“I know how profitable it is, Mr. Beckett,” Sparrow said. “But I’m not getting involved with it.”
“Can you tell me why, Mr. Sparrow?”
Jack Sparrow shrugged, and his eyes grew distant, as if he were experiencing some vivid memory. His mouth tightened. “Mr. Beckett, did you know you can smell a slaver coming for miles, if the wind is right, on the open sea?”
“Can you?”
“Yes. The stench is enough to put a sailor off his burgoo for a whole day. So let’s just say, Mr. Beckett, that I don’t like the way they smell, and leave it at that.”
“Very well,” Beckett said. He watched, enormously intrigued, as Sparrow stood up and retrieved his logbook. Who was this man, and what was his story? He was so different from most sailors. There was something wild about him, something…untamed. He watched as Sparrow walked across the room, and paused by the doorway.
“Thank you, Mr. Beckett, for the offer. I’ll just stay aboard Fair Wind, sir, as first mate, if that’s agreeable to you.”
This man is actually going to turn me down, Beckett realized, and then he thought, I can’t let him go. He has too much potential. He might make an excellent operative for me in foreign ports, if I can gain his complicity. He’s smart and observant. If he proves trustworthy, he might be very valuable to me.…
“Just a moment,” Beckett said, making a sudden decision. “Come back, Sparrow. Perhaps we can make a different…arrangement.”
Slowly, Sparrow turned and walked back into the room. He paused before Beckett’s desk, but didn’t sit down when his employer waved at the leather chair. “What do you mean, Mr. Beckett?”
“I mean that for some reason, I’m inclined to indulge you, Sparrow.” Beckett shook his head. “I have another ship. It’s one I actually own. It’s an older ship. The shipwrights have told me that converting her hold to haul slaves would be expensive, and rather time-consuming, so I bought her for hauling other cargos.” Beckett looked up at Sparrow. “She’s called the Wicked Wench. Would you like to sail her for me, Captain Sparrow?”
Jack Sparrow smiled. “Yes, I would, sir. I’d be pleased to do that.”
“Very well, then, Captain. Why don’t we have a glass of claret to seal the bargain?”
He suspected that Sparrow would have preferred rum, the sailor’s drink of choice, but Beckett didn’t keep any. He considered it vulgar. Getting up, he went over to his cabinet and took out two glasses and a bottle, then poured. When he reached Sparrow to hand him his glass of wine, he found him studying the bookshelves. “Here you go,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Beckett.” Sparrow took the delicate glass carefully. He must have washed his hands, but they were stained with ground-in dirt. His nails were deplorable. Standing side by side, they both regarded the collection tables and bookshelves, while sipping their wine.
“I’ll fill out the paperwork to make the adjustments to your records, Captain. Your pay rate and such.” Beckett sipped his own wine, then added. “Feel free to take your friend Mr. Greene along with you, if you wish.”
Sparrow nodded. “I’d like that, Mr. Beckett. We’ve shipped out together for several voyages now. Robby is a good sailor and a good officer.” Almost absently, Sparrow reached out for the netsuke collection on the nearest shelf.
Beckett stepped smoothly between those questing fingers and his little jade valuables. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, politely. “Some of them are fragile.”
“Of course,” Sparrow said, dropping his hand to his side. “Sorry, Mr. Beckett.”
Searching for a way to change the subject, Beckett gestured at the bookshelves. “You read, Captain Sparrow? I mean, for pleasure?”
Sparrow sipped more claret before replying. “Yes I do, Mr. Beckett, when I can find books to take on voyages with me.”
“What kinds of things?”
Sparrow shrugged. “Poetry, history, biography…I like learning about the world.”
“Shakespeare?”
“Some of his plays, most of his poetry.”
“Ah, very good,” Beckett said, surprised again. “Tell me, what do you think of my collection? I keep my favorite books close to me, though, of course, I have the entire library next door.”
“Nice collection,” Sparrow said. “I’ve read only a few of them. My favorite would be this one,” he said, pointing. “I have a copy of it. Read it many times. As a lad, it was one of my favorites.”
Beckett followed his finger (those filthy fingernails!) and his eyes widened. “You’ve read Captain Ward’s book?”
