The morning sun burned over the Caribbean, spilling gold across the dock.
The air stank of salt, tar, and fish guts left to rot somewhere nearby. Seagulls screamed above, circling masts that stabbed at the sky like crooked spears.
Vikram crouched behind a stack of crates, knees pressed against splinters, his heart drumming faster than the creak of ropes above. He peeked through a gap between two barrels, watching the man he'd been following since morning.
The stranger moved with the wobble of a man who'd had far too much rum, but somehow managed to never quite fall, the kind that made sailors step aside, unsure if he was drunk or just dangerous.
His coat was long and dark, the kind that once belonged to a gentleman but had clearly lost the argument with time. His boots tapped unevenly on the planks, clop, clop, a rhythm halfway between a march and a stumble.
Not rich, not poor. Somewhere in between, Vikram thought, chewing his lip.
"Drunk and careless," Vikram muttered. "That's the best kind, easy to rob, easier to outrun."
The man reached the edge of the dock and began weaving his way toward the marketplace. His walk was still uneven- not stumbling, but dancing in his own strange rhythm. The crowd thinned a little as he passed, some giving him odd looks, others pretending not to notice him.
Vik waited for the right moment, and crouched low. The man was leaving the dock now, weaving through the crowd of sailors, merchants, and fishwives. Vikram's eyes followed the small bulge at his belt- a coin pouch, leather worn smooth. That pretty thing practically begged to be stolen.
The drunkard paused to pluck a bruised fruit from a cart without asking, then admired a cracked hand mirror as though it were treasure. He grinned at his reflection... yellowed teeth and all.
Obviouslynot a nobleman, Vikram thought, suppressing a laugh. "Should've stolen a toothbrush first."
He darted from behind the crates, timing his steps to match the noise of the crowd, the shouts of the sailors, the slam of a crate, the clatter of chains.
Vikram's pulse hammered. That's my chance.
One hand steadied his ragged hat, the other ghosted toward the pirate's belt, light as a whisper. The coin pouch swung there.
Just a little closer…
He waited until the man turned again, then moved.
Now!
Vikram walked forward, heart pounding in his ears, small hands moving fast as lightning. He bumped into the man's side, pretending to trip, fingers already curling around the pouch's strap- He almost succeeded!
But before he could pull away, a hand shot out and caught his wrist.
It was warm, strong, and impossibly fast.
"Now then, lad," the man murmured, not even bothering to look down. His voice was smooth and lazy, like rum poured over mischief. "That's bold. Pickpocketing a pirate."
Vikram froze. "I-I wasn't-"
"Ah, you were," the man cut in, finally turning those sharp, dark eyes glinting with something between amusement and curiosity on him. "See, I can tell by the way your fingers are trembling. First rule of thievery, don't shake."
"I wasn't stealing!" Vikram protested weakly, thinking of ways to run away.
"Of course not." The man crouched until he was eye to eye with him, his expression mock-serious. "You were merely… inspecting the quality of my pouch, eh? Quality control. Admirable dedication."
Vikram's stomach dropped. Last time he'd been caught, the guards had left bruises that took days to fade. He tensed, waiting for the hit, the shout- anything.
But instead, the man just smiled amused with his crooked dirty teeth.
"Nice soft hands, lad," he said. "Didn't even feel it. You've got talent… though unlucky it was me you tried to rob, eh?"
"I–I don't know what you're talking about," Vikram muttered, looking away.
The man released his wrist with a theatrical flourish. "Of course you don't. Silly me. Now Shoo shoo-" Flicking his hands, he turned away, already distracted by an argument nearby, waving his arms at a pair of sailors as if conducting an orchestra only he could hear.
Vikram scowled, rubbing his wrist. "Stupid pirate," he grumbled under his breath.
That was when he noticed it, a small brass compass, hanging on the pirate's belt. Its lid hung slightly open, the needle inside spinning like it had lost its mind, refusing to settle on any direction.
(Image)
"That's broken," Vikram whispered, curiosity flickering like a match in his eyes. The pirate's back was turned. Too tempting. Too easy this time. He lifted the compass, slow as a prayer, and slipped it under his shirt.
He'd barely taken two steps before the same calm voice drifted from behind him.
"Funny thing, lad. That compass has a habit of walkin' away… usually takin' its new owner straight to misfortune."
Vikram froze, every muscle tight. He turned around slowly.
The pirate was right there beside him again, close enough for Vikram to smell the salt and rum on his coat. He plucked the compass from the boy's pocket with two fingers, snapping the lid shut.
"And," The man went on, tilting his head, "every time it gets nicked, it finds its way back. Almost like it's got a sense of direction... unlike the people who steal it."
Before Vikram could answer, a shout came from the dockside. "Hey! Move along! The Commodore's on the way!"
Two red-coated guards were pushing through the crowd, marching up the dock, boots thudding in rhythm. The pirate straightened, smoothing his coat with exaggerated grace.
Vikram's eyes flicked from the guards to the pirate. An idea hit him, fast and wicked. I'm sorry for this!
"HELP!! He's a pirate!" Vikram shouted, face the picture of wide-eyed child-like innocence. He even added a gasp for effect.
Mr.Drunk pirate blinked. "Pardon?"
"Pirate!" Vikram shouted louder. "He said so himself!"
The guards' heads turned immediately. "What did he say?" one muttered.
The man's expression didn't so much as twitch. "Ah," he said, flashing his most charming yellow grin, "there seems to be... a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?" one guard barked. "You there-show your papers!"
As the guards advanced, Vikram used the chaos. He yanked his arm free, grabbed the compass again - a clean snatch this time and bolted into the crowd.
"Oi! Get back here, you little-!"
But Vikram didn't get back. He ran, quick and small as a shadow, the stolen compass clutched tight in his hand.
Behind him came the sound of confusion, the guards barking, Jack talking smooth nonsense in return. By the time they reached him, Vikram was gone.
He bolted through the crowