CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Exodus

CUTLER BECKETT SAT AT HIS EBONY DESK in his private office, regarding Jack Sparrow as though he’d crawled out from beneath a log in a swamp. His voice was flat, his eyes cold. “Stop right there, Captain Sparrow.”

“But, Mr. Beckett—”

Beckett raised a forefinger. “I said, stop. Not another word, Sparrow. Let me see if I have the essence of this so-called ‘report’ of yours straight.” He began ticking off items on his fingers as he spoke.

“Item one, you were unable to verify the exact location of Kerma. The bearings you have provided are actually the location of a large bank of fog? Is that correct?” Beckett didn’t pause for a response, but forged ahead. “Item two, you had, in your possession, at least two inhabitants of Kerma, but both of them are now gone, because someone cast a magical spell on you and your crew, and you fell asleep on the deck of your ship, only to awaken with your passengers gone and a longboat missing. You currently have no idea as to their whereabouts. Correct?”

Jack Sparrow didn’t meet his eyes, only shifted his weight uneasily, turning his tricorne in his fingers, “Uh, Mr. Beckett, I—”

“I wasn’t finished, Captain,” Beckett snapped.

“Sorry, sir,” Sparrow said quietly, and fell silent.

“Item three, you took on a cargo of muscovado sugar and molasses in Antigua, and, instead of delivering said cargo to its assigned destination in Liverpool, you have brought approximately half that cargo back here to Calabar. Your explanation for losing half your cargo is that it was damaged during an attack by pirates in the Bahamas, correct?”

By now Sparrow had learned his lesson. He didn’t try to speak, merely nodded.

“And, finally,” Beckett continued, “item four, during that attack my own vessel, the Wicked Wench nearly sank, necessitating numerous expensive repairs to said ship in Savannah. Repairs that you signed for, that will be charged to the EITC.”

Beckett eyed Sparrow with all the warmth of a glacier. “Is that a correct summary of the salient points of your decidedly rambling account, Captain Sparrow?”

Sparrow stood there, turning his hat, silent.

“Answer me, Sparrow!” For the first time, Beckett raised his voice.

Sparrow jumped. His hat slipped out of his hands and fell. “Oh, yes, sir. Yes, you pretty much summarized it, yes, Mr. Beckett. Sir.” He bent over and retrieved the hat, then stood there looking down at it, as though he wished he could clap it on his head and make a hasty departure.

“And in addition to what I have already spoken of, I also noted, among other things, that you gave an account of your sailing to New Avalon and picking up yet another allegedly Kerman slave, one that the sewing woman claimed was her brother, is that correct? And that slave is also gone. Correct?”

Sparrow nodded. “Yes, Mr. Beckett.”

“How did you ‘pick up’ that slave, Sparrow? Did you purchase him? With your own money?”

Sparrow shook his head. “No, Mr. Beckett. I didn’t have enough.”

“So you stole him, is that what you’re saying? Meaning you are, in point of fact, responsible for two thefts of valuable property? The slave from Dalton’s farm, and now this slave from New Avalon?”

Sparrow cleared his throat. “I didn’t exactly say that I stole him, Mr. Beckett. The sewing woman, Ayisha, she told me if I wanted her to take me to the island, I’d have to let her bring her friend on board, in Calabar. I didn’t ask any questions about how he came to be with her, sir. Then, after we left Calabar, Ayisha demanded that I take her to the New World so she could get her brother. She knew where he’d been taken. I don’t know how she knew.”

“And?”

“When we located the brother, he was on a sugar plantation. So um, she, that is, Ayisha, she left the ship for an afternoon. She must have seen her brother and convinced him to run away. All I did was provide her with a boat, and a couple of sailors to row it, sir.”

“You thought I would approve of this…this…secondhand theft?”

“I didn’t know whether you would or not, Mr. Beckett. But it was clear to me that the woman wouldn’t talk unless she had her brother with her.”

“So after getting the brother, why did you then set off to follow the Triangle?” Beckett was getting a headache, from trying to keep the whole story straight in his mind—not to mention the fury simmering beneath his controlled exterior.

Sparrow took a deep breath. “At first I thought it might be better to take our cargo on to Liverpool, Mr. Beckett. But then, after the pirate attack, when much of it had been destroyed, I figured the best thing I could do was to head for Kerma. She promised to lead me there.” He shrugged. “So after the Wicked Wench was repaired, in Savannah, I headed back east. The wind worked out better that way, coming down from the north, sir.”

“Tell me more about this pirate attack. Why didn’t you simply surrender and turn over your cargo? Why did you resist, and thus cause my ship to be badly damaged?”

Sparrow shuffled slightly, not looking up. “Mr. Beckett, the pirate that attacked us was flying a red flag, sir.”

Beckett frowned. The more Sparrow talked, the more confusing this all became. “A red flag. And what, pray tell is the significance of that? Naval vessels do that to signify ‘no quarter’ don’t they?”

“Yes, Mr. Beckett. But there were—are—some pirates over on the Spanish Main that flew—fly—a red flag with a horned demon’s skull. We, that is, the merchant ships, sir, we call them rogues, sir. These ships have a nasty habit of taking a prize, then slaughtering everyone aboard. They do this so they can take the vessel itself, in addition to the cargo. Or sometimes, they don’t bother with the ship—they just burn it, with all aboard. When they began firing on us, I knew one thing for sure. Merchant ships that surrender to these rogues never make another voyage, Mr. Beckett.”

“So, believing you and everyone aboard would be killed, you elected to put up a fight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened to this ‘rogue pirate’?”

“His powder magazine blew, sir. One of our shots must have hit it.”

“I see.” Beckett considered what he’d been told. “And then, if the Wicked Wench was as badly damaged as you say, how did you manage to get all the way to Savannah for repairs?”

Sparrow looked up at him. “We were rescued by another ship, sir.”

“You neglected to mention that earlier. Which ship? An EITC ship?” Beckett took a sip of tea from a delicate porcelain cup.

“No, sir.” Sparrow bit his lip. “Sir, the ship that came to our rescue was the same one I encountered when I was first mate aboard the Fair Wind, last year. Ship called Venganza.”

Fortunately, Beckett had swallowed the mouthful of tea. His nostrils flared as he fumed, tapping his fingers on the desk for nearly a minute before he was sure he could speak in a controlled fashion. “I…see. And you expect me to believe that your friend, this attractive ‘Lady Pirate,’ just happened upon your sinking vessel in time to rescue it? Captain Sparrow, the more I hear of this story of yours, the more it sounds like something you dreamed up in a tavern, over a bottle! Are you drunk?”

“No, sir!” Sparrow said, indignantly.

Cutler Beckett shook his head and slapped his hand down on his desk, narrowly missing his teacup. He managed to catch the cup before it fell. “Tell me the truth! Is that how you actually lost the sugar? Or did you give this pirate the muscovado, and then lie about what happened when you reached Savannah?”

“No, Mr. Beckett! The EITC did an inventory and they removed the bad barrels, sir! They noted what they’d done on my bill of lading! I have that for you, along with my logbook.”

“So you would have me believe that this Lady Pirate saved my ship from sinking, helped make temporary repairs, then escorted you to Savannah? Without taking any cargo? Just out of the goodness of her heart?”

“Well, sir, she did seem to have a good heart, now that you mention it,” Sparrow said, nodding at him. “Especially considering her line of work.”

“Oh, come now, Sparrow! You expect me to believe a pirate rescued you and your ship for nothing?” He narrowed his eyes at Sparrow. “She helped you just because she remembered you from last year, and she liked you? The lady must have liked you rather a lot, eh, Sparrow, to make such an effort on her part worthwhile. What exactly did you do to earn such regard, eh?”

Beckett watched as Sparrow’s cheeks darkened, visible despite the weathering. He’s blushing. But…that must mean that he and this woman actually…

Cutler Beckett’s tight control on his temper suddenly snapped, like frayed, rotted rope. He surged up out of his chair, hands curling into fists. “Damn it, Sparrow!” he shouted. “Lady Pirates and ghost-haunted fogbanks and the whole ship falling asleep—it’s like something out of a bloody fairy tale! Why didn’t you sleep for a hundred years, while you were at it?”

