CHAPTER TEN

Revelations

THE DAY THE WICKED WENCH TURNED her stern to Calabar Harbor, Jack looked forward to putting a goodly number of nautical miles beneath her keel. Thoughts of Zerzura, and its treasure, reverberated in his mind like siren song, and he was impatient to get there. Unfortunately, the winds were against them, blowing west to east. Coming back to Africa was easy—going away was the challenge. For the next few weeks, they’d have to tack back and forth to make forward progress, rather than the comparatively easy and straightforward progress of running before the wind. Fortunately, Jack and his crew were used to dealing with the vagaries of the winds, and accustomed to having to “beat to westward” until they cleared the bulge of Africa and could pick up the easterly trade winds.

The day had began auspiciously with their early start, and continued with fine sailing weather. As soon as dawn broke, Jack, mindful of his passengers, dispatched his carpenter and the new carpenter’s mate, Newton, to rig up a temporary cabin for the unlikely pair. The carpenters quickly framed in a six-foot square on the main deck, next to the minuscule cabins allotted to the ship’s officers and quartermaster, then used canvas to create its “walls.” The little “cabin” even had its own “window”—an unused gun port. Jack appointed Chamba “Passenger Steward” for the duration of the voyage, instructing him to see to the needs of Ayisha and her friend.

By the time the ship reached blue water on the Atlantic, Jack left Second Mate Frank Connery in command, so he and Robby could grab a few hours sleep. They emerged before noon, after breaking their fast, to find the ship on the starboard tack. The lower bulge of the African coast, which had been barely a smudge on the northern horizon, was gone. Jack was well satisfied with their progress, after checking the traverse board, the record of the chip log, and their compass heading. With any luck, the Wench would make more than a hundred miles by midnight.

Unfortunately, luck was against them.

As the sun dipped toward the western horizon, Jack and Robby were standing on the weather deck, going over the watch roster, when Chamba appeared, heading for the two men. When he reached Jack he hesitated before speaking, giving Robby Greene a swift glance. “You may speak in front of First Mate Greene,” Jack said. “I’ve apprised him of the situation regarding our passengers.”

Jack had filled Robby in on what was happening over breakfast in his cabin, including his hopes for a fast voyage north to Kerma. Robby had gotten a good laugh over Jack’s description of Caesar and his antics. “You should have sent me, Jack,” he’d said, amused. “Before I was ’pressed by our estimable Royal Navy to be a powder monkey, I used to ride the horses on my father’s farm.” He’d smiled slightly at the memory. “Of course, they were huge plow horses. Not nearly as…lively…as Caesar sounds.”

Jack had started to laugh with his first mate, then grimaced instead as muscles protested. “I agree, I should have sent you, mate. Then it would be your bum that feels as though it got keelhauled last night. I hope I never have to straddle one of those misbegotten jades again, and that’s the truth.”

Now, as evening approached, Chamba nodded at Jack. “Aye, Cap’n. Good evenin’, Mr. Robby.”

“So how are our passengers doing?” Robby asked.

“Mr. Tarek, he be doing pretty much fine, but Miss Ayisha, she lookin’ pretty peaky. Didn’t want no food. I got her settled in her bunk, and she finally fall asleep.”

“Bunk?” Jack said. “What bunk?”

“When Miss Ayisha see Tarek climb into his hammock, she say, ‘I can’t do that.’ She say she too old to climb into such a contraption. So I speak to Mr. Newton, and he come back down and right quick nail together a bunk frame for her on the deck. I found an old straw tick in the ship’s stores, and that’s where she be lying, Cap’n.”

Jack glanced at Robby. “Samuel Newton appears to be a find,” he commented.

“He does, Cap’n,” Robby agreed.

“I don’t know why our passenger refused to climb into a hammock,” Jack mused, grumpily. “The woman may have a face that could stop the clock on Saint Stephen’s Tower, but she’s spry for her age. She climbed aboard that infernal excuse for a bloody equine handily enough.”

“Where be Saint Stephen’s Tower, Cap’n?” Chamba wanted to know.

Jack and Robby had grown used to this over the past few months. The lad had more curiosity about the world than any ten cats. “It’s in London, Chamba.”

“There be a big clock there?”

“Yes, on the tower of Saint Stephen’s.”

“That be a church, Cap’n?”

Jack shook his head. “It used to be. But now the House of Commons meets there. It’s all part of the Palace of Westminster.”

“Never seen a palace,” Chamba said. “I’d like to see one, me. The English king, he live there too? When we going to London next?”

Jack had just started to explain about how Westminster Palace was no longer the royal residence, when a cool breath of air brushed his ear, trailing along his cheek. Breaking off, he licked his finger and held it up. “Wind’s freshening from the west, mates.”

Robby and Chamba were staring over Jack’s shoulders, their eyes widening. “Jack,” Robby said. “We’ve got weather coming.”

Jack turned to see a mass of clouds the color of a livid bruise boiling up from the west. From the looks of the storm, he judged they had between twenty and thirty minutes to prepare the Wicked Wench. “Looks like a good fresh gale,” Jack observed, cheerfully. “Should blow some of this heat away, if we’re fortunate.” He glanced at Chamba. “We’ll need all topmen aloft, lad.”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

The Wicked Wench had all sails set, except for her very topmost canvas—the royals. “We’ll need to take the t’gallants off, Captain, or we might lose them,” Robby said, glancing upward at their spread of canvas. “If we have time,” he added, uneasily.

Jack smiled at him. Not only was he not nervous, he felt exhilarated. This would be the Wench’s first serious storm under his command. He’d drilled his crew; they were ready. He hoped. “We’ll have time,” he said, sounding confident. “Don’t worry, Robby. She’s a good, weatherly ship.” Then, more formally, he added, “Summon all hands, please, Mr. Greene. Instruct them to make storm canvas.”

“Aye, Captain,” Robby cupped his hands around his mouth. “All hands on deck!” he shouted. “Step lively now! All hands!” Moments later the clanging of the ship’s bell reinforced his command.

Immediately, men began pouring onto the weather deck, some, who had been napping, blinking blearily in the reddish light. “Lads, we’ve got a gale coming!” Robby yelled. He pointed up. “All topmen! Shorten to storm canvas! Furl t’gallants! One reef in tops’ls and courses! Smartly, now, lads!”

Chamba was already halfway up the foremast. The other topmen scurried after the youth. The storm was moving fast; the Wench’s fifteen topmen would have their work cut out to get the canvas on all three masts reefed before it struck. There weren’t enough topmen to tackle more than one mast at a time, so these specialized hands had to move quickly, with no mistakes.

Jack, Robby, and Connery divided up the job of supervising the crew in order to make sure the Wench was as ready as possible to ride out the gale. Connery headed up to the quarterdeck to confer with the helmsman, assign a burly lee helmsman to assist with the wheel, and make sure the binnacle lantern was lit. After seeing that the topmen were working quickly and efficiently, Robby turned his attention to overseeing the men still on deck who were working with the lines to furl the jibs.

For his part, Jack strode around the weather deck, verifying that all hatches and equipment were being properly battened down. When he was satisfied that they were being attended to, the captain located the ship’s cook, his carpenter, and the new seaman, Newton. They had no assigned tasks, and were standing on the weather deck watching the frenzied activity aloft, when the captain braced them. “You three, head down to the main deck, and check that all the guns and gun carriages are securely fastened. We don’t want one breaking free, savvy, lads?”

“Aye, Cap’n!” chorused three voices as one, and they scattered. Cannon were so heavy that having one break free and go crashing about the deck during a storm could result in not only loss of life, but also a gaping hole in the hull, and a foundered ship.

The pleasantly cool breeze had now become a real wind, tugging at Jack’s full sleeves, lashing at the canvas as the topmen worked, reefing the mainmast courses, having finished the foremast sails. Jack glanced west as lightning flickered, followed by the rumble of thunder. The setting sun was compressed to a lurid slash of crimson and coral by heavy-bellied purple clouds. As the rising wind whipped the waves into whitecaps the Wench’s motion became more pronounced. She rolled like a barrel on a slope.

The topmen finished the mainmast, and swarmed up the mizzen. Minutes continued to tick by in Jack’s head. Mentally, he ran through his list of storm readiness tasks, checking and rechecking that nothing had been overlooked. Westward, storm clouds now extended across more than half the sky, spreading like spilled ink. The Wench wasn’t just rolling by now, she was frankly pitching, reminding Jack of Caesar, the demon horse.

Another crack of lightning illuminated the crewmen spread out along the mizzen lateen, the lowest of the mizzen sails. The resulting thunderclap sounded like cannon fire. That’s the last sail…hurry, lads!

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Jack bellowed, “Lively, lively! Haul taut those bunt lines! Make fast the bunt gaskets! Lively, I said! Are you sailors or bloody grandsires? Move!” The ship lurched. Jack braced and balanced as she bucked beneath him. Hurry, or you’ll be blown right off that yardarm!

The lateen was reefed! Jack watched the topmen scramble down the yard, moving to the mast along the yardarm. Then, seizing the ratlines, they climbed downward, hand over hand, legs dangling. During a break in the wind he could hear quick, panting gasps.

Bare feet hit the deck, slapping the planks. The last of the hands were down, and safe, scurrying below.

Jack breathed again, just in time to get slapped by a plume of salt spray. Lightning cracked nearly overhead, and the explosion of thunder followed right on its heels. Spitting out a mouthful of Atlantic, he grabbed for his hat, managing to catch it just before it took wing. The wind was shrieking and howling now, sounding like damned souls in some maritime hell. Ducking his head against the sudden silver curtain of rain, Jack ran across the deck to the starboard ladder leading up to the quarterdeck, and bolted up it two steps at a time.

Three figures in tarred weather-gear awaited him. Jack’s helmsman on watch, Matthews, grasped the spokes of the wheel, while the burly lee helmsman, Banks, stood off to the side to assist. Steering a ship through a gale was an arduous job, both physically and mentally taxing. The helmsman had to keep an eye on the angle of the waves, as well as how the wind filled the reefed courses, in order to keep the ship on the best heading. In addition to the two helmsmen, an ordinary seaman was assigned to the watch, and his job was to turn the hourglass every half hour, and update the traverse board with the course the helmsman reported.

Matthews stood with his legs braced, his bearded features tight with concentration as he and Banks worked at keeping the Wench angled properly. The Wench was taking the waves at roughly forty-five degrees, so the big swells rolled in beneath her starboard bow, then rolled out beneath her stern on the port side. Trying to head directly into the waves would pummel the vessel worse, might even break her in two, and taking the waves crosswise to them might cause her to capsize.

Matthews glanced sideways as Jack appeared beside him. “Bit of a blow, Cap’n!” He had to duck his head to keep water out of his mouth, and shout to be heard over the wind. Banks nodded at the captain, but didn’t speak, concentrating on helping Matthews hold the wheel steady. Jack glanced over at the other figure swathed in the tarred weather-gear, and, by the dim glow of the binnacle-light, recognized Lucius Featherstone.

“Aye,” Jack responded to Matthews, “Just a bit.”

Even up here on the quarterdeck, salt spray flicked his face, slick and cold like the hand of a drowned corpse. It made the deck slippery, and with the way the wind was gusting, a man might fall and slide right over the side. Jack cupped his hands around his mouth. “You need to put on safety lines, mates.”

Lucius passed the lines out, and they all tethered themselves, with Jack helping to steady the wheel as first Matthews, then Banks, secured theirs. Then Jack tied on his own line, tying the two half hitches and tugging, to make sure they weren’t going to slip. The Wicked Wench wasn’t pitching all that hard—yet. But this was just the beginning.

“Who’s on lookout?” he yelled, shielding his eyes from another splash of spray, and just making out a shadowy figure forward, by the windward rail.

The lookout was posted up toward the bow, and it was his job to watch for anything in the ship’s path—such as another vessel.

“It’s de Ver, Cap’n Sparrow,” Featherstone shouted back. “He should be fine up there. Everyone knows frogs like being wet.”

Jack rolled his eyes. One day, I swear, I’m going to give them both lashes if they don’t stop, he promised himself—though, truth to tell, he’d never yet ordered a crewman flogged.

