by Rob Kidd
She looked back to the quarterdeck and caught Captain Hawk’s eye. He looked mildly astonished, but didn’t stop shouting orders as he strode down the stairs toward her. His eyes took in her ragged state and the blood-stained makeshift bandages on Diego’s leg and shoulder.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Carolina said quickly as Captain Hawk reached her. “We were only hiding from—from some terrible men, and we didn’t realize your ship was leaving port until it was too late. We didn’t mean to be stowaw—”
“Hush now, don’t worry about that,” Captain Hawk said, kneeling and lifting Diego’s injured leg into his lap. Diego was only semiconscious, but he whimpered and gritted his teeth.
“Tim!” Captain Hawk yelled. “Water, rum, and my kit! Quickly! And Jefferson, prepare the men! Weapons loaded, but nobody fire until my command!”
A young man about Jean’s age, presumably Tim, came running up carrying a bottle of rum, a bronze bowl filled with water, and a leather bag. Captain Hawk poured some of the water over Diego’s leg and set about removing the wooden shard and rebandaging the wound with efficient speed. When Diego yelped in agony and tried to wriggle away, the captain directed Tim to pour some of the rum into Diego’s mouth.
At the same time, Captain Hawk continued to bark instructions to his crew as the pirate ship drew closer and closer. He had just finished tying a new dressing onto Diego’s shoulder when a rope line whizzed through the air and a grappling hook clattered across the deck. The Seref was pulling the ships together!
Captain Hawk leaped to his feet and strode to the railing. Several pirates aimed their pistols at him, but he calmly whipped a white handkerchief from his coat and waved it. “I demand Parlay!” he called.
“You demand ?” said a gravelly voice, heavy with amusement. “Why would we Parlay with you?” The owner of the voice pushed his pirates aside and stood at the railing of the Seref, facing Captain Hawk. He crossed his arms and raised one bushy eyebrow.
Carolina’s heart was pounding. She didn’t need anyone to tell her who this was.
“Enlighten me, Captain,” Ammand the Corsair growled. “Because frankly, I don’t feel like talking. I feel like coming over there…and killing you all.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I see you have met my friend Fifi,” said Captain Chevalle, brushing one elegant finger along the table. “It seems that she does not like you any better than I do.”
The little dog stopped yapping and wagged its ridiculous puffy tail at the Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean. Chevalle scooped her up and sat down in the large red-velvet-lined chair at the head of the dining table. He looked up at Jack with an amused sneer. Fifi lay down on his lap, folded her paws prettily, and gave Jack the exact same expression as Chevalle.
Jack put his hands in his coat pockets and tried to look nonchalant, as if he burst into dining rooms and stood on other people’s giant tables all the time. He glanced around casually. Now he remembered this room. When he and Teague had eaten here, they had sat at the far distant end of this table, smiling insincerely at their host over the vast expanse of mahogany. The room had been lit by dozens of candles, all of them reflected in the mirrors that lined every inch of the walls and ceiling.
But now only a few candles guttered sadly in mismatched candlestick holders strewn across the table, and most of the mirrors were broken. Vines were growing up through the cracks in the floor. There were damp, crumbling patches of the wall that seemed perilously close to caving in. Through the holes in the ceiling, Jack could see glimpses of the room above this one.
Some of the mirror shards still lay on the floor, glinting sharply in the candlelight. Jack noticed a few spots of fresh blood on some of them. Well, that didn’t bode well.
“And to what do we owe the displeasure of this visit?” Chevalle asked smoothly. His shabby surroundings didn’t seem to have any effect on his pride. If anything, he seemed more amused by Jack’s scrutiny than ashamed.
Back in Madagascar, Jack’s grandmother had arrived for their pirate mission decked out in outlandish pirate garb, and now Jack realized what it had reminded him of: Chevalle’s usual costume. His long frock coat was a pale lavender, with a powder blue waistcoat peeking through and a mountain of frills in the lacy cravat at his neck. Around his waist, under his sword belt, was a wide yellow sash, and on his feet were a pair of positively absurd pointed shoes with high heels and shiny silver buckles. Jack glanced down at his own sturdy boots and thanked his stars again that he was not French.
