CHAPTER ELEVEN

Pirates and Rogues

JACK WATCHED THE PRINCESS’S EYES well with tears as she realized her father was dead. After a moment, Ayisha swallowed painfully, then dashed them away on the sleeve of her dress. “I knew that,” she said, finally. “He left five years ago. I knew he wouldn’t have stayed away so long unless…unless…”

She looked at Jack. “He left to find a cure for my little brother, Aniba. He was sick.”

“I know,” Jack said, as gently as he could. “He told me that. He told me he’d found the cure, too. He was on his way home to Kerma with it.”

Ayisha nodded. “Yes. He promised to come home with it.”

Jack hesitated, then said, “What happened…?” He let the question trail off.

She sighed. “Aniba died three months and a few days after my father left.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack said.

She nodded, and cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

They sat there cross-legged on the deck in silence for a little while, both of them taking in these new developments. Finally, Jack gave the princess an appraising glance. “How do you feel now? I mean, physically? Still sick?”

Ayisha thought for a moment, then looked faintly surprised. “I feel…better.” Her eyes widened slightly. “I actually feel a bit hungry.”

He smiled. “That’s good. Means you’re getting your sea legs. Your Highness—”

She was already shaking her head. “Don’t, please. No one must know.”

“Very well. Miss Ayisha—”

She was shaking her head again, and this time, smiled faintly. “I think we might dispense with formality at this point, Captain Sparrow. You may call me Ayisha.”

“I’m Jack,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand, and, solemnly, they shook. He looked around the little canvas enclosure, thinking how its flimsy “walls” would make it easy for someone to overhear them. “Listen,” he said. “Don’t take this wrong. Clearly, we need to talk more. You need my part of the story, and then we have to make plans. Plans that include, if at all possible, finding your brother. But this place”—he indicated their surroundings—“is not ideal for a private talk.”

Ayisha looked around, and nodded. “I see what you mean…Jack.”

“Let’s go up to my cabin. We can speak privately there. If you need a duenna or something, we’ll call Tarek to join us.”

“Duenna?”

“A chaperone.” When her expression remained puzzled, he amended, “Someone who is present to make sure…propriety…that’s, you know, proper behavior, is observed.”

“I see.” Again came that faint, elusive smile. Jack found it charming, and wished he could actually see her grin, or laugh out loud. Sternly, he reminded himself to stick to business. “I am not worried about having a…chaperone…Jack. As I told you, I can take care of myself.” She shifted on her straw tick. “I agree. We would be more private and comfortable elsewhere.”

Jack stood up, then extended a hand. She gave him hers, and he pulled her to her feet. “My shawl,” she said. Quickly he fetched it, then handed it to her.

The transformation was instantaneous. The moment Ayisha touched the fabric, her entire image shifted, in the blink of an eye. Jack realized that the illusion-Ayisha was half a head shorter than the real woman. When she’d first stood up, she’d been only an inch or two shorter than he was. Extraordinary, he thought. That’s a very useful ability, to be able to cast illusions so convincing.

Jack offered her his arm to steady her as they made their way across the main deck to the ladder. She climbed the steps slowly, cautiously, with him behind her, ready to steady her should she stumble. When they reached the weather deck, he led her aft, toward his cabin. Seeing Lucius Featherstone hurrying across the deck, Jack stopped him. “Lucius, Miss Ayisha and I will be conferring in my cabin for a while. Go ask cook for some broth for her, and bring it up straightaway.”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

When they reached Jack’s cabin, he cleared his charts off the table, then ceremoniously seated Ayisha in his chair. The windows were already open to catch the breeze. “Comfortable?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, looking curiously around the cabin. “Um. The colors…they’re very…bright.”

“Yes, cheerful, isn’t it?” Jack said, busy in his pantry. He took a battered pewter goblet he kept for visitors, poured water into it, then wine. He had a bit of real bread left, quite stale now, but still easier to chew than biscuit. He haggled off a chunk, then brought the bread and the goblet over to her. Just as he did so, there was a tap on the door, which proved to be Lucius, with a covered bowl and a spoon. Jack took it and carried it over to the table. “There you go. Try dipping the bread in the broth, because it’s a bit tough.”

“Thank you, Jack,” she said, taking the spoon. “This is the first food that has smelled good to me since we left Calabar.”

“Just take a little bit,” Jack advised, sitting down opposite her. “Go slowly.”

“I shall,” she said, and spooned up a sip. Jack was fascinated to realize that she didn’t clank her spoon in the bowl, or slurp. Maybe that was part of being royalty, he thought, wryly. Knowing instinctively how to eat soup quietly. He went and poured himself a goblet of wine, then, after a moment’s thought, watered it down. He needed to keep his wits about him.

Jack had been thinking busily, ever since he’d discovered Ayisha’s real identity. If he’d been by himself, he’d have been tempted to break into a sailor’s jig. Fancy that, the Princess of Zerzura, sitting here, two feet away from him, serenely eating broth in his cabin aboard his ship! He gazed happily at the scrap of woven cloth circling her wrist that was, in reality, a beautiful golden bracelet—one of the three necessary to open the labyrinth. One down, two to go, he thought. He’d mentioned blowing open the door to the labyrinth—and the treasure!—to Cutler Beckett, but, really, using black powder to blow holes in things was so bloody noisy. It tended to bring guards down upon one’s ears, and cause all manner of havoc.

After he’d told her the story of how he’d encountered her father, he’d let her have a go at trying Tia Dalma’s compass, and they’d see whether her desire to find her brother made the compass react. Jack really hoped Prince Shabako was still alive—and still had his bracelet!—and not just because it would make things so much easier for him. He hoped the prince was still alive because it would break his extremely pretty sister’s heart if he wasn’t.

Watching Ayisha eat, he smiled at her, glad she was getting her sea legs and regaining her strength, because he really needed her to find Shabako. After they had collected her brother, it would be time to go after the third bracelet. And Jack was confident that he knew where it was.

All the while he’d been having golden fantasies, Ayisha had been slowly spooning up broth, nibbling broth-soaked bread, and, every so often, taking a sip of the watered wine. Finally, she gave him that faint, enigmatic smile again. “I could eat more, but I’ll stop now. Thank you, Cap…Jack, I mean.”

Jack nodded. “Do you feel up to talking now?”

“Yes,” she said. “I want to hear how you encountered my father. Please tell me everything.”

He took off his hat, then tugged at his neckcloth, loosening it slightly. The breeze was pleasant, but they were still fairly close to the equator. She noticed. “Jack, please be comfortable. It will not offend me if you remove your coat.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, gratefully, and did so. Then he sat down on the table, because she was occupying the only chair, and because his story was going to take a while.

Looking down at her, he hesitated. “This won’t be easy telling. Or easy hearing,” he said, finally.

Ayisha nodded. “I am fairly warned, then.” Leaning forward, she put out a hand to touch the edge of his sleeve. She was clutching her shawl around her, but Jack fancied he could see a trace of the real woman in her expression of unflinching determination. “Jack…I want to know.”

“All right.” Jack searched for the best place to begin. “Five years ago I was on board a ship,” he said. “Not my ship. It wasn’t my choice to be there. I’d been impressed. Taken aboard by force.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Yes. It happens in the maritime world. I love the sea, but anyone can see it’s not an easy life. To get enough men to serve aboard vessels, sometimes they send out gangs to look for some poor lubber—man or even boy—who is in the wrong place at the wrong time, often in his cups—” Seeing her puzzlement, he hastily amended, “Drunk, you know. Then they just grab him and hale him off. Or cosh him over the head and he wakes up fifty miles offshore.”

