Chapter 6

There were any number of places Emma Swan had expected to pass her evening, after her emancipation from the Athanaeum Club that morning with an ultimatum: find Captain Killian Jones, or at least some useful relic of him, by Michaelmas (three days away) or else be put in considerable and considerably unpleasant straits. Somehow she had not imagined any of them as the drawing room of Dr. Hopper's empty house, sitting across from her nemesis while they enjoyed a deceptively cordial glass of sherry, both of their pistols within easy reach on the side tables and the flickering gaslights casting shadows. Emma was pushing her feet against the floor to avoid sliding off the slippery mohair settle, as she had no intention of performing such an undignified maneuver in front of him, but it was difficult to concentrate both on not falling off the couch and maintaining the proper demeanor of forbidding, aloof reserve. She wished she'd had the presence of mind to take the brocaded armchair, but he, apparently two steps ahead of her again, had claimed it first. Son of a bitch. But until she found out what he was hiding about Henry, and Archie's arrest, she wasn't letting him walk out of here.

"So," she said at last, when she judged he might have downed enough sherry to become conversational. "What do you know about my – my son?"

The pirate shrugged. "As I said, not a great deal. Lives in Yorkshire, with a rather – assertive, shall we say? – and most aristocratic Lady Regina. Goes to school there, enjoys History and English. And has a great deal of drawings depicting certain people, who he says are all asleep, enchanted, in a certain vault. And moreover, that you're the one who can wake them up."

"Very funny."

"I'm not joking, love."

"Then you'd better hope the real story is even more ridiculous, because I am no savior of any sort, believe me." She leaned back again, uncomfortably aware that this position, while helpful for keeping her on the couch, thrust her bosom out for his clearly appreciative gaze, and she angrily switched her cloak over it. "How did you find out he was my son?"

"He mentioned his real mother was a blonde-haired bounty hunter in London, and I, having encountered someone of similar description on rather intimate terms quite recently – " he smirked at her again – "put two and two together."

"Why were you in Yorkshire?"

"None of your sodding business, darling." He kept grinning. "Unless you're feeling up to telling me on whose behalf you held a gun to my head, upon our last acquaintance?"

Emma cast a significant glance at the weapon in question, as if to suggest that she could very easily do so again if he failed to be cooperative. But he shifted with her, mirroring her position, legs spread in a distracting fashion as his good hand drifted to his own revolver. Both of them were instants from picking them up and pointing them at each other, at which the gilded wallpaper in the drawing room would certainly suffer damage, even if their persons did not. Loathingly, she made herself pull back, and he did the same, still matching her inch for inch, as if they were even breathing in time. It was strange and unwelcome to encounter such an unexpected synergy with the outlaw she'd been sent to track and capture. Out of nowhere she found herself wondering if Henry had liked him, but that was a ludicrously unhelpful speculation. She didn't want Killian (Hook!) anywhere near him.

"Well," Jones said, when the silence had stretched to breaking. "While it is not at all to my liking, I regrettably have to spring my accomplice, Will Scarlet, from the Royal Society's grasp. And unless I much miss my guess, you'd prefer to get Archibald Hopper out of there as well. It would be quite complicated for you if you didn't, as well as a detriment to your future work. So, darling, what say we put aside our differences, just long enough? The two of us ought to be able to work out a plan, though it would be useful if we had some tools. What happened to the Night Market?"

Emma shifted uncomfortably. "It was. . . ambushed. A. . . few nights ago." She'd almost said the night we met, and that would have given him ideas, of which he seemed to have too many anyway. "I think the Royal Society had a mole, or. . got access somehow, and they stormed the place, burned the stalls and took whatever they could get their hands on. I don't know how many people escaped. I was lucky."

He gave her a sharp look. "You were there?"

"Yes," Emma said, unsettled by the expression on his face – almost as if he felt a certain proprietary concern for her well-being, which obviously couldn't be further from the truth. He was trying to put her off her guard again, and that wasn't happening. "I got out and made my way to the White Rabbit, where I. . . crossed paths with you."

"And a very enjoyable crossing it was, love, at least until the gun showed up." He shrugged. "Well, that is troublesome news and no mistake. The Royal Society's been trying for years to get their mitts on the Night Market. How could they do it now? Is a member of the underworld working for them? I could imagine that if that was so, and the dispossessed discovered their identity, that person would be in a great deal of danger."

