"This is an outrage! The Court cannot begin until all Brethren attend." Tai Huang's English fails him and he resorts to pointing his pistol into the nearest face.

"Well it has," responds the doorkeeper, for whom irate Chinamen with firearms are clearly all in a day's work. "So ye'd best get a move on, hadn't ye?"

His colleague glances up from a plate of food; waves what might be a small, squat, chicken leg, and mumbles round a mouthful. "Third hatch to port, down two decks, big oak door at the end."

Tai Huang can stay and argue if he likes. Elizabeth is already running as fast as her outfit will permit. Soon she hears the gratifying sound of booted feet clattering after her—her loyal crew. She puts out an arm in time to keep them from thundering into the Chamber. Tai Huang nods approval and carefully opens the door just a crack: finding out what's going on before you blunder in is clearly a procedure employed by Chinese pirates as well as British governors.

In the pungent gloom, pirates are gathered round a huge table. They're packed close together, but Elizabeth can make out separate knots of men (and occasionally women) around each tattered Lord. Ragetti is making his way through the crowd, gathering up their Pieces of Eight, conjuring memories of the verger taking round the collection plate on Sunday mornings in Port Royal. Barbossa watches closely, nodding at each addition and smirking like a cat in a dairy.

When Ragetti returns, Barbossa huddles over the plate with him, and, though her rational self insists he's merely counting his plunder or adding his own token to the collection, Elizabeth half believes he's gobbling up the Pieces of Eight like some fairytale ogre. She's jolted out of this fancy when Ragetti turns his face her way. Yuck. After all she's seen, she probably shouldn't be troubled by the fact that Barbossa's Piece of Eight is a wooden eye, or that he's been using Ragetti as a repository, but, well... yuck!

Ragetti turns to Jack, who does a little twirl—stalling, of course—and fingers the trinket on his bandana. Trust Captain Jack Sparrow to have the prettiest token and hide it in full view. And to be still in possession of said token when Barbossa's got the rest—all bar Elizabeth's own jade pendant.

It seems Jack's having the same thought, for he removes his hand from the trinket, turns to the assembled Brethren, and inquires stagily, "Might I point out that we are still short one Pirate Lord?"

This is Elizabeth's cue. She and Tai Huang straighten their clothes and saunter commandingly into the room just as Jack's proclaiming himself content as a cucumber to wait for Sao Feng.

"Sao Feng is dead," Elizabeth announces, cool as a cucumber. (Cucumbers are hardly renowned for their contentment, Jack. Certainly not once they've been sliced and put into sandwiches.) "He fell to the Flying Dutchman."

There's a ripple of excitement at this news. Only Madame Cheng (whom Elizabeth would have known at once even without Tai Huang's description: "venerable, dangerous, ugly") seems genuinely concerned. Jack barely deigns to notice, preferring to make a fuss about sharing his much-vaunted title of captain.

Very well, thinks Elizabeth, let's see what they make of Lord Beckett heading straight for them. She has the information directly from poor James, so no-one else is likely to know it. Perhaps it'll convince them the new Lord knows what she's doing.

There's a flurry of alarm and mistrust, smoothed over by Barbossa proclaiming with suspicious calm that the traitor is "Not likely anyone among us."

At this point, Elizabeth realises Will isn't just out of sight, but very clearly, as Jack—also calmer than he ought to be—puts it, "Not among us." Will's been unpredictable lately, what with meeting his father and his unfortunate reactions to some of Elizabeth's exploits, but surely...

She becomes aware that her valuable information has been grappled, boarded, and sailed away to fight some battle of Barbossa's. She's not sure what he's proposing, but she's eavesdropped on enough of her father's government business to know when a man disbelieves his own rhetoric. Eldritch creatures? The sweat of a man's brow? Barbossa's talking nonsense and he knows it. The Brethren seem to have noticed too, and look ready to turn on Barbossa—at least until Jack launches into an attack so clownish it gives them pause. Could Jack and Barbossa be working together?