Beckett’s eyes narrowed as he locked gazes with the merchant captain. “Captain Sparrow, do you believe that I am gullible? Or stupid, even?”

Sparrow shook his head, his dark eyes widening. “Oh, no, Mr. Beckett. No, sir. No.”

Beckett studied the man who stood before him. Sparrow’s dark eyes were steady and frank, his stance one of respect, with a healthy touch of real fear mixed in. He appeared both humble and anxious, which was just as it should be. And yet…

“Jack,” Beckett said, with an edge in his voice that could have sliced paper, “you’re lying to me. I don’t know precisely what you’re lying about, but I assure you, I will find out. And when I do…” He shook his head, gravely, and looked back down at the papers on his desk. “You might want to think about that, Captain.”

Sparrow clearly was at a loss regarding how to reply to this last, so he remained still and silent. Beckett made an irritable shooing-away motion. “You are dismissed, Captain Sparrow.”

Sparrow placed both hands together and gave that abbreviated Oriental bow Beckett had seen him use before, murmured, “Yes, Mr. Beckett,” and left.

Cutler Beckett sat there at his desk for a moment, breathing deeply, feeling the blood pounding in his temples. He was furious, frustrated, and bitterly disappointed at seeing his dreams of Zerzuran riches crumbling before his eyes.

And that wasn’t the worst part of it. The EITC director shook his head with a sigh. He hated to admit it, and was extremely annoyed with himself for having such a human failing, but there was no denying the truth. He, Cutler Beckett, felt personally betrayed.

He’d dispatched Jack Sparrow on this mission with such hopes, and he’d really trusted that he’d chosen the right man for the job. In the past two months since Sparrow had left, just after he blew out his candle and fell asleep at night, Cutler Beckett had pictured himself in a rosy future. Having risen to the very top echelons of the EITC, perhaps he could aspire to the Privy Council. He’d be fabulously wealthy, a Peer of the Realm, respected, feared…and all the while, Jack would be there, at his side, serving as his smart, capable, trustworthy and oh-so-charming aide, his personal assistant.

And now this.

Cutler Beckett rubbed his temples beneath his wig, and sighed.

After a moment to indulge his disappointment, he straightened, made sure his wig was properly aligned, and then raised his voice. “You may come in, now, Mr. Mercer.”

The door that led into Ayisha’s former sewing room opened, and Ian Mercer entered. He doffed his hat to his employer, then hung it up, stripping off his black gloves. At a gesture from Beckett, the operative took the seat beside Beckett’s desk. “I suppose you heard,” Beckett said.

“I did, Mr. Beckett,” Mercer said. “And I have to point out, that before Sparrow left, I said that—”

Mercer broke off at Beckett’s warning gesture. “Mr. Mercer,” Beckett said, his voice very soft and even, “I believe it’s possible you were on the verge of saying something along the lines of ‘I told you so.’ I should be derelict in my responsibility to a valued subordinate if I did not warn you that such impertinence would be cause for immediate dismissal. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Mercer?”

Ian Mercer’s eyes widened slightly. “Aye, Mr. Beckett,” he said, nodding for emphasis. “I wouldn’t dream of saying any such thing.”

“I trust not.” Beckett folded his hands together on his deck. “Please, go on, Mr. Mercer.”

“Yes, Mr. Beckett. I was about to say that the first thing I’ll need to do is have a talk with our man, Newton. Did you receive any letters from him?”

“None yet, but you know it might take another two months or more. Yes, I believe you should indeed have a long talk with Mr. Newton. And then I’ll want to begin interviewing Captain Sparrow’s crew. I feel sure that he is lying about something, and, thus, there are bound to be discrepancies between what he’s told us and what his crewmen say. I’ll want to start as soon as possible.”

“Where shall I send them for these interviews, Mr. Beckett?”

Beckett considered for a moment. “Since some of the subjects we’ll need to cover might be…sensitive…in nature, I’ll use the library, Mercer. You can bring them up from the docks by twos and threes, and the ones not being interviewed can wait in the EITC office next door.”

“Yes, Mr. Beckett. I’ll go down there immediately.”

“I’m eager to get to the bottom of this, Mr. Mercer. I’ll start with Greene and Connery, the mates. After that, we’ll take the helmsmen, and then go on from there, working though a representative sample of the able seamen, then the ordinary seamen.”

“Very good, Mr. Beckett. I shall arrange it.”

* * *

Cutler Beckett nodded pleasantly at Frank Connery, but did not smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Connery. Please, take a seat.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Beckett.” The big, grizzled second mate perched uneasily on the indicated chair.

“Mr. Connery, I’d like you to tell me the story of your most recent voyage under Captain Sparrow, please.” Beckett dipped his quill in ink, and regarded the man expectantly.

Connery eyed the pen and parchment uneasily. “Am I in some sort of trouble, Mr. Beckett?”

“You? No, no. Nothing like that, Mr. Connery. I simply need to do a bit of fact-checking. There are some things about your most recent voyage that don’t seem to add up, so to speak.”

Connery nodded, and began giving his account. He seemed to be articulate enough. He’d obviously had some education. Loquacious, however, he was not. He finished his account in less than five minutes.

“I see, Mr. Connery,” Beckett said. “Tell me more about this attack by pirates. Did it seem in any manner atypical of pirate attacks you might have experienced or heard accounts of ?”

Connery nodded. “Mr. Beckett, the pirate was one of those rogues. Flew a red flag with a horned demon on it. Didn’t seem to care about taking our cargo. Just seemed to want to sink us.”

“I see. Did Captain Sparrow try to evade them? Did he fight back?”

“He did, sir. Northwest Providence Channel can be treacherous. The Bahamas have a lot of shoal waters around those islands. The captain, he out-sailed ’em—ran ’em aground. But then we run aground, too.”

“I see.” Beckett took notes.

Connery shook his head. “Pure bad luck, it was, Mr. Beckett. Reckon it was the Good Lord saved us. Or maybe it was that Ayisha woman. Some said as how she put a curse on the pirate, and blew up his powder magazine.”

Beckett scribbled. “I see, thank you. What did you think of Captain Sparrow’s judgment and seamanship in how he dealt with the pirate vessel?”

“He did what I would have done, Mr. Beckett, ’cept he knew those waters better than I do. So he did it better. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here talking to you today.”

Beckett looked up. “Now…about the fact that apparently a different pirate vessel turned up and saved you. What can you tell me about that?”

Connery shrugged. “The pirate captain was a woman, sir. Seemed she’d met Captain Sparrow before. She sent her men in, to help us with our repairs. And her surgeon to help with our wounded.”

“What did she look like, this female captain?”

Connery cleared his throat. “She was…pretty…sir.”

“Regarding your vessel, Mr. Connery. Was it in serious danger of sinking?”

“Yes, sir. As long as we worked the pumps, she was holding her own. But the men were weary, and almost everyone had gotten hurt a bit. Seven seriously wounded. Three dead. Doubt our remaining men would have been able to keep us afloat, Mr. Beckett. Boats were smashed. Bad situation.”

“I see.” Beckett wrote another note. “So, under the circumstances, you agreed with Captain Sparrow’s decision to accept the assistance of a pirate vessel?”

“Did what I would have done, Mr. Beckett. Captain Sparrow…he’d never have let the Wench go down, if he had to hold her up with his own hands.”

“Very well. Thank you, Mr. Connery, I think that will be all.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Beckett.”

Cutler Beckett dipped his quill into the inkwell. “Thank you for your report, Mr. Prescott. I have just a few more questions for you.”

Prescott looked apprehensive, but nodded.

“Now, then…I’d like you to explain in more detail just what it was like when you went into this…fogbank, you called it.”

Beckett watched the man’s face. Prescott shivered at the memory. “Mr. Beckett, when we all woke up from being asleep on the deck, we looked for that Obeah woman, and her brother, and the big fella. None of ’em was to be found. Our mate Chamba, he was gone, too. So was a longboat. The captain, he said that you had ordered him to go to this island and get a look at it with his own eyes, so we’d have to go into the fogbank. None of us liked that idea much, but orders is orders, sir. We sailed in.”