Ayisha nodded. “I understand. It is like being made a slave.”

Jack blinked. “Yes, I suppose so. Except that they don’t actually own you. A press-ganged man can usually leave and go home…eventually.”

“I see.”

“My case was a little different than most, in that I knew the gang that ’pressed me.” He rolled his eyes as it all came back, shaking his head, and heard a bitter edge creep into his voice. “I was so young. And stupid. Got myself involved in something bad because I trusted a man I thought was me friend. He betrayed me.”

Reminiscently, Jack rubbed the spot behind his right ear, feeling the faint ridge there. “But the cracking over the head part and waking up far out to sea was the same. The ship was a brigantine, name of La Vipère.” He shrugged and grimaced. “Means ‘snake’ in French, and the name was appropriate. She was a pirate vessel.”

Jack took a deep breath. It was strange, talking about this, being honest about his past. She was listening so intently. Most people didn’t listen like this…they wanted to hear a little bit, and then they wanted to talk, too. Usually about themselves. But this woman was so focused; she knew how to listen. And, for someone who had lied so much up until today, there was a straightforward air about her that compelled honesty.

“La Vipère’s captain was named Christophe. Until the night he and his mates grabbed me, I thought he was my best friend.” He gave her a rueful glance. “There were signs that he was a…snake…but I didn’t see them. Or I didn’t let myself see them,” he amended.

He paused. This was harder than he’d anticipated. Jack could feel anger rising, simmering, at the memory of his time aboard La Vipère. “People are strange, love, and that’s a fact,” he said, with a breath of a laugh that had no humor about it at all. “Before all this happened, I’d been so restless, so dissatisfied with me life, I wanted nothing more than to get away from everything I’d grown up knowing. But the morning I woke up aboard La Vipère and realized that it was all gone, and I could never go back, I missed it something fierce.” He thought for a moment. “I’d had the most precious thing of all…freedom. And I never knew that until it was gone.”

Ayisha nodded. “There is an ancient proverb from my homeland. It goes something like, ‘The best way to learn to value what one has is to lose it past all retrieving.’” She gave him that faint smile of hers. “And I, too, learned to value my freedom only when it was lost to me.”

“You know more about it than I ever will, love,” Jack said. “What happened to you…” He shook his head. “It’s a wonder you didn’t just…go mad. I think I might have, in your place.”

“No, Jack,” she replied. “You would have figured out a way to escape. As you obviously did.”

“Yes, well…I didn’t, actually, as things turned out. I thought about it, of course. While I was aboard La Vipère, I just kept me head down and stayed to meself, as much as I could, doing whatever work I was ordered to do aboard ship. My strategy was that I’d wait until we were a mile or two from land, then I’d go over the side, at night. I’m a pretty good swimmer. But after I’d been sailing with those rogues for about three weeks, and we hadn’t gotten a glimpse of land, I was starting to think I’d never get away. Then one morning, the lookout shouted that he saw a sail…”

When Christophe ordered the helmsman to change course, and the topmen aloft so they could come about, Jack grabbed the ratlines and started up, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t pay to be distracted that high up, while making sail. He worked steadily alongside the rogues, not joining in their banter as they set the royals. He made a point of not looking west. He didn’t want to see the sail that had become La Vipère’s quarry. Jack knew how this chase was likely to end. The brigantine was fast. Their quarry wouldn’t escape.

While La Vipère pursued the unlucky vessel, Jack worked, readying the ship for battle. He and a youth with curly blond hair that the mate addressed as Robby were ordered to ready the grappling hooks, then they were sent below to the gun deck to assist the gunnery crew.

Jack and Robby ran back and forth, carrying supplies, bringing powder from the magazine, obeying every order as fast as they could. As he worked, Jack found himself ruminating about the possible danger they might face, should this prize choose to fight rather than surrender. He’d always made it a practice to avoid fights when he could, but when he’d gone into combat with pirate comrades before this, Jack had never been afraid—because taking part in the fray was his choice.

Pirates tended to be philosophical about the possibility of death, figuring when it was your time, it was your time, and there was nothing to be done about it. Jack wasn’t really afraid that he’d be killed outright today. But the thought of being wounded frankly scared him. He was under no illusion that this rogue crew regarded him as one of them. He hadn’t even been offered the chance to sign the ship’s articles—not that he would have, had they been presented to him.

Since he wasn’t officially a member of the crew, if he were injured, these rogues might not raise a finger to help him. Jack figured there was a better than even chance that they’d simply heave him overboard. If they did that, he’d hear Davy Jones call his name, and have to face whatever came after one died. I wonder how often the Pirate Lords summon Jones, he found himself thinking, as he laid out clean swabs for the cannon barrels. Do you suppose he’d give Esmeralda a message from me? Tell her that I miss her? Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t say…more…that night?

The thought of asking Davy Jones to be his messenger boy was so utterly ridiculous that Jack actually chuckled aloud, albeit bitterly. Stop thinking about her; you’re moping like some kind of mooncalf, Jacky boy, the voice in his head admonished him. She’s probably forgotten you already.

Jack shook his head. Esmeralda wouldn’t forget me, he insisted, silently.

Young Robby had looked up inquiringly at the sound of Jack’s choked laugh.

Noting the young crewman’s inquiring expression, Jack shook his head. “’S nothing,” he said quietly. “Just me thinking too much, lad.”

“It doesn’t pay to think too much aboard this vessel.” Robby’s reply was equally soft. “Or see too much, either.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack said.

When Jack came back up on deck, he found that La Vipère was rapidly overhauling the other vessel, and no wonder—she was a Dutch flute, a slow, wide-bottomed cargo vessel that stood as much chance of eluding the brigantine as a sloth had of escaping a jaguar on flat ground. Jack stood there, watching the distance between the two vessels narrow, wondering whether he’d be assigned to the gunnery crew, or the boarding party. If I were Christophe, I wouldn’t allow me unsupervised access to powder or the big guns.…

“Jacques!” The all-too-familiar hail came from behind him. “Where have you been keeping yourself, mon ami? I’ve barely seen you since you joined us.”

Jack took a deep breath, schooling his expression to one of bland neutrality, before he turned to face Christophe. He inclined his head, acknowledging the man who stood before him. “Orders, Captain?”

Christophe’s mouth quirked. “Ah, Jacques, that is not the way to be. We rogues saved your life, remember? If we had left you behind, you would have been the one that Captain Teague hanged at dawn.”

Jack nodded, forcing a smile. “And I saved yours. I figure we’re square, mate.”

“That is better, mon ami! There is no sense in old friends quarreling over trifles, is there?”

Christophe was toying with him. Jack could see the mockery in his betrayer’s eyes, in his smile. He forced himself not to react. He’s baiting me, trying to get me to do something stupid, so he’ll have some excuse to kill me, he realized. I can’t give him what he wants. “Of course not,” he said, aloud.

Christophe stroked his freshly shaven chin thoughtfully. He was dressed in his turquoise coat on this bright morning. “Jacques, I have been thinking. Now that most of Borya’s fleet is gone, perhaps I shall become the new commander of our little venture. Have my own fleet, eh? And in that case, I’ll need captains for my vessels. Would you like to be one of them, Jacques?”

Jack tried to decide what answer would be best. He didn’t believe Christophe was serious for a moment. If he answered wrong, how long would he live?

