Chapter XVII - Jack's Incomparable Luck
 
 

    The Brethren of the Coast's potential rescuers may have been surprised to discover the majority of the Order was taking quite well to their new cells. There were rocks and other things available to make the standard futile escape efforts, and since pirates are always at home with futile escape attempts --mostly because they turn out to be quite successful after all-- they were, if not pleased, then significantly less dissatisfied than they had been with their previous location. At least it gave them a way to alleviate their boredom.
    "...and then they made me their chief," Jack went on to tell his cellmates, twisting the sharpened stone in the cell's keyhole experimentally.
    "That story gets more outlandish every time you tell it," Granuaile said moodily. She had set herself to finding the false bar in the cell's door, and judging by her bruised knuckles, wasn't having much luck. "Last time I heard you say it was four hundred men over the course of two days. And you left out the chief's son."
    "I left out the boy? Damn."
    "What boy?" Harlock said suspiciously.
    "This small boy, around thirteen," Granuaile explained, shaking one of the bars for an unusual rattle. "Jack was about to be beheaded by the tribe, an' the kid rushed to his side to protect him."
    "That's noble."
    "'Course," Granuaile went on reflectively, "it was only afterwards that the boy found out he hadn't actually been saving a fair maiden in distress."
    "You didn't have to tell them that part," Jack said darkly.
    Captain Lunaseer, across from them in the opposite cell block, withdrew his arm and flexed the sore fingers. Trying to dismantle the hinges one-handed wasn't going too well either. "Dasg los! Thrun blevent zehnlash essu tirnan corithu."
    "Try twistin' it the other way, mate."
    Granuaile arched an eyebrow at her companion. "You're able to understand him?"
    Jack looked astonished. "You can't?"
    "What language is he speaking?" Israel Hands asked, in the distinctive tones of a relatively learned man who knows he's not going to get an acceptable answer, but is hoping anyway. "No, better yet, what country is he from?"
    Jack Sparrow began opening his mouth to reply when the air shrieked with the opening of a rusty hinged door at the end of the hall. Fifty pirates dropped rocks, blades and small splinters of bone and immediately retreated to the back of the cell. Some even took to whistling innocently.
    The jail warden strolled past them, trying to hide his unease at being around so many nonchalant, salty, old men, as he made the sort of cell inspection that doesn't really involve seeing anything. When he was satisfied with his non-inspection, he left out the opposite door, with a bit more of a spring in his step.
    After the metal door slammed shut, fifty pirates rushed forward and resumed their activities.
    "It's all really a matter of knowing how to handle them," a bespectacled female pirate named Reka said matter-of-factly, trying to saw through one of the cross-bars with a makeshift file.
    "I remember this jail back when they were still finishing off the east block," Jack said. "Those were the days, mates. Had to be on your toes breaking out then."
    "You've been here before?" Hands said.
    "No..." Jack said slowly, suddenly with a glazed look in his eyes as he studied his sharpened rock. "Not here..."
    Great, Granuaile thought to herself. He's gone senile.

    "Are you mad?" Will demanded, struggling to keep up with Inigo as the pirate raced across deck. "You can't just simply track down whoever you please at a time like this! This man of yours could be halfway round the world from here for all you know!"
    "No one asked you your opinion," Inigo retorted, finding the table that had earlier been used by Stede to conduct whatever paperwork it was that quartermasters had to keep up with. He slapped down a map of the Indian Ocean and surrounding countries, which flopped open. "After my friend left the Revenge in my care he mentioned taking his wife and child to a far-off estate, and when I asked where it was, he said only that it was a British colony in this area."
    "That's not enough to go on!" the young Will Turner wailed. "He could be anywhere! He could be in Egypt, for God's sake!"
    "And if he is, we'll go there to get him," Inigo said resolutely. He undid the strap holding his sword in his sheath and extracted it, noting briefly that it needed a good bit of polishing before he went into combat again, and set it down in the middle of the map. He removed his gloves and tucked them into his belt, and began rubbing his hands together.
    "We have four days before they start killing the Brethren!"
