psocoptera

Pirates! The bit that comes after the previous bit.

"You can't be serious," Anamaria says.

"Okay," Jack says, "I won't be," and turns a cartwheel, just because he
can. It's a little wobbly, but he makes it back to his feet.

Anamaria is glaring at him.

"I *saw* you," she says. "You were *listening* to him."

"So?" Jack replies. "Maybe I was just hoping he'd get back to the nuns."

"Ay!" Anamaria says. "Well, you're a fool if you believe anything he
says."

"And why," Jack says, suddenly very intent, "Might that be?"

Anamaria stares back at him. "He's an *opium* addict."

"Now," Jack says, offhand again, "Hardly sporting to condemn a man for his
pastimes."

"He's a braggart and a blowhard."

"Fortuitiously," Jack says, walking along sideways, "Else he would not
have so kindly passed on the details of that little encounter to us."

"*Cap*tain," Anamaria says, exasperated, "He once attacked the Curacao
*water* convoy."

"A mistake anyone could have made," Jack says magnanimously. "Barges, in
the dark... these things happen."

Anamaria stops and changes tactics. "Suppose," she says, "There's
something to it. How you going to split one big jewel in equal shares?"

Jack regards her tolerantly. "You know there's enough left of the Pearl's
hoard to keep the crew in roast pig and gewgaws for twenty years. But
that's the spirit, m'dear. *Suppose*."

Anamaria narrows her eyes. "*Suppose*," she says, "The crew don't want to
go haring off to the Orient."

Jack smiles. "I have no intention of rounding the Horn," he says. "The
winds at those latitudes are dreadful for my complexion. What matters is
when the Salty Lassie put in at Rangoon, a piece of knowledge I happen to
have right here in the," he sighs and stretches, "lovely warm."

Anamaria looks at him for a long moment, then shrugs as if to give in.
"Hmpf," she says quietly, "Didn't think you were going to get too far from
Port Royal."

Jack hears her, but can't think of a reply.

***

Jack's been back to Port Royal twice. The first time is four days after
his escape, while the stories will still be fresh. They row in a ways
down the coast and he walks to town in his favorite disguise: eyepatch,
fake scar down his cheek, kneeling on a fake pegleg with his foot tied up
behind him under his coat. His knee gets sore but the cane is a handy
place to hide a sword.

The town is still buzzing over his escape but by the second time he
prompts one of the market fishwives to start telling him the story he's
already bored. Usually he can do this all day, laughing silently and
maybe embellishing a few details, but "what about Will," he finds himself
saying. "Wasn't there some local lad involved."

The fishwife clucks. "Th' guvnor himself has said as he weren't in
trouble," she tells him. And there's more - the old blacksmith dead a
hero handing babies out a burning window and his house and shop all fallen
to his young apprentice.

Jack feels a little unsteady on his pegleg and has to lean harder on the
cane. He's not sure what he expected. But not that. Will coming out
respectable. When he had almost - but this isn't horseshoes, and Will's
landed on his feet, all set to provide for Elizabeth, and everything's
shipshape in Port Royal. He might as well be on his way.

He's back in a week. Night this time, and he moves from shadow to shadow
like he's a shadow himself. To the big house first and quickly up the
wall, to just pop his head in and see Elizabeth sleeping soundly. Or not,
as it happens, her brow is furrowed, she's kicked off her covers, and
appears to be strangling her pillow. Even from the window in the dark
she's delectable in her thin nightdress and he's almost tempted to climb
through, slide his hands down those bare arms, tease her hands off the
pillow and try to smooth out her forehead... but she'd just end up
strangling him, like as not.

So it's on to stop number two. Will's door proves simple to open if you
happen to know a little trick with a Maori fishhook and a couple lengths
of silk thread, and there he is.

The front room boasts a couple of fine wood chairs, a small table, several
chests, and a haphazard pile of pots and jugs in the corner. Jack
rummages a bit in the chests finding blankets and candles and tableware;
he is amused by the heft of the spoons, the careful balance of the knives.
He is amused again by a slate and a stub of chalk dropped behind one of
the chests; the slate is scribbled with what look suspiciously like
designs for a ring.

Otherwise, there's an open doorway leading to some pantry shelves and a
few stairs down to a tiny dugout cellar, and a closed door that, Jack
surmises, must be where Will sleeps.

He eases it open carefully, not surprised that it's well-hung on its
hinges. Will is asleep on a bed of fair width but so short it's almost
square. His feet hand off the end. To Jack's surprise but not his
disapproval, he's stripped to a breechclout in the sultry Jamaican night.
Being a blacksmith, Jack reflects, really was good for the physique.
Will's skinniness hid it but, Jack thinks, those arms look like they could
lift the roof clean off. So strong... Jack feels a little giddy and has
to retreat to the front room. And soon those arms will be holding
Elizabeth. He tries to put the picture together in his head but it won't
quite go.

He slips out the door, letting the latch fall into place. Suddenly he's
not sure what he's doing here, with a ship waiting for him just outside
the bay.

He had thought of that yarn of Mad Allan's while rowing back to the ship,
and a most interesting connection had popped into his head, setting him
out on the search for the firsthand version he had just finished. It was
interesting enough that he almost hadn't thought of Port Royal again, at
least not more than once or twice a day, though his compass was most
stubbornly refusing to point in any direction that wasn't Jamaica.

***