Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Read online

  “La Vipère has too much draft to make it up the Nile, Jacques,” Christophe pointed out, smiling and winking at Marie as she refilled his cup. He had perfect teeth, Jack noted sourly. Jack was a good dozen years younger, and already had a gold tooth. Life just wasn’t fair. “Besides…didn’t those Egyptian priests have magical powers? You want to talk about curses, mon ami…” Christophe trailed off and took a long swig.

  “Oh, right,” Jack said. “That’s true. No Egyptian tombs, then.” He thought for a moment. “They say the Templars hid tons of treasure. They say it would take a fleet of ships to haul it all away. And they say they had several caches of it. There are hidden treasure maps and ciphers and such.” Jack sat back, ruminating. “They set traps to deter thieves. Some of those traps were mechanical. But others…” he ran his tongue along the edge of his cup, to catch the last drop of rum. “Other traps were unnatural. Magical guardians, undying sorcerers…like that.” He sighed. “I bloody well hate those magical undying sorcerers, mate. They can take all the fun out of a treasure quest.”

  Christophe threw back his handsome head and laughed uproariously. “Listen to us! We must be drunker than usual, mon ami! Talking seriously of magic! Next thing you know, we’ll be discussing making love to sirens and mermaids!”

  Jack managed a laugh, but it wasn’t a hearty one. He’d been exposed to magic—and mermaids, sirens, ghosts, sorcerers, and sea monsters—too many times as a lad to scoff at them now. I ought to introduce you to Tia Dalma, he found himself thinking. She’d set you straight, mate, and right quickly, too…

  But he said nothing. Tia Dalma was not someone you spoke of lightly. Jack could feel the slight bump within the waistband of his breeches where he always stored the compass she’d given him. But that, too, was something he never spoke of, much less revealed. In its own way, it, too, was a treasure.

  He found himself thinking of one of his favorite legends. Pirates spoke of it sometimes, and it was mentioned in Captain Ward’s book. Jack dug dirt from beneath his thumbnail, then looked up at Christophe. “Ever hear of the Legend of Zerzura? The Shining City?”

  Christophe frowned slightly. “Sounds familiar, mon ami. Somewhere near Afrique, non?”

  “That’s right. Off the coast of Africa, they say. On an island called Kerma. It’s one of those places that can’t be seen by mortal sight. Hidden from view by magic, illusion, that sort of thing.”

  Christophe’s brow furrowed. “Treasure?” he asked after a moment, recalling what was, after all, the most important thing.

  “Indubitably,” Jack said. He was proud of himself for pronouncing every syllable with perfect clarity.

  “Ah!” Christophe perked up considerably. “Gold?”

  “Heaps of it,” Jack assured him. “But that’s not the most important treasure. There’s this labyrinth, y’see—”

  Christophe excitedly pounded his fist onto the table, knocking over his cup. Fortunately, it was empty. “Zut alors! I’ll bring a wheelbarrow. Or a mule. Or both!”

  “Good idea,” Jack said, dryly. “As I was saying, about this labyrinth…if you can get through it, through the illusions and magical pitfalls, when you reach the center, that’s where the best swag is. Silver…gold…jewelry and coins…but the greatest treasure there, you could hold in your two hands.” He held his hands cupped, not quite touching each other. “It’s at leash…er, least…this big.”

  “What is it?” Christophe demanded, his black eyes gleaming.

  “The Heart of Zerzura. It’s a jewel…but not just a jewel. It’s a shor—er, source of tremendous magical power. It’s the source of all the power that keeps the island hidden. It rests in the hands of some heathen god, they say. An ape-god…” Jack frowned. “No, wait. Not an ape. A kitty cat?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind that now. We’ll know it when we see it.”

  “A kitty cat god is there? Holding a magical something? On an island that nobody can find?” Christophe was frowning and shaking his head. “That doesn’t sound—”

  Before the pirate captain could finish his comment, there came a scream of rage, and the meaty sound of a punch. Jack and Christophe, moving with commendable speed for two men who had consumed as much rum as they had, sprang out of the way as a large pirate landed between them, smashing their table to flinders. Christophe barely had time to scoop the coins out of the way before the impact, while Jack saved the half-full bottle of rum.

