Fic: "Contradictions 5: Admit" (Part 4)
Jun. 1st, 2011 08:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_richThis is a continuation of a POTC fic. See Part 1 for disclaimers, etc.
The following few days passed uneventfully for all involved. Jack spent time with Ivy, who spent her time between school lessons and trying to adjust to the two new people in her life. Will was more enticing, but being the young lady she was, she politely welcomed David into her activities and – Jack noticed – tried not to upstage him too much.
One evening, Jack noticed a distinct lack of Will at the pub where they were supposed to meet for supper. Normally, they ate with the Martenses, but they’d decided the night before to give the family a break for at least one evening and leave only David in their company. He took a table, ordered an ale, and waited a good hour before giving up and heading by the house on his way back to his and Will’s suite.
Ivy answered the door. “Where’s Melody?” Jack asked, stepping into the foyer, reaching up to remove his hat before the maid could show up and take him to task for it.
“She’s washing.” The girl noticed something was amiss, for she cocked her head. “What is it, Father?”
“Is Will here?”
She shook her head. “No ... you said you two were eating elsewhere tonight.”
“I know, but I thought he might have come by. He didn’t show up at the pub.”
Ivy lowered her eyes, concentration written on her features. “No,” she said after a moment. “I’ve not heard from him. You could ask Da or Mum; maybe they’ve seen him today, while I was in lessons.”
“Isabella?” Esther appeared in the hallway. “Who’s at- Oh, hello, Jack. Would you like to come in?”
“No, that’s all right. I’m looking for Will. Has he been by here today?”
Esther shook her head. “Can’t say he has. Wasn’t he going to run some errands today? He said something about that last night, if I recall.”
Jack scratched at his chin. “It is possible he’s still detained somewhere.” Will had gone off on his own today, wanting to visit a smithy to negotiate time to work at his craft; his fingers positively itched to work with metal again, and he’d finally admitted as much last night. “But he’s usually so bloody polite, on time for everything.”
“Well, I suppose one of you has to be.” Esther granted him a small smile. “Really, why don’t you come on in? There’s some tea, and Joe has-“
Jack shook his head. “No thanks, love. Got to be going. Besides, if something’s wrong and he’s sick or some such thing, he’d be at the inn and might need some help.” He patted Ivy’s slender shoulder. “We’ll see you tomorrow, eh?”
“In the afternoon,” she nodded briskly. “David and I are riding horses in the morning, I think.” She looked up at her mother for confirmation, and the auburn-haired woman nodded. “Around teatime?”
Four o’clock the following afternoon found Jack in a worse mood than he’d felt for quite some time, certainly more unbearable than he’d ever displayed to Esther or Joe. He showed up at their house distracted, irritable, and worried because Will never showed up. With any other man, Jack would’ve figured he’d disappeared to sow some wild oats – but this was Will, who’d probably possessed more responsibility at age six than most men did in their entire lives. He fidgeted and scowled as he waited for the children to return from the park, where Joe had let them off by carriage earlier in the afternoon to work off the excess energy not spent galloping around Grandmother’s estate.
Just as he’d made up his mind to take leave as soon as they showed up, to hunt for Will, a shouting out in the street caught his attention. He came forward to the edge of his chair, ears perked; by that time, Joe and Esther had heard it as well. “What in the world-“ Esther began, but was cut off by louder shouts.
“Mr. Martense! Melody!” David crashed through the front door, barely getting it open to slam against the wall as he bounded through the foyer and down the short hallway toward the sitting room. “Mr. Mart- Jack!” The boy halted a few feet short of his captain and drew himself up forcibly, breathing hard and sweating, beet red. “Jack, it’s Ivy! She was taken!”
“Taken?” Esther stepped almost around Jack to face David. “What do you mean?”
“She was taken.” David gasped a few more times and shook his head frantically. “We were at the park, and when it was her turn to be ‘it,’ I ran off to hide. But I heard her yell out, so I came out from behind the statue, and she was being pushed into this big gray carriage by two men!” The words tripped out almost too fast for his tongue, and he visibly swallowed, trying to calm himself.
“Did you recognize the men? At all?” Joe questioned. Jack glanced over to see him standing on the other side of Esther, brow hunched, his alarm mirroring his wife’s. David shook his head. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. I- While I’ve been here I’ve never seen ‘em! And she was trying to get away, kicking them in the stomach; I don’t think she must’ve known them, either.” He turned his attention back to Jack. “I ran after it, but they were too far away! But I know what the carriage looks like.”
“Socked in the gut” accurately described how Jack felt. He’d momentarily forgotten Will’s absence, but now was more alarmed.. For some maddening, illogical reason, his mind began to pick at both disappearances, and his stomach roiled. Jack didn’t believe in coincidences – fate, kismet, divine intervention, self-determination were all rolled into his philosophy of life. But never had he believed two seemingly unrelated things happened identically to the same person at the same time for no good, unplanned reason.
“We’re goin’ looking.” Without further explanation, Jack stalked through the foyer, out the front door, and off to the park to search for clues – any clues, no matter how unlikely.
*****
Sleep was a luxury Jack forsook as he leaned heavily over the railing of his balcony, head dropped so that he stared down at the street below. At three in the morning, it was largely empty and glistening with the evening’s rain, and he toyed with simply dropping the half-full bottle to see it break apart across the stones, the tinkle of glass breaking the largely quiet atmosphere.
He’d had to give up at midnight, conclude he had no idea where his girl could be, nor Will – for he had no doubt their disappearances were somehow connected. What the two had in common was Jack himself, and he could only wonder who had it in for him to drag an innocent child and a well-meaning tradesman into the middle of a revenge.
The loss of Ivy tore at him, for he’d always felt an odd dissociation with her; she was of him, but not him so much, despite some of Will’s more humorous observations comparing father and daughter. Since he’d learned of her existence, met her, Jack had suffered a sense of guilt compounded by the fact he most definitely did have another daughter, a Caribbean girl a shade younger than Ivy, with whom he’d made regular visits a priority since learning her mother had given birth – a few months after said birth. He regarded neither daughter as more lovable or worthy than the other, but saw Ivy far less than Liana. Granted, Liana was closer in proximity, being in the bloody warm waters Jack sailed and skipped most of the year, but should that matter?
“I’ll get ye back, baby,” Jack promised in soft slur to himself, shaking his head, which felt woefully naked without its long dreadlocks and ornaments long lost to the sea. “Promise Da will find ye, make it right.” It wasn’t like him to be this languid, but he’d slept minimally the night before waiting for a roommate who never showed up, then the better part of the day preceding this dark, early morning covering streets on foot, weaving through shadowed alleys and into less-than-respectable establishments where someone – anyone – might have a shilling’s knowledge as to the whereabouts of a young girl or of a price on the head of one Captain Jack Sparrow. He’d not identified himself as the scurrilous knave in question, and under any other circumstance would have been gratified to see the wide-eyed surprise the appellation provoked; some spat, some swooned, and some simply shrugged.
Rather than drop the bottle, Jack straightened and pulled it along, clanging it rather loudly across the top of the iron railing as he backed into his suite and padded toward the bed. Sloshing it heavily upon the heavy wooden stand separating the two beds, he unbuttoned his wrinkled cambric shirt, yawning as he shrugged it to the floor and reaching up to rub at two days’ worth of unshaven bristle ringing his lips and the underside of his jaw. He discarded his breeches in fairly short order and turned slightly right to crawl into his proper bed – then stopped.
Slowly, he swung his head toward the other bed – Will’s bed, still pulled up by the maid from two mornings prior. Unslept in. Unnecessary in a suite for one.
Swallowing thickly, Jack peeled the covers back and eased his body between the sheets, resting the side of his head on a pillow. He tensed, turned his nose into the linens, and inhaled, one relieved thought only filling his exhausted, overworked brain: They didn’t change his sheets yet. Closing his eyes, he scooted more into the center of the bed, relaxing, letting Will’s scent weave through his senses and fill his nose and throat. He could very nearly palpably taste the man’s skin, hear his light snore and deep and steady breathing.
Jack slid an arm up under the pillow, another over its top, and turned his face into the softness. What if he never saw Will alive again? What if this was the last physical connection he would ever have with the man? He’d starved himself, kept his desires in check, all out of a sense of odd propriety to an old friend – a dead old friend – all to get the ghost of William Turner off his back. The specter had clung there far too many years, a sacrifice offered up to heathen gods to keep Jack alive and unspoiled, and a damnable crew of ruffians just as damned as the day they’d decided to betray their captain. Jack wanted so badly to just goddamn be rid of Turner’s ghost and, instead, it seemed he’d have the father-son team to follow him around the rest of his days.
He didn’t realize he was crying until he drew in a long breath for his first sob, then tightened everything, trying to stop the flow of emotions. It wasn’t the idea William could never forgive him – the pure and simple truth was he was missing Will. The blacksmith had become so very important to Jack, and the idea he could never see him again clawed at his heart in a way Ivy never could. He shared a soul with Will, whether the other man ever came to see or feel that, which had little to do with sexual desire or physical bonding. The loss of his other half was what forced the second sob out of Jack’s throat, and instead of fighting it, he squeezed his eyes shut, turned into the bed, and let it out for God knew how much longer in a muffle of broken heart and bothered dreams.
