promise me something, too,” he said. “Very well, we’ll meet tonight. She thinks she can get out of the house?”

“She say she think so. She say she try tonight, see how it go.”

“A dress rehearsal,” Jack said. Chamba looked at him inquiringly, and he explained the term.

That night, Chamba and Jack left the Wench after five bells of the evening watch, and walked over to the EITC warehouse. They sat down on a couple of bales of coir and waited. Jack had brought his flask containing his good rum, and sipped a bit while they talked quietly, just passing the time. The sliver of a moon had already set, so the stars provided the only illumination. Out on the river, they could see the ship lanterns, and their glowing reflections glimmering as crooked yellow streaks on the black river.

Jack was just about to suggest that they walk up the road a bit, when Chamba suddenly turned his head, listening. Moments later, he saw movement. Wearing a dark dress, her head covered by a shawl, the woman coalesced out of the dark. Soundless on bare feet, she drifted toward them like a wraith.

They stood up, watching her approach. When Ayisha reached them, Jack gestured her to a seat, and asked, “Did you have any trouble getting away?”

Chamba translated. She shook her head no.

“Good.” Jack sat down beside her, and regarded her for a long moment. “Miss Ayisha, it’s time for us to speak frankly and straightforwardly. Enough tacking back and forth, savvy? I’m going to run straight before the wind, and I want you to do the same.” He waited while Chamba translated, knowing the lad was smart enough to put the nautical phrases into terms a landlubber would understand. Ayisha nodded agreement, sitting poised, her hands folded in her lap.

“You obviously want to escape slavery, Miss Ayisha. I can help you escape. If I could do it, I’d free every slave here in Calabar,” Jack said, then added, in a burst of honesty, “I’d bloody free them all, everywhere.” Hearing the anger in his own voice surprised him, and he turned his head to stare out at the black river, seeing the yellow trails marking the anchorages of the slave vessels. He heard Chamba translating, very quietly. After a moment he took a deep breath. Tend to business, Jacky boy, the voice in his head reminded him. Or are you going soft? Slaves aren’t your business. Finding treasure is.

Jack turned back to his two listeners. “So, Miss Ayisha, I can take you with me when I sail away from here, if we come to an agreement. I’ll be leaving port soon.”

He waited while Chamba translated. Ayisha spoke a few words. Chamba turned back to Jack. “She say, what agreement? Why would you do this for her? You must want somethin’—so what that somethin’ be?”

“She’s right,” Jack said. “I want to find the lost island of Kerma. There’s treasure there. I read about it in a book when I was younger than you are now, Chamba. At first I thought the whole tale of a lost island where there’s a lot of gold and treasure must be just a legend. But some time ago…” he hesitated. “I had an…encounter…with someone who claimed to be from Zerzura.”

Jack heard Ayisha gasp in the darkness, even before Chamba finished translating. Her voice was low and hoarse with emotion as she clutched Chamba’s arm, speaking urgently to the youth. Chamba sounded surprised when he translated. “Cap’n, she be all upset. Ask me if you seen a young man, ’bout my age, actually looks a bit like me? And that young man, he claimed to be from Zerzura?”

“No,” Jack said. “Tell her I’m sorry, it was nothing like that.”

As Chamba began to speak, Ayisha slumped forward, burying her face in her hands. Even in the darkness, Jack could see her shoulders moving. Chamba leaned over, spoke softly to her, his voice filled with concern. “Is she crying?” Jack asked, apprehensively. Weeping women were unnerving. Fumbling inside his waistcoat, he took out his little flask of rum and shook it. There were a few swallows remaining. “Here, give her a nip of this, Chamba. Rum helps everything.”

Chamba spoke softly to the woman, pressing the flask into her hand. She sat up shakily, then raised the flask, threw her head back and swigged a mouthful. She gulped, then gagged. For a moment Jack worried she might cough up his expensive rum, but she managed to swallow it. Reaching over, Jack relieved her of the flask, lest she drop it. “There you go, love,” he said, heartily. “That should fix you right up. Works wonders for me.”

To Chamba, he said, “When she can talk again, ask her what she was talking about.”