“Aye, I have.” Sparrow was relaxing a bit, to let that “aye” slip, Beckett noted. Up till now, his word choice and accent had been perfect, nearly as flawless as Beckett’s own decidedly upper-class speech.
“One of my tutors gave it to me, when I was just a boy,” Beckett said. “He taught me Latin and Greek.”
“My fa—” Sparrow hesitated, then continued, smoothly, “that’s a coincidence, sir, because the man who taught me to sail eventually gave me his copy. I suppose you could say he was one of my tutors.”
Beckett sensed there was a story behind that hesitation, but he also knew that it wasn’t one he was going to hear. Sparrow’s expression was bland as he reached over and took down the volume in question. “I used to imagine going after the treasures mentioned in this book.”
“So did I,” Beckett said. “And here we are on the west coast of Africa.”
Sparrow caught his meaning immediately. There was nothing slow about this man. He quirked an eyebrow at his employer. “The treasure that lies at the center of the labyrinth of Zerzura,” he said. “Gold, jewels, and the Heart of Zerzura. All of it hidden on an illusion-shrouded island off the west coast of Africa.”
“Yes,” Beckett said. Reaching over, he took the volume from Sparrow, and placed it back in its slot. “Don’t think the thought of mounting a search for Zerzura hasn’t occurred to me, Captain. That was nearly the first thing I thought of, when I reached my new assignment.”
“The only problem with legends like that,” Sparrow pointed out, “is that most of them don’t include treasure maps.” His expression was perfectly serious, and it was a moment before Beckett realized that he was speaking with his tongue firmly in his cheek.
Cutler Beckett laughed. “You’re right,” he said. “That is jolly inconvenient of them, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Sparrow agreed, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement. Raising his wineglass, he finished the last sip of his claret and put the delicate wineglass down on the ebony desk. “Well, Mr. Beckett, thank you again for the promotion and the drink. I’ll be off now, to find the Wicked Wench and take a look at her.”
Beckett nodded, then he smiled and raised his own glass in a slight salute. “Here’s to your first command, Captain.” He finished his own claret. “You’ll find your vessel at the EITC berthing docks. She’s the largest square-rigger on the southern side.”
In reply, Sparrow put his two hands together, chest-high, bobbing a slight bow. Beckett’s eyes widened. “You’ve been to the Orient?”
“Aye. Singapore. And other places.”
“I was stationed in Nippon for three years,” Beckett said.
“I can tell,” Sparrow said, blandly. “Very nice collection of netsuke.”
Turning, he walked to the doorway. “Good-bye, Mr. Beckett.”
“Good-bye, Captain Sparrow.”
Three months after the Wicked Wench sailed out of Calabar Harbor, under command of her new captain, Cutler Beckett was working in his home office late one evening. It was the rainy season, and the sound of the rain made a dreary counterpoint to the scratching of his quill. It also masked the sounds of footsteps, because the first indication he received that he had a visitor came when he heard a discreet knock at the door.
“Who’s there?” Beckett called.
“It’s Mercer, sir. I’ve located something I think you should see.” Mercer opened the door a crack and lowered his v
oice. “This Portugee deals in stolen goods. He has no idea what he has, except that he knows it’s gold.”
“Just a moment.” Beckett quickly cleared his desk of work, then covered it with a protective cloth before he spoke again. “Very well, Mr. Mercer. You may come in.”
The door opened, and Cutler Beckett’s operative appeared. Rain glistened on his tricorne, which he doffed as he walked in. Ian Mercer was a slender man, not very tall, with a pronounced Scottish accent and the coldest eyes Cutler Beckett had ever seen outside of a corpse. He was also quicker with a sword or dagger than anyone Beckett had ever employed before.
Mercer stepped into the room, then beckoned the man still standing in the hallway to follow. The man who warily entered the room was short and big-bellied, swarthy and wet. His olive skin shone greasily in the candlelight. He wore a loose-sleeved homespun shirt and trousers of native cloth, judging by the bright colors and geometric patterns. He was carrying a leather bag over his big shoulder, and his eyes rolled whitely as he took in his surroundings. It was clear to Beckett that he had never set foot inside a gentleman’s home before.