"Sao Feng would have agreed with Barbossa."

How dare Tai Huang speak out of turn? How dare he suggest Sao Feng is still calling the shots?

Elizabeth refrains from shouting him down only out of ingrained belief that authority asserted through rational debate confers more power than pulled rank. Unfortunately, the debate degenerates into a brawl before she can get a word in.

She sidles closer to Jack, for once apparently the most sensible person in the room—certainly the pleasantest company. "This is madness," she states, as pirates turn the conference table into a wrestling arena.

"This is politics," he replies with a shrug that probably means he's always said the Brethren Court was a bad idea, and this is all her fault for being a silly young chit who wanted to behold the mythical heart of piracy with her own eyes. But no shrug—not even one of Jack's—could possibly mean all that, could it? Anyway, the Brethren Court is all too real. Young, she may be, but it's hardly silly to want to inject a little urgency into the proceedings.

"Meanwhile, our enemies are bearing down upon us," she insists, sounding not unlike poor James confronting the Port Royal Board of Trade, a resemblance that only increases when her listeners refuse to be drawn beyond their private concerns.

"If they not be here already." Barbossa ignores her even has he completes her sentence, but gives Jack an oddly intense look.

Elizabeth shivers. James wasn't the only one to have dealings with Beckett: last time she saw Jack, he was being taken to Beckett's ship—to meet "an old friend", no less. How did he get safely back on the Pearl?

"What have you done with Will?" she demands.

"Nothing you'd not have done yourself, had you been in my place." Jack makes a show of aggrieved innocence that fools nobody. "I promise dear William is safe—or at least, safer than we are just now, which, admittedly, is not quite the same thing." He leans close and curls an arm around her waist. "Work with me, here, Lizbeth! If this lot ever put to sea, we can get him back for you in a trice."

Barbossa tuts disapproval, removes the clinging arm, and forcibly interposes himself between Jack and Elizabeth. Jack leans forward to continue his point across the taller man's chest.

"Or would you rather skulk inside the reef until Beckett starts killing hostages?"

Hostages! Will? Elizabeth's instinctive preference for carrying the fight to Beckett is now a compulsion. But Barbossa's off again, banging the table with some chainshot conjured from the recesses of his coat, and climbing up to address the Brethren from on high.

"Boons?" echoes Jack, incredulously, eyeing the balls of iron that dangle between Barbossa's thighs in what really is a most unfortunate manner. "Your boons?" Did he just wink at Barbossa? Or at her? Elizabeth controls her expression—just. If she'd guessed that early exposure to colonial politics would be so useful for a career in piracy, she might have spent more time observing her father, and less devouring illustrated chapbooks.

Jack's arguments are eminently reasonable, which is more than can be said for his presentation. Several of the Brethren shift their ground as Jack rambles about cuttlefish, sausages, women, and slicing things, though Elizabeth's impression is that movement towards and away from Barbossa's position is roughly equal.

There's definitely something going on between Jack and Barbossa for all that they seem to be at loggerheads. Elizabeth wonders whether they're simply stalling or whether they've staged this whole debate for some purpose she can't yet make out. But Barbossa's calling for the Keeper of the Code and she doesn't think Jack's shocked expression is for show.

There's a dark figure in the Hall, an ancient pirate with Jack-like braids and swagger, and a most un-Jack-like air of menace. A hush descends, probably because he's just shot one of the East Indian pirates dead. Only Pintel and Ragetti are still whispering, providing, as ever, a commentary for anyone slower-witted than themselves.

Elizabeth has to admit it's impressive. As a girl, she read about the Pirates' Code—she can still quote portions of it from memory—but she never dreamed it was a real, leather-bound, dusty tome, so weighty it needs several men to lift it onto the table.

Leaning close to Gibbs, she whispers, "Who is that?"

"Ah! That be Cap'n Teague, the Keeper of the Code. Oldest pirate of 'em all, an' close as blood to Jack, so they say."