The captain smiled engagingly. “Think of it! Instead of sending that flute we’ll be boarding today to the sea bottom, I could merely capture her, and give her to you, mon ami, to captain for me. Admittedly, she’s a bit unwieldy and slow, but one must start somewhere. What say you, Jacques?”

I say that I want nothing to do with you ever again, except perhaps to spit you on my sword and watch you die in agony, you vicious waste of air, Jack thought. This exchange was making his blood boil, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his expression neutral.

He managed an unconcerned shrug. “You know, I think I need a bit more experience before I’m ready for my first command, mate. Perhaps the next ship will be a better match for me, eh?”

Christophe eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out whether Jack was being sarcastic. Jack maintained his bland expression. He was only too aware that antagonizing Christophe would be beyond stupid.

Finally, after a long pause, Christophe blinked, and shrugged. “Very well, mon ami,” he said. “I will keep it in mind.”

“Merci beaucoup,” Jack said.

The rogue captain turned to leave, then paused, looking back at Jack over his shoulder. “I want you in the boarding party, Jacques. You may have a cutlass, but no pistol.” He smiled. “Alas, I fear I don’t quite trust you, Jacques.”

Jack did his best to look suitably wounded by this barb. He couldn’t tell how well he’d carried it off. Christophe hurried away to oversee the boarding party and Jack, mindful of orders, strode over to join the cutthroats who were standing poised by the portside railing, grappling hooks awaiting them. The mate handed him a sheathed cutlass and a baldric without comment. Jack slipped the baldric over his head, adjusted the hang of the weapon, then stepped away from the other crewmen. Gripping the hilt, he drew the blade, then swung it experimentally a few times, testing the weight and balance of it.

The rogues hoisted their true colors. Jack saw the red flag of no quarter, with its demon skull, flapping in the breeze.

The Dutch ship fired a round. It fell short.

Jack crouched behind the amidships windlass and stared at the deck, not wanting to watch. The ship lurched beneath his boots as La Vipère fired back, then the two ships traded shots for the next few minutes. Black smoke stung his eyes, and the smell of burned powder filled his nostrils. La Vipère sustained minor damage to her rigging, and a cannonball smashed one of the ship’s railings, but that was the brigantine’s only damage. From the shouts of the excited rogues, Jack knew when the flute’s mainmast fell. One of the next rounds was a lucky shot that took out her rudder.

The flute hoisted a white flag.

An ordinary pirate ship would have stopped there, boarded, taken the cargo and valuables, and then sailed away, possibly with prisoners to ransom, leaving the Dutch crew with a vessel that could be repaired and made seaworthy again.

Not La Vipère. The deck beneath Jack’s feet heaved with the force of an earthquake as La Vipère fired a broadside.

As the smoke cleared, Jack couldn’t stop himself from peering past the windlass. The broadside, delivered at close range, had brought down their quarry’s remaining sails. The flute was listing a bit—she must have been holed below her waterline. The Dutch vessel had been given a mortal wound that would, most likely, send her to the bottom. But she’d remain afloat long enough for the rogues to strip her and her passengers of everything of value.

Jack gritted his teeth, feeling his breakfast lurch in his belly at the realization that the worst was yet to come for the passengers and crew of the hapless flute.

Automatically, he obeyed orders, standing by the splintered rail with a grappling hook, ready to swing it with the others.

Christophe barked commands, and Jack swung his hook with the other men. Swiftly, they drew the two vessels together. Jack could hear the screams and moans of the wounded, and see the passengers and crew milling around amid the splintered remains of wood and canvas that had, half an hour before, been a ship sailing under full canvas.

“Board!” shouted Christophe. Jack drew his cutlass and leaped up onto the brigantine’s rail; then it was an easy jump to land aboard the flute.

The captain of the flute came forward, speaking to Christophe, but the rogue captain brushed by him, ignoring him. Jack knew, as the portly Dutchman did not, that there would be no terms—and no quarter. Quickly, the rogues assembled the passengers and crew, making sure they were disarmed.

After securing the crew and passengers, Jack spent the next hour hustling back and forth between the flute’s hold and La Vipère’s deck, moving cargo. The Dutch vessel carried a load of tobacco, and the smell of it made his head swim as he and the other rogues, plus some of the flute’s surviving crew that had been pressed into service, worked at transferring it.

Finally, when the cargo hold was emptied of everything of value, and Jack was gasping for breath, Christophe ordered all hands to “stand by to mop up.”

Jack watched Christophe as the rogue captain casually turned to the portly Dutch captain, and, with a hard thrust, ran the unarmed man through. The Dutchman’s eyes widened in disbelief, then he collapsed like a man cut down from the gallows.

That was the signal for the butchery. Moving mostly in silence, the rogues began slaughtering the disarmed passengers and crew as though they were cattle.

Some of the rogues were moving out, along the deck, evidently searching for anyone who had managed to hide. Jack joined them, moving aft, poking through the wreckage of the masts, spars, and sails, occasionally thrusting with the cutlass as though he’d found some hidden survivor. He saw Robby doing the same thing, and his eyes widened as he watched the lad grimly stab a man who lay with arms and legs at ugly angles, obviously already dead. The boy looked up, saw Jack watching him, then scurried away.

Jack continued aft, toward the poop, making a good show of searching for survivors. He found a body, and, looking away, ran it through the belly, to get blood on the blade of his cutlass. The feel of the dead, unresisting flesh made his breakfast rebel in earnest, and it was nearly a minute before he could fight back the nausea and continue on.

He’d nearly reached the taffrail, at the very end of the stern, when he heard the low plea. “Sir. Please…”

His heart slamming, Jack ducked beneath a flap of fallen canvas and saw the black man. He was a middle-aged passenger, judging by his clothing, and he’d obviously been badly injured by flying debris and falling wreckage. Blood stained his coat and britches, and smeared his mouth. Jack stared at him, wondering what a free black was doing here, in the Caribbean, as a passenger aboard a lumbering Dutch trader. Meeting a free black outside of the pirate community was most unusual.

The man was looking up at him, one hand raised in mute appeal. As Jack watched, his dark gaze focused on the bloody cutlass in Jack’s hand.

Jack hastily laid the blade on the deck, then dropped down and crawled until he could kneel next to him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could help.”

The man’s breathing was labored, his English accented, but Jack had no trouble understanding him. “Have you…water, sir?”

“Sorry, mate, no,” Jack said.

“No matter,” the wounded man said. “Soon enough…I will no longer feel thirst.”

Jack gave the amount of blood on his clothes and the strange angle at which his left leg rested an assessing glance, and figured the poor chap was right. “Just rest,” he said, as soothingly as he could. He wished there was something he could do. But there was nothing.

“I will rest…later,” the man said. “Please, sir. You must…listen. When the mast came down…I knew that I would die. As I lay here, I prayed to my god…Apedemak. In answer…to my prayer…he granted me a vision. He promised me…he would send…” He gasped for breath, then continued, “send me…a good man. And then…I saw…your face…in my vision.”

“Me?” The poor devil must be off his head with pain, Jack thought. Look at the angle of his leg…it’s no wonder he’s raving. And if he’s not, then his god has a cruel sense of humor. The poor devil prays for “a good man” and he gets me?

“Yes,” The dying man panted for breath. “Apedemak has sent you…to me. He has chosen…you. Please, sir. You must…listen.”

Where have I heard the name “Apedemak” before? Jack wondered. “I’m listening,” he said, reassuringly.

