Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  Why am I not surprised? Jack thought, barely managing not to roll his eyes. “I have responsibilities here,” he pointed out. “Cargo unloading to oversee, and shore leave rosters to—”

  “Mr. Beckett sent me down here the moment he heard your sails had been sighted, Captain,” Mercer said. “It’s urgent that you come immediately.”

  Jack sighed. “Very well. I suppose I should go change my clothes? Put on those nice ones Mr. Beckett supplied last time he invited me to his house?”

  “Unnecessary,” Mercer said. “This will not be a social occasion.”

  By now Jack was growing decidedly curious. “I see. All right, I’ll come as soon as I’ve given my first mate instructions.”

  As he spoke to Robby, Jack glanced over at Mercer, to see the operative restlessly pacing the weather deck beside the gangplank. Seeing Jack looking at him, Mercer imperiously gestured toward the gangplank. Jack cursed softly, careful to keep his mouth turned away. For all he knew, Mercer could read lips. “As you can see,” he told Robby, “I’m desperately wanted. They probably asked Lord Penwallow to take a damned bath, and they need me to scrub his lordship’s sodding back.”

  Robby chuckled softly. “You’d better go, Jack. You know I can handle things here.”

  “I do know it,” Jack said, clapping Robby on the shoulder. He picked up his coat and hat, but didn’t put them on. “Requisition some wine or beer from the EITC,” he said, “and a hogshead of fresh water to cut it with. Make anyone working in this oven drink a flagon every hour or so. Don’t want them passing out from the heat.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Jack was assailed by a sense of déjà vu as he headed up the hill into Calabar, trying to pick up his pace, and get rid of the sense that the earth was rolling beneath his feet. “So who does Mr. Beckett want me to meet this time?” he asked the taciturn Mercer. “Oh, and I’m clean,” he added, feeling defensive. “Went for a lovely swim yesterday.”

  For the first time since he’d met him, the dour Scot’s mouth quirked in what might have been either a grimace or a smile. “The person Mr. Beckett wants you to meet wouldn’t know or care whether you’d had a bath,” he said. “Personally, I believe the creature is half-witted.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows at that one. Mercer volunteered nothing else, however.

  They reached the top of the hill, and entered Beckett’s town house.

  Jack mopped sweat from his face on his sleeve, then, with a groan of protest, donned his coat and retied his neckcloth. “I suppose you wouldn’t have anything to drink handy,” he said. “Me tongue feels like a strip cut from a cat.”

  “Fur?” Mercer said, obviously uncomprehending.

  “No, mate, leather. A cat o’ nine tails,” Jack explained. “Used for floggings at sea. Nasty things.” He shuddered. “I prefer dunking as a means of enforcing discipline. Works every time, and they hardly ever drown.”

  Mercer gave him a sharp glance, obviously wondering whether Jack was joking, but Jack was careful not to betray any expression.

  “Oh, very well,” the operative said. “Mistress Goodwright?”

  Moments later, the housekeeper bustled into view. “Oh, Mr. Mercer, ’tis you,” she said, drying her hands on her apron. “And, Captain Sparrow! Lovely to see you! Hope you’re well.” She bobbed one of her little half curtsies at Jack, her plump cheeks pink.

  “I am well, thank you,” Jack said, giving her a bob of a bow, “but I confess myself to be absolutely parched, madam. Might you have something I could drink, before I go up to talk to Mr. Beckett, who is, apparently, expecting me?”

  “Of course, of course!” She scurried away, to return a few minutes later carrying a tall glass full of dark liquid. Jack took a gulp, expecting it to be beer or ale, and only just managed not to spray it all over Mr. Beckett’s wallpaper. He swallowed the mouthful, realizing it was English tea, tepid and quite strong.

  “Mr. Beckett drinks it that way,” Mistress Goodwright said, noticing his expression. “He has me make it with boiling water, and then just set it aside to steep. He says in England they drinks it over ice in the summer. Have you ever heard the like? I could get you a few lumps of sugar, Captain Sparrow.”

  “Not at all, madam,” Jack assured her, and manfully drained the glass. At least it was wet.

