CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Matter of Honor

BY THE TIME JACK, AMENIRDIS, AND TAREK made their way out of the temple, Jack was surprised to see that the trip through the labyrinth had taken no more than five hours. A glance at the sun showed him it was about noon.

Both he and Amenirdis were gritty with dust, as well as hungry and thirsty. “It is difficult to tell whether I want a bath or food more,” the princess said, thoughtfully, as they started up the hill toward the palace. Tarek paced them at a discreet distance.

“I know what I want,” Jack said. “A cup of rum and food.”

“Most of that can be arranged,” the princess said. “But I have decided. Bath first.”

“Can I watch?” Jack asked, hopefully.

“Only if you want to ruin my reputation for all time,” she replied. “You can go with Tarek to the male servants’ barracks, and wash off the dust while I have my bath. Then he can bring you back to the private courtyard the family uses, in the palace, and I’ll have food brought there.”

“We can’t eat in your rooms?

“My mother would disown me,” the princess declared.

Jack shrugged. Nothing ventured, as the old saying went. “I’ll need to be back aboard the Wench by four bells of the afternoon watch,” he said. “I told Robby to have all the water casks and provisions loaded by then, so we can set sail. Your people will be ready by then, right?”

“Tarek and I will be ready,” she said. “I spoke to the captain of the royal yacht. He will be ready. Must my brother come? He is very busy today, as you may well imagine.”

“I don’t think so, providing things go as you’ve planned. Ordinarily I’d have weighed anchor by now, but I want to give Christophe plenty of time to sail away. How long will the illusion you cast on the rock last?”

“It will last for a little while once they are on the other side of the protective illusion,” she said. “Perhaps an hour, maybe a bit more.”

“Enough time for him to sail six or seven miles,” Jack said, nodding. “That should be far enough to prevent him seeing us when we come out.”

“What if he is close enough to see your ship?”

“I’m not that concerned about it, love. His crew has had a chance to watch the Wicked Wench. They know that she’s bigger and faster than La Vipère—they chased us across the whole bloody Atlantic, now, didn’t they?” Jack chuckled. “Come to think of it, they may actually have believed that the Wench is a pirate vessel, because of that time I ran up the Jolly Roger—in which case, they’d be convinced we have more guns than we actually have. The men aboard La Vipère have gotten a nice prize from this venture, because of that bag Christophe carried away with him. They’ll be content with that, and have no interest in taking on the Wench, even if Christophe flies into a rage and orders them to do it.”

“But don’t they have to follow orders, the way your men do?”

Jack shook his head. “Pirates are different from merchant vessels or the navy. A captain’s word is law during battle, but pirates pride themselves on being more or less equals. The captain, quartermaster, first mate and ship’s surgeon—if they’re lucky enough to have a surgeon—usually get a bigger share of the prize, because they have more responsibility. They need more experience, to fill those posts.

“But a pirate captain has to be careful about what he orders. If he consistently shows bad judgment, or acts off his head, or he repeatedly angers his men, say by unfairly flogging them, the crew will meet and elect a new captain. Don’t think it hasn’t happened, love.”

“But isn’t that mutiny?”

“Not if the crew feels they have just cause. I’ve heard of captains that wound up being marooned.” Jack shuddered. “That’s an unpleasant way to die, love.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Christophe is an experienced captain, even if he is a sodding rogue. He’d have to be barking mad to order his crew to attack the Wicked Wench.”

“Anyone who would kill people who had surrendered, just murder them in cold blood, is mad, Jack.”

Jack nodded. “There is that.”

After washing off the dust, Jack was escorted by Tarek to the small courtyard Amenirdis had mentioned. Servants brought them food and beer, and Jack and the eunuch shared a companionable chat while waiting for the princess to join them. She did, appearing much refreshed.

“I am sorry I am late,” she said, sitting down cross-legged at the low table. “I wanted to give my brother his bracelet, and our father’s bracelet. When I told him that we discovered the sacred word, he was much relieved. There are several candidates for the new high priest, and he hopes to appoint one very quickly.”

Servants placed food and drink before her, and she started in on them.

Before long, the meal was finished, and they rose to leave. Amenirdis smiled at Jack, a bit shyly. “Before we go, Jack, I have something for you. A gift. Actually, two gifts.”

Jack smiled. “A gift? Two gifts? Not used to receiving those, love. Thank you.” But after a second, his smile faded, and he looked down. “I don’t have anything for you, love. I should, shouldn’t I?”

“Jack,” she said to him, smiling, “today you gave me the best gift anyone ever has. Believe me.”

“I did?” He looked startled. “Um…don’t recall anything of the sort,” he said.

“I swear by Apedemak, I am telling you the truth,” she said solemnly. “Now hold out your hand.”

Jack held his right hand out, a bit nervously. Amenirdis produced a ring. “Let’s see what finger this will fit,” she said, and tried it. The middle finger proved a perfect fit. “There you go.”

Jack looked down at it. It was reddish gold, with blue enameled insets, and a large, red bezel. “Coral,” she said. “For my man from the sea.”

“I love jewelry,” Jack said. “It’s beautiful.” He turned it back and forth in the sunlight, admiring it, then, suddenly, his eyes widened in alarm. “Ummmm, darlin’, this doesn’t mean we’re married now, or anything like that, does it?”

Tarek, who was standing behind the princess, huge arms crossed over his massive chest, rolled his eyes.

Amenirdis burst out laughing. “No, Jack! I suppose I ought to feel insulted by that remark, but today, nothing you might do or say could upset me.”

Flustered, Jack stammered, “Uh, it’s not like that, love! I mean, it is, but it’s not, if you get my meaning. I was just…I’m not…I’m just not good enough for you, love.”

Tarek nodded solemn agreement with Jack’s statement.

“Yes, you are,” she insisted. “You’re a good man, and don’t let anyone tell you you’re not.”

After a moment, he nodded hesitantly. “All right, love. If you say so. I’m not used to thinking of meself like that, to be perfectly candid with you.”

“Jack, listen, this is not an ordinary ring one wears for adornment,” Amenirdis said. “I placed a spell on it. If you should ever want to come back to Zerzura, sail to within a league of the bearings you recorded, then breathe on the ring, all the while thinking of me. Then, just wait. I will come to you, through the illusion, and escort you through it, as I did before.”

Jack looked at the ring in wonder. “This means if I sail the Triangle, I can swing by, love. Especially after I buy my own ship, and have to answer to no one.”

She nodded. “I will look forward to those times, Jack.”

