CHAPTER TWELVE

Shabako

AS THOUGH TO APOLOGIZE for their earlier rough treatment, the sea and the winds were kind to Ayisha during the Wicked Wench’s voyage westward. Midway across the Atlantic, they experienced several days of steady rain, but it was a warm rain, not accompanied by high winds or thunderstorms. During the temperate seasons, rain was welcome—it allowed crew members to wash clothes and replenish their water supplies. The breezes carrying them westward moderated the oppressive heat they’d experienced off the African coast. All in all, the crossing was as favorable as she could have wished.

Her initial seasickness did not return, and Ayisha rapidly regained her appetite and her strength. As the days went by, she could feel the months of constant fear and tension slipping away, becoming memory instead of the reality of her daily life. She regained her smile, and even laughed at times, especially with Tarek. It was good to speak her native tongue and spend time with someone from home; it nourished her soul. She began teaching him English.

Ayisha had never been the type of royal to sit idle. She was accustomed to working, using the talent given her by her god to weave cloth for the temple priests and priestesses, or assisting her mother with the day-to-day oversight and rule of the kingdom. Queen Tiyy had developed the custom of making a circuit of the island for five days out of every month, to stay in contact with her people, and pass judgment in civil matters. Ayisha accompanied her on these circuits, riding with her mother’s honor guard on her spirited mare, while the queen drove her chariot. Enforced idleness did not sit well with the princess; she needed to move, to exercise her mind, her body, and her skills. As soon as she could keep food down, she began walking circuits of the weather deck, her shawl tied around her waist during good weather, or draped over her head when it rained.

True to his word, Jack called his crew together and spun them a very creative tale to explain Ayisha and Tarek’s presence on his ship, as well as their current mission to locate and free Shabako. Ayisha had been in Jack’s cabin while he spoke to them, and had heard him quite clearly through the keyhole as he addressed them. According to the captain, Ayisha and Tarek were members of a previously unknown tribe in northern Africa. The “Kermalayan” tribe, Jack explained, produced beautiful cloth, textiles, and embroidery that the EITC was eager to acquire.

“So the EITC wants exclusive rights to trade with these people, savvy?” Jack explained to his assembled men. “Everything was going along fine with the trade negotiations, until this Kermalan prince and his royal aunt, some kind of dowager princess, along with one of their guards, got snatched by slave hunters while they were on an expedition to buy cloth from another tribe. So the word went out to the top EITC officials to do anything in their power to gain the Kermalayan king’s good will.

“Lads, I’m proud to tell you that none other than our very own employer, Mr. Cutler Beckett, managed to track down, locate, and purchase the dowager princess and the guard, but the brother had already been put on a slave ship bound for the New World. So Mr. Beckett sent the princess and the guard along with us, so they can identify the young prince. My orders are to find and acquire this captured African prince.”

A low murmur of surprise followed Jack’s revelation. “I hardly need to tell you, mates, that this assignment is a feather in our caps. Mr. Beckett is counting on us! Returning their kidnapped royalty to the king of the Kermalayan tribe should pave the way for them to agree to exclusive trade with the EITC! If we succeed in our mission, it could mean a tidy bonus for every member of this crew.”

An excited murmur broke out on deck, along with a few muted cheers. “I know I can count on you all to do your duty, mates,” Jack finished. “Dismissed.”

Ayisha listened to the crew scatter, speculating excitedly about how they’d spend their extra money, and had to hand it to Jack—he’d spun exactly the right tale to ensure his crew’s cheerful cooperation; it was an inspired mix of truth and fantasy.

Only Jack, Robby, and Chamba knew that the story Jack had spun for his crew’s edification wasn’t true. After Jack’s talk with his men, Ayisha no longer saw anyone make the sign of the evil eye. The crew treated her politely, with respect, but no warmth. That was enough for the princess. She had Tarek to talk to, and, increasingly, Chamba. It wasn’t long before Ayisha regarded the young sailor as a friend.

To pass the time on the voyage, she asked Chamba to teach her to read English, and every day they practiced together for an hour. Ayisha made rapid progress. In a few weeks she was able to work her way through poems by John Donne, Walter Raleigh, and William Shakespeare. Reading matter aboard the Wicked Wench was limited, but Jack had a few books, Robby had a well-thumbed Bible, and, surprisingly, Frank Connery had a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Ayisha took delight in being able to read again, though many of the references required explanation.

Together, Ayisha and Tarek took advantage of their new sea legs to explore every nook and cranny of the Wicked Wench. In the beginning the princess was frightened of the guns, both large and small; the first time Jack had the crew drill with muskets and pistols, Tarek had to quickly escort her back to their “cabin,” because the sound of gunfire brought back vivid memories of the day the slave traders captured them. Chamba patiently reminded her that there were pirates on the high seas, and that the ship and crew had to be able to protect themselves. She remembered Jack telling her that the two rogue pirates, Borya and Christophe, were still capturing ships and giving no quarter. Firearms and cannons, it seemed, were necessary in this world. She forced herself to watch every small arms drill.

By the time Jack held the first drill with the big guns, Ayisha had managed to conquer her fear. She stuffed her ears with bits of fabric, and watched the gunners as they readied and fired the big twelve-pounders.

She was fascinated by the way the gun crews swabbed out the barrels of the cannons, loaded them with powder and shot, then touched off the powder holes with their slow matches. The sweating crews slaved over their cannons, competing to see which team could fire the fastest and come the closest to hitting the floating targets Jack had had the carpenters make for firing practice.

As the Wicked Wench sailed westward, Ayisha grew increasingly restive with her enforced idleness. She had no skills as a sailor, but she did have other skills, useful ones. Sailors were hard on their clothing, and, while some of them were good with a needle and thread, many others were not. She asked Chamba to pass the word that she would be willing to mend clothing if crewmen provided her with the thread. Hearing this, Chamba grinned broadly and promptly brought her a pair of loose sailor’s pants with a huge rip in the seat, and a shirt that most people would have torn into rags. He also provided a skein of thread.

Ayisha set to work and mended them so quickly and expertly that, seeing her handiwork, other crewmen passed along their clothing. When she’d first made the offer to do mending for the sailors, she’d done so out of a desire for useful work to occupy her hours, but her mending had an unforeseen, but positive, benefit. Over the next fortnight, she noticed a distinct change in the attitude of the crew—while walking the weather deck for exercise, most of the sailors she encountered nodded and smiled.

The Zerzuran woman often worked at her mending chores up on the weather deck, where the light was good. Her needle flashed through fabric smoothly, with the ease of long experience, and she stitched away, watching the crew as they made sail, spliced lines, or performed any of the dozens of tasks necessary to keep the Wicked Wench in good repair and seaworthy, ready for anything from foul weather to pirate attacks. Watching the men drill with cutlass, pistol, or musket was the most interesting activity. Jack and Robby held practice sessions almost every day.