"I don't know who." Emma managed to keep her face straight and cool.

He shrugged again. "Pity. Whoever it was might want protection. Which I can offer, of a sort."

Does he suspect me? It was impossible to say. Even worse, she was not entirely sure that she could discard his offer out of hand. She already had a distinct feeling that protecting her from the underworld would be the last thing on Gold's mind; he would find it very amusing to have her complete her work for him and then throw her to the (possibly literal) wolves, knowing that they would tear her apart on their own and spare him the trouble of dirtying his hands with it. No. I am not making deals with the Empire's most wanted criminal. Even if she had to push away the distressing feeling that she was already in too deep with no way out. Even if he was right, she did have to get Archie out of the Tower or wherever they'd sent him, and her only current way of doing that was sitting across from her, legs still sprawled apart. What are the odds that I could just go in there and ask politely? She had no interest in getting Will Scarlet out. Only –

"Oh, and," said Killian Jones, who was apparently reading her thoughts with distressing ease. "Scarlet. I have a hunch that you may have come across him hiding here, since Hopper is an informant of yours. In which case, surely you realize that he is in the unique position of being able to turn both of us into the Royal Society. And surely you wish to escape their attention. . . unless, say, you were the one working for them, the one that all the London underworld would like to get their hands on?" His eyes gleamed at her. Either he knew for certain, or was bluffing to try and trick her into revealing herself, and damn him, it was almost working. "Wonder who'd pay well to know that?"

Emma's hand clenched around her glass of sherry. "The last time I saw Will Scarlet," she said coolly, "I did not get the impression he would be delighted to see you again. From what I gathered, you betrayed him for your personal benefit, exactly what I'd expect from someone like you."

She thought the pirate might have flinched. A moment later, however, he was in command of himself as usual. "The affairs of myself and my crew are none of your concern, darling, though I'm sure you've had such an impeccable life as to feel comfortable passing judgment on mine. But leaving Scarlet behind was a matter of business, as getting him out will be. And hence, I assure you – "

"And what? You're just going to let him go on his merry way again?" Emma gave Hook a malicious little smile. "I can assure you that he doesn't see it as a matter of business. Seemed to take it rather personally. That was why he was so eager to tell me what he knew."

That got his attention, she was pleased to see. All at once, he was leaning forward, on the edge of his seat, the teasing and taunting on his face replaced by a dark, angry intensity. "What did he bloody tell you?"

"Me to know. You to find out." Emma shrugged. She was pleased that she had finally been able to pull one over on him, as he had seemed disconcertingly far ahead of her to date, and she wasn't used to being outwitted. Didn't like it, either. "At any rate, this isn't negotiable. I'm turning you in, and then I don't have to worry about anything you're going to do, to me or my son."

"And how'd that work out for you last time, lass?" His hand flitted casually back toward his gun, and his hook, resting on the side table, oh-so-accidentally gouged a deep slash into Archie's prized teakwood. "You think they're going to let Hopper go? Or you?"

"Yes," Emma said stubbornly.

"Come on, love. You know them better than that."

"I am not risking my future – my son's future – to break into the damn Tower of London and get out a pair of – a pair of – " Emma floundered. Aggravating as it was, Jones had a point that she didn't want to condemn Archie to die for her, and he did know more than enough to throw a permanent wrench into her future work if he disclosed it (as he could not be blamed for doing, if the alternative was torture). Nor did she truly think the Royal Society was going to let him go. But that also meant springing Will Scarlet as well, and collaborating with Jones, and risking Gold's wrath to an even more infernal degree –

She sat motionless for a long moment, irresolute. Her loyalty was to the underworld, or what remained of it, even if it wasn't likely to return the favor. She'd had less savory bedfellows than this, plenty of them. There had to be a way to get Archie out, then alert the authorities about Jones and Scarlet's whereabouts. And even if she felt a certain amount of guilt at turning in some of her own crowd to them. . . even though either way, she was going to walk out of this with the undying enmity of either the Royal Society or the underworld. . .

"Fine," Emma spat. "It's a bargain."

The pirate raised a dark eyebrow. "Splendid."