Then the princess picked up the other article she’d brought, and shook it out. It was a lengthy piece of hand-woven fabric, white with narrow magenta stripes running through the weave. “I made this for you while we were on the voyage,” she said, “on my little hand loom. I think it’s probably too long, but you can double it, like this.” Stepping close to him, she wrapped the fabric around his waist twice, then tied it so the extra hung in short loops. “If you tuck it up like this, it won’t show under your waistcoat, Jack.”

He looked down at the homespun, then rubbed it between his fingers. “Does this have magical properties too, love?”

She smiled at him. “I cannot guarantee that it will stop a weapon, Jack, but as I wove it, I chanted, and what I chanted were spells of protection. When you wear it, think of me. I will pray to Apedemak each day that my weaving will be strong enough to protect you from injury, or sickness, or harm.”

“Thank you, love,” he said, and kissed her, wishing Tarek would take the hint and make himself scarce. Regretfully, he recalled his time limitation.

When they drew apart, she cleared her throat. “It’s time to go, Jack.”

With Ayisha, Tarek, and Chamba on board, Jack sailed the Wicked Wench back through the fogbank. Once more he had a ship in his wake, but this time it was the royal yacht, Heka, a brightly painted vessel that had a crew of oarsmen, in addition to its single mast. On its bow was painted a large, kohled eye, on its stern a lotus, and on the sail was the head of a lion.

Despite his brave words to Amenirdis earlier, Jack was relieved to see no sign of Christophe’s brigantine when his ship emerged from the illusion.

Sailing through the illusion-fog to leave the island had been simple and painless compared to what they had experienced on the way in. This time there were no strange voices, no almost-seen images, no unsettling swirling of color. The air around the ship simply appeared foggy, though, as before, the “fog” carried no water to dampen things.

Jack kept the Wicked Wench under sail until the ship was nearly a league away from the fogbank. Then he ordered the crew to heave-to.

The Heka approached, until she was lying just a hundred feet away, and then the yacht lowered her sail.

Amenirdis faced Jack, her expression somber. “I fear it is time, Jack. Please assemble your men.”

Jack held up a finger. “Before I do that, I have a request to make. I’ve been thinking about what you said this spell would do, love, and, if you can control how it affects the crew, there’s an element needs to be added to it.”

“What is that?”

“From here, I’ll be sailing south to Calabar, much as I wish I didn’t have to.” Jack grimaced at the thought. “And as soon as I sail into the harbor there, I’m going to have to report to Cutler Beckett, and he’s bound to question my crew to verify what I tell him. In order to protect them—not to mention me own precious hide—can you cast your spell so they also forget about Christophe’s ship, and how it sailed with us across the Atlantic?”

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “I will require a quiet place to chant and concentrate, in order to add an additional spell-thread to my weaving, but that can be done. I’ll use your cabin, if you permit.”

Jack escorted her to the cabin, and then waited outside, on the weather deck. After a little while, the princess opened the door. “I have changed the parameter of the spell, to accomplish what you requested.”

“Thank you, love,” he said, relieved. “It will be difficult enough trying to give my report to Beckett, without having to think up an explanation for La Vipère.”

She nodded. “I do not envy you that, Jack. Beckett is a man obsessed.”

“He’s rich already,” Jack mused, as, together, they walked up to the bow again, and stood by the rail. “And a very powerful man in the EITC at such a young age. It’s hard to imagine why he wants more gold, more power. If Beckett enjoyed himself as a result of his wealth and power, I could understand it…but all he does is work. What’s the fun in being able to afford the very best of everything, if you never enjoy yourself ?”

She shrugged. “He might as well be royalty.” Then she glanced over at the waiting Heka and took a deep breath. “Jack, summon your crew. Make sure they are all seated on the deck.”

The captain ordered “All hands!” and made sure his crewmen were safely seated on the weather deck. He turned to the princess. “Ready.”

She nodded, then beckoned Chamba and Tarek to join them, and led the way up to the bow. “Stand behind me, please,” she ordered them.

Jack stepped behind her, hearing uneasy mutterings from his crew. He smiled at them reassuringly. This is for your own good, mates.…

Ayisha took out her hand loom. It was already strung with colorful threads. She began to chant, her voice rising and falling, as she swiftly cross-threaded more thread over and under the threads she had strung. At times the chant sounded melodic, then her voice would change, and it would sound deeper, more powerful. Jack glanced at the hand loom, and saw that a pattern was emerging.

He looked back up at his crew, and saw their heads and eyelids were drooping. Many were beginning to sway as they sat. Amenirdis continued her chant. Slowly, one by one, the Wicked Wench’s crew slumped over onto their sides, and slept.

Amenirdis’s voice dropped off, ending on one final note, just as her fingers tugged the last thread of the pattern into place.

Jack, who had never watched her actually cast a spell before, blinked, impressed. “My word, love! That was worthy of Tia Dalma!” Looking at her face, he hastily put out a hand to catch her arm as she swayed a bit.

“It…tires…one, Jack,” she said. “But I will be fine in a few minutes.”

“So how long will they sleep?”

“At least an hour, Jack, perhaps a bit more. When they awaken, they will remember nothing that happened after we first spotted the illusion-fog in the distance. They will remember nothing of penetrating the illusion, nothing of Kerma or what they saw there. And they will not remember Christophe’s ship.” She walked over to the ladder leading down to the weather deck and sat down heavily, as though her legs were wobbly.

Tarek came over, and produced a flask. “My lady, drink this. You need a restorative.”

“I could get her some rum,” Jack offered. “The good stuff.”

Tarek looked at him with mingled exasperation and amusement. “Rum at this time would knock her flat, Captain Sparrow. She needs this herbal drink, sweetened with honey. Believe me, I know how to take care of her.”

Jack pressed both hands together and made a respectful bob to the eunuch. “I know you do, Tarek. No one could do better.”

Amenirdis drank long and deep, then passed the flask back to her bodyguard. “That helped. Thank you, Tarek.” She rose to her feet. “It is time to depart.”

Tarek waved at the Heka, and a crewman waved back. A small boat headed for the Wench, rowed by two Kerman sailors.

Jack went down the steps from the bow and carefully rearranged several of his sleeping crewmen, so there was a clear path to the ship’s ladder. Chamba, Tarek, and Amenirdis followed him.

Chamba went first, so he could row over in one of the Wicked Wench’s longboats. After he’d climbed into the boat, Jack held out his hand. “Farewell, Chamba. You will certainly be missed aboard this ship. Oh, and by the way—I now declare you an able seaman.”

Chamba shook his hand. “Thank you, Captain. I sure will miss you, and Mister Robby, and everyone. Good men, all of them.” The sailor had to pause to clear his throat. “Here’s the letter you asked me to write, Captain.” He held out a folded piece of parchment to Jack.