Elizabeth looks again at the pair of them. Jack's smaller, slighter, and darker, but there's a definite likeness—or is it just the hair? Certainly, there's nothing she recognises as fatherly about the way Teague orders a flinching Jack out of his way. Yet...

"Jack's father?"

"Aye, so some tell it: his father, or leastways his mother's lover." Gibbs pauses dramatically and leans in to whisper rum-laden words in her ear. "Or his own—once upon a time."

He beams at her evident astonishment. Jack and this murderous scarecrow, lovers? A blood tie is surely the likelier explanation. But costume doesn't run in families, and would Jack copy his style from a parent?

Pintel leers and taps the side of his nose. "Who's to say as it ain't all three?"

Elizabeth shoots him a haughty look, sniffs, and drags her attention back to Jack, who's no longer cringing, but leaning right under the Keeper's nose to smudge a tarry finger across the vellum.

Elizabeth tenses, but the dark figure merely nods agreement as Jack reads aloud.

"It shall be the duties of the king to declare war, parley with shared adversaries... Fancy that!" He looks around with a bright flash of innocence Elizabeth has learned is a sure sign of Sparrow machinations afoot. She wonders yet again what he's up to; decides he must be going through the motions of failing to chose a King so Barbossa's plan can be adopted after a suitable show of disagreement. There's definitely something between the pair of them: the murderous stares and sullen silences of their return from World's End have turned to knowing looks and bickering like pantomime clowns.

Still, since she refuses to give her vote to any of this rabble, there's nothing for it but to play along and throw her name into the ring like the rest. As the votes are cast, it occurs to her that Jack might back Barbossa, but she dismisses the notion: such an open show of support would undermine whatever game of mock-enmity those two are playing. She certainly never considers he'll vote for anyone else.

She clutches the edge of the table and does her best to look regal. She is Pirate King! From a long way away, she hears herself speak words from childhood afternoons neglecting her embroidery to read sea tales: "Prepare every vessel that floats! At dawn, we're at war!"

They wander off after that, or huddle in small groups planning and arguing. With war declared, nobody seems to have further use for the new king. Elizabeth sends Tai Huang to ready the Empress while she slips into the shadows to observe. Barbossa makes a hasty departure, stuffing a cloth-wrapped bundle under his coat and urging his crew to keep up with him. Jack lingers in conversation with the mysterious Keeper.

Without an audience, the mood between the two men is softer. Jack seems to want Captain Teague's opinion, even to seek his approval. Teague's face shows what might be resignation, exasperation, or possibly, fondness. For the first time, he reminds Elizabeth of her own father, though he's older than Weatherby Swann will ever be.

"It's not just about livin' forever, Jackie. The trick is livin' with yourself forever."

Elizabeth files the diminutive for future use, but what intrigues her more is that Teague clearly suspects Jack is up to something, and even seems to guess what it is, which is either bluff or extremely impressive. Jack fidgets and changes the subject.

"How's Mum?"

Jack's mother is still alive, and with Teague! Elizabeth strains her ears. But Teague just holds up one of those grotesque shrunken heads, like the one she saw Reverend Bateson present to a less than delighted Governor Swann. Jack also seems discomfited by the trophy dangling before him, but conjures up a nervous smile.

"She looks great!" He beams. Then he turns away from Teague and looks distinctly nauseous.

Elizabeth can't get a clear look before Teague picks up his guitar and saunters off, but she's pretty sure the head was sprouting a luxuriant moustache. A male mother would be very odd indeed, she thinks. Even for Jack.

"Eavesdropping, Lizzie?" Jack, still looking faintly queasy, weaves a path round invisible obstacles to join her in the shadows. "Most improper behaviour for a monarch. You're supposed to employ agents to do your spying for you, savvy?"

"That's not really your mother's head, is it?"

She knows there are better questions to ask him, but can't help herself.

"Course not! Though it does mean he went lookin' for her, which makes me slightly less inclined to murder him... and him, in all probability, considerably more inclined to murder me." He grins. "Long story. Shouldn't you be asking me about dear William?"