The Wench heaved and rolled hard. Jack staggered, and this time had to grab a line to keep from being flung to his knees. Carefully, he crabbed sideways and looked down into the binnacle at the compass.

The compass needle was jerking wildly, as he’d expected. Jack watched it for more than a minute, noting where it pointed most often. He finally concluded that they were most likely moving south-southwest. Which, under the circumstances, was acceptable. He clapped Matthews on the back and shouted, “Stay on the wind, Matthews! We’re still making some westing, mate, despite this gentle shower! Just keep her as close to the wind as she’ll lie, and we’ll weather this just fine.”

Matthews laughed, got a mouthful of water, and spat off to port before replying, “Aye, Cap’n!”

Lightning bolts streaked the sky all around the plunging ship. Jack eyed the tops of his masts worriedly. They were certainly the tallest things out here. He’d seen masts and rigging struck before…had helped to remove and replace charred masts and spars when he’d first signed on as a merchant seaman.

Even worse than the thought of lightning hitting a mast was the possibility that it might hit the deck and travel, starting fires. And if a fire started anywhere near the powder magazine…

And I just laid on those two extra casks of powder, Jack recalled, ruefully. If lightning ignites the powder magazine, there wouldn’t be anything left except chum for the sharks…After a moment, he shrugged. He couldn’t do anything about the lightning, so he’d just put it out of his mind and hope for the best.

Featherstone called time, and turned the hourglass over, seating it carefully so it wouldn’t roll off. Jack called out the course, and the ordinary seaman marked the traverse board with a peg.

Time passed. The storm worsened. The spray was nearly constant, lightning ripped the blackness, and blasts of thunder seemed to rattle human bones. Matthews and Banks wrestled with the wheel like a living opponent, grunting with the effort of keeping the ship on course. Gale winds could be capricious. If the Wicked Wench were blown north, the bulge of Africa lay in that direction. And if she went off course to the south, there was an island down there—Fernando Pó, named for the Portuguese explorer who had discovered it two hundred years ago. Islands meant shoal water. Being blown around in a gale was a sailor’s nightmare.

Jack kept an eye on their course, while trying to tuck his chin at just the right angle so his hat would keep the rain out of his mouth and nose, but still protect the back of his neck—but a few minutes of experimentation proved this feat to be impossible. Deciding it was better to breathe than drown, Jack gritted his teeth and endured the cold flood running down his back.

Every time the rain slacked off for a moment, he quickly glanced from port to starboard, to see if he could make out any sign of land. But there was nothing visible.

Jack could see that Matthews was tiring, so he tapped the helmsman on the shoulder. “I’ll take her until your watch ends,” he shouted.

Jack kept the wheel steady, trying to be as smooth as possible about it. If it hadn’t been for the lee helmsman, Banks, he’d never have been strong enough to keep the Wench steady.

Just as Lucius turned the hourglass over again, Jack saw moving light below them, coming up the ladder from the weather deck. Robby Greene came up, escorting the two fresh helmsmen. Prescott took the helm from Jack, and a big, well-muscled crewman whose name escaped Jack took Banks’s place as lee helmsman. Matthews, Banks, and Featherstone gratefully headed below.

“I’ll keep an eye on things up here, Jack,” Robby shouted. “You go below, get some rest.”

Jack shook his head. “I’d rather be up here, Robby,” he yelled. “You know me.”

Robby’s teeth flashed in the light of the lantern as he grinned, then he nodded, ruefully, and headed back down the ladder.

Jack had never been seasick for an instant. Not all crewmen were so lucky, though. In a bad gale, even experienced sailors could experience mal de mer, and Jack just didn’t want to be anywhere near puking seamen. Not to mention his passengers, who were undoubtedly sick as poisoned pups. As far as Jack was concerned, the lashing rain, howling wind, slashing lightning, and blasts of thunder were infinitely preferable to the sound and smell of human retching. He could have gone to his cabin, but it was too rough to try to lie down, and he knew he’d just sit there, wondering what was happening on deck.

The night and the gale wore on. Men came and went as the watches changed. Jack stayed up on the quarterdeck.

Finally, after what seemed like days, the storm seemed to be lessening. Lightning was no longer striking directly overhead in long jagged tears, but had moved off to leeward. The moments between the lightning flashes and the booming of the thunder were increasing. The rain still fell in curtains, but it was falling straight most of the time now, rather than being driven nearly sideways by the wind.

Jack realized he was tiring. His empty stomach grumbled; he hadn’t eaten since before noon, and his times spelling helmsmen at the wheel had sapped his energy. He checked their course again, and called it out so the ordinary seaman could mark it on the traverse board. Then he moved aft so he was leaning against the back of the quarterdeck, holding on with one hand. He was tempted to sit down, but he wasn’t sure his aching legs would allow him to stand up again, so he stayed on his feet.

The rain was definitely slacking up, and so was the wind. Jack could now look up at the topmasts without nearly drowning. He still couldn’t see much, but he thought all of them seemed intact.

The light of a lantern suddenly shone, as the relief watch arrived. It was two bells of the morning watch…the long night was nearly over. Jack squinted through the still-pelting rain, and saw Second Mate Connery, accompanied by Trafford and the stolid Banks. The helmsman currently on watch, Matthews again, headed down the ladder like a man who was looking forward to donning comparatively dry clothes and crawling into his hammock for a well-earned rest.

“Captain, by the time the rest of these clouds blow off, it’ll be dawn,” Connery said. “Why don’t you get some rest? I can take it from here.”

Jack smiled at the second mate, heartened by the realization that the Wicked Wench had indeed ridden out the storm, and that he’d soon be able to follow Matthews’ example and head off to his cabin for dry clothes. Not to mention a few belts of rum, which would warm him up better than anything else. “Just a good fresh gale, Frank,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

Connery gave a bark of laughter. “If there was nothing to be concerned about, why are you wearing a safety line, Cap’n?”

Jack chuckled wearily as he struggled to undo the water-swollen half-hitches. “Have to set a good example for the crew, Mr. Connery!”

The rain continued to slacken. Together they checked the compass heading. The Wench was still on course—more or less.

After ordering Connery to have the crew check for storm damage as soon as the sun rose, Jack cautiously made his way down the portside ladder, then turned right to open his cabin door.

Inside his cabin, he found his flint and steel and struck a light, then lit his lantern. He was pleased to discover that not much water had come in through the windows. He opened one of them a bit, to get some fresh air, then shivered in the breeze as he peeled off his sopping clothes. There was no place to hang them, so he spread them on the deck, then rummaged in his sea chest until he found drawers and an old shirt and pulled them on. His stomach growled again, so he took out a chunk of cheese and some bread, then uncorked a bottle of rum—ordinary EITC-issued rum. There was no point in bringing out the good stuff just to warm him up.

After he’d eaten a bit, and had several pulls from the bottle, Jack felt much better. Recorking the bottle, he crawled into his bunk, pulling the bedclothes up. He was still chilled from being wet through all night. Good thing we’re off Africa, he thought, woozily, instead of Greenland or Cape Horn.…

Realizing he’d left his lantern burning, Jack cursed softly, then crawled wearily out of the bunk and crossed the cabin to blow out the flame. As he did so, he heard a distant rumble of thunder, low and menacing like the far-off growling of some ancient monster. Thoughts of monsters brought back memories of Davy Jones, when he’d seen him summoned to appear on Troubadour’s main deck. Distant thunder had been growling there, too, as he and Esmeralda had walked back down the gangplank, still hand-in-hand.…

Thunder rumbled, off to the north, grumbling like a hungry, caged beast. “I need a drink,” Jack said, as he and Esmeralda picked their way along the uneven planks of the dock.

“I could use one also,” Esmeralda admitted. “I know I shall have nightmares, Jack. That face…” she shuddered.

“I know. I thought Davy Jones was a man,” Jack said. “Not some kind of…creature. The legends don’t mention the way he looks.”

She shivered again, and Jack tightened his hold on her hand. The wind had picked up, and Jack realized the sun was setting outside the caldera. The storm had blown cooler, dryer air into Shipwreck Cove. “Let’s go back to Venganza,” Esmeralda said. “I want to change my clothes, and get a shawl. Then, perhaps you’d take me up to The Drunken Lady?”

“It would be my pleasure, love,” Jack said. “But…I find myself just a bit out of pocket, as they say.”

“What does that mean?” she asked. “You English have such strange expressions.”

Jack looked down at his feet, scowling. “Means I haven’t a peso to me name, darlin’,” he admitted.

She laughed, then hastily put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“Yes, you were, and I don’t blame you a bit,” Jack said. “I’m perpetually impoverished, love. Can’t hang on to money to save me life.”

She smiled at him. “I’ll buy the drinks,” she said.

“That wouldn’t be proper,” Jack protested, not very forcefully.

“Why not? Pirates are always buying each other drinks.”

Jack waited at the foot of Venganza’s gangplank while Esmeralda went aboard. She reappeared eventually, wearing the rose-colored gown she’d worn the first time he’d seen her, with an ivory shawl flung over her shoulders. She came down the gangplank cautiously, and he put out a hand to help her step off. “That’s the dress you were wearing the day you arrived at Shipwreck Cove,” Jack said.

“It is.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” he said. “That dress is nearly as beautiful as what’s inside it.”

Esmeralda’s eyes widened. “Oh, Jack,” she said. “You’ll spoil me. That pretty speech was worthy of Christophe.”

“The difference is that I said it because it happens to be true.” His tone was wry as he offered her his arm.

When they reached The Drunken Lady, Jack was surprised to find Steve Seymour cooking and tending bar, and the pimply-faced youth waiting tables. There was no sign of Marie. Jack headed up to the bar. “Good evening, mate,” he said. “Two rum punches, please.”

As Steve placed the filled tankards before them, Esmeralda laid some coins on the bar. “Where is Marie?” she asked, glancing around. Seeing the expression that crossed Steve’s broad, good-natured features, she added, “I hope she’s well?”

The tall, burly tavern keeper hesitated, then replied, gruffly, “Thank you for your concern, Lady Esmeralda. I’m sorry to tell you, the missus ain’t feeling well tonight.”

“Where is she? What ails her? Can I be of help?” Esmeralda asked.

Steve mopped up spilled drink from the bar with a filthy rag. “I’d rather not say, miss,” he said, finally.

Jack stared at the barman in some alarm. He’d never seen Steve like this before; he was usually a cheerful soul. Now he appeared strained, almost haunted.

“Could I please see her?” Esmeralda insisted. “Perhaps she might wish to have another woman attend to her?”

Steve hesitated again, and Jack realized he was trying to think of a polite way to decline. Before he could speak, however, Marie herself opened the door that led to the Seymour living quarters. The Frenchwoman’s face was bruised, her eyes were red and swollen, her hair lay loose on her shoulders instead of confined in a cap, and she clutched a shawl around her as though she were cold. Marie beckoned to Esmeralda, trying to smile, but the effort failed. With a murmur of distress, Esmeralda hastened toward her.

Jack wasn’t sure whether the invitation to visit the living quarters included him, but he decided to act as though it did. Picking up both tankards, he followed in the wake of Esmeralda’s rustling satin skirts.

Jack had never been in the Seymour living quarters before. The room they entered appeared to be set up as a parlor. It was small and plainly furnished, but there were some colorful rugs on the wooden deck, a couple of paintings on the wall, and several chairs. Marie sat down in a rocking chair, and waved at the other seats. “Please, sit,” she said. “Thank you for your concern.”

Jack sat down on a low hassock at the foot of the chair Esmeralda chose. He passed Esmeralda her apparently forgotten tankard, then took a sip from his own. The liquor burned pleasantly down his gullet into his stomach, and he felt himself start to relax.

Esmeralda took a tiny, ladylike sip, then put the tankard down. “Marie, my dear,” she said, “you look so upset. What is wrong?” Leaning forward, she extended both hands.