After Ayisha stopped coughing, Chamba asked her. The slave woman hesitated for a long moment, then finally replied, her voice calm and steady.

“She say she thought you might have seen somebody she know, somebody that was traveling with her,” Chamba translated. “In the caravan she was part of, when that Duke Wren-John, he come along and capture all of them.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. Whomever she was asking about before she broke down, that person was very important to her. And yet now, she’s completely composed. Something’s not adding up here. For a moment he was tempted to pursue the subject, but really, what did it matter? She’d just given him the opening to bring up the caravan, and he needed to pursue that.

He nodded. “I see. Please tell her I heard Mr. Beckett talking about this Duke fellow, and claiming that Duke had captured a caravan of people who had come from Zerzura. Mr. Beckett told me that he believes Ayisha is one of them, and he showed me these.”

As Chamba obediently translated, Jack reached into the pocket fastened beneath the waistband of his britches, and took out the gold earrings. He held them up. In the starlight, the gold gleamed with a faint, silvery glow. “When Mr. Beckett showed me some pieces of jewelry, including these earrings, I knew he wasn’t imagining that they’d come from Zerzura. They’re exactly like the designs I saw in that book, so long ago. Have you seen them before, Miss Ayisha? Were you part of that caravan? Was there someone in the caravan who wore them? Someone royal? Were you her servant?”

Jack waited while Chamba translated. Ayisha made a low-voiced reply. Her hands, he noticed, no longer lay quietly in her lap. Instead they were twisted in the fabric of her dress.

Chamba nodded. “She say yes, Cap’n. She say those earrings belonged to her royal mistress, the princess of Zerzura.”

Jack’s breath caught in his throat. “What happened to the princess?” he asked.

Ayisha’s reply to Chamba’s translated question was voiced in such bleak tones that Jack knew the answer wouldn’t be good. Chamba turned back to him, and said quietly, “She say one morning the princess not able to stand up, so Duke shoot her here.” He touched his forehead, between his eyes.

“Damn,” Jack said, unable to think of anything else to say. For a moment he was tempted to burden this serving woman with what he knew about the royal house of Zerzura, and the labyrinth leading to the treasure, but what was the point, now?

After a moment, he sighed and said, “I’m sorry, Miss Ayisha. The man’s an animal. But you’re still alive. I’m willing to take you home to Kerma, so you can tell the people there what happened. You know where the island is, don’t you?”

Chamba translated. The woman’s head moved in the starlight as she nodded, then she spoke. Chamba said, “She say, south of the Canaries, north of the Cape Verdes.”

Jack sighed. “That’s a lot of square miles of ocean, Miss. Could you point to it if I showed you a map?”

After her reply, Chamba translated: “She say no, Cap’n. She say Kerma closer to the Cape Verdes than to the Canaries. But she don’t know how to read English, and she sure don’t know how to read charts.”

“Not good,” Jack said, looking down at the earrings glimmering faintly in his palm. “Ask her if she wants me to take her home, and if so, how does she propose I do that, if she can’t give me the bearings?”

Ayisha didn’t speak for at least a minute, but finally, she said something, her tone soft and hesitant. Chamba reported, “She say she what my tribe would call a wise woman. Maybe you call it priestess? Anyway, she say if you get her close to her home, she will…feel …where her homeland be. Then she point you the rest of the way.”

Ayisha spoke again. Chamba sounded awed by her response. “She say her home hidden. People who sail past will not see it unless they have someone like her aboard to break the…” He cast about for the word. “The…seeming,” he said. “Looking like one thing, when it something else.”

“Illusion?” Jack suggested.

Chamba nodded. “Right word, Cap’n, thank you. Yes. She mean illusion.”

“I see,” Jack said. “Very well. I guess that’s going to be the way of it, then. I’ll sail to that area, between the Cape Verde Islands and the Canary Islands, and together we’ll find her home.” He thought about Tia Dalma’s compass, wondering if it would work for anyone but him. He couldn’t visualize Kerma, but this woman could. If Ayisha couldn’t find the island on her own, he’d let her try the compass. And once I know where it is, I’ll be able to plot the bearings onto the chart, he thought. In the event I decide to share them with Cutler Beckett…

Jack wasn’t any too sure that he would, in fact, give Beckett the bearings to Kerma. If there was gold and treasure on the island, why should he share, especially with someone who intended to make a clean sweep of the place and take them all for slaves? Talk about killing the goose that lays the golden eggs, he thought, contemptuously.