Jack worked at honing his skills, too. He practiced swordplay with Robby, Lucius Featherstone, and Etienne de Ver. After Tarek expressed interest, Jack added the Zerzuran guard to his list of fencing opponents. The style of fighting taught to soldiers on Kerma featured very different techniques from the English, French, Italian, or Spanish “schools” that Jack had been exposed to in the past. Jack had the eunuch demonstrate his favorite moves, and began practicing with them, introducing them into his fencing repertoire.

Ayisha was puzzled as she watched Jack practice. In stark contrast to his usual blithe insouciance, Jack was honing his fencing skills unrelentingly, almost grimly. When he had no one to practice with, he drilled by himself, using assorted targets he set up, repeating each move until he could do it perfectly.

One day, when he finished a session, he half-collapsed onto the bottom step of the ladder leading up to the quarterdeck, puffing like an overridden horse. As his breathing eased, he sat there, staring gloomily at nothing, swigging thirstily from the canteen he’d brought with him. Concerned, Ayisha picked up her mending and made her way across the deck to sit down near him, tucking the skirts of her only dress neatly around her bare feet.

She pointed to the canteen. “I’m thirsty. Will you share?”

Jack came out of his brooding reverie with a start, as though he hadn’t seen her approach. “Sure, love,” he said, passing it over.

Ayisha took a gulp, finding that it was watered ale. “You have been practicing hard, Jack.”

He nodded.

“Do you practice like this with the sword during every voyage?”

Jack shrugged. “I try to keep in practice,” he said, “but no, I don’t practice every day.”

“Then why now? What is different?”

He gave her a somber glance. “Just restless, I suppose.” His mouth tightened. “I want to be ready…just in case.”

Picking up her mending, she set to work again, making small, even stitches with the ease of long practice. “Just in case? Jack, do you believe you will need to fight, in order to rescue my brother?”

“No,” he replied. “Whenever possible, I prefer not to use brute force, love. Trickery is smarter and works better.” He took another swig from the canteen. “Armed assaults tend to be messy, and are often ill-conceived and poorly executed.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “All that blood and…stuff. Me, I’ll take intelligent cowardice over foolhardy bravery any day.”

“I agree,” Ayisha said, with a faint smile. “I suppose it’s most likely my brother will be working on some plantation. Do you have any ideas for how to go about rescuing him? It cannot be easy for slaves to get away, or more of them would manage it.”

Jack shrugged. “Haven’t gotten that far yet, love. I’m still mulling it over. This is the kind of situation where you make it up as you go along.”

“I see.” She put the last stitch in place, knotted the thread, then bit it off neatly. “There,” she said.

He gave her a smile. “My crew looks nearly as shipshape as the Wench, since you’ve been fixing their clothes.”

She nodded. “And they smile at me and greet me pleasantly now. I’m nearly finished with the things they’ve given me. I work fast.” Reaching over, she poked a finger through a ragged tear in the loose sleeve of his shirt. “It’s time to start on your clothes, and Robby’s. Mr. Connery brought me his mending last week, so he is done.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack said. “Any sailor learns to mend his own clothes. Some of them get quite handy at it.”

“But you are not one of those types of sailors,” she pointed out. “I have seen examples of your mending skills.”

He chuckled. “‘A hit, a very palpable hit.’”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a quote from a Shakespeare play called Hamlet, about a prince who can’t decide whether or not to avenge his father’s murder by killing his uncle, the king. The final act of the play is a fencing match, and, early on, Hamlet touches his opponent, Laertes.” He demonstrated the concept by holding up his hand and then poking himself in the palm lightly. “When you touch an opponent with the tip of your weapon, it’s called a ‘hit,’ savvy? It’s how they score matches.”

Ayisha puzzled over this. “If Hamlet was a prince, why did he not become king when his father died?”

Jack frowned thoughtfully. “It’s been a long time since I read it. I believe his uncle, Claudius, more or less usurped the throne. He also married Hamlet’s mum.”

“Well, if Prince Hamlet could not make up his mind, his uncle was right to take the throne,” Ayisha declared. “An indecisive ruler is a disaster for a kingdom.”

Jack laughed. “That’s a refreshing way of looking at it. Claudius as the heroic savior of Denmark, and Hamlet as the dithering villain.” He took another drink, then offered the canteen to her. She took a sip, and handed it back.

“How many more days to reach Antigua?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A few days, perhaps a week, at most. Depending on the wind, as you’ve doubtless learned by now.”

Ayisha nodded. “Then I shall need more work to keep me busy. May I look through your sea chest, to see what needs mending?”

“Sure,” he said. “Chamba knows where I keep the key.”

“Good,” she said. “I know I do not have to do this, Jack. But it’s something I can do, and it helps pass the time. Life at sea can be…” She searched for a suitable word. “All the same, every day. What is the word?”

“Monotonous? Tedious? Dull? Unvarying? Tiresome? Boring?”

She laughed. “Thank you. I believe monotonous is the term I shall choose.”

Ayisha spent the better part of the next three days, on and off, mending the entire contents of Jack’s sea chest—stitching up every ripped seam, every ragged tear, and patching all the holes. She even picked out his own clumsy attempts at mending and re-did them neatly. When she finished the clothing, she darned all of his stockings. Then she did the same thing with Robby’s sea chest.

Neither Ayisha nor Tarek left the Wicked Wench during her stay in Antigua. Free blacks were so unusual that they were in danger of being accosted by local authorities, who might well demand to see their official papers—and, of course, they had none. So the two Zerzurans perforce remained aboard, watching the off-loading, then the loading, of cargo.

Chamba did take shore leave, but was under strict orders from Jack to remain with his mates at all times. “I have no papers for you, lad,” Jack reminded him. “So if you got picked up as a runaway, I’d have a bloody difficult time getting you released, savvy?”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Ayisha watched Chamba head off down the gangplank, in the company of his mates. She sighed, thinking of how good it would feel to have solid earth beneath her feet. But Jack was right; it was too risky for her to leave the ship. Feeling depressed and frustrated, she decided to go back to her cabin. Perhaps she’d take a nap.

As she headed across the weather deck, she heard footsteps thudding up the ladder from the main deck, and Jack emerged. He was wearing his newly mended snuff-colored coat. “Ayisha!” he exclaimed. “I was looking for you.”

She tried to smile. “You have found me, Jack.”

“I just took a look in me sea chest, and found your handiwork. I haven’t thanked you for all that mending you did,” he said. “So…thank you.” He gave her his most charming smile. The sight of him inexplicably cheered her, and she found her own smile turning genuine.

“You are most welcome, Jack,” she said.