The first order of business was for Emma to cross the living room, roll up the silver grate, calculate furiously as to whether the full moon was sufficiently passed that this was only moderately insane and not full-on suicide, and ignore Jones' questions as they traipsed down the dark stairs into the cellar. She held a lantern in front of her, not willing to admit that she was grateful for his solid presence at her back, as they took the twists and turns and finally stepped out into the priest's hole. "Ruby?" she whispered. "Ruby? Are you there?"

"Ruby?" Jones frowned. "Who does that – "

He was cut off as a pair of yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness just beyond the circle of lantern light, and the child of the moon, looking distinctly worse for wear, stepped into it – in her human form at least, thank heavens for small mercies. She looked at them questioningly, but didn't get time to say anything before Jones shifted his weight, fast as a snake, and shoved Emma behind him, reaching for his sword. "Bloody hell, that's a werewolf!"

"I know, you cretin," Emma snapped, annoyed by his instinctive protectiveness – and not willing to admit, surprised and furtherly taken aback as well. This one was dangerous, and not just for being the Empire's most wanted criminal. "That's step one of our plan. You know the Royal Society and the Met have werewolves. Ruby – if she agrees – is going to help us with that."

"Emma?" Ruby shivered, pulling her tattered cloak tighter. "Where's Dr. Hopper? I heard shouting above, people in the house – I would have come up, but the grate – "

"It's all right." Emma did her best to sound reassuring. "He's just. . . been detained. We could use your assistance at getting him out."

The young woman looked nervous, but not terrified. "What do I have to do?"

"We're going to the. . ." Emma paused, but it would not make the prospect any less daunting. "The Tower. I'm a bounty hunter bringing in a pair of prisoners for the Royal Society. That will be you two. Then I'll cause a distraction, and in the chaos, you'll get loose. Ruby, if you can turn into a wolf, that would be useful. Captain, you find your accomplice and Archie, and break them out. Then, as I assume you have plenty of practice doing, get out of there."

"And what?" Jones asked, frowning. "Leave you behind?"

"You're a pirate, I thought that was in the Code. If we get separated, I'll meet you by the St. Paul's tunnel. You too, Ruby. Got it?"

Emma glanced around at her troops, wondering how on earth she had ended up in apparent command of this mission, but feeling better now that she had committed herself to it. And if Jones didn't get out, so much more useful for her. It wasn't a thing to her, not in the least, if he should march into the Society's grip and finally not be clever enough to walk free.

Not in the least. Besides, they were wasting time.

"Come on," Emma said, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Let's get this over with."


An hour and sundry later, as the gibbous moon was paving pearlescent silver over the dark spires of London, then and odd vanishing among the clouds like a drowned king's banners, she was poling a skiff toward the black, spectral teeth of the Traitor's Gate that rose from the River Thames, the entrance by which so many, famed and obscure alike, had gone through and never returned. They would have to take extreme care, not only for breaking into the Empire's most feared prison, but because the ravens of the Tower grounds, the ones who must be there in perpetuity or else the kingdom would fall, were well-known as spies and lookouts, and any of them, seeing something at the wrong time, could blow the whole flimsy plan to hell. Her heart was beating hard in her chest as she delicately maneuvered in the silty shallows, Jones and Ruby cloaked and huddled in the front of the boat with their hands tied just tightly enough for show. Then, when she was sure it wouldn't shake, she raised her voice. "Ho!"

The light on the gate flared, and a pair of Yeomen Warders leaned over. "Who bides?"

"The Black Swan. The Royal Society is expecting me. I have who they're looking for."

The Beefeaters exchanged a confused glance, as if thinking that ordinarily prisoners would be registered at some other location and then transported to durance vile in the Tower, but apparently Gold had been considerate enough to notify them that he had someone on the trail of Killian Jones, and in which case, the trial and any other legal niceties could safely be assumed suspended. There was a murmur of talk, while Emma waited tensely, and then at last, the gate began to creak and rumble open. She poled forward as confidently as she could, docked the boat, then reached out to grab the pirate and the wolf girl by the wrists, jerking them out. "Let's get moving. This is the end of the line, you bastards!"