“Thank you, Chamba. I wish you the best.”

Jack and Tarek lowered the longboat. Chamba picked up the oars, and began to row toward the Heka.

Then it was time for the two Zerzurans to depart. Tarek climbed down first, so he could assist Amenirdis. Jack nodded solemnly at the bodyguard, and Tarek nodded back.

The bodyguard then tossed up a line to Jack. It was attached to a good-sized sack. “The pharaoh sent this for you and your men, Captain.”

Jack pulled the sack up the side of the ship, hand over hand, then heaved it over the railing with a grunt of effort. “Heavy!” he said.

“The pharaoh wished to reward a job well done, as he promised he would,” Tarek reminded him.

Jack put the sack down, then turned to Amenirdis.

He gazed at her, finding there were no words he could say, not public ones, at any rate. She gazed back at him, and he knew she was experiencing the same problem.

He reached out both hands, and she put hers into them. Jack leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Fare you well, love,” he whispered. “I’ll miss you.”

“And I you, Jack,” she whispered in return. “You will be in my prayers every day.”

Then she stepped back. Jack let her slender, dark fingers slide through his. One last touch…

The princess climbed over the side and started down the ladder. When she neared the boat, Tarek reached up and lifted her down, depositing her on the seat.

She looked up, but did not wave, as the sailors rowed away.

For a moment Jack considered going to his cabin and getting his spyglass so he could watch them go, but one glance at his cluttered deck convinced him that by the time he picked his way over there, and then back, the Heka would be on her way.

So he simply stood there, both hands on the rail, watching as the little boat sped across the water. It didn’t take long for it to reach the yacht. One by one, the passengers transferred from the boat to the yacht, and then the sailors, too, climbed aboard. Heka raised sail, and the oarsmen plied their oars. Towing both boats behind it, the royal yacht headed toward the fogbank.

Jack could see one figure waving. Chamba. He waved back.

Heka glided toward the fogbank, and then she was gone.

Jack sighed. That’s that, then…

He wanted nothing more than to pick his way across the deck to his cabin and have a drink, but there were things he had to do. The stage had to be set for the crew’s awakening.

Hoisting up the bag sent by the pharaoh, he headed back to the bow, which was the only place with enough room to put the sack, unless he did more rearranging of sleeping bodies.

Putting down the sack, Jack spread the contents out with his hands. Even running his fingers over that that much gold and silver didn’t cheer him.

Jack shrugged. Any man would be a bit spooked, he told himself, out here all by his lonesome, with bodies sprawled all over his deck. Looks like the last act of Hamlet. A quick nip of rum, and I’ll be right as rain.

The thought didn’t make him feel much better. Taking the folded parchment Chamba had brought, Jack laid it atop the coins that clearly showed in the open mouth of the sack, then weighed it down so a stray breeze wouldn’t send it flying away.

With the stage set, Jack headed off to his cabin, tiptoeing over and past bodies. It brought back memories of that night that Esmeralda had turned up to rescue the Wench. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering what Esmeralda and Amenirdis had talked about when she’d had the princess over to Venganza to dine with her. Obviously, they’d talked about him. What had they said? They’d sure giggled a lot…

Reaching the door of his cabin, Jack entered with a sigh of relief. Rum, he thought. I really, really need a drink. Or two…

He also needed to hide the swag he’d brought out of the labyrinth. By now Jack had quite a number of hiding places in his cabin. Several of the deck boards could be pried up to reveal hidey-holes. And, of course, there was the largest space, located in the captain’s head.

Jack spent some time arranging his pick of the treasure items in his assorted hiding places. Not all of them fit, so he decided to take the sack back out with him, and place it beside the pharaoh’s. They could break up some of the silver and gold plates, for instance, in order to divide them up.

Only then did he allow himself to sink onto his bunk, with the bottle of rum in hand...

A while later, Jack decided it was time to get back out on deck. Amenirdis hadn’t been too sure how long the spell would last. It had been close to an hour since Heka had sailed away.

Carrying the sack, with half a dozen good-sized pieces from the labyrinth, Jack picked his way back across the deck, finding it considerably more difficult to avoid stepping on crewmembers than it had been earlier. He actually did lose his balance at one point, and wound up stepping on the cook’s arm, all the while windmilling his arms desperately to avoid falling on his backside. He nearly spilled the sack.

But finally, he made it all the way to the bow and placed his sack next to Pharaoh Shabako’s.

“There you go,” he said. Sometime in the past half hour he’d begun talking to himself—the quiet was getting on his nerves. “Now, to find a bit of shade...”

In the end, Jack wound up dragging a few crewmembers, including Frank Connery, half a foot this way or that, so he’d have room to lie down. He plopped down onto the deck in the nice little patch of shade cast by the capstan, sitting down rather harder than he’d originally intended, because he lost his balance on the way down. Carefully, Jack stretched himself out on his side—

—only to find himself looking at a pair of large, calloused, and remarkably filthy male feet, approximately six inches from his nose. That wouldn’t do, not at all.

Sitting up with a muffled grunt, he maneuvered himself around, then stretched out the other way so he was looking at nothing worse than the wood of the capstan. That was all right.

Jack closed his eyes. Must make this look good, he thought. Don’t want anyone suspecting I wasn’t really asleep.

He wondered what Amenirdis was doing right now. Was she thinking of him? He remembered the way her skin felt, and her scent, and the way she…

“Captain! Captain Sparrow!”

Someone was shaking him frantically and bellowing in his ear. “Hmm…wuzzat? Hmmmm?” Jack said, opening one eye. It was his lee helmsman, William Banks, who was shaking him. “Wake up, Captain Sparrow!”

Jack opened the other eye. “Take your hands off me, Mr. Banks,” he snapped. “That’s an order.”

Banks hastily let go, and sat back on his heels. “Captain Sparrow, thank the Lord! I thought everyone was dead!”

Jack sat up. “By Jove!” he said, putting just the right amount of surprise and dismay into his voice. “What the devil happened, Banks?”

“I don’t know, Cap’n!” Banks almost wailed. “I woke up and it looked like this!”

Other bodies were beginning to stir.

The next quarter of an hour was a repetition of that same scene, more or less, as the remainder of the crew woke up. Finally they were all standing on the weather deck, expostulating. Several sailors scurried off to search for Chamba and the passengers, then reported them missing.

Jack leaned against the mainmast and let them discover things for themselves, for the most part. Inevitably, someone discovered the missing longboat, the sacks of loot, and the letter. Since it was marked “Captain Sparrow” on the outside, they brought it to Jack to open and read.