“I traveled here…from the island of Kerma,” the man gasped. “I left…the Shining City, seeking a cure…for my little son, Aniba.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened. He couldn’t possibly have heard him right—could he? “Zerzura?” he blurted. “You came here from Zerzura?”

The man’s teeth flashed white stained with red, as he tried to smile. “You know of my island. Good. This proves…the god…sent you to me. I am Pharaoh Taharka…ruler of Kerma. I wanted…to find…” he broke off, gasping.

“The cure for Prince Aniba,” Jack said. “Yes. I understand, Your, uh…Majesty.”

“I knew…when I heard your footsteps…that you were the one. Apedemak led you…to me,” the pharaoh said. “I prayed so hard…and I saw the lion god. He promised me…a good man, one who will…go to Kerma, and tell…tell my queen. I have been gone…many months. But my talisman guided me. I found the…cure.”

Jack nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “You traveled a long way for it.”

“I did,” Taharka agreed. “The woman of power…I found her in a strange house on the Pantano River…swamp…so many candles…” He had to stop to catch his breath. “She said I must trade for…cure…” he gasped in pain, then moaned.

“Easy,” Jack said. “You shouldn’t talk. Rest.” He’s talking about Tia Dalma, he realized. Her cures are famous, but she demands a trade. His mind was still reeling at the notion that he was talking to someone from the legendary island.

Taharka’s right hand lifted. He gripped Jack’s wrist, his fingers unexpectedly strong. “I must speak…you need to know.”

“All right,” Jack said, gently. “All right. Tell me, then.”

“I had cure…but now, it is lost,” Taharka’s voice was filled with sadness. “Tell them…I fulfilled…”

“You fulfilled your promise,” Jack said. “You did. I will tell them.” He took a deep breath, and realized he could smell smoke. The flute was on fire. It was a good thing the rogues had emptied the powder magazine.

“Tell my wife, Queen Tiyy. Tell my daughter, Princess…Amenirdis. And my son, who will be pharaoh, Prince Shabako. Tell them all…of my fate. Please.”

“I swear, on pain of death, that if I can find them, I will tell them,” Jack said. As if I could find Zerzura! But what harm could it do, to make a promise to ease a dying man’s passing?

Hearing this, the pharaoh relaxed slightly. He tried to draw a deep breath, but coughed instead. At length he whispered, “Good. Good. My thanks, sir.” His fingers loosened slightly on Jack’s wrist. His eyes closed for a moment, then flew open, and his grip tightened. “One more thing…you must…return my talisman…to Zerzura.”

“Talisman?”

“My bracelet.” The pharaoh painfully raised his left hand, to touch a slender strip of woven grass that circled his right wrist. A small, flat gray pebble was centered on it, with a few lines scratched into the stone. Jack squinted down at the pebble, realizing that from the proper angle, the lines resembled a crude representation of a lion’s head. “Watch,” Taharka gasped. He closed his fingers on the strip of woven grass.

In the gloom beneath the canvas, Jack saw a greenish glow surround the wristlet for a moment. When Taharka moved his hand away, Jack gasped, seeing that the bracelet had transformed. It was now a golden marvel, with a pale green stone, and the image of a lion’s head, beautifully formed by the hand of a master goldsmith.

“Take it…” Taharka commanded, pulling it free with what was evidently the last of his strength. Jack raised his hand uncertainly, and the pharaoh pushed the bracelet into his fingers. Then his hand dropped limply to his chest. He gasped, and gasped again, unable to draw breath.

Jack slid his arm beneath the dying man’s head and shoulders, raising him, hoping that would help him catch his breath. Taharka coughed, and more blood stained his dark skin, but the support helped; he was able to draw breath. “Thank you,” he whispered. “May I know…your name?”

“Jack Sparrow.”

“Jack…Sparrow.” Taharka was making a last, valiant effort to speak, and it cost him dearly. “Never forget…Jack Sparrow. Apedemak has…chosen you…to protect the Heart. My son…my daughter…they have…the other two…talismans. Only all three…may open the labyrinth.”

“I understand,” Jack said, softly.

“You will sail to…Kerma. You will enter…the labyrinth. And…when the proper time comes, you will…remember…my words. You will…understand…the peril…to my people. Please…protect Zerzura…as I would.”

“But…” Jack began,

“You…must go…Zerzura. Save…” His voice stopped.

“Sir?” Jack stared from the bracelet in his hand to the man’s still face. “Pharaoh Taharka? Can you hear me?”

The body that he held suddenly felt heavier. Jack eased the pharaoh back down, and touched his throat. No pulse. He can’t hear me anymore. He’ll never hear anything again in this world.

He pulled his hand away, seeing that his fingers were slick with blood. Jack wiped them clean on the man’s coat, then closed Taharka’s eyes. Scooting away from the body a bit, Jack raised the transformed bracelet, eyeing it with wonder. The gold gleamed, even in the shadowed shelter of the ruined sail.

“That,” came a voice from behind him, “was truly touching, Jacques.”

Jack whirled, startled, his heart trying to leap out of his chest. Christophe was standing behind him. How long had the captain been there? How much had he heard?

The rogue smiled coldly, as he bent over and plucked the golden talisman out of Jack’s hand. “I’ll just relieve you of that, merci, Jacques.”

Christophe turned the bracelet, admiring it as the sun flashed off the gold and the pale green gems. “It wasn’t so long ago that we spoke of looking for Zerzura, was it, mon ami? Small world, as you English say.”

Jack remained silent, turning over alternatives in his mind. There didn’t seem to be many, and none of them looked promising from where he knelt.

The captain’s smile abruptly vanished, and he drew his sword with a lightning motion. “Jacques, you silly fool. I fear you have made a grave error. Don’t you know any better than to try and conceal booty from your comrades? That’s an offense punishable by death, under La Vipère’s Ship’s Articles.”

“But I didn’t—” Jack began, then he shut his mouth. It didn’t matter what he’d done, or what he said now. Inadvertently, he’d given Christophe the excuse he’d been looking for to kill him. Unable to think of an alternative, Jack crawled out of the wreckage. As he began climbing to his feet, he casually dropped his hand down toward the hilt of the cutlass. If I can just—

Christophe’s booted foot came down on the blade. “No, Jacques,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

Defeated, Jack stood up and regarded the captain. “He gave it to me,” he said, “I didn’t take it. And I wasn’t trying to conceal it.”

Though you would have, Jacky boy, if Christophe hadn’t come along when he did, the little voice of the man who’d undoubtedly condemned him to death back in Shipwreck Cove sneered in his mind. You’d have hidden it very well.…

Christophe shook his head sadly. Holding Jack at bay with his sword, he bent down and nimbly picked up the cutlass. There was no sign of the Zerzuran bracelet. “You had better come along, Jacques,” he said. “This ship will not remain afloat much longer. We need to ungrapple La Vipère. I cannot risk having the fire spread.”

Motioning Jack to walk ahead of him, Christophe marched him back to where the two vessels were grappled together. The flute was low in the water, straining the grappling ropes, changing the angle a boarder had to cross, making the jump much more difficult.

“Move, Jacques,” the captain ordered Jack, touching him lightly on the buttock with the point of his sword. “Across.”

Raising his voice, he shouted, “Take Sparrow into custody!”

Jack had no choice but to jump the gap. He sprang up and across, and he made it, teetering on La Vipère’s rail. Hard hands grabbed him, hauling him down. Christophe made the leap as gracefully as a gazelle. “Ungrapple!”