*****
A bright sunburst of rage danced madly in the pit of Jack’s belly as he stalked along the exterior of the warehouse. The closer he drew to the darkened doorway, the more frightened he should have felt, the angrier he was, instead. How those bastards could take his daughter and his friend and remain as civil as the note’s florid handwriting implied burned his gut, flaming upward to galvanize his heart against whatever he might find in this Godforsaken place. He simply wanted them alive, and whole.
He’d worry about revenge later.
Dearest Jack, the note had stated, We have company you are undoubtedly interested in entertaining. Meet us tomorrow night an hour before midnight at the furriers’ warehouse. Arrive alone, or suffer the consequences of your foolish notions. The slip of parchment was unsigned, unremarkable except for the few menacing words it bore. It arrived for him with the delivery of dinner to his suite the night before, effectively keeping him from the food; even now, his stomach grumbled its misery, but Jack paid no heed, so far removed from hunger that he doubted he’d ever taste morsel again.
Quietly he slipped inside the darkness, keeping to a wall until he’d blinked several times, trying to adjust to the lack of illumination. Nary a flame or lantern was in sight, and he sighed, slowing his harsh breathing and trying to calm down; nothing could be gained by panicking, by letting emotion get the better of him now. With a sharp indrawn breath, he put one boot forward, seeking clear ground in this visual mire. It was slow going for a good long while, since he had to feel around him so he wouldn’t run into walls or obstacles such as people and long swords ready to run him through. This worry lasted for only two minutes, since he reasoned if he couldn’t see them, they – whoever “they” were – likely wouldn’t be able to see or attack him, either.
Nevertheless, Jack moved slowly, winding his way inward, memorizing each successful turn until he rounded a corner and spotted a dim glow. Walking quietly toward it, he flicked his eyes here and there, searching for a hidden shadowy form or trap poised to spring at any moment.
“If I wanted you dead, believe me, you’d be in Davey Jones’s locker,” a smooth baritone voice informed him. “And I sincerely hope you’re not trying to actually be quiet; we know you’re here, after all.”
“We?” Jack parroted back. The distinctive click-back of a pistol hammer brought him to a stop, and he thought rapidly before settling on what he hoped was the right mix of flippant and respectful. “Where are ‘we?’ Can’t see a damn thing; surely you don’t mean to threaten me where I can’t see the threat. Hardly conducive to getting what you want.”
A quick scuffle, followed by a stubborn, young “Ow!” was enough to command Jack’s seriousness. “Leave her alone!” he barked sharply. “I get your point; but I’d still rather see who I’m dealing with. Makes negotiation a mite smoother for you, too.”
“It’s touching, how you’re concerned with our well-being,” the oily voice noted.
“Just the kind of generous man I am,” Jack replied cautiously, still straining his eyes as he moved slowly again toward the light source. “My hands are up; I’m not pulling any weapons. Show yourselves, let me know they’re safe.”
An angry hiss, followed by a muffled, affronted male growl pulled Jack’s heart right solidly up into his throat. He barely restrained himself from crying out involuntarily, instead swallowing his own hatred. “Hardly a satisfactory answer,” he ground out, treading the line between tolerating and snarling.
The quick scrape of a match and the acrid odor of sulfur preceded first one lamp being lighted, then two, hanging from tarnished brass fixtures built into the cold stone walls on either side of Jack. The twin beacons were a good thirty feet away, and he advanced slowly, keeping his hands up, flicking his eyes carefully here and there to search out what danger might be so careless as to present itself openly. He stopped when a figure roughly his size was shoved out into his path, roughly ten feet before him.
Jack blinked, squinted through the dimness. “Elizabeth?” Mutely she answered with annoyed eyes, unable to speak through the gag in her mouth. Her wrists were held fast with irons and an extremely short chain, and her dress was soiled and shabby from several days’ wear, he guessed. Her long hair hung limply curling down past her shoulders, but still, she seemed ready to hit someone.
Stopping short of asking why she was there, Jack lifted his voice and looked past her shoulders and off to his sides around the stone pillars. “Why is she here?” he wanted to know. “She’s an acquaintance; nothing more. You can let her go, gentlemen.”
To his surprise, a tall, nearly emaciated man stepped from the shadows and spun the young woman to face him. Withdrawing something from his pocket, he sliced her gag, dropping it to the floor, but kept the dagger out and used it to flick toward Jack. “Go stand by him,” the captor quietly commanded Elizabeth. “Try to leave, and the others’ll die.”
Elizabeth tensed her jaw haughtily, but said nothing, moving off in a stumble across the floor toward Jack. Before he could ask anything, two other figures were pushed out slowly before him in much the same manner Elizabeth had been presented, but each was forced to their knees. “Look up,” the thin man ordered them, as the slightly shorter one behind them patted Will’s shoulder and stepped between them and Jack, facing the pirate. “Hello, Jack.”
“Do I know you?” Jack asked.
“No.” Very little of this man stood out as descriptive, save light gray eyes. “And you’re not required to; that’s rather the point of these things.”
“Don’t think so.” Jack shook his head. “I like knowing who’s putting me and my friends at risk; only honorable thing to do.”
“Honor?” The fellow guffawed. “Strange concept for a pirate, don’t you think?”
“Not as foreign as to a kidnapper.” Jack forced himself not to look down at Will or Ivy on either side of their abductor. “Name your terms, Mr. ....?” he fished, cocking his chin down and to the side thoughtfully. “You’ve a name?”
“I’m Lloyd.” Jack knew he wasn’t, by the tone of his voice – still, it beat “Hey You” all to hell. “You’re not negotiating, Captain Sparrow.” The man smirked at Jack’s obvious discomfiture as the pirate wondered who would know he was here, as well as his true identity. “I hold all the cards; I wonder, how will you get out of this?”
Jack gestured conservatively, keeping his hands in plain view to allay suspicion and rash action. “Not really sure yet exactly what ‘this’ entails,” he explained, carefully keeping his speech pattern neutral. He knew he was caught, but wasn’t quite ready to concede.
“Why ... us holding your little girl and your friend hostage,” Lloyd answered disingenuously, as if announcing the soup of the day. He frowned. “I’ve heard tell you’re not a stupid man, Captain – daft, but not stupid. Was that wrong?”
Jack was getting mad. Not angry; mad. Anger with a dash of insanity salted in. “What is it you’d be wanting, ‘Lloyd?’” he pronounced with exaggerated care to let the fellow know he didn’t believe his story. “You’ve got me; you let them go, I’ll stick around. Won’t even need irons.”
“No good.” Lloyd shook his head. “No enjoyment in that.”
“Well, then what would you enjoy?”
The instant, reflexive leer told Jack much more than he’d suspected, but he wasn’t shocked. Instead, he felt weary, annoyed that using him for their own pleasure was the only thing these masterminds could come up with. How many times had he suffered this sort of attention? Jack Sparrow might look like a half-shilling whore, but he wasn’t nearly as easy as his demeanor led the casual observer to believe.
On the other hand, it did lend a certain liberation to his response. Shifting his stance to open his feet and cock one knee slightly outward, Jack propped his hands on both hips and lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes down his nose at Lloyd, appraising him with insouciance. “Are you sure you wan’ be messin’ with Captain Jack Sparrow, mate?”
To Jack’s surprise, Lloyd stepped aside, and the thin, quiet man behind Will and Ivy smiled cruelly. “I think the better question would be why you’d believe you’re in a superior position to talk that way.” The same quiet, droll voice that had released Elizabeth. “I’m the one standing behind these two with God knows what weapon pointed at their heads.” To prove his point, another pistol hammer cocked out of Jack’s sight, and for the first time, the thin man showed discernible emotion in the form of displaying oddly even teeth in a half-sneer. “Savvy?”
Jack barely resisted grinding his own teeth, but maintained his facade even while being mocked. “State your terms.”
“How far would you go to protect them?” The thin man waved a visible gun now in Elizabeth’s general direction. “I know she’s not much to you; why I let her loose. But these two ... they mean something to you.”
Briefly, Jack allowed himself to glance at the two captives. Ivy’s brow was furrowed, but she seemed to be holding up well, judging by the expression in her own brown eyes. Will kept his eyes on the floor, jaw set, expression furious, reminiscent of how he’d looked stretched out over Hector’s chest of Aztec gold with a flint knife to his throat. “I’m a father,” Jack finally stated, simply. “I would protect my daughter ‘t all costs. An’ I don’t take kindly t’ one of me crew being threatened.” He said nothing about Elizabeth, since she didn’t seem part of the immediate crisis.
“Hmm.” Thin Man – who still didn’t have a name – dropped his eyes to the kneeling captives and shifted until he was directly between their bodies, still behind them. Jack held his breath as he lifted his pistol slowly toward the back of Ivy’s head, forgetting to breathe as he watched his daughter keep her eyes forward, maintaining her posture with the slightest of trembles. She couldn’t see what was happening, so Jack judged she must at least sense something was happening behind her.
Without preamble, their captor swung his pistol to the right, deliberately cracking the barrel against Will’s temple. The blacksmith jerked his head sideways, but it was his only reaction, his expression remaining fixed somewhere in front of him on the ground. The man lifted the pistol and skimmed the end across Will’s crown, nudging his dark curls, cocking and uncocking the hammer as he went. The parody of sensuality drew Jack’s fingers up into fists at his sides, pressed his teeth together painfully as he resisted sprinting forward into the bastard.
“Which one, Captain Sparrow?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which one would you save? You had to realize the question was coming.” He continued rifling Will’s hair with the pistol barrel.
