Chapter seven: Looser Ends

The desert was cooler once night fell. Balthazar figured he shouldn't be surprised, but he found it welcome nonetheless. The moon shone down, illuminating the glyphs he'd been absentmindedly drawing in the sand. He'd been trying to reason out a way to return to his point origin, he'd been unable to come up with anything with even a remote chance of success. It didn't help that his encantus was still in the 21st century.

The Sorcerer sat a ways of from where his companions slept, surrounded by gear. A darkened circle marked the remnants of their fire. They'd used it for warmth and to heat some food, but Dastan had insisted that leaving it while they slept could draw unwanted attention. He said he knew from personal experience. Balthazar believed him, if nothing else the Prince of Persia seemed as though he'd been around a bit.

Speaking of the Prince, Balthazar heard a shifting in the sand behind him. Dastan sat nearby. He rubbed his chin, looking up at the stars. "I'll take over your watch," he said.

"Seems to me you already have," said Balthazar. "You've been lying there awake ever since you settled down for the night."

"Oh, you noticed that."

"I notice a lot," said Balthazar as the Prince sat beside him.

"I suppose it's just that I still don't trust you," Dastan said.

"Can't say I really blame you, but unlike your friends I do think you believe me."

"How so?"

"When I made that quip about time travel, they laughed it off. They still think I'm just a madman with some interesting skills. But you, you didn't even seem impressed."

"For what it's worth," said Dastan, "I do still think you're a madman."

"Not an unreasonable theory," Balthazar said. "My theory is that you've had your own experiences with magic, ones you'd care not to remember."

"That's being generous," said Dastan. "I saw my father, my brothers, my wife all killed before my eyes. Turns out time can be rewritten and…why am I even telling you this?"

"Sorry," Balthazar winced, toning down the magical influence he'd been directing toward the Prince, "Habit."

"Well I hope you do find your way back," said Dastan.

"So do I," Balthazar whispered.

…

"There's no way this should be able to work," Benjamin Franklin Gates grumbled uncomfortably. Wet sand filled his dress shoes; water (far colder now that it was night) chilled him up to mid-chest while splashing him in the face. His arms ached, and worst of all a particularly poignant splinter was embedded between his left forefinger and thumb.

"There are many statements that I'm glad have never been directed toward my person," said Jack Sparrow ahead of him, "That is decidedly not one of them."

"But there's no way this thing should be this airtight, or not just fly to the surface, or-"

"Silence is a virtue Mr. Gates. A man in your chronological position with a man of my persuasion so ready to assist him would do well to remember that."

Ben quieted down. It was just as well, all he could think of to say next was 'are we there yet'.

…

Fifteen minutes later two soaked men clambered over the bow of The Indulgence. Ben collapsed in a pile of rope, breathing heavily. "Remind me to never do that again," he whispered.

"I'll remind you to hold your tongue instead," Jack said, pointing. There were two sentries, one across the ship on the poop deck, leaning on his rifle as he dozed, the other a few yards away, too engrossed in an alcoholic flask to notice the intruders.

Jack crept toward the guard, as Ben tried to stealthily untangle himself from the rope. Jack slipped the pistol from his belt, hefted it and brought the handle down on the back of the man's head.

The guard turned, dazed, opening his mouth to cry out. Ben punched him in the face. As the guard fell to his knees, Jack brought the pistol down twice more. Together, the perpetrators looked over to see if the other guard had awakened. He hadn't. Together they pulled the unconscious man out of sight. Ben reached into the guard's belt and pulled out his pistol. "I'm tired of being unarmed."

"That's what they all say before they blow their own toes off," Jack pointed out.

"Cute. You're the pirate captain, what's the plan?"

"We get below decks."

As they crept down the stairs, Ben couldn't help the fact that the feeling of awe he'd had since slightly before landing at port was growing. History was really coming to life for him, metaphorically and literally. Jack avoided the crew's quarters, and found a storeroom filled with barrels of supplies. Its investigation proved fruitless.