    "The odds are against Jack or O'Malley being up that day. We're safe."
    "What about all the others?"
    "Worry for yourself and your friends before you consider the welfare of strangers, Will."
    Far from the reaction Inigo was expecting, Will exploded. "You're always doing that! Not you, personally, but adults! Help others, don't help others, keep rules, hang the rules-- you can't make up your minds!" He took a deep breath. And then another.
    "Are you done?"
    "Why don't--"
    "I'm not answerable to you, Will," Inigo said, but gently. "Don't presume to understand the rules by which adults live: we deal along different lines than you. Rather, we deal along no lines at all. It is for your benefit that parents create guidelines to frame your lives, and someday you will have to leave them and discover why rules are insufficient where you're going. The best you can do is play it by ear."
    Will nodded reluctantly, eyes toward the floor, and then stopped, arching a skeptical eyebrow. "You just guessed that entire thing."
    "But it sounded good, didn't it?" Inigo said with a hint of pride, returning to the table in front of him. "Besides, Jack Sparrow is the luckiest man alive. What harm could he possibly come to?"
    He held both hands palm-down over the map, where the Six-Fingered Sword rested, and shut his eyes. Drawing a long breath, he said, "Father, I need you to guide my sword."
    This all sounded impressively mystical to Will, because he didn't have the benefit of hearing the other half of the conversation, which went: Oh, back again, eh?
    "Please, Father. I am in great need."
    You were a bit shirty with me back at the cliff, and after I'd helped you through that whole maze, too. It's not exactly a mountain stroll, manifesting inside a sword, you know that? And not even having the decency to honor a dead man's wishes of giving him a grandson, are you trying to kill me, Inigo?
    "Fatheriamnotgoingtotalkaboutthatnow," Inigo muttered through clenched teeth. Then in a clearer voice, probably mostly for the boy's sake, he added, "We need to find a man who will assist us in our time of great peril."
    It's that Westley boy, right? I'm not sure, I'd hate to be interrupting him during his supper or--
    "Can you just find him already?!" Inigo yelled, so suddenly that beside him, Will jumped.
    "Should you really be so rude to your father?" the boy asked, shaken.
    Inigo turned his head to glare at him as if he'd been asked the most vexingly inane question of his life. "You have no idea."
    Under him, the Six-Fingered Sword began to spin, rapidly, in a circle. It was so sudden that Inigo nearly didn't have enough time to jump back before the blade end came arcing in his direction.
    "Sorcery!" Will exclaimed.
    "I thought Jack had gotten you over that rubbish."
    "Well, I just-- Look, even if it does work, what chance is there that..." the sword began to slow down "...this friend of yours..." slowing more, sliding clockwise with its point grazing the African coast "...is..." inching to a halt in the Arabian Sea "...even..." stopped "...oh."
    The thin tip of Inigo's rapier touched the red X marking the city of Bombay, India.
    "...That's ridiculous."
    "That's luck."

    Makeshift tools clattered to the floor as the iron door swung open, letting in steely moonlight across the bare mismatched stone.
    Captain Kidd chuckled. "S'all right, gents, the charade's a long-played one. No sense in hiding it from ol' Bill." At his words, a few of the captive pirates took cautious steps forward to the front of their cells. Jack Sparrow squeezed between Harlock and Hands in time to catch a glimpse of a dark, limping figure held around the shoulders by Kidd's massive arm thrust into the cell opposite them.
    Jack gripped the bars. "Anamaria!" His quartermaster turned her head weakly and stared at him, a strange desolate look in her eyes. She all but collapsed to the floor, and would have had she not collided with Captain Lunaseer's first mate, Tikalus, first, who eased her gently onto the ground.
    "My men got the whole story out of her," Kidd said smugly. "A valiant attempt to save the life of your Spanish friend, resulting in the exchange of his life for hers. So, that means Roberts is still alive." He smiled cruelly. "That means he's planning a rescue attempt."
    "Roberts wouldn't do that," Jack said, breaking eye contact with Anamaria for the first time. "He knows the Code. Unlike some."