“I can’t make that kind of choice.” Jack’s response was automatic and without guile, evenly spoken in defiance of his emotional turmoil.
To his surprise, Thin Man chuckled. “A fair enough answer. I suppose I’ll have to make the choice for you.” The hammer clicked again and Jack was unable to tell if it was cocking or not. Keeping his gun on Will, the captor lifted his head and nodded at Lloyd. “Take the girl and Miss Swann outside; keep them quiet. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Just remember, we’ve got to deliver Spar-“
“Take them outside.” The thin man spoke tightly, then glanced cozily toward Jack. “It doesn’t matter if we take the good Captain dead or alive – he’ll be pleased either way. Now go.”
Lloyd crossed in front of the kneeling pair and hoisted Ivy to her feet. As he led her past Jack, the pirate held up a hand, palm out, in appeal. “Let me say somethin’ to her. What happens t’ me happens ... but I don’ want to miss what might be me last chance t’ speak with me own girl, eh?”
The boss frowned, then shook his head. “You have thirty seconds. Right there where you are; talk.”
Jack nodded, then quickly gestured Ivy over. As she approached, he lowered himself to one knee; it meant looking up a few inches at her, but it was a position of humility he wanted to affect. “I’m gon’ do what I can t’ get out of this,” he explained, taking her slender forearms in his callused hands and frowning over the small irons binding her wrists, “but I may not be walkin’ out of here. Do what you can-“ Here, he glanced up at Elizabeth, a couple of feet away, with an expression that clearly stated he was depending on her to protect the younger girl- “what you have to, understand? Listen to Miss Swann.”
Ivy regarded him with a few blinks, then nodded. “Are you really Jack Sparrow?” she asked quietly.
He couldn’t help laughing. “I am. An’ this is th’ fearless Will Turner, swordsmith to the Black Pearl.” He gestured sideways at Will, who’d raised his eyes at some point and was watching the two of them with an unreadable expression. “Don’t tell your mother, savvy?”
The girl glanced back at her captors, then Will, then Jack again. Swiftly, she lifted her bound hands and looped them over Jack’s head as she leaned down to hug him. Closing his eyes, Jack pressed back rare tears and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I love you,” he whispered into her ear. “As though I’d known ye your whole life, I do.”
She said nothing at first. Then, he heard her whisper, “That man’s name is Chavaille. He said they want to take you alive to their boss; I heard him. Twice.”
It wasn’t the tearful declaration of love he’d expected from an eleven-year-old girl bidding her father goodbye for the final time, but she did give him a tight squeeze of affection before Lloyd pulled her away. If their circumstances hadn’t been so dire, Jack would have probably laughed aloud at the way she’d seized the opportune moment to impart critical information and how she’d done it – it seemed the acorn hadn’t dropped terribly far from the tree. Perhaps, he mused as he compared his two children, she’s more like Liana than I thought..
He stood as Ivy and Elizabeth were pushed ahead of Lloyd back down the passage from which Jack had come. Turning, he faced Chavaille again, deciding to keep the man’s identity secret a bit longer – at least enough to let Ivy get far enough away that the man couldn’t figure out she’d been recounting his plan, and hurt her for it. He and Will locked expressions for the first time in this whole thing; the younger man was still clearly furious with his captors, but it was controlled, sublimated to the clear question in those dark eyes: How are we getting out of this one?
With an effort, Jack tore his gaze away and looked at Chavaille. “You’ve somethin’ in mind, I take it.”
“I was warned we couldn’t put much past you, Captain.” The man stepped to the pillar on his right, a brief metallic clatter in the dark before approaching Jack. Several feet away, he tossed something long at him, which Jack caught; it was a sword. Nothing fancy, but serviceable enough. “I know you have your own, but I like mine better.”
Jack shrugged. “Sword’s a sword,” he lied, flicking his eyes briefly to Will. The smith lifted an eyebrow in silent disagreement, and Jack repressed the urge to grin –Will’s professional pride would out at the oddest moments. “This a gift o’ some sort?”
“Defense. Offense; however you want to play it.” Chavaille wandered behind Will again, reaching down to apparently grab him by his wrists bound behind his back and lifting, forcing Will to get to his feet. He was without stockings, and Jack noticed a long cut on his left shin, jaggedly crossing from ankle to just below the suit breeches he’d been wearing when last seen a few days ago. “It’s entertainment to me either way.”
Jack said nothing, and his patience was answered when Chavaille unlocked Will’s hands, taking two broad steps backward and lifting his pistol level with Will’s head. Jack did allow a small grin this time as he noticed the posture of fear; so that’s where Will’s gash had come from! Chavaille was obviously not willing to fight the smith again, though he’d come out the victor last time. Jack was guessing it was either sheer numbers, or they’d finally had to cut Will to get him down enough to throw him in chains.
“Pick it up.” Chavaille tossed Will’s sword to the floor a foot or so from the smith’s feet, again keeping his distance as Will slowly stepped forward and bent to pluck the blade from the ground.
“Scared ye good, did he?” Jack couldn’t resist the jab at Chavaille, who up to now had cockily insinuated his control over Will. “Our best fighter on th’ Pearl, Mr. Turner is, and a reputation well-earned, wouldn’ you say?”
“Shut up.” Chavaille took a couple of sideways steps and leaned against one of the lighted pillars, just beneath the lamp and to its side. “If that be the case, Captain, why I suppose we will be carting you out of here on a pallet, won’t we?”
“Why is tha’, mate?”
“Well, both of you, really,” Chavaille amended. “I mean, after he makes ribbons of your intestines, I’ll be shooting him, so neither of you’s walking away.” He hefted his gun. “Or will you? Give me a good enough fight, and whichever of you survives might well get to walk out under his own power after all.”
Jack glanced at Will, who appeared equally confused, and shook his head at Chavaille. “You’ve lost us, sir; what, precisely, are we t’ be doin’?”
“Swordfight. To the death. You two parry and fence, or just stab straight at each other – up to you. But one of you has to die, and by the other one’s hand.” He grinned maliciously at their discomfiture. “Of course, as I’ve already said, if you draw it out, make it dramatic enough, I might be persuaded to spare the survivor. It’s truly your call, gentlemen.”
“You’re mad.” Will spoke for the first time, his voice scratchy and raw.
“I’m not the one who’s about to stab my captain to death just to save my own arse, am I?”
“What if we don’ play your lil’ game?” Jack wondered, stalling.
“Not the smartest move. I’ll simply kill both of you, save myself a lot of trouble. I have plenty of bullets, and I’m a crack shot.” He examined his pistol briefly. “And I guarantee I can hit both of you before either one of you can get to me.”
Jack gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. “A drill,” he finally said, looking to Will. “Like practice. We’ve done this plenty o’ times on deck. No worries.”
“Except this time one of you has to kill the other,” Chavaille reminded them.
“Aye ... but there’s no time limit,” Jack pointed out.
“I never said that; it’s an arbitrary limit, which I think I’ll keep in my own mind for now. You go past it, I’ll just shoot you both anyway.”
“If we’re sufficiently entertaining, though,” Will spoke up again, interrupting himself with a dry-sounding cough. “If we’re entertaining, you wouldn’t have incentive to shoot us. That’d ruin it.”
“Might persuade me to delay it, sure.” Chavaille looked to Jack. “Picked a smart one, I see.”
Jack ignored the bait, uncomfortable with the insinuation the man seemed to be making about their relationship – while it might be a fantasy Jack nursed in his own mind, he had no desire for some homicidal stranger to be the one to point out to Will that his captain was in love with him.
I knew it!
That damn ship, Jack thought uncharitably. Of all the times ....
I told you so, Jack. Remember what I said?
Which part?
Admit he is not some passing fancy to you!
Pearlie, I’m busy here. Got a fight to fake. Jack set his lips in a thin line. “Very well.” He turned to face his opponent, who regarded him oddly. “Raise your sword, Mr. Turner.”
“Jack, we’re not really doing-“
“Mr. Turner.” Jack put himself en garde and narrowed his eyes. “Your sword.”
Will glared at him, but backed off a step and assumed a defensive posture. “Captain,” he nodded tightly.
And initiated the first lunge.
Jack concentrated on mainly defensive moves, leaving the attacks and feints to Will. Thankfully, the younger man was sharp enough to figure Jack’s plan and allowed the two of them to keep parrying and staging the fight as they circled. Every so often, Jack would duck in with his own stab, then retract to dance away just out of Will’s reach. This is not going to work forever came out of nowhere.
Just has to work long enough, Jack thought back. Don’t break my concentration, love.
I hardly think I am to blame for that. You are too busy being worried for him for me or anyone else to throw you off.
He spun away from a feint that was too close for comfort, and stood, tense. Both of them were panting, beginning to sweat. Jack wasn’t sure which was harder work – actually trying to win a fight, or staging one convincingly. His focus had narrowed to Will as they faced off, and he noticed for the first time that the injured leg was developing a limp. I hope he can stay on his feet.
Catch him if he falls ...
Of course! Jack frowned. I mean-
Jack .... please ... She sounded so mournful. None here will think less of you for the way you feel. You have been alone far too long.
There’s no guarantee it would ever be reciprocated, that’s it. And I’d still be alone. It was the first time he’d admitted Pearl might not be enough for him, but that she might be all he’d ever have.
My love, I am asking you only to admit it to yourself.
