Before them lay perfectly ordinary blue water, under a lovely afternoon sky. In the distance, Jack could see the green of trees and vegetation, the gray rock of cliffs, and white specks studding the side of a tall hill. A low range of mountains appeared blue-gray from the distance.
Jack heard Ayisha gasp, and saw her expression—the look of a woman who was not sure whether to laugh or weep with joy. “Zerzura?” he asked.
She nodded, speechless.
“It won’t take us long to sail into the harbor,” Jack said. “You should go put on the clothes you made for your homecoming. And, Ayisha?”
She glanced at him. “Don’t forget to take off your shawl. You want your people to recognize you.”
Ayisha nodded, then she was gone, picking up her cotton skirts and making her way down the ladder.
He watched her hurry across the deck, thinking about their “talk” a week ago. At first Jack had been concerned about how Shabako might react to him, or Tarek, for that matter. But both men appeared unchanged in their demeanor toward him.
With part of his mind, he heard Robby down on the weather deck, ordering the crew to adjust the sails, as Trafford reached the mouth of the harbor, and, after a questioning glance at Jack, turned the Wicked Wench to approach the docks there.
Jack headed down the ladder to look behind them. La Vipère had made it through, also. Jack almost wished that Christophe and his brigantine had been lost in that hellish illusion-fog.
But if they had been, there’d be no way to get into the labyrinth now, would there?
Jack sighed, and wandered over to the railing. He’d read so much about the Heart of Zerzura, fantasized about it, thought about what it would be like to have something that would give him power and wealth. He knew full well that Christophe thought the Heart was going to be his. But Jack would be damned if he’d let the rogue have it.
But if I take it, Ayisha and Tarek and Shabako and all the rest of the people on Kerma will pay the price, he thought.
Jack leaned his elbows on the railing, staring down at the water sliding past without seeing it, his mind in turmoil. For years he’d put himself first, making bloody sure that he looked out for himself—because if Jack Sparrow didn’t look out for himself, it was damned certain that nobody else in this world would. The few times he’d put someone else first, such as the time he’d saved his “innocent” friend Christophe from hanging, look how it had turned out.
Jack rubbed his stubbly jaw, thinking. Maybe he could take the Heart, but not give the EITC the bearings to find Kerma. Then Cutler Beckett wouldn’t be able to find the island, and the people of Kerma would be safe.
A moment later, Jack realized what a ridiculous notion that was. His jaw tightened. Of course Cutler Beckett would come looking, with or without bearings! And without the illusions to conceal it, Kerma would be fully visible, ripe for the taking. He’d seen Beckett’s face, the greed in his eyes. He knew full well the resources the man could bring to bear. Hell, the EITC had more ships than the bloody Royal Navy. He and Mercer would find Kerma, invade the island, strip it of everything valuable, then take any survivors and throw them into the holds of slave ships.
Jack had a sudden vision of Ayisha in rags, her lovely face terrified, being dragged into the hold of a ship by brutal men. They’d throw her down and snap rusty iron manacles, stained with the blood of the previous miserable wretch, around those delicate, shapely ankles.
He shook his head hard, trying to drive that vision out of his mind, but he knew every time he closed his eyes, it would be there. Ayisha would be taken back across the Atlantic, and she’d be sold to some owner, and even if the man weren’t a brute who’d lash her for fun, he’d still want her. Any man would. He might share her with his overseer.…
Jack thought about the night she’d slipped into his cabin. She’d been scared, but resolute, determined to seize a bit of happiness for herself, after all she’d been through. She’d come into his arms trustingly, because she wanted to be there. It had been her first time, too.…
Afterward, she’d lain in his arms, softly whispering to him in her own language. He’d a pretty good idea of what she was saying, but she hadn’t burdened him by telling him in English.
“Damn it!” he muttered, clenching his first and slamming it down onto the rail. “Bloody hell!”
“Jack? Are you all right?”
He started at the sound of a familiar voice, and turned to find Robby there. A quick glance at their surroundings showed him that the Wench was gliding up to the dock.