  It took Steve the barkeep several seconds to limp over to the still-upright combatant, grab him, and hoist him howling off the floor; then pivoting, the huge man pitched the brawler through the large, open port that, fortunately, overhung the cove. There followed a diminishing scream, then a faint splash. Steve stood regarding the unconscious pirate lying amid the remains of the Hazard table. “Who started it?” he asked, belatedly.

  Several onlookers hastily volunteered that the aggressor had already been dealt with. Steve grunted, then matter-of-factly splashed half a bucket of seawater on the recumbent pirate, who sat up groggily. He was hauled to his feet and assisted out of the tavern by his friends.

  Christophe resumed his seat, and looked at Jack over the remains of their table. “So…where were we?”

  Jack shrugged. “Haven’t the faintest…oh. Yes. We were on the Lost Island of Kerma, making our way toward the giant gemstone of power. Figuratively speaking, of course,” he added absently, looking around for his chair.

  Christophe nodded. “When you described it, I remembered. There’s something in the legend about how you have to have a talisman so you can open the entrance to the labyrinth, oui?”

  Jack nodded, impressed. Christophe often tended to be a lot smarter—and more sober—than he let on. “That’s it, mate. What I couldn’t think of earlier. Talisman. A ring?” He scowled down at the rum bottle in his hand, cogitating, then absentmindedly righted his chair, sat down in it, and took a long pull from the bottle. He handed it to Christophe.

  The rum proved a memory charm. Jack snapped his fingers. “No, not a ring. But round. A bracelet! That’s it. Yes, there’s a talisman in the shape of a bracelet. It’s got the kitty cat god’s head on it.”

  “Bien! We shall go find this island! When shall we set sail, mon ami?”

  Jack opened his mouth to shout “Tomorrow!” but then shut it as memory struck. Teague! Of course it would be Teague who would spoil his plans! Jack scowled.

  Captain Teague had mentioned a few days ago that he expected Jack to set sail with him, and that they’d be leaving in a week. Teague wanted to sail north to investigate the rumors of rogue pirates wreaking havoc on merchant ships of all countries, both in the Atlantic and the Pacific. At first when Teague, as Keeper of the Code, had heard that the Royal Navies of several countries were beginning to escort merchant convoys to protect them against ruthless rogue pirates, he’d been inclined to dismiss the rumors.

  But as time went by, the rumors continued and grew more numerous. It had been a full six months since Shipwreck Cove had first heard tales about rogue pirates callously slaughtering both crew and passengers without provocation. Only a scant handful of survivors had managed to escape death by playing dead.

  The rogues were reported to fly the black skull and crossbones, plus a red flag that sported a demon’s horned head. Traditionally, a red flag flown by naval vessels promised a fight to the finish in wartime. But for pirates the tradition was different. Flying a red flag signaled “no quarter” to any ship’s crew that resisted, but guaranteed the safety of all aboard if the ship surrendered without a fight. These rogues did not follow that tradition. What they wrought was wholesale butchery, wanton murder, even toward ships that surrendered without firing a shot. This behavior was in direct violation of the Code. It was Teague’s responsibility, as Keeper of the Code, to investigate. And he expected Jack to accompany him.

  Heading for Africa with Christophe sounded like a much more interesting way to spend the next few months than sailing around aimlessly looking for ships sporting
red demon flags. Jack sighed. “I’d love to, mate. But…” he turned his head to gaze out the open port, deliberately keeping his features from betraying his thoughts. His relationship with the Keeper of the Code was…complicated. On one hand, Jack Sparrow longed for nothing more than to be free of Teague and his orders forever. On the other hand, he wished that before he departed forever, he could, for once, gain the captain’s respect. “You really mean it? I can join your crew?”

  “But of course!” Christophe assured him, and then upended the bottle to polish off the last of the rum. “No doubt there would be many ships we could take in between here and Afrique. Ivory, gold, black gold…Afrique is a rich hunting ground for the wolves of the sea.”

  Black gold? Jack wondered. Oh. He means slaves. I want no part of that…

  Jack opened his mouth, not knowing exactly what he was going to say, but was saved from having to compose a remark when his eye caught a glimpse of movement out the port. He swung around to look. A ship was coming into the cove from the tunnel through the mountain, a good-sized frigate that was as graceful and trim as any he’d seen. Hastily, Jack beckoned Christophe to join him. Together they stood looking down, watching her arrive at the dock. Her sails hung limp in the midday heat, so she was being towed by two longboats. “I’ve never seen her like, except those built for the Royal Navy,” Jack said, marveling. “A frigate…a bloody frigate! And not just any frigate, a Blackwall frigate! They can sail rings around most ships.”