Quickly, the crew freed the tension on the grappling ropes, then pulled them aboard. La Vipère bobbed upward, then began drifting away from the ship of the dead.

Jack listened numbly as Christophe shouted for “All hands!” He sagged in the grasp of the two burly rogues who held him, trying to figure out what to do.

He was Jack Sparrow, by Neptune’s ballocks, and surely he’d be able to come up with some brilliant escape plan. Jack Sparrow, who’d tricked, cheated, lied, finessed, and misdirected his way out of innumerable tight spots in his life.

But rack his brain as he would, Jack couldn’t come up with any way out his current predicament. His mind raced in circles, until he felt like throwing himself to the deck and howling with frustration, but no brilliant piece of tomfoolery that would save his arse surfaced.

He gave the guard on his left a hopeful smile. “You know, without me, you’d have been hanged,” he essayed.

The guard looked at Jack as though he’d crawled out of the ship’s bilges. “Shut up, maggot,” he said. Then he nodded to his compatriot, who suddenly released Jack, drew back his meaty hand, and delivered an open-handed blow that snapped their captive’s head back. Jack shook his head, trying to get rid of the stars that were arcing across his vision, and spat blood.

The first guard backhanded him this time. “That’s for fouling our clean deck, maggot,” he said.

Jack sagged in his captors’ hands, careful to swallow the next mouthful of blood. At this point it was all he could do to hang on to consciousness, much less intuit some brilliant plan to get himself out of this.

By now the crew was assembled. In loud, ringing tones, their captain announced Jack’s attempted perfidy. “By rights,” Christophe concluded, “I should order that his throat be cut and his body flung overboard to feed the sharks.”

A chorus of cheers at this suggestion filled the air. Jack felt less than popular.

“But I am minded to be merciful,” Christophe added. “Because Sparrow did render us a service in bringing the keys to the dungeon, so we could break free of Shipwreck Cove.”

There followed some muted grumbling noises at this, but no one dared to protest. “Since we have no convenient island for marooning, at the moment,” Christophe said, “I propose that we put Sparrow in a boat and let him fend for himself.” He thought for a moment. “I will let him have oars,” he decided. “And I’ll let him have this cutlass.” He held it up. “But I don’t believe he deserves the traditional pistol and one shot.”

Jack struggled to move his swollen lips. “Water? Food?” he mumbled, trying not to sound too abject.

Christophe looked at the assembled crew. “What about it, lads? Food and water? What say you?”

“NO!” The shout reverberated.

Christophe turned back to his prisoner. “They said no, Jacques. I am sorry.” He spread his hands in a “what can you do?” gesture.

Jack glared at him. You’re sorry, all right.

Christophe moved in closer, and dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “It does make me sad, Jacques, to know that I must now go after the treasure of Zerzura myself. I would have been happy to use that bracelet to open the labyrinth with you at my side, to share in the adventure.”

Hah, Jack thought. Good luck finding it. And you won’t be able to open it with just one bracelet, you overdressed lunatic. He had another mouthful of blood available, but sanity prevailed, and he did not spit it in Christophe’s face. In a boat, even far from land, he had a chance. With the captain’s sword sheathed in his guts, he had none. With an effort that made his throat raw, he swallowed again.

After that, things moved quickly. Christophe ordered his crew to make sail immediately. When La Vipère was picking up a bit of speed, the rogues placed Jack, the oars, and the cutlass in the smallest of their boats, then, with a speed that left him dizzy and gasping, they lowered the dinghy halfway down the side of the ship. Abruptly, they released the lines.

The boat fell, hitting the water with a tremendous splash. Luckily, it did not capsize. Jack grabbed for the oars, and began pulling away from the brigantine. He looked up to see Christophe and his crewmen, including young Robby, standing by the rail, looking down at him.

Jack’s control abruptly deserted him. “Ha! Esmeralda kissed me!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Christophe heard him, of that there was no doubt. Screaming curses in French, his erstwhile friend grabbed a musket from one of the men who had been standing guard, and aimed it at Jack, who redoubled his efforts at rowing away. The musket spat fire—but not at Jack. The lad, Robby, had knocked the barrel up, so the shot went up into the air.

Then, as twenty pairs of hands grabbed for him, in one motion Robby slung something around his neck, leaped up onto the rail, then dove overboard. He disappeared beneath the waves.

Jack wasn’t yet out of musket range, but he stopped rowing, waiting to see where the boy would surface. He didn’t.

The rogues were firing at the water, a perfect fusillade of pistol and musket shots.

The air filled with smoke and the smell of burned powder from the barrage. Jack picked up his oars, feeling a bit regretful. Too bad the lad hadn’t made it.

La Vipère was out of musket range now. Just as Jack dipped his oars in the water again, a pair of sun-browned hands clamped over the gunwale of his boat. Robby surfaced like a whale, gasping for air. For a long moment the boy clung to the gunwale, panting, then he raised his head and smiled at Jack. “Permission to come aboard?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Jack said, dubiously. “Give me one good reason why I should let you climb into my boat.”

The boy smiled, tossing his hair back. His blue eyes were brilliant, and filled with laughter. Reaching down for the leather strap Jack could see slung around his neck, he gave it a tug. “Because I have two bottles of water, some biscuit, and a bit of salt beef ?” he asked.

Jack smiled and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, lad,” he said. “Jack Sparrow.”

“Robby Greene.” They shook.

With some maneuvering, Jack managed to balance the boat so Robby could boost himself in. When the boy was safely on board, Jack, humming a jaunty pirate tune, fished Tia Dalma’s compass out of its place of concealment in his waistband.

“What’s that?” Robby asked, then he peered closer. “Oh,” he said, in tones of profound regret, “it’s broken.”

“No,” Jack said. “It’s not. This is our salvation, lad.” Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the idea of the closest land that had food and fresh water. He pictured clear springs, clusters of ripe bananas, and delicious tortoises sunning themselves.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the compass needle pointing due east. Jack pointed. “That way, lad.” He pointed behind Robby, and cheerfully handed him the oars.

Over the next few days, he learned a lot about Robby Greene. At the age of ten, the boy had been grabbed by a press gang in Bristol when he’d accompanied his father to market to sell some pigs. Forced to serve as a powder monkey in His Majesty’s Navy, Robby had sailed aboard a vessel bound for the Caribbean. When the naval vessel had docked in Port Royal, he’d deserted, then found a berth as cabin boy on a merchant ship bound for England, determined to go home to his family. But, in keeping with Robby’s run of bad luck, somewhere off Bermuda the merchant ship had fallen prey to La Vipère, and Robby had wound up with a choice that faced many crewmen and passengers of captured ships—turn pirate, or be killed. He’d chosen to join Christophe’s crew, and had spent several years passing himself off as a ruthless rogue pirate.

“I stabbed a lot of corpses,” he said, ruefully. “And, of course, sometimes when we boarded, I had to fight for real, so I did.” The youth hung his head. “I’ve killed men, Jack.”

“We all have, Robby,” Jack said. “That’s life on the account. But that’s over now.”

Robby looked at him. “Over?”

“Yes. We’re going to become honest merchant sailors, we are.”

It took the two of them, rowing in shifts, five days to reach a small island that did indeed have fresh water, bananas, and tortoises. The island proved to be a popular place for ships to be careened. Jack and Robby had only a few weeks to wait before a ship arrived for just that purpose. Luckily, it was a merchant vessel, not a pirate ship.