Teague often berated Jack for wearing makeup “like that popinjay Chevalle,” but really, there was no comparison. Chevalle powdered his face until it was as white as his little dog, then added bright red circles of rouge on his cheeks. Chevalle’s makeup was ghastly and goofy, whereas Jack’s kohl-lined eyes were tasteful, awe-inspiring, and, on occasion, ideal for striking terror in the hearts of his enemies. It was clearly not the same at all.
Moreover, Chevalle had silly hair. His elaborate blond curls poofed out all over his head and cascaded nearly to his waist. In fact, Jack happened to know that it was a wig (thanks to one experiment with setting it on fire and one experiment with hooking it straight off Chevalle’s head while he walked below the trees in Teague’s garden). For the life of him, Jack could not understand why anyone would choose such an enormous long, curly monstrosity, if one were given the choice of any wig. The thin mustache and goatee (of a much darker color) added nothing to the effect, either.
On top of all this absurdity, Chevalle was wearing his dark blue tricorn hat, which was adorned with fluffy blue ostrich feathers…much like Barbossa’s hat, in fact. Jack wondered if Barbossa had intended the imitation. Of all the Pirate Lords to imitate, why Chevalle? Especially when Barbossa had a much classier and more fashion-savvy example right under his nose. Well, really. Jack sniffed indignantly just thinking about it.
Fifi growled again, and Chevalle stroked her head with fingers covered in rings. “It’s all right, ma petite,” he murmured. “If he does not tell us why he is here, I will let you eat him for dinner—and, bon appétit.”
Fifi licked her chops with her tiny pink tongue.
“It’s quite extraordinary,” Jack said conversationally, raising his eyebrows at Fifi. “I had no idea that there were rats that big.”
Chevalle and Fifi both narrowed their eyes at him. “She is a French poodle,” Chevalle purred snootily, refusing to be rattled by Jack’s rudeness. “Only one of the most valuable and expensive dogs in le monde. And smarter than you, je suis certain of that.”
Ruff! Fifi agreed, turning up her nose.
“Yes, she’s a treasure,” Jack said. “I bet she’d get along famously with this cat I once knew.” Back when he was captain of the Barnacle, Jack had been perpetually tormented by a cat named Constance. She was actually Jean’s sister, who had been turned into a cat by the mystic Tia Dalma. In her feline form, she was a hideous menace who plagued Jack at every turn.
Constance would probably love Fifi…at the very least, they could gang up on him together. Although, according to Jean, Constance was off somewhere living a normal human life now. If she was anything like her cousin Marcella, Jack hoped to never ever meet her in “person” form.
Chevalle stared at him with cold eyes. “Jacques, why are you here?”
“Oh,” Jack said casually, “no reason. Happened to be in the area, thought I’d pop ’round to say cheers, see the old mansion. Love what you’ve done with the place.” He arched an expressive eyebrow at the shattered mirrors.
Chevalle leaned back and propped his peculiar shoes on the table. Fifi began licking his fingers delicately.
“Tres bien,” Chevalle said. “Since you insist on being obtuse, I will help you. Are you here perchance about a blackguard who is going around calling himself the Shadow Lord?”
Jack tried not to react, but his face must have given him away. Chevalle pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “As I suspected,” he said. “I know about the vials of Shadow Gold, Jacques.”
“I know,” Chevalle said serenely. “The Shadow Gold is magnifique. I have never seen such a beautiful thing.” He stared into space, his fingers moving slowly through Fifi’s fur.
“You think?” Jack said, trying to sound offhanded. He shrugged elaborately. “A bit gaudy, if you ask me.”
Chevalle shook his head. “Non, you are mistaken. It is ze essence of pure beauty.”
Jack scratched his head under his hat. He gave Chevalle a sly glance. “Per’aps I’m just remembering them wrong, then,” he said. “Maybe I need to take another look. Too bad I left mine back on the Pearl, eh? Mind if I have a gander at yours? Where d’ye keep it?”
“Ha-ha,” Chevalle chuckled. “You do not have a vial, Jacques. The Shadow Gold is not for foolish ne’er-do-well pirates.”
“Oh, only for really poor ones, then?” Jack snapped. His feelings were still rather hurt by the fact that he hadn’t received a vial when Tia Dalma sent them to “the strongest Pirate Lords.” How could this poodle-besotted curly-wigged Frenchman be a stronger pirate than Captain Jack Sparrow? It was too unfair.