“What was it like?”

“Terrible, sir. It was like it was a cursed place, or something. You couldn’t scarcely tell up from down. Everything was gray. In the grayness, you could see things…out of the corner of your eye, you know? Misshapen things, monstrous…” Prescott swallowed, then shook his head. “And we all heard…things…”

“What did you hear, Mr. Prescott?”

The man looked down at his big, work-roughened hands, twisted together on the top of the table in the library. “Please don’t laugh, Mr. Beckett, but I could have swore I heard my sainted mother crying out to me, to go back. Like she was warning me. Been dead for twenty year, she’s been.”

“You turned back quickly, after entering the fogbank?”

“Yes, sir. And, begging your pardon, sir, thank God for it. Otherwise I don’t think we’d have gotten out.”

“If you hadn’t turned back, what do you think would have happened to the ship?”

Prescott shook his head. “I think we’d have been lost in there, past all getting out. We’d have all gone mad. And then we’d have died, Mr. Beckett.”

Beckett’s quill scratched on the parchment. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Prescott. That will be all.”

Cutler Beckett regarded Lucius Featherstone quizzically. “You say you saw Captain Sparrow fight a sword duel with a what?”

“A ghost sir. A revenant, that’s what they calls ’em. Came out of that haunted fogbank. Must have, sir. That fogbank, it was haunted right enough. My friend, Etienne de Ver, he said that there’s an old fortress near where he grew up in France that was haunted. He said that he—”

“Mr. Featherstone, I asked you about this apparition that came aboard that same night. Can you please describe it, and then tell me you why you believe it was not simply a man?”

Featherstone rubbed his grizzled chin thoughtfully. “It looked like a man, sure enough. Tallish, wearin’ fancy clothes. One of them lace-trimmed shirts. Big hat, with a plume.”

Beckett nodded. “Excuse me a moment.” He rose and went into his office, then returned with two items. “Do you recognize these, Mr. Featherstone?”

“Yes I do, Mr. Beckett! That’s the coat and hat the revenant was wearing!”

Beckett made a note. “So why are you sure it was a…revenant?”

“Well, hadn’t we been in a fogbank that was full of spirits just that day, sir? And how could any flesh and blood man get hundreds of miles off the coast of Africa in a dinghy? Doesn’t make sense, sir.”

“There is that,” Beckett admitted. “You say you heard Captain Sparrow speak to the, um, revenant. What did they say?”

“The cap’n, he told it to leave his ship or he’d be killing it. The ghost, he didn’t pay no mind. Next thing I know, the two of them are fighting, all over the weather deck. It was a scary sight, in the moonlight.” Featherstone shook his head, admiringly. “That revenant was a bloody good fencer, Mr. Beckett. For a while there, I thought the captain would lose.” Then the man realized what he’d said, and colored. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir! Pardon my language, sir. I shouldn’t have expressed myself so…vulgar.”

Cutler Beckett waved his concern away. “Quite all right, Featherstone. I’ve been exposed to sailors for years. So afterward, Captain Sparrow ordered you and Mr. de Ver to clean up the blood from the, um…the loser, is that correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Beckett.”

“Did it seem like real blood?” Beckett couldn’t conceal the faint edge of sarcasm in his voice, but he needn’t have worried; Featherstone was oblivious.

“Smelled like it, yes, sir. It was dark, though.”

“So it is possible your night visitor was, in fact, a man, not a ghost?”

Featherstone shook his head. “I don’t think so, Mr. Beckett. ’Tis well known that ghosts and spirits of the damned can menace honest mariners, trying to steal their souls. If Captain Sparrow hadn’t courageously fought that revenant, it would have taken over the ship, and we’d all have never been seen by mortal eyes no more. But Captain Sparrow, he’d do anything to save his ship from such a fate.”

“Um…I see.” Beckett made a note. “Thank you, Featherstone. That will be all.”

“Yes, Mr. Beckett.”

Cutler Beckett regarded Jack Sparrow, who was once more standing before him. He didn’t offer him a seat this time, either. “Captain Sparrow, I’ve reviewed your logbook, and related paperwork. And I’ve spoken to some members of your crew.”

“Yes, Mr. Beckett.”

“I have a few questions for you.”

“Yes, Mr. Beckett.”

“How well did you get to know Ayisha before she…departed?”

Sparrow looked startled. “I—what do you mean, Mr. Beckett?”

“Did she learn enough English on the voyage that you could speak to her directly? Some of your men said she mended their clothes for them. They said when she saw them on deck, she would say good morning. And when they thanked her for mending their clothing, they believed she understood them.”

“Oh, I see what you meant, sir. She did start speaking some English, yes, but mostly things like ‘good day’ and ‘thank you,’ and suchlike. When she wanted to tell me anything requiring real information, she spoke pidgin to my crewman, Chamba.”

“The ex-slave that disappeared with her.”

“Yes, sir.”

Beckett steepled his fingers. “Obviously she was not a half-wit,” he mused aloud.

“No, Mr. Beckett,” Sparrow said. “Far from it. I believe, now, that she had the whole thing planned out from the beginning.” He sighed. “She fooled me, just as much as she fooled you and Mr. Mercer.”

“By the way, Captain Sparrow, whatever happened to those earrings?”

Sparrow shook his head, obviously chagrined. “I gave them to her, Mr. Beckett, shame on me for being fooled. That’s the first time I ever gave a woman jewelry, sir, and I assure you, it will be the last.”

“I see.” Beckett looked back down at his notes. “Captain Sparrow, why didn’t you mention the incident that happened the night following the Zerzurans’ disappearance? Apparently you had a visitor, though the accounts differ regarding…him.”

Sparrow cleared his throat. “Um…they do?”

“Yes. Or perhaps I should say, concerning it. Not many of your crew were present that night, apparently, but those that were seemed to think that some kind of…” Beckett waved derisively, “…ghost…or something…came aboard, and that you fought a sword duel with it. Him. One man insisted it was a Frenchman. The others insisted it was a ghost who took on the guise of a Frenchman. And apparently the intruder wore these clothes.” Beckett reached into his drawer and removed a somewhat squashed hat with a plume, and an elegant satin gentleman’s coat. “Why didn’t you mention this encounter?”

Sparrow sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Beckett. I didn’t say anything about it because I was…ashamed. Sir.”

Beckett blinked. “Ashamed? Of what, pray tell?”

“Well, Mr. Beckett, you’ve always been so square with me, treating me like a…professional, I suppose you’d say. Another man of business, not like an ignorant, superstitious sailor. It’s meant a lot to me this past year, Mr. Beckett, to have you treat me like I was…almost…sort of…equal to an educated gentleman like yourself, sir. So I didn’t want to admit that…” He shrugged, spreading his hands, palm up.

“Admit what?”

“It was a ghost, Mr. Beckett. A revenant, we call ’em. Ghostly visitations do happen, sir, on the sea. Strange things, things that can’t be explained.”

Beckett folded his hands on the ebony deck. “Go on, Captain Sparrow, by all means. I want to hear the full story.”

“Sir, ’twas the ghost of me old fencing master from Marseilles. He died angry at me, sir, some years ago, and he’s been haunting me.”

Beckett nodded slowly. “Angry, you say. Why?” I could sympathize with the poor specter, he thought, sardonically, if I believed any of this for one moment.

“Well, Mr. Beckett, I didn’t pay his bill. I meant to, sir, honestly I did, but I was temporarily…embarrassed…as to funds, so to speak. And me ship was leaving with the tide. So I left him a note, all signed proper, sir, and sailed away, resolving to come back to Marseilles as soon as possible, to settle me debt.”

“I’m sure you had the best of intentions,” Beckett murmured. “Do continue, Jack.”

“I did have, Mr. Beckett! And I did go back, as soon as ever I could. But when I returned, I discovered that the poor chap had died. Terrible thing, it was.” Sparrow shuddered expressively. “Seems he was walking down by the docks one evening, and a doxy stabbed him and took his purse. Only he didn’t die immediately, you see. He went off his head, and died the next day, and somehow he’d gotten me and this…lady of the evening…mixed up in his head. So he thought I was the one what did him in. When I went back to settle me debt, they told me he died cursing me name.”