Cradling his bruised hand, Jack stared across the docks, seeing the buildings of the city as they ascended the hillside, many of them round, others rectangular, none of them looking even faintly European in shape. Tall, pointed obelisks thrust up between the white stone edifices.
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
“It is,” Robby said. “What was it you said the other name for Zerzura was?”
“‘The Shining City.’”
“Pretty good description, I’d say,” Robby said.
At the far end of the wharf, a contingent of armed warriors marched toward the Wicked Wench. They were carrying spears and shields and wore swords on their belts. Another contingent of guards carried bows and arrows. They marched with military precision, tall, proud men, wearing armored bronze breastplates and skullcap helmets.
Jack thought about what just one broadside from the Wicked Wench’s guns would do to those precise, disciplined ranks.
He heard a loud male voice from behind him, speaking Kerman in tones that sounded like some kind of formal proclamation. Tarek’s voice.
Jack turned and saw the three Zerzurans walking across the weather deck. Tarek came first, to clear the way. The prince and princess followed, side by side. Although their feet were bare, they walked proudly, clad in the garments Ayisha had made for them. Their golden bracelets shone on their right wrists. Amenirdis wore her gazelle earrings. Their pleated white linen garments were striking against their dark skin. Prince Shabako’s sleeveless tunic and short kilt had bright embroidery on it, but those of Tarek and the princess were unadorned.
Crewmembers murmured in shock, pointing at Amenirdis, who appeared as her true self.
Lucius Featherstone and his new best friend, Etienne de Ver, braced to attention as she walked toward them, and as she drew even with them, they threw her their snappiest, best salutes. Smiling at them, she nodded graciously.
Jack stepped aside as the two royals and their guard walked up to the rail of the ship and stood there, waiting to be recognized.
The guards continued marching toward them. The man in the forefront, whom Jack took to be an officer, reached a point even with the bow of the ship. Then, suddenly, the man’s eyes widened, and he stopped so abruptly his troops bumped into him.
The sounds of marching feet died away, leaving silence.
The officer made a peremptory hand gesture, and his men halted, arranging themselves in precise rows. The commander strode forward alone, walking along the dock, until he reached the point opposite where the prince and princess stood, facing him across the short gap of water. He stared at them for a long moment, then suddenly he dropped to one knee, bowing his head and holding both arms away from his body in what was clearly a ceremonial gesture to a superior.
Jack let out his breath in a relieved sigh.
Several hours after their first meeting on the steps of the royal palace, Princess Amenirdis stood with her mother, Queen Tiyy, in the doorway to her own suite of rooms. Wrapped in a loose robe of linen, she had just come from her adjoining bathing chamber.
She looked around her at the outer room, the one that served as what the English would call a parlor. After growing accustomed to English homes for months, then the ship, her chamber seemed strange. Benches lined the wall. Low tables and stools sat on finely woven mats. The walls were whitewashed, painted with scenes of a pool containing colorful fish, surrounded by benches and trees. The columns that held up th
e ceiling were carved and painted to resemble lotuses. The door to her left led out onto her private courtyard, with its lotus pool, its palm trees, and low benches where one could sit and appreciate the flowers and plants.
The chamber behind her was the bathing room, and never had a bath felt so good, after so many months of having to wash in a basin. Amenirdis had stood on a block of limestone, as servants bustled back and forth, pouring jars of water over her. The water ran down the sloping floor, and out a drain. After they had bathed her, the servants had rubbed her body with scented oils, clucking over the roughness of her hands and feet.
It was difficult to believe she was really here. Amenirdis glanced at her mother and saw that Queen Tiyy felt much as she did. Smiling shyly, her mother reached over to touch her daughter’s arm—a light, fleeting touch. The queen needed to touch her children, Amenirdis knew, to reassure herself that they were really there, and that she was not dreaming.
“Hurry, daughter, the homecoming feast begins soon. I will summon a handmaiden to help you dress.”
Queen Tiyy clapped her hands. One of Amenirdis’s waiting women, Sennuwy, hurried into the room, bowing and praising Apedemak that her mistress was home.