He did so, first skimming it silently, then reading it aloud to the assembled men:

Dear Captain Sparrow,

This is not an easy letter to write. I will miss you, and my shipmates aboard the Wicked Wench, but I am sure I am doing the right thing. I have decided to accept Miss Ayisha’s invitation to go live with their tribe. They are good people, and she says I will be welcome and find a home there.

You see, I was once a slave, Captain. I ran away. The slavers burned my village, and took everyone. So I have nothing to go back to. Even for a sailor, it is hard to have no place you can call home. Sometimes I lie awake at night after dreaming they have caught me and are taking me back to be a slave again. It tires a man out to live afraid that he’ll lose his freedom.

By the time you read this, we will be gone. As I write this, you and all my shipmates are lying here, asleep. It was Miss Ayisha who did it. When she is this close to her home, she has powerful magic. Not long after you all fell asleep, a boat from an island where some of her people dwell came sailing through the fog, and hove-to beside us. People from the boat came aboard with this gold and silver. Miss Ayisha said it is to reward you and the crew for bringing them home.

Please read this letter to the crew, so my shipmates will know I said good-bye. I will miss them. Most of them can’t read or write, but they are good men all the same. I am real glad that Lucius and Etienne are friends now. We were all getting tired of hearing them go on at each other.

Wishing you calm seas and following winds,

Chamba

P.S. Miss Ayisha just told me to tell you not to try and follow us into the fog, Captain. Doing that would be very dangerous.

Jack finished reading the letter, then looked up. His crewmen were staring at him, shaking their heads and muttering. Featherstone and de Ver were bristling a bit at their shipmates.

“Listen up, mates,” Jack said, “I’m going to assign three men to divide up this reward, to ensure that each man gets his fair share. Judging by the size of this sack, I would advise all of you to put your share somewhere safe, so you can have it available to you when you’re too old to sail, or you get injured. Or perhaps you’ll want to make sure it’s available to your families if something should happen to you one of these days. We all know a seaman’s life is not an easy one. Not too many of us live to a ripe old age and die in our beds, lads.”

He looked around the assembled faces. “First Mate Greene, Second Mate Connery, and…Samuel Newton. Can you please handle the task of dividing up this reward?”

“Aye, Captain!” they all replied.

“Good. Now, lads…” Jack took a deep breath. “Far be it from me to advise any of my crew to be less than honest with our employer. After all, the EITC pays us generous wages, does it not?”

The expected amount of grumbling negatives greeted this comment.

“So I’m just going to mention here, that, technically, it’s my duty to tell the EITC, in the person of Mr. Beckett, about this, er, windfall, here.” Jack gestured at the sacks lying at his feet. “However, Captain Jack Sparrow is not one to insist on niggling, unimportant technicalities of maritime regulations and contracts, when the welfare of his crew is at stake. So I intend to say nothing of this, lads.” He indicated the pile of gold. “What each man here chooses to do is up to him, and the dictates of his conscience.”

There was a relieved murmur.

“Oh, and Mr. Greene, Mr. Connery, and Mr. Newton?”

“Aye, Captain?”

“The money should be divided equally among you, except that I’ll take a half-share, please. The other half of my share should be divided four ways, one-quarter to George Perkins,” he said, naming the topman whose broken leg had been amputated by Doctor Martinez, “and one-quarter each to the families of Micah Wilson, Sam Hopkins, and Nathan Bolton. I feel that is only fair,” Jack concluded.

His crew spontaneously broke into cheers. “Huzzah for Captain Sparrow!” Samuel Newton cheered as loudly as any of them.

George Perkins, leaning on his crutch, had tears running down his cheeks. Jack smiled graciously, waving aside the topman’s efforts to thank him.

Jack raised a hand for quiet. “Now, lads, there’s just one more thing. Mr. Beckett assigned me to find the bearings for this island Chamba mentions. Apparently some of Prince Shabako’s and Miss Ayisha’s people live on this island. Mr Beckett read about the island in a book, and told me to bring back the bearings. I think the island lies over there, inside that fogbank.” He pointed, and the crew looked over at the smudge on the western horizon. “So, mates, let’s get some canvas on the old girl. We’re following where Chamba and our passengers went!”

Jack heard murmurs from the crew, whispers that included the word “danger,” but there were no actual protests.

“Mr. Greene, Mr. Connery, lock these sacks up in the arms locker for now. Mr. Trafford, I’ll want you on our helm. Let’s make sail and get the bearings for this island for Mr. Beckett!” His crew scattered.

“Jack,” Robby said, half an hour later, as they stood together on the bow, and the Wicked Wench plunged toward the looming fogbank, “I don’t like the looks of this at all.” He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “You told me that Kerma had powerful spells guarding it. This looks…uncanny.”

“It does,” Jack said. “Nevertheless, Robby, Mr. Beckett gave us our orders. I’m to personally verify that the island exists, so I can give him the bearings.”

Once more, Jack was on the quarterdeck as the Wench plunged into the illusion-fog. The captain had no intention of going all the way through it, of course. He just wanted his crew to experience a bit of what it was like to go in there so they’d know it was unpleasant, and then he’d order them to reverse their course.

The fog surrounded them, engulfing them in the blink of an eye, just as it had before. Jack staggered, and so did Lee Trafford. He looked down at the binnacle to see their course, only to find the compass needle spinning like a top. That hadn’t happened before!

Screams erupted as sailors cowered, hands over their heads, batting at things that no one but they could see.

Jack gasped for air, feeling as though it had all been sucked from his lungs. This was ten times—nay, a hundred times—worse than it had been when they’d gone in with Amenirdis standing beside the steering wheel.

If we go any farther in, Jack realized, we’ll never get out! On the heels of this thought followed a grim determination to save his ship. I have to get us out!

“Mr. Trafford!” Jack grabbed the helmsman and shook him until the man’s eyes focused. “Come about! Reverse course! That’s an order!”

Trafford locked his teeth in his lower lip and then managed to nod. “Coming about, Cap’n!”

Jack nodded and, ignoring the sights and sounds that were assaulting his senses, he staggered down the ladder and screamed, “Hands wear ship! Now! Let’s get out of here! Hands wear ship! ”

One or two men lifted their heads and began staggering toward him. Jack grabbed for lines and began working alongside them. Maybe it will get better once we turn back, he thought, remembering that sailing out of the illusion-fog had presented no real problem.

“Come on, mates! Hands wear ship! Lively! Lively, now! Move, you verminous cowherds! Move!”

Jack saw Frank and Robby come staggering over to help with the sails.

Slowly, the Wicked Wench turned and came about. The wind began to push against her sails. Jack realized that if they’d waited too long, the ship might well have wound up sailing in circles, unable to find her way back out.