Beckett’s operative shepherded the man in, then closed and locked the door. “Bring them over here,” he said. “Mr. Beckett will need to see them before he’ll know whether he wants to buy. Place them on the desk.”
The man lifted his shoulders in a shrug, obviously not understanding.
Reluctantly, Mercer switched to another language and spoke haltingly. Portuguese, the EITC director guessed.
Beckett’s eyebrows raised and his nostrils twitched disdainfully as his “visitor” drew near. Mercer spoke to the man in Portuguese, again, and his words had the ring of an order. The man nodded assent, then placed the wet leather satchel on the edge of the ebony desk, and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle.
As Beckett watched, he carefully unrolled several thicknesses of protective cloth padding, then arranged the objects from the bag in a row. Beckett took one look at them, then, his heart pounding, he slowly rose from his seat and looked more closely, unable to believe what he was seeing. Forcing himself to move with deliberation, Beckett straightened, and went over to his bookshelf. Extracting the J. Ward book, he returned to his desk and, still moving with deliberate calm, took out his magnifying glass. Still standing, he leaned closer, studying the artifacts closely, comparing their designs to the hand-tinted illustrations in Captain Ward’s book.
A pectoral, an armband, an amulet, a ring, and a pair of earrings lay softly gleaming on the dirty cloth. All were made of gold, and all bore bright enamelwork. The earrings were the size of gold sovereigns, and in addition to their enameled borders, each bore a small design picked out in green stones. Some kind of leaping creature, possibly a gazelle, Beckett thought, leaning in to peer through the magnifying glass.
“Emeralds, or I miss my guess, sir,” Mercer said, quietly.
“They certainly seem to be,” Beckett replied, abstractedly. Slowly he turned over the objects, one by one, studying each minutely. The pectoral he compared closely with one of the hand-tinted designs in the book. After a moment, he realized he’d been holding his breath, and let it out slowly. That’s a royal pectoral! He exerted control, reminding himself to appear calm, but despite his efforts, when he finally spoke, his voice held an undercurrent of excitement that made Mercer glance at him sharply. “Mr. Mercer, ask him where he got them, if you please.”
Mercer obeyed. The man went into a long speech, punctuated by many gestures. Finally, he ran down.
Mercer shook his head. “Near as I can tell, Mr. Beckett, he says he’s had this bigger piece for a while.” The operative pointed to the one Beckett had identified as a royal pectoral. “He won it about six months ago from a slaver named Duke Wren-John in a dice game. Wren-John said nothing about it where it came from.”
“And the others?
“He’s claiming that he bought these other items from the same man just a few months ago. Before the rainy season.” The operative paused, then asked a question of the Portuguese man. Another, shorter, interchange followed. “He’s repeating that the man’s name is Duke Wren-John, but that this time Wren-John talked about the pieces, saying he’d taken these pieces off some slaves he captured. They were wearing them. He says the slaver had other things, too, other pieces of jewelry and amulets, but he didn’t have the money to buy all of them.”
Cutler Beckett picked up the armlet and examined it, turning it very slowly in his fingers, scanning the entire object minutely. He put it back down, then took a deep, careful breath. “I’ll buy them. But only if he gives us every detail about that slaver who had them. Not just his name. I want to know where he lives, whom he deals with, where these slaves were captured, everything he remembers the slaver telling him. I must know every detail. Especially, I want to know what became of those captured slaves, the ones who were wearing these objects.”
Mercer’s eyebrow lifted. It was clear that the operative realized that something highly unusual was going on. Beckett wasn’t about to offer any explanation, however. He cleared his throat. “Tell him what I said, please, Mr. Mercer.”
It took a long session of back and forth, with Mercer haltingly translating. At some point the Portuguese man discovered that his inquisitors understood Spanish, and they proceeded in that language. Beckett took out a quill and paper and took precise notes. At length, Mercer told his employer that he was confident that he had enough information to locate the slaver who’d captured the slaves wearing the jewelry.
Only then did Cutler Beckett hand Mercer the amount agreed upon for the jewelry. Mercer in turn handed the Portuguese dealer his money, then led him from the room.