As if he’d read Jack’s mind, Chevalle tossed his hair back and declared, “Mere coins are no way to measure a pirate’s strength. A pirate’s true strength is in here!” He pressed one pale hand to his frilly chest.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Ah, the French, over-romanticizing everything as usual. Just because your heart flutters wildly for fine wine and fancy dogs doesn’t mean it’s strong enough to guard the Shadow Gold!”
Chevalle’s dignified demeanor suddenly shattered. “I am strong! I am a fearsome pirate!” he bellowed, leaping to his feet. Fifi tumbled to the ground with an outraged yelp and started running around the table, barking like mad.
“I am the greatest pirate the Mediterranean has ever seen!” Chevalle shouted, drawing his sword. Jack barely had time to jump backward before Chevalle had vaulted onto the table next to him. The Frenchman’s sword sliced in a wide arc where Jack’s neck had been a moment before. Jack whipped out his sword and met Chevalle’s on the return swing with a clash that sent shocks down his arm.
Furiously, the French Pirate Lord drove forward, pressing Jack back and back along the table. Jack’s boots slipped on the polished mahogany, and he wondered if Chevalle deliberately wore his foppish shoes in case he ever needed to duel on a smooth tabletop. On the other hand, Jack couldn’t imagine fighting in those heels.
YAP! YAP! YAP! Fifi contributed piercingly from the floor. She started jumping up and down as if she wanted to come up and fight as well. She jumped so high, her tiny head nearly reached the height of the table. Her fluffy ears flapped up and down with each bounce. YAP! YAP!
The noise made it hard for Jack to concentrate, although, to be fair, the very sharp sword hammering at him was a little distracting, too. It seemed like Chevalle was attacking from all directions at once. He was as skilled as Mistress Ching, the Pirate Lord of the Pacific, renowned across the globe for her swordsmanship.
But then, Jack was fairly skilled, too…and he wasn’t above using some unorthodox tricks to win his battles.
He jabbed at Chevalle’s hat, wiggled his sword around a bit, and jumped back. Chevalle gasped with fury as two blue ostrich feathers floated to the table on either side of him.
“My hat!” he snarled.
“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor,” Jack said. “Blue ostrich feathers are so last century.”
“You are the last man I would ever trust!” Chevalle growled, lunging at Jack again. “Especially for fashion advice!”
Jack parried his thrust, and for a moment they were face to face, inches apart, each barely holding the other’s sword at bay. Jack wrinkled his nose and gave Chevalle a pitying look. “’Ow about for dental advice, then? That breath of yours could kill a sea serpent, mate.”
With a vicious shove, Chevalle threw Jack away from him. Jack glanced over his shoulder and realized the end of the table was only a few steps away. If Chevalle could force Jack onto the floor, then no doubt Fifi would join the fight as well. Jack didn’t like those odds. She was little, but she still had considerably sharper teeth than Jack did.
At that moment, Jack nearly tripped over a candlestick holder behind him on the table. Neatly, he jumped backward over it, then kicked it toward Chevalle. It rolled under Chevalle’s feet, and the Frenchman stumbled. Jack took advantage of the pirate’s momentary distraction to flip his sword under Chevalle’s defenses and flick it up, catching the hilt of Chevalle’s sword and lifting it right out of his grasp.
But Chevalle didn’t hesitate for a moment. As the sword clattered to the floor, he yanked a handkerchief from his waistcoat, wrapped it around his hand, and bent down. Jack blinked at him for a moment, but by the time he realized what Chevalle was up to, the Frenchman was already on his feet again and advancing on Jack with a new weapon gleaming in his hand. The mirror shard was long and horribly pointy, with more than one jagged, deadly looking edge.
“Can’t we be civilized about this?” Jack asked. “I mean, you haven’t even gotten me drunk yet. Where’s your respect for tradition, eh?”
“I offered him a drink,” Chevalle hissed. “That was my first mistake.” He stopped advancing on Jack and stared into space again.
“Uh,” Jack said, not wanting to draw attention to himself, and yet too worried not to ask. “Who?”
“I thought I could fool him,” Chevalle said bitterly. “I intended to use my charm to disarm him before I attacked him.”
