Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  “How long do you think it will take?”

  Jack shrugged. “A week? Ten days? I won’t dally in Calabar a moment longer than it takes to get her aboard the Wench. This heat is enough to flatten a man.”

  “Yes,” Beckett said. “I usually have the fan cranked in here, but of course our conversation had to be private.”

  “The Wicked Wench will need reprovisioning, of course, and whatever cargo you have for me to transport loaded. If I can get her to give me the bearings quickly, I’ll bring the cargo back here, and you can dispatch it on another ship. The legend says Kerma lies to the north, off this coast.”

  “Correct. Make sure you update your navigational charts.”

  “Of course,” Jack said, then he thought of something. “Oh, and if I’m to go in search of Kerma, I’ll want twice my usual ration of powder. You never know what you’ll find when you sail in strange waters. And, of course, there’s the door to that labyrinth.”

  Beckett nodded. “Very well. I’ll authorize that. And I’ll speak to Mistress Goodwright directly about sending her to the market. Perhaps she can dispatch Ayisha on an errand this very afternoon.”

  “I’ll send my crewman to the market this afternoon, tell him to keep a watch for her. He’s a sharp lad, and reliable.”

  Beckett smiled at Jack, “Very well. I am sure you will prove worthy of this assignment, Captain Sparrow.”

  “I hope so,” Jack said. “Oh, and Mr. Beckett…if I’m to gain her trust, I will have to make this look good. So you may wake up one morning and find the Wench is gone, just gone. Departing like that, in the dead of night, secretly, will help convince her that I’m helping her escape. If she has any sense at all, she’d hardly believe she was escaping from you if she could just walk on board openly, at high noon.”

  Cutler Beckett nodded. “A good point, Jack.”

  “I’ll have me first mate bring the shipping manifests to your secretary in your office, so the record-keeping will be attended to. And, Mr. Beckett, in order to make this look like a proper escape, this had better be the last time we speak together before I go, savvy?”

  Beckett nodded agreement. “That’s for the best, Jack. You have my every confidence. As you say, the more she believes you’re opposing us, the more she’ll trust you. And I’m sure you’ll return to Calabar with the bearings for Kerma.”

  Beckett sat back in his ebony chair, sipping his wine, and gave Jack another smile. But there was an edge to this one; it never reached his eyes. “You are planning to return, aren’t you, Jack?”

  Jack nodded. “I’ll need to return here so we can split up the treasure, Mr. Beckett,” he pointed out. “I mean…we have a gentleman’s agreement.”

  “That’s right, we do, Jack.” Beckett picked up the pectoral and ran his fingers over the gold and lapis links. “And just in case you were tempted to do anything other than fulfill our agreement—to the letter, mind you—I should remind you that I am Ayisha’s legal owner, as well as the owner of the Wicked Wench. Failing to return both those items would constitute theft. And theft of a ship is piracy.” His smile vanished. “I loathe pirates, Jack.”

  “Most honest people do,” Jack said, putting just the right amount of earnest indignation into his voice. “Any captain worth his pay does everything he can to avoid them, and I count myself among that number.”

  “Good,” Beckett said. “I’m glad the idea of theft—or piracy—is anathema to you.”

  Jack shifted in his chair, but before he could get up, Beckett held up his forefinger. “Oh, and one more thing. I do want you to remember, Jack, that the EITC has more ships than the British Royal Navy. We also have a major presence—if not a controlling interest—in the economy and administration of every major port in the civilized world. Any sailor that runs afoul of the EITC will soon discover that he’s run out of ships to sail, not to mention ports of call where he can do business. That goes double for captains, Jack.”

  Jack swallowed, and looked genuinely intimidated, which at the moment didn’t require a great deal of acting. It was a sobering thought. “I grasp your meaning, Mr. Beckett.”

  “Good. I’m glad we understand each other. It’s good when business partners understand each other.” Beckett smiled again, a return to the warm, approving smile he’d shown when Jack had entered his office. “I know you like the Wicked Wench, Jack. Perhaps you’d like her for your own some day?”

  Jack managed to nod.