"You traded him to Beckett for your release." It's the only thing that makes sense.

He looks unconvincingly appalled. Drops the act when he sees her scepticism. "Well, awright. I may have considered it. But I obtained said release all by me onesies, thank you very much—dismasted Beckett's flagship into the bargain. So why would I trade for what I'd already obtained?" Ask any of the crew if you still doubt my veracity.

"I may have underestimated your capacity to spread chaos and destruction in your wake," she concedes, groaning when Jack preens at the supposed compliment. "But Will is with Beckett, isn't he? And by your doing?"

He sighs and waves his palms at her, presumably intending to pacify. "Entirely for his own good, Lizzie. Will wasn't safe on the Pearl. Every man aboard knew he sold us to Sao Feng and Beckett." There's enough truth in that to give her pause. Jack continues, with supporting hand gestures. "I tried putting him in the brig—for his own protection, mind—but he escaped. Elizabeth, he was roping corpses to barrels an' droppin' 'em as a trail for Beckett! Pillar of gulls by day kind of thing, if you can picture that. Most distasteful."

Elizabeth can picture it all too clearly, even with Jack's fluttering hands, nose holding, and gull screeches.

"He was lucky I noticed what he was up to before someone less forgivin' chanced along."

"Jack!"

"Well, I could hardly let your beloved Will lead Beckett to my beloved Pearl, no doubt in hopes of stealing her from me once again, now, could I? So I provided him with a raft and left him to await the Endeavour."

"Adrift on the open ocean!"

Jack reprises his impersonation of a wheeling mob of gulls.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. "So Beckett followed the trail to Will. How do you know he didn't just leave him in the water? Or use him for target practice?" She stops just before her voice rises in panic.

"That's a very good question, and one which should be answered somewhere a little more intimate. If you'll follow me, my liege?"

With that, he draws her away into the maze of passages. Are her fears for Will colouring her perceptions, or does Jack have the look of a fox with the keys to the chicken coop? Elizabeth has no intention of playing the dumb hen, but her heart is pounding as she lets herself be pulled along. At last, they emerge through a hatch onto what turns out to be a high rooftop.

"Beckett won't cast dear sweet William to the sharks, or run him through, or string him from the highest yardarm, or any such grizzly behaviour, because Beckett thinks—with very good reason, as it happens—that dear sweet William is on his side. Also, because he needs dear sweet William to lead him to Shipwreck Cove."

"Which Will cannot do!"

"Ah! That's the clever part, love. I gave him the compass. My unique compass, which, in dear William's hands, points always and only to one thing." He makes a compass needle of his index finger and directs it towards a spot just between her thighs. She swats it away, hoping the rush of heat in her belly hasn't reached her face.

Of course, her principle feeling is relief: Jack's story makes sense. Will is alive and on his way here! Possibly a surprising large portion of her relief is at having her trust in the (relative) goodness of Jack Sparrow restored. But then she notices something.

"You helped lead Beckett to Shipwreck Cove!"

Jack shushes frantically. She lowers her voice, but continues nonetheless.

"And now you're making the pirates go out to fight him. Why?"

"Listen to me, Elizabeth! The Company might have a few ships in these waters, but most will be too far away to reach Shipwreck by now unless they can join up with the Endeavour and follow the Dutchman through other worlds—shortcutting, as it were. If we fight now, we face only a small fleet. The longer we wait, the more of them will show up."

"What?"

"The Dutchman crosses between worlds easy as breathin', though, now I think about it, that's the wrong comparison because breathin's exactly what no-one aboard her can, in point of fact, do. Easy as fallin' off a... no... um..." Elizabeth coughs pointedly. "Anyway, easy as something not at all difficult. Which means she can pop out of this world in, say, the Bay of Biscay—something of a hotspot in the soul-ferrying trade—swoosh in and out of the afterlife, as it were, and spout up again right under our noses or anywhere at all as long as there's enough sea to float her. Bob's your aunt; Fanny's your uncle: more or less instantaneous marine transportation." He pauses. Briefly. "Actually, it's somewhat more complicated that that. I'm still figuring out those charts you thoughtfully acquired for me, but there seem to be only certain places where you can cross in each direction. Like origami ," he concludes, inexplicably. "Or lemmings."