    "He's a romantic. You all are. And that's why you're all going to die."
    Jack smiled humorlessly. "Four days is a long time, mate."
    "Oh no. Three for you, Jack. You too, O'Malley, and you, boy," Kidd said to Israel Hands, who shrunk at being targetted. "Your men are out there to fight for their beloved captains. If they haven't got you, the problem, I think, resolves itself."

    One strange quality of the British Empire was its ability to turn any native town into a factory-pressed image of itself. Wherever you were in the world, from England to the American colonies, from the Spanish Main to India, it was all essentially the same. Any port town was pretty much like any other port town, the people were all the same, even if they dressed a little differently. Even the air was the same, albeit sometimes a little spicier than others, as was the case of Bombay, lit in light blues from the moon and dull gold from the torch light, to create a stark, two-color night world, all straight lines and drastic shadows.
    Two of these shadows belonged to Inigo and Fezzik.
    "I don't know," Inigo said, "how are we even meant to find him? We ask for Westley? Was Westley his Christian name or surname?" Fezzik, who held the lantern, shrugged. "Westley and Buttercup... I hadn't noticed before in their own language, but they're not very Danish names, are they?"
    "I alwayz thought 'Buttercup' waz a tranzlation," Fezzik said. "And wazn't she a preencess of sometheeng?" he asked, aware that sometimes odd things seemed to stick in his captain's memory.
    "Hammersmith, yes."
    "So do we ask for Preence Westley of Hammersmith?"
    "Would he be a prince? Wouldn't he and his girl have been crowned a King and Queen?"
    "I don' know, izzin't Hammersmith jus' part of Florin?"
    "Denmark, Fezzik. When you're speaking English, it's Denmark."
    "I thought Gilder waz Denmark."
    "They're both Denmark."
    "Well, that doezn't make much senze," Fezzik said unhappily.
    "It's like England and Scotland, I think," Inigo told him, brow furrowed. "Except more, well, Danish."
    "I like danishes," the giant said, glad to be on firmer ground.
    "I know you do, Fezzik."

    Some houses demand to be written about, in terms of their spaciousness and splendor, the detail in which practical architecture was blended with artistic vision. Long, exterior hallways lined with sweeping muslin curtains that flared with the lilac-scented breeze, framed with expansive gardens and courtyards. Luxurious, kingly rooms with soft feather beds and gold-embroidered throw pillows, vibrant tapestries and lifelike portraits, gold candle holders and silver chandeliers.
    And so on and so forth.
    No one ever happens to mention the cost of upkeep of such an establishment, nevermind the intense claustrophobia a person can experience in the midst of it, especially if they haven't grown up accustomed to the style of surroundings.
    The grandiose mural of Shiva bestowing gifts upon the mortals of the land seemed somehow less captivating when someone had taken a piece of colored chalk and drawn mustaches on all the figures, too.
    Being rich was all nice and well, but it did pay to be realistic.
    Buttercup was stirred from a half-daze as she felt the matress under her dip to one side, as Westley climbed in beside her. She half-turned over and cuddled up next to him.
    "Where were you?"
    "Just putting Waverly to bed."
    It probably was better not to ask whose idea it was to name the couple's child Waverly. It was one of those things. Specifically, one of those things that probably included a drunken bet somewhere along the line.
    The two weren't put off by it much, however, because as far as they were concerned another child was just around the corner. It was always just around the corner. Westley and Buttercup were enthusiastic like that.
    It was at the start of yet another eager try for child number two (about half an hour in, before any of their clothes were off, because some people certainly do understand the meaning of foreplay) that the couple heard a crash, and a tinkle of glass on the floor, followed by Waverly beginning to cry.
    "A burglar?" Buttercup mused, not particularly frightened.
    "You see to the baby," Westley told her; "I'll go see who it is."
    Buttercup nodded, as Westley climbed out of the bed and went for his rapier by the door. He pushed past the bead curtain into the hall, glancing around a little in the darkness, until his ears picked up on the sounds of frustrated struggling somewhere down the west wing. He followed it, arriving in the dining room which was lit with silverly blue moonlight from the above skylight, presently missing most of its glass on the floor beneath it, and hanging inbetween in a tangled mess of rope was a struggling, cursing figure, trying desperately to, if not loose himself from his trappings, then twist into a position to see who had just come into the room.