But there, before him, he saw a patch of blue.

“Yes!” he shouted, as the bow of his ship nosed back out into safety and sanity. “Thank you!” Jack yelled, to any god that might be listening.

Jack kept after his hands until they’d sailed at least a league away, maybe a bit more. He couldn’t tell, exactly, because no one was turning the hourglass or marking the traverse board. Too many men were still huddled on the deck, sweating, pale, and trembling.

When the grayish fog was nothing more than a thick line on the horizon, Jack ordered the Wench hove-to. “We’ll get a fresh start in the morning, lads,” he said. “Let’s get the ship set to rights. Then we’ll all have a bite to eat and our ration of rum, eh?”

As the sun lowered toward the west, Jack’s crew slowly pulled themselves together. Hands began cleaning the decks where experienced sailors who hadn’t been seasick in decades had spewed. Others began checking the lines, and setting the quarterdeck to rights.

Jack, Robby, and Frank made sure that the hands most affected would be able to skip their night watch. When the ship was hove-to, not many men were required to be on duty.

Finally, shortly after sunset, all was quiet. The hands who had any appetite had eaten their evening meal. Jack was surprised to find himself hungry, so he and Robby sat down to eat in his cabin.

Robby still looked pale and shaken, but he appeared to have pulled himself together. “By the way,” he said, “I heard what you yelled at us. ‘Verminous cowherds!’ That was uncalled for, Jack! I used to herd my dad’s cattle.”

“I didn’t mean it personally, Robby,” Jack said. Then he realized, from Robby’s expression, that his first mate was doing his best to make a feeble joke. He grinned at him. “Sorry, mate.”

As the last faint paleness was leaving the western horizon, Jack took one more tour around the ship, checking that everything was shipshape. The moon, two days from full, shone down on the weather deck, turning the freshly scrubbed surface silver. Then he headed for his cabin. He puttered around for a few minutes, hanging up his hat, coat, and waistcoat, then he sat down on the edge of his bunk to pull off his shoes and stockings.

He thought about pouring himself a drink, but, just in case anything were to happen in the night, some aftereffect of what the crew had been through, he decided he’d better keep his head clear.

His stern windows were wide open, letting in a pleasant breeze—

—and a sound. A soft, muted sound. A faint, regular sploop, then swoosh. The noise was muted, but he recognized it. It was the sound of someone rowing with muffled oars.

Jack frowned, telling himself that he must be imagining it.

How could anyone be out here, in the Atlantic, hundreds of miles off the African coast, in a rowboat?

Was he having some kind of delayed reaction to the illusion-fog?

Jack scowled. He’d never be able to sleep until he’d verified for himself that there was nothing out there but water. Standing up, he automatically grabbed for his baldric and cutlass, slinging it on over his loose-sleeved shirt, even as he opened the door to his cabin and strode out onto the weather deck.

He stood there, listening, listening…and heard nothing. That bloody magical fog has gotten you spooked, hasn’t it, Jacky boy? Now you’re jumping at shadows.

Jack heard a faint thump against the side of the Wicked Wench’s hull.

You’re wrong, Teague. I’m right, and you’re wrong. Not for the first bloody time, either. There is something out there…and it’s trying to climb aboard my ship.

He began moving forward, toward the portside amidships ladder, silent on bare feet. As he moved, he drew his cutlass, careful to ease it out soundlessly. He was only halfway there when a fancy hat came into view, then shoulders and a torso. Then someone slung a long leg over the rail and stepped onto the deck.

Jack caught his breath. Damn! Why didn’t I bring my pistol, too?

He’d only made a tiny sound, but the intruder had a fighting man’s instincts, and his own sword, a colichemarde with a gold and silver hilt and a Toledo steel blade, was in his hand in a movement too fast to follow.

“Get off my ship, Christophe,” Jack said, his voice quiet and deadly, with none of the lightness he usually had in his tone. “If you climb down right now, I won’t yell for help and have you shot. It’s the best offer you’ll get tonight. I’d take it if I were you.”

The moonlight was so bright Jack had no trouble seeing the rogue pirate’s expression. He flashed his old charming grin. “Jacques! I am so glad to see you, mon ami!”

“No, you’re not. Not if you still have anything resembling a brain in your wine-sodden head,” Jack said. “We had an agreement, Christophe. Remember? You aren’t welcome aboard the Wicked Wench. Not you, and not your crew.”

Jack flicked a glance to the north, presumably where Christophe had come from, but there was no trace of La Vipère. “Where is your ship?” he demanded.

“La Vipère? And my crew?” Christophe shrugged elaborately. “Jacques, they were ridiculous. It was all a misunderstanding!”

“What was?” Jack casually stepped a foot to his left, so he was directly between the rogue pirate and the expanse of the weather deck. He did it by leading with his right foot, and when he stopped, his right foot was in front and his left foot was behind him, toes turned out, ninety degrees.

His body was straight, his weight balanced. He didn’t bend his knees yet, or raise his sword fully, but when he did, he’d be in the en garde stance.

Christophe wagged his left forefinger at Jack. Jack could see his eyes—the moon was very bright—and they looked wild, with a strange glitter. “Jacques, it was really your fault, so you owe me, comprenez? If you hadn’t switched the stones on me, none of this would have happened!”

“What happened?” Jack demanded. “Make sense, Christophe! Where is your ship?”

Christophe shrugged. “Gone, she is gone. My beautiful La Vipère. When I took out that—that rock—you gave me, I fear I…well, I confess I had a temper fit; I was provoked, you cannot deny it! First I ordered them to sail back through the fog so we could sack the island. They refused, those cowardly vermin! Then I told them that when you came through the fog, we would attack your wretched vessel, so I could take the gem of power that is rightfully mine. And they refused to do that, too! My first mate, he told me, no! That cowardly boche!”

“And?” prompted Jack.

“So I shot him.” Christophe turned his hands palm up, shaking his head. “Zut! What a fuss they all made! It’s not as though he was even a particularly good officer, Jacques.”

He murdered his first mate in cold blood, right in front of his crew? Now things were falling into place. “I see,” Jack said. “So they deposed you as captain, eh? There was no island close enough to maroon you on, so they put you in a little boat, and they set you adrift. Did they give you food or water? Five years ago you didn’t give me any, remember?”

“No, Jacques, they didn’t give me any food or water,” Christophe sounded sullen. “As for what happened five years ago, that was a mistake on my part. I admit it! I was sorry for it, too. I regretted it, but you had made me angry, mon ami. All these years, I thought you were dead, and I was very sorry. I was overjoyed to discover you were alive, Jacques!”

“I’m sure you were,” Jack said, sarcastically.