Elizabeth senses a fascinating, but potentially infinite, distraction.

"What's in this for you, Jack?"

"Ah! Shrewd girl. Asks all the right questions." Jack nods, as if to himself, then meets her gaze. "Immortality, love. Beckett brings the Dutchman here; the Dutchman brings Davy Jones and, more to the point, his heart. I stab said heart and I'm the new captain of the Flying Dutchman, sailing forever on seas known and unknown." He fiddles for a moment with those ridiculous beard braids. "But what you really ought to ask is what's in it for you."

"I imagine you're about to tell me."

"William, of course!" The cheerful idiot grin again. "And your much-delayed nuptials and consummation of same."

"I fail to see the connection," she says, although her mind is racing, remembering poor, glum Bootstrap.

"Young Will's in a quandary, eh, Lizbeth? He wants you more than anything in the world—what man wouldn't?" He leers at her in a manner both loathsome and oddly exciting. "However, unlike our good selves, sweet William's a slave to his conscience, and that's a truly terrible thing. It can make a man turn his back for ever on what he loves and spread misery in every direction, all in the name of doing his duty or some such high-falutin' nonsense. More specifically, in the case currently under discussion, it can make him stab the heart of Davy Jones in order to free his cursed father (who's highly likely to waste said freedom brooding over his son's sacrifice), and cut himself off forever from his true love in the Land of the Living, i.e. you. Result: gloom and despondency all round."

"But if you stab the heart, Will's father goes free and so does Will." She knows this ought to be a good thing but, in a world without Jack, she can only ever have part of what she wants.

"Everyone gets what they want." He looks at her expectantly. "Except Jones and Cutler Beckett, of course, but actually that's another plus, eh? Come on, Lizbeth! I thought you were supposed to be smart. It's not Natural Philosophy."

"So you've provoked a potentially devastating sea-battle between the East India Company and the entire Brethren Court, jeopardising the very existence of piracy, just to give yourself a chance of immortality."

Jack looks pained. "Tain't as bad as you make it sound. The Company's everywhere these days: s'only a matter of time 'til they come for Shipwreck. Better sooner than later says I: for one thing, we'll be ready, an' for another, I'll have a chance to stab the heart before Will beats me to it."

He's got her there. She doesn't like the idea of losing Jack to the Dutchman, but at least it seems to be what he wants; whereas Will... Will wants nothing more than a settled life on land with his own forge. He'd have it now if he hadn't fallen in love with a piratical governor's daughter.

"You're right. We can't avoid this fight, but we can choose the timing of it. And, if you succeed, the Dutchman will help us defeat the Company."

"It will?" He looks startled. "Aye, of course. So it will!"

"I'd feel more confident if you'd worked that out before," she comments. "But what about Barbossa's plan?"

"Freeing Calypso?" He sniffs. "I suppose some might call it a plan. Hard to say how it'll turn out, but I do know I'd prefer to attain immortality before rather than after. She'll always need a ferryman."

"You don't share Barbossa's optimism, then? Or is it simply that his boons are bigger than yours?"

He grins and winces simultaneously. She hasn't seen many people do that.

"You've no idea, love." His expression settles into a worried look—appalled, even. "Or do you? What did you and Hector get up to between my grisly demise, Singapore, an' the other place—during all that time you were keeping secrets from dear William? Or have you lost your taste for pirates now you've met a few of us?"

How dare he insinuate she'd betray Will for that filthy, disgusting, old pirate? (Possibly because he's a filthy, disgusting, and not-exactly-young pirate himself, and has good grounds, suggests a swiftly silenced inner voice.) Elizabeth draws herself to her full height and looks Jack straight in the eye.

"I assure you, I have no taste whatsoever for Captain Barbossa. I was merely wondering whether his plan to free Calypso includes allowing you to stab the heart."