Marie took her hands and squeezed them, choking back a sob. Her voice was tight with anger when she said, “I shouldn’t be so upset, Esmeralda, nothing really happened. My face hurts, that is all.” She put a hand to the mark on her cheek. Jack eyed it, guessing she would probably have a shiner by tomorrow. “Mais…zut alors! He frightened me half to death! I don’t know what would have happened if Steve hadn’t come back from running errands!”

Jack frowned. “Who are you speaking of, Marie?” he asked, taking another draught of the punch.

“Oh! I thought Etienne told you…it was Christophe. He came by a few hours ago, while Steve was gone. He’d been drinking. A lot. He…he…” Marie’s face twisted, and she controlled her voice with an effort. “He told me it was time to earn that doubloon he gave me. You remember, Jacques?”

Jack nodded.

“Then he…he grabbed me.” She shook her head. “I tried to get away. I demanded that he let me go, and leave, but he just…laughed.”

Esmeralda’s eyes were wide with shock. She traded glances with Jack, who shrugged, making it clear he’d known nothing of Christophe’s intentions. “Dios mio, Marie,” she whispered. “I am so sorry! Did he…did he ...”

Marie shook her head. “No. I slapped him when he wouldn’t let me go, and he laughed more, and then he…he slapped me back.” She touched her cheek, gingerly. “While I was stunned from the blow, he grabbed my dress. He put his hand…” She broke off, biting her lip. “I pulled away, and the shoulder of my dress, it tore. Then I was free.”

Marie took a deep breath. “I was going to scream. But then we both heard Steve returning. Christophe, he bowed to me, le pou, and then he ran out the other way. Thank le bon Dieu my husband came back. I really think if he hadn’t, Christophe, he would have violated me.”

“Oh, Marie!” When Esmeralda moved over and hugged the other woman, Marie put her head on her friend’s shoulder and broke down.

Jack stared at the weeping Frenchwoman in consternation. It was difficult to reconcile Marie’s account of Christophe’s behavior with the man he knew—the man he still, despite their rivalry for Esmeralda’s affections, thought of as his closest friend. Of course, Marie did say Christophe was drunk when he accosted her. Drunken men often acted stupidly, as Jack had good reason to know. He shook his head, mystified. There were so many willing women here in Shipwreck City…why would Christophe try to force his attentions on the one woman that wasn’t available—or willing? But…drunken men were known to act irrationally, as well as stupidly.

After a few minutes of crying, Marie sat up, dabbing at her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. “Look at me, a fountain of tears,” she said, and laughed, albeit shakily. “I do not know why I am so silly…” Then she smiled, and fresh tears flowed. “Unless it is because…” Blushing, she leaned over and whispered softly in Esmeralda’s ear.

“Really?” Esmeralda gasped. “Oh, Marie! How wonderful!” They hugged again. “Have you told him?”

The older woman shook her head, no, then wiped away fresh tears. But this time, she didn’t seem upset, she seemed happy. Jack stared at the Frenchwoman, baffled. Why would Marie want to tell Christophe anything after such an unpleasant encounter?

After hearing the ladies whisper, their exchanges marked by giggles and tears on both sides, Jack mentally shrugged and gave up, concentrating instead on his rum. Drinking was something he understood. When he finished his tankard, he nudged Esmeralda and said, “You’ve forgotten your drink, love. Best finish it up. We’ll need to be getting you back to Venganza.”

“Oh, yes,” she said absently, and, picking it up, she took a few more sips, then handed it to Jack. “You finish it for me, Jack. It’s making my head spin.”

Jack was happy to oblige.

Minutes later, Marie escorted them to the door of the living quarters, hugged Esmeralda farewell, and smiled shyly at Jack. They left the living quarters and Jack plunked the empty tankards down on the bar as they passed.

The place had grown crowded while they’d been talking to Marie. Jack and Esmeralda began making their way through the crowd of unwashed, scruffy pirate bodies.

“Jack…Jack! Hallo, Jack!” came a gravelly voice with a West Country accent from behind them.

Jack turned to see Captain Barbossa standing there, grinning broadly. The older pirate politely doffed his hat to Esmeralda. “Hallo, missy.”

“Hallo, Hector,” Jack said, smiling back. “Why so happy?”

“Didn’t ye hear the news, Jack?”

“News?”

“Ah! Let me be the first t’tell ye, then. Seems that when Cap’n Teague’s men took our condemned friend Borya down t’ the dungeons to question him, the little coward sang like a songbird—before they could even heat up the irons or ready the rack! Gave up his confederates and disclosed where and when they’re supposed t’gather to divide up their swag. ’Tis some little island, east nor’east of Cuba.”

“So Teague knows the identities of the other rogues?” Jack was stunned.

“He does. Cap’n Teague told me he plans on taking a fleet out to their rendezvous. They’ll hide and wait for them all to come sailing in and anchor. Then Teague’s fleet will swoop in and capture the lot of the Code-breaking blackguards.” Barbossa smiled again, but this expression was anything but pleasant. “I’m goin’ with him. Some of those misbegotten scurvy knaves will no doubt put up a fight, and I’d like nothin’ better than to skewer a few. And best believe I intend to help with puttin’ nooses around the necks of the survivors!”

Esmeralda took a breath. “I can hardly believe he just…gave them up. Why would he do that?”

Barbossa snorted derisively. “Methinks the Russian figured he had naught to lose, and hadn’t the backbone to face being questioned. Perhaps he wanted to face Davy Jones with an intact skin.”

“I confess I’m surprised,” Jack said. “He seemed…defiant…during the proceedings today.”

“I figure seein’ Davy Jones face to face had much t’ do with it, Jack,” Barbossa said. “’Twould take the defiance out of most buccaneers, eh?”

“Without a doubt,” Jack agreed.

“So, can I buy ye and the lady a drink, Jack? I figure I owe ye, for helpin’ me gain vengeance for me poor little Polly.” Clearly, Barbossa had already been imbibing. His eyes were bright, and so was his nose. “Perhaps ye’d like something t’eat?”

“I have to take Esmeralda back to Venganza,” Jack said. “But we can join you for just a moment, Hector.”

Barbossa led the way to a full table, and stood before it. The five pirates there were drinking and talking animatedly, but, one by one, they noticed the scarred captain standing there. When all of them fell silent, staring at him, Barbossa gave a quick, sideways jerk of his thumb. Silently, they got up and left.

Jack was impressed, but not terribly surprised. There were stories about Captain Barbossa…how tough he was, how wily, how deviously manipulative. All the accounts also agreed that he was one hell of a dirty fighter.

The three of them took their seats. “What can I be orderin’ for ye?” Barbossa asked. “Food, wine…the two of ye did me a service today, and I’m mindful of it.” Putting two fingers in his mouth, he whistled, and the pimply-faced serving lad appeared immediately.

“Nothing for us, Hector,” Jack said. “We can’t stay that long. But what Steve had on the fire for dinner smelled good, I’ll tell you.”

“A bottle of your best rum,” Barbossa said, and the lad vanished. “’Tis thirsty I am, not hungry, Jack. Had me supper not long ago with Cap’n Borya.”

“You what?” Jack and Esmeralda stared at him in undisguised amazement.

“Aye, I did. Seems he was entitled to a last request, as well as a last meal and drink. Borya requested that I be allowed to join him in his final repast. We shared a bottle of that awful clear swill he drinks. Vodka, he calls it,” Barbossa said. The serving lad reappeared and poured Barbossa and Jack a drink. Esmeralda shook her head when she was offered a glass. “Leave the bottle,” the captain ordered.

“Why did Borya make seeing you his last request?” Esmeralda asked. “That seems so strange, after what he did.”

“Aye, missy, it does, doesn’t it? Seems Borya had the sinking of me Cobra on his conscience, and he wanted me t’ know he was sorry for it. Apologized most sincerely, he did. Cap’n Teague was there, as witness, and he told him that if the Pirate Lords agreed, he thought Koldunya should be passed on to me, so I wouldn’t be a cap’n without a vessel. That’s like bein’ a fish with no water, he said.” Barbossa sighed. “We used to be good friends, once, I told you that, Jack.”

“Yes, you did. But I’d never have expected Borya to apologize,” Jack said.

“He did. He told me he truly regretted the greed he felt when he saw how me Cobra was ridin’ low in the water, her holds filled with booty. He was sorry he broke the Code, he said.”

“Amazing!” Esmeralda exclaimed.

“Bloody incredible,” Jack said.

“’Tis true, I swear it.” Barbossa put a big, long-nailed hand over the leather strap of his baldric, in the approximate location of his heart. “I could hardly believe it meself. Oh, and he gave me this, said it was his most precious token. His mind must be addled, is all I can say.” Reaching into his coat, Barbossa fumbled for a moment, and brought out a small, square block of wood, about an inch and a half on the side.

Jack looked at it, then looked sideways at Esmeralda. She was staring at it, wide-eyed. As she caught Jack’s gaze, she nodded, as if confirming his unspoken question.

“Hector, does Captain Teague know Borya gave you this?” Jack asked.

“No, he wasn’t in the cell at that moment, he’d stepped outside.”

“You need to be careful of that little token,” Jack said. “Don’t lose it. Show it to Captain Teague as soon as you can. He’ll tell you what it is.”

Barbossa turned the little block over in his fingers. “You say this is important? Looks like junk.”

“It is important, Hector. Unless I’m much mistaken, that is one of the Nine Pieces of Eight.”

Barbossa frowned. “And what might those be, Jack?”

“They’re important,” Jack assured him. “Teague will explain.”

“Very well,” Barbossa said. Curiosity flared in his eyes, but he stowed the little bit of wood away. “Been an eventful day, hasn’t it, Jack?”

Jack nodded. “It has.”

“I’ll tell ye, I never thought Borya was the type to turn songbird and out all his secrets, without even a touch of the brand or the rack,” Barbossa said, thoughtfully. “And I was knocked for six when I found out who the second rogue was. Never spent any time with the fellow, but he’d seemed a decent sort…for a Frenchman. Who’d have thought he’d have murdered poor old Tommy?”

Jack’s heart seemed to halt for a moment, then stutter rapidly. He found he was holding on to the table, and it was hard to breathe. “Borya gave up the second rogue that Davy Jones spoke of ? The one he said was here in Shipwreck Cove? Who…who was it?”

Barbossa’s weather-beaten countenance was full of cheerful malice. He chortled. “Turns out it was that popinjay, styles himself de Rapièr. That foppish dandy must’ve twigged that the Little Butcher might sing, ’cause he was caught with his longboats out, towing his brigantine, tryin’ to make it to the tunnel and clean away. But Teague’s men blocked him, and took him into custody. Searched his vessel. They found that turquoise coat me man Ragetti was talkin’ about hidden in his cabin, too.” Barbossa filled his glass and sipped. “That was enough for Teague. He condemned him to swing with Borya.”

“Oh…” Jack managed. Turning away from Barbossa, his eyes met Esmeralda’s. He gave a quick, sideways jerk of his head, and she nodded slightly.

“You’re sure you won’t have another round with me? If it hadn’t been for you two, they’d never have been caught,” Barbossa proposed.

Jack stood up, managing a semblance of a smile as he offered his hand to Esmeralda to help her rise. His face felt frozen. “Thank you very much, Hector, but I fear I must get my lady back to her grandfather. Perhaps another time?”

Barbossa grinned. “Any time, Jack!” He winked at them. “You lovebirds run along and have a good time. You’re only young once, remember that.” He took another swig of rum, then beckoned the serving boy. “Lad! Bring me a couple of nice crisp apples, if you’ve got any!”

Jack and Esmeralda hastened out of The Drunken Lady and stood outside in the narrow hallway, staring at each other speechlessly. Esmeralda was pale with shock.

“Jack, this is terrible,” she said, finally, breaking the silence. “I know that I said I didn’t want to spend time with Christophe anymore, but still…the thought of tomorrow, at dawn…” She shook her head.

“I can’t believe he’s guilty,” Jack said. “It’s not as though Davy Jones identified him. And Borya…after seeing Borya during the inquiry, I wouldn’t trust him to empty a chamber pot. He did nothing but lie!”

“Borya lied, yes,” Esmeralda agreed. “Jack, it is not as though I would ever speak to Christophe again, after hearing what he did to Marie…but this…this is just not right.”