  Feeling somewhat restored, he followed Mercer upstairs. The operative tapped on the door, gained admission, then opened it to let Jack walk past him. “I’ll be waiting downstairs,” Mercer said, “should you need me.”

  Cutler Beckett was sitting behind his fancy desk, and for once there was no work stacked before him. He smiled at Jack as he entered, and gestured him to a seat beside the desk. “Good afternoon, Captain Sparrow. Please take a seat.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Beckett,” Jack said, complying. “I just got back, as I suppose you already know. My men are even now offloading cargo, and I have all the receipts and manifests ready to—”

  He broke off, seeing that Cutler Beckett was holding up a hand to stop him.

  “Yes, yes, Captain Sparrow,” Beckett said. “I’m sure all is in order, and I’m confident you’ve done your usual commendable job. Did all of Lord Penwallow’s cargo reach New Avalon intact?”

  “Yes, Mr. Beckett, it came through fine, and I supervised the delivery to his plantation site myself,” Jack said.

  “Excellent,” Beckett said. “Lord Penwallow has another cargo to be delivered, but I believe, in light of what I am about to propose, that I’ll send it out on another vessel. I wouldn’t want to delay its arrival.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

  “Captain Sparrow,” Beckett leaned closer and his voice dropped to a confiding level, “actually, we know each other so well after all these months, I feel that I may call you Jack.” The corners of Beckett’s mouth turned up.

  Jack was immediately on the alert. What the bloody hell is he up to? he wondered. “Of course, Mr. Beckett.”

  “Jack,” Beckett repeated, in those familiar, confiding tones, “I have a job for you. A…business proposition. I need your help, and I’m prepared to offer you good terms to partner with me in this venture. You’ll be very well remunerated indeed.”

  Jack blinked. He knew what “remunerated,” meant, but he’d never heard anyone use that word in conversation before. “Really, Mr. Beckett? What kind of business proposition are you talking about?”

  “Take a look at this,” Beckett said, unlocking his desk drawer. He removed a book, and opened it to a page. Jack instantly recognized it as the J. Ward book, My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates. Then Beckett took out a bag that clinked, and spilled its contents onto the pages of the book.

  Jack drew in his breath, and felt his heart speed up. Reaching out, he picked up the pieces of jewelry, one by one—the pectoral, the earrings, the armlets, and all the rest—and turned them over in his fingers, comparing them to the illustrations in the book. “Not ancient,” he said after a moment. “Real gold, real stones…and made within the past ten or twenty years. This is a royal pectoral. These weren’t taken from some moldering tomb.”

  Cutler Beckett’s gray eyes brightened. “I knew I could count on you to be quick,” he said, approvingly. “Yes, Jack. This jewelry came…” he paused for an expectant beat.

  “From Zerzura,” Jack finished for him.

  “Correct.”

  Jack picked up the earrings, dangling them before his eyes, watching the sunlight flash off the gold and tiny emeralds. “Very nice,” he said. “You’d better start at the beginning.”

  He listened intently as Beckett described his search for the source of the jewelry, and then his acquisition of the two slaves—the old man, whom Beckett characterized as a “priest,” who had died when Mercer began to “question” him, and then a female slave, a sewing woman, whom Beckett reported didn’t speak English. “We’ve been unable to get anything out of her at all,” Beckett said. “I showed her the jewelry, and for just a second I thought I saw something, poss
ibly some recognition. But…no, it was just trick of the light. She was as blank as ever.” Beckett sat back in his chair. “And, considering what happened to the old holy man, I was reluctant to let Mercer have a go at her. If she rolled up her eyes and died on us, we’d be nowhere.”

  Jack nodded. “This is amazing, Mr. Beckett,” he said. “But where do I come in?”

  Beckett folded his hands on the desktop and smiled. If he keeps smiling like that, his cheek muscles are going to be sore tonight from all the unaccustomed exercise, Jack thought, cynically.

  “Jack, we’ve run out of options with this woman. I fear I am not—and Mercer certainly is not—charming. But you are, Jack. You have charm in spades. People like you, when you exert yourself to be likeable. Women like you. I want you to charm this woman into telling us where Kerma is.”

  “I doubt anyone is that charming, Mr. Beckett,” Jack said. “If you want people to do things for you, generally you have to offer them something to make it worth their while. At least, that’s been my experience.”