  “That could certainly be arranged. But there’s no denying the Wench has a few years on her, Jack. Don’t set your sights too low. As my business partner, you could have any ship you wanted. Just think of that, Jack. Any ship you wanted.”

  First the stick, then the bloody carrot, Jack thought. He rose, and nodded to his employer. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Beckett.” He waved at Beckett as the man started to rise. “No, no, don’t get up. Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Beckett. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Au revoir, Jack.”

  As Captain Sparrow closed the door leading out of Mr. Beckett’s office, Ayisha slowly rose from her cramped crouch before the keyhole, careful not to lose her balance or make any betraying noise.

  Straightening her back, feeling the muscles of her haunches and thighs protest, she turned away from the door and walked back to her seat at the sewing table to resume her work. Her fingers moved automatically, stretching fabric, measuring, then marking lines to cut. Occasionally she would rise and drape cloth across the carved wooden clothing form standing in the corner of her room, not far from where she unrolled her sleeping pallet at night.

  While she worked, her mind was busy, going over the conversation she had just overheard. So Mr. Beckett had given up on trying to communicate with her, and was counting on Captain Sparrow to accomplish his goal of convincing her to betray her home? And he was willing to pay him well to get that information? Mr. Beckett must indeed be growing desperate.

  Ayisha knew Captain Sparrow, at least by reputation. For months the slaves of Calabar had repeated the story of how he had helped a runaway slave named Chamba escape from a master who had beaten him senseless. Ayisha reflected that this Captain Sparrow must have done so because he’d had an altercation with Chamba’s master. He freed a black man just to spite his enemy. Interesting…

  Ayisha began pinning fabric into place around the wooden form, checking its drape, turning the awkward wooden torso, regarding it from various angles, so she could see how light and shadow played across the fabric.

  It was nice to be making a woman’s dress again. After she’d made Mr. Beckett several new outfits, he’d told Mistress Goodwright that she could have a few new dresses and aprons made. Ayisha liked Mistress Goodwright. The goodwife had openly praised her work. And, even more valuable, she’d shown Ayisha two new ways of making garments—crocheting and knitting. Neither of those methods of making clothing was known in Zerzura.

  As she tugged fabric and pinned, Ayisha wondered whether she’d be here long enough to finish this dress. The thought that soon she might be out of this house, away from Mr. Beckett and Mr. Mercer, made her knees go weak. She sat down in her chair for a moment, letting the idea of escape take shape in her mind, as though it were a garment. Escape! For so long she’d thought about it, dreamed of it…and now, it seemed, it might actually happen.

  Ayisha began searching for matching thread amid her many samples. She smiled faintly. When she left, she would be sure to take all of her lovely, sharp, brass and iron needles. They stayed sharper much longer than bronze or bone needles, and they were slimmer, less clumsy. She’d also take her crochet hook, her knitting needles, and the small hand-loom she’d put together, like the one she often used back home.

  The princess smiled as she ran her fingers gently over her many skeins of fine thread. For the embroidery on Mr. Beckett’s waistcoats, Mistress Goodwright had purchased silk thread in a rainbow of colors. She’d even provided a lot of the very expensive gold and silver thread, and there was still a co
nsiderable amount left. Ayisha nodded to herself. When she left, she’d take all her supplies of thread, too. All the ladies of the royal court would marvel at the silk thread. They had beautiful, fine-spun linen on Kerma, but no cotton or silk.

  She wondered whether Mistress Goodwright would actually knock on her door with some errand for her to undertake this very afternoon. The goodwife had the right to walk in without knocking, of course, but she usually didn’t—which was another reason why Ayisha liked her.

  It was hard to believe that Mr. Beckett had agreed to let her leave his premises. She’d been shut up here so long, the idea of walking down the hill to the harbor made her flush with excitement. And then at some point, this man, this Captain Sparrow, would arrange to meet her. He would offer her a way to escape, in return for giving him the location of her homeland.

  She must not seem too eager. He must not suspect that she knew of his plans for her. She would be reserved, and cautious, and keep up her charade. She would not reveal that she spoke English.