“I was! Truly!”

“It doesn’t matter, now. Christophe, listen carefully. You climb back down that ladder, and I might consider tossing down a canteen and some biscuit,” Jack said. “But only if you immediately do as I say. If you refuse…”

“What, Jacques?”

“I’ll kill you.”

Christophe laughed. As he did, he swept his elegantly plumed hat from his head, and in a trice he had shrugged out of his embroidered satin coat. He wasn’t wearing a waistcoat. Jack remembered the muffled oars, and figured that was where the waistcoat had gone.

Clad now only in his fine shirt, with the cascades of Belgian lace at the throat and wrists, Christophe assumed fighting stance, too, though he didn’t raise his blade all the way, either. “Jacques, just welcome me aboard your ship, mon ami, and all will be well. Drop me off at the first civilized port you come to, and then you can live. We fenced many times, mon ami. Remember who always won?”

Jack raised his sword and bent his knees, so he was crouching a bit, ready to spring. “You did,” he said. “But it will be different this time.”

Christophe raised his colichemarde. “Jacques, you cannot win. I will be forced to kill you, then take command of this very nice ship of yours. What did you call her? The Wicked Wench, non? Good name for a pirate ship.”

Jack began to circle, cautiously, studying Christophe. Watching him in action in the labyrinth had reminded him of just how fast his erstwhile friend was. He’d been trained by top French fencing masters. He was also four or five inches taller than Jack, and his weapon was longer, giving far superior reach—a tremendous advantage.

But he’s almost forty, and he’s let himself go, a bit, hasn’t he? Jack thought, coldly, analytically. I’ve been practicing nearly every day for the past two months. Has he? From the way he was panting after we fought that cobra thing, doesn’t seem like it. That fancy shirt of his is straining at the buttons. He probably weighs two stone more than he did five years ago—and a lot of it is sitting right there around his waist. I’ll bet he’s been overindulging for years, on all that fancy French food and lots of French wine…

As he neared the portside railing, Jack saw Robby standing by the mainmast, a pistol in his hand. Other crewmen stood behind the first mate—nearly a dozen of them, all armed. Jack realized he didn’t have to fight—all he had to do was give the word, and Robby would shoot Christophe. Or order someone to crack him over the head with a belaying pin.

Normally, Jack avoided danger whenever possible. If he’d picked up his pistol on his the way out of his cabin, this fight would already be over. But, by chance, he’d grabbed his cutlass instead. Or was it merely random chance? For some reason this encounter felt inevitable…and it also felt like something that needed to be resolved with cold steel.

This is why I’ve been practicing, Jack realized, suddenly. Ever since the Wicked Wench had sailed west, across the Atlantic, he’d been driven to fence, to practice swordplay with anyone that would give him a match, but he hadn’t known why until just now. The moment he’d resolved to find Christophe and get the pharaoh’s bracelet back, something inside him had known that this fight would happen.

Jack made his decision. For good or ill, this would end now, tonight. After tonight, Christophe would never bother him again—one way or another.

Tia Dalma would call it destiny…

“Mr. Greene!” Jack shouted. “Don’t interfere unless he kills or disables me. Savvy?”

“Yes, Captain,” Robby said, grimly.

Neither opponent saluted the other. This was not a match. This was a duel—to the death.

Jack attacked. He moved forward, stamping his bare foot on the deck, a movement called an appel designed to startle an opponent, cause his guard to falter. It didn’t work. Christophe thrust at him, and Jack parried. Christophe pressed his attack, thrusting, parrying Jack’s thrusts, all with lightning speed. It was all Jack could do to parry the rogue’s attacks. Jack retreated, parrying, defending himself. For the moment it was all he could manage, to track Christophe’s blade in the moonlight, and defend, defend…

Jack was being pushed back, back, across the deck. The blades rang against each other, a song of metal. Jack could see and smell sparks as they struck, steel sliding against steel.

Jack knew every inch of the Wench’s deck. He could have found his way around it blindfolded. He let Christophe back him down the narrow strip of deck between the main hatch grating and the amidships ladder, thankful he didn’t take a misstep. Christophe managed to catch him, once, high on his left arm, when he was just a bit too late in his parry. Though it was barely more than a nick, it stung.

“You’re…bleeding now…Jacques,” Christophe gasped.

Jack knew when he’d passed the opening to the amidships ladder without looking. He’d soon be up against the starboard railing if he continued to retreat.

“Strategy! A swordsman must think as well as react! If you cannot strategize, you are no better than a wild beast, defending itself with claws or teeth! Are you a beast, Sparrow? A bird, perhaps? No! You are a man! Strategize!” The words rang in Jack’s mind. They were the words of his first fencing coach, a master Jack had paid with his share of a prize Troubadour had captured off Portugal.

Very well. What was his strategy? Long term, it was to wear Christophe down, tire him enough to slow him. Jack wasn’t even breathing hard…yet. As for strategy at this very moment…

Jack quickly jumped sideways, to his right, turning as he did, so his back was no longer to the starboard rail. Now he had room to maneuver, to retreat toward the ladder leading up to the quarterdeck.

Aha! As he’d hoped, Christophe had cut the corner as he advanced. The rogue pirate caught the edge of his left foot on the raised timbers bordering the ladder opening. He faltered for just a moment. Jack aimed a cut, and caught him, just above his left elbow. Christophe’s attempt to parry, then riposte, came too late—Jack had already jumped back, out of range. “That one’s for Amenirdis,” Jack told the Frenchman.

“Jacques…mon ami …you are…such a child.” Christophe paid no attention to his own wound. “Lust for revenge…like all…emotion…has no place…in good fencing.” For the first time in the engagement, he lunged, his extension as fluid and flawless as a drawing in a fencing manual.

Jack retreated, moving back to basic en garde again, but he made sure that as he did it, that he also moved slightly to his left. Strategy…

Christophe executed a perfect forward recovery from his lunge, designed to gain him more ground without being obvious about it.

Out of the corner of his left eye, Jack saw a dark shape. One of his six-pounders, the one he’d leaned against the night following the battle with Borya. And behind him and to his right, was the capstan, with its protruding spokes. He’d have to be careful not to brush one of them.

Christophe lunged again, the blade of the colichemarde flowing like quicksilver in the moonlight. Jack parried it, even as he retreated, making sure that he again stepped slightly to his left.

Jack feinted, then when Christophe fell for it and parried, he lunged for the first time in the fight. He deliberately went wide to the left, and Christophe’s attempted parry missed. If Jack’s form in the intagliata had been better, he’d have had enough extension to run Christophe through the belly, but he only managed to nick him above his belt with the tip of his cutlass. Still, Jack forgave himself when he then managed to be fast enough to negate his opponent’s riposte by striking the pommel of the cutlass against the colichemarde’s blade, deflecting it—even as he leaped back, out of harm’s way.