“Wait, that isn’t all, love,” he said. “I’d meant to return them to you before, but I forgot.” Holding out his hand, he opened it, to reveal her Zerzuran gold earrings. “Small enough thanks for what you did, since they’re yours, after all, but, here you are, darlin’.”

Ayisha smiled. “My earrings! My father gave those to me. I am so glad to have them back.” Quickly, she slipped the wires through the holes in her earlobes.

Jack nodded. “They’re beautiful.” He gave her a wry glance. “I’ll look forward to seeing you wear them as your proper self one of these days…and when you do, their beauty will fade by comparison.”

It took Ayisha a moment to puzzle this out, but when she did, she could feel heat rise in her cheeks. She dropped her gaze, not knowing what to say. “Thank you, Jack,” she managed, after a moment.

“Well, I’m off for a bit of shore leave,” he said. “Robby will be on watch while I’m ashore, so if there’s anything you need…”

“I’ll be fine.”

She watched him head off across the weather deck, then down the gangplank, and thought how lucky she was. What if Jack Sparrow had actually been the man Cutler Beckett had believed him to be? If Jack had been that man, it would have meant the destruction of her homeland, the end of all she held dear.

But Jack Sparrow wasn’t anything like Cutler Beckett or Mercer. He was, as her father had said, a good man, a man who was doing his best to fulfill his promise to the dying pharaoh. Recalling how she had treated him for those first few weeks after they’d met, Ayisha bit her lip. She’d been cold, cynical, and imperious.

Touching an earring, she thought, I owe him so much. How can I ever repay him?

As she headed down the ladder to the main deck, she found herself thinking about the contents of Jack’s sea chest. She’d seen Jack’s new clothes, folded and put away, saved for special occasions. They were well-made garments, of good-quality fabric, but they were completely plain. Knowing Jack, he probably wished they weren’t plain. A slow smile curved Ayisha’s mouth as she recalled the rose and periwinkle paint in his cabin. Jack’s taste definitely ran to the bright and flamboyant, though he’d apparently never had the money to indulge his inclinations in his clothing. As she reached the bottom of the ladder, she paused, as an idea struck her. I have the gold and silver thread, and the colorful embroidery silk. Why not put them to good use? I enjoy doing fancy work. Why not?

Turning around, she headed back up the ladder, moving briskly. She had seen where Chamba put the key to the captain’s cabin. She’d fetch the clothes now, while he was gone, and set to work in secret. I’ll surprise him.…

By the time the Wicked Wench left Antigua, loaded with barrels of molasses and sugar, Ayisha had begun her project. She used the gold thread to embroider the big turned-back cuffs and the lapels of the collarless jacket, decorating them with intricate scrollwork. By the time she was finished, Lord Penwallow himself would have been pleased to don that coat.

Next she turned her attention to the canary-colored waistcoat. The front side of the vestlike garment took much more time than the coat to embroider. Current fashion in men’s waistcoats dictated they be worn long, nearly as long as the coats, which reached all the way to the wearer’s knee. Using all her god-granted talent and skill, Ayisha created a fanciful design of twining vines, using pale green thread that was tasteful, but vivid. The green was the same color as the gem in her bracelet, the chip that had been taken from the Heart of Zerzura itself. Luckily, that silk thread had been purchased for a new waistcoat for Mr. Beckett, one she hadn’t made before she left. So she had many skeins of it.

When the vines were finished, she accented them with little white lilies and blue flowers, using the same shade of blue as the coat.

After the ship left Antigua, Jack continued northwest as though he were following the Triangle, but that was coincidental; his course headings were actually determined by Tia Dalma’s compass. It led them northwest, past Puerto Rico, Hispaniola, and Cuba.

Ayisha completed her work on the waistcoat the day the Wicked Wench passed the Inagua Islands, just north of the eastern tip of Cuba. She waited until Jack was busy up on the bow, then smuggled the embellished garments back into his sea chest.

The next morning, as Jack checked the compass heading, he gave Ayisha a satisfied nod. “It’s my guess Shabako is on New Avalon, love. It’s the northernmost island where the soil is rich enough to raise sugarcane, and a lot of slave ships are bound there. I’ve been there many times, and I know the general layout. We’ll put in at the biggest port, Viviana, where the Viviana River flows into the harbor. All the plantations transport their cane products by boat, so each plantation has its own dock. We’ll row down the river, and you can watch the compass as we pass each dock.”

Ayisha could hardly believe they were actually coming to the end of the voyage. “How long before we arrive?” she asked.

“New Avalon is about forty miles north of the largest of the Ragged Islands. We’re sailing into the heart of the Bahamas, now. Lots of shoals, so we’ll anchor by night, and only sail by day. Too risky, otherwise. So…two days sail, most likely,” Jack said, and then opened his mouth to add something, but Ayisha beat him to it.

“Depending on the wind, of course!”

Jack laughed.

Two days later, Jack, Chamba, and Ayisha rowed up the Viviana River in one of the Wicked Wench’s boats. As Jack had said, each plantation had its own dock. Ayisha kept a close eye on the compass.

As they reached the fourth dock along the river, the needle stopped swinging and pointed directly inland. Ayisha started down at it, her entire body suddenly rigid with tension. She had to wet her lips before she could speak. “This is the one.”

Jack nodded, and motioned to Chamba to turn the boat around. “Back to the ship. I’ll head into town and find out who owns that plantation.” He smiled wryly. “Small world. If I’m not mistaken, our target lies next door to Lord Penwallow’s new home.”

When Jack returned from his venture into Viviana, he called a council of war in his cabin. Ayisha and Tarek sat at the table, Jack and Robby took their places on the bunk, and Chamba sat cross-legged on the deck. It was hot in the cabin, but the stern windows did allow a bit of a breeze.

“I had a few drinks at The Mermaid’s Tale,” Jack said, “And the tavern keeper proved most helpful. Seems the plantation where Shabako is located is called Wickhaven, and it’s the property of one St. John Fenwick. He’s been here seven years, which makes his place one of the oldest on New Avalon. Fenwick owns over one hundred slaves.”

“Do we have enough money to just buy Shabako from Fenwick?” Robby asked. “I’ve got a bit put by.”

“So do I,” Jack said. Robby gave him a surprised glance. Jack shrugged. “Male slaves fetch a good price, so I frankly doubt it, but that would be the simplest way of getting him. But before we go there to buy a slave, we’d need to be sure the lad is, in fact, at Wickhaven.”

“Cap’n,” Chamba said, “you need to think ’bout this. If you turn up at a big plantation askin’ to see every buck they got on the place, ’cause you only want one particular slave, it gonna look pretty strange. While it be true that someone might offer to buy a skilled worker, the way Mr. Beckett arrange to buy Miss Ayisha, ain’t nobody gonna go lookin’ for one particular field hand. And from what I been told, that’s what Shabako most likely to be.”