    Shrugging, Westley went to the side table and lit the nearest candle, holding the light up to the figure's face in time to meet Inigo's terrified eyes, which seemed to reflect an inner monologue that had just discovered it'd forgotten what it was supposed to say at this point. Although to Inigo's benefit, Westley seemed equally surprised at such an unlikely intruder.
    "I need your help," Inigo said lamely.
    Westley nodded slowly, while far off across the hall, Buttercup called, "Who is it, dear?"
    The Danish swordman pulled himself out of whatever recesses his thoughts had resided and turned his head to call back awkwardly, "There's a Spaniard at the window."
    "Oh, all right, then."

    It was morning when Fezzik and Inigo's boat returned to the Black Pearl, between tinny gray storm clouds and choppy black waves that didn't look as ominous as some proponents of literary convention might have hoped, but that's weather for you. Those among the crew that were lively enough for the task hauled the boat's occupants, and then the boat, on deck.
    Westley, who had not yet been informed about the demise of the Revenge, looked at his surroundings approvingly, as if thinking that whatever trade-off Inigo had made for it, it had been for the better.
    "Mister Montoya," same a rough female voice, drawing Westley's attention to a young, dark-haired girl walking toward Inigo and him from the stern. "A storm's drawing in fast; we have to hoist anchor and sail up into Vishnu's Cove if we're to free ourselves of it."
    Delphine noticed Westley staring at her, dumbfounded, and glared right back.
    Westley open and shut his mouth a few times. He stepped back slowly and, arms crossed over his chest, leaned closer to Inigo and murmured, "I... thought you said your Jack Sparrow was in captivity." He glanced at the Jackal again. "And wasn't female."
    "Ah! No, no," Inigo said immediately, hurrying over to Delphine and grabbing her arm to lead her away. "This is Delphine Turner--"
    "Jackal," the young woman insisted.
    "--just a guest aboard the ship," Inigo continued, pulling her away.
    "Wait. Wait," said Westley, the two pirates stopping short and glancing back at him. He approached the pair, looking Delphine up and down, then walking around her to her side and back, muttering something unintelligble, although that didn't stop Delphine from drawing her own conclusions about the meaning to it and began to draw her arm back for a punch.
    "Jackal!" Inigo snapped, holding her arm back and moving himself between her and Westley. "Control yourself!"
    "I have a plan," Westley announced.
    "Yes, precisely what he-- What?" Inigo asked, looking over at his old friend. "Already?"
    "Oh, absolutely," Westley said, clapping a hand onto Inigo's shoulder and directing his gaze with a hand to point out some of the features on Delphine's perlexed face. "You could say we have an ace up our sleeves."
    Realization dawned on Inigo. He grinned. "Not an ace, Westley. A jack."

    "Gracie?"
    "H'rm?"
    "Ever had a really horrible sinking feeling?"
    "Jack, we're on death row. There's generally a lot of impending doom bound up in that."
    "No, I meant worse than that. Like how you just know someone, somewhere, is planning something an' it's not gonna be good?"
    "Jack. Death row. Gallows. Shallow, unmarked grave. What part of this all do you not understand?"
    "No, this is worse."
    "What could possibly be worse than this?"

    "Did you really come up with a full plan, just like that?" Inigo asked, following Westley into the captain's cabin and Will trailing along behind them, arms laden with maps.
    "Well, no," Westley admitted. "I'm brilliant but I'm not superhuman, for the most part."
    "Or egotistic," Inigo muttered. "I just realized that we're speaking English. How come you don't have an accent?"
    "An accent?"
    "A Danish accent. On account of you being, well, Danish."
    "Florinese."
    "Same difference."
    "And I'm not."
    "Not what?"
    "Florinese."
    "What are you, then?"