“Speaking of Marie,” Jack said, “what was going on in there? You two were laughing, then you were crying…” He spread his hands and shrugged.

Esmeralda’s expression lightened. “Oh, Jack…you really didn’t understand?”

“No, I bloody well did not,” Jack said, nettled. “I’d appreciate being enlightened.”

Esmeralda smiled slightly. “Marie is with child. It is no wonder she goes from laughter to tears by the moment. From what I have heard, that often happens.”

Jack blinked. “She’s going to have a baby?”

“Yes, isn’t that wonderful? Steve will be so happy when he finds out.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“She will tell him when the time is right.”

Jack tried to imagine hearing such news with joy, and failed. It sounded like a disaster. All he knew of childbirth was that it was dangerous, messy, and it took away one’s freedom. Something that any sane person would avoid at all costs. But Esmeralda was clearly happy for her friend, so he decided discretion was the better part of valor, and returned to the subject at hand. “I want to talk to Christophe. Maybe he can explain why Borya would say he’s the second rogue.”

“I agree. Christophe should be given the right to explain himself. It’s not right for Captain Teague to sentence him to hang, based on just the word of a condemned man who gave him up rather than be tortured.”

Jack leaned against the ancient wood of the old galleon that made up part of The Drunken Lady. From inside, he could hear the sounds of inebriated revelry. “It’s completely unfair!” he burst out, after a moment. “So typical of Teague!” He heard the bitterness in his own voice, but for once, didn’t try to hide it. “Esmeralda, I can’t count the number of times he’s condemned me, when I wasn’t to blame. And this time it means a man’s life.”

Jack almost spat in disgust, but resisted because it was vulgar, and because Esmeralda was there. “To hang a man because he’s accused by a known liar, captains a brigantine, and owns a turquoise coat—that’s no kind of justice.”

“When you say it like that, it does sound…” Esmeralda hesitated, “what is your English word? Ah, yes. Circumstantial, that is the word.”

Jack nodded. “Christophe should be allowed to face his accusers. Even Davy Jones, if necessary. Give him the chance to defend himself. Condemning him to hang without an inquiry isn’t right.”

Jack began pacing up and down the corridor, thinking hard. Could he go to Don Rafael and the other Pirate Lords and ask them to hold a Board of Inquiry? He had a feeling that none of them would agree to summon Davy Jones again, which was probably the only way Christophe could be cleared of the charges. The Frenchman had been with him and Esmeralda for the first part of the night that Old Tommy had been murdered. Perhaps he’d been with other friends after that, and they could swear to it? Then Christophe would have a…what was it called? An alibi. But that was for the future. What Jack had to do now was make sure Christophe wasn’t in his cell when they came for him at dawn—otherwise any alibi Jack could produce would come too late.

“I’m going down to the dungeons to see Christophe,” Jack said. “I want to hear his side of things.”

“Do you think they’ll let you see him?”

“They let Barbossa in to see Borya. Teague’s men serve as the guards down there. They know me.”

Even as he answered Esmeralda’s question, Jack’s mind was racing. But even if you can get in to see him, and it turns out he can explain everything, and has an alibi, what good would that do, without the key to the cell?

He knew where the ring of keys was—in the prison dog’s mouth. And he, Jack Sparrow, was one of two people in the world that Teague’s cur would accept food and drink from. He’d fed the dog many times. What if he fed the dog tonight? And got the keys?

Jack’s mouth went dry at the thought of going against the Code, and the Keeper of the Code. But, dammit, Christophe was his friend, and he was trapped in a web of lies, condemned without a chance to be heard. He had to do something to help him.

I’ll go there prepared, Jack decided. I’ll talk to Christophe, see what his story is. I’m a good judge of people. I’ll be able to tell if he’s telling the truth or lying. And if he’s innocent, I’ll help him. Can’t let him face that noose at dawn.

Jack turned to Esmeralda, who had been standing there, watching him. “I hate to have to ask you this, darlin’,” he said, “but it’s not for me, it’s for Christophe. Can I borrow some money?”

“Of course!” Esmeralda turned her back to him, and, a moment later, turned back with a small silk bag in her hand. It clinked softly, and was obviously heavy for its size. “How much do you need?”

“What coins do you have?”

“I have eight pesos,” she said, spilling them into her hand. “How many do you need?”

Jack gaped. The peso, also known as the ocho reales, or piece of eight, was a heavy silver coin, and, except for the doubloon, the most valuable currency in the New World. The reason they were called “pieces of eight” was that their faces were marked with lines, so they could be cut into eight roughly equal pieces. Eight pesos was a lot of money—enough to buy two bulls, or an unbroken horse. “Neptune’s nightgown, love! You can’t go flashing that much money here! This is Shipwreck City! Are you mad?”

She shrugged. “Anyone loco enough to put his hand where I carry this purse would draw back naught but a stump, Jack,” she said, coolly. “Money is not the only thing I conceal beneath my clothes.”

Jack had no trouble believing that. “Still, that’s too much money to be carrying around here,” he cautioned. “Put them away, quick. I’ll only need one of those.”

She handed him two coins. “Take these,” she said. “You might need an extra.”

“All right, love,” Jack said. “You wait here, and I’ll be right back.” Turning, he opened the door to The Drunken Lady, and vanished into the roistering throng.

He returned only minutes later, carrying a bottle, and a smallish packet of oiled paper. “All set, love,” he said. “Now we need to head for Troubadour.”

They hurried through the twilight, along the docks, until they reached Teague’s vessel. Jack offered Esmeralda his arm, and they mounted the gangplank. He smiled at the man on watch. “Good evening, Rufus. Just going to give Don Rafael’s granddaughter a little tour.”

Rufus nodded, and politely tipped his hat. “Good evening, Lady Esmeralda.”

Jack escorted Esmeralda around the weather deck for a few minutes, playing tour guide, then they descended the ladder to the main deck. Teague’s captain’s cabin was at the stern on this deck. Keeping a weather eye out for crewmen who might be present, Jack conducted his “tour,” until he reached the door of the Keeper of the Code’s cabin. Falling silent, he put his finger over his lips.

Teague kept a spare key to his cabin, and Jack knew where to retrieve it. Moving silently, he did so, then paused and whispered to Esmeralda, “I’ll be a few minutes, love. Please go over to the ladder and listen for Teague to come back, so you can warn me. Four knocks on the door.”

She nodded. Taking off her light-colored shawl, she bundled it up so she wouldn’t be visible in the gloom, and headed back for the ladder leading up to the weather deck.

Jack unlocked Teague’s cabin, feeling a trickle of cold sweat course down his back. Aiding a condemned man’s escape was a violation of the Code. He’d face the noose himself if his role were ever discovered. Slipping inside, he relocked the door.

Teague’s cabin was spacious. Troubadour was wide-beamed, and the cabin was almost as wide as it was long. There was still enough light coming in from the big stern windows so Jack could make his way confidently. He glanced around, seeing it was still the same as he remembered from his last visit, almost a year ago. The Keeper had furnished it with unusual objects from around the world, especially those that reflected his love of music. His beloved guitar was secured to the bulkhead by sturdy brackets, so it couldn’t fall when the ship rolled.

Teague’s cabin also boasted an unusually large captain’s pantry. There was enough room for a man to step inside and close the door. Jack had hidden in the pantry more than once as a lad, eavesdropping on the Keeper’s conversations. He still wasn’t sure whether Teague had ever realized he was in there.

Jack’s quarry lay on an expensive wool rug from Turkey, eyeing him. The gray mongrel had raised his head as Jack entered the cabin, and was now looking at him alertly. The ring of keys dangled from his mouth, jingling slightly. As Jack approached, his tail thumped faintly on the rug. Good. He still knows me, Jack thought.

“Hey, doggy!” he murmured. “How you doing, boy? Been a while, hasn’t it?” The dog’s tail thumped harder.

Squatting down beside the dog, Jack stroked his head. He wagged his tail as Jack scratched his ears, grinning with doggy pleasure. Maybe, Jack thought, I won’t need the bottle.

“Well, aren’t you the best doggy!” Jack cooed, still petting. “Remember when we used to go for walks together?”

Of course Jack didn’t really believe that this was the same dog as the one he’d petted, fed, and taken on boyish expeditions when he was a little shaver. Of course not. But it was odd. Wherever Teague got his dogs, there must be a breed of them, because this mutt looked exactly like the one Jack had played with when he was six, and eight, and ten, and twelve.…

Jack shrugged. The prison dog was yet another of the many mysteries of life with the Keeper of the Code. He’d learned long ago not to ask questions, because Teague’s reply was invariably the same: “Sea turtles, mate!”

Experimentally, Jack let his hand drift down toward the ring of keys. Before he could even touch the metal, the dog’s lip lifted to reveal good-sized teeth, and an emphatic growl warned him off.

“Fine,” Jack said. “We’ll play it your way, doggy. Good thing I came prepared. How about some dinner, eh, boy?”

He stood up and went over to the dog’s water bowl and food dish. There was water in the bowl, but the dish was empty. “Look what I brought for you!” he said, taking out the parcel. “Some of Steve Seymour’s best beef ragout. His wife is French, you know. Cooks everything with cream and wine.” Opening the oiled parchment, he dumped the food into the bowl. It smelled so good that Jack’s stomach growled. The prison dog’s ears pricked up, but he didn’t drop the keys. Jack knew he wouldn’t do that while a human other than Teague was within grabbing distance.

“And guess what else I brought you?” Jack said. “Your favorite. Rum. The really good stuff.” Uncorking the bottle, releasing the heady scent, Jack poured a splash of rum over the dog’s dinner, then added an extra dollop, to make sure. “See how you like that!”

Rising to his feet, Jack backed away, until he was leaning against the cabin door. Cautiously, he took a sip of the rum himself, knowing that it was extremely potent and he had nothing in his stomach. It tasted delicious, and he was tempted to take another sip, but he reminded himself that he needed a clear head.

Seeing that Jack was out of key-grabbing range, the dog sniffed the food, and his tail wagged eagerly. Dropping the ring of keys, he began wolfing down his supper. It took him less than a minute to polish it off, and lick the dish so clean it looked like it had been scrubbed.

Now we wait, Jack thought, nervously. He was very conscious of time passing. Teague could be back any minute. He knew better than to dash across the room and try to grab the keys. The dog was faster than he was.

The dog took a few laps of water, then picked up the ring of keys again, and moved back to his customary place on the Turkish rug, standing there, cocking his head at Jack. Then he yawned, so widely Jack could see all the way down his throat. But somehow the mutt managed to hang onto the keys.

Jack began talking to the dog again. “Hey, doggy, a nap would be good after such a great dinner, wouldn’t it? I’d love one meself, frankly. It’s been a long day.”

The dog yawned again, and this time Jack yawned with him, hearing his jaw crack.

“Now you’ve got me doing it,” he mumbled. “Am I going to have to sing you a bloody lullaby, doggy?”

The dog shook his head, seeming a bit unsteady on his paws. He turned in a circle. Once, twice…usually he turned three times, but this time he gave up at two, and flopped down, eyes closing. In another minute he dropped the keys, rolled over onto his side, and began to snore.

Jack darted forward and grabbed the keys. The dog stayed safely in the Land of Nod. Backing up, Jack began to tuck the ring inside the waistband of his britches for concealment.

Rap…rap…rap…rap…

Cursing, Jack yanked the keys out of his britches, laying them carefully beside the somnolent canine. Then he spun around and unlocked the door. Esmeralda was standing there, her hand raised to knock again. “Hurry!” she whispered. “They’re coming down the ladder!”

Jack reached out, grabbed her by the wrist, and yanked her inside the cabin, then relocked the door. Quickly he pulled her across the room, avoiding the snoring dog, then opened the door to the captain’s pantry. Pushing her inside, he stepped in after her, and shut the door.

It was close quarters. They were squeezed together, the shelves at their backs, and the closed door six inches from their noses. But for the moment, they were safe.