“That one’s for…Marie,” Jack yelled, seeing blood spreading across the middle of the rogue’s shirt, black in the moonlight. His own breath was coming fast now, but he wasn’t gasping like a blown horse, and he realized with satisfaction that Christophe was.

“Who…is…Marie?” Christophe gasped, with, Jack realized, genuine puzzlement.

The rogue drove himself, thrusting repeatedly, those lightning, deadly moves. Jack was forced back, back, having to retreat so quickly he barely avoided the spokes of the capstan at the last moment. He zigged left, then continued retreating, still angling left, aiming for the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. If Christophe was out of breath now, imagine how winded he’d be after having to fight his way up the ladder.

Christophe pressed his attack, thrusting, lunging, parrying Jack’s thrusts and usually following each parry with a riposte. Jack was now breathing hard himself, but he could hear Christophe almost sobbing for air.

The next time Christophe lunged, and Jack retreated, as before, back and slightly to his left, Jack had the satisfaction of seeing that his opponent was now lunging with the anticipation that Jack would go left. The angle of his blade had changed, to compensate. Good, Jack thought. Strategy…

Jack thrust, and Christophe parried, then the rogue jumped back, panting loudly. He waved his left hand, and blood droplets spattered. “Stop…a moment, Jacques…just need a moment…to rest…catch my breath…”

“Hah!” Jack exclaimed. “Think I’ll fall for that old trick? I didn’t climb my first ratline yesterday, Christophe!” Jack knew damned well what would have happened if he’d heeded the French pirate’s plea. The moment Jack relaxed, he’d have been skewered.

Jack tried another lunge, hoping that Christophe’s avowed weariness and winded state would slow him, only to have the rogue pirate parry, then riposte with such skill that the point of the colichemarde barely touched Jack’s skin, just above his collarbone. If Jack hadn’t had excellent reflexes, it would have gone through his throat. As he leaped back, his heart hammering with the narrowness of his escape, he felt a small, hot trickle sliding down his chest.

I have to finish this soon, or I’ll make a serious mistake, and then I’m dead.

Jack retreated yet again. He had almost, he knew, reached the starboard ladder leading up to the quarterdeck. “You know, Christophe,” he said, “if you surrender now…I guarantee…you’ll not be harmed. I’ll give you…provisions…for your boat…”

“No…” Christophe said, following him, and thrusting, thrusting, always on the attack, even though his breathing was painful to hear.

“If you kill me…” Jack stepped back and up, the first step on the ladder. “…you won’t live…a bloody…minute. Robby will shoot you…or order…you shot. Think, Christophe!”

“Robby Greene…doesn’t…have…the…stones…to…shoot…me, Jacques…” Christophe wheezed, advancing and raising the line of his attack, so as to compensate for Jack’s elevated position. “I’ll…command…your…Wench…”

I wouldn’t count on that, Christophe, Jack thought, grimly. He was bloody well certain that Robby would immediately shoot Christophe if Jack went down. His first mate hated the rogue captain possibly even more than Jack did. And Robby, notwithstanding his religious beliefs, was a pragmatist. He’d have no compunction about shooting the Frenchman in the back to save his crew, none at all.

Jack leaped up and back, taking two steps at once, and as he did so, he slashed down at his opponent, using gravity and elevation to help him. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have risked a slash at an opponent of Christophe’s caliber—it was such a blatant move, basically a cut done large and sweeping. Fine for use in battling monsters, but it left a duelist too open to a lunge or even a thrust. But Christophe couldn’t lunge on the ladder. The most he could do was thrust.

Jack’s downward slash took off a chunk of flesh and muscle on the bulge of the Captain’s upper arm. Christophe screamed in agony.

For a moment Jack thought that was the end of the fight—that the Frenchman would fall backward, down the ladder, and wind up sprawled on the deck, able to be dispatched with a last, quick thrust.

But Christophe gathered himself and came on. He even managed an upward thrust at Jack.

“That one was…for Don…Rafael,” Jack gasped. He stepped back onto his quarterdeck. He knew he couldn’t last much longer. He was gasping, too, and his cutlass felt much heavier than usual. Sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging them.

Jack swiped at his forehead, blotting sweat as he retreated quickly, trying to give himself enough distance to be able to catch his breath. Christophe came after him, though he staggered a little when he reached the top step, catching his toe on it, nearly pitching forward. His left arm now swung limp, as though he had no strength in it.

Jack silently cursed his own weariness. If he’d been quicker, he could have taken advantage of that stumble.

Jack retreated past the steering wheel and the binnacle on his left, and the fife rail and little storage cabinet on his right, moving as fast as he could. He didn’t want to engage in such close quarters, and he damned well didn’t want to risk having his wheel or his binnacle damaged if someone’s sword missed.

In moments, Jack would be at the portside ladder, and then he’d have to back down, defending himself. Not a good position to be in, even facing a wounded opponent. He felt the descending railing of the ladder beneath his fingers, and began backing down, just as Christophe, having caught his breath somewhat, crossed the quarterdeck in a rush.

For a moment Jack considered turning his back and racing down the steps two at a time, but he didn’t think he could do it fast enough. And if he tried it, it was possible that Christophe might risk all and dart his sword at him—throw it, to hit him in the back as he ran.

Instead he raised his line to defend, concentrating on following the movement of the sword blade so he could parry. The yellow glow from the ship’s lanterns hanging up on the quarterdeck, and the reddish glow from the two hanging on either side of Jack’s cabin, warred with the silver moonlight, making focusing on the blade more difficult. Jack continued to parry, knowing that was all he could do at the moment. He needed a level field to execute his plan—assuming he could accomplish it successfully.

He’d been counting steps—ten, including the top step—so he knew when he was down. Jack retreated, but not too far, because he wanted Christophe to come after him. One more of those beautifully executed lunges…just one more…

Christophe came down the last step of the ladder. To Jack’s disappointment, he seemed steadier on his feet, and his breathing was better. Still, he looked exhausted. He’d lost a lot of blood, and, judging by the look on his face, he was in considerable pain. Jack, on the other hand, felt exhilarated, full of energy, as though he’d had a quick shot of rum and found treasure. He knew the feeling wouldn’t last. But for the moment, he felt just fine.

Jack raised his blade slightly, focusing on his target. Come on, come on…

Christophe hung back a little, seeming loath to engage. “Jacques…give up. If you sail…back to the Caribbean…Borya will find you…and he’ll kill you.…”

“I took care of Borya weeks ago,” Jack said, dismissively.