They’d signed on to serve as crew aboard that EITC ship, and they’d never looked back.…

* * *

Jack stopped talking, and drained his cup. “Excuse me. Talking is thirsty work,” he said to Ayisha, and went to the pantry to refill the goblet.

When he returned, the princess looked up at him. “Did poor Robby ever get home? Back to his family, and the farm?”

Jack nodded. “Yes,” he said, sadly. “A year or so after we began sailing together, we docked in Bristol. Robby went looking for his family, only to discover that some kind of pestilence had swept through his village, and both his parents had caught it and died. He had two sisters, and they survived, but they’d both gotten married, and no one knew what their names were, or where they’d gone. So…” He shrugged.

She nodded. “At least you were able to save each other.”

“That’s true,” Jack agreed. “He’s a good shipmate, Robby. And…” He hesitated, because he no longer used the term lightly. “…A friend.”

“So the evil Christophe still has my father’s bracelet?” She frowned. “That is very bad. We need that talisman, if we can possibly retrieve it. For five years, no one has been able to get into the labyrinth! We have been unable to have access to our most important religious shrine, and the treasures of our people. The priests have spoken about trying to dig a tunnel underneath the door, but there are…traps…there, for the unwary, both physical and magical. Do you think this rogue pirate Christophe still has it?”

“It’s bloody likely,” Jack said, then reddened. “Excuse me language, Your Highness. What I meant was that Christophe knew enough about Zerzura that I don’t believe he’d put the talisman up as a marker in a game of chance.”

Unconsciously, her fingers traced the embroidered lion’s head on the scrap of fabric that was her own bracelet. “Do you think there is any chance that after we rescue my brother, we can locate Christophe and attempt to get the bracelet back?” She shook her head. “Buy it, perhaps, or steal it? It can be of no use to him, except as a bauble to wear.”

Jack smiled slightly. You bet I’m going to go looking for Christophe, love, as soon as I’m free to do it. That greedy rogue won’t be able to resist the chance at that treasure; he’ll cooperate. At least at first…

Aloud he said, “Let’s concentrate on finding your brother, first, then we can talk about that.”

Ayisha nodded, then sighed, putting a hand to her head somewhat dazedly. “So much to take in,” she murmured. “I feel almost dizzy with all I have learned today.”

“I know what you mean,” Jack said. “It’s enough to make your head spin like the needle of my compass.”

Her eyes sharpened. “About this compass, you mentioned…what, exactly, does it do?”

Jack stood up, turned his back, and extracted it. “I got it from an Obeah woman,” he said, “when I was just a lad, younger even than Chamba. Tia Dalma has powers I never heard of any other Obeah woman having. I believe this will help us find your brother, if he’s still alive.”

“Do not say ‘if,’ Jack.” Her voice was fierce.

“Very well,” Jack said. “Scratch the ‘if.’ This should show us where your brother is.” He looked at her. “Just a suggestion…you might want to remove your shawl. Just in case one kind of powerful magic might somehow affect another type. Cancel each other out, so to speak.”

She nodded, then slipped off her shawl and tossed it across the table.

Jack watched her, wondering if he’d ever become accustomed to that amazing transformation. She was so very lovely…

He sat back down on the table, reminding himself to stick to the matter at hand. “Now,” he instructed, “I want you to think about your brother. Concentrate on his face, and how much you want to find him. Don’t think about anything else, love…savvy?”

She closed her eyes and held out her hands. “Yes,” she said, “I understand. I have him in my mind.”

Jack leaned forward and gently placed Tia Dalma’s compass into her cupped hands. Ayisha jerked violently, nearly dropping it, and her eyes flew open. She cried out, in her own language, a sharp exclamation that might have been a curse.

“What happened?” Jack said, putting his cupped hands below hers, in case she dropped his compass.

Ayisha was staring down at the compass in awe. Reverently, she stroked one finger along its casing. “This is…an extraordinary thing of power,” she said.

“I know.”

After a few moments of staring down at the compass, gently stroking it, as though it were alive, she sighed. “I’m going to try again.”

Jack watched tensely as she closed her eyes. Her lips moved, soundlessly repeating one word—her brother’s name.

The needle of Tia Dalma’s compass swung, and then settled into place. Jack craned his neck to see its face. The needle was pointing almost due West.

“If this compass is any indication,” Jack said, quietly, “your brother is alive, Ayisha.”

Slowly she opened her eyes and looked down, then back up. Sudden tears flooded her eyes, but she didn’t give way, only leaned forward and handed the compass back to Jack.

Jack snapped the lid shut and looked up, into those amazing bronze-colored eyes. “I’m going to escort you back to your quarters now,” he told her. “You need to lie down and rest. You’ve been through a lot today. And after you’re settled, I am heading for the helm, to make a course change. We’ll follow the compass until we find him.”

Wordlessly, she nodded, and then quite suddenly, the expression Jack had been waiting to see flooded her features, making them almost glow with happiness.

Ayisha smiled, a real, genuine, joyful smile. Her teeth were lovely, white and perfect. Jack smiled with her.

She reached for her shawl, then paused. “There is one more thing, Jack.”

“What’s that?”

“How do you plan to explain Tarek’s and my presence aboard your vessel to your crew?”

Jack shrugged. “I’m the captain. I don’t need to explain anything.” He regarded her for a moment, then added, “What is there that needs explaining?”

She gave him an ironic look. “Jack,” she said. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

For answer, she stretched out her fingers, until they almost—but not quite—touched his hand as it rested on the table. “Look,” she instructed. “What do you see?”

I see a lovely woman I want to kiss, then swoop up and carry over to my bunk, Jack thought, honestly, then he gave himself a mental shake and focused, looking down. “I see our hands,” he said. “Mine is pretty dirty, specially me fingernails,” he admitted, after a moment. “Yours is clean, smaller but much shapelier, and softer. A pretty hand.”

She drew in a breath that sounded half amused, half exasperated. “What color are they, Jack?”

“Oh,” he said. “That.”

“Yes, that.” Jack sat back and regarded her as she continued. “Jack, you bring two slaves aboard, and you expect your men to treat us as though we are white? Just ordinary passengers?” Ayisha laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “And, because of my disguise, I’ve seen some of your crew make the sign against the evil eye these last two days, when I’ve come up on deck. Chamba has told me some crewmen are saying I’m bad luck, maybe even a witch, and that my presence aboard caused that storm. ‘Women aboard a ship are supposed to bring bad luck,’ he said. The crew who believe that wouldn’t welcome a white woman, much less me.”

Jack nodded slowly. “I take your point. I’ll talk to them, spin some tale that will let them know how important you are to Mr. Beckett, and to the success of this voyage—and to me. The crew accepted Chamba. They can learn to accept you. As for Tarek, I seriously doubt any of my men would have the stones to risk angering him.”

She nodded tiredly, then gave Jack a faint, wan smile. “He is…large.”

“Too right, love.”

After he’d escorted her back to her “cabin” and left her to Tarek’s ministrations, Jack stood for a moment at the bottom of the ladder on the gun deck. Opening his compass, he closed his eyes, concentrating on Christophe…

Memories swept him. Christophe…the rogue butcher who had murdered dozens, maybe hundreds, of innocents. He’d killed one of the few men Jack had ever respected, the Pirate Lord Don Rafael, two years after Jack had left Shipwreck Island. Shot him in the back, the craven toss-bag. Christophe…that misbegotten scoundrel pawed Esmeralda and terrorized Marie.