“So we have an agreement, Miss Ayisha,” he said aloud. “Chamba, tell her if that if she takes me to Zerzura, I’ll give her the earrings that belonged to the princess, so she’ll have something to remember her by.”

A moment later, Chamba translated her reply. “She say she be glad to have them, Cap’n. She say she know that you be wanting a reward in return for taking her home.” Ayisha spoke again. Chamba’s voice cracked with excitement as he translated. “She say she sure the queen of Zerzura will give you and your men much gold, for your reward.”

Jack felt a wave of excitement himself. “That would be lovely, darling,” he chirped, nodding at Ayisha, and smiling. Just what I was hoping to hear!

Ayisha smiled back at him. It was the first time he’d seen her features express anything but wary neutrality. Her smile held more than a touch of smugness about it, but Jack was too focused on visions of gold to take much notice of it.

“So when shall we go?” Jack said, wrenching his mind away from aureate fantasies. He saw that she had brought nothing with her. “How about tonight, Miss Ayisha?” Chamba translated.

Ayisha responded briefly, then launched into a longer speech, using her hands to gesture toward the south, then holding up five fingers. Jack realized she was speaking of something very important. Concerned, he leaned forward, waiting for the translation. Chamba looked at him. “You not gonna like this, Cap’n,” he warned.

“Go on. When does she want to go?”

“She say she fine to leave tomorrow night. She say there be some things she want to bring with her, but she don’t have them now, they back in her room. But she also say that before she leave Calabar, there be someone she have to bring along with her. Another slave. She say she will not leave without him.”

“Him?” Jack repeated, startled. “Who is he? What is he to her?” But I thought she lost the only person she cared about! What’s going on? Jack was skeptical. Could it be possible that Ayisha had a husband or a lover among the other members of the caravan? He reminded himself that not all men were obsessed with women’s faces and bodies…only most of them, in his experience.

“She say he her friend.” Chamba emphasized the word. “She say this slave belong to Mr. Dalton. Dalton farm a big place outside Calabar, on the south road.”

“How far south?” Jack demanded.

“Maybe five mile, she say.”

“Oh, great,” Jack said. “And I suppose she expects me to help her go steal this slave.”

“I think so, Cap’n.”

“Damn and blast,” Jack said, with feeling. “And here I thought this would be easy. Does she know where this slave’s sleeping quarters are, at this farm?” Chamba translated.

Ayisha nodded, yes.

“All right,” Jack said. “I’ll do it. But she’d better be telling the truth about knowing where this fellow will be sleeping.” He gave Ayisha a glance that held more than a little irritation. She gave him a faint, enigmatic smile, serene as a Madonna.

Jack did some rapid calculations, realizing that in order to make sure they reached the Dalton farm in the middle of the night, and had time to return well before dawn, they’d have to move fast. I’ll need a horse, he thought. Or a horse and a wagon.

It would take a human at least ninety minutes to walk five miles. A horse could travel five miles in less than an hour, and that was at a moderate pace. Jack sighed. I’ll have to hire one at the local livery.

“Tell her I’ll meet her tomorrow night as soon as she can sneak out, on the south road, just out of sight of town,” he said.

Chamba translated. Ayisha nodded yes.

Jack had only ridden a few times in his life, and not for any distance. He decided that hiring a carriage or a small wagon would be the best idea. He felt sure he could drive easier than he could ride, and there would be a place for Ayisha to sit. For a moment he considered trying to take a boat. The main river ran east to west, not north to south. But there were smaller tributaries that flowed into the Calabar, and they wound all around in the area. There was a good chance that one of those tributaries flowed past this farm. But if he asked questions about the Dalton farm, people would likely remember that later, when this slave turned up missing. Best to stick to the road. My kingdom for a horse, Jack thought, grumpily. After all, human beings had been riding for millennia. How hard could it be?