For the first time, he saw fear on his opponent’s face. “You lie,” Christophe said.

Jack shook his head, beckoning left-handed. “No. It’s true. Come on, Christophe.”

Christophe kept his guard up, but did not advance. Jack decided to start a conversation—in other words, get the blades ringing against each other again. Attacking, he thrust, had his thrust parried, then, when Christophe thrust, Jack parried and riposted. He was careful not to seem too energetic, or to let the crazy grin he felt inside show on his face. Come on, Christophe, it’s been a long, hard fight, and your opponent is tired, maybe you can run him right through this time, if you just lunge. Come on, lunge. Lunge, damn you, you devil!

Christophe lunged, his line of action turned slightly to his own right, as he anticipated Jack retreating, back and slightly to Jack’s left—as Jack had been doing since the beginning of the duel. Only this time, Jack didn’t retreat. Instead he stepped forward, grabbing the gold and silver hilt of the colichemarde hard with his left hand, clamping his grip on it and forcing it even farther to the left. At the same moment he thrust hard with his cutlass. The point slid in slightly to the left of Christophe’s midsection, just below the sternum, and Jack angled the thrust up by pushing his wrist down on the hilt.

Christophe’s eyes widened; his mouth dropped open. He gasped, but it was his last breath. Jack retreated one last time, pulling his cutlass free of the body, twisting it as he did so, increasing the odds that it would sever the big vein as it withdrew from the heart.

Christophe-Julien de Rapièr collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He was dead before he hit the deck.

Jack stepped back, light-headed with relief, and carefully laid his sword down on the deck beside him. “And that one, Christophe,” he said, knowing his enemy couldn’t hear him, but needing to say it anyway, “was for Esmeralda.”

Bending over, Jack braced his hands on his aching thighs, and just exulted in breathing and being the man standing. Standing, and alive.

He sensed movement on all sides and raised his head, realizing he was surrounded by his men. They were cheering, babbling congratulations, and a few even slapped him on the back. Robby, pistol still in his hand, was in the forefront, grinning at him. “Jack, I knew you could do it! I prayed for you to beat him, and you did!”

Jack nodded. Bending over, he picked up his sword, then wiped it clean on a patch of fabric just above the knee of Christophe’s elegant britches. He sheathed his faithful cutlass, mentally thanking it. It wasn’t fancy, it might be a bit battered and worn, but it was a good and true blade.

“Captain, what…what should we do…with it…him?” asked Roger Prescott, pointing down at the corpse. “I could fetch th’ Good Book…”

Jack looked at Robby, who had stuck the pistol in his belt. It gave him quite the piratical air. Robby looked back at Jack. Then, without a word, they both bent down and grabbed the corpse, Jack by the wrists, and Robby at the feet, and hoisted it up. Carrying it between them, they headed over to the port side rail, gave it one hard swing, and sent it sailing out into the moon-silvered water. A loud splash followed.

“Featherstone, de Ver, you two clean up that mess on me nice, clean deck,” Jack said, indicating the dark pool. “You, Mulligan, go round the weather deck and up to the quarterdeck, mopping up any other spilled blood you find. Someone cut that dinghy loose. Throw the hat and the coat in the slop chest. Maybe someone can use ’em.”

Hands scurried to obey, leaving him and Robby alone.

Jack bent and picked up the colichemarde. The blade was discolored faintly, just at the very tip.

“What are you going to do with it?” Robby asked. “Will you keep it? Fight with it?”

Jack examined the gold and silver tracings on the hilt. The moonlight glinted off them, turning them all to silver. “No. Next time I see Esmeralda, I’m going to give it to her, so she’ll know her granddad was avenged. She can hang it on the wall of her cabin, as a trophy.”

“It’s a beautiful sword.”

“It is. But this is a bloody gentleman’s weapon Robby, me lad. Not suitable for the likes of you and me, just humble—” He almost said pirates, but changed it at the last moment. “Er…mariners. I’m sticking with me cutlass.”

Robby’s mouth quirked at the pun. Jack laughed. “Come on, Robby, I’m going to sit down in my cabin, and have a quick swig of rum, then you’re going to stitch up this arm.”

“I’d be honored to, Jack,” Robby said.

Carrying the elegant sword, the captain opened the door to his cabin and went in. After hanging up his baldric, and putting away the colichemarde, Jack was finally free to sit down in his chair. He couldn’t repress a groan. He’d definitely abused himself during this long, long day—and he’d gotten little sleep the night before.

“Here you go, Jack,” Robby said, passing him a generous dollop of rum in a cup. Jack swigged it down, then pulled off his blood-streaked shirt. His first mate busied himself with the needle and thread Jack kept for mending—either clothing or skin.

“Don’t move.” Robby carefully eased the needle into the skin on his shoulder, and began to stitch. Jack hissed, but stayed still. “I swear I’ve never seen you fence better, Jack, but I’m still surprised you won.”

“I am, too,” Jack admitted. “Though Christophe wasn’t rational tonight, Robby. You heard him. That might have—ow!—affected his skill. He used to be a very canny fighter. But not tonight.”

“You were lucky.”

Jack nodded, not offended. “I was, mate—ow!” He grimaced.

“Sorry. That’s the last one, though.” Without asking permission, Robby sloshed a bit of rum over the five stitches, then, for good measure, over the nick between Jack’s collarbones.

“Mmmhhh! Dammit, Robby! You and Esmeralda, wasting good rum! That’s a sin!”

Robby ignored him as he peered at the tiny cut. “Lord in Heaven, Jack, you were so lucky! If that had gone an inch or two deeper, you’d have been lying there dead, right beside Christophe.”

Jack grinned. “But you’d have given me a nice service, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. I’d have written the eulogy myself,” Robby said, gazing at the little wound, still shaking his head in wonder. His gaze moved lower. “What’s that you’re wearing?” he asked, as Jack got up and reached into his sea chest for Esmeralda’s red bandanna.

“Here, tie this around me upper arm, so I don’t rub those stitches out,” Jack said. He looked down at his midsection, and saw the striped sash Amenirdis had woven. “A present, from Amen—er, Ayisha, Robby. She told me it would—”

He broke off, staring down at the sash, as Robby tied the bandanna around his arm. “Wait a moment. Do you suppose…?” Jack muttered.

“Suppose what?” Robby asked, putting the needle and thread away.

Jack ran his thumb along the edge of the sash. “Uh…nothing…” he mumbled. Probably just coincidence, he thought.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to always wear it, Jack decided. He hoped he wouldn’t need protection when he reported to Cutler Beckett in a few weeks, but he’d take all the help he could get.…