  “Mon Dieu, so she is! Let us go welcome this pirate who has managed to acquire for himself such a beautiful ship!”

  “I’m with you,” Jack said. His curiosity was fully aroused. Scooping up his effects, he followed Christophe out of The Drunken Lady, and into the crazy-angled, many-leveled passageways that connected the piled-up ships. Experienced as they were at navigating the intricate, twisting byways of Shipwreck City, it still took the pirates nearly twenty minutes to work their way down the tower of heaped ships to dock level. By the time they emerged into the sun, the frigate was being tied up at the dock. Jack strode out of the shadow of Shipwreck City, tugging his coat into place, then running a hand over his unkempt hair before clapping his tricorne on his head. Squinting in the sun after the gloom of the passageways, he saw the frigate’s name painted on her bow: Venganza.

  As Jack and Christophe started along the quay, heading for the dock where Venganza was now berthed, an imposing figure in a foppish coat and beplumed hat stepped out from a knot of onlookers ahead of them and started up the dock toward the ship. Jack hesitated, then stumbled, nearly falling. Christophe grabbed his elbow. “Too much rum, mon ami?”

  Jack flushed, and was glad for the shadow of his hat and his deep tan. “I’m fine,” he said curtly, shaking off his friend’s grasp.

  But his strides shortened. He didn’t want to meet up with Teague. Somehow, Edward Teague, Pirate Lord and Keeper of the Code, had a knack for making Jack feel young and foolish. He wasn’t sure just how Teague managed it, but he’d experienced it many times. His eyes narrowed, and he squared his shoulders. Damn it. I’m not going to let him control where I go or what I do!

  Jack’s strides lengthened until he had almost caught up with Christophe. Ahead of them, a gangplank had been slid into place, so Venganza’s crew could move easily between ship and dock.

  Ahead of them, Captain Teague stopped, and raised his voice to be heard over the everyday bustle of the docking area. “Ahoy, Venganza!”

  Jack heard another voice, fainter, coming from the frigate. “Ahoy, Captain Teague! The Pirate Lord of the Caribbean presents his compliments!” Jack frowned, searching his memory. That was…Don Rafael. Yes. He’d seen him years ago, when he was about nine, and remembered a burly, weathered Spaniard with iron-gray hair. The Pirate Lord had been accompanied by his granddaughter, Esmeralda, a short, chubby brat six years older than Jack. One time Jack had teasingly yanked her thick black braid, and she’d pounced on him and given him a thrashing that had left him bruised for days.

  Jack scowled at the memory.

  He had just stepped onto the dock where Venganza was now moored, when a heap of rags thrown against a barrel suddenly stirred, and stood up. “Jack Shparrow!” the rags exclaimed. “You owe me fourteen sh-shillings! Pay up!”

  Jack groaned inwardly. Christophe snickered. Jack looked closer at the rag-man and realized he knew him. “Baldy” Malone. And yes, Jack did owe him money. But, thanks to Christophe, his purse was now as empty as it had been that night at the gaming table. Jack essayed a friendly smile. “Baldy!” he exclaimed. “What a coincidence! I was just on my way to meet up with a mate that owes me twenty shillings. And the very next thing on my list was to come find you and settle up. Before you can dance a jig, mate, I’ll be back with the money.”

  Baldy had obviously been sleeping off a bender, and he hadn’t slept nearly long enough to even glimpse sobriety. He stood there, swaying slightly, his already wrinkled brow wrinkling even further as he attempted to follow what Jack had told him. After several seconds, he abandoned the attempt. Fumbling in his purse, he pulled out Jack’s marker and waved it at him. “You owe me, Shpaarrow! Pay up!”

  Jack glanced over at Christophe, wondering if he could get the money from his friend, but Christophe was turned away, studying the frigate’s clean lines and her graceful rigging. “Sorry, mate,” he told Baldy, “you’ll have to wait. I don’t have it at the moment.”