Tarek said something in his native language, and Ayisha hastily translated. “Tarek was a field hand at Mr. Dalton’s farm. He confirms that it would definitely arouse suspicion for a stranger to show up and buy one lad not much older than Chamba. Most slave owners wouldn’t want a youth, they would want a man in his prime.”

“Do we care if they’re suspicious?” Robby said. “What difference does it make, after all? We’re just going to sail away, and leave them with a puzzle.”

“There’s another problem,” Jack said. “If I go to Wickhaven to buy Shabako—and this is presuming we have enough money to make a reasonable offer—how will I be able to pick him out from the others? I’ve never seen the lad.”

“There is a family resemblance,” Ayisha said. “His eyes are like mine, same color skin, and hair, same nose and chin.”

“In that case…” Robby was obviously choosing his words with great care. “He should be…distinctive. You’ll be able to recognize him easily, Jack.”

Jack opened his mouth to point out the error of this, then realized that Robby was referring to Ayisha’s illusion. He kept silent. Neither Robby nor Chamba had ever seen her true face. But it wasn’t his place to correct them.

He glanced over at the princess. She was looking from Robby to Chamba, then back again. Suddenly her shoulders straightened, and she rose to her feet. “I need to tell you something. I feel we are friends, as well as allies in this mission. Robby…Chamba…my appearance at the moment is an illusion I created to…” She faltered, then looked to Jack for help.

“When she was captured, Ayisha created an illusion to help keep her safe from the slave traders and others who might want to harm her, if they saw her true appearance,” Jack said.

“Yes. So…this is my true self.” She slid the gray shawl over her shoulders, and dropped it to the deck. Jack heard Robby and Chamba gasp. “I believe you understand my reasons, now,” Ayisha added, and sat back down.

As Robby and Chamba sat there, staring wide-eyed at her, Jack cleared his throat loudly. “Back to the business at hand, mates. You can see now why I probably wouldn’t stand much chance of recognizing Shabako. I might be able to pick him out of a group of a dozen slaves, but not a hundred. It would take forever.”

Chamba never took his eyes off Ayisha’s face as he spoke, “Cap’n, and there be another problem. You go there and talk to this Mr. Fenwick, say you want just one slave out of all of them. You look and look, and finally you see Shabako, say. All the while, Mr. Fenwick, he be noticin’ how picky you are, how you really don’t want anyone but this one slave. What he gonna do about the price he ask to sell him?”

“He’ll raise the price,” Robby said. “Figure he can get double, maybe triple what the lad is worth, if Jack wants him that much.”

Jack had been doing some calculations in his head. “This won’t wash, mates,” he said. “We couldn’t possibly raise that much. The going price these days for a male slave in his prime would run, say, between one hundred and two hundred pieces of eight. In pounds sterling, the currency the EITC uses, that would equal between sixty and one hundred and twenty pounds. And, if Fenwick caught on, Chamba’s right. He’d demand more than the going price.”

The sailors gazed at each other, daunted. Sixty pounds! That was a lot of money. Fifty pounds was enough to maintain a middle-class family in England for a year.

“I got five pounds saved, me,” Chamba said. “How about you?”

“I have twenty,” Robby said.

“And I have fifteen pounds,” Jack said. “Forty pounds between us. Damn.”

“What about my earrings?” Ayisha said, with a slight catch in her voice. “You could sell them.”

“No, love,” Jack said. “They’re pretty, but they’re not worth that much. The stones are tiny. Gold is sold by weight, and they’re not that heavy. It’s not worth your giving them up.” He sighed, then added, absently, “I wish now I hadn’t bought those new shoes today. But there was a cobbler’s next door to the tavern, and he gave me a good price.”

“Jack, the price of the shoes wouldn’t have made any difference,” Robby pointed out. “You needed those shoes. I’ve seen the holes in your soles.”

Jack rose from the bunk and began to pace. “We need to think of another way,” he muttered, then brightened slightly. “A bit of a libation might help. Always helps me think…”

Heading over to his captain’s pantry, Jack returned with a motley assortment of battered tin cups and pewter tankards, carrying a bottle of wine beneath his arm. Uncorking it, he poured a dollop of wine into each of the cups, then passed them out to the group. “One cup short,” he said, looking at the last of the wine, and shrugged. “Oh well. Bottoms up.”

Raising the bottle to his lips, he polished off the contents, grimacing as he encountered the dregs. The others sipped their wine in silence. Jack waited a few minutes, then looked around at the group. “No brilliant inspirations yet?”

Everyone shook his or her head.

“C’mon, mates!” Jack said. “Think!” Rising, he collected the cups and the empty bottle, then stumbled. “Damn!” He looked down. “Oh. My new bloody shoes.”

He put the cups into the pantry, then bent over and picked up the shoes. “Better put these away before someone else falls over ’em,” he muttered, to nobody in particular. Going over to his sea chest, Jack threw the lid open.

Ayisha raised her head, watching intently.

Jack looked down, eyes widening as he saw the sparkle of gold. “What’s this?” Reaching down, he pulled out the blue coat, and shook it out. “This isn’t—” He looked more closely. “It is my coat. But…” He looked over at Ayisha and fingered the embroidery on the cuff. “You did this, love?”

Smiling shyly, she nodded. “It’s the fashion. Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” Jack said. Reaching down, he picked up the waistcoat. “And this…it’s a work of art.” He smiled. “I never thought I’d be able to afford anything like this. Thank you!”

“I’m glad you like it,” Ayisha said.

“Try it on, Cap’n,” Chamba urged.

Jack obediently stripped off his battered old coat and waistcoat, then pulled on the embroidered waistcoat, buttoning enough buttons to hold it together. He slipped the blue coat over it, then looked down at himself. “My word,” he said, slowly. “I look a right dandy, don’t I? Just like a lord.”

Turning, he struck a pose, and said, in a perfect imitation of an upper-crust accent, “Good afternoon, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Lord Spar—”

Breaking off, Jack stood there for a long moment in silence. Then he smiled, a smile that gradually widened to a roguish grin. “This gives me an idea. It’ll work, I know it will!”

Bright and early the next morning, a hired barouche left Viviana, and turned onto the main road leading to the plantations, increasing speed to a spanking trot. The open vehicle was drawn by a team of smartly matched chestnuts, and driven by a big, liveried coachman wearing a white powdered wig that contrasted with his dark features. A young, slightly built footman dressed identically stood balanced behind the passenger seats, which contained only one occupant: an elegantly dressed young man with a head of long, dark, elaborately curled hair beneath his plumed hat. The highborn passenger sat upright, his nose cocked at just the right angle, as the barouche barreled down the road.

When the vehicle reached the small but elegant sign that read “Sweet Providence,” it turned off on the narrow lane, and proceeded along it until it reached the almost completed plantation house.