"Wouldn't it be ironic if we went to all this work and didn't find it?" Ben muttered.

"More irritating than ironic in this case," Jack said.

"So…I was expecting you to know where to look."

"Well, why don't we ask someone?" Jack cocked his head, listening to a creak. Someone was walking about below decks, someone who, unlike the trespassers, didn't seem to care about calling attention to them.

Jack opened the door a crack as a drowsy sailor walked past, most likely on his way to the head. Slipping a knife from his boot, Jack pushed the door gently, allowing it to swing open. The sailor stopped, confused, and slowly turned around. Or would have, had Jack not burst from the doorway and seized him from behind in half a headlock, the pirate's sword against the man's throat. "Don't scream," Jack hissed in his ear. His blade brushed the stubble on the man's chin. "You'll regret it. Now I'm going to ask you a question, and you'll answer it, and we'll be on our merry way."

The sailor said nothing, he just glared.

"Your Captain, that fine Mr. Bronson, and I do use 'fine' in the loosest sense of the word, has taken on a new possession, a trifle really, an antique. I want it back. Where is it?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"I thought the presence of my sword might answer that particular inquiry."

"Would you really kill me? I know your kind, you're all cowards."

"Perhaps," said Ben, stepping out of the shadows and pointing his pistol in the sailor's face. "But would you really be willing to die. Sure, you could scream, they might even catch us and you'd be avenged. But is that enough if you aren't there to see it? You don't look like a praying man Mr.…whatever."

Jack raised an eyebrow at Ben, "I thought I was handling this."

Ben shrugged, "Too slow. Answers?"

"I don't know anything about any antique," the man said.

"How about a map?" Jack asked.

"Especially not."

"What about if I cut your throat, will you know then?"

"I think he's telling the truth," said Ben. "This means, of course he's no longer any use to us…and he will scream, so…"

"Wait, one thing," the sailor said quickly. "The captain, it's not unknown for him to be in possession of certain odd, even arcane, objects. When he's got one, far as we can tell, it goes right in his cabin. I never been in there, but that's where you're map woulda been put."

"Thank you," said Ben. "You've been very helpful." He cracked the man over the head with the butt of his pistol.

"Impressive," said Jack, lowering the soldier to the floor. "You've got a talent for this sort of thing. Sure you're not a pirate?"

"Sure," said Ben, "and I really felt terrible doing that, for what it's worth."

"How do you think I feel everyday?"

"Terrible?"

"Nah," Jack scoffed, "I feel great, but I'll feel better once we've got this map."

"No arguments here," Ben agreed.

Ben followed Jack through the cramped, darkened underbelly of the ship, heading for the stairs.

"Alright, you knock out the sentry, I'll pop inside the captain's cabin, and we'll both be over the side and home free before you can say, 'I need this map to get back to the future because I'm crazy', savvy?" Jack revealed his plan.

"Alright, but don't act like you can give me orders just because what I decide to do corresponds with what you suggested." Ben couldn't help but feel he was getting the better part of the arrangement.

The guard at the helm was gazing across the water to the lights of the port. It seemed he hadn't even noticed the other guard had been knocked unconscious and stashed out of sight. They'd been lucky so far, Ben realized as he crouched in the shadows below the stairs. Hopefully their luck wasn't about to change.

Jack tiptoed to the door of the captain's cabin. He was prepared to attempt picking the lock, but was pleasantly surprised to find it creaked open easily. Jack slipped inside as the guard above, curious about the sound, came over to peer down along the deck.

This was when he was seized from behind.

Ben grabbed the man's rifle, from behind, pinning the guard to him, choking him. The guard's sharp elbows drilled into his torso. The guard kicked of the railing ahead, slamming Ben into the wheel.

The guard wrenched away, the rifle flew from their hands, sliding across the wood of the deck. Ben went for it, till he realized the guard was making instead for the alarm bell. The clang rang out in the cold night air, finally confirming that something was not right aboard The Indulgence.