“Your what, now?” Jack asked quizzically. “Have I met this ‘charm’ of yours? Another fancy dog, perhaps?”
“But he was too strong,” Chevalle continued as if he hadn’t heard Jack. “Too terrible. There was nothing I could do. He only came for one thing.”
Jack’s heart stopped. He froze in position, staring at Chevalle.
“Penniless Frenchman, who are you talking about?”
The hand holding the mirror shard dropped to his side, and Chevalle took an exhausted breath. He patted his forehead with one of his lacy cuffs. He looked tired and beaten.
“The Shadow Lord.” Chevalle looked Jack in the eye. “He was here yesterday. He took my vial of Shadow Gold.”
CHAPTER NINE
Lamps were being lit on the deck of the merchant ship as night fell. The sailors moved quietly, subdued by the sinister presence of the pirates watching them from the Seref.
Ammand the Corsair stood on his quarterdeck, looking down at Captain Hawk across the small stretch of water between their ships. Ammand was young for a Pirate Lord—younger than Mistress Ching or Chevalle or Sri Sumbhajee, for instance, although older than Jack. But there were deep lines in his face that testified to how much time he spent frowning.
In fact, he was frowning right now.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to drop off your entire crew—alive—at the nearest port.”
“Yes,” said Captain Hawk. He leaned on a carved wooden walking stick, looking unconcerned, as if he had conversations with swarthy, grouchy Pirate Lords every day of the week.
Ammand’s hair was long and brown. His thick mustache was twisted into a thin curlicue at each end. His eyebrows whisked up at the edges as if they were imitating the mustache, and his large dark eyes were pitiless. Carolina wasn’t sure why Captain Hawk thought there was any chance of mercy from this pirate.
Ammand strolled to the edge of his deck, hopped onto the railing, and leaped gracefully over onto the merchant ship. His pirates looked alarmed, then cocked their pistols threateningly. Ammand put up one hand to reassure them. He beckoned Captain Hawk to the side, away from his other sailors. In the gathering dusk, the corsair seemed not to notice Carolina, still crouched with Diego at the foot of the mast.
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�I am not a man who negotiates,” Ammand said curtly. He was astonishingly tall, perhaps as tall as Gentleman Jocard, so he towered over tiny Captain Hawk. His gold and brown coat gleamed in the lamplight. Carolina could see the bulky shape of a pistol tucked into his bloodred waist sash. Hanging from his belt was a wicked-looking curved sword—his famed scimitar.
Captain Hawk inclined his head at the Barbary pirate. “I understand. But I believe you are also an intelligent man who likes to maximize his profits.”
Ammand twisted an end of his mustache between his fingers, studying the captain narrowly. “Explain.”
Hawk inhaled. “Do you smell that?” he asked. “Burning. That’s my ship burning, thanks to your cannonballs. It will sink within the hour.”
The Pirate Lord shrugged. “Precisely my goal. Why should this concern me? It saves me the trouble of killing you all myself. I can just leave you to drown.”
“Or,” Captain Hawk said, “you can fill your hold with the treasure we are carrying.”
Ammand’s eyes glittered at the word. “What treasure?”
“We are carrying a great reward,” Captain Hawk said softly. “The Spanish government has tasked us with bringing it to an East India Trading Company agent named Benedict Huntington, in exchange for the information he sent them about the whereabouts of a pirate named Captain Jack Sparrow.”
Carolina’s eyes widened. So it was Benedict who had told her father to wait for the Pearl in Marseille! But how had he known where they would go? And how did he know who she was? Since when did he work with the Spanish?
“All that treasure could be yours,” said Captain Hawk. “I don’t particularly feel the need to enrich one of those East India scoundrels.”
“I will take the treasure anyway,” said Ammand. “Leaving you alive serves no additional purpose.”
Now it was Captain Hawk’s turn to shrug. “Oh, you can try,” he said. “Your pirates can board this ship, and my men will fight you tooth and nail. Yes, you’ll defeat us, no doubt, and probably most of us will die horribly, but by the time you get past us, you’ll have a few dead pirates and, more importantly, not enough time to bring up all the treasure. This ship will be at the bottom of the sea before you can transport all that gold over to yours.”