Pulling up before the front door, the coachman brought the vehicle to a smart halt, then set the brake. The footman leaped down from the back to open the passenger door and let down the steps, so the occupant could descend. The elegantly dressed young man rose and climbed out of the barouche, turning carefully so his lightweight dress sword, in its decorative sheath, would not trip him up.

Leaving his slaves to wait with the vehicle, the young man strode confidently up to the beautifully carved front door of the big plantation house, where he knocked briskly. Moments later, a white butler appeared at the door. After a swift assessment of the visitor’s clothing, the man bowed, rather deeply. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” said the young man. “Is Tobias Montgomery here?”

“Mr. Montgomery is out back, sir,” the butler replied. “May I tell him who is calling?”

“Certainly,” the young man said. “Please tell Mr. Montgomery that the Honorable Frederick Penwallow, Baron Mayfaire, is here to see him, and that my father, Lord Penwallow, sends his greetings.”

The butler’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir! I’ll fetch him immediately. Please, won’t you come in and make yourself comfortable, sir, while you wait? I’ll tell the maid to bring you some refreshment. We weren’t expecting you, sir! Did you just arrive?”

The young man vanished into the house. His slaves, who had heard the exchange, glanced at each other and gave a small, conspiratorial nod.

After a while, the head groom came running from the direction of the stables. The man bustled up to the coachman, and nodded. “Mornin’. Mister Tobias, he sent me to fetch Lord Penwallow’s son’s horses and see they’re watered. C’mon with me, it be good to get out of this sun.”

The three slaves climbed into the barouche and drove around behind the plantation house, where the recently built stables stood. They were still so new that one could smell the fresh cut wood. There weren’t many horses residing there yet, just the plantation teams and the overseer’s mount. After tending to the team, the three slaves sat down on benches built beneath the trees, overlooking the newly constructed paddocks, to await their masters’ convenience.

After a refreshing cup of tea and a mid-morning bite, Mr. Montgomery and young Baron Frederick exited the rear door of the plantation, and stood on the enormous patio before the newly installed Venetian fountain, watching teams of gardeners busily working on various flower beds.

Montgomery had already led the newcomer on a tour of the nearly completed house, and now it was time to see the plantation grounds. The two set off, walking through the gardens, heading first for the stables and outbuildings.

The tour of the nascent plantation took only an hour or so of fairly brisk walking, because there wasn’t that much to see yet. Slave crews were still clearing ground for plantings. The smell of burning trees and vegetation lingered sharp in the nostrils as they walked past the soon-to-be crop fields, where other slaves worked at grubbing up roots and turning over the soil.

After they’d seen the fields, Montgomery led the owner’s heir on a tour of where the buildings and equipment necessary for processing the raw sugarcane were still under construction. They finished the tour with a walk down to the river to see the newly constructed dock where boats would, one day, transport the barrels of molasses and sugar to the port.

As the two men walked back toward the plantation house, Tobias Montgomery kept up a running commentary on the sugarcane business and its complexities. He stressed the need for more labor to clear more ground.

Lord Penwallow’s heir nodded. “I believe my father mentioned to me that he planned to purchase an entire shipload of prime blacks, and ship them here as soon as may be.” Young Baron Frederick looked around him as they walked, and sighed, his expression clearly that of a man who had expected to see more.

“It takes time to clear the fields, and prepare them for planting, sir,” Montgomery said, earnestly. “I’ve kept the crews working hard, I assure you. I haven’t spared the lash.”

“Yes, yes,” said Frederick. “Of course. I understand. It’s just that…” He trailed off with a sigh.

“Just what, sir? Is there something I can do?”

“I had hoped to tour a functioning plantation, one where the crops were actually growing, and production was taking place, you know,” the baron replied, in his elegant accent that practically dripped breeding and wealth. “On our way here, I saw that our neighbor appears to have a smooth-running operation that is actually producing molasses and sugar.” His handsome features beneath the long, thick, elaborately curled coiffure frowned thoughtfully. “What was the name of his place? Wickham, was it?”

“Wickhaven. Belongs to St. John Fenwick. He’s a nice chap, sir. I’m sure he’d love to give you a complete tour; he’s very proud of his place.” Montgomery glanced at the position of the sun, and added, in a conspiratorial tone, “Tell you what, sir. His lady wife keeps a notable table. They’re always inviting me to dine with them. If we were to drive over now, we’re certain to be asked to dine with them. And afterward, I know Fenwick would be delighted to show you over the place.”

The baron hesitated. “I wouldn’t think of imposing…”

“You wouldn’t be, sir! Mistress Fenwick will be thrilled to have a young man of your rank and breeding dine with them…and you’re a neighbor to be, sir!” He smiled slyly. “St. John has a daughter…pretty lass.”

Baron Frederick considered this. “Very well, that sounds ideal, Mr. Montgomery. We can take my hired barouche.”

They headed for the stables.

* * *

Jack took his seat at Mistress Fenwick’s dining room table with a murmured word of thanks to his hostess.

He couldn’t help noticing that he’d been seated beside sixteen-year-old Rebecca Fenwick. Tobias Montgomery had told the truth; she was indeed a pretty girl. Her honey-colored hair was dressed in elaborate ringlets, and she wore a pink afternoon dress trimmed with delicate handmade white lace.

Jack smiled complacently. Rebecca’s lace was almost as elegant as the Brussels lace cascading from the cravat of his own—rented—shirt. The lace spilled like sea foam from the neck of Jack’s embroidered waistcoat, and also hung below his extravagant gold-embroidered cuffs, so long it nearly concealed his knuckles. Jack picked up his wineglass and took a sip. When he placed the fragile goblet back down on the damask tablecloth, he took a moment to admire the way his fingers looked against the hand-blown crystal. Even he, who had spent half an hour in the predawn dimness scrubbing them, could scarcely believe the cleanliness of his own fingernails.

He smiled at Miss Fenwick, and she shyly smiled back, before blushing and looking down at her plate. Her complexion was the fabled English peaches-and-cream, and there were only a few tiny freckles on her pert little nose. Her hazel eyes were kept modestly cast down, as she picked up her fork, but Jack could tell she was aware of “Baron Frederick’s” every move and word. From the way her mama had eyed him, Jack figured that her daughter had been instructed to be very nice to their unexpected visitor.

A serving man came by to fill his plate, and Jack glanced sideways again, discreetly, at the bodice of Miss Fenwick’s dress. For her age, she filled it out very well, he decided. Idly, he wondered just how “nice” he might induce the young lady to be, if he could manage to get her alone. But after a moment, he squelched his growing fantasy. He wasn’t here for dalliance, and it would hardly be fair to Lord Penwallow, who was a harmless old fellow—if more than a bit pompous—to seduce his neighbor’s daughter, and risk possible repercussions and ill-will.