"Course it does! Hector acknowledges my authority as captain. He won't free Calypso until I give him my say-so." He fingers the Piece of Eight on his forehead.

"Barbossa acknowledges your authority. That's novel."

"Aye, we've worked out a few things in your absence, young, er... majesty, so you can wipe that look off your face right now. See: I've got his ring!"

He turns his hand to display the green dragon on his thumb, the one Barbossa wore while he was under the curse. But that isn't the only time she's seen it.

"You've been wearing that since Isla da Muerta, Jack. You looted his corpse."

"Nothin' wrong with a spot of plunder," he replies smoothly. "How d'you think old Hector came by it in the first place? Anyway, the point is he's never asked for it back, has he? Thus acknowledging my authority. Quod erat demonstrandum."

Elizabeth sighs. How did she ever imagine piracy would be an escape from politics and gossip?

"I rather doubt Captain Barbossa acknowledges any authority save his own. However, it's plain the two of you are up to something and—unless your tastes are even less discerning than I suspected—I presume what you're after involves other people, or their property. As your king and ally, I resent being kept in the dark."

Jack looks at her very strangely. "I'll admit Hector ain't pretty," he understates, "but you might want to consider that he probably excels in a few areas your—otherwise, no doubt, extensive and egregious—education omitted to cultivate."

Elizabeth tells herself Jack means piratical things like sailing and fighting. Rather than other piratical activities, whose existence she has long suspected, and more recently confirmed through observation of Pintel and Ragetti. She pictures Barbossa at the helm, shouting incomprehensible commands, or swinging his blade in battle; tries to ignore other images that arise unbidden: bony hands crumpling a dress; yellow teeth round the neck of a bottle.

"I may—just possibly—have exaggerated the extent of his support," Jack continues placatingly. "Somewhat. But I promise you, Lizbeth, my account of our respective goals was virtually entirely accurate. I guarantee Hector won't try to stop me. In fact, he stands to gain considerably from my acquisition of the Flying Dutchman."

That sounds much more plausible—thank goodness. Barbossa'd support any plan that leaves him in uncontested possession of the Pearl. The thought of Jack giving up his ship tugs at her heartstrings, but there's no time for sentiment.

"Very well, Jack: you've convinced me. We engage the Company tomorrow, and I'll do what I can to get you close to the heart, but only if you do what you can to get Will back safe and sound. Whatever else happens, we have to keep him away from the Dutchman. I was there, Jack. I met his father."

That throws him. Of course, Bootstrap was the only crewmember to stand up for him in the mutiny. He recovers quickly.

"And how was dear Bootstrap? Crustaceous, I shouldn't wonder."

"I think he's being absorbed into the ship. He's very forgetful—kept asking the same questions over and over." She doesn't want to go into details of what was possibly the most disturbing conversation in a month of disturbing conversations. "He thinks Will's coming to rescue him—sometimes he wants that; other times he remembers what it would cost Will." That cost, of course, is Elizabeth, but it seems somehow tactless to say as much.

"Poor Bill," is all Jack says. Then, "But if you were aboard the Dutchman, how did you turn up here, in command of the Empress? Don't tell me you've been doing deals with Beckett too. Meaning in addition to Will doing deals with Beckett, of course, since we've already established that I myself have never bargained with the little toe rag, not in relevantly recent memory, anyway..." He tails off, and his eyes go wide and dark. "Or with Jones! Lizbeth, that would be a monumentally ill-advised course of action, trust me on this one!"

She puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. "I made no deals, Jack. Beckett had Navy men aboard the Dutchman to keep Jones in line. The officer in command was Admiral James Norrington." How much simpler things might have been if only James Norrington had half as much effect upon her as Will—or even Jack, whose eyes have widened and darkened still further. "He unlocked the brig and we climbed along the towline."

"Leaving him to explain your escape! You ungrateful minx!"

She's not sure she's ever seen Jack so indignant. He's practically shaking her.