“Gentlemen, I’m not nearly as patient as you give me credit for.” Chavaille interrupted Jack’s conversation. “I have some leeway, but not all night, of course.”
As they circled, once Will’s back was to Chavaille, he spoke enough to be heard, but obviously not at a volume to share the conversation with their captor. “You have to do it,” he hissed. “Stab me.” Jack, no! his lady cried.
“What?” Jack blinked. I’m not going to kill him!
“Attack! You have to at least wound me, make it look like I’m dead. I can do the rest.”
I can’t let him out of my sight again. No telling what’ll happen. “Now who’s mad?”
“He wants you alive.”
And I want you alive. “Aye. Ivy said so.” He feinted, but slow enough so Will could dance aside believably.
“Which means he’ll kill me if you don’t at least make it look like you have!” Will hissed. “Please, Jack – if you do it, you can control the wound’s severity.”
He gritted his teeth as they began again. “Only a las’ resort,” he shook his head.
Jack!
You’d rather see him dead? He sighed. I’m not doing anything I don’t have to, Pearlie. Trust me. But I may not have a choice.
There is always a third option. Remember?
But sometimes it’s not a very good one. Better than nothing, for now. “Are you gon’ stand around, or fight?” Jack demanded of Will, harshly. “Told ye bein’ out of practice made ye weak, out o’ shape.”
“I haven’t eaten in three days, and my leg hurts!” Will fired back. By the look on his face, it was an automatic response. Good, Jack thought. He hoped his expression told Will to keep up the patter.
“That’s an excuse? You’re a pirate!”
“It’s a damn reason! And I am not!”
Three days and no food makes Will a very crabby boy, Jack considered. He grinned when Will lunged and avoided Jack’s return attack; the smith’s self-sacrificing streak could get them both in trouble if allowed to continue. No matter how much I love it ... He could almost feel Pearl smiling. Oh, shut up. “You’re slow,” he prodded more.
“Kiss my arse,” Will muttered between breaths. “Won’t do what I ask ... think you know more than me-“
“’Cause I do-“
“You won’t listen to any idea that’s not yours!”
“Seein’ as I have plenty of me own, be pretty stupid to be takin’ on everyone else’s, now wouldn’t it?” Jack retorted, turning sideways to avoid the stab. That’s it, Will – keep pretending it’s the smithy all over again. You attack, I’ll duck. And maybe I’ll figure something out in the meantime .... This was all so damn surreal; Jack felt like a mouse between cat’s paws. And not even a particularly smart cat.
“As entertaining as this admittedly is, I want blood shed in the next five minutes,” Chavaille languidly ordered.
“Come ... bit closer,” Jack panted, glancing his way. “Sure I can arrange it for ye.” A draft of air was his only warning something struck, before a sharp, bright pain drew his full attention. “Son of a bitch!” Jack swore, lifting his right arm and looking down at the splotch of red blooming from his side. Glancing up, he saw Will regarding him wide-eyed, lips parted, face drained of blood. “Will?”
“You looked away,” the smith mumbled. “You weren’t supposed to be looking away.”
Jack gritted his teeth and pressed his hand to his side. “It’s not ver’ deep,” he judged. “Jus’ hurts like a bitch.”
“Jack ... I’m sorry ....” Will still gripped his sword, upraised..
For the first time, Jack noticed the tip of the other blade coated in slick red fluid. “I can still fight,” he reassured the man, pressing his hand harder to stem the flow, trying not to wince.
The pistol cocked audibly. “No need; that’s long enough. Since he’s already started it-“
“Bastard!” Chavaille never finished his sentence, nor did Jack ever have the chance to use the man’s name to his face. Will uttered the single epithet as his only warning, but the last consonant resonated with the wet plop of steel ramming through flesh. His torso was still turning when he released the sword at Chavaille, and the swift violence of the act caught both him and Jack off guard, though the consequences for the pirate were much less fatal.
Jack gaped; he couldn’t help it. He’d seen plenty of killing, but few things compared to Will’s power arm and uncanny aim. Please, let me never be on the receiving end of him being that angry, he silently prayed.
He was still staring at the dying man when he felt something else at his injured side. Blinking, Jack turned his attention back to it, finding Will shrugging out of his smudged, torn waistcoat to rip in half. Half he wound around Jack’s waist; the other half, he folded into a makeshift bandage and held to the wound. “Keep that there,” the smith instructed, arranging the impromptu sash to hold it in place.
Happening to glance down as Will took a few steps back after tying a tight knot, he noticed the younger man’s injured shin was running with blood. “Is that mine?” he pointed.
Will looked down and swore softly. “I think it’s mine.”
As he bent to examine the wound, he stumbled. Jack moved in and caught him, moving faster than his mind could process, arms around his waist. Will’s knee hit the ground, but not as hard as it could’ve, and Jack went with him. “Got you,” he affirmed.
A small, strangled chuckle as Will sighed, very nearly going limp against Jack. “I’d wager we look like quite a pair,” he finally managed.
“I’m glad you find this funny,” Jack responded. “Because I ...” He paused, lost for words. “Oh, fuck it.” With that, he, too, started laughing – not because he found any of this remotely humorous, but because it was better than sobbing, and he couldn’t think of any good excuse to stop, even when his side started throbbing again. “Ow,” he muttered between guffaws.
“You all right?”
“Not dead, at least.” And neither are you. Thank God for small distractions. Jack shifted so his cheek rubbed Will’s temple, a natural enough movement given their relative positions; another small shift put those curls into his nose, and he closed his eyes. Oh, Lord ... I don’t need this; I really don’t need this now in my life. Just ... make me stop feeling for him. Will’s body was warm and solid in his arms, alive and whole, and Jack wanted nothing so much as to stretch out along him on his bed once they got back to the hotel, after they’d dropped off Ivy and-
“Isabella!” Jack stopped cold, stiffening. “She’s still out there!”
“What?” Will followed Jack to his feet, hobbling, resting pressure on his good leg. His laughter subsided, and his expression sobered. “Elizabeth! We’ve got to get to-“
“Already beat you to it.” The familiar voice drew both men’s attention, and they looked sideways to see Elizabeth approaching with one arm around Ivy’s shoulders, the other hand holding a key, dangling it. “We’ve been over there the last few minutes; caught the last of the show,” she tilted her head backwards, indicating the corridor they’d been led down. “Still have a good arm, Will.”
“How’d you get free?” the smith wanted to know, turning gingerly on his good foot to face her.
“I had some help.” She looked to Ivy. “Quite the little schemer you have here, Jack. Good distraction, too.”
“I stomped on his foot, and she broke his nose by punching him,” the girl piped up. “And took the key for the irons; put them on him, then hit him on the head!”
Both men gave Elizabeth incredulous looks. “Oh, come on,” she insisted. “It was two against one, for heaven’s sakes! And I daresay one of us is smarter than the two of them put together.”
“They don’t seem-“ Jack glanced over at the dead Chavaille and corrected himself. “They didn’t seem very bright, no,” he mused, eyes landing on his daughter. “Did they hurt you?” he put to her. The girl shook her head, eyes still merry from her escape. Jack looked among her and the two adults. “Did any of you happen t’ find out who they worked for?”
“Just their names.” This from Will. “They were pretty careful about keeping whatever else their own secret.”
“I don’t see how you could hear much of anything, the way they were taking turns at you,” Elizabeth gestured toward her friend.
“What do you mean?”
Her head automatically turned toward the protective, sharp rise in Jack’s voice. “They were hitting him, beating him up! I’m certain he has bruises.” She kept her hand out toward Will as if pointing. “They even kicked you a couple of times; maybe more, that’s only what I saw ... are you all right, Will?”
“I’m fine.” The smith shook his head in dismissal. “My leg, is all.”
Jack didn’t believe him, but was glad for the admission, since it gave him opportunity to slide an arm behind Will’s shoulders and pull the man’s arm up around his own. “Let’s get out o’ here,” he advised everyone. “We’ll sort out th’ pieces once we-“
He halted, then muttered “shite” as he ducked away from Will, releasing the smith and executing a turn to head over to the fallen Chavaille. Dropping to one knee at the man’s side, he quickly patted down the corpse, expertly sliding his fingers into pockets and folds of clothes. A few coins were his only reward; no paper, nothing to identify him or his employer. He leaned back on his heel and sighed. “Fine kettle o’ fish.”
“Nothing?” called Elizabeth.
Shaking his head, Jack stood and turned to rejoin the group. “Not a damn thing ‘t all,” he muttered, taking Will’s arm once again around his own. “We’ll check th’ other one, he’s still out there.” The thought occurred Lloyd might have regained consciousness and be laying in wait. “Elizabeth, th’ pistol-“ He cocked his head backwards toward Chavaille.
“Right.” They waited for her to return, and Jack held out his hand for the piece. “You have your own hands full,” she shook her head. “I’ll keep it.” Off his expression, she frowned. “Jack, I know how to shoot a gun, and how to handle one. I did grow up practically in a military fort. Besides, I already have Lloyd’s, too.”
He glanced between her and Will. “Let me posit a guess; childhood bottle-shootin’ contests, I gather?”
“And jugs,” Will admitted, shifting to unwittingly lean more against his captain. “She was better.”
“I’d expect nothin’ else.” Jack dropped his hand to Will’s opposite waist and nodded toward the passageway. “Very well; Elizabeth, you in front, we’ll be in back. Ivy, love, stay close in front o’ me, savvy? On we go, then.”