    "Look, if we could possibly get back to the matter at hand," Westley said impatiently, gesturing toward the table, where Will promptly dumped the bundle of maps. "We're still a very long way from a full-fledged plan here, and we're drastically short on time. I haven't had to do anything like this in five years, you know, and it was hardly second nature to begin with, strategy. For God's sake, I was a farm boy. Farm boys don't usually occupy their spare time thinking up ways to storm the castle."
    "Fort."
    "Thank you very much for letting me know so far in advance that generalizations are not to be tolerated," the Dane said, furious. "Now what are our assets?"
    Inigo, who was expecting this question on the principle of character, fell into a sort of glazed-over expression as he recited the list. "Fifty armed men, two cannon arrays, Fezzik's braun, my steel, your brains..."
    "And the look-alike."
    "...and the look-alike. We also have a reputation."
    "A reputation."
    "Yes."
    "And that's it?"
    "Reputation worked wonders back in Florin, Westley," Inigo reminded him.
    "That was sixty men. This is five times that number. Moreover, that was Florin, and this is India, a coast that Dread Pirate Roberts has not sailed in fifteen years. Anyway, even though Kidd will not be in a position of power, he does have the audience of those that do, and he'll be anticipating your attack."
    "No he won't. It's against the Code."
    "Ah yes, the code you should be following, but I can see the company you've taken to keeping has warped your outlook somewhat."
    "That's a low blow. What if your Buttercup had been kidnapped?"
    "Mm, you know, her name sounds strange in English..."
    "We're stalling. Look, let's just presume Kidd does know about our plans. What does that mean?"
    "It means that we're dealing with the same mind now as the one that was capable of capturing the entire Order of the Brethren in one fell swoop," Westley said without much bravo, as if he was stating something overly obvious.
    "That was no trick. It was a bunch of old men."
    "And Jack Sparrow."
    "Well, he got hurt!"
    "Excuses, excuses. Kidd is a navy man; he's used to commanding a large number of troops, and he does so effectively and efficiently, and that's how your allies were captured at Madagascar. Even Blackbeard commanded a small group of pirates compared to this man, because that's just how pirates function. But the formula doesn't work if all the cards are on the table, friend."
    "Navy beats pirate, king beats jack?"
    "Precisely. The thing is that it's not so much cards as chess, and each piece has advantages and restrictions. Kidd works like a naval man and fights like a pirate, so he can't be dealt with the normal way. But his large force means nothing if it's not organized, and if there's one thing the military simply cannot function under, it's confusion."
    "And pirates work well in those conditions?"
    "I daresay they thrive in it."
    Westley wasn't able to get all of his last sentence out on time, because it was around then that the cabin door burst inward, shattered, and a swashbuckler in a trihorn hat and a red coat came dashing in on a white steed, swearing in German. The rider, not the horse.
    Moments later, while Will Turner struggled to hold the horse by his bridle, Inigo grumbled, "Get. Off. Me." somewhere in the area of Westley's armpit.
    "Oh. Sorry," said Westley, letting go of the Spaniard and humbly stepping back a safe distance.
    The German stranger, who had not ceased in either his cursing or waving his cutlass around, hefted what the two men had taken to be a bunched-up heap of dirty cloth and tossed it aside onto the floorboards, where it rolled-over so that a glowering face with two evil, searing eyes glared up at the intruder, who now pointed his cutlass about an inch from the creature's nose.
    "I demand to know what you have done to Mister Sparrow!" the rider declared imperiously, jabbing the sword toward the Jackal's face.
    "...Munchausen?" Inigo said in disbelief, as if discovering his efforts at pest control had backfired in his face. "Again?"
    "What on Earth is he doing on that horse?" Westley asked, bewildered.
    "It's his manner," Inigo said quickly, his eyes not leaving the tall swordsman. "Or his senility; I'm not sure which. We didn't do anything to Jack," Inigo added, this to the baron, "because that's not Jack you have there, Munchausen."
    "What would you have me believe she is? His daughter?"