  He would bargain with her—escape from Calabar in return for the location of her homeland. It would seem a good bargain. He would tell her she would be free, never knowing that she already knew Mr. Beckett’s plans for Kerma. “Black gold” he had called her people. Things to be sold, like cattle, or horses. Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, her fingers dug hard into the fabric of her apron, twisting it, as though it were the Englishman’s scrawny neck.

  But she couldn’t allow herself to be distracted. She had to stay focused.

  Very well. She concentrated on her plan again. She, Ayisha, once known as Amenirdis, Princess of Zerzura, would willingly promise Captain Sparrow everything he demanded—just as long as he also agreed to her terms. First of all, she would not leave Calabar without Tarek. Closing her eyes, she whispered a quick prayer to Apedemak that her bodyguard had not been sold during the months she had been away from the Dalton plantation. If he had, there was no way she would ever find him.

  But surely Tarek would still be there. She would take him with her. And so this white man, Captain Sparrow, would sail away from Calabar with not one but two runaway slaves.

  But that would not be the end of her bargaining, no. She had set out to find her brother, and thanks to Cutler Beckett showing her the pectoral he’d worn, now she knew the chances were overwhelming that if he still lived—she murmured yet another quick prayer to Apedemak—he’d been taken to the New World. Ayisha took a deep breath. Her study of the globe in the Dalton children’s schoolroom had shown her what lay across the sea westward from Africa—or as much of it as was known. Shabako could be anywhere.

  She raised her chin. That did not matter. She’d heard the greed in the white men’s voices as they discussed the rapine of her homeland. The lure of gold turned white men’s minds to feathers; it made them willing to do anything to get it. She would have a ship, and a captain to sail the vessel. Together, they would search for Shabako. And surely Apedemak would help her find her brother!

  Once Shabako was safely aboard Captain Sparrow’s vessel, she would direct the Englishman to sail back to Africa, to the sea between the Cape Verde and the Canary Islands. Ayisha knew that was what they were called, because the guide they’d hired to take them across Africa to the ancient site of Kerma had pointed them out on a map.

  The closer she drew to Zerzura, and the Heart, the more her power would increase. The Heart would lend strength to her spells, increasing their power tenfold, or even more. If she could come within a day or two’s sail of home, her power would be sufficient to lay a sleeping spell on the crew, every one of them. They would fall into a deep sleep, and awaken to find Ayisha, Tarek, Shabako, and one of their boats long gone.

  And from that day forward, Ayisha would truly be gone. Vanished, never to reappear. Gone forever.

  Ayisha would disappear from the world, and it would be Princess Amenirdis who would bring her brother home to the Shining City in triumph. Hand in hand, they would mount the steps of the royal palace in the Shining City. Together, they would kneel before their lady mother, Queen Tiyy.

  Envisioning this, Ayisha smiled with genuine happiness for the first time in months.

  Suddenly realizing she was sitting idle, she knew that would not do. Rising, Ayisha hastened to get ready for her outing, ordering her dress and apron, making sure her white head-wrap was secure, and, finally, washing her hands and face in the ewer of water that stood in the corner, near her rolled-up sleeping pallet. She tied her gray shawl securely around her waist.

  Ayisha returned to her work, listening all the while for the tap on the door.

  * * *

  Ian Mercer had just walked into Cutler Beckett’s private office, closing the door behind him, when the two men heard the thumping of feet coming up the stairs, then the rustle of skirts as a woman bustled down the corridor. Moments later the faint sound of Mistress Goodwright tapping on the sewing room door reached them.

  Beckett and Mercer did not move or speak, only listened as Mistress Goodwright spoke for a moment, her voice rising and falling, but her words indistinguishable. Moments later, the housekeeper rustled back down the corridor, her shoes making soft thumps on the corridor’s carpet runner. They knew Ayisha must be accompanying her, because Mistress Goodwright was prattling away to a listener. The sewing woman made no sound at all.

  Only when the two women had gone downstairs did Mercer break the silence. “Are you certain you don’t want me to follow her, Mr. Beckett?”

  Cutler Beckett shook his head. “I’m sure, Mercer. I’m going to give Captain Sparrow the room he asked for. If for any reason Ayisha were to suspect that he’s working for me in this venture, he wouldn’t do any better with the creature than we have.”