Jack heard the key scratch in the cabin’s lock, then the door opened, and Teague entered. The Keeper lit a lantern, then walked around the cabin for several minutes, once pausing to say hello to the dog, but apparently the sight of his pet asleep didn’t rouse any suspicion. His steps neared the door to the pantry and Jack and Esmeralda froze, terrified, but he didn’t open the door. Instead he headed over to the bulkhead. Jack heard him take down his guitar, then the mattress rustled as Teague sat down on the bed. Moments later, he began strumming the guitar, tuning it. After a few minutes, he began playing a soft, haunting ballad of lost love.

Hearing the music, Jack frowned. Surely Teague had not come back to retire for the night. The evening was still young.

He turned his head, very conscious of Esmeralda pressed up against him. His chin brushed her forehead, and, unable to resist, he nuzzled his face against the silk of her hair.

Jack was surprised when he felt her fingers reach up and touch his shirt, not far from his navel, then he felt a tug at the fabric and realized she’d undone a button. A finger slid inside his shirt, caressing his belly, sliding softly across it, stroking. His breath caught, and he gritted his teeth, remembering that he couldn’t move, or make any sound.

In response, he turned a little, sliding his arm around her, pulling her even closer. His hand slipped soundlessly over her satin sleeve, to her waist, then moved upward. He kissed her temple, feeling the fine, short hairs there tickle his mouth.

Esmeralda’s fingers moved again, and another button of his shirt was undone. She slid her hand up, over his ribs. It was maddening, to touch each other like this, without being able to speak, or make a sound. Jack’s head swam, whether from the close air, or because Esmeralda’s skin was so soft and warm—he didn’t know. His thinking mind seemed to have vanished.…

And all the while the guitar strummed, the music speaking of love, and loss, and passion.

Jack delicately kissed his way down her face, her brows, her eyelids, her cheeks, a brush across the lips, her chin, then he pressed his mouth against her ear, feeling the metal of her earring against his lower lip. Delicately, he touched his tongue to her earlobe, then again, traced the outer shell of her ear. He felt her fingers tighten against the skin of his chest, and she swayed slightly. He tightened his hold even more, steadying her.

There was a knock on Teague’s door. Jack and Esmeralda froze, listening, as the music stopped. “Who is it?” Teague called.

“Mortensen, Captain Teague.”

Jack recognized the name of one of Teague’s senior lieutenants, the man in charge of the dungeons, and prisoner interrogations.

“Come in,” Teague commanded.

Jack heard the cabin door open, and footsteps. “Captain Teague, I’ve come about the prisoner, de Rapièr.”

“What is it?” Teague asked.

“He’s made his last request, which you said he was to be allowed, Captain. He wants to see your—that is, he wants to see Jack Sparrow. Will you permit that?”

Teague was silent for a moment, then he spoke. “Very well,” he said. “But I want you there when they talk. I don’t trust Jacky not to try something stupid.”

“Aye, Captain Teague. I’ll not leave him alone with de Rapièr.” Mortensen paused, then asked, with forced casualness. “Um, by the way, sir, do you know where Jacky might be? I sent men out, but we haven’t been able to locate him.”

“He’s usually in The Drunken Lady,” Teague said, dismissively. “Drinking.”

“Aye, Captain Teague. We tried there. Captain Barbossa said he had been there, but he’d left.”

“Try the brothels,” Teague said. “He’s probably tumbling some trollop.”

Standing there, his hand touching Esmeralda’s warm, fragrant skin, Jack was embarrassed, even as he had to fight a hysterical urge to burst out laughing at the sheer absurdity of the moment. He felt Esmeralda’s body shake, and for a moment he thought she was weeping, but then he realized she, too, was fighting not to laugh.

“Aye, Captain,” Mortensen was saying.

The bunk creaked, then booted feet hit the deck. Jack heard the faint thrum of guitar strings as the Keeper hung the guitar back on the wall. “I’ll walk back with you,” Teague said. “Captain Villaneuva was hosting a game of Hazard tonight, aboard his vessel. Jacky boy might be there. I’ll check.”

Two pairs of booted feet crossed the deck. The narrow crack of light marking the edge of the door shifted, then went out, as Teague took the lantern with him. The cabin door shut. Jack heard the lock click.

Neither he nor Esmeralda moved. Jack counted in his head. When he reached two minutes, he let out a sigh and relaxed slightly.

“How long should we wait to make sure he’s not going to come back?” Esmeralda whispered.

Jack was still mentally counting. He figured four minutes, to be sure Teague was really gone. “Another minute or two more, love,” he replied, softly. “Just wait.…”

She stirred against him. “Jack, I can’t wait. I want…”

“Be patient, love.” Gritting his teeth, Jack forced himself to keep counting.

Four minutes.

“Now,” he said, and pulled her against him, his mouth finding hers in the dark, cramped space. Her lips moved, parting. Jack tightened his hold, kissing her until his head swam. She tasted faintly of rum punch.

Her arms slid up around his neck, holding on tightly, and she returned his kisses. They were breathing hard, gasping in the close darkness. He kissed her throat, her shoulder, and felt her undoing the last buttons on his shirt. Her fingers slid across his shoulder. She whispered his name, then she muttered something in Spanish, an endearment, he thought, though he was too distracted to translate it.

Jack’s world slid sideways, past and future spiraling away, his mind spinning out of control. He could not see, but he could hear, and taste, and touch, and that was more than enough. The slickness and rustle of satin, the softness of silk, then the even softer feel of fragrant skin, and the touch of long hair falling over his shoulders. Esmeralda was more intoxicating than an entire bottle of the best rum ever distilled, and he lost himself in her.

Later, he stood there, still holding her, reluctant to let her go. The world that had spun away came slowly back into focus, and he came back with it, to the reality of the captain’s pantry, and Esmeralda in his arms, kissing his jaw softly and murmuring “Jack, Jack…mi corazón…”

There was so little air left in the cramped space that he wanted to open the door, but he was conscious of his own dishevelment—and hers. Jack began setting himself to rights. Esmeralda was tidying herself too, he could tell by the rustling of satin.

When her rustling sounds ceased, Jack reached behind him and opened the door to the pantry. Comparatively cool air flooded in, feeling wonderful against his sweaty face and neck.

Stepping out of the pantry, he waited a moment to let his eyes adjust to the greater level of light coming in from the windows. The cabin was now fully dark, but Jack had served as Teague’s cabin boy for years, before he was considered old enough to do a man’s work aboard ship. He knew where things were. Quickly he located the lantern, and the flint and steel. When the flame caught, he closed the little door, then placed it on the deck, where its illumination was mostly blocked by the Captain’s pantry door. He couldn’t afford to have light shining through the big cabin windows; the duty watch might see it, and come to investigate.

Standing back-to-back, Jack and Esmeralda finished adjusting their clothing. He tucked his shirt back into his britches, then he stepped back into the pantry to find and pull on his abandoned waistcoat. He heard more rustling, and knew Esmeralda must be tugging the bodice of her dress back into place, then shaking out her petticoats, followed by her skirt, so it lay smoothly atop them. When he finally turned to look at her, she was running her hands through her hair, which had come loose; it flowed over her shoulders and down her back.

Realizing the significance of her unbound hair, Jack went back into the pantry, knelt down, and carefully retrieved all of her hairpins. She didn’t attempt to put her hair back up—Teague didn’t even have a mirror hung in his cabin, but, working by feel, she pinned it back from her face, leaving it loose down her back.

Jack walked over to the sleeping dog, then bent over and picked up the ring of keys, saying a silent “thank you” to the gods of the sea that Teague hadn’t taken them with him. He tucked them down inside the front of his britches, pulling the tails of his long shirt to wrap around them, so the fabric would muffle any betraying jingle of metal. After buttoning his waistcoat, he was satisfied that nothing showed.

Then he blew out the lantern, put everything back in place, and shut the pantry doors. Finally, he unlocked the door, leaving the cabin as he’d found it. After relocking the door, Jack placed the key back in its hiding place.

Together, but not speaking or touching, they made their way to the ladder and climbed back up to the weather deck. Jack took Esmeralda’s hand as he reached the top. Rufus was still on watch, and the pirate gave them a knowing glance, but tipped his hat and bade them a polite good night.

They walked down the gangplank in silence, and in silence continued along the docks toward Venganza. As they walked, Jack searched for something to say, but his gift of loquacity seemed to have deserted him. Glancing sideways at her profile as she picked her way along the docks, Jack wondered what she might expect from him now. He still couldn’t believe what had just happened—and the intensity of it frankly scared him.

The walk back to Venganza seemed endless.

When they reached the gangplank, he stopped, and she turned to face him. Esmeralda finally raised her eyes to meet his, but she didn’t break the silence. Jack had been hoping she would, willing her to speak, so he’d have some idea of what to say, how to act.

Reaching out, he took her other hand, so he was holding both of them. He knew crewmen and her grandfather might be watching them, so he didn’t dare offer her so much as a kiss on the cheek.

It felt so strange, to be tongue-tied like this. Usually he was excellent at conjuring up seemingly sincere phrases, not to mention extravagant flattery. He’d told Melinda that he loved her any number of times, because she seemed to like hearing it, even though she undoubtedly knew better. Yet here he was, lucky Jack Sparrow, facing the first woman he’d ever really cared about—and there were no words, no words at all.

She watched him, her expression uneasy. “What will you do now, Jack?” she said, finally, keeping her voice low. “What are you planning?”

Jack sighed, relieved. His feelings were a muddle, and he didn’t feel capable of sorting them out, much less sharing them. He managed a faint smile and squeezed Esmeralda’s hands. “Not going to say, love. You can’t tell what you don’t know, and it’s better that way.”

“You’ll…you’ll be careful, won’t you, Jack?” He could feel the tension in her. Her voice was low, as though she had to force words past a tightness in her throat.

Jack summoned his best happy-go-lucky grin. “It’s what I’m best at, darlin’. Don’t worry about me for a moment.”

Esmeralda gave him a quick, impatient glance, a look that clearly told him he was an idiot for even suggesting that she wouldn’t worry.

Jack shrugged slightly, with a “what can I say?” expression, and gave her hands a final squeeze. “Must run. See you tomorrow, love.”

Then he let her go. Turning, he strode away, moving so fast he was nearly running, the boards of the dock echoing his footsteps.

The ramshackle structure of piled-up ships that made up Shipwreck City was built on an island in the middle of the caldera. The dungeons of the pirate’s bastion were located beneath the city, carved out of solid rock by generations of pirates. They were extensive, but, at the moment, overcrowded. The crew complements of two pirate vessels totaled nearly a hundred and fifty men. Jack found the obscure entrance, then wended his way down a stone flight of timeworn steps, lit only by a smoky torch. When he reached the bottom, he saw there were several pirate guards lounging around, but only one sat behind a table.

Roger Mortensen, tongue tip caught between his teeth as he concentrated, was laboriously making entries in some kind of logbook. As Jack stood in the shadows, silently watching, the head jailer ostentatiously dropped his quill. When he bent over to retrieve it, he pulled out a flask and refreshed himself from it, using the tabletop to mask his actions.

This is my moment, Jack thought. Summoning his most fey smile, he waltzed up to Mortensen, saying in dulcet tones, “Hallo, Roger. A little parrot told me you were looking for me.”

Mortensen choked, but managed to swallow, and swiftly concealed the flask before he straightened up. “Where’ve you been, Jacky? We searched everywhere!”

Jack smiled slyly. “Obviously, you didn’t look everywhere, Roger. If you had, you would have found me. Quid pro quo, ipso facto, rigor mortis, and carpe diem, as they say. So…what’s all this to-do about, anyhow?”

Mortensen frowned as he attempted to follow Jack’s discourse. After a moment, he abandoned the effort. “Jacky, de Rapièr asked to see you.

Final request, and all that. Cap’n Teague approved it. You ready to talk to him?”

Jack shrugged unconcernedly. “If I must, I suppose. The first cellblock I presume? The solitary cell?” He made as if to head down the leftmost corridor, the one leading to the closest cellblock.

“No, he’s in the second cellblock, and not so fast,” Mortensen said, stepping quickly to bar his way. “I have to accompany you. Captain Teague’s orders.”