Amenirdis froze, as she remembered that Sennuwy, like many of her servitors, was a slave. She found herself unable to meet the woman’s eyes.
“Hurry and dress your mistress, girl,” the queen commanded. “Paint her face. Make sure she wears her good sandals with the golden beads. And the golden girdle for her dress.”
Sennuwy began bustling around, fetching Amenirdis’s clothing, the kohl for her eyes, the pins and woven band to confine her own hair beneath her formal wig with its many gold and colored beads.
Queen Tiyy ignored the presence of the slave as she gestured at the chamber. “I knew you would return, daughter. You promised you would, and you have never broken your word. I just did not think it would be so long. But I never lost hope. I never lost faith. Everything is exactly as you left it.”
Amenirdis nodded. “Many things happened to delay me, Mother, as I searched for my brother.”
“I listened to the two of you today and could scarce believe what I was hearing, my daughter!” the queen exclaimed. “Captured and sold into slavery! Your brother, too! What you have been through—I cannot even imagine it. And to discover the fate of your father—how can the gods have received his spirit without the proper rites? We must have a memorial. But how can we, with no body?” The queen wrung her hands.
“I believe the gods will understand, Mother,” the princess said. “We will simply explain to our people that father was lost at sea.” Shedding the loose bathing robe, she raised her arms so Sennuwy could slip her gown over her head. The slave indicated the princess should sit on a low, backless stool to have her sandals laced on.
Once she was shod, Amenirdis stood again, arms held out, as the slave placed the golden girdle around her slender form and clasped it. Her white linen garment was elaborately draped and pleated—far more so than the simple one she had sewn aboard the Wicked Wench.
The slave indicated the dressing table, and the princess walked over to it and sat down. Only her private knowledge that Sennuwy would, in the fullness of time, be free enabled her to accept these services from the woman. She smiled at her, murmuring “thank you,” startling the poor girl so much she nearly dropped the heavy wig.
Amenirdis felt the wig weigh her head down as the slave adjusted it. Far longer than her own hair, the elaborately decorated black strands reached below her shoulders. It had been so long since she had dressed like this that she had forgotten how heavy the wig was.
Obediently, she closed her eyes as the slave took out the containers of kohl to line and shadow her eyes. “I don’t see why you wanted to invite those outlanders to the feast,” Queen Tiyy fussed. “They are so strange looking! Their clothes! Their skin! Ugly!”
“Jack and Robby and Chamba helped save me and Shabako, Mother,” Amenirdis said, her voice clipped. “They are our guests tonight, and we will give them all honor.”
The queen looked surprised at her daughter’s unaccustomed flash of temper. “Of course,” she murmured. “Of course. I am sorry, daughter. I am just in a dither, hardly knowing what I am saying.”
“I understand,” Amenirdis replied, after Sennuwy finished rouging her lips. “It has been a strange day for all of us.”
“Done, Your Highness,” Sennuwy said. “Let me fetch your jewelry.”
Amenirdis sat still as the woman clasped a bracelet on her left wrist, then an armlet around her upper arm. The gold, lapis, carnelian, and silver necklace, with its enameled pectoral, followed. The slave held up long, heavy gold earrings, but the princess shook her head and touched the gazelle ones, her father’s gift. “I will keep these.” Sennuwy handed her several elaborate rings, and the princess slipped them on.
A moment later, seeing Sennuwy approach with the heavy, formal crown featuring a crescent held by two stylized ram’s horns, Amenirdis shook her head. “Not that one. It will make my head ache, Sennuwy. Just the slender gold circlet with the jeweled uraeus, please.”
The woman gave her another surprised glance as she darted off. Was I so rude, before? Amenirdis wondered. Did I treat those who waited on me like things, rather than people?
Her people did not have mirrors like the beautiful clear ones that hung in Mr. Beckett’s house. But a large sheet of polished brass was mounted on the wall. Crown in place, Amenirdis regarded herself. A beautiful stranger stared back at her. A royal princess of Zerzura.