    Only Inigo didn't erupt into laughter at that one, and unsurprisingly, it was Delphine that laughed the loudest. Heartened by his own joke, Munchausen jumped down from his white horse and slapped it on the rump to send it back out on deck. He paid no particular mind to the door that he had destroyed in making his entrance, but did make minor recompence by helping the Jackal to her feet.
    "You are not Jack Sparrow? Truly?"
    "Heaven forbid," she said sourly.
    "My apologies that I could ever mistake you for such a man," Munchausen said to her. "Or indeed a man at all, for your ravishing beauty betrays your sex." Which was the most remarkable lie ever told with a straight face. Women like Westley's wife ranked in the top five most beautiful in the world, but Delphine would have been lucky to rank in the top billion. (Given that few women actually qualify as ugly, this still means that in a general way, the Jackal was actually rather attractive, but with competition including Buttercup, the elements are simply against her.) However, Munchausen hadn't gotten where he was today by being honest, and so, going into his stride as he produced a rose from the depths of his sleeve, he went on, "You so remind me of Catherine the Great..."
    "Oh, here he goes again..." Inigo murmured, turning away in disgust.
    "Was there any particular reason for your being here?" Westley said in a loud, clear voice, which he hoped was commanding enough to draw Munchausen's attention away before Delphine's eyes went sparkly.
    The baron pulled himself away from the girl's gaze with almost a sense of relief. "Yes. But who, may I ask, are you?"
    "I am the Dread Pirate Roberts."
    "I thought he was the Dread Pirate Roberts."
    "We're both the Dread Pirate Roberts."
    "Indeed? Not much family resemblance." Munchausen sheathed his sword imperiously and stood up tall, jutting out his red bearded chin. "I have news from the city."
    There was a slight shift in the air as four pirates in the cabin --as well as dozens of eavesdroppers just outside it-- leaned forward with anticipation.
    "Kidd has requested a preliminary execution, a warm-up as it were, the night before the main start of the mass hangings is to take place. My sources in the city report that Jack Sparrow, Israel Hands, and the Ladies Anamaria and Grace O'Malley are on the list."
    "Anamaria?" Inigo burst out. "But I saw her die!"
    "Aye, you also saw me die," Munchausen pointed out. "Worry not for the hows and worry more for the whys and wherefores, good sirs, of the present situation. You have but two days to prepare and execute your plan, and every second we spend dilly-dallying is a second closer to our friends' deaths."
    Westley and Inigo nodded solemnly, eyes toward the floor, but suddenly, Inigo stopped and glanced up. "If you knew Jack was in the cells, why did you mistake the Jackal for him?"
    "Ah, well, you can never quite tell with ol' Jack, now can you?"
    "I have an idea," Westley announced experimentally.
    Inigo rounded on him. "Oh, do you, now?"
    "No, more of one this time," the former Dread Pirate Roberts assured him. He addressed the assembled at large. "We are going to contact our allies. Even if they're not our allies yet, we'll make them into allies. Who here can write?"
    Munchausen, Inigo, Will and Delphine all raised their hands.
    "You can write?" Westley asked the Jackal, who appeared to be debating whether raising her hand had been the right course after all. She nodded nervously; Westley turned his head toward Inigo. "Can Sparrow write?"
    "Er, just his name..."
    "From now on," Westley told Delphine firmly, "you are only able to write your own name, right? And while we're at it..." He went around to her side, examining her form a little, and then pushed her shoulders back, hips forward, repositioned her legs and turned her head slightly to one side. "Ah; much better."
    "Excuse me, just what is--"
    "No, no, deeper, with the back of the throat."
    "What?" Delphine asked, puzzled, but in a slightly deeper, more masculine voice. "Is this come kind of joke, mate?"
    "Deeper, deeper. Little rougher. How often do you drink?"
    "Never."
    "Well, we'll have to change that too, then. You can't get the proper harmonics if we don't roughen up your throat a little. I say, it's a damned good thing you already have the gold teeth..."
    "Forgive me, Westley," Inigo said politely, pulling his companion back, "but just what are you doing?"
    "My dear Indigo, you must have faith. Have I ever steered you wrong?"
    "It's Inigo."
    "That's what I said."
 

End Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XVI