“And he’s been haunting you?”

“I’d see him in me dreams, Mr. Beckett, demanding his money, and holding out his bloody hands to me, saying, ‘Jack, why did you murder me?’ It was terrible, sir. I’d wake up in a cold sweat. So when we went into that fogbank, Mr. Beckett, that’s who I saw. Me old fencing master. I think he followed us out of that fogbank. And then attacked me that very night.”

“I see. This is a truly…remarkable…account, Captain Sparrow. I didn’t know it was even possible to kill a ghost. Or a ‘revenant,’ as you term them. I mean, they’re already dead, aren’t they? Doesn’t dispatching one require a…what’s the word…an exorcism?” Cutler Beckett cocked his head at Jack, inquiringly. It was fascinating, watching that fertile brain come up with such utterly inspired codswallop.

Sparrow didn’t even pause to think. “Oh, no, Mr. Beckett. Haven’t you ever heard of the power of cold iron over eldritch things?”

“Of course,” Beckett said. “When you put it like that, it all makes sense.”

Sparrow nodded earnestly.

Cutler Beckett sat back in his seat, regarding the captain, thinking. So far his investigation had yielded exactly…nothing. Samuel Newton had confirmed to Mercer that although Sparrow’s behavior had at times been secretive, all the events he’d observed tallied with Sparrow’s account of the voyage. All the crewmen Beckett had interviewed had given accounts that agreed with Sparrow’s report.

But you’re lying to me, Jack. You know it. I know it. And I suspect you know that I know it—but that my hands are tied, because I can’t prove it. Beckett tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his desk, wondering whether Sparrow would start to fidget, or twitch. But as the moments stretched on, Sparrow just continued to stand there, as though he could do it all ruddy day. So all of that earlier fidgeting and hat twisting you did was just a performance, Jack, to prove how nervous you felt, and how sincere you were. Bravo, you smug, arrogant blighter.

Beckett banked down his anger. Jack Sparrow would pay for whatever he’d done, yes he would. He picked up his notes and glanced through them, all the while mulling over the best way to make sure Sparrow learned his lesson. You forget whom you’re dealing with, Jack. I’m the Director for West African Affairs for the East India Trading Company. You think I have to swallow this folderol you’ve handed me, and that we’ll just go on from there? Think again, Jack. You’re due for a good humbling, you swaggering young cockerel. And I know just how to hand you one, starting now. As a matter of fact, I can think of several ways.…

Beckett cleared his throat. “There’s just one more thing, Captain Sparrow.”

Sparrow looked politely attentive. “Yes, Mr. Beckett?”

“One of the men I spoke to said that you were wounded in the sword-fight. How serious was the wound? Where was it located?”

“Two minor wounds,” Sparrow touched a spot on his neck, then another, high on his left arm, just below the shoulder. “I’m fine now.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t mind proving that, Captain?”

“Proving what?”

“That both wounds are healed, and you’re fit for your next voyage. Take off your coat, please.”

Sparrow obediently removed his coat, then walked over and hung it up on the hat and coat stand in the corner, his expression blank. “Now your waistcoat, please.” Again, the captain complied.

Beckett rose from his chair, walked around the desk, then over to stand beside him. “Now your neckcloth and shirt, Captain Sparrow, if you would be so kind.”

Sparrow’s expression had gone stony, but he took off his neckcloth, then unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his shoulders. The smooth-skinned torso thus revealed was lean and fit, not a spare ounce on it. Beckett gazed intently, noting the tiny scar between Sparrow’s collarbones. Then he focused on his left shoulder, where there were two scars, fairly close to each other. The lower one was about the size of a shilling and roughly circular. The other was a thin, brighter red line about an inch higher.

Unable to stop himself, Cutler Beckett stepped closer, raising his hand. “Which one is from the swordfight?” he asked. “This one?” He brushed the roughly circular mark, barely grazing it with his fingertips, “Or this one?” He touched the narrow red line.

Sparrow’s control abruptly deserted him, and he flinched away, giving Beckett an outraged glance, before looking down. He moved sideways, fetching up about two feet from his employer. “It’s the topmost one.” A wave of dull red darkened his skin, starting just above the little scar, suffusing his whole countenance.

Beckett stepped back. “I see,” he said. “Exactly as described. Well, thank you, Captain Sparrow, for your cooperation. You’ll understand, of course, that I did have to check.”

Sparrow didn’t reply as Beckett went back to his desk and resumed his seat, only busied himself buttoning his shirt, retying his neckcloth, then shrugging on his waistcoat. His eyes were as expressionless and dull as unpolished agate.

“Well, Captain Sparrow,” Beckett announced, briskly, “that concludes my investigation, and you’ve been vindicated. You’ve proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that you were telling the truth all along. So I owe you an apology. Of course I’m gravely disappointed about not finding Kerma, and the treasure, but, nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say.” Beckett rose from his seat. “I’m sorry I misjudged you, Jack,” he said, and extended his hand across the desk. “Will you accept my apology?”

Gravely, the two men shook hands. Beckett smiled warmly. It was not returned.

Sparrow returned to the corner to don his coat and pick up his hat, clearly expecting to be dismissed. “Just a moment, Captain,” Beckett said. “Wouldn’t you like to discuss your next cargo and assignment?”

“Oh! Yes, of course, Mr. Beckett,” Sparrow said. He came back to stand in front of the desk.

“Please, have a seat,” Beckett invited.

Sparrow sat down. Beckett opened a drawer, rifled quickly through a file, then selected a sheet of parchment. “Ah! Here we go. Captain Sparrow, I know your thoughts on this matter, but I fear I have no choice but to insist. This letter is from Lord Penwallow, and, as you will hear, he has asked for you specifically.”

Beckett began reading aloud: “‘Accordingly, will you please begin gathering a cargo of approximately two hundred prime Blacks for shipment to my new plantation on New Avalon? At least one hundred and fifty will need to be prime strong Bucks, and the rest may be Wenches, preferably those of gentle nature, and trainable in the Arts of keeping a Civilized Household. Montgomery will need the cargo before the spring planting is to begin. If your Captain Sparrow is available to take them, that would also be most Pleasing to me. That young mariner is so careful with cargo, I feel sure that under his Oversight, we will lose no more than, one hopes, a quarter of the cargo during the Crossing.’”

Sparrow was already shaking his head. “No. No, I’m sorry, Mr. Beckett, but I can’t do that. Lord Penwallow said, ‘If your Captain Sparrow is available to take them.’ I’m not available, and that’s your out. Find another captain.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t anyone else, Captain Sparrow,” Beckett said, putting the letter down. “All of my ships are out of port. As soon as I received the bearings you provided for the proximate location of Kerma, I gave orders for my expedition to assemble, then sail northward. Surely you noticed when you tied up that the Wicked Wench is the only ship currently occupying the EITC dock?”

Sparrow shook his head yet again. “Well, another ship is bound to show up within a few days, Mr. Beckett. Besides, the Wench isn’t fitted to haul…that type of cargo.”

Cutler Beckett shook his head, in turn. “I am sorry, Captain. I checked my scheduling, and we’re not expecting any other ships to return for at least three weeks, and probably more. As the saying goes, my hands are tied. Mr. Mercer just completed the purchase of His Lordship’s order. We must ship that cargo out. The longer they stay in Calabar, overcrowded into the holding pens, the greater the chance of some pestilence wiping out the whole lot of them.”

Sparrow was staring at him, evidently realizing that Beckett wasn’t going to back down this time. The captain wet his lips. “No, Mr. Beckett. I won’t do it. I’m sorry to have to do this, but I formally resign my position as an EITC captain.”

“Captain Sparrow, there is something you need to consider before you do that,” Beckett said. “I’ve been sheltering you from an unpleasant truth, I fear, because of your exemplary work for me in the past. When an EITC captain loses more than one cargo within the span of a year—for any reason, even pirate attacks—the company has the option of charging him for the cost of the lost second cargo. It’s a clause we included to protect us against incompetent mariners. Check your contract.”