On to Part 5 ...
The following few days passed uneventfully for all involved. Jack spent time with Ivy, who spent her time between school lessons and trying to adjust to the two new people in her life. Will was more enticing, but being the young lady she was, she politely welcomed David into her activities and – Jack noticed – tried not to upstage him too much.
One evening, Jack noticed a distinct lack of Will at the pub where they were supposed to meet for supper. Normally, they ate with the Martenses, but they’d decided the night before to give the family a break for at least one evening and leave only David in their company. He took a table, ordered an ale, and waited a good hour before giving up and heading by the house on his way back to his and Will’s suite.
Ivy answered the door. “Where’s Melody?” Jack asked, stepping into the foyer, reaching up to remove his hat before the maid could show up and take him to task for it.
“She’s washing.” The girl noticed something was amiss, for she cocked her head. “What is it, Father?”
“Is Will here?”
She shook her head. “No ... you said you two were eating elsewhere tonight.”
“I know, but I thought he might have come by. He didn’t show up at the pub.”
Ivy lowered her eyes, concentration written on her features. “No,” she said after a moment. “I’ve not heard from him. You could ask Da or Mum; maybe they’ve seen him today, while I was in lessons.”
“Isabella?” Esther appeared in the hallway. “Who’s at- Oh, hello, Jack. Would you like to come in?”
“No, that’s all right. I’m looking for Will. Has he been by here today?”
Esther shook her head. “Can’t say he has. Wasn’t he going to run some errands today? He said something about that last night, if I recall.”
Jack scratched at his chin. “It is possible he’s still detained somewhere.” Will had gone off on his own today, wanting to visit a smithy to negotiate time to work at his craft; his fingers positively itched to work with metal again, and he’d finally admitted as much last night. “But he’s usually so bloody polite, on time for everything.”
“Well, I suppose one of you has to be.” Esther granted him a small smile. “Really, why don’t you come on in? There’s some tea, and Joe has-“
Jack shook his head. “No thanks, love. Got to be going. Besides, if something’s wrong and he’s sick or some such thing, he’d be at the inn and might need some help.” He patted Ivy’s slender shoulder. “We’ll see you tomorrow, eh?”
“In the afternoon,” she nodded briskly. “David and I are riding horses in the morning, I think.” She looked up at her mother for confirmation, and the auburn-haired woman nodded. “Around teatime?”
Four o’clock the following afternoon found Jack in a worse mood than he’d felt for quite some time, certainly more unbearable than he’d ever displayed to Esther or Joe. He showed up at their house distracted, irritable, and worried because Will never showed up. With any other man, Jack would’ve figured he’d disappeared to sow some wild oats – but this was Will, who’d probably possessed more responsibility at age six than most men did in their entire lives. He fidgeted and scowled as he waited for the children to return from the park, where Joe had let them off by carriage earlier in the afternoon to work off the excess energy not spent galloping around Grandmother’s estate.
Just as he’d made up his mind to take leave as soon as they showed up, to hunt for Will, a shouting out in the street caught his attention. He came forward to the edge of his chair, ears perked; by that time, Joe and Esther had heard it as well. “What in the world-“ Esther began, but was cut off by louder shouts.
“Mr. Martense! Melody!” David crashed through the front door, barely getting it open to slam against the wall as he bounded through the foyer and down the short hallway toward the sitting room. “Mr. Mart- Jack!” The boy halted a few feet short of his captain and drew himself up forcibly, breathing hard and sweating, beet red. “Jack, it’s Ivy! She was taken!”
“Taken?” Esther stepped almost around Jack to face David. “What do you mean?”
“She was taken.” David gasped a few more times and shook his head frantically. “We were at the park, and when it was her turn to be ‘it,’ I ran off to hide. But I heard her yell out, so I came out from behind the statue, and she was being pushed into this big gray carriage by two men!” The words tripped out almost too fast for his tongue, and he visibly swallowed, trying to calm himself.
“Did you recognize the men? At all?” Joe questioned. Jack glanced over to see him standing on the other side of Esther, brow hunched, his alarm mirroring his wife’s. David shook his head. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. I- While I’ve been here I’ve never seen ‘em! And she was trying to get away, kicking them in the stomach; I don’t think she must’ve known them, either.” He turned his attention back to Jack. “I ran after it, but they were too far away! But I know what the carriage looks like.”
“Socked in the gut” accurately described how Jack felt. He’d momentarily forgotten Will’s absence, but now was more alarmed.. For some maddening, illogical reason, his mind began to pick at both disappearances, and his stomach roiled. Jack didn’t believe in coincidences – fate, kismet, divine intervention, self-determination were all rolled into his philosophy of life. But never had he believed two seemingly unrelated things happened identically to the same person at the same time for no good, unplanned reason.
“We’re goin’ looking.” Without further explanation, Jack stalked through the foyer, out the front door, and off to the park to search for clues – any clues, no matter how unlikely.
*****
Sleep was a luxury Jack forsook as he leaned heavily over the railing of his balcony, head dropped so that he stared down at the street below. At three in the morning, it was largely empty and glistening with the evening’s rain, and he toyed with simply dropping the half-full bottle to see it break apart across the stones, the tinkle of glass breaking the largely quiet atmosphere.
He’d had to give up at midnight, conclude he had no idea where his girl could be, nor Will – for he had no doubt their disappearances were somehow connected. What the two had in common was Jack himself, and he could only wonder who had it in for him to drag an innocent child and a well-meaning tradesman into the middle of a revenge.
The loss of Ivy tore at him, for he’d always felt an odd dissociation with her; she was of him, but not him so much, despite some of Will’s more humorous observations comparing father and daughter. Since he’d learned of her existence, met her, Jack had suffered a sense of guilt compounded by the fact he most definitely did have another daughter, a Caribbean girl a shade younger than Ivy, with whom he’d made regular visits a priority since learning her mother had given birth – a few months after said birth. He regarded neither daughter as more lovable or worthy than the other, but saw Ivy far less than Liana. Granted, Liana was closer in proximity, being in the bloody warm waters Jack sailed and skipped most of the year, but should that matter?
“I’ll get ye back, baby,” Jack promised in soft slur to himself, shaking his head, which felt woefully naked without its long dreadlocks and ornaments long lost to the sea. “Promise Da will find ye, make it right.” It wasn’t like him to be this languid, but he’d slept minimally the night before waiting for a roommate who never showed up, then the better part of the day preceding this dark, early morning covering streets on foot, weaving through shadowed alleys and into less-than-respectable establishments where someone – anyone – might have a shilling’s knowledge as to the whereabouts of a young girl or of a price on the head of one Captain Jack Sparrow. He’d not identified himself as the scurrilous knave in question, and under any other circumstance would have been gratified to see the wide-eyed surprise the appellation provoked; some spat, some swooned, and some simply shrugged.
Rather than drop the bottle, Jack straightened and pulled it along, clanging it rather loudly across the top of the iron railing as he backed into his suite and padded toward the bed. Sloshing it heavily upon the heavy wooden stand separating the two beds, he unbuttoned his wrinkled cambric shirt, yawning as he shrugged it to the floor and reaching up to rub at two days’ worth of unshaven bristle ringing his lips and the underside of his jaw. He discarded his breeches in fairly short order and turned slightly right to crawl into his proper bed – then stopped.
Slowly, he swung his head toward the other bed – Will’s bed, still pulled up by the maid from two mornings prior. Unslept in. Unnecessary in a suite for one.
Swallowing thickly, Jack peeled the covers back and eased his body between the sheets, resting the side of his head on a pillow. He tensed, turned his nose into the linens, and inhaled, one relieved thought only filling his exhausted, overworked brain: They didn’t change his sheets yet. Closing his eyes, he scooted more into the center of the bed, relaxing, letting Will’s scent weave through his senses and fill his nose and throat. He could very nearly palpably taste the man’s skin, hear his light snore and deep and steady breathing.
Jack slid an arm up under the pillow, another over its top, and turned his face into the softness. What if he never saw Will alive again? What if this was the last physical connection he would ever have with the man? He’d starved himself, kept his desires in check, all out of a sense of odd propriety to an old friend – a dead old friend – all to get the ghost of William Turner off his back. The specter had clung there far too many years, a sacrifice offered up to heathen gods to keep Jack alive and unspoiled, and a damnable crew of ruffians just as damned as the day they’d decided to betray their captain. Jack wanted so badly to just goddamn be rid of Turner’s ghost and, instead, it seemed he’d have the father-son team to follow him around the rest of his days.
He didn’t realize he was crying until he drew in a long breath for his first sob, then tightened everything, trying to stop the flow of emotions. It wasn’t the idea William could never forgive him – the pure and simple truth was he was missing Will. The blacksmith had become so very important to Jack, and the idea he could never see him again clawed at his heart in a way Ivy never could. He shared a soul with Will, whether the other man ever came to see or feel that, which had little to do with sexual desire or physical bonding. The loss of his other half was what forced the second sob out of Jack’s throat, and instead of fighting it, he squeezed his eyes shut, turned into the bed, and let it out for God knew how much longer in a muffle of broken heart and bothered dreams.
*****
A bright sunburst of rage danced madly in the pit of Jack’s belly as he stalked along the exterior of the warehouse. The closer he drew to the darkened doorway, the more frightened he should have felt, the angrier he was, instead. How those bastards could take his daughter and his friend and remain as civil as the note’s florid handwriting implied burned his gut, flaming upward to galvanize his heart against whatever he might find in this Godforsaken place. He simply wanted them alive, and whole.