  “She’s a half-wit,” Mercer grumbled. He made a dismissive gesture. “If she’s even from Zerzura. I have my doubts. I’m telling you, Mr. Beckett, that creature couldn’t find her way back there if she could walk on water and had a ball of string.”

  Cutler Beckett raised his eyebrows at his operative. “Why Mr. Mercer, that’s actually quite a humorous image.” He gestured at the chair Jack Sparrow had used that morning. “Have a seat.”

  Mercer sat, still glowering. Beckett realized his operative actually felt threatened by the notion that Jack Sparrow, whom Ian Mercer regarded as a smelly, prattling, lower-class molly who gave himself airs, might succeed where he, Mercer, had failed. Why, I believe he’s jealous, Beckett thought, amused.

  But his tone was all business when he asked, “Did you find someone to plant aboard Sparrow’s ship?”

  Mercer nodded. “Yes, Mr. Beckett. One of the men I’ve used before, Samuel Newton by name, has agreed to sign on for the voyage. He’s never sailed before, except as a passenger, but he was apprenticed to a carpenter, so he’s got a very useful skill.”

  “And he can read and write?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mercer said. “I checked his hand myself. He’ll send us reports whenever Sparrow makes port.”

  “Very good, Mr. Mercer. I know I can always depend on you,” Cutler Beckett said, nodding pleasantly at his operative.

  Mercer nodded back. “Thank you, Mr. Beckett. I suppose now it’s a waiting game, to see what happens.”

  Cutler Beckett sighed. “Yes, a waiting game,” he said. “That’s exactly what it is. Let us hope that Captain Sparrow will play the game by the rules…that is, our rules. If he doesn’t, he may find himself losing a great deal more than his rank and his livelihood.”

  Mercer smiled. It was a rusty, not often used, expression.

  Beckett smiled back. “By the way, Mercer, would you care for a glass of some excellent port I’ve acquired?”

  Mercer hesitated. Beckett knew he seldom indulged. That was one of the things that made him such a treasure as an operative. Finally, he nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Beckett. One glass would be fine.”

  Jack Sparrow stood with Chamba beneath a striped awning, close to a narrow alley that ran between the shoemaker’s shop an
d the chandler’s shop in the business district of Calabar. There were only a handful of permanent buildings in the marketplace—most of that crowded, noisy enclave consisted of carts with awnings, or makeshift stalls. Vendors cried their wares, and the air was redolent with the smells of fish, fresh baked bread, grilling yams, and the stench of unwashed humanity and raw sewage, an odor so ever-present the men didn’t consciously notice it. “She should be coming along this way any time, Cap’n,” Chamba said. “She be pretty easy to spot. Mr. Beckett, he told you the truth ’bout her.”

  “What’s she wearing?” Jack asked.

  “She be wearin’ a blue calico dress, with a white apron and head wrap, Cap’n. And of course that gray shawl you told me to watch for. It be tied round her waist.”

  Jack squinted against the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. “I see a blue dress…” he muttered. “Must be Ayisha.” Quickly he stepped back into the alley, then peered out so he could see without being seen.

  As the woman drew close enough to make out her features, Jack blinked in surprise. His quarry was not just ugly, she was extraordinarily ugly. Cross-eyed, buck-toothed, with blotchy skin, warts, heavy eyebrows…she was barefoot, and even her feet were ugly. “God’s toenails,” Jack breathed. “She is really ugly.”

  “Told ya.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s important that I make her acquaintance,” Jack said. Taking out the flask he carried beneath his coat, he poured a scant handful of its contents into his palm, then began flicking droplots over Chamba’s shirt. “Now here’s what I want you to do, Chamba…”

  A few minutes later, her basket filled with yams and two coconuts, Ayisha had finished her shopping. Turning around, she started back through the marketplace, heading for the street that eventually led up the hill to Beckett’s house. She’d barely reached the first cross-street before a young man wearing a sailor’s cap, loose shirt, and rough britches came rushing around the corner, not looking where he was going. He barged into Ayisha’s basket hard enough to knock it out of her hands. Yams scattered everywhere, and one of the coconuts bounced along the cobblestones to roll right under the hooves of a horse pulling an overloaded dray.