  Baldy glared at Jack out of bloodshot eyes, then drew his dagger. “Then I’ll take it out of your hide!” He lurched toward the younger man.

  Smoothly, Jack stepped back, drawing his cutlass as he did so. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he separated the dagger from its owner, and sent it soaring into the air. The weapon spun silver in the sunlight, then splashed into the water of the cove and sank with scarcely a ripple.

  Baldy stood looking at his empty hand for long seconds as though he couldn’t believe the weapon was gone. Jack sheathed his weapon. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “Listen, I really will get you your money. Just a temporary shortage, I assure—”

  He broke off as Baldy, with a howl that would have done credit to a rabid wolf, launched himself at him, hands outstretched and reaching for Jack’s throat. Jack carefully clipped the old pirate on the jaw as he stepped aside, expecting him to fold up into a heap again, but he’d miscalculated the amount of rum Baldy had ingested. The man never even felt the blow. He changed the angle of his charge and came on.

  Time to end this, Jack thought. He knew Christophe was laughing at him, and he didn’t even want to think about Teague’s reaction. As Baldy rushed forward, Jack punched the old pirate in the stomach—hard.

  This time, Baldy folded up. Grabbing his midsection, he bent double—and spewed used rum and food all over the dock. Jack danced backward, but he was just a fraction of a second too late to save his boots. Baldy’s inundation splashed all over them.

  Jack stared down at his feet in consternation as Baldy slumped to the rough wood of the dock and lay still. Christophe dissolved into laughter. Jack felt heat in his face that had nothing to do with the fierce sun beaming overhead. He stood there, looking around desperately for a handy bucket of water, but none appeared. “Ah, Jacques!” gasped Christophe, after his initial fit of hilarity had passed. “You should have seen the look on your face, mon ami!”

  Jack scowled. For a second he was tempted to kick the unconscious Baldy into the water. “Go ahead,” Christophe urged him, reading his mind. “Why not?”

  Jack’s mouth tightened and he shook his head. The old pirate was out cold. If he pushed him into the water, there was a good chance Malone would drown without regaining consciousness. After a second Jack stepped over to his recumbent attacker and managed to wipe his boots off on some of the rags that served the old pirate for clothing.

  When he looked back up after finishing, it was to see Christophe at the end of the dock, doffing his hat with a gallant sweep and bowing with a grace worthy of the court of King Louis. J
ack recognized Don Rafael as he stepped down from the gangplank, and then turned and offered his hand to…

  Jack blinked. She was standing there, staring straight at him and it was obvious from her expression that she’d seen the entire incident. Esmeralda? Jack thought, blankly. But…it can’t be. She’s…beautiful.

  The young woman who stood there gazing at Jack with an amused expression was dressed in the height of fashion. Her gown and hat were of rose-colored satin trimmed with ivory lace, and the color set off her olive skin and black hair perfectly. She hadn’t grown any taller; she was still petite. But her figure could no longer be termed “chubby.” Her gown, though modestly cut, revealed curves that made Jack determined to go over and greet her. He watched as Don Rafael assisted his granddaughter down the gangplank. As Esmeralda stepped onto the dock, she turned her attention to Christophe, who bowed over her hand, then kissed it. Esmeralda smiled at the Frenchman. Jack scowled.

  With all his being he wanted to go over there, to bow over her hand every bit as gracefully as Christophe had. But he reeked of used rum. And despite his best efforts, there were still streaks of puke on his boots.

  Jack turned with a jerk and strode away, back down the dock. As he passed the unconscious Baldy Malone, he aimed a furious kick at the old pirate’s bare pate, but his foot didn’t…quite…connect.

  “Mr. Sparrow?”

  The voice jerked Jack out of his memories. He blinked, and was back in the present. “Yes, Bates?”

  “Can you make out what kind of ship she be, sir?”

  Jack sighed. “I fear she’s a Blackwall frigate, lad,” he said. “Twenty-eight guns, and fast enough to sail rings around us.”

  “Royal Navy, Mr. Sparrow?”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Mr. Bates. I’m going to change course to west northwest. Prepare yourself.”

  “Aye, Mr. Sparrow!”

  Jack climbed back down, hardly even thinking about what he was doing, his mind filled with course corrections and orders. When he reached the deck, he hastily donned his cast-off coat, stockings, shoes, and hat.