The schooner mounted the crest of another wave. For a moment she teetered on the brink, threatening to heel over into the crushing dark. Her oak timbers screeching in protest, she turned and slipped across the back of the wave.

Down in the hold, crammed tight between two crates, Orlud reflected that he would have done better to stow away on a different ship. He could have easily laid low in Tortuga for couple more days; maybe even tried his hand at some game, on the sly.

You're fooling yourself and you know it, Orlud thought. He was flat broke, and there was not a tavern on the island that would have taken his credit; Exquemelin and his cronies had seen to that. No, he had had no choice. He was dead either way: either he drowned out here, or he surrendered to the less than tender mercies of his creditors.

Ah well, I was always going to come up trumps sooner or later, he reflected. Water sloshed over him and out through the scuppers. His beard and hair, usually lank and stringy, were heavy with saltwater. The good Lady had never exactly smiled on him, but he had always been able to walk away from the table. Which was not easy when you had no job, no home and no friends. He had given all those things up, just for one more throw of the dice: for one more rush.

Orlud could hear the sailors shouting up on deck. The hull of the schooner groaned; he could feel it straining beneath him. Another wave rolled over the deck and into the hold, drenching Orlud to his skin. More shouting on deck, and then something smacked the prow of the schooner, spinning her right around. Orlud was thrown across the hold, narrowly avoiding cracking his skull.

There was a deafening crash, this time from the rear of the ship. Something smashed through the planks of the hull, sending splinters spraying in every direction. Orlud ducked as water began to pour into the hull. There was more shouting on deck as the schooner was spun around yet again. Orlud scrambled up, half blinded by the spray, and staggered towards the companionway. He was vaguely aware of other people pushing past him and cries of enquiry, but he ignored them. Scrabbling on hands and feet, he climbed to the upper deck.

The rain seemed to be coming down very hard now, although it was difficult to tell what was seawater and what was rain. Both masts were gone, leaving only jagged stumps behind. There were few sailors left on deck and they had long given up trying to control the vessel. The swell of the waves lifted the schooner up again. For one long, terrible moment she hung in the air, poised about the jagged rocks of the reef. Then down, crashing down into oblivion.

Orlud was not out for more than a moment. The schooner had been all but torn in half: the stern was impaled on the reef, while the prow swung pathetically in the surf like a broken limb. Orlud's eyes searched the deck. There were no boats left. The best he could manage would be to grab a sturdy piece of wreckage and cling on until the storm passed. It was very likely that he would be killed, but the mere thought of the risk gave Orlud a familiar sense of elation.

He was just about to dive over the rail when a cry stopped him. Turning, Orlud's gaze followed the sailors' pointing fingers. Something was approaching them out of the very heart of the storm. Great, jagged jaws, like some prehistoric monster loomed above the stranded schooner. Orlud screamed. Then he saw the sail above them. It was a ship, albeit the strangest ship Orlud had ever laid eyes on. It was covered in seaweed and barnacles. Its sails were translucent, and criss-crossed with what looked like veins.

Some of the sailors rushed to the rail, waving to this strange ship, calling for help. Too late did they realise their mistake. All of a sudden the deck was crowded with figures, terrible figures that could only have stepped out of a sailor's worst nightmares. They were like men mated with sea monsters. Barnacles clung to their very flesh. Some had hair of coral, or tentacles for arms. They laughed at the sailors' screams, catching hold of them and throwing them to the floor as they tried to run. Orlud felt a slimy hand on his shoulder, and then he was facedown on the sodden deck.

The terrible creatures hustled the surviving sailors into a line against the railing, where they forced them to kneel. As if at some silent command, the monsters drew back. A new figure appeared amongst them, greater and more terrible than any of his fellows. He at least attempted to dress like a sailor: in an old-fashioned greatcoat and tri-corn hat. That, however, was where the comparison ended. A lobster claw served in place of a left hand, and he walked with a peg leg. His lower face was covered with a writhing mass of tentacles that almost resembled a beard. Above it, the eyes were deep and round and cold. The sailors cowered before him. Even Orlud, who knew little of the sea, had heard of him: Davy Jones, the captain of the Flying Dutchman.

He approached the far end of the line. Bending down low, he spoke softly to the first sailor. The sailor replied, and Jones moved down the line to repeat the performance. Occasionally, one of the sailors gave an answer that evidently displeased Jones. In a flash, his crewmen had cut the offender's throat and cast his body over the side. At long last he reached Orlud, at the far end of the line.

"Do you fear death?" he asked. He spoke slowly and with a soft, lilting accent.

"Do you fear that dark abyss," he continued, "All your deeds laid bare; all your sins punished?"

Orlud stared up at Jones with his best poker face. Jones seemed taken aback.

"No?" he said, "You do not wish to postpone your final judgement? I can offer you an escape."

Orlud considered this for a moment.

"I'll play you for it," he replied. For a moment, Jones simply stared. He drew himself up to his full height and spoke:

"Never in all my years has a soul been bold, or foolhardy enough to challenge me!"

Jones's claw flexed. Orlud braced himself for the blow.