Christophe…the sodding wanker who betrayed, kidnapped, and tried to kill me.

Jack focused his mind, remembering Christophe’s handsome, sneering face as he’d seen it last, looking down at him as he sat in that little dinghy, without a scrap of food or a drop of water.

Jack opened his eyes, saw the compass needle spin once, then it came to rest pointing a couple of degrees northward of due west.

Grinning cheerfully, he snapped it shut, then ran lightly up the ladder to the weather deck. Slowing down, as befitted the dignity of a captain, he ascended the final step. But under his breath, he was humming a jolly pirate tune—the same one he’d hummed that day Christophe had set him afloat. I’m on my way, de Rapièr. And this time, there will be a reckoning.

The Wicked Wench was heading west.

Cutler Beckett sat behind his oak desk in the East India Trading Company’s Calabar office, reading his just-delivered post. The Fair Wind had docked that morning, bringing packets of mail. Beckett had just finished reading his cousin Susan’s letter, thanking him for the recommendation he’d made for her son, and saying that the boy had indeed become apprenticed to the EITC office. Beckett hadn’t troubled to conceal his yawns as he read.

But the next missive made him sit upright in his chair, fully alert. It was from Lord Penwallow.

My Dear Cutler,

I write this in the hopes that it shall find you in the best of Health, notwithstanding the dreadful Climate of your current posting. I am currently enjoying the lovely summer Weather at my Surrey Estate, “Mayfaire,” where I am supervising the packing of some of our furnishings to be transported to the new house currently under construction in New Avalon.

My Overseer, Tobias Montgomery, reports that the building is going well, and that all of the building materials transported by your Captain Sparrow arrived promptly and Safely. I am very pleased with the young Captain, and believe that he may have a promising Future with the Company.

Lady Hortense and I have been trying out names for our new home. What think you, Cutler, of “Sweet Providence”? Since our principal crop is to be, of course, sugarcane, it seems to us Appropriate!

Which brings me to my main reason for writing. Montgomery has been working a minimal crew of Blacks to clear fields and prepare them for planting, but he needs more Hands. I can think of no one in whom to put my trust more suitably, with a clear conscience that the task will be performed thoroughly and well, than yourself, Cutler. 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.

I did pay a visit to Court a fortnight ago, and spoke to several of my Acquaintances there about your service to the EITC and how, under your supervision, our profits had increased a full twenty-five percent. Such devotion to Duty of course enriches the Royal coffers, too, as the natural flow of economics in our Society dictates. I believe I made a good case for your receiving some Official Recognition of your contribution. (I dare not be more specific, but I believe you fully comprehend my meaning.)

With that in mind, my dear Cutler, please plan on journeying with me next Spring to see “Sweet Providence,” where my lady wife and I shall be only too pleased to begin repaying some of your gracious hospitality to me. Following your visit, I believe it would be most Advisable for we two to take a ship back to England, so that I may introduce you to my Friends at Court, so they may, as they say, “put a face” to the man whose Name and Record they shall be bringing before the King.

Until we meet again, I remain, faithfully, your Advisor and Friend.

Yrs Truly,

Viscount, Lord Penwallow

Cutler Beckett ran his thumb over the elegant seal, smiling. At last! Things were falling into place. All of those evenings spent endlessly smiling as he listened to the never-ending drivel of minutia regarding His Lordship’s life and the lives of his relations were finally bearing fruit. Soon, possibly by this time next year, he seemed certain to be Sir Cutler Beckett.

His smile widened as he pictured himself at Court, in the presence of the king, undergoing the ceremony that would make him a Peer of the Realm. Something none of the other Becketts had ever been able to accomplish.

And he had done it all on his own. He had power and wealth. Soon, he would have the title to go with them.

Beckett was sitting there, leaning back in his chair, idly twirling a new, just-trimmed quill pen, eyes unfocused while resplendent visions of himself being knighted filled his vision, when his secretary tapped at the door, then opened it. Cutler Beckett started as guiltily as though he’d been caught out doing something unsavory with barnyard animals. He glared at Chalmers. “What is it, Chalmers? I was working.”

Chalmers was far too intelligent and experienced to contradict his employer. “Yes, Mr. Beckett, I see that. My apologies, but Mr. Mercer is here, and he said he has come at your request.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been waiting for his return. Please show him in.”

“Very good, Mr. Beckett.”

Ian Mercer entered the office moments later. He nodded at his employer as he removed his hat, then his trademark black gloves.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mercer,” Beckett said. “How is your investigation progressing?”

“I fear I’ve run into a snag, sir,” Mercer said.

Beckett raised an eyebrow and waved him to a seat. “Indeed? What has happened?”

“As I reported to you, sir, I believed I had traced the big male slave to the Dalton farm. I went out there this morning, prepared to purchase the buck, only to discover that he disappeared over a week ago.”

“Escaped?”

“Apparently so, sir. Mr. Dalton reported that he vanished from the male slave barracks one night. The dogs traced his scent to the road leading into Calabar, then they lost it.”

Beckett’s gaze sharpened as he gazed at Mercer. “Wait a moment. You said he disappeared…when?”

The operative nodded confirmation. “Exactly, Mr. Beckett. He escaped the same night that the Wicked Wench left Calabar.”

Beckett settled back into his chair. “Not a coincidence, then.”

“Doesn’t seem likely, sir.”

“Jack, Jack, Jack…” Beckett murmured. “My, you certainly were thorough, I’ll give you that.” He looked back at Mercer. “All we can do now is wait for his return, then.”

Mercer didn’t quite grimace, but his expression was definitely on the sour side. “I suppose so, Mr. Beckett,” he agreed grudgingly.

“There’s no way to know when Sparrow will return,” Beckett said. “We have no idea where Kerma is. He said if he discovers that the J. Ward book is correct, and it’s not far from the African coast, he’ll go there, verify its location, then turn around and return to Calabar without going on to Antigua. But it could be out there in the middle of the Atlantic. Or off the coast of South America, or the Colonies. There’s no way to know.”

“How big is it?” Mercer asked.

“Nobody knows. Not terribly large, I should think, or someone would have discovered it by now, magic notwithstanding. That reminds me, Mr. Mercer. We need to start planning our assault on the island.”

“There’s no way to know if Sparrow will return,” Mercer pointed out.

“I have faith in Jack,” Cutler Beckett said, with a faint smile. “At any rate, getting plans in place now will enable us to move all the more swiftly when he returns with the bearings. I anticipate it will take a good-sized force—for a private undertaking, at least—to capture and subdue the main city, Zerzura. Of course, having modern technology will help considerably. Judging by what Duke said, they’re barely using iron for spear blades.”

“To capture an entire city, Mr. Beckett, will take a private army.”

“Which I intend to have,” Cutler Beckett said. “I can divert perhaps a hundred of the EITC defensive troops from Calabar and the other nearby slaving ports. And of course I can use the EITC defensive warship, the brig Sentinel, to add to the firepower of the merchant ships I divert for this project. But we must have additional troops, and supplies.”

Mercer thought for a moment. “I’d say to be safe, Mr. Beckett, you’ll need a force of at least three hundred fighting men, that includes both foot soldiers and officers, and four, perhaps five ships to transport them. And of course you’ll need crews for those vessels, and support personnel for the troops, as well as supplies. Plus sufficient quantities of ammunition and powder.”

“An additional two hundred soldiers,” Cutler Beckett put his chin in his hand as he thought. “We won’t find them in Africa.”