Not without a bit of regret, Jack turned his attention to his host, and the mealtime conversation.

Thanks to his memory of that luncheon at Cutler Beckett’s house, he navigated his way through the courses and cutlery like a true blue-blooded nabob. “Frederick” entertained his hosts with tales of his fox-hunting prowess, most of them based on assorted woodcuts and hunting prints that Jack had seen hanging on walls in pubs. His tales about Caesar, his renowned hunter that could leap any obstacle, were met with gasps of admiration from Miss Fenwick.

“So tell me Miss Fenwick,” Jack drawled, “when were you ‘blooded,’ m’dear?”

“Blooded?” she repeated, sounding perplexed. “I’m sorry, Baron, I don’t know what that means.”

Jack smiled tolerantly. “No need to be embarrassed, eh wot? I was blooded at the age of twelve, but most don’t manage that.”

She looked at him and smiled, then shrugged slightly. “I’ve never heard that term, Baron.”

Jack gave her a kindly smile. “Blooded means you’ve been in at the kill, and marked with reynard’s blood,” he explained. “Only the very best riders can keep up with the hounds the entire run, eh wot?”

“Oh,” said Miss Fenwick. “It sounds…very exciting, Baron.”

Jack gazed around the table in feigned bafflement. “Do you mean to say you really don’t ride to hounds, Miss Fenwick? What about you, Mr. Fenwick? Or you, Montgomery?”

St. John Fenwick patted his mouth with his napkin, perhaps hiding his discomfort at being found lacking in civilized pastimes. “I fear not, Baron Frederick. You see, English foxes are not native to New Avalon.”

“No foxes?” Jack stared at them all in utter dismay. “Lud, no! You can’t be serious!”

“No foxes, Baron,” Montgomery said. “We do ride, however.”

Jack cleared his throat. “I see. Well, I’m sure there are other worthwhile pastimes.” He applied himself to his beef.

As the meal ended, Tobias Montgomery asked St. John Fenwick whether he’d consent to show Baron Frederick around his plantation, and Fenwick graciously replied that nothing would please him more.

Montgomery himself begged off from accompanying them, saying that he was expecting a delivery of goods. He refused Fenwick’s offer of a horse to ride back, saying he would take the shortcut path back through the woods to reach Sweet Providence. “It isn’t but a twenty minute walk,” he assured his hosts.

Then he turned to Jack. “Unless you would like me to stay, Baron Frederick?” he asked.

“Lud, no.” Jack smiled, and nodded. “You tend to your duty for my father. I assure you that I’ll inform him how faithfully you perform your work, Mr. Montgomery. I can find my way back from here, mark my words. Thank you for the tour this morning. I shall be seeing you again, soon.”

“It was my pleasure, Baron!”

Jack and Fenwick waved farewell to the overseer from the columned portico of Wickhaven, as Montgomery set off for Penwallow’s plantation.

After the overseer had disappeared into the woods, Jack formally took leave of his hostess, bowing over her hand with all the elegance he’d watched Christophe display so many times to Esmeralda. Then he said farewell to Rebecca, but instead of simply bowing over her hand, he kissed her knuckles, then, gazing deeply into her eyes, he vowed to return, his voice so full of meaning that he might have been vowing undying devotion. He gave her one last, faintly wicked smile, and left her standing in the doorway, blushing and looking a bit weak in the knees.

That was fun, Jack thought, stepping down the two steps from the wide, columned porch. Without looking around, he snapped his fingers, and his two “slaves” fell in behind him. One carried a flask, filled with watered wine, the other a silk parasol to shield his “master’s” head from the unrelenting Caribbean sun.

Jack and St. John Fenwick headed down the road leading to the fields, with Jack chattering away, expressing his avid interest in how sugarcane was grown, harvested, then turned into molasses, sugar…and rum. Jack found himself wondering whether Fenwick’s tour might include some free samples of high quality rum.…

First, they toured the fields, where sweating, nearly naked Africans were toiling in the sun, cutting cane. It was grueling, backbreaking labor. The men, every muscle outlined on their lean torsos, grunted with effort as they chopped the cane with machetes, letting it fall to the ground, where other slaves, smaller, slighter ones, bound it into bundles, carried it over to carts, and piled it up. Still other slaves drove the creaking, loaded carts to the places where, Jack knew, yet more slaves loaded the cane into a press, then teams of sweating slaves pushed against giant, many-spoked wheels that turned those presses, extracting the liquid from the chopped canes.

Sugarcane production had, Jack knew, the highest mortality rate of any crop grown in the New World. Cane plantations always needed fresh infusions of slaves; few men lasted as long as five years after being unloaded from the slavers.

Now, as he stood beneath the shade of the parasol held by Chamba, watching the cane choppers work, Jack wondered how any of them survived even a day of this kind of labor. Personally, he figured he wouldn’t have lasted two hours.

Boys and youths ran back and forth, up and down the rows, wearing yokes across their shoulders so they could carry two large water buckets. As they reached each worker in their assigned rows, they would stop, scoop up a dipperful of water, and hold it out to the man chopping the cane.

Jack scanned the rows of workers, trying to see whether any of the choppers, water boys, or cane bundlers looked anything like Ayisha, but he knew his chances of seeing Shabako, if he was even present here, and not at the pressing mill or the place where the cane syrup was boiled down, were dim. He was tempted to glance back at Tarek, but he didn’t want to interrupt the big eunuch’s concentration, knowing he was scanning the rows, worker by worker, looking for a face he hadn’t seen for four years.

Instead Jack glanced past the field, to where a grove of trees stood beside a rutted cart track. The ground sloped downward in that area. Jack glanced upward at the position of the sun, and verified that the cart track must lead down to the plantation’s dock.

Luckily, St. John Fenwick seemed capable of going on about the cane business ad infinitum. Jack made sure to keep an expression of intent concentration plastered on his face, and he listened just enough to be able to throw in the occasional, “That’s fascinating!” and “Then what happens?” whenever the plantation owner seemed to be slowing down. While they were standing there, he saw two men collapse, falling face down into the dirt beside their machetes. Each time, the overseer would motion to several of the workers whose task it was to bundle the cane, and they would grab the limp body and carry it over to some shade, accompanied by one of the water boys. It was the water boy’s responsibility to then douse the unconscious chopper with water, then give him dipperfuls to drink, until he was sufficiently recovered to return to work. Jack wondered how many of them never recovered from their swoon.

Just as Jack figured that they’d struck out on the cane-harvesting operation, and was getting ready to suggest following the carts to the cane-pressing area, he felt something bump against the fashionable red heel of his elegant, silver-buckled black—and rented—shoe. He tensed, and the nudge came again. Jack smiled at his host, and as Fenwick reached the end of a sentence, waved to get his attention. “Excuse me,” he said. “I feel the need for a little libation here. This heat certainly does parch one, doesn’t it?”