Ayisha is truly dead, she thought, sadly.
* * *
Jack took some time to get his crew settled in for the evening. Shabako had promised him that the crew of the Wicked Wench would be permitted supervised shore leave in Zerzura, starting on the morrow, so long as the sailors slept aboard their vessel. Jack had rowed over to La Vipère after the prince and princess had departed, and had waved his parlay flag at the brigantine.
This time, he didn’t have to argue or convince Christophe to meet with him on neutral territory. The rogue pirate had a boat lowered immediately, and rowed over to join him.
“What was that we sailed through, Jacques?” he asked. “It was some kind of sorcery, wasn’t it?” His voice was steady, but there were lines on his face that Jack didn’t remember seeing before, and his eyes looked hollow in his face. If Jack had heard the voices of the dead as they passed through the fog-illusion, what had Christophe seen and heard, after all the slaughter he’d committed? No wonder he appeared shaken.
“Yes, it was magic. Very strong magic. That fog stuff was the illusion that protects the island,” Jack replied, shortly. “Listen carefully, Christophe. I’m not going to repeat myself. Anchor La Vipère here in the harbor, and you and your men stay aboard her. If any of your crew of cutthroats goes ashore, our whole deal is off, savvy? So control your men.”
“I understand. When do we go into the labyrinth?”
“My contact needs tomorrow to prepare,” Jack said. “I believe we’ll go early the day after tomorrow. If there’s any change from that, I’ll row over and let you know. Otherwise, I’ll come for you in a boat at dawn, savvy?”
“I understand.”
“And, Christophe, just in case your men get any ideas about going on a little unauthorized shore leave, let them know that my crew will be watching them. I have a couple of sharpshooters in my crew that can—and will—pick off anyone that launches a boat. I’ve ordered them to shoot to kill, so you are fairly warned. Savvy?”
“Yes,” Christophe said.
The French pirate wasn’t arguing or trying to charm Jack anymore, for which Jack was grateful. It was all he could manage to be businesslike with the rogue. “Good,” Jack said. “And, speaking of firearms, my contact told me that pistols will not fire in the labyrinth.”
Christophe opened his mouth. Jack raised a hand to forestall his question. “Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. It’s part of the magic. So
come armed with your sword only. I’ll bring any equipment my contact indicates we’ll need.” He paused for a moment, then added, “And, of course, bring the bracelet.”
“I understand.”
“Very well.” Jack picked up his oars.
“You wouldn’t want to come aboard for a drink, would you, Jacques?” Christophe was looking at him hopefully. “I must admit, I have missed the old times we shared. Can’t we let the past belong to the past?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No, I wouldn’t care for a drink, Christophe. Now row yourself back to your ship. That warning about the sharpshooters applies to you, too, make no mistake.”
“Ah, but Jacques, if your men shot me dead, I might fall in to the water, wearing the bracelet, and what would you do then, eh?” Christophe said, doing a good imitation of his old cheeky grin.
“I’d just wait a couple of extra days for your body to rise to the surface, then I’d cut the bracelet off your swollen corpse,” Jack said, coolly, though anger bubbled inside him. This time around he hadn’t brought his pistol, and that was probably for the best, he decided, because if he had, he’d have used it right then. “I’ve handled corpses before. I was the one that found Tommy after you murdered that harmless old sot, savvy? At any rate, I’m leaving now, Christophe. You’d better be back aboard La Vipère by the time I reach the deck of my ship.”
Christophe grabbed his oars and began to row, making good time.
After Jack reached the Wicked Wench, he went into his cabin and poured himself a stiff jolt of rum, then forced himself to sip it slowly, rather than tossing it back. That helped.
A short while later, there came a tap on the door. “Who’s there?”
“Robby, and Chamba’s with me.”
“Come in.”
The first mate entered, with Chamba on his heels. He held out a stiff piece of parchment-like material to Jack. “We’ve got an invitation.”
“From whom?”
“The queen, ostensibly, though obviously Ayisha must have written it.”
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 59