“Not if you want men who know how to use firearms, Mr. Beckett. I’ll need to recruit in England, and on the Continent. It’s a good thing we’re currently at peace; there are bound to be more cashiered soldiers willing to do mercenary work.” Mercer thought for a moment. “How particular do you want me to be, Mr. Beckett? There are men of every stripe wandering the stews of every major city. And of course there are men in prisons whose fines could be paid, thus making them available to us—and beholden to us.”

“As long as they’re good shots and can follow orders, I don’t care what their relationship with the authorities is, Mr. Mercer.” Beckett waved a hand. “Prisoners are fine.”

“Sometimes you can find seagoing mercenaries, too,” Mercer said. “Privateers, pirates, and—”

“No pirates,” Beckett said sharply, his voice gone cold. “I loathe pirates.”

“Right, Mr. Beckett,” Mercer said. “Untrustworthy murdering scoundrels.”

“Precisely,” Beckett said.

Mercer stood up. “I’ll write up some lists, Mr. Beckett, and bring them to you for your approval, if that’s acceptable.”

Beckett nodded. “That’s fine, Mercer. You obviously have the skills needed to organize an expedition of this type. Thank you.”

“Of course, Mr. Beckett,” Mercer said. “I’ll get right on it.”

After Mercer left his office, Cutler Beckett sat in silence, as visions once again filled his mind’s eye. But these visions, unlike the previous ones, were grim and terrifying—the stuff of nightmares that still plagued him.

After he’d left home so precipitously to work for the EITC, young Cutler Beckett had only worked in the London office for a few months. Once his superiors had verified that he was competent, they’d assigned him to a tour of duty at the EITC office on Gibraltar. Beckett had boarded the Lindesfarne in London, excited to be fulfilling his ambition of seeing the world.

All had gone well with the voyage until, off the coast of Spain, the Lindesfarne was captured by pirates—taken without a single shot being fired. Herded up on deck by the pirate crew of Le Requin, Beckett, seething with fury, had stood with the other passengers, many incoherent or weeping with terror. Finally, the pirate captain appeared. He was a handsome villain who wore an elegant emerald coat. Moving with a leisurely swagger, he’d inspected his captives in silence, then introduced himself as “Captain de Rapièr.”

While his crew of cutthroats stripped the Lindesfarne of everything valuable, the captain interviewed his captives, so he could decide whether they should be held for ransom or sold into slavery.

When the captain approached Cutler, the eighteen-year-old, in a red rage at having his career plans thwarted, defied him, demanding their release, promising that he’d see them all hang. At first Captain de Rapièr had been amused by Beckett’s audacity and spirit, chuckling at him as though he were a cute, but yappy, puppy. Then Cutler had unwisely informed the captain that the cut of his elegant coat and its fastenings was considered completely out of fashion in both London and Paris. Seeing from Captain de Rapièr’s expression that he’d finally scored a palpable hit, Cutler had then laughed in his face.

The pirate captain got his revenge by turning Cutler over to his crew, saying they could “play” with this one. With cries of joy, the pirate crew slapped young Beckett around, then formed a gauntlet and spanked him with the flat of their swords. But that was just the beginning of his ordeal.

Stripping him naked, they hoisted him upside down, to dangle fifty feet in the air. Cutler had hung there, spinning slowly, hearing them laugh, too terrified to struggle. By the time they’d lowered him down, he was choking and sobbing incoherently. Captain de Rapièr had laughed uproariously.

The worst threat was yet to come. As Cutler lay sprawled on the deck, surrounded by the jeering cutthroats, several of them announced their intention of torturing him. They took out their knives, remarking that he really didn’t need all of his fingers and toes, did he?

Before the pirates could fulfill their threat, Beckett, terrified beyond reason, had simply…gone away, just as he had that long-ago day outside the schoolhouse. His glassy, unblinking stare and uncanny stillness had spooked the superstitious pirates. Even when they prodded him to the point of drawing blood, he failed to react. Uneasily, Cutler’s would-be torturers backed away; they’d wanted a lively, thrashing victim. A near-catatonic one was…unappealing. Muttering about demonic possession, they’d left him alone.

By the time Beckett recovered his wits, and was allowed to put on what was left of his clothing, all his earlier defiance was gone. Tears streaking his face, he’d confessed to Captain de Rapièr that he came from a wealthy family, and that they should send their ransom demand to Jonathan Beckett. Cutler also told the captain that he worked for the EITC, and this bit of information, unthinkingly revealed, would be his salvation.

Having dispatched the ransom notices, the pirates anchored off a remote section of the Spanish coast to wait for replies. To pass the time, the crew put their captives to work, forcing them—in some cases using the lash—to perform the most difficult, menial, and disgusting shipboard chores. They assigned Cutler to cleaning the bilges, a task so revolting it was the equivalent of trying to empty a sewer, bucket by bucket.

As the weeks went by, the ship grew fearfully clean, ransom money arrived, and Beckett’s fellow passengers were freed. But no word arrived from Jonathan Beckett. Cutler watched other captives exchanged for ransom money, day-by-day, week-by-week, until he was the only one left.

With a bitterness that scoured his soul of whatever remnants of kindness and decency it had still possessed, Cutler realized that his father had gotten the ultimate revenge for the accusations his son had hurled at him during their last meeting—he’d ignored the ransom demand.

Rather than spend his life as a slave, Cutler resolved to seize any opportunity to leap overboard and end it all. But, at the last possible moment, the captain received a letter from the EITC. An EITC official had authorized the office to offer a modest sum for the return of their new employee. The official who had signed the letter offering the ransom was none other than Viscount, Lord Penwallow.

Captain de Rapièr had sneeringly announced to Beckett that the ransom offered by the EITC was probably more than young Cutler would fetch in a slave auction, undersized and scrawny as he was, so he’d decided to let him go. The exchange was arranged.

After Captain de Rapièr had gotten the ransom money, he turned Cutler loose. Reeking, starved, and scarred, the young man stumbled back onto dry land. The first thing Beckett had done when he reached his posting in Gibraltar was to write a letter to the EITC official, Lord Penwallow, thanking him for the EITC’s faith in him, and promising to pay back the ransom amount.

Pay it back he had, and the next ten years had seen him rise rapidly in the EITC ranks.

Beckett had never spoken a word about his ordeal to anyone. He still suffered from nightmares, dreams where he was lying on the deck of the Lindesfarne, unable to move, while filthy, leering faces peered down at him, spat on him, and stabbed him with cutlasses. Some men might have turned to drink, or gambling, or wenching in an effort to drown those memories…but that wasn’t Cutler Beckett’s nature. He found surcease in accumulating power. Wealth, too, but if you had power, he’d found, wealth was easy to accrue.

And once he’d taken Zerzura, his power would be increased immeasurably. A knighthood would be just the beginning.…

Sitting in his Calabar office, Cutler Beckett determinedly dipped his new quill into his inkwell, then began making notes to himself, based on his discussion with Mercer. His mind busily sorted through the roster of EITC merchant ships, determining which ones would be best employed as troop carriers for the expedition to Kerma.

As Mercer had noted, if their strategy would be to bombard Zerzura until the inhabitants were too disorganized to mount an effective resistance, they would need plenty of ammunition and powder. So the ships he selected for the expedition would need to be large, to carry as many troops as possible, and they’d need to be heavily armed.

Beckett smiled slightly as he wrote the first name down on his list.

Wicked Wench.

How fitting, he thought. Jack, hurry back. We have a lot to do.…