She thought she heard Jones make some comment under his breath; she was grateful not to know what. The Beefeaters were hurrying down to meet them, and then, just as Emma was wondering if she should feign a swoon or if that was altogether too obvious, Jones ripped at the rope like a chained lion, kicking her backwards hard enough that she lost her grasp, stumbled down the steps, and almost pitched headlong into the dark river. Then he threw the rope as Ruby ducked beneath it, and then as Emma was shouting at them in perfectly real panic and drawing her gun, they exploded in opposite directions. Jones veered away from the oncoming guards and toward the White Tower, the one built by William the Conqueror that lay directly in the center of the walls and grounds. Ruby ran still faster, and Emma saw her shadow stretching out, twisting, distorting. The next instant, a mammoth grey wolf hit the ground, snarling, and the Beefeaters shouted in horror, unslinging muskets and blunderbusses. Emma threw herself flat, rolling. That proved how smart I was to trust him. Though why the pirate would wait until they were inside the Tower to try a great escape, rather than the instant they stepped out of Archie's office –

She sprang to her feet and fired a shot wide over the wolf's head, thinking they had better be careful. The City of London's entire gunpowder stocks were stored here, as well as a significant quantity of aether, and if that went up, the Great Fire of 1666 would look like a pleasant little hearthside roast in comparison. It was generally presumed that Popish agents from the Vatican had set that blaze; for all the Church fulminated against the use of magic, it was said that no one had ever met a sorcerer from the Opus Dei and lived to tell the tale. The Holy Grail and the Templars' fortune were just a few of the treasures rumored to be kept in their archives, the Philosopher's Stone itself, all manner of the weird and wild and arcane. But Emma's concern was not with historical miscellanea so much as it was with not getting them all (or at least her) blown to possibly literal kingdom come before the night was over. She reached for her other pistol and fired an equally wide shot at Jones – felt a brief fear that she'd actually hit him and was horrendously vexed with herself – as the Beefeaters scattered, bellowing in righteous pursuit. In the total melee, nobody had the least thought to spare for Emma.

I could get out of here. Now. Though she should stay long enough to put in at least a cursory effort at recapturing the escapees, otherwise it would look exceedingly suspicious indeed. Or find where Archie was, or anything whatsoever. So she hitched up her muddy skirts and waded in, checking her available weaponry. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in the middle of this with an empty gun, even if it could still be employed with moderate effectiveness to hit someone over the head. Just long enough. Not much. Just long enough, and then she was gone.


Will Scarlet was stuck in a small dark hellhole – by smell, shape, and general malodorous air, he was of the professional opinion that it used to be a privy – and had been for what was, by anyone's estimation, far too bloody long. He could keep distant track of time by the bells that sounded to change the watches, but he hadn't seen a scrap of daylight, so it was impossible to tell if they were for the night or morning rounds. He was chained so he could neither sit nor stand comfortably, and he'd had nothing to eat but a few scraps of moldy bread since they'd chucked him in here, rude as you please. At first he had amused himself by mentally composing outraged letters to the Editor of the Times, complaining about the barbaric and primitive customs of Her Majesty's modern Empire, but even that quickly lost its savor. He knew how the bastards worked. They'd keep him in here another week or so until he turned into a nutter, then haul him out in the full sun, see if he might be interested in talking, and make it worse than solitude and starvation if he refused. Not that he was going to. Had no intention of bein' a bloody martyr, nor taking Jones' well-deserved fall.

Will shifted his position with an aggravated sigh, thinking bitterly that he really should have booked out of Hopper's house the instant the captain had left him there. Even if Elizabeth Turner's company had been most diverting, someone must have seen or worked out that he was hiding there – one of the doctor's patients, perhaps – and promptly hastened to do their patriotic duty, culminating in far too many peelers for anybody's good breaking down the attic door and dragging him down the steps to the paddy-wagon. After the tersest of all imaginable preliminaries, confirming that he was indeed the one they were looking for, they had transported him here and inserted him into his current predicament. Bit of a bugger as predicaments went, really. He'd thought of shouting for the Beefeaters until they got off their arses and came to investigate the noise, but the walls were a foot thick, and his best efforts only made him hoarse. With only a piddling amount of brackish river water to drink, this was unwise.