“But—”

Beckett raised a hand, cutting him off. “Captain Sparrow, I’m willing to make it worth your while to carry Lord Penwallow’s order. But if you refuse, even if you resign, you will still owe us for the muscovado sugar you lost. And that sum comes to…” He checked an account book, then did a quick mental calculation. Then he named a sum. Admittedly, he padded it a bit, just for the enjoyment of seeing Sparrow’s eyes widen, and hear him gasp softly.

“Mr. Beckett, I don’t have that much,” Sparrow said. “It would take me years to earn that much.”

“I’m sorry, Captain. If you resign, you will owe us this sum. If you refuse to take a rightfully assigned cargo, you’ll owe it, too. But…” Beckett tried to sound reassuring. “If you make this one trip for me, Captain Sparrow, and thus make it possible for me to honor Lord Penwallow’s request, then I will promise you, on my word as a gentleman, that I won’t ever ask you to do it again. If I had another captain to take this cargo I would hire him, but, as you can see for yourself, I don’t.” Beckett spread his hands and shrugged slightly.

Sparrow sat there. His face was under control, but he couldn’t hide the look in his eyes. If Beckett hadn’t been so focused on humbling, nay, taming the EITC’s West African “free spirit”—as he’d come to think of Jack—he might have felt sorry for him. My Sparrow has just discovered the limits of his cage, I fear.…

Beckett leaned back in his seat, watching Sparrow’s internal struggle for a few minutes. Time for the coup de grâce....

“I can see this is difficult for you, Jack,” he said. “I am sorry to have to demand this of you. I’m realizing that this voyage may be a genuine ordeal for you, and I’d like to show that I appreciate your sacrifice for the company. So I’ll make you a proposition. I know you’d like to have a ship of your own. If you will command the Wicked Wench to deliver Lord Penwallow’s cargo, I’ll sign her over to you. You will own her, Jack.”

Sparrow’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “You’d do that, Mr. Beckett?”

“I would,” Beckett said. “I will. All you have to do is take her on this one voyage, and then come back here. Look.” He opened another drawer in his desk and withdrew a file. “Here is the title to her. The day you return from the successful completion of this voyage, I will sign this over to you. For the sum of, let’s say, a shilling. Just to keep everything perfectly legal.”

Jack Sparrow was looking dazed. “I…I…”

“You want her, right?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

Beckett heard the fierceness underlying his voice.

“I can’t make you a better offer than this one, Jack. You’d be mad not to take it.”

“I would be,” Sparrow said. “Excuse me for a moment.” He stood up, then strode over to the corner, and stood staring at the blank wall, fists clenched.

Cutler Beckett watched him, wondering what he’d decide. He rather thought he knew, but Jack had surprised him before, he recalled.

Eventually Sparrow turned back around and walked back to the deck. “All right, Mr. Beckett,” he said, his voice low, and rough with repressed emotion. “You have yourself a deal. I’ll deliver Lord Penwallow’s cargo. Just this one time. Never again. Savvy?”

“Perfectly, Jack,” Beckett said. He held out his hand. “Shall we shake on it, then?”

Sparrow stared at the proffered hand as though it were a snake. Finally he shook his head. “My apologies, Mr. Beckett,” he said, quietly, “but I would not feel right, doing that. I am sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Beckett said, his tone kindly, understanding. What did he care about a handshake? He’d won! Sparrow was humbled. There was no mistaking that look in his eyes. He was trapped, as surely as a wild creature with its neck in a snare. “I understand that this will be difficult for you, Jack. I want to do everything I can to make it easier on you. I will provide you with experienced men to handle the cargo. You won’t have to do anything except sail the Wench.”

“Yes, sir,” Sparrow said.

“We’ll be spending the next few days doing some refitting of the ship, Jack. Nothing that can’t be undone, don’t worry. So find yourself something else to do, and give your crew shore leave.”

“All right, Mr. Beckett.”

Jack spent the next four days trying to crawl into a bottle of rum. He was so surly that even Robby stopped talking to him, but the first mate refused to leave him alone, either. Thanks to Robby, Jack usually passed out in his own cabin each night, rather than on the streets of Calabar.

Each day, when the teams of carpenters came aboard his ship, Jack left before they could walk up the gangplank.

He’d informed his crew about the Wicked Wench’s next cargo, and some of them quit when they heard about it. Frank Connery and a topman quit, citing personal objections to the institution of slavery. Five more men, including the cook and Roger Prescott, left because hauling slaves was dangerous, and they knew it. There had been slave rebellions aboard ships before, and in several instances all or most of the crew had been killed. But the greatest danger to the crew of a slaver was pestilence. Slaves often became sick, and then the illness would spread to the crew. It wasn’t all that unusual for a third of the slaves and the same percentage of the crew to perish during the five or six weeks of the Atlantic crossing.

Robby quickly hired hands to replace those who had quit. Cutler Beckett, true to his word, provided a small crew of six “handlers” who would be responsible for the slaves—feeding them, seeing that they were exercised each day, and so forth.

None of Jack’s crew spoke pidgin, and the captain ordered his men to stay clear of the cargo hold. “Just concentrate on your work, mates,” he told them. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

Jack was in a tavern, drinking, when they loaded the cargo aboard the Wench. As he’d ordered, Robby dispatched a crewman to fetch him when the slaves were all aboard, and only then did he return to his ship. He wasn’t falling-down drunk, but he was definitely numb.

The Wicked Wench set sail from Calabar, with a cargo of shackled human beings, crowded together like cattle, in her hold.

As if reflecting Jack’s mood, the weather turned foul almost immediately. There wasn’t much thunder or lightning, but there was wind and driving rain as they sailed beneath the bulge of Africa. It rained for almost a week, on and off, and the Wench sailed with her hatches battened down against the wind and the water.

Jack spent a lot of time up on deck. Sailors were used to being wet. And the flask he carried, tucked into Amenirdis’s sash, kept chills away.

Their first day out, Jack went below, intending to inspect the hold. He’d done that for every cargo he’d ever hauled. He’d bucked himself up by remembering Cutler Beckett’s promise that the Wicked Wench would be his.

Even though Jack now had many times the price of the ship stashed in his cabin, he knew he wouldn’t dare to turn any of that Kerman gold into pounds sterling—at least not any time soon. He knew Beckett was having him watched. So having Beckett give him the ship would solve many problems for him. His first voyage, he resolved, would be to sail to the other side of the world—as far away from Africa as he could get.

So after he’d steeled himself to perform his customary inspection of the hold, Jack paused on the ladder to borrow a little liquid courage—and numbness—from the flask, tipping nearly half of the rum down his throat.

Only then did he continue on his way down the ladder.

As he reached the bottom, though, and prepared to step out into the hold, he heard them. The dank, dark air was filled with the sounds of hushed, fearful conversations in languages he didn’t understand, mixed with anguished moans, whimpers, groans of pain, and agonized weeping.

There wasn’t enough rum in all the world, Jack discovered, that would give him the ability to enter his own cargo hold. He turned and fairly fled back up, all the way to the weather deck, where he stood for twenty minutes, hat in hand, his face lifted to the rain, hoping its touch could make him feel clean.

After that aborted attempt to reassert his normal routine, Jack roamed his own ship like a lost soul, standing his watches, but retreating to his cabin when the slaves were brought up on board and forced to “dance” for exercise. At night, unless he managed to pass out, he lay awake, his fingers tracing the bezel of the ring Amenirdis had given him.

They hadn’t managed to replace Roger Prescott, so, on their third day of steady rain, Jack decided to go up on the quarterdeck and relieve Matthews so the man could go below, get into clothes that at least were not dripping, and rest. The idea of taking a helm watch cheered him; it would give him something to do besides wander his own weather deck, squelching in rain-sodden shoes, imagining he could hear sounds from the hold.

But, when Matthews ceded him the wheel, and Jack stepped into place at the helm, the ship felt…different. The Wicked Wench had always been yar—quick and responsive to her helm, a pleasure to steer. But when he took the wheel this time, her yar was gone. She felt sluggish, her response to the wheel almost labored, as though the ship was…oppressed.