  Cutler Beckett waved a negligent hand. “Jack, Jack…of course you’ll offer her something. You’ll offer her escape, and her freedom—and you’ll be convincing. After all, you have a ship, to take her away. It should be easy for you to convince her that you’re genuinely going to free her, if she’ll just give you the bearings to the lost island.”

  “So what’s in it for me?” Jack asked.

  “In return for the bearings to Kerma, and you must verify that they’re correct, I’ll cut you in for ten percent of the gold we find there.”

  Jack shook his head, his bargaining nature kicking in. “Not likely I’d do it for that,” he said. “Think about it. I’ll have to pretend to help her escape from Calabar…and it’ll be a real escape, once we leave your property. Risky thing, helping slaves escape. If you’ll recall, slave hunters have large, fierce dogs, and they carry pistols. The slave hunters, not the dogs,” Jack added. “Then, after we leave Calabar, I’ll be the one sailing around out on the ocean, trying to find an island the legends say is hidden by illusion and spells and no doubt other unnatural and eldritch things.” Jack shook his head. “Dealing with eldritch things can be more than a bit risky, trust me. And all the while I’m out there risking me life, you sit here, safe in your nice office, behind your lovely ebony and mother-of-pearl desk, drinking tepid tea, safe as houses.” He smiled back at his employer. “Forty percent, Mr. Beckett.”

  Beckett pretended not to hear him. “And besides golden treasure, Jack,” he added, “this island will provide a new source of slaves. A whole island full of them! We wouldn’t need those loathsome, venal slave traders.

  Cut out the middlemen entirely. The man who captured this party said they were armed with mostly bronze weapons, with only a few iron ones. No firearms. It’ll be child’s play to just swoop down and sweep them up. Black gold, Jack. It’s a wonderful business opportunity.” Cutler Beckett steepled his fingers before him, his eyes shining. “Jack, the New World needs slaves. A black river will be pouring across the Atlantic for the next hundred years, or I miss my guess.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “What you do with the people of Kerma is your business, Mr. Beckett, but you know by now I have no interest in the slave trade. I’ll stick to nice, shiny, yellow gold.” He twirled the earrings again, for emphasis.

  “You wouldn’t have to offend your delicate nose, Jack,” Beckett insisted. “Other captains will haul the wretches. You and I will just sit back and count our profits. Tell you what…I’ll give you ten percent of the slave revenue, and twenty from the gold we take. How’s that?”

  Jack shrugged, careful to keep his features from showing his distaste. He tried not to envision fleets of EITC ships going out, trafficking in human suffering and degradation. “You can keep all of the money from the slaves, Mr. Beckett,” he said. “I’ll stick to gold. Lasts longer, and is easier to transport. Thirty-five percent. Remember, I’m the one taking the risks.” How much gold is there? Enough to buy my own ship and get free of you, that cutthroat Mercer, and your filthy slave trade, Mr. Beckett?

  “Jack…” Beckett smiled tolerantly at him. “How exactly are you planning to reach Kerma? Flap your arms and fly, like the sparrow, your namesake? You’ll sail there in my ship, remember? Twenty-five percent.”

  Jack considered. “Is the lady I’m to charm young?” he asked. “Attractive?”

  Beckett laughed out loud, but softly. “Sadly, no, Jack,” he said. “I doubt there’s a voyage long enough a man could take that would make that creature look attractive enough to woo. If you’re not discerning, perhaps a bag over her head?” He chuckled. “No, I fear I can’t offer the lady’s charms as an inducement. How about if we compromise? Thirty percent of the gold revenue for your share.”

  Jack nodded. “Works for me, as long as you throw in these baubles, here.” He indicated the jewelry spread out on the desk. “Just in case the treasure in the labyrinth turns out to be at a low ebb.”

  Beckett picked up the wristlets and twirled them. “Neither of these is the right bracelet, Jack,” he said. “The book says the sacred talisman that unlocks the door is decorated with the head of the lion-god, picked out in stones…stones taken from the Heart itself. Captain Ward doesn’t say anything about where the talisman needed to unlock the door might be found. You won’t be able to get into the labyrinth, much less the treasure room.”