The next day, Jack dutifully presented himself at the livery to hire a horse and wagon, only to discover that all of the wagons were presently on hire, and none was expected back before the following day. The manager of the livery offered him a fat pony and a cart, but Jack knew that wouldn’t hold three adults. He shook his head. “No, that won’t do,” he said. “I’ll need a horse…or maybe two horses,” he amended.

“You’re in luck, sir,” the manager said. “Two horses happen to be what I have available.” He waved Jack into the stable, and pointed to the first two stalls. “The bay gelding and the chestnut gelding,” he said.

Great, thought Jack. Horse eunuchs.

He walked into the third, empty stall to peer at the two animals. The tall bay horse raised its head and looked at him. “Good fellow,” said Jack, reaching through the bars to pat it. Quick as summer lightning, the animal’s ears swept back and it swung its nose toward his hand, lips drawing back from its large, squared-off teeth. Jack hastily yanked his hand back. He knew hostility when he saw it.

“Caesar will nip a little, have to be careful with him,” said the manager, heartily. “But he’s a fine, strong beast, and can go all day.” Jack looked at the horse’s bright eyes, and saw that its coat gleamed. Its muscles appeared smooth and powerful.

He took a look at the other candidate. The chestnut horse stood, head hanging, lower lip drooping, its coat rough, not sleek. Jack was suspicious of the way this one rested all its weight on only three of its legs. Even a non-horseman could tell the beast was resting no weight on its portside forefoot. “What’s wrong with that leg?” he asked, pointing down. Even in the dimness of the stall, he could see that the leg below the knee appeared swollen.

“Oh, he’s just a little stiff on that leg,” the manager said dismissively. “He works right out of that once he’s gone a mile or so.”

Jack glanced at the manager skeptically. “I see,” he said, and he did see. This was the equivalent of trying to pass a rowboat half full of water off on a lubber, claiming “it just needs a little bailing every so often.”

“I’ll take the bay horse. Caesar,” he said, pointing. “I’ll need him this evening. Going to ride over and see a…lady…that I know.” He smiled, man to man. “If all goes well, I might not be back until dawn.”

“Ah, I see, sir! Well, that would be all right. Just make sure you bring the animal back with his skin cool, his coat dry, not all sweaty, you know. Give him a drink of water at the trough, loosen the saddle girth, then tie him to the hitching rail over there,” the manager pointed.

“Very well,” Jack said. “What time can I pick him up?”

“I’ll leave him saddled up, all ready to go, tied to the hitching rail,” the manager said. “Remember to just tighten up the girth before you mount, sir, then away you go.” He held out his hand, and named an amount.

Jack paid. “I’ll need some of those leather cargo containers I’ve seen before. The ones that fasten to the back of the saddle.”

“Saddlebags?”

“Precisely what I had in mind,” Jack said. “Right. Oh, and…how about you show me where the girth is, mate?”

He was back that night, about five bells of the evening watch. His mount awaited him, tied to the hitching rail. Caesar was saddled, and the requested saddlebags were in place. The horse himself appeared to be asleep; his eyes were closed, and his aft starboard leg was cocked up. He appeared very relaxed.

Jack untied the gelding and looked at the stirrup. It seemed an ungodly way up. He raised his foot, and grabbed the saddle. It rocked in his hands. Ah, yes. Tighten girth, he remembered.

It was more difficult at night, but luckily the crescent moon was still up, though sinking fast. Fumbling, he found the proper straps and buckles, and gave a strong tug. Caesar snaked his head around, teeth bared and aiming for Jack’s forearm. Before the horse could grab him, Jack managed to pull his left arm out of range. Doubling up his fist, he gave the creature a clout on its nose. He was gratified to see that the blow appeared to convince Caesar that this particular human’s arm wasn’t fodder.

The second time he pulled on the girth, the horse put its ears back, but that was all. Jack got the girth tightened.

“Easy,” he told himself, feeling cheered. “Millennia, right.”

He was about to lift his foot up to the stirrup again, when he realized the large, sawed-off tree trunk next to the hitching post must serve as a mounting block. Stepping up, he located the stirrup with his left foot, swung his right leg over, and settled himself on the horse’s back.