He’d worry about revenge later.
Dearest Jack, the note had stated, We have company you are undoubtedly interested in entertaining. Meet us tomorrow night an hour before midnight at the furriers’ warehouse. Arrive alone, or suffer the consequences of your foolish notions. The slip of parchment was unsigned, unremarkable except for the few menacing words it bore. It arrived for him with the delivery of dinner to his suite the night before, effectively keeping him from the food; even now, his stomach grumbled its misery, but Jack paid no heed, so far removed from hunger that he doubted he’d ever taste morsel again.
Quietly he slipped inside the darkness, keeping to a wall until he’d blinked several times, trying to adjust to the lack of illumination. Nary a flame or lantern was in sight, and he sighed, slowing his harsh breathing and trying to calm down; nothing could be gained by panicking, by letting emotion get the better of him now. With a sharp indrawn breath, he put one boot forward, seeking clear ground in this visual mire. It was slow going for a good long while, since he had to feel around him so he wouldn’t run into walls or obstacles such as people and long swords ready to run him through. This worry lasted for only two minutes, since he reasoned if he couldn’t see them, they – whoever “they” were – likely wouldn’t be able to see or attack him, either.
Nevertheless, Jack moved slowly, winding his way inward, memorizing each successful turn until he rounded a corner and spotted a dim glow. Walking quietly toward it, he flicked his eyes here and there, searching for a hidden shadowy form or trap poised to spring at any moment.
“If I wanted you dead, believe me, you’d be in Davey Jones’s locker,” a smooth baritone voice informed him. “And I sincerely hope you’re not trying to actually be quiet; we know you’re here, after all.”
“We?” Jack parroted back. The distinctive click-back of a pistol hammer brought him to a stop, and he thought rapidly before settling on what he hoped was the right mix of flippant and respectful. “Where are ‘we?’ Can’t see a damn thing; surely you don’t mean to threaten me where I can’t see the threat. Hardly conducive to getting what you want.”
A quick scuffle, followed by a stubborn, young “Ow!” was enough to command Jack’s seriousness. “Leave her alone!” he barked sharply. “I get your point; but I’d still rather see who I’m dealing with. Makes negotiation a mite smoother for you, too.”
“It’s touching, how you’re concerned with our well-being,” the oily voice noted.
“Just the kind of generous man I am,” Jack replied cautiously, still straining his eyes as he moved slowly again toward the light source. “My hands are up; I’m not pulling any weapons. Show yourselves, let me know they’re safe.”
An angry hiss, followed by a muffled, affronted male growl pulled Jack’s heart right solidly up into his throat. He barely restrained himself from crying out involuntarily, instead swallowing his own hatred. “Hardly a satisfactory answer,” he ground out, treading the line between tolerating and snarling.
The quick scrape of a match and the acrid odor of sulfur preceded first one lamp being lighted, then two, hanging from tarnished brass fixtures built into the cold stone walls on either side of Jack. The twin beacons were a good thirty feet away, and he advanced slowly, keeping his hands up, flicking his eyes carefully here and there to search out what danger might be so careless as to present itself openly. He stopped when a figure roughly his size was shoved out into his path, roughly ten feet before him.
Jack blinked, squinted through the dimness. “Elizabeth?” Mutely she answered with annoyed eyes, unable to speak through the gag in her mouth. Her wrists were held fast with irons and an extremely short chain, and her dress was soiled and shabby from several days’ wear, he guessed. Her long hair hung limply curling down past her shoulders, but still, she seemed ready to hit someone.
Stopping short of asking why she was there, Jack lifted his voice and looked past her shoulders and off to his sides around the stone pillars. “Why is she here?” he wanted to know. “She’s an acquaintance; nothing more. You can let her go, gentlemen.”
To his surprise, a tall, nearly emaciated man stepped from the shadows and spun the young woman to face him. Withdrawing something from his pocket, he sliced her gag, dropping it to the floor, but kept the dagger out and used it to flick toward Jack. “Go stand by him,” the captor quietly commanded Elizabeth. “Try to leave, and the others’ll die.”
Elizabeth tensed her jaw haughtily, but said nothing, moving off in a stumble across the floor toward Jack. Before he could ask anything, two other figures were pushed out slowly before him in much the same manner Elizabeth had been presented, but each was forced to their knees. “Look up,” the thin man ordered them, as the slightly shorter one behind them patted Will’s shoulder and stepped between them and Jack, facing the pirate. “Hello, Jack.”
“Do I know you?” Jack asked.
“No.” Very little of this man stood out as descriptive, save light gray eyes. “And you’re not required to; that’s rather the point of these things.”
“Don’t think so.” Jack shook his head. “I like knowing who’s putting me and my friends at risk; only honorable thing to do.”
“Honor?” The fellow guffawed. “Strange concept for a pirate, don’t you think?”
“Not as foreign as to a kidnapper.” Jack forced himself not to look down at Will or Ivy on either side of their abductor. “Name your terms, Mr. ....?” he fished, cocking his chin down and to the side thoughtfully. “You’ve a name?”
“I’m Lloyd.” Jack knew he wasn’t, by the tone of his voice – still, it beat “Hey You” all to hell. “You’re not negotiating, Captain Sparrow.” The man smirked at Jack’s obvious discomfiture as the pirate wondered who would know he was here, as well as his true identity. “I hold all the cards; I wonder, how will you get out of this?”
Jack gestured conservatively, keeping his hands in plain view to allay suspicion and rash action. “Not really sure yet exactly what ‘this’ entails,” he explained, carefully keeping his speech pattern neutral. He knew he was caught, but wasn’t quite ready to concede.
“Why ... us holding your little girl and your friend hostage,” Lloyd answered disingenuously, as if announcing the soup of the day. He frowned. “I’ve heard tell you’re not a stupid man, Captain – daft, but not stupid. Was that wrong?”
Jack was getting mad. Not angry; mad. Anger with a dash of insanity salted in. “What is it you’d be wanting, ‘Lloyd?’” he pronounced with exaggerated care to let the fellow know he didn’t believe his story. “You’ve got me; you let them go, I’ll stick around. Won’t even need irons.”
“No good.” Lloyd shook his head. “No enjoyment in that.”
“Well, then what would you enjoy?”
The instant, reflexive leer told Jack much more than he’d suspected, but he wasn’t shocked. Instead, he felt weary, annoyed that using him for their own pleasure was the only thing these masterminds could come up with. How many times had he suffered this sort of attention? Jack Sparrow might look like a half-shilling whore, but he wasn’t nearly as easy as his demeanor led the casual observer to believe.
On the other hand, it did lend a certain liberation to his response. Shifting his stance to open his feet and cock one knee slightly outward, Jack propped his hands on both hips and lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes down his nose at Lloyd, appraising him with insouciance. “Are you sure you wan’ be messin’ with Captain Jack Sparrow, mate?”
To Jack’s surprise, Lloyd stepped aside, and the thin, quiet man behind Will and Ivy smiled cruelly. “I think the better question would be why you’d believe you’re in a superior position to talk that way.” The same quiet, droll voice that had released Elizabeth. “I’m the one standing behind these two with God knows what weapon pointed at their heads.” To prove his point, another pistol hammer cocked out of Jack’s sight, and for the first time, the thin man showed discernible emotion in the form of displaying oddly even teeth in a half-sneer. “Savvy?”
Jack barely resisted grinding his own teeth, but maintained his facade even while being mocked. “State your terms.”
“How far would you go to protect them?” The thin man waved a visible gun now in Elizabeth’s general direction. “I know she’s not much to you; why I let her loose. But these two ... they mean something to you.”
Briefly, Jack allowed himself to glance at the two captives. Ivy’s brow was furrowed, but she seemed to be holding up well, judging by the expression in her own brown eyes. Will kept his eyes on the floor, jaw set, expression furious, reminiscent of how he’d looked stretched out over Hector’s chest of Aztec gold with a flint knife to his throat. “I’m a father,” Jack finally stated, simply. “I would protect my daughter ‘t all costs. An’ I don’t take kindly t’ one of me crew being threatened.” He said nothing about Elizabeth, since she didn’t seem part of the immediate crisis.
“Hmm.” Thin Man – who still didn’t have a name – dropped his eyes to the kneeling captives and shifted until he was directly between their bodies, still behind them. Jack held his breath as he lifted his pistol slowly toward the back of Ivy’s head, forgetting to breathe as he watched his daughter keep her eyes forward, maintaining her posture with the slightest of trembles. She couldn’t see what was happening, so Jack judged she must at least sense something was happening behind her.
Without preamble, their captor swung his pistol to the right, deliberately cracking the barrel against Will’s temple. The blacksmith jerked his head sideways, but it was his only reaction, his expression remaining fixed somewhere in front of him on the ground. The man lifted the pistol and skimmed the end across Will’s crown, nudging his dark curls, cocking and uncocking the hammer as he went. The parody of sensuality drew Jack’s fingers up into fists at his sides, pressed his teeth together painfully as he resisted sprinting forward into the bastard.
“Which one, Captain Sparrow?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which one would you save? You had to realize the question was coming.” He continued rifling Will’s hair with the pistol barrel.