  Jack smiled. “There’s always a nice charge of black powder, Mr. Beckett,” he reminded his employer. “That should prove persuasive to just about any door.”

  “Good point,” Beckett said. “And then you’d only have the monsters and traps Captain Ward mentions to worry about.”

  “That’s why I deserve my thirty percent,” Jack pointed out. “I’ve had some slight experience with eldritch things. Thirty percent of the gold, and all of your little treasure trove here,” he said, indicating the tray. “Do we have an accord?”

  Beckett hesitated, then shrugged. “Oh, very well,” he said, and held out his hand. “Done.”

  Jack shook it. “Done.”

  “Shall we have a toast to our lucrative partnership?” Beckett said.

  Jack nodded. “Suits me. I’m parched again.”

  Beckett busied himself with glasses and a carafe at the sideboard, while Jack examined the jewelry again, piece by piece. Picking up the earrings, he slid them into the pocket-pouch he wore beneath the waistband of his britches, the same one he used to carry Tia Dalma’s compass. He had another such pocket on the other side where he carried coins.

  Beckett came back to the deck and handed Jack a glass of wine. “A particularly fine port,” he said, and raised his glass in a toast. “To finding Zerzura.”

  “To finding Zerzura,” Jack echoed, and sipped. Presuming I do find it, and I choose to share the location with you…

  When he lowered the glass, Beckett was staring at him, his hand out. “Jack…the earrings, please.”

  Jack smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, mate. I’m going to need something from Zerzura to show to the lady, maybe present ’em as a gift, to get a conversation going about her homeland.” He raised his eyebrows at Beckett. “I’ll tell her I light-fingered them from you, when you showed me them to brag. That will set me apart from you and Mercer.”

  Beckett pursed his lips, as though he’d tasted a lemon. “Very well, Jack,” he said, grudgingly. “After all, they will be yours when you get—and verify—those bearings. But I tend to think you’re expecting rather a lot from the creature. Mercer is convinced she’s half-witted.” Beckett shrugged. “It’s possible he’s right.”

  “So what does she do here in your household?”

  “I converted the chamber next door to a sewing room. She spins, weaves, and sews.”

  He extended his arm toward Jack. “For example, my new coat and waistcoat. She’s made me several.”

  Jack studied Beckett’s attire. His coat was expertly cut and sewn, from very fine-spun, lightweight wool. Lik
e his employer’s other clothes, it was conservative in color and cut—a muted burgundy, with a bit of tasteful, same-color embroidery on the cuffs. The waistcoat was beautifully embroidered, with an abstract design done in red and gold, with touches of lapis blue. He raised his eyebrows. “Impressive. Hard to imagine a ‘half-wit’ could produce something like that.”

  “I don’t believe Mercer is correct, frankly, though one does hear of individuals who can accomplish things in one limited area and are otherwise lack-witted.” Beckett poured more port, and sipped from his glass. “My theory is that Ayisha may be like one of those individuals who has suffered some type of shock that disarranges the humors of the body. One hears of such cases. Some become raving lunatics, others…they simply withdraw. She is of the latter variety.” Beckett refilled Jack’s glass. “Perhaps it’s time for you to meet her. I could take you next door and introduce you.”

  Jack frowned. “She cannot leave the house?”

  “Oh, she can. We haven’t allowed her to do so, of course. We didn’t want to risk a runaway.”

  Jack thought for moment. “Mr. Beckett, if I’m to gain her trust, I must appear to be her…savior. Rescuer. The person who will help her escape, yes?”

  Beckett nodded.

  “Then she cannot see us together. I must meet her elsewhere than your home, or the EITC office. Can she run errands for Mistress Goodwright? Go to the market, something of the sort?”

  “Yes, I believe she could manage that,” Beckett said.

  “Then have Mistress Goodwright start sending her to the market, the way she would send any other servant. Give her daily errands in town. I will take care of the rest. Just tell me how to recognize her.”

  Beckett smiled. “Look for the ugliest woman you’ve seen in a very long time. Oh, and also, she always wears an old gray shawl. Always, no matter how hot it is.”

  Jack nodded. “Got it. I have a crewman who speaks pidgin. I’ll use him as translator. I pick up languages quickly, so I might not need him for long.”