Jack drew himself up, suitably affronted by this blatant lack of trust. “Really, Roger! Recall that I’ve been roaming this benighted oubliette of yours since I was a mere sprat. I’m hardly likely to get lost! ”

Mortensen flushed. “Orders is orders,” he maintained. “Cap’n Teague said I have to go with you, and stay there while you talk to de Rapièr.” His reddened eyes took on a malicious gleam. “Cap’n Teague warned me you might do somethin’ stupid, Jacky boy.”

Jack rolled his eyes and pouted. “I don’t believe this! I agree to go talk to Christophe, who is, without a doubt, among the most annoying pimples on the backside of Mother Earth, out of the goodness of me kindly heart, seeing as he’s fated to swing tomorrow at sunrise, only to have you inform me that I can’t even talk to him in private?”

“Don’t blame me, Jacky,” Mortensen said. “Take that up with Cap’n Teague—if you got the stones, mate.” He guffawed at his own wit. “Now stand still while I search you.”

Jack folded his arms across his chest with an air of exaggerated patience. “First I can’t talk to Christophe privately, then I have to stand here and let you paw me, Roger? All on the orders of Captain Aren’t We So Important Keeper of the Bloody Be-Damned Code, Teague? I think not! I’m going back to Miss Fanny’s. Sophie promised me a threesome with a succulent raven-haired sea-nymph.” He turned away with a flounce.

The beefy Mortensen grabbed his arm and jerked him to a halt. “Oh no you don’t, you insolent little git. I spent half the evening lookin’ for your sorry arse, and I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight until you’ve had your sodding visit with de Rapièr, damn his Frenchy Code-breaker soul.”

Jack could smell the rum on Mortensen’s breath, and the big man was just a trifle unsteady on his feet. You’d better sober up before Teague gets back, Roger, he thought. Or you’re likely to wind up next to Borya tomorrow at dawn.…

Having never intended to leave, Jack allowed Mortensen to halt his retreat, then stood there, lower lip thrust out. “Oh, very well,” he said sullenly, raising his hands in the air. “Search away if you must. I’m unarmed. But my fa—Captain Teague will hear of this, you’d best believe it.”

“Sure he will, Jacky boy,” Mortensen said, with a nasty sneer.

Mortensen tried to be thorough; Jack had to give him that. First he made Jack remove his boots. Roger peered down each boot, then shook them vigorously to make sure there was nothing concealed inside. Then he began running his hands over Jack, down his sides, beneath his arms, down his legs. Finally, he patted Jack’s chest and back, then his midsection, working his way south, clearly uncomfortable with what he was doing. Jack stood passively, until Mortensen’s hands slid along his ribs, then he winced theatrically and giggled. “Roger, stop that! I’m ticklish!”

“Shut up, Jacky,” Mortensen growled.

As the jailer’s hands brushed the waistband of Jack’s britches, then started downward, toward his crotch, Jack snickered loudly, then caroled, “What is this, Roger? Trying to discover whether I’m a eunuch? Ask Miss Sophie, she’ll vouch for me.” He did a bump and grind, then winked and leered at the guard. “Roger, old chum, unless you want to cause me embarrassment—and yourself a lifelong case of envy—by demanding that I actually produce the goods for your delectation…er…inspection, I’d suggest you desist.” He batted his eyes at Teague’s lieutenant.

Mortensen stepped back. His weather-beaten countenance flushed a dull red. “You’re clean,” he snapped, indicating the corridor leading off to the right. “Come with me.”

Jack smiled and did as ordered.

Mortensen led him up a long cellblock. The dungeon seemed eerily silent. Each cell contained multiple prisoners, except for the last one, which was small by comparison. Jack looked in, to see Christophe alone, sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, his head drooping listlessly. The enclosure was featureless, save for a foul-smelling hole in the opposite corner. Hearing footsteps, the Frenchman looked up, then his eyes widened.

“Jacques!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “Mon Dieu, I thought you’d never come!”

Without answering, Jack abruptly turned to confront Mortensen, who was looming behind him, scarcely a handbreadth away. “I don’t care if you’re present, Roger, but must you breathe down the back of me neck?” He rolled his eyes. “Or are you trying to work up the courage to grab me backside and give it a squeeze?” He’d spoken loudly, and his voice carried to all Christophe’s crewmen. The cell-bound pirates laughed, whistled, and jeered obscene suggestions at Mortensen.

Pretending he couldn’t hear them, and that it was his own idea, Mortensen stepped back a few paces.

Jack turned back to Christophe. “What the bloody hell is going on, mate?” he demanded, keeping his voice down. “They told me Borya gave you up as a rogue pirate.”

Christophe’s dark eyes met Jack’s unflinchingly. “Jacques, mon ami. Have I ever lied to you?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Jack said, cautiously.

“Then believe me now, of all times we have spoken truth between us. Jacques, I am innocent! Borya has long had hatred for me. I caught him cheating at cards once, in Tortuga, and I called him out. I challenged him to a duel in front of the entire tavern. But the Russian is, at heart, a coward. He did not have the…” Christophe groped for a word, “the spleen, the stomach, the internal organs…” He broke off, grimacing.

“The guts?” Jack suggested.

“Exactly! The guts to face me in a duel. He could do nothing but turn and walk away. Everyone in The Faithful Bride was laughing at him, calling him coward to his face. He has hated me ever since. So today, when he realized he was going to die, he seized his chance to gain his revenge on me, to make his own passing a bit more bearable by taking me, his enemy, with him. Jack, I swear to you, as le bon Dieu is my witness”—he crossed himself—“in the name of the Holy Virgin and all the saints, I am innocent.”

“They say you murdered Old One Tooth Tommy, Christophe,” Jack said. “The night he died, you were with me and Esmeralda for the first part of the evening. What did you do after we escorted her back to Venganza?”

“I heard that I am also convicted of killing that pitiful old crazy man,” Christophe said, twirling his fingers beside his temple. “But Jack, I did not. After we parted from Esmeralda, I rowed back to La Vipère, and I went to bed.” He paused. “Alone.”

“Damn,” Jack said. “Did anyone see you rowing back?”

“Only my crew.”

“That tears it, then,” Jack muttered. “I’d hoped there was someone that could vouch for your whereabouts after you left Venganza. Someone other than your crewmen.”

“I am sorry, but no. There is not.” Christophe’s shoulders slumped. He clutched the iron bars, hanging his head in despair. He was breathing hard, visibly struggling to control himself. Jack watched him, seeing that his friend’s handsome features were smudged and sweaty; stubble and bruises darkened the formerly clean line of his jaw. He must have fought back against his captors, because his elegant clothes were torn and filthy.

When the French pirate finally raised his head, Jack was shocked to see that his dark eyes were filled with tears. “Jacques, tomorrow at dawn they are going to hang me, and all my men, who are innocent, too. We are pirates, yes, but you are a pirate, too! We have not broken the Code! It is Captain Borya’s malice, his final revenge on an enemy that has brought us to this pass. Jacques, you are my best friend in all the world…please. Help me.”

Jack bit his lip, and did not reply.

Christophe drew a deep, shaky breath. “Please. Please, Jacques…I am begging you.”

Jack looked into his friend’s eyes for a long moment, then he took a deep breath. “Sorry, Christophe,” he said, distinctly. “I wish I could help you, but Teague’s given the order for execution and there’s no getting around it. Esmeralda says she’ll pray for you.”

“Jacques!” Christophe clutched the bars spasmodically. “Please!”

“I’ll be with you in spirit, mate, tomorrow morning,” Jack said, then slowly, deliberately, he winked.

Christophe’s eyes widened slightly.

“Don’t worry about how long it will take, mate,” Jack continued. “Keep in mind that it will only take a few minutes, then it will be over, Christophe, and you’ll be free.” He accented the words as much as he dared, which wasn’t much, but he knew Christophe was quick.

“You’ll be free of the bonds of this earth, mate,” he added. “Concentrate on that, not on what comes before. Savvy?” He winked again.

A spark leaped in Christophe’s dark eyes, and he quickly bowed his head and crossed himself again. “I understand, Jacques,” he said, quietly. “You are a good friend, to come tonight and offer me spiritual comfort.”

Jack waved a hand deprecatingly. “Just wish I could do more, mate.”

Christophe nodded, then, head hanging, he waved sadly at Jack, before lying down on the straw in his cell and turning his back to the outside world.

Jack turned and headed out of the cellblock, with Mortensen following behind. When they reached the area outside the guard post, Jack stopped and turned to the jailer. “Well, thanks for taking me in there,” he said, in a low voice, not looking up. “Won’t pretend it was easy. But maybe I was able to give Christophe some comfort.”

Mortensen nodded, but did not speak. He remained at the end of the passageway, which Jack had figured he’d do, because it was deserted, and he’d be able to grab another nip from his flask unobserved—which was precisely what occurred. Jack watched out of the corner of his eye as he walked through the guard chamber, then out into the entrance passageway, the one leading to the stairs.

When he reached them, he didn’t start climbing, however. A quick glance over his shoulder assured him that no guards were in sight. Jack turned to his left, stepping past the stone stairway, walked a few steps, then turned right. Pressing his back against the stone in the small area behind the dungeon steps, he waited for a moment to be certain he hadn’t been followed.

Jack walked along the old passageway behind the stairs, careful to move quietly. The passageway wasn’t long; it dead-ended in a rock-fall about fifty feet from the stairs. Jack moved to the far left of the rock-fall, squatted down, and then began cautiously moving rocks, careful to make as little sound as possible.

He shifted perhaps twenty rocks the size of a medium-sized cannonball, then paused when he saw a glimpse of brown amid the gray of the rocks, to breathe a sigh of relief. Good, it’s still there. Now if the passage is still clear.…

Shifting more rocks brought his secret entrance into view. It was a portion of an old hatch that he’d wedged in there, to block the hole he’d discovered in the otherwise collapsed passageway. He’d found it years ago, when he was perhaps twelve or thirteen, during one of his many forays exploring the old dungeons.

Jack gazed dubiously at the revealed passageway. He’d worked at shoring it up, back when he’d first discovered it. He just hoped the supports were still holding. Taking off his hat, coat, and waistcoat, he placed them out of sight behind the rocks, then ducked down and wriggled forward on his belly.

Jack scuttled forward, but a passage that had been easy when he was twelve was painful now; he’d grown more than he’d realized in the intervening years. Twice he stuck fast, and the second time when he finally managed to wriggle forward by pushing hard with his toes and pulling with his hands, he heard the shoulder of his shirt rip. He cursed mentally, not daring to open his mouth, because of the dampness, as well as the stuff filtering down from the rocks that brushed the top of his head. Still, he’d gone too far now to stop; Jack kept moving.

Finally he pulled himself through into empty darkness. This old section of the dungeons was long-forgotten by everyone except him.

Cautiously, feeling above his head for the roof of the passageway, he stood up, then fumbled along the right wall until his fingers encountered a rusted old bracket. He’d left a bundle of candles here, years ago.

Taking out his flint and steel, he managed to get the candle lit.

The passageway was unchanged from the last time he’d come here. Jack started forward, mentally reviewing the way to get into the still-used cellblocks. Five minutes later, his flickering candle revealed an ancient door, its planks as hard as iron. Taking out Teague’s ring of keys, he located the correct key.

Before unlocking the door, he stood on tiptoe and dripped candle wax onto the top hinge, then the bottom one. Then, praying the old lock wouldn’t make too much noise, he inserted the key and turned it very, very slowly.

It creaked, but not too loudly. Pushing the door open, Jack blew out the candle, placed it a foot from the door inside the passageway, then closed the door behind him and relocked it. He stood for a moment, listening, but couldn’t hear anything but the sounds made by the unhappy denizens of the cells. Before him, the passageway ran for about twenty feet, then split.

Leftmost passageway…first cellblock. Rightmost…second cellblock.

Jack headed right. Moments later he was standing before Christophe’s cell, having entered the cellblock from the opposite side of the dungeon from the guard post.

Christophe was on his feet, waiting for him. “Jacques!” he whispered. “Mon Dieu, it’s been forever, where have you been?” Taking in Jack’s disheveled condition, he added, “What have you been doing?”