Turning to Tarek, Jack held out his hand, and the eunuch placed his flask in it. As he did so, he held up his fingers, moving them quickly, precisely, as Jack silently counted. Then the big man touched first one shoulder, then the other.

Fifteenth row. Jack puzzled for a moment over the meaning of the two shoulder-touches. He removed the top of the flask, and took several swallows, thinking. Tarek made the shoulder-gesture again, and this time Jack got it.

One of the water carriers in the fifteenth row is Shabako!

Jack nodded quickly, then turned to Fenwick. “Care for a drink?” He held out his flask.

“Thank you,” Fenwick said. “It does make one thirsty to just watch them, doesn’t it?”

Jack nodded, absently. “Could we walk around a bit?” he asked, casually. “See the operation a bit closer up?”

“Certainly, Baron,” Fenwick agreed.

Jack didn’t wait for his host, but started off, walking along the row of workers, counting silently. One…two…three…four…

Ayisha sat in the small boat, her shawl pulled up so it shielded her head, gazing tensely at the fourth dock on the river. With her were Etienne de Ver and Lucius Featherstone, whom Jack had delegated to row her down the river. Once they’d reached the designated spot on the slow-moving water, the Frenchman and the Englishman had taken out fishing poles, and dropped their unbaited lines into the water, so they wouldn’t attract undue attention.

“Miss Ayisha,” de Ver said, in his strongly accented English, “here, you should have something to drink. The sun…he is very hot.” He held out a canteen.

“Thank you, Etienne,” she said, gratefully, and drank several gulps of the watered ale, then returned the canteen.

Without a word, de Ver then placed the canteen between himself and Featherstone. After a moment, Featherstone glanced over, as if just noticing its presence for the first time, then picked it up and drank. Then he capped it and placed it back on the seat between himself and the Frenchmen.

Etienne de Ver picked it up and made quite a show of wiping off the spout before he, too, drank.

If Ayisha hadn’t been so intent on watching the Wickhaven dock, she would have rolled her eyes. As it was, she just sighed.

She’d listened to the stern instructions Jack had given both crewmen.

“Listen up, mates. I’m assigning you lads to row Miss Ayisha down the river. You will obey her orders, lads, without question. If all goes well, you’ll be picking up the young man we’ve come here to find today, the African prince, Miss Ayisha’s nephew. Remember, lads, Mr. Beckett sent us here to rescue this prince for the EITC. So no mistakes. Once Miss Ayisha identifies him, you’re to row him back here to the ship, and keep him hidden while you do it. Savvy?”

“Aye, Cap’n Sparrow,” they’d chorused.

“Take a blanket with you, to hide the lad you’ll be picking up. Also take pistols and cutlasses with you, so you can protect Miss Ayisha, should that prove necessary, lads. Which I don’t think it will, but that’s why I picked you two. Because you’re both trained soldiers.”

Both crewmen, Ayisha noticed, stood a bit taller, hearing the captain’s words.

“You don’t want to draw attention to yourselves,” Jack said. “Take fishing poles with you.”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

Jack’s voice had then fallen to a near whisper. “Lads, I’m counting on you to be…discreet. Do not discuss this mission, or anything you see while on it, with anyone. Ever. Savvy?”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

“Miss Ayisha…she’s been in disguise this whole voyage, y’see,” Jack had confided. “In order to effect this rescue, she’ll need to remove her…mask. Don’t ever discuss what you see when she does that. Savvy?”

“Aye, Cap’n!” Both sailors had given her a quick, sideways glance.

Jack had started to move away, then swung back, and lowered his voice once more, beckoning his men to move in close. “One more thing. If Miss Ayisha tells me that either of you subjects her to your tiresome, ridiculous squabbling”—his voice had dripped sarcasm—“while on this mission, I know two crewmen who will not be making the grade as ‘able seamen’ when the Wench returns to Calabar. Are we clear on this, lads? Do you savvy?”

“Aye Captain Sparrow!” they chorused, with equal fervor.

Thinking of that moment, Ayisha smiled slightly, despite her inner tension and the need for unceasing watchfulness. From the moment she’d climbed into the dinghy, neither crewman had addressed so much as a word to each other.

For the hundredth time that afternoon, Ayisha tugged her shawl around her to hide her movements from her companions, then she reached into the bodice of her dress and withdrew Tia Dalma’s compass. Quickly, she flipped it open and glanced down at the needle. It pointed steadily at the Wickhaven dock, as it had every time before.

Then, just as she was about to close the compass and put it back in the bosom of her dress, she paused, her attention riveted.

It was a tiny motion, scarcely discernible. She narrowed her eyes to make sure she was actually seeing it.

She was seeing it. Ever so slightly, the compass needle was quivering.

Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…

Jack stopped at the head of the fifteenth row, watching the water carrier trotting back from the water barrels, balancing his sloshing buckets. As the lad trotted past him, he could see his features, and—yes. He could see the family resemblance. That’s Shabako.

He waited, standing there patiently, knowing that Tarek must be signaling Chamba, as they had arranged previously. Jack took a deep breath, as he waited for the next act of their little comedy. Or was it a drama? He couldn’t decide.

As he stood there, Jack heard the sound he’d been expecting. Chamba gave a low moan. The white silk parasol came tumbling down, bouncing onto the dirt of the cane field, then lying there. Tarek cried out, a soft, wordless exclamation.

Jack swung around, to see Chamba lying limply on the ground. “What happened?”

Tarek babbled at him in pidgin, as he knelt beside the younger man, slapping his cheeks, trying to bring him around. Chamba, of course, did not respond.

Jack sighed theatrically, and picked up the parasol. He grimaced as he brushed dirt off it. “Lud, look at that, I’ll have to have it cleaned,” he commented. Then, looking down at Chamba, he shook his head, annoyed. “Fainted from the heat,” he said, to Fenwick. “What a nuisance.”

Fenwick nodded silent agreement.

Just then, Shabako trotted toward row fifteen, carrying fresh buckets of water. Jack gestured at the youth. “You there! Water boy! Over here!”

Obedient to the command of a white man, the young pharaoh turned and trotted toward him. With a rush of excitement, Jack noticed the battered strip of rawhide circling the youth’s wrist.

Tarek was kneeling beside Chamba, speaking again in pidgin. Jack knew what he was saying, even though he didn’t understand the words.

“Tarek,” Jack ordered, “you and this water boy, carry Chamba there, where those trees give some shade.” He pointed to the trees at the edge of the cart track leading down to the dock. “Keep him out of this sun, and give him water.”

Tarek nodded obediently.

“I’m going to continue my tour with Mr. Fenwick,” Jack added. “If Chamba comes to, you two meet me back in the carriage yard, by the barouche. I won’t be terribly long.”