Just now, however, he was decidedly convinced that he was hearing things. Not the sort of barmy things he would be hearing (and doubtless seeing) after a while in solitary, but something faint and faraway. It wasn't nearly clear enough to figure any sort of theory about what might be going on, but it did not sound like business as usual. That there, he was almost bloody positive that had been a gunshot, and he tensed, gathering his haunches under him, swearing under his breath as he wrestled with the chains. He couldn't think of what damn fool would be stupid enough to start a ruckus in the Tower grounds themselves, apart from perhaps himself, and with himself shut up here, that rather limited the options. He grunted, yanking and pulling, but only succeeded in getting himself trussed up like an idiot. He was practically dangling upside-bloody-down, wondering how on earth he was going to top this next time (assuming there was a next time) when he heard rattling and chinking at the door of his cell.

Bloody hell. Were they coming to interrogate him now? He might not mind getting it over with, but he was dangling here with his arse in the air and there was a certain dignity he'd like to march in with, which did not quite qualify in the present situation. He kicked, managing only to turn himself furtherly vertical, as the latch continued to squeak. It didn't sound exactly like a key. As if whoever was trying to get in did not have one. Which might lead to the insane but still potential conclusion that they were trying to get him out. Which – what even the –

The door squeaked one last time. The extra bolts groaned and strained, but he could distinctly hear someone picking at them. And he'd only ever known one man so handy with locks and knots and cuffs and chains and getting out of every sort of entrapment that could be imagined, but –

One more clatter. The heavy door groaned an inch open. Then another. Then a splinter of dim, strangled light fell through, and there was the absolutely bloody last person on the face of the earth he had expected to see, standing there as coolly as you damned well pleased, as if they'd crossed paths at a traveling fair and not in the depths of the bloody White fucking Tower of the bloody Tower of fucking London. "Scarlet. Trying out to be a bat, eh?"

"Shut it, you," Will snarled, jerking and writhing and helpfully presenting his rear aspect for the Captain's personal examination (well, mooning 'im was only the least of what he could do to express his strong feelings on the matter). "Get me out of these damn things or get in 'em yourself."

Hook cocked a categorically sardonic eyebrow. "That's no way to speak to someone who's here to rescue you."

"It's exactly the way to speak to someone who left me behind in Archibald sodding Hopper's office and ran off like a nincompoop!"

"Ah." The Captain stepped in and began working at Will's chains, clearly in a hurry but not desperate. "Would it help if I did say I was sorry for that?"

"Wouldn't believe you anyway. Oy, watch it!" Will tried to spin himself around to get a look at what exactly the villain thought he was up to with the hook, but no use. Sensing that his best contribution to the process would to be remain as still as possible, so he could get free and then punch the arsehole in the pretty face, he forced himself to hold his peace as Jones pried at the locks. He knew they didn't have much time. The guards would be up here any second, even if they were momentarily distracted, and they would find them a nice set of his-and-his fetters if they were caught like this. But the Captain, no matter his other and numerous character deficiencies, was a professional, and in a few more moments, Will was forced to do a stupid little somersault as he fell out of his chains and nearly landed on his head. Before the Captain could say a word about how this was liable to improve either his looks or his intelligence, he popped to his feet. "Right. Don't really need the guided tour, do we? Let's scarper."

"After you, mate." Hook swept a flourishing bow as they darted out of the cell and down the steps beyond, trying to navigate the twisting, narrow stone without splattering all the way to the bottom. Will would have fired back something snappy if he could bring it to mind, but he couldn't, just now. Was only trying not to do anything that he would regret later – there was no way Hook was going to let him back on the Jolly Roger, was there? Not that he wanted to return, not really. Turn around and Bob's your uncle and Killian would be handing him off to –

Will's ruminations were cut short, however, as torchlight flared in the hallway directly in front of them, and the dramatic ingress of numerous enraged Beefeaters in their silly poofter uniforms was to be observed. Killian grabbed him with his hook and jerked them behind a suit of armor just in time, and they stayed utterly silent, occasionally exchanging mutinous glances to let the other know they still didn't like each other, thanks plenty. As soon as the Beefeaters pelted past, Killian made a lunge out, but then had to jerk back again as two men in silken cravats and fine beaver tophats, clearly gentlemen of worth, followed the guards, looking annoyed at the ruckus and conversing in low voices.