"I didn't! I asked him to come with us, but he refused. And then Bootstrap saw us all escaping, and James..." She hasn't allowed herself to think about it and it hits her hard. Not just James' death, but the loss of her father, of Estrella, of all her old, comfortable, despised life as Port Royal's most marriageable young girl. All gone forever. Replaced by something she still can't see the shape of. "Oh, Jack!" she wails, flinging her arms round him and sobbing into his shoulder in a most un-piratical manner. "He killed him!"

Through her sobs, she feels Jack hold his breath for a moment. Then he's stroking her back and murmuring soothing nonsense into her hair.

"Thank you," she tells him when she can master her voice, remembering who she is, and straightening up. "Better now."

"Good. Now, who killed who?" he asks, strangely intent.

"Bootstrap killed James. He was like an automaton."

"Are you sure?"

What a strange question! Although, now he mentions it... "Well, no, I suppose, not entirely. But I saw him go down. I think he was run through. Even if he survived, he had no way off the ship, and Jones would know what he'd done..."

Jack has closed his eyes, but opens them when she pauses.

"Poor Bill," he says again. "Poor James. Good men both."

"Always," she agrees, meaning it, at least where James is concerned. She'll have to take Jack's word on Bootstrap. "Sometimes pirates; always good men."

"Trust James Norrington to get hisself killed savin' the woman as broke his heart."

"Not entirely fair, Jack." She hopes he can't hear the way her voice catches.

"Who said life was fair? Though, at the very least, you might have bestowed a kiss to send him on his heroic, self-sacrificing way. Not that I'd want you to imagine it was sufficient reward, or suchlike. S'ppose he was too much the gentleman to..." He stops. Studies her.

She bites her lip, feeling naked, young, and horribly legible. There's a long silence.

"Oh!" says Jack. "Oh. Well, good for you, Jamie boy!" He raises an imaginary tankard in salute. "To diems carped, and symmetry!"

Elizabeth feels it's time she regained some initiative.

"No!" She raises an invisible mug of her own. "To vengeance, a better future, and the defeat of Lord Cutler Beckett—and to the immortal Captain Jack Sparrow!"

"I'll drink to that, love."

Their fists bump together in a phantom toast.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain Sparrow, I have a ship to prepare for battle. The Empress was badly damaged: we need repairs and fresh stores. I though you might be able to advise on the best places to arrange that."

He's grinning again. Has she said something amusing?

"Surely, being King confers certain privileges, even in Shipwreck Cove."

"I 'xpect it does, Lizzie. Droit de seigneur, if you're lucky: who knows? What amused me was merely that your kingdom is quite possibly the worst place in the navigated world to resupply, owing (as you've no doubt been too busy ruling to notice) to the regrettable absence of trees—or indeed terrestrial vegetation of any kind—which tends to limit our reserves of timber and grain. Also, the sorely restricted provision of fresh water and livestock (other than rats, an' even they can't seem to breed faster'n pirates can eat 'em). Worst of all, there's not a single honest working soul to twist you a rope or bind you a cask. Listen closely to any item on this rat-rogering stack of flotsam, and you can hear it slowly goin' demented tryin' to keep track of all the times it's been plundered. There ain't much here; and what there is's been passed round more times than a watermelon on a battleship."

Elizabeth blinks, disconcerted less by Jack's speech veering between ballroom and gun deck (she's used to that now), than by his message.

"What about our legendary ability to withstand a siege?"

"Oh aye, vast, legendary reserves of food, drink, and what have you, down in the vaults. Be sure to make plenty of noise when you go to take stock—a startled thief in a tight corner can be dangerous."

"You mean to say?"

"Long sieges not really an option. Best not to let on, though."

For the first time, Elizabeth wonders if she still wants to be King of the Brethren Court. Jack's laughing at her, of course—he wouldn't be Jack otherwise—but she doesn't think she's imagining the sympathy in his eyes.