“Shhhh!” Jack cautioned. Turning to face the rest of the cellblock, the faces pressed against the bars, he held up the keys and put a finger to his lips, then pointed to himself. The level of chatter ceased. Then, as La Vipère’s crew caught his meaning, the background chatter picked up again.

“We have to hurry,” Jack breathed to Christophe. “The guards come through every twenty minutes or so to make sure nothing’s amiss.”

Finding the right key, he quickly unlocked Christophe’s cell. “Be quiet, Christophe,” he cautioned. “Borya’s men aren’t far away. They’re in the first cellblock. If he gets wind of what’s going on, he’ll surely betray you.” Stepping back, he eased the door open.

The next few minutes were busy. Jack handed Christophe the ring of keys, and together they moved quietly down the cellblock. As he unlocked each cell, Christophe spoke in a hushed whisper, cautioning his men to remain in the cell with the door shut until he gave the signal.

As they neared the end of the long row of cells, Christophe seemed to remember something that had escaped him. Placing a hand on Jack’s arm, he fixed his rescuer with a penetrating stare. “You will be going with us, mon ami, non?”

Jack shook his head. “No. Once all your men’s cells are unlocked, I’m taking those keys and scuttling out of here as fast as a crab on a white sand beach, Christophe. I have to put them back in Teague’s cabin before he misses them. Give me about ten minutes to get out of the dungeons before you make your break, understand? I have to go back the way I came, so they won’t see me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “With any luck, Teague decided to sit in on Villanueva’s Hazard game.”

Christophe nodded. “I see, mon ami. Very well. It is, of course, your choice.”

Jack followed behind Christophe as the French pirate unlocked the remaining cells, all the while keeping a nervous lookout. He felt horribly exposed. Finally, Christophe turned the key in a lock, and announced, triumphantly, “There we have it, Jacques. The last of my crew.”

Jack let out a sigh of relief. “That’s great, Christophe.” He held out his hand for the ring of keys. “You’d best get back in your cell. One of the guards will be along any moment. Remember, I need about ten minutes to haul my arse out of this bloody dungeon, then you make your break for it.” He smiled. “I hope we run into each other somewhere. We can have a drink and have a good laugh over all of this, eh?”

Christophe smiled. It was a sly, cunning, expression. Jack found it unsettling, even disturbing.…It was almost as though he were looking at a stranger, one wearing Christophe’s face and clothes. “Oh, yes, Jacques. A good laugh, that is most apropos.”

Turning, he walked away from Jack and his outstretched hand, carrying the ring of keys, and heading for the first cellblock. Before de Rapièr turned the corner, he carelessly waved his free hand. Jack stood there gaping as the Frenchman vanished. “Christophe! What the bloody—”

He barely registered the sound of the cell door at his back creaking open, he was so stunned to realize that Christophe was, in fact, betraying him. How can he do this to me? Jack thought, outraged. I have to warn Teague’s—

As Jack drew breath to yell, hard hands seized him and a filthy palm clamped down over his mouth.

All around him Christophe’s crew, many of them grinning and waving cheerfully at him, were opening their cells and silently filing out. The pirates holding Jack shoved him forward, and they all headed into the next cellblock.

The first sight that greeted Jack’s eyes when they got there was Borya, stepping out of his cell and embracing de Rapièr. “Spasibo! Thank you, my brother,” he said to Christophe. As he saw Jack, he gave him a mocking salute. “Now let us free the rest of my crew.”

Jack watched the two rogues as they moved together, talking in whispers, while Christophe busily unlocked the cells containing Koldunya’s crew. He felt as though he’d been gut-punched by a battering ram; he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and that was only partly because of the brutal hand clamped over his mouth. His mind raced frantically in circles. Should he fight? Try to break free so he could yell and raise the alarm? His eyes flicked to the mob of silent, grinning cutthroats, and he knew that any motion on his part, and he’d be dead within seconds.

All of the cells were now open. Borya cautioned for quiet, then spoke softly, but clearly. “Remember our plan…when we give the signal, we all go together, running quietly until we see the guards. Then we make plenty noise, da?” He grinned.

“Stick to the plan,” Christophe added. “Once we deal with the guards, we storm the armory. We need weapons to fight our way out of Shipwreck City. When we reach the docks we will commandeer every small boat we can, and row for our ships. Understand?”

Jack saw the huge mob of rogues nodding, heard the commands being repeated in soft whispers.

When silence fell, the tension was so thick Jack felt as though it had sucked all the fetid air from the dungeon.

Christophe and Borya stepped slightly apart, clasped their hands together, then suddenly, raised them high.

Quiet chaos erupted.

One moment they were all standing there, silent, then they were running, still in eerie silence except for the sounds of their feet. Jack’s captors shoved him forward, kept him locked in an iron grip. He tried to throw himself to the side, but the men holding him were so strong they nearly picked him up to keep him moving. Hearing the pounding of the feet behind him, he began to run in earnest, realizing that if he threw himself down, he’d be trampled by the men behind him.

Moments later he saw the guard post, heard the guards yelling, and only then did the rogues break their silence. Screams and battle cries filled the air, deafening in the echoing dungeon.

The next few minutes were a blur, as the rogues stormed the guard post. A good dozen of the cutthroats went down before the shots and sword thrusts of the guards, but there were simply too many of them. The guards stood their ground, brave men obeying orders to the last. As the last defender fell, his throat a red ruin, Jack felt the hands holding him loosen, and suddenly he was free. But now there was nowhere to go. He was as trapped as if they’d locked him in a cell, trapped by dozens upon dozens of screaming rogue pirates.

Now they were emptying the armory.

Jack kept trying to make himself small, so he could slide free of the mob and hide, or run. If he could just make it into the secret passage.…But it was impossible in the melee. Someone thrust a cutlass into his hand. He almost threw it down, but, at the last moment, he hung on to it. Maybe when they got outside, he could cut his way free, and bolt.

Almost immediately, he realized that was a forlorn hope. The moment they reached the top of the stairs and burst out into the night, half of Shipwreck City would know that Jack Sparrow had betrayed his heritage, not to mention breaking the Code. If he managed to elude the rogues, Teague and his men would catch him, and he would swing from a yardarm. They probably wouldn’t even wait for dawn.

The screaming mob was running, and Jack perforce had to run with them, or risk being pounded into pulp by booted feet should he fall. There were stairs beneath his boots, but they didn’t slow the rogues in the least. They raced as fast as sharks converging on a sinking vessel.

Jack couldn’t keep track of his surroundings. Everything seemed to be light and shadow, torches flickering in sconces on stone walls; then, suddenly, he burst out into fresh air, and there was wood beneath his feet, planks instead of stone, stars instead of a ceiling.

The rabble of rogues headed for the docks. The din they made was earsplitting. Stumbling, swearing, Jack tried to break free of the howling throng, but every time he thought he’d managed to make progress, harsh hands seized him, or booted feet kicked him, propelling him forward, thrusting him onward.

They were all slowing now, having reached the docks, and the available small boats. Shrieking rogues raced up ship gangplanks, cutting down or shooting anyone that resisted, then cutting the vessel’s boats free, letting them splash down into the cove.

Directly ahead of the group Jack was perforce part of, a large group of pirates approached, heavily armed, carrying torches. Captain Teague was in the lead. The rogue beside Jack raised his musket, taking a bead on the Keeper of the Code. With a choked cry of protest, and a savage swing of his cutlass, Jack knocked the barrel of the musket aside. The shot went wide.

The pirate holding the musket turned toward Jack, rage darkening his features. Jack prepared to square off with him before he could reload, but just as he fell into guard position, something large and unyielding struck him hard behind his right ear.

Jack’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he went down like a scuttled vessel, down, down…into darkness.

Captain Jack Sparrow blinked, feeling the fresh breeze marking the end of the gale flow through the window of the Wicked Wench. How long had he been standing here, lost in memory?

It was still dark. No grayness marked the eastern horizon. Jack went back to his bunk and crawled in. He lay on his back, linking his hands behind his head, cautiously stretching sore muscles, and felt himself relax. It felt good. He was tired; he needed sleep. But his eyes remained open in the darkness.

I’ve been doing that a lot, this past year, he thought. Remembering Shipwreck Cove and how I became an outcast, a Code-breaker, an exile, a condemned man who can never, ever go back. Because if Teague ever catches up with me, he’ll kill me.

Jack frowned in the darkness at the thought of Teague’s vengeance. He’d seen the Keeper shoot Code-breakers in the head with no more emotion than he’d show when cracking a louse, or crushing a roach. To Teague, the Code was not only the Law, it was everything. To have someone with whom he had a personal connection—no matter how strained—turn traitor and Code-breaker must have been doubly infuriating.

But it had been five years since those days in Shipwreck Cove, and Christophe’s betrayal. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he thought of the rogue pirate. The morning he’d awakened aboard La Vipère with a lump behind his ear the size of a hen’s egg, and sickly realized he was leagues from Shipwreck Island and Esmeralda, had been a very bad awakening indeed. One he preferred not to remember.

Five years is a long time, especially for a pirate. “A short life but a merry one,” and all that rot. I’m a respectable merchant sailor now, a captain. I doubt many from Shipwreck Cove would even recognize me today.

He smiled, remembering that night with Esmeralda aboard Venganza, and how she had nearly stripped him naked—well, actually, she had done that, but this was before they’d wound up in her big bed—and how she’d gone on about how he didn’t look like “her Jack” anymore. She was absolutely right. Jack Sparrow didn’t look like a pirate anymore, and that was intentional. If he stayed away from certain haunts in Port Royal, or any one of a number of pirate hangouts, and gave Tortuga a wide berth, the chances that anyone would recognize him and attempt to drag him back to Shipwreck Cove to face the Keeper of the Code were slim to none.

So why are all these bloody memories plaguing me, then? It isn’t like me to moon around, summoning up the past. Jack scowled. Tia Dalma would probably say it was “destiny” coming full circle, or something of that sort. What’s that stuff the Hindoos go on about? Karma, that’s it.

He snorted. Karma, destiny…despite his respect for the Obeah woman, he didn’t think he believed in either. He believed in Jack Sparrow, Captain Jack Sparrow, thank-you-very-much, and that was the sum total of it, make no mistake.

Jack rolled over, and immediately fell asleep.

For the next few days, Jack and his crew were busy dealing with problems caused by the gale. The Wicked Wench had come through relatively unscathed—they’d been lucky. Still, sails had to be mended, the decks fouled with spew and spray scrubbed, and all of the lines checked to make sure they hadn’t been frayed or weakened by the storm. Jack and his officers were busy each day, inspecting the vessel from bow to stern.

As though exhausted following such a fracas, the winds were gentle, bringing fresher, cooler air. The Wench rounded the bulge of Africa and headed north, making good time, despite all the tacking back and forth.

Jack had daily reports from Chamba about his passengers. Both of them, as predicted, had been very sick during the storm, but within a few days, Tarek began appearing on deck to take the air. The giant African had been fitted with mismatched clothes from the slop chest, so he no longer wore clothing that marked him as a former slave. Jack spoke to him a time or two, via Chamba. Tarek thanked the captain for his part in rescuing him from the Dalton farm, and reported that Ayisha was still quite ill, unable to keep anything down.

Chamba appeared one morning to ask permission to have the cook brew up some special folk remedies for her, in hopes they’d prove to be something the Zerzuran woman could stomach. Concerned, Jack gave him all possible assistance, even trotting belowdecks with some English tea and actual sugar from his captain’s pantry, in the hopes it would help. “Oh, and tell cook to make some broth, or gruel, something like that,” he suggested, handing them to the lad. “Isn’t that what they give sick people?”

Chamba stared at him. “Don’t you know?”

Jack shook his head. “Actually, I don’t.”

“You never been sick, Cap’n?” The youth seemed incredulous.

Jack ruminated for a moment. “Certainly not seasick,” he said, finally. “And I can’t remember being any other kind of sick, either.” He paused, thinking. “Do hangovers count? I suppose not; they’re self-inflicted.”