". . . this rate, do us far more good to storm into the Riksdag and hold a bloody pistol to their heads. . . what on earth the President supposes himself to accomplish with this hare-brained plot of trying to kidnap her. . ."

"You know the Kongeriger has the best quality of the stuff in the world. We can't let a woman hold us hostage for power. And what with all this talk of the Highland miners going on strike, stubborn Scottish heathens, two or three birds with one stone, you know."

"Yes, but how he reckons he's going to get his hands on the queen. . ."

"Wouldn't do to be doubting him, don't you think?"

Beside him, Will felt Killian go very stiff, listening as hard as he could. So was he, for that matter. Aside from the fact that this clearly had something to do with another nefarious escapade by Robert Gold, it sounded like something of cardinal significance to know. The Kongeriger Norge og Sverige, the United Kingdoms of Norway and Sweden, had the best deposits of aether in the world, the golden dust that powered every magician and every government and every magisterium. Queen Elsa of Norway and Sweden, however, had recently become a massive pain in the Royal Society's arse, enforcing trade embargoes and hiking customs dues, in retaliation for their economic manipulation to drive the price of aether to dirt-cheap lows; Britain made all the money in the current system, and the Kongeriger made none. And as the Royal Society needed aether to continue doing magic, they could not merely stop buying; the Scottish mines did not produce enough, and not of the best quality. It had been a brewing tension for months, and now seemed to be coming to a head. If Gold was so far out of his bloody mind as to kidnap the Queen and hold her for ransom, force the Kongeriger to capitulate. . .

Bloody hell, Will thought. Almost all magicians, those trained formally at school and university who did it as a profession, were "symbionts" – they needed to have a physical quantity of aether on their person at all times to perform spells, and doing so used it up, requiring periodic replenishment. Most British magicians kept their aether in gilded snuffboxes or monogrammed cufflinks or signet rings with secret compartments, and each month they had to present themselves at Society headquarters with the proper paperwork to receive their next month's supply. It was as tedious as any bureaucracy, but it was in the Society's vested interest to keep it that way. Then they could control who was using magic, under what conditions, and easily cut off troublemakers who were running amok. It was also why they hated "savants," or those naturally gifted to sense the aether and who could do magic under any conditions, so much. Most of the savants were the ones who ended up in the Night Market, outside the Society's regulation and control, and hence dangerous and subversive persons who rarely lasted long if they were clumsy enough to get caught.

Therefore, if Queen Elsa was throwing her weight around with the Royal Society's aether pipeline, she was in considerable danger. Might have already been kidnapped, knowing Gold and the way he got what he wanted. Not that he would ever be so clumsy as to be caught with his fingerprints on it. It would look entirely like someone else's crime, and he would be the one to magnanimously swoop in and solve the crisis – after wringing considerable concessions from the Kongeriger, of course. But if not, if they knew it was him all along. . . if a brave and handsome thief spoiled things for him, say. . .

Will waited until he was sure the magicians were gone, then grabbed Killian and broke cover, sprinting out into the Tower garth. The night had gone mad with yells and gunshots, he saw something that he'd swear was a damn wolf lunging at another rank of guards – and nearby, perhaps the most shocking of all, the blonde woman he had met at Archibald Hopper's. Elizabeth Turner. Currently being besieged by a flock of ravens descending on her – she was screaming and batting at them, but more and more were closing in –

Will merely stared, deciding that attempting to figure this out would only make his head hurt, then jerked at the Captain's arm. "Oy! You! Let's go!"

Killian Jones paid no attention. Instead he hesitated, then wheeled around, drew a pistol, and let loose into the shrieking swarm of birds above Elizabeth's head – though Will would wager a bloody fortune that wasn't her real name, even as Bill Crimson hadn't been his. (Clumsy effort, he knew, but she was beautiful, what was he supposed to do – be clever?) The shot ripped into them, scattering black feathers, and the ravens cleared off momentarily. Enough for Elizabeth to get free and struggle over to them. "What the – where's Dr. Hopper?"

"Haven't seen 'im!" Will yelled back. "And how's it this evenin', Miss Turner?"

"Wha – oh." She stared at him, then in a moment more, recollected where they had met before. "What do you mean, you don't know where Archie is?!"