“I can’t make that kind of choice.” Jack’s response was automatic and without guile, evenly spoken in defiance of his emotional turmoil.
To his surprise, Thin Man chuckled. “A fair enough answer. I suppose I’ll have to make the choice for you.” The hammer clicked again and Jack was unable to tell if it was cocking or not. Keeping his gun on Will, the captor lifted his head and nodded at Lloyd. “Take the girl and Miss Swann outside; keep them quiet. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Just remember, we’ve got to deliver Spar-“
“Take them outside.” The thin man spoke tightly, then glanced cozily toward Jack. “It doesn’t matter if we take the good Captain dead or alive – he’ll be pleased either way. Now go.”
Lloyd crossed in front of the kneeling pair and hoisted Ivy to her feet. As he led her past Jack, the pirate held up a hand, palm out, in appeal. “Let me say somethin’ to her. What happens t’ me happens ... but I don’ want to miss what might be me last chance t’ speak with me own girl, eh?”
The boss frowned, then shook his head. “You have thirty seconds. Right there where you are; talk.”
Jack nodded, then quickly gestured Ivy over. As she approached, he lowered himself to one knee; it meant looking up a few inches at her, but it was a position of humility he wanted to affect. “I’m gon’ do what I can t’ get out of this,” he explained, taking her slender forearms in his callused hands and frowning over the small irons binding her wrists, “but I may not be walkin’ out of here. Do what you can-“ Here, he glanced up at Elizabeth, a couple of feet away, with an expression that clearly stated he was depending on her to protect the younger girl- “what you have to, understand? Listen to Miss Swann.”
Ivy regarded him with a few blinks, then nodded. “Are you really Jack Sparrow?” she asked quietly.
He couldn’t help laughing. “I am. An’ this is th’ fearless Will Turner, swordsmith to the Black Pearl.” He gestured sideways at Will, who’d raised his eyes at some point and was watching the two of them with an unreadable expression. “Don’t tell your mother, savvy?”
The girl glanced back at her captors, then Will, then Jack again. Swiftly, she lifted her bound hands and looped them over Jack’s head as she leaned down to hug him. Closing his eyes, Jack pressed back rare tears and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I love you,” he whispered into her ear. “As though I’d known ye your whole life, I do.”
She said nothing at first. Then, he heard her whisper, “That man’s name is Chavaille. He said they want to take you alive to their boss; I heard him. Twice.”
It wasn’t the tearful declaration of love he’d expected from an eleven-year-old girl bidding her father goodbye for the final time, but she did give him a tight squeeze of affection before Lloyd pulled her away. If their circumstances hadn’t been so dire, Jack would have probably laughed aloud at the way she’d seized the opportune moment to impart critical information and how she’d done it – it seemed the acorn hadn’t dropped terribly far from the tree. Perhaps, he mused as he compared his two children, she’s more like Liana than I thought..
He stood as Ivy and Elizabeth were pushed ahead of Lloyd back down the passage from which Jack had come. Turning, he faced Chavaille again, deciding to keep the man’s identity secret a bit longer – at least enough to let Ivy get far enough away that the man couldn’t figure out she’d been recounting his plan, and hurt her for it. He and Will locked expressions for the first time in this whole thing; the younger man was still clearly furious with his captors, but it was controlled, sublimated to the clear question in those dark eyes: How are we getting out of this one?
With an effort, Jack tore his gaze away and looked at Chavaille. “You’ve somethin’ in mind, I take it.”
“I was warned we couldn’t put much past you, Captain.” The man stepped to the pillar on his right, a brief metallic clatter in the dark before approaching Jack. Several feet away, he tossed something long at him, which Jack caught; it was a sword. Nothing fancy, but serviceable enough. “I know you have your own, but I like mine better.”
Jack shrugged. “Sword’s a sword,” he lied, flicking his eyes briefly to Will. The smith lifted an eyebrow in silent disagreement, and Jack repressed the urge to grin –Will’s professional pride would out at the oddest moments. “This a gift o’ some sort?”
“Defense. Offense; however you want to play it.” Chavaille wandered behind Will again, reaching down to apparently grab him by his wrists bound behind his back and lifting, forcing Will to get to his feet. He was without stockings, and Jack noticed a long cut on his left shin, jaggedly crossing from ankle to just below the suit breeches he’d been wearing when last seen a few days ago. “It’s entertainment to me either way.”
Jack said nothing, and his patience was answered when Chavaille unlocked Will’s hands, taking two broad steps backward and lifting his pistol level with Will’s head. Jack did allow a small grin this time as he noticed the posture of fear; so that’s where Will’s gash had come from! Chavaille was obviously not willing to fight the smith again, though he’d come out the victor last time. Jack was guessing it was either sheer numbers, or they’d finally had to cut Will to get him down enough to throw him in chains.
“Pick it up.” Chavaille tossed Will’s sword to the floor a foot or so from the smith’s feet, again keeping his distance as Will slowly stepped forward and bent to pluck the blade from the ground.
“Scared ye good, did he?” Jack couldn’t resist the jab at Chavaille, who up to now had cockily insinuated his control over Will. “Our best fighter on th’ Pearl, Mr. Turner is, and a reputation well-earned, wouldn’ you say?”
“Shut up.” Chavaille took a couple of sideways steps and leaned against one of the lighted pillars, just beneath the lamp and to its side. “If that be the case, Captain, why I suppose we will be carting you out of here on a pallet, won’t we?”
“Why is tha’, mate?”
“Well, both of you, really,” Chavaille amended. “I mean, after he makes ribbons of your intestines, I’ll be shooting him, so neither of you’s walking away.” He hefted his gun. “Or will you? Give me a good enough fight, and whichever of you survives might well get to walk out under his own power after all.”
Jack glanced at Will, who appeared equally confused, and shook his head at Chavaille. “You’ve lost us, sir; what, precisely, are we t’ be doin’?”
“Swordfight. To the death. You two parry and fence, or just stab straight at each other – up to you. But one of you has to die, and by the other one’s hand.” He grinned maliciously at their discomfiture. “Of course, as I’ve already said, if you draw it out, make it dramatic enough, I might be persuaded to spare the survivor. It’s truly your call, gentlemen.”
“You’re mad.” Will spoke for the first time, his voice scratchy and raw.
“I’m not the one who’s about to stab my captain to death just to save my own arse, am I?”
“What if we don’ play your lil’ game?” Jack wondered, stalling.
“Not the smartest move. I’ll simply kill both of you, save myself a lot of trouble. I have plenty of bullets, and I’m a crack shot.” He examined his pistol briefly. “And I guarantee I can hit both of you before either one of you can get to me.”
Jack gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. “A drill,” he finally said, looking to Will. “Like practice. We’ve done this plenty o’ times on deck. No worries.”
“Except this time one of you has to kill the other,” Chavaille reminded them.
“Aye ... but there’s no time limit,” Jack pointed out.
“I never said that; it’s an arbitrary limit, which I think I’ll keep in my own mind for now. You go past it, I’ll just shoot you both anyway.”
“If we’re sufficiently entertaining, though,” Will spoke up again, interrupting himself with a dry-sounding cough. “If we’re entertaining, you wouldn’t have incentive to shoot us. That’d ruin it.”
“Might persuade me to delay it, sure.” Chavaille looked to Jack. “Picked a smart one, I see.”
Jack ignored the bait, uncomfortable with the insinuation the man seemed to be making about their relationship – while it might be a fantasy Jack nursed in his own mind, he had no desire for some homicidal stranger to be the one to point out to Will that his captain was in love with him.
I knew it!
That damn ship, Jack thought uncharitably. Of all the times ....
I told you so, Jack. Remember what I said?
Which part?
Admit he is not some passing fancy to you!
Pearlie, I’m busy here. Got a fight to fake. Jack set his lips in a thin line. “Very well.” He turned to face his opponent, who regarded him oddly. “Raise your sword, Mr. Turner.”
“Jack, we’re not really doing-“
“Mr. Turner.” Jack put himself en garde and narrowed his eyes. “Your sword.”
Will glared at him, but backed off a step and assumed a defensive posture. “Captain,” he nodded tightly.
And initiated the first lunge.
Jack concentrated on mainly defensive moves, leaving the attacks and feints to Will. Thankfully, the younger man was sharp enough to figure Jack’s plan and allowed the two of them to keep parrying and staging the fight as they circled. Every so often, Jack would duck in with his own stab, then retract to dance away just out of Will’s reach. This is not going to work forever came out of nowhere.
Just has to work long enough, Jack thought back. Don’t break my concentration, love.
I hardly think I am to blame for that. You are too busy being worried for him for me or anyone else to throw you off.
He spun away from a feint that was too close for comfort, and stood, tense. Both of them were panting, beginning to sweat. Jack wasn’t sure which was harder work – actually trying to win a fight, or staging one convincingly. His focus had narrowed to Will as they faced off, and he noticed for the first time that the injured leg was developing a limp. I hope he can stay on his feet.
Catch him if he falls ...
Of course! Jack frowned. I mean-
Jack .... please ... She sounded so mournful. None here will think less of you for the way you feel. You have been alone far too long.
There’s no guarantee it would ever be reciprocated, that’s it. And I’d still be alone. It was the first time he’d admitted Pearl might not be enough for him, but that she might be all he’d ever have.
My love, I am asking you only to admit it to yourself.
“Gentlemen, I’m not nearly as patient as you give me credit for.” Chavaille interrupted Jack’s conversation. “I have some leeway, but not all night, of course.”