Frowning, he experimented, turning the wheel to port, then starboard, watching the compass. Jack had always fancied that his Wench responded to his touch joyfully, like a human wench with her lover, by turns coy and flirtatious, bold at times, at times shy, needing to be tenderly coaxed. This ship felt like a…thing. Merely a wooden construct with canvas sails…and nothing more. Lifeless.

Jack tried to tell himself that the difference had to be due to the way the “cargo” was distributed. Perhaps her ballast had shifted while they’d been working on her.…

Matthews, who had been watching as Jack experimented, nodded. “Aye, Cap’n, you feel it too, don’t you? She’s not respondin’ the way she used to.”

Jack glanced at the man, relieved to know that he wasn’t completely imagining the whole thing. “I feel it,” he admitted. “She doesn’t feel yar anymore.”

“Must be the way the cargo’s placed,” Matthews said.

“Must be,” Jack agreed. “It will be a relief to have this voyage over.”

“Truer words were never spoken, Cap’n,” Matthews agreed. “Before, this was a happy ship. We were all shipmates. Now, with Roger and Chamba and Mr. Connery gone, she don’t seem like the same vessel.”

Jack nodded sadly.

Finally, on the afternoon of their sixth day at sea, as the Wicked Wench approached the point where Jack would order them to turn northwest and start up the African coast, the rain stopped. The sun came out. Magically, the seas turned from greenish gray to sparkling blue. The captain felt his spirits rise as he ordered the crew to remove the hatch and ladder covers, so as to get some light and air circulating aboard the ship.

Jack hadn’t reckoned on the fact that when the hatches were uncovered, and the air from the holds was free to move upward, it would bring sounds—and smells—with it.

He was up on the bow, his octant in hand, taking sun sightings, when a wave of stench, so strong it should have been visible, struck him with almost tangible force. It was like having the contents of a chamber pot flung in his face. Jack gasped in shock, and instantly regretted it.

Clapping his hand over his mouth and nose, he bolted for the railing, then leaned over and heaved until his stomach was empty, then retched till he gagged on bile. Jack had never been sick a day in his life, never vomited before, except when he’d been totally inebriated, and even then he could count the number of times on the fingers of one hand.

He almost dropped his precious octant over the side.

Finally, he spat a last time, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and straightened up—only to have his knees nearly buckle. He leaned against the railing, eyes closed, breathing through his mouth, afraid to look around and see whether any of his crew had witnessed that disgraceful exhibition.

“Feel better now?” It was Robby’s voice.

Jack nodded. “Think so. I’m going to my cabin for a few minutes. Have to put away my octant.”

“You’re not on watch, Jack,” Robby said, walking along beside him as Jack made an unsteady way down the ladder from the bow, along the weather deck. The captain unlocked his cabin with trembling hands, then went in. After carefully stowing his octant in his sea chest, Jack collapsed onto his chair. He took out his flask and sipped carefully, mindful of his thoroughly empty stomach.

The few swallows of rum helped. After a minute, he straightened and opened his eyes. “That’s a little better.”

“You do look better,” Robby agreed. “I’ve never seen anyone so green in my life.”

“Don’t remind me,” Jack said. “I assure you that I sincerely regret all those times I’ve laughed at lubbers who nearly turn themselves inside out, feeding the fish.”

“It’s an awful smell,” Robby said.

“Ships will be able to tell what we’re hauling for miles,” Jack said. He slumped forward, holding his head in his hands. “May all the forces of Hades and Hell damn Cutler Beckett for eternity, Robby,” he muttered. “May he die alone, and have no one to mourn him.”

“Pretty strong curses, Jack,” Robby observed.

“I hope they bloody well come true,” Jack said, in a savage undertone. “You should have seen him that day, Robby. I never fooled him. He knew I was lying about something, even if he couldn’t prove it. So he set out to grind me into the muck, just like he’d squash a bloody cockroach. Sodding little wanker.” He dropped his hands.

Robby raised his eyebrows. “The only other man I’ve ever seen that made you this angry was Christophe, Jack.”

“Don’t think I haven’t fantasized about running the little git through, Robby.”

“I’d be surprised to find that he knows how to fence,” Robby said.

“I can’t go back to work for him,” Jack said. “Even if he keeps his word and signs over the Wench, the ship’ll be…tainted for me. He’s ruined her. I took a hand steering her, and she’s lost her yar, Robby.”

Robby sighed. “I guess we could have predicted this. You know how much he wanted to find that island. But Cutler Beckett is already rich and powerful. Why does he need more?”

“I think wielding power and manipulating people are the only things that give him pleasure,” Jack said, “And he won’t be satisfied till I’m broken to his will.”

“What are you going to do, Jack?”

“I can’t let him win,” Jack said. “I can’t let him beat me and suck the life out of my ship. I just can’t, Robby.” After a moment, Jack’s bowed shoulders straightened, then he sat up, tossing his hair back from his eyes. “I can’t take those people to New Avalon, either.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Jack tapped his fingers on the tabletop for a minute, then got up and restlessly paced back and forth for many minutes. Finally he halted. “I’m going to bloody let them go, Robby.”

“Let them go? Where? They’ll just be recaptured!”

“Not where I’m going to release them, they won’t. I’m sailing for Kerma, Robby. It isn’t far off our course. I’ll get Amenirdis—that’s Ayisha’s real name—to talk her brother into giving the slaves…what do they call it…” He snapped his fingers. “Asylum. Yes.”

Robby’s mouth dropped open. “But Jack, we can’t get back there! We tried the fogbank. It was awful! The ship will be lost!”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jack said. “Amenirdis gave me this,” he held up the ring. “With this I can summon her, get her to come out and take these people to safety.”

“And then what?”

“Then I’m stealing my Wench and taking her back to the Caribbean. Port Royal. I hope I can get a message to Esmeralda there. I’m going to take her up on her offer.”

“But, but, what about Teague? You said you’d be hung if you tried to go back.”

“That was when Borya and Christophe were still alive. Now they’re dead, and at my hand. Well, I had help with Borya, but who’s going to know? Esmeralda said if I proved that I had made up for what I’d done, by killing the rogues I’d stupidly freed, that would be my way back to the cove, and acceptance and forgiveness by the Pirate Lords. Remember?”

Jack nodded at Christophe’s sword, hanging on the wall. “Both rogues are dead. If I steal the Wench I’ll be a pirate anyway. Might as well go for the whole thing, Robby.”

“But, but—”

“Robby, when I get to Port Royal, I’ll release anyone in the crew that doesn’t want to go with me. I’ll pick up enough of a crew to get the Wench to Tortuga, and then I’ll be able to get a full crew. It will work. I know it will!”

“I’m with you,” Robby said. “We can take some fine prizes with this ship, if we get her properly armed.”

“I was hoping you’d say that, Robby!”

Jack whirled. “Let’s get more canvas on this leaky old sow of a tub. I want me Wench back, and I’ll get her by reaching Kerma as quickly as possible. Robby, it will take a couple of weeks to get there. Talk to the crew. Feel them out. Find out who’s a possible candidate to help us. When we reach that fogbank, we’ll need armed men to keep Beckett’s people in line as we off-load the slaves. Can you do that?”

Robby stood up. “I’m your man, Jack,” he said. “Now and always, you know that. It’s good to hear you sounding like yourself again.”

“It’s good to feel like meself again, Robby. Hold on a moment. This calls for a toast.”

Jack quickly poured shots of rum into a couple of battered cups for himself and his first mate. “Here’s to going back on the account, Robby. I say, to hell with the Cutler Becketts of this world, and to hell with their so-called ‘legal’ ways of doing business. Once a pirate, always a pirate. I know that now, and I swear from now on, it’s the pirate life for me!”

“To the pirate life!” Robby echoed.

They clashed their tin cups together, and drank the toast.

Jack stood on the bow of the hove-to Wicked Wench, staring at the bank of fog. They were less than a league from it. Plenty close enough, he decided. Closing his eyes, he thought of Amenirdis.…

He pictured the white flash of her teeth as she laughed. The way her hair had coiled around his finger when he played with it. The cinnamon-brown of her skin, and the way it had felt when he kissed her. The way she tasted…her scent…her eyes…

Concentrating, Jack located his sharpest, most vivid memory of her, and focused on it, remembering the way she’d looked when she’d wrapped the sash around his waist, then looked up at him, saying solemnly, “I will pray to Apedemak each day that my weaving will be strong enough to protect you from injury, or sickness, or harm.”