"Very well," Jones said with a laugh, "I accept, mister…?"

"Orlud"

"Orlud, is it? State your terms, mister Orlud."

"My freedom, and as much gold as I can carry," said Orlud simply.

"And in return?" Jones asked. He seemed amused.

"My heart."

There was much murmuring from Jones's crew at this.

"Silence," he snapped.

"I accept, Mr Orlud. Are you familiar with Liar's Dice?"

"Let us assume that I am not."

Orlud was not sure, but for a moment he thought he detected the faintest hint of a smile on Jones's face.

"Five dice each," Jones explained, "Concealed throw. You bid on the minimum number of faces thrown in total, by all players. Each player bids until someone is called a liar. If their challenge is right, they win. If not, the player who called him wins. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," replied Orlud.

While they had been talking, some members of Jones's crew had brought an upturned crate and two stools on deck. Orlud and Jones sat down, the crate between them as makeshift table. Another crewmember set two cups down in front of them, with five dice under each. Orlud picked one of the dice and carefully checked to see if it had been loaded. He took longer than was strictly necessary, but he was willing to try anything to unsettle Jones.

The two players scooped the dice into the cups. Orlud felt the rush as he had never felt it before. This was living: all or nothing: putting his life on a single throw of the dice.

A brief moment to shake, then down on the table. An instant later, a third cup slammed down beside Orlud's. Orlud and Jones turned. A man was sitting on a stool beside them. His face was badly scarred and he wore a patch over his right eye. He was dressed in a long black coat and black gloves.

"I'm in," he said, with a smile.

Jones's crew started. It was as if the one-eyed man had simply appeared out of nowhere.

"Where did you come from?" Jones demanded angrily, his claw snapping open and shut.

"Oh, you didn't see me?" said the one-eyed man, "Ah, it don't matter. Like I said, I'm in. Matching his wager."

He nodded at Orlud. There was a strange gleam in his eye as he said this, but Orlud could not think what it signified.

"Very well," Jones snapped, "Play!"

The one-eyed man glanced at his dice.

"One two," he said. Orlud was impressed; this man had one of the best poker faces he had ever seen.

"Two threes," said Jones

Orlud glanced at his own dice: one six, three fives and a four.

"One four," he said, starting low.

"One five," said the one-eyed man.

A moment's hesitation, the Jones said:

"Two fives."

Orlud considered his position. Jones probably did not have more than one five, or he would have bid higher. So he decided to force the one-eyed man to go high with a bid of:

"Five fives."

The one-eyed man sucked at his teeth. Jones glowered at him. After a tortuous pause, the stranger said:

"Seven fives."

"Liar!" Jones cried, almost as soon as the one-eyed man spoke. His gaze steady, the one-eyed man raised his cup. Orlud and Jones did the same. There were only five fives on the table.

Jones chuckled unpleasantly.

"Welcome to the crew, mister…?"

"Nah-uh," said the one-eyed man, wagging a finger at Jones, "you seem to be forgettin' the rules o' this game. Ones are wild, right?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said with exaggerated surprise, "we are playin' the common hand variation, aren't we?"

Orlud smiled despite himself. The one-eyed man had rolled two ones. They made up his bid. Jones had made an incorrect call. He had lost.

"But… what…?" he blustered for a second, then his right hand fell to his sword.

"Seize them!" he cried. His crew leapt forward, their weapons drawn. Orlud froze with terror. The one-eyed man, apparently unfazed by this turn of events, reached out and grabbed Orlud's wrist.

"Bye boys!" he shouted, waving to Jones with his free hand. Orlud felt his legs go numb. Looking down, he saw shadows wrapping themselves around his waist. He tried to pull away but it was too late. Darkness closed over Orlud's head and he knew no more.

Orlud awoke at a crossroads, beneath a starry sky. Four roads of white chalk stretched off into the distance. Green hills rolled towards the horizon in every direction. There was no sign of the one-eyed man.

Orlud looked himself over. To his surprise, his clothes were clean and dry. Physically, he appeared unharmed. Why then did he not feel relieved? Now he came to think about it, he felt nothing. No fear, or surprise or wonder at his new surroundings. It was as if his emotions had quite simply vanished, leaving only an empty space inside him.

"Do you feel it?"

Orlud turned. A tall man, wearing a black coat identical to the one worn by the one-eyed man, was standing on the path behind him. The man's hood was up, hiding his face, but his voice was deep and rich.

"No…," Orlud replied, "I feel… nothing."

"That is because you are nothing. A Nobody: the shell left behind when your Other lost his heart to the darkness," said the hooded man.

"The darkness? No… I, he, lost it in a dice game."

"It is the same thing. The greed, and recklessness in your Other's heart made a fertile breeding ground for the darkness."

"Then my heart… it is… lost forever?"

"Not necessarily. I am the head of an Organisation of Nobodies; others like you. We are working to restore our hearts; to become Somebodies again."

Orlud considered this. A chance to feel that excitement again, the rush as you laid your fortune on a single hand of cards. That was worth anything.

"I will join you, if you will accept me," he said.

"Welcome to the Organisation, Number Ten: Luxord."