Tarek asked him a question in pidgin. “Well, if he doesn’t come to, carry him back to my father’s plantation, and tell Mr. Montgomery I sent you. Tobias probably has someone that can help you see to him. It’s possible he’ll need bleeding, I suppose.”

Tarek inclined his head in a minimal bow, indicating he would follow his master’s orders.

Jack headed off with Fenwick. Together, they followed the loaded carts toward the cane-pressing equipment. With one part of his mind, he listed to Fenwick’s explanation about how the sugarcane juice was treated once it was squeezed from the pieces of cane by the giant press, but mostly he was conscious of the moments going by. In his mind’s eye, Jack could picture what was happening.…

In a few minutes, Shabako and Tarek would reach the shelter of the trees beside the cart track leading down to the river. In their shade, they’d gently put Chamba down, as close to the woods as they could, while still remaining in sight. If Shabako hadn’t already recognized Tarek, dressed as he was as a liveried servant, Tarek would then speak to the young pharaoh in their native language, explaining that he and Chamba had come there, with his sister, to free him.

Making sure that no one was watching them, Chamba and Shabako would move closer and closer to the woods, until they could slip out of sight behind the trees, leaving Tarek in sight of the cane field. When no one could see them, Chamba would change clothes with Shabako. The two youths were close to each other in height, they were about the same age, and they were both lean—though Shabako was much thinner. Jack had been able to count his ribs as the young pharaoh had approached them.

As soon as Shabako was wearing Chamba’s livery, the young pharaoh would head down to the river, to rendezvous with his sister. Then, with Shabako hidden in the bottom of the dinghy, de Ver and Featherstone would row back to the Wicked Wench as rapidly as they could. Ayisha and Robby would then conceal the young pharaoh aboard the Wench, just in case there was a hue and cry.

But Jack was pretty sure that nobody at Wickhaven would notice that Shabako was gone. Not until tomorrow night, at least.

That was because Chamba was going to put on Shabako’s discarded slave-rags, pick up his yoke with the water buckets, and then go back to work in the fields, carrying water to the cane choppers.

Tarek had explained to Jack that most slave owners, or even the overseers, couldn’t tell one black face from another. His fellow slaves might realize that Chamba wasn’t Shabako, but the lad planned to keep his distance from them. When the workers headed back to the slave compound near sunset, he’d mumble something in pidgin about having cramps in his gut, then head off to the public midden in the slave compound. Chamba would stay away from the other slaves, playing sick, until sunset, then line up with the others for the overseer’s head count. As long as the overseer counted the right number of slaves before darkness fell, no alarm would be raised.

In the middle of the night, when everyone was asleep, Chamba would sneak out of the compound, and head down to the river—where Jack, Robby, and an armed contingent of Jack’s most capable fighters would be waiting in a longboat, just in case anyone followed him and raised the alarm.

Jack told himself that Chamba would surely be able to escape. No fence could keep that agile lad inside the compound—even presuming there was a fence. He made a mental note to ask Shabako as soon as he arrived back at the ship.

If Chamba didn’t show up, Jack was fully prepared to lead his party to the slave compound, if that’s what it took. He was only too aware of the loyalty his crewman had shown him by agreeing to become a slave again for one more night. He would not leave him behind—he had given Chamba his word.

Jack listened to Fenwick, counting the minutes until he could thank his host for the tour, give Fenwick’s hand a hearty shake, then go back to the stables and climb into his rented barouche. After his experience with Caesar, Jack had gotten Tarek to show him how to drive this morning, before they’d set off along the plantation road. He felt fairly confident that he could drive the barouche for as long as it took to reach Tarek, who would be waiting for him, near the road, once he was out of sight of Wickhaven.

Taking a deep breath, Jack told himself to relax, that his plan was sound. He’d get back to Viviana, return the barouche and team, then take back the rented clothing and this cursed wig. Well before dawn, the Wicked Wench would turn her stern to the Viviana port…and Jack Sparrow would have two of the three bracelets necessary to get into the labyrinth.

Jack smiled faintly. Two down, one to go. You’re going to be very surprised when I come calling, Christophe.…

Ayisha shaded her eyes from the sun, then glanced back down at the needle of the Jack’s compass. It was still quivering.

When she looked up again, she saw a slender figure, clothed in servant’s livery, emerge from the woods beside the cart track, then walk out onto the dock.

Turning to de Ver and Featherstone, she said quietly, through the constriction in her throat, “There he is. Row for the dock, please.”

Quickly they stowed their fishing poles beneath the seats, then began rowing. The dinghy headed for the dock, where the liveried figure stood uncertainly, glancing back at the track, as though fearing pursuit.

Ayisha pulled her shawl over her head, then, remembering Jack’s nonsense about her wearing a “mask,” she moved around a little, as though some struggle was going on beneath the gray fabric. Ducking her chin against her chest, she quickly yanked the shawl down, shoving it beneath the opposite seat, so she would not inadvertently touch it.

With part of her mind, she heard the two sailors gasp as they took in her changed appearance, but Ayisha didn’t look around. Her eyes were fixed on the figure waiting on the dock. The dinghy was moving swiftly—now she could make out her brother’s features, his dear, familiar face, though older, thinner, fined down to sharp planes and adult angles by the lonely years, the suffering, and near-starvation. As the boat neared the dock, she waved, and saw Shabako recognize her. His teeth flashed in a white, ecstatic grin.

The boat bumped against the dock, and de Ver and Featherstone steadied it. Ayisha scrambled out, onto the dock, and then—Apedemak be praised!—her arms were wrapped tightly around her brother. They clung to each other, rocking back and forth a little, not daring to speak, clinging to each other like two shipwrecked sailors grasping the fragile safety of a broken spar.

Shabako was trying to hold back his sobs. Ayisha wiped her own tears from her eyes, and whispered, “Shabako, my dear one. Listen carefully. Get into the boat, and lie down, with your head between the seats, and your legs extended beneath the empty seat. We will cover you with a blanket, so you won’t be seen until we can get you aboard the ship. Before dawn we’ll be sailing away from here. You’ll be free.”

He nodded, then did as she bade, climbing down into the dinghy, then stretching out. The two crewmen covered him up. Featherstone extended a hand to help her step down onto the seat.

She settled down, arranging her skirts, and smiled at the two crewmen. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Now…back to the ship.”

They bobbed their heads at her in acknowledgment, then bent to the oars. The boat seemed to leap through the water like a startled horse.

Ayisha turned back once, to see the empty dock, now growing smaller by the moment. Then she faced forward again. Against her bare foot, she felt the roughness of the blanket, and then the warmth of her brother’s living body. She drew a long, contented breath, and offered up a silent prayer of thanks to her god.