Jack remembered how to steer, one rein in each hand, so he pulled Caesar’s head to starboard and headed out of the yard, onto the street. He kept the beast to a walk, experimenting with how to sit so he didn’t mash tender parts of his anatomy. As he reached the end of the cobblestoned part of the street, he chirruped to the gelding, and Caesar obligingly increased his speed, breaking into a trot. Jack bounced, his teeth clacking together until he thought he’d bite his tongue off. After a moment, however, he managed to balance a bit more, and stood in his stirrups so he wasn’t slamming his rear—or anything else—against the saddle. That was better.

The horse trotted along, past the last houses of Calabar, heading down the southern road. On either side, trees and brush reared up. Jack tugged on both reins, and Caesar slowed back down to a walk. He glanced behind him, but couldn’t see the town. If she’s already here, this should be the place.

A voice spoke softly, in a language Jack didn’t recognize. Caesar pricked up his ears. A few yards away, brush moved, then the Zerzuran woman stepped out onto the road. It was dark, but Jack’s night vision was good, and he could see her. She seemed to be dressed as she had been the previous night, but she was carrying a cloth bag about the size of a pillowcase.

“Right on time,” Jack said, approvingly. “I’m afraid I could only get one of these beasts, the other one seemed to be needing a peg leg. So we’ll have to both ride Caesar, here.” He didn’t know why he was talking to the woman, when she didn’t speak or understand English, but he supposed it couldn’t do any harm. He smiled at her and patted Caesar’s rump. “Can you get up here?”

She stepped over to him and busied herself for a moment, opening her bag and dividing the contents between the two saddlebags, then stuffing the empty bag in on top. Peering around by starlight, Jack made out a fallen log lying by the side of the road. He pointed to it. “Why don’t you stand there?”

With some difficulty, he managed to maneuver Caesar over to the log. Ayisha stepped up on it. Jack extended his hand, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed it. She jumped. Jack pulled strongly. A moment later, she was up behind him, holding on to the back of the saddle. “There you go, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jack said. “Now we’ll head for that farm.”

He pulled on the portside rein, turning Caesar’s nose so he faced south, and chirruped to the gelding. “Giddyup!”

Caesar snorted, but didn’t move. He seemed to be pushing his nose downward, taking up all the slack in the loose reins. “Come on!” Jack urged, and kicked the gelding, just as Ayisha’s hands moved. At first Jack thought she was trying to hold on to his waist, but then he realized she was groping, trying to grab the reins out of his hands.

Several things happened at the same moment. Caesar’s head disappeared altogether, the horse moved violently, and something hard seemed to surge up beneath the saddle. Jack had only a moment, as Ayisha grabbed frantically, trying to take the reins, to realize that Caesar was plunging like a ship in a typhoon, and then both he and the slave woman were flying into the air.

Jack landed in the middle of the road, his wind knocked out. Flaming stars cartwheeled past his vision. He lay there, gasping like a landed fish, for what seemed an eternity, before he could draw breath again. Finally, with a gasp that turned into a groan, he managed to roll over and get to his knees, then stagger to his feet.

Caesar was about forty feet away. From the sound of it, he was calmly snacking on all of the underbrush he could reach by the side of the road. Ayisha was climbing to her feet, clutching her shawl around her. Her head-cloth had come loose, and lay on her shoulder, along with her shawl. As Jack watched, she pulled it free, then looked straight at him. Even in the darkness, he could tell she was giving him a disgusted glare.

“Damn!” Jack mumbled. “Bloody horse.” He began trudging toward Caesar, who raised his head, ears pricked, to regard him. Jack held out his hand. “Nice horsey. C’mere, you scurvy nag.” Caesar didn’t like being called a “scurvy nag.” He snorted, raised his tail, and began trotting away, tail waving like a banner. Cursing under his breath, Jack began running after him.

“Stop that, you fool!”

For one crazed second, Jack thought that Caesar had spoken. Then he whirled around to see Ayisha wave her arms at him. Her voice reached him again. “Don’t you know anything? You run, the horse runs! And he can run a lot faster than you!”

Jack’s mouth fell open. “You speak English,” he said, inanely.

“Let me catch him,” she said, not deigning to answer the obvious. “Wait here.”