Cutler Beckett stood there until they were gone, then locked the door after them. He returned to his desk, and sank down into his chair. There was no sound but the pounding of the rain.
Beckett sat looking down at the jewelry, scarcely able to believe his eyes. Putting out a finger, he touched the armlet, feeling its solidity. “Kushite,” he murmured softly. “There can be no doubt.” The style of the piece, the incised decoration—it was remarkably similar to the armlet illustrated in Captain Ward’s book. But this jewelry wasn’t ancient. Beckett was sure of it. It had been made recently.
That could mean only one thing. This jewelry didn’t come from some ancient tomb in the land that the Egyptians had called Kush. It wasn’t thousands of years old.
It must have come from Zerzura.
Beckett’s fingers caressed the cover of Captain Ward’s book, and he smiled, thinking and planning.
Zerzura, by all that is holy. Captain Ward, you were telling the truth, bless you. It’s real. It’s all real. Zerzura, the Shining City, where the treasure lies at the heart of the labyrinth. Kerma, the lost island. It’s real, by Jove. Finding Zerzura will bring me everything I’ve ever wanted. Power, wealth…I’ll have it all. The Heart, the source of ancient power. The golden treasure. And don’t forget the people. Black gold, they call slaves. All of Kerma, lying there waiting to be discovered! And it will all be mine.…
CHAPTER FIVE
The Lost Princess
AMENIRDIS, LOST PRINCESS of Zerzura, was dreaming of the day she lost her name, and herself.
She was curled on her woven mat in the building reserved for the female house slaves, her ugly gray shawl wrapped around her, despite the muggy heat of the rainy African night. The dream was so real, so detailed, it was as if she were reliving those awful moments, just as they had happened. She stirred in her sleep, her hands curling into fists, clutching folds of her shawl as the dream unfolded.…
She was back on the seemingly endless savannah of the land their native guides had called Ethiopia, part of her small caravan, walking with her face toward the descending sun, full of silent despair. She had led a caravan of her people on what had proven to be a useless and heartbreaking pilgrimage to their ancient homeland of Kush, the country men now called Nubia. She’d been so sure that if she went to the ancient homeland, that the
gods would help her find her missing father and brother!
The princess’s father, Pharaoh Taharka, had left their hidden island five years ago, seeking a remedy to cure her little brother, Prince Aniba, who had died three months after the king’s departure. Taharka had never returned. A year later, her fourteen-year-old brother, Prince Shabako, had vanished, leaving a note that he had gone to seek his missing father. He had not returned, either.
Amenirdis grieved for her missing brother every day, until one morning she had awakened with a vision of their ancient homeland as it was portrayed in their record scrolls. There had been no contact between the Western exiles and those who had remained in Kush, no contact for more than three thousand years. Perhaps it was time to heal old wounds, to reunite with their distant cousins. Her mind filled with her vision; the princess became convinced that if she went to Apedemak’s most ancient temple and prayed there, the god would grant her knowledge of her brother and father’s fate. She felt certain Shabako still lived. Surely if he had died, she would have known. They had been close…so close.
And now her dreams lay broken. She walked across the seemingly endless savannah, ignoring the aching of her tired feet. At least the savannah was better than the Great Desert they had crossed to reach the Great River, the Nile. Amenirdis tried to tell herself that all was not lost. She had gambled with this mission, and she had lost, but at least now she was on her way home, and the desert was behind them. She would go home to the Shining City, to fair Zerzura, where her mother, Queen Tiyy, waited anxiously for her return.
Catching the toe of her sandal on a rock, the princess stumbled, and her eunuch bodyguard, Tarek, quickly steadied her. The princess flashed him a weary smile of thanks. He was so faithful, always at her side; with him she felt completely safe. Tarek was the tallest, broadest male in the party. Amenirdis was tall for a woman, but his massive form towered over her.
The princess sighed. They had all had such great hopes for this expedition, only to see them dashed. Their journey from the West Coast had taken two long, weary months. First they had ventured inland, and then the native guides they’d hired had taken them south, in order to avoid as much of the Great Desert as possible.
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