As they circled, once Will’s back was to Chavaille, he spoke enough to be heard, but obviously not at a volume to share the conversation with their captor. “You have to do it,” he hissed. “Stab me.” Jack, no! his lady cried.
“What?” Jack blinked. I’m not going to kill him!
“Attack! You have to at least wound me, make it look like I’m dead. I can do the rest.”
I can’t let him out of my sight again. No telling what’ll happen. “Now who’s mad?”
“He wants you alive.”
And I want you alive. “Aye. Ivy said so.” He feinted, but slow enough so Will could dance aside believably.
“Which means he’ll kill me if you don’t at least make it look like you have!” Will hissed. “Please, Jack – if you do it, you can control the wound’s severity.”
He gritted his teeth as they began again. “Only a las’ resort,” he shook his head.
Jack!
You’d rather see him dead? He sighed. I’m not doing anything I don’t have to, Pearlie. Trust me. But I may not have a choice.
There is always a third option. Remember?
But sometimes it’s not a very good one. Better than nothing, for now. “Are you gon’ stand around, or fight?” Jack demanded of Will, harshly. “Told ye bein’ out of practice made ye weak, out o’ shape.”
“I haven’t eaten in three days, and my leg hurts!” Will fired back. By the look on his face, it was an automatic response. Good, Jack thought. He hoped his expression told Will to keep up the patter.
“That’s an excuse? You’re a pirate!”
“It’s a damn reason! And I am not!”
Three days and no food makes Will a very crabby boy, Jack considered. He grinned when Will lunged and avoided Jack’s return attack; the smith’s self-sacrificing streak could get them both in trouble if allowed to continue. No matter how much I love it ... He could almost feel Pearl smiling. Oh, shut up. “You’re slow,” he prodded more.
“Kiss my arse,” Will muttered between breaths. “Won’t do what I ask ... think you know more than me-“
“’Cause I do-“
“You won’t listen to any idea that’s not yours!”
“Seein’ as I have plenty of me own, be pretty stupid to be takin’ on everyone else’s, now wouldn’t it?” Jack retorted, turning sideways to avoid the stab. That’s it, Will – keep pretending it’s the smithy all over again. You attack, I’ll duck. And maybe I’ll figure something out in the meantime .... This was all so damn surreal; Jack felt like a mouse between cat’s paws. And not even a particularly smart cat.
“As entertaining as this admittedly is, I want blood shed in the next five minutes,” Chavaille languidly ordered.
“Come ... bit closer,” Jack panted, glancing his way. “Sure I can arrange it for ye.” A draft of air was his only warning something struck, before a sharp, bright pain drew his full attention. “Son of a bitch!” Jack swore, lifting his right arm and looking down at the splotch of red blooming from his side. Glancing up, he saw Will regarding him wide-eyed, lips parted, face drained of blood. “Will?”
“You looked away,” the smith mumbled. “You weren’t supposed to be looking away.”
Jack gritted his teeth and pressed his hand to his side. “It’s not ver’ deep,” he judged. “Jus’ hurts like a bitch.”
“Jack ... I’m sorry ....” Will still gripped his sword, upraised..
For the first time, Jack noticed the tip of the other blade coated in slick red fluid. “I can still fight,” he reassured the man, pressing his hand harder to stem the flow, trying not to wince.
The pistol cocked audibly. “No need; that’s long enough. Since he’s already started it-“
“Bastard!” Chavaille never finished his sentence, nor did Jack ever have the chance to use the man’s name to his face. Will uttered the single epithet as his only warning, but the last consonant resonated with the wet plop of steel ramming through flesh. His torso was still turning when he released the sword at Chavaille, and the swift violence of the act caught both him and Jack off guard, though the consequences for the pirate were much less fatal.
Jack gaped; he couldn’t help it. He’d seen plenty of killing, but few things compared to Will’s power arm and uncanny aim. Please, let me never be on the receiving end of him being that angry, he silently prayed.
He was still staring at the dying man when he felt something else at his injured side. Blinking, Jack turned his attention back to it, finding Will shrugging out of his smudged, torn waistcoat to rip in half. Half he wound around Jack’s waist; the other half, he folded into a makeshift bandage and held to the wound. “Keep that there,” the smith instructed, arranging the impromptu sash to hold it in place.
Happening to glance down as Will took a few steps back after tying a tight knot, he noticed the younger man’s injured shin was running with blood. “Is that mine?” he pointed.
Will looked down and swore softly. “I think it’s mine.”
As he bent to examine the wound, he stumbled. Jack moved in and caught him, moving faster than his mind could process, arms around his waist. Will’s knee hit the ground, but not as hard as it could’ve, and Jack went with him. “Got you,” he affirmed.
A small, strangled chuckle as Will sighed, very nearly going limp against Jack. “I’d wager we look like quite a pair,” he finally managed.
“I’m glad you find this funny,” Jack responded. “Because I ...” He paused, lost for words. “Oh, fuck it.” With that, he, too, started laughing – not because he found any of this remotely humorous, but because it was better than sobbing, and he couldn’t think of any good excuse to stop, even when his side started throbbing again. “Ow,” he muttered between guffaws.
“You all right?”
“Not dead, at least.” And neither are you. Thank God for small distractions. Jack shifted so his cheek rubbed Will’s temple, a natural enough movement given their relative positions; another small shift put those curls into his nose, and he closed his eyes. Oh, Lord ... I don’t need this; I really don’t need this now in my life. Just ... make me stop feeling for him. Will’s body was warm and solid in his arms, alive and whole, and Jack wanted nothing so much as to stretch out along him on his bed once they got back to the hotel, after they’d dropped off Ivy and-
“Isabella!” Jack stopped cold, stiffening. “She’s still out there!”
“What?” Will followed Jack to his feet, hobbling, resting pressure on his good leg. His laughter subsided, and his expression sobered. “Elizabeth! We’ve got to get to-“
“Already beat you to it.” The familiar voice drew both men’s attention, and they looked sideways to see Elizabeth approaching with one arm around Ivy’s shoulders, the other hand holding a key, dangling it. “We’ve been over there the last few minutes; caught the last of the show,” she tilted her head backwards, indicating the corridor they’d been led down. “Still have a good arm, Will.”
“How’d you get free?” the smith wanted to know, turning gingerly on his good foot to face her.
“I had some help.” She looked to Ivy. “Quite the little schemer you have here, Jack. Good distraction, too.”
“I stomped on his foot, and she broke his nose by punching him,” the girl piped up. “And took the key for the irons; put them on him, then hit him on the head!”
Both men gave Elizabeth incredulous looks. “Oh, come on,” she insisted. “It was two against one, for heaven’s sakes! And I daresay one of us is smarter than the two of them put together.”
“They don’t seem-“ Jack glanced over at the dead Chavaille and corrected himself. “They didn’t seem very bright, no,” he mused, eyes landing on his daughter. “Did they hurt you?” he put to her. The girl shook her head, eyes still merry from her escape. Jack looked among her and the two adults. “Did any of you happen t’ find out who they worked for?”
“Just their names.” This from Will. “They were pretty careful about keeping whatever else their own secret.”
“I don’t see how you could hear much of anything, the way they were taking turns at you,” Elizabeth gestured toward her friend.
“What do you mean?”
Her head automatically turned toward the protective, sharp rise in Jack’s voice. “They were hitting him, beating him up! I’m certain he has bruises.” She kept her hand out toward Will as if pointing. “They even kicked you a couple of times; maybe more, that’s only what I saw ... are you all right, Will?”
“I’m fine.” The smith shook his head in dismissal. “My leg, is all.”
Jack didn’t believe him, but was glad for the admission, since it gave him opportunity to slide an arm behind Will’s shoulders and pull the man’s arm up around his own. “Let’s get out o’ here,” he advised everyone. “We’ll sort out th’ pieces once we-“
He halted, then muttered “shite” as he ducked away from Will, releasing the smith and executing a turn to head over to the fallen Chavaille. Dropping to one knee at the man’s side, he quickly patted down the corpse, expertly sliding his fingers into pockets and folds of clothes. A few coins were his only reward; no paper, nothing to identify him or his employer. He leaned back on his heel and sighed. “Fine kettle o’ fish.”
“Nothing?” called Elizabeth.
Shaking his head, Jack stood and turned to rejoin the group. “Not a damn thing ‘t all,” he muttered, taking Will’s arm once again around his own. “We’ll check th’ other one, he’s still out there.” The thought occurred Lloyd might have regained consciousness and be laying in wait. “Elizabeth, th’ pistol-“ He cocked his head backwards toward Chavaille.
“Right.” They waited for her to return, and Jack held out his hand for the piece. “You have your own hands full,” she shook her head. “I’ll keep it.” Off his expression, she frowned. “Jack, I know how to shoot a gun, and how to handle one. I did grow up practically in a military fort. Besides, I already have Lloyd’s, too.”
He glanced between her and Will. “Let me posit a guess; childhood bottle-shootin’ contests, I gather?”
“And jugs,” Will admitted, shifting to unwittingly lean more against his captain. “She was better.”
“I’d expect nothin’ else.” Jack dropped his hand to Will’s opposite waist and nodded toward the passageway. “Very well; Elizabeth, you in front, we’ll be in back. Ivy, love, stay close in front o’ me, savvy? On we go, then.”
On to Part 5 ...