Leaving Jack in the middle of the road, she walked over to the underbrush. He saw her bend down, heard tearing sounds. She straightened up, and he realized she had a big handful of grass. She started after Caesar, sauntering slowly, rather aimlessly, holding the grass out, crooning in that language Jack had never heard. It must be her native tongue, he realized.

Caesar eyed her, then he whuffled at her. It was a hungry sound. Ayisha continued to amble along. When she stopped, she sniffed the grass, then made enthusiastic noises, as though she were smelling food prepared by Mr. Beckett’s cook. Then she held out the grass, wiggling it enticingly, still crooning. The gelding took a hesitant step toward her. Then another.

Moments later, Caesar was caught.

Ayisha did something with the stirrups, then led the horse back to Jack. “I will ride up front, because I can control him,” she said. Her English was accented, but perfectly understandable…not to mention grammatical. “You will ride behind.”

Jack rubbed his backside. “I could just run,” he suggested.

“Not as fast as a trotting horse, and not for long,” she said. Gathering up the reins, she raised a bare foot, then a moment later she was in the saddle, her skirts tucked in around her legs. Jack caught a glimpse of bare calves in the starlight, but that was all.

He blinked, and Caesar was standing quietly beside the log. Jack went over to it, climbed up, and then grabbed the back of the saddle and jumped up. The horse’s backside felt slick and precarious. He clutched the back of the saddle. “You may hold on to me, Captain Sparrow,” Ayisha said. “I will not fall.”

Jack barely had time to place his hands on either side of her waist, before Caesar wheeled smartly around, and began trotting down the road…a slow, gentle trot. “Relax, Captain Sparrow,” she called back. “When your back is stiff, you bounce. Relax, then you can sit.”

He tried to comply, and discovered that, as she had said, relaxing his back made the gait much easier to sit. It became springy, rather than jarring. The miles flowed smoothly past.

When they reached the Dalton farm, Ayisha and Jack slid off the horse, and she handed him the reins. “You stay here, Captain Sparrow. I will go and bring Tarek.”

“Can’t we just tie him up?” Jack asked.

“No. Horses who must stand and wait become bored, like humans.

When they become bored, they paw, they break their reins, and they call out to other horses. We don’t want that, do we?”

“No, we don’t,” Jack conceded.

“Just hold him and talk to him…softly. Pat him. If starts to make any noise, put your hand atop his nostrils, like this—” Jack’s hand was seized and pressed onto the horse’s nose. “Not too hard. Pressing and rubbing his nostrils will keep him from calling out to his kin.”

Jack opened his mouth to ask how long she’d be, but, with a rustle of underbrush, she was gone.

Feeling ridiculous, he patted Caesar, and began talking to the horse…softly. After a while, he ran out of “good boys” and began telling him sea stories. He’d reached the tale of the time the Breton Bay went through the typhoon, and four crewmen were swept right off her stern, when he heard a soft rustle of brush.

Moments later, Ayisha emerged from the underbrush. There was someone with her. Jack found himself looking up. The newcomer was more than a full head taller than Jack, and far broader, especially across his shoulders.

“Captain Sparrow,” she whispered. “This is Tarek. He will run, while we ride.”

“If you don’t mind,” Jack said, “I’d just as soon stretch me legs a bit. I’ll run for the first mile or two.” He nodded to Tarek. “Besides, they’re bound to look for you, mate, and they’ll likely use dogs. If you ride for a while, might confuse them, make them lose the scent.”

Ayisha nodded. “That is good thinking, Captain. We shall do as you suggest.”

The threesome headed north, back to Calabar.

By six bells of the middle watch, Caesar was returned to the livery, watered, girth loosened, and securely tied to the hitching rail.

Jack, Ayisha, and Tarek made their way along the dock to the Wicked Wench. Robby and Chamba, as expected, were waiting for them, with the longboats already crewed and ready to tow. Moments after the gangplank was pulled up, the mooring lines were cast off, and the Wicked Wench glided out into the river, towed by her boats, soundless as a ghost vessel of legend. The tide was going out, and that helped, too.

By the time the ship had left the harbor behind, they’d raised minimum sail. Long before dawn lightened the east, they had reached the Atlantic.