"Didn't see him after the bloody peelers caught us! Only took me here. Him, God knows, though I think I might 'ave seen him gettin' carted away to an airship or – "

This fascinating disquisition was interrupted with another volley loosed overhead, and the Captain grabbed Elizabeth by the wrist, pulling her against him, as they made a communal exit as fast as they could go back toward the river gate. There was a skiff there, but the guards were closing in, they weren't going to make it in time, they weren't –

Will felt every hair on the back of his neck stand up, and then a monstrous shadow leapt overhead, landing and taking form as a huge grey wolf that snarled and snapped and bared its teeth at the Beefeaters, who screeched to a halt with exclamations of horror. Someone was shouting for someone else to fetch a silver weapon from the armory, and another was yelling that the Metropolitan were on the way with their wolves, and in the merciful moment of time this bought them, the Captain jerked Elizabeth with his hand and Will with his hook and toppled all three overboard into the tiny boat, which rocked and sloshed and nearly went under. But they recovered long enough for Elizabeth to grab the pole, the Captain to fire at one particularly hardy Beefeater who'd dodged the wolf, and Will to sit there like a useless twit as the boat lurched into motion.

"What about Ruby?" Elizabeth screamed. "Are we just going to – "

"She seems to have it under control, love!" Killian bellowed back, pulling another pistol out from his limitless supply and putting the ball neatly through a Beefeater's hat. "Let's just get the bloody hell out of here!"

The Traitor's Gate was hammering to. They would never make it out, would be pinned against it, trapped and ripped to shreds. But then Will had just enough presence of mind to throw his arm out, feel the pain as the iron teeth of the portcullis grated against it – he'd spent too much bloody time recently being bit by something or other – and wrench it back long enough for Elizabeth to slam the nose of the boat through the gap, gunshots hailing into the water all around them and the acrid whiff of saltpeter burning in his throat. Then they were through into the dark water of the Thames, Elizabeth poling madly as Killian provided covering fire for their retreat. Will's apparent purpose remained only to serve as cannon fodder, but he flung himself flat as a round tore over his head and splashed off to starboard. Lights were flaring along the riverbank as the alarm spread.

"Got – to get – out of here," Killian panted again, and shouted something to Elizabeth. She sped up with the poling, and he was doing something with the ring on his thumb, the one that triggered a klaxon on the Roger, letting the pirates know that their captain was in danger and they should bring the ship to him immediately; the magic link also provided their location. They only needed to survive a few minutes more, give the crew time to get her fired and flown over here, and indeed, that was exactly what they did. Then with a roar from the skies, a great dark shadow swooped overhead, and someone above threw the rope ladder.

Still firing with his good hand, the Captain pushed Elizabeth toward it, and Will grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her as she clawed for the first rung. The night was split apart with white-hot flashes and the crack of artillery. Glancing up, Will could see the Roger running out the long nines, strafing the ancient ramparts of the Tower with fire. But Elizabeth was still climbing and he was climbing after her and last of all came Killian, his gun clicking as it emptied. The Roger was already pulling up, gaining altitude, as they tumbled onto the delightfully solid deck and just lay there for several moments, wheezing.

"There, Cap'n, how's that?" The voice of Mr. Smee came from above them, offensively cheery. "Another tight corner wiggled out of and no harm done, wouldn't you say?"

"Depends on your definition of harm, I suppose." Killian Jones rocked back onto his heels, still panting, and then slowly chanced his feet. He leaned down to give Elizabeth a hand, which she accepted warily. "Get us the bloody hell out of here."

"Already underway, Cap'n. Which course should we set?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth in outrage, pushing away from the pirate. "If you think you're going to get away with keeping me on this ship as a – "

"Could always jump right back overboard and fly to your friends in the Tower, Swan. If they didn't shoot the bloody bejesus out of you first."

Swan, eh? Will thought, intrigued. Whoever she was, the woman was looking outraged as the Captain turned back to Smee. "I have certain information to sell to my patron, as regards the actions of Robert Gold and the Royal Society. Not to mention a few other bits and pieces that will be to his interest. And he told me where to find him when I had such things. Hence, that is where we'll be going."

Smee blinked. "Your patron? Jafar?"

The Captain shot a narrow look at him. "Mr. Smee."

"Right then. So, Paris?"

A pause. "No," Killian Jones said. "Prague."