"I'm not a complete fool, Jack. I know Sao Feng made me captain because he wanted a goddess' favour in his dying moments. Tai Huang wanted someone between him and Davy Jones; and you made me king because you want a sea battle. But I surprised the crew of the Empress, and I'll surprise the Brethren yet. One day, I might surprise you, Jack."

"You already did, love. More than once if I recall—which, as it happens, I do."

From the fond smile on his face, he's not talking about the Kraken, or not only that, anyway.

"You'll make a wonderful Pirate King! King Lizzie the First. No: Good King Bess! Generations of pirate lasses'll be named after you—lads too, I shouldn't wonder." He falters. "If any of your subjects survives..."  With visible effort, he stretches a grin across his face. "Which I'm sure many will, but it never hurts to live each day as if it were our last, eh? Don't suppose, by any chance, that you fancy a drink, your maj?"

His glimpsed terror gives her pause. She knows Jack can be brave on occasion—or a craven coward when it suits—but she's never quite believed he feels the same gut-churning, sick fear as anyone else. Father and James were always telling her piracy wasn't a game. She'd thought she understood now, but it still hurts to give up her last, stubborn belief that Jack Sparrow, at least, is only playing. She shakes her head.

"Not just now, Jack." She takes his hand in both of hers, wanting—incongruous though the notion is—to offer reassurance. His skin is chillier than she remembers, but there are all the bumps of rings and calluses she recognises from before he died, remembers how he trailed them teasingly over her body. Lost and now restored, but surely not for her, not after all that's happened... Then again, sulking and self-denial don't seem to be among Jack's odd collection of talents. "Maybe later," she adds, squeezing his fingers, "when the Empress and the Pearl are ready for battle."

Jack's other hand pats her shoulder. "Aye, maybe." The hand slips down to cup her elbow, and somehow contrives to pinch her bottom on its way from there to Jack's hip for a farewell bow.

"You're correct, as ever, majesty: this is no time for frivolities. War to wage, lives depending on us, an' all that. In addition to all of which, we couldn't have you questioning the extent of your devotion to young William at this juncture now, could we?"

He leans in for a final, odiferously intimate hiss. "He's the one you want, Lizzie. Just you remember that!"

Then he's gone, leaving her, once again, flustered, confused, and generally not feeling at all how she imagines a grown woman should—never mind a woman who's just become Pirate King. She's still steadying her breathing and arranging her expression when he turns back with a flourish.

"Peg-leg Pete's down on the southeast quay's good for timber and rope. Don't say I sent you: Pete and I have a trifling difference of opinion about some items I acquired on tick. And Maud, who does for Captain Teague (best not to ask, love), has the keys to the good vaults and can point you in the right directions if you treat her nice. You can tell her I sent you."

"Thank you very much, Captain Sparrow!"

"Don't mention it, my liege. Oh!" He pauses, one finger in the air. Elizabeth taps her foot, waiting. "It's just occurred to me that you might want to use the Pearl—magnificent and indomitable as she is—as your flagship tomorrow. Alternatively, if you use the Empress, you'll have need of a pilot who knows these waters. Did I mention I was born here? Grew up pottering around the reefs and shoals?"

She should know by now that you never get something for nothing from Jack Sparrow.

"Don't worry, Jack!" she calls. "I promise, one way or another, when we face the Dutchman, I'll be sure to put you in the very front line."

"Thank you, your highness!"

He really does leave her, then, though not before mumbling in a voice loud enough that she's probably meant to catch it, "Things have come to a pretty pass when I'm happy to hear that."

______________________________________________
Nuts Out series:
First Nut out of the Locker
Second Nut Out of the Locker: Like Nuts for Bananas
Third Nut Out of the Locker: Intense, with a hint of Kraken
Fourth Nut Out of the Locker: Two's Company
Fifth Nut Out of the Locker: Small Island Paradise
Sixth Nut Out of the Locker: Madness and Brilliance
Seventh Nut Out of the Locker: Goats and Monkeys
(Almost) Eighth Nut Out of the Locker:Sibling Rivalry
Ninth Nut out of the Locker: Last Men Standing