Ben slammed into the man instantaneously, and half shoved, half threw him over the railing. The guard plunged into the water below with a shrill scream.

But it was nothing compared to the pair of screams from below.

Jack burst out of the captain's cabin, the oriental map tucked through his belt. At his heels was Bronson, sword in hand. The EITC operative wore his militaristic coat over his night shirt.

Jack spun, unsheathing his sword and blocking Bronson's strike; their blades locked in midair as they pushed against each other.

Ben shouldered the rifle, sighting it to aim at Bronson's back. His finger was on the trigger, it would be so easy. Yet he hesitated, he couldn't do it.

He never got a second chance. Jack sidestepped, sending Bronson to the deck. The EITC captain rolled away as the tip of Jack's sword bit into the wood. Bronson knocked a second slash away with his sword, and rolled to his feet.

Hatches were thrown open as East India Trading Company soldiers burst out onto the deck. Gunshots rang out. Ben dived to the floor as musket balls whizzed over his head, biting into the wheel and the railing.

Jack danced backward across the deck, just managing to parry and deflect the much angered Bronson's sequence of jabs and thrusts.

Ben get to his feet as a pair of soldiers with bayonets charged up the stairs. He hefted his newfound rifle and swung it like a baseball bat, catching the first soldier in the face. The man went down.

The second soldier stabbed with his bayonet. Ben blocked with his own rifle, ramming the blade into the floor. He slammed his shoulder into the guards face, and chopped down on his wrist with his hand, dislodging the rifle from the man's grip. Ben snatched for the firearm as his own clattered away, wrenched from his grasp, and the blade speared the sailor's foot to the deck.

Ben dived back as the man screamed in pain, and was tackled from behind by the remaining soldier. He was rammed into the railing, and struggled to brace himself against it, rather than be pushed up and over. Ben fumbled for the object in his belt.

The crack was nearly deafening. Ben got a face full of smoke and heat, but he still came out the better. His assaulter stumbled away and toppled over, a new hole where his guts were supposed to be. Ben's hands and face were speckled with blood. He suddenly felt sicker than ever before in his life.

Jack leaned back as Bronson's sword whizzed by inches from his face. His face a mask of rage, the man slashed again, but this time Jack caught the blade with his knife. He slashed at Bronson, who was forced to retreat, a long rent down the front of his night shirt. Jack threw the knife, and the captain cried out in pain as it lodged in his bicep.

Jack was immediately seized by two burly EITC soldiers; the one on his right twisted the sword from his grip.

He shouldered the musket. This time, Ben didn't hesitate.

One of Jack's captors was sent reeling with a musket ball in his face. The pirate leapt into action, jabbing his other guard in the face, and grabbing him by the neck, pulling him in front of him. The man shuddered as the projectiles from three guns aimed at Jack struck him in the chest.

Jack launched himself into a summersault, snatching up his sword in time to fight off two more guards.

With a primal, or perhaps confused, yell Ben Gates came swinging in out of the night, clinging to a rope trailing from the rigging. His lower half slammed into an EITC soldier, knocking the man to the ground. Nearly stumbling into Jack, Ben caught his balance and hurled his spent pistol. It spun end over end and hit Captain Bronson in the chest.

Jack grabbed his adversary's rifle, and ran the man through below it. His other attacker could have taken the head from his shoulder, but Ben grabbed the man's sword arm by the wrist, and punched him twice in the face, swinging him about to shove over the side.

Panting, pirate and historian stood back to back, only to find themselves surrounded. Bronson interrupted a row and blue-coated soldiers whose rifles were leveled at two trespassers.

"You fight a good fight," Jack told him.

"Yeah, not that that seems to amount to much," said Ben, trying not to look at the handful of bodies spaced across the ship.

"That's a pirate's life," Jack shrugged.

"Or a pirate's death," Bronson interjected, "Makes me wonder what's so special about this map. Regardless, not even the famous Jack Sparrow will be able to weasel his way out of this little scrape."

"It'd take a miracle, mate," Jack sneered.

That it did.