Jack Sparrow checked twice.
Then he checked a third time, because experience had taught him that the universe enjoyed embarrassing him precisely when he got confident.
The two guards lay exactly where they had fallen—sprawled on the stone floor, mouths open, one snoring softly enough that it echoed down the corridor. Their spears were abandoned at awkward angles, one wedged beneath a bench, the other resting against the wall.
They were only leeping.
Definitely sleeping.
Jack leaned out of the cell doorway, squinted at them, then nudged one with his bare foot.
No response.
He straightened, brow furrowed. "Huh," he muttered. "That worked better than expected."
He didn't dwell on why it worked. Experience had also taught him that asking too many questions upset whatever strange luck followed him around. Instead, he stepped over the guards, careful not to let the bars clink, and began trotting down the dark stone path.
Every few steps he paused, listening.
Nothing.
No shouts. No boots. No alarms.
Either the palace guards of Alubarna were frighteningly incompetent… or something much worse was happening elsewhere.
Jack preferred the first option.
He rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into a heavy wooden door. He froze, pressed himself flat against the wall, then slowly reached out and eased it open.
The room beyond was empty.
Warm light spilled in from high windows, illuminating polished floors and walls decorated with patterned tapestries. The air smelled faintly of incense and something floral. Definitely not what you'd expect to see once you step out of a dungeon.
Jack stepped inside, barefoot on marble, and glanced around in wonder. "Well," he whispered, impressed despite himself, "this is a step up."
A table stood in the center of the room. On it sat a vase—tall, slender, porcelain, painted with gold filigree and desert motifs. It looked expensive. Very expensive.
Jack approached it like a predator stalking prey.
He looked left.
Right.
Behind him.
No one.
He lifted the vase, weighing it in his hands. "You," he said softly, "are coming with me."
The allure of fine things was simply too great. He tucked it under his arm and turned—
—and nearly collided with a maid.
She froze.
Jack froze.
They stared at each other.
Jack smiled, warm and charming, and lifted his free hand in a polite wave. "Afternoon."
The maid's eyes traveled from his bare feet, to his prison clothes, to the vase in his arms.
Her mouth opened.
Jack's smile tightened. "Now, let's not—"
"THIEF!"
She turned and bolted, skirt flying, scream echoing down the corridor.
Jack stood there for half a second, then sighed. "But I am a pirate...."
He spun and ran.
The palace erupted.
Footsteps thundered from every direction. Shouts echoed off the stone. Somewhere, a horn sounded.
Jack sprinted down the hallway clutching the vase like a precious child, skidding around corners, narrowly avoiding guards who burst from side corridors.
"There!" someone shouted.
Jack yelped and veered left.
A group of guards charged after him, spears lowered. Jack ducked into another hall, nearly slipped on a rug, recovered, and slid behind a pillar. He pressed himself flat, breathing hard.
The guards ran past.
Jack peeked out.
Clear.
He exhaled, turned—and nearly ran face-first into a massive painting mounted on the wall.
It depicted a man in flowing robes arriving in a starving land, arms outstretched, children reaching for him, baskets of grain and water appearing as if by miracle. Jack squinted at it.
"Food relief?" he muttered. "Or divine intervention. Hard to tell."
A shout echoed nearby.
Jack panicked.
In a moment of inspired stupidity, he stepped backward and pressed himself against the painting, flattening his body and holding the vase in front of him like a prop.
The guards rushed in moments later.
They scanned the corridor.
One pointed. "He went this way!"
Another frowned. "No tracks."
They argued briefly, then moved on.
Jack stayed perfectly still.
For a very long time.
His arm began to ache. His leg cramped. He could feel sweat trickling down his spine.
Finally, voices approached again—but these were calmer, familiar.
Jack's ears perked up.
"…they broke through the outer line," a deep, tense voice was saying.
Igloo.
Jack strained to see through the sliver between the painting and wall.
Another voice answered—older, worn thin by exhaustion. "How long?"
"A few hours, at most. The Carragher pirates are advancing faster than anticipated."
Jack's breath caught.
Carragher pirates?
The older man—King Cobra—sighed heavily. "Pell? Chaka?"
There was a pause.
Jack felt a chill.
"Chaka engaged their vice captain," Igaram said quietly. "A swordsman named Gerrard. He… escaped, but his injuries are grave. Many men were lost covering his retreat."
Cobra's silence was heavy.
"Why," Cobra said at last, voice cracking just enough to betray him, "does this suffering fall upon my kingdom?"
Jack's grip on the vase tightened.
Cobra continued, "And the World Government?"
"They've sent for Marines," Igaram replied. "We don't know when they'll arrive."
Cobra nodded slowly. "And the thief? The one roaming the palace."
Igaram hesitated. "He is the same pirate we were interrogating. He had beaten the guards and escaped the dungeon. We are now… searching for him."
Jack winced.
Cobra rubbed his temples. "And the queen? Shall we evacuate her?"
"She cannot be moved," Igaram said gently. "The doctor says labor may begin at any moment."
Jack's eyes widened.
Bad timing. Very bad timing.
That was when his foot slipped.
The vase slipped with it.
Jack flailed.
Too late.
He tumbled out of the painting with a startled yelp, the vase smashing spectacularly against Igaram's head.
Porcelain exploded.
Gold shards scattered.
Igaram staggered, swearing.
Jack lunged forward on instinct, seized Cobra by the collar, and pressed a jagged shard of porcelain against the king's throat.
The guards froze.
Jack grinned, breathless. "Now, let's all remain calm."
"Release His Majesty!" Igaram barked, clutching his head.
Jack leaned Cobra back a step, careful but firm. "Ah-ah. No sudden movements. I'm not very good under pressure."
Cobra swallowed, eyes wide but defiant. "What do you want?"
"My belongings," Jack said promptly. "Hat. Coat. Sword. In that order."
Igaram hesitated.
Cobra nodded once. "Do it."
Moments later, guards returned, arms full.
Jack reclaimed his hat first, placing it on his head with reverence. Then his coat—he shrugged into it with a sigh of relief. Finally, his sword.
He felt whole again.
Jack backed toward a window, keeping Cobra between himself and the guards. He glanced down and immediately regretted it.
They were very high up.
"Right," Jack muttered. "That's… unfortunate."
"What do you want?" Cobra asked again, voice strained.
Jack opened his mouth to answer and Cobra suddenly twisted, grabbing the shard and wrenching it away with desperate strength.
"Your Majesty!" Igaram shouted.
Everything happened at once.
Guards surged forward.
Jack reacted on instinct—shoved Cobra toward Igaram, knocking them both off balance, and hurled himself out the window.
Cobra rushed to the edge, heart pounding.
There was nothing below.
Then he looked up.
Jack Sparrow was climbing.
Handholds, ledges, decorative stonework—he moved like a monkey, scrambling upward along the palace wall with alarming speed.
Cobra's eyes widened. "He's heading toward—"
"The queen's chambers," Igaram finished, horrified.
Elsewhere in the city, Van Augur stood in the shadows of a narrow alley, rifle slung across his back, watching guards flood toward the walls.
Sirens wailed.
Smoke curled into the sky, just outside the city.
"Damn it," Augur muttered.