Seeing that Chamba was hanging on his every word, obviously fascinated, Jack ventured, “Had a hogshead roll over me legs once. It was a wonder I didn’t break them. Hobbled around for a week before they stopped hurting. Been wounded, too.”

Chamba’s eyes widened. “Wounded? How?”

Jack grimaced. “Whacked on the head more than once. Shot. Some sword cuts, but I’d take them any time over being shot. I was lucky the ball went clean through.”

Chamba’s eyes were now the size of saucers. “Neptune’s nightgown, Cap’n, you led an exciting life! Was you attacked by pirates?”

Jack thought fast and worded his response carefully. “Pirate attacks did figure into it, yes,” he said, careful not to be specific as to which side of the engagement he’d been on. He looked down at Chamba. “Are you still here? Run along and tend to your passengers, lad, or I’ll put you to work scrubbing the decks.”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

Two days later, Ayisha emerged from her exile below, accompanied solicitously by Tarek. She was obviously weak and shaky, and, as much as Jack wanted to talk to her, he merely smiled and nodded from a distance.

He did notice that she made at least one trip to the railing to heave once again, and quickly found something to do elsewhere. Sick people gave him the collywobbles.

For the next two days, Jack was conscious of her up on deck, shakily moving about, clutching Tarek’s or Chamba’s arm, her gray shawl covering her head against the brilliant African sun. Her visits to the railing seemed to be lessening. Good; she was getting over her seasickness. He’d be able to talk to her about their course soon. They were still at least a week’s sail away from the southernmost of the Cape Verdes, so they had time.

Two days later, he saw her on deck, alone. She was walking slowly about, clutching that ever-present shawl, staring off to the north. Feeling the tug of home, perhaps?

Jack ambled over to her. “G’morning, Miss Ayisha,” he said, tipping his tricorne.

She gave him a cool glance, but replied in English. “Good morning, Captain Sparrow.”

“Good to see you feeling better,” Jack observed. “They tell me being seasick is dreadful. I’m sorry you were so badly affected.”

She made a brushing-away motion with her hand. “I’d just as soon not think about that, thank you.”

“Fine by me,” Jack agreed. “I’d like to talk to you about our course. In a few days, we’ll be reaching the area of the southernmost Cape Verdes. Are you feeling any of the ‘pull’ toward home you mentioned?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Hmmmm…too bad,” Jack said. “Well, perhaps when we’re north of them, it will set in.”

“We won’t be going north,” she stated, calmly. “Our course lies west. To the New World.”

Jack gaped at her. It took him a moment to find his voice, and when he did, he could only sputter, “Wh—wh—what?”

“My English is quite good, Captain Sparrow. I’m sure you understood me. We go west.”

“Why the devil would we head west?”

“You have cargo bound for Antigua, do you not?”

“Bugger that!” Jack was so incensed by her serene high-handedness that he felt himself reddening. This woman was as infuriating as she was ugly. “You know we had an agreement! If I helped you—and bloody Tarek—to escape, you’d take me to Zerzura.”

“I am not breaking our agreement,” she said. She looked at him. A spasm of something crossed her face as the Wench rolled with a large swell. “I am just postponing it. Until I find my brother. He was taken to the New World aboard a slave ship, and sold there.”

“No,” Jack said. “Madam…” He controlled himself with an effort, then cleared his throat and gentled his voice. “Miss Ayisha…I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but your brother is likely dead. A third—sometimes more—of the black gold cargoes don’t survive the voyage west. And countless slaves perish in the New World. Many owners feed them rations a dog wouldn’t touch, and they work them to death.”

“My brother,” she said firmly, clutching her shawl, “is alive. I know this.”

“No, you don’t. Besides, the New World is a big place. Finding one slave in all of it would be worse than finding a needle in a haystack. Much worse.”

“He’s alive, and I will find him,” she said. Another spasm crossed her face as the Wench rolled again. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she bolted for the railing.

Jack stood back and looked away as she heaved, grateful that she had the courtesy not to foul his nice, freshly scrubbed deck.

But after a minute or two, when she was reduced to dry retching, spasms so intense that she was clinging weakly with both hands to the railing, her body bent so far over that it seemed she was in real danger of going overboard, Jack strode over to her.

“Here now,” he said, gently. “We can’t have you going over the side, love. Come on, I’ll help you below.”

She shook her head no, too weak to speak, clinging to the rail. Spitting a final time into the blue Atlantic, she wiped her mouth on her old shawl and tried to stand up. Her knees buckled.

Jack took matters into his own hands, grabbing her, hoisting her over his shoulder, then heading for the ladder. Ayisha was too weak to struggle, though she did mumble a protest. Jack ignored her. He was surprised to find that she was considerably lighter than she appeared, but he supposed anyone would be, after a week of not keeping much down.

He headed down the ladder, reached the main deck, then carried her through the looped-back flap of canvas that constituted the “door” to her “cabin.” Tarek was not there. Jack frowned. He’d get her back in her bunk, then send Chamba or the big man below to tend to her.

Moving slowly, Jack maneuvered his way inside, careful not trip over the unused cannon mountings. The little cabin was gloomy, still smelling faintly of sickness, so, on his way, he stopped to open the gun port, letting sunlight and fresh air flood in. Ah, that’s better, he thought.

Bending over, he lowered Ayisha onto her mattress. She was as limp as a tangle of seaweed. Her skirts were rucked up, so he carefully tugged them down, averting his eyes as he did so. He wasn’t even tempted to peek. No doubt her legs were as ugly as the rest of her. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” he said, still resolutely not looking. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go fetch Tarek or Chamba to come below and, er, minister to you, eh?”

Ayisha didn’t respond, whether from anger at his high-handed method of transport, or sickness, Jack didn’t know—or care.

The captain stood up. “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to keep your shawl,” he said, pulling it off his shoulder, trying to sound cheerful and nurselike. “Wouldn’t flatter me at all, I fear. Here, let me spread it—”

Jack broke off, the gray shawl in his hands, staring incredulously down at the woman in the bunk.

As she saw his eyes widen, Ayisha made an inarticulate sound of protest, then she covered her face with her hands. Jack looked at her, then looked at the shawl. Rolling it into a ball, he tossed it across the cabin. “Ah,” he said. “Much becomes clear. Magic. A bloody powerful illusion, that. Even Tia Dalma might be impressed.”

Gently, he bent over, and pulled her hands away from her face. “By Neptune’s trident,” he breathed. “You are one pretty girl.” Gently, he pushed a coil of black hair off her forehead. “Lovely, as a matter of fact.”

“Captain Sparrow,” she said, sounding, for the first time since he’d met her, frightened to the point of panic, “please, I beg of you. Don’t tell.”

Ayisha struggled to sit up. It was plain she didn’t want help, so he didn’t offer any. Sitting up, she brushed her hair back from her face, then sat cross-legged on her crackling straw tick, modestly pulling her skirts down, covering even her feet.

Jack, in his turn, sat down cross-legged, facing her. He couldn’t stop looking. Lovely features. A high-bridged, proud nose, full, sensuous lips, large, long-lashed eyes, beautifully carved cheekbones, and a delicate but strong chin. Her hair was black, the length and color of a raven’s wing; it curled against those sculpted cheekbones. Her skin color was a rich, warm-toned brown with a hint of red. Cinnamon, Jack thought. He’d hauled cargoes of it, had inhaled the heady scent of it. They used it in Hindoo curries, and it was delicious.

He didn’t want to stare at the rest of her, but even a quick glance as she’d sat up had assured him that the rest of her was a good match for that face. A slender body, small, elegant breasts. Was the beautiful Ayisha the same height as the ugly Ayisha? He had no idea.

“Please,” she repeated. “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

Jack came back to the moment with a start. “Oh. I’m sorry. Fear not, love. I won’t tell. Mum’s the word. Besides,” he smiled at her, his most charming smile. “I’d be mad to tell on you. Much better to keep such beauty all to meself.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t start that kind of talk, Captain Sparrow. Tarek, my eunuch bodyguard, is very protective. And I cast that spell with the shawl. If you tried anything, I assure you, you would regret it.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “A real eunuch? He doesn’t look it, big strong-looking chap like that. Good heavens! Never thought I’d actually encounter one.” He shuddered slightly, putting his hands protectively in his lap. “Did you do that to him?”

For the first time that day, she smiled. It wasn’t a particularly nice smile, and he could tell she had noted his defensive posture. “No. It was his choice to become one.”

It was on the tip of Jack’s tongue to ask why any man would choose to do that voluntarily, but he kept his mouth shut.

Silence fell between them. Jack regarded Ayisha, considering all the things about her that simply didn’t add up—and, he suddenly realized, there were a lot of them. “There’s something I’d like to know,” he said, finally.

“What is it, Captain?”

“How does a ‘sewing woman’ wind up having a bodyguard?”

The Zerzuran woman hesitated for a moment, then replied, smoothly, “I fear I misspoke, Captain. Tarek was part of the Royal Guard. It was his duty to protect both the princess and her household. After she was gone, he continued to do his duty toward the members of her household…and I am the only one left. So he will protect me, I know this.”

Jack cocked his head at her. “Very well done,” he said. “Almost glib. But the ‘bodyguard’ thing isn’t the only problem. The way you speak, and carry yourself…it’s very posh. Cutler Beckett could have you over to tea and not worry about you disgracing him. And for someone who was a slave only days ago, you’re very accustomed to giving orders. And, furthermore, you expect them to be obeyed.”

Ayisha opened her mouth, then shut it without speaking. Jack studied her, really studied her, and this time he wasn’t focused on the way she looked without her illusion—he was concentrating on the entire person, and remembering everything that had been in the J. Ward book about Kerma, and the Heart of Zerzura, and the labyrinth.

Once again, an old memory surged up in his mind—yet another memory from five years ago. Jack’s eyes narrowed as his gaze focused on Ayisha’s right wrist. She wore something there…some kind of wristlet. It was nothing more than a scrap of woven stuff, but on the back of it he could see a sort of design picked out by a few stitches of pale green thread. Jack studied the design, turning his head first one way, then the other, trying to make it out.

Then he froze, his heartbeat resounding in his ears.

Greatly daring, he reached over to her, saying, “Excuse me, darlin’. I need to see…”

Ignoring Ayisha’s cry of protest, her attempt to jerk away, Jack took her hand, holding it up so he could see her wristlet. The seemingly random threads suddenly coalesced into a design. I was right. The head of a lion…

Jack’s fingers must have tightened on her wrist, because she cried out again, this time with an edge of pain in her protest. Carefully, he loosened his grip, but still didn’t let her go.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded.

“It’s mine,” she said. “It’s nothing, you can see that. Just a scrap of weaving.”

“It belongs to you?” Jack held her gaze with his own. He saw that her eyes were not dark, as he’d expected, but an arresting color, brown, with a hint of gold. Like bronze.

“Yes,” she said, through clenched teeth. “It is mine. Let go of me.”

Jack obeyed. She sat back, rubbing her wrist, staring at him warily.

Slowly, formally, Jack doffed his hat and leaned forward, inclining his head to her, in what passed for a bow when one was sitting cross-legged. “My apologies, Your Highness,” he said. “I didn’t know.” He hesitated. “I’m having trouble recalling your name. Princess…Amenrah? No. Ah, I remember. Princess Amenirdis. Welcome to my humble vessel, Your Highness.”

Ayisha stared at him. She could not have looked more shocked if Jack had conjured Neptune’s trident and waved it at her. It was a full minute before she could find her voice. “How…how do…how could you…” She broke off, shaking her head.

Jack sighed, and looked down at his hat, which he held in his lap. “I’m very sorry, Your Highness. I know because five years ago, I encountered your father, and he told me your name. And your brother’s name.”

“You met my father?” She put a hand to her cheek, and swallowed, taking in his sad expression. “He spoke to you? About me, and Shabako? How? Where?”

Jack nodded. “Yes, he spoke to me.”

Slowly he looked back up. “I met Pharaoh Taharka on the deck of a sinking ship. It was going down in flames. He was mortally injured, alas. He died in my arms, Your Highness.”