Jack held that image in his mind, lifted the ring to his mouth, and breathed on it.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. There was no flash of communication, no answer. Jack could only trust that she’d “heard” him, and would come.

Turning, he went down off the bow, and then to his quarters, where Robby had gathered his most loyal men. Cutler Beckett’s men didn’t need to know what was going on until Jack was sure that the Kermans would rescue the slaves. If any of Beckett’s “handlers” asked why they were hove-to, Jack was prepared to fob them off with some explanation about the ship needing some kind of repair.

But as soon as he was sure that the slaves would indeed be freed today, Robby would open the arms locker and distribute weapons to Matthews, Banks, Trafford, de Ver, Featherstone, and the other crew that the first mate knew would prove loyal.

After making sure everyone understood the plan, Jack dismissed the men to wait. He stood by the bow for a while, then realized he hadn’t eaten that day. Eating something would help pass the time. His new cook was, if anything, even worse than the old one had been. As soon as he was a pirate again, Jack resolved, he’d find himself a cook that could actually cook.

After he’d eaten, Jack went back up on deck. He forced himself to keep to a leisurely stride. No sense in warning any of Beckett’s men that something was up.

Amenirdis must be on her way, Jack thought. She might come sailing out of the fog any moment now.…

Thinking about seeing her, touching her, made him realize that his hands were filthy, his face was dirty, and he hadn’t shaved in weeks. Repressing a yelp, Jack waved casually at Robby. “Going for a bit of a swim, mate,” he called. Shucking off his clothes, he dived off the ship. He paddled around, rubbing at his hands, his face. His fingers left streaks of clean skin.

He didn’t stay in long; the water was cold, and he still had to shave and get dressed.

By the time Jack reappeared on deck, wearing his best clothes, his hair combed, freshly shaved, it had been almost two hours since he’d used the ring. What if she never appeared? What if the ring didn’t work?

Robby came over to join him. “You look much better, Jack.”

“Could hardly have looked worse, mate,” Jack admitted.

“True.”

Jack gave his friend a glance. Robby smiled innocently.

“I’ll have to get new clothes,” Jack said, “When we get to Port Royal. Boots. Definitely boots. And a hat. A new hat.”

“Oh, boots, yes,” Robby said. “I need a new hat, too. We’ll be a dashing pair, won’t we? Ships will be lining up to be our prizes.”

Jack laughed, for the first time in nearly a month. Then he stopped abruptly, every muscle tense. “Look!” he pointed.

A ship nosed out of the fogbank. It was the Heka.

Jack rowed over in the dinghy. He scrambled up over the railing, and found Amenirdis, Tarek, and Chamba waiting for him. He’d never been so glad to see anyone in his life. He shook hands solemnly with Chamba, bobbed a bow at Tarek, and held out both hands to Amenirdis. “Hallo, love,” he said.

She extended her hands, and took his, her grasp warm. “Hallo, Jack. I did not expect to see you again so soon.” The princess looked at him closely, then touched his freshly shaved cheek. “There is trouble,” she said. “I feel it. You carry a weight on you. You have been hurt, Jack.”

“I have,” he confessed, and, taking a deep breath, launched into his story.

Minutes later, the Heka came about and glided back through the illusion-fog, taking them to the pharaoh, to see if he would give permission and pledge his help to the slaves aboard the Wicked Wench.

Amenirdis took Jack down to her cabin, and they sat on cushions, talking, sipping a little wine, as the yacht glided along. Jack heard all about the first Royal Progress the pharaoh had made around the island so his subjects would be able to see their new ruler. Chamba and Amenirdis were working with some of the best minds on Kerma to teach them English, so they would be able to go out into the world and learn the skills Shabako knew his people needed to know.

Jack told Amenirdis that Christophe was dead. He was surprised when she merely nodded. “You knew?” he asked. “Did you have a vision or something?”

“No,” she told him. “But I was told by someone very powerful that Christophe had only a short time to live. That very night…his time was short, indeed.”

Jack described the events that had taken place since he’d last seen her—how Cutler Beckett was even now sending a fleet toward the bearings he’d given. “Love, they know what the illusion-fog is like,” he told her. “I believe that you will need to change the way you protect the island from detection, if that is possible. The illusion-fog might be beaten by a crew determined enough. I was able to rally my crew, shut out the bad effects to some extent, when I went back in, by concentrating on saving my ship. If I could do it, others could, too.”

She nodded. “I have been thinking much the same. But you are the one who knows how modern ships navigate. What do you think would work best?”

“If you can, make it so that any ship that approaches the island simply won’t see it. Affect their compasses, so they don’t read quite right. And do one of those illusions you told me you use when you want to go unobserved…make the eye slide past the island, unable to focus on it. Something of that sort. Make sure that even if ships come within, say, half a mile of the island, they’ll never realize what they’re looking at. Savvy?”

“Yes, Jack. All good suggestions. I will speak to the high priest about it myself, tomorrow morning.”

“Good.”

When Heka reached the harbor, Jack saw several chariots waiting for them. He climbed into the one that Amenirdis drove and held on as she shouted a command that sent her horses into a brisk canter. She drove the team capably, her kohled eyes bright and fearless. The chariot wheels bounced as they hit a rock. Jack held on even tighter. The princess, seeing his white-knuckled grip, smiled and slowed them a bit.

When they reached the royal palace, they were shown immediately into Shabako’s presence. Jack bowed, though he didn’t kneel to do it. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I need your help. Cutler Beckett, the man who purchased your sister, and caused the death of your former high priest, forced me to take a hold full of slaves. Two of the poor souls have died already. I want to let them go, set them free. But if I do that anywhere in Africa, or the Caribbean, they stand a good chance of being recaptured. Can you grant them asylum here, on Kerma?”

“How many of them are there?” the Pharaoh asked.

“Not quite two hundred.”

Shabako beckoned to his sister. “Please give me a moment. I must confer with my Grand Vizier.”

Jack was left alone in the private audience chamber with its tall lotus columns. The painted walls seemed to reflect Old Kerma’s ancient history, for the buildings stood in a desert landscape, near a great river, not on the green foothills of the island. That must be the Nile, Jack thought, remembering what Amenirdis had told him of her people’s past. Jack remembered that long ago day when he and Christophe had talked about sailing the Nile.…

The pharoah and Amenirdis returned to the chamber. Jack bowed to them, then looked over at Amenirdis, wondering what the decision would be, but her impassive countenance gave him no hint of the outcome.

Shabako regarded him gravely. “We recognize the essential goodness of your mission here, Jack Sparrow,” he said, formally. “Yes, we will grant these poor captives asylum. But this island is not large. We cannot make such a gesture again. Do you understand?”

Jack closed his eyes in relief. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.

Heka reemerged from the illusion-fog at the head of a flotilla of vessels from Kerma. Every yacht, every fishing boat, and even some huge outrigger canoes had been commandeered by the pharaoh’s men. Everyone who could speak pidgin would be helping to reassure the slaves and get them safely loaded.

When Amenirdis, wearing the same clothes she’d worn to go into the labyrinth, got ready to head below with Chamba, Tarek, Shabako, and his guards, she looked at Jack. “Stay in your cabin, Jack,” she said. “You have done your part.”

Jack nodded. “Thank you, love. I must admit I wasn’t looking forward to this.”

The loading went fairly smoothly. Only two slaves panicked and threw themselves into the water, but were quickly fished out and placed into rescue vessels. Jack stood on the deck of the Wicked Wench, knowing that now, for good or ill, the die was cast. His old life was over…his new life, yet to begin. He felt as though he were suspended in some kind of limbo. But he felt like Captain Jack Sparrow again.

As the first of the loaded boats began heading into the fog, Amenirdis came back aboard the Wicked Wench.

“I believe it is going smoothly enough,” she said. “I am not needed at this point. We have a few minutes to talk, Jack.”

Jack glanced around at the deck of the Wench, at his armed crewmen, then reached down and took her hand. “Come to my cabin, love,” he said.

When they stood in the cabin, Amenirdis looked around, and smiled. “It is the same. We spent so many happy hours here, did we not?”

“Well, most of them, we were asleep,” Jack said, with a faint smile.

“But it was a happy sleep,” she reminded him. “We lay close together.”

“Yes,” he said. Stepping over to her, he put his arms around her. “Come over to the bunk,” he said. He felt her shake her head, and start to pull away, then added, hastily, “I didn’t mean it that way, I swear. All I want to do is lie down with you and hold you, love. The way we did, those nights we were together.”

“All right,” she whispered.

Taking off his hat and coat, Jack slid off his shoes and lay down. The princess snuggled up next to him. Putting his arms around her, pulling her close, Jack sighed, feeling himself relax completely for the first time in a month. “This is good,” he said. “I just needed to hold you. It’s been rather horrible, love.”

“I can tell,” she said.

He buried his face in her hair. “Listen, love, I have something to tell you. Robby and I…well, we’ve got no choice, now. Setting these people free, in the eyes of the law, we’ve stolen them. That’s piracy. So we’re taking the Wench and heading for the Caribbean.”

“You’ll be a pirate again?”

“Yes. It’s what I am, love.”

“I know. Esmeralda knows, too.” She smiled faintly. “Everyone knew that but you, you stubborn man.” The princess pulled back a little and smiled at him. “Tell Esmeralda I send her my best when you see her, please. Tell her I am making the red silk dress, in my spare time. I may finish it in a year or so.”

Jack kissed her forehead. “I wish I could see you wear it. Maybe at some point, I’ll take the Wench around the world. Always wanted to do the circumnavigation thing. Just to say I’d done it.”

“And when you do, you’ll stop by and stay for a month on Kerma,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, if you want me to.”

“I will always want you to. I will always love you, Jack. That’s forever.”

He held her very tightly for a few more minutes, then it was time to go.

Saying good-bye gave him déjà vu. Jack held her hands and tried to smile, and Amenirdis did the same. Tears welled in her eyes, but she allowed none to fall.

This time there were no words; neither of them spoke.

Later, as he leaned on the rail, watching the stern of Heka vanish into the fogbank, Robby came over to stand beside him. “You could have gone with her, Jack,” he said, softly. “Aren’t you curious about Kerma and the Shining City? Wouldn’t you like to explore it? Ever think about just chucking it all and finding a home?”

“For about one minute, Robby,” Jack said. “But what would I do on an island, with a princess?”

“I don’t know. Marry her? Raise cute little brown-skinned children that can cast spells and swim like fish? Her brother would probably make you a duke or something. You’d have pots of money and servants. The Kermans could use a smart man, skilled in the arts of modern warfare, to teach them how to make guns and black powder. Some day they might need to fight off Cutler Beckett’s fleet.”

Jack shook his head. “Me, Captain Jack Sparrow, living on an island? In one place, year after bloody year? Hemmed in by a wall of illusion, Robby? With only three ruddy miles of ocean I can sail?”

Robby looked blank. “Three miles?”

“Oh, that’s right, you forgot,” Jack said. “I spent two days in Zerzura, Robby. It was a very nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”

“You did what? How…when? I forgot? Forgot what?”

Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “I promise I’ll tell you all about it, first opportunity we get. Right now, we should be raising sail.”

Raise sail, they did. Jack collected the weapons, then stowed them back in the arms locker.

Then he called a conference composed of himself, Robby, and Cutler Beckett’s six slave handlers. Jack was blunt with the men, telling them frankly that the Wicked Wench wasn’t going back to Calabar…ever. “But that’s piracy!” blurted one of them.

“That’s right, mate,” Jack smiled at him. “And I’d just like to make things clear. When we get to Port Royal, you’ll be allowed to leave the ship in peace, along with any crew members who want to leave. But if you want to eat while on this voyage, you will work, and you can start with cleaning up the hold of my ship. I wouldn’t kennel a dog I liked there in its present condition, much less swag when we take our first prize. Savvy?”

Sullen muttering greeted his declaration. “Oh, and one more thing,” Jack said. “Any attempt on your part to exact retribution on my loyal crew will be dealt with swiftly and severely. As captain, my retaliation for any threats or assaults on my vessel or crew would probably include, but not be limited to, keelhauling. If you don’t know what keelhauling is, by all means, ask someone. Are we clear, gentlemen?”

Beckett’s men affirmed that they did, indeed, understand.

The next morning found them down in the hold, with buckets of seawater, mops, and rags, assiduously cleaning. Apparently they liked eating, and wanted to continue doing it.

Early that same afternoon, Jack went up on the quarterdeck. Matthews was once more on duty. “How is she handling now, Mr. Matthews?”

The helmsman smiled. “Try her for yourself, Cap’n.”

Jack stepped over and put his hands on the big wheel. Within a minute, he was smiling. “Ah,” he said. “She has her yar back. A smart lady, my Wench. She knows what she wants, and she likes her freedom.”

Jack set course for the Cape Verdes, figuring to use them as a landmark, before heading west. They reached Sal, the northernmost of the eastern group of islands, and passed it, four days later.

Jack was in his cabin the next morning, charts spread out before him, when Robby tapped at the door. “Come in,” Jack called.

Robby entered. His expression brought Jack up and out of his chair, heart hammering. “What is it?”

Robby shook his head. “Ships, Jack. They’ve spotted us, and are closing in. It’s my fault. I’d posted Jenkins as lookout this morning, but he got stomach cramp and had to come down. I intended to send someone up right away, but as I was on my way below, to wake up a man, I—”

“Stow it, Robby. Tell me later. Ships, you say? Plural?”

“Yes, four of them. Two to the west, one to the south, and one to the southeast. All flying the EITC flag. They’re closing in.”

Jack dropped his protractor. “Oh, no.”

“Beckett must have gotten word to his fleet somehow, to be on the lookout for the Wench, and if we were near the bearings you gave for Kerma—which we are—to come after us.”

Jack went out onto the weather deck, barefoot, in his shirt, his spyglass thrust into his sash. Grabbing the ratlines, he went up them in a rush. When he reached the yardarm, he took out the spyglass, and looked.

He’d been hoping that somehow Robby was mistaken, and yes, the first mate had indeed made an error. There weren’t four EITC ships closing in on the Wicked Wench. There were five.

The fifth ship was to the northeast. All routes of escape were blocked. Oh, they’d try to run for it. The Wicked Wench was fast, especially with no cargo. But the fleet Beckett had sent off to Kerma wasn’t laden with cargo, either.

The next few hours passed in a blur. The Wench was surrounded, and forced to heave-to. Longboats carrying contingents of armed men rowed over. With little courtesy, they searched the ship—including the cargo hold.

Cutler Beckett’s slave handlers accompanied the EITC officers. Jack saw the looks they gave him, and wondered whether he might be able to make it to Sal, if he went overboard. He wasn’t given the opportunity to decide, though. Brutal hands seized him.

Jack was taken into custody and locked in the brig aboard the Sentinel, the EITC’s patrol and defensive vessel for West Africa. The Sentinel headed south, back to Calabar. Corporal Andrews, the marine who dragged Jack down to the orlop deck and locked him in the cell, said, good-naturedly, “There you go, Captain Sparrow. It’s not too uncomfortable.”

Jack stood in the cell, and looked around with a sigh. “You’re right. I’ve been in worse.”

“The Sentinel’s got a good cook. I’ll bring you some chow, after the crew’s mess.”

“Thank you,” Jack said. “Most kind of you.”

Corporal Andrews chuckled. “Well, you’re the politest prisoner I’ve ever locked up, I must say.”

Jack managed a feeble smile. “I’ve had a bit of practice, mate.”

Andrews left, still chuckling. Sitting down on the edge of the straw pallet, Jack leaned his head in his hands and sighed. We were close. We were so bloody close.…

Looking around the brig, he sighed again, and muttered, “Where’s that scurvy dog when you need him?” Then, lying back on the pallet, Jack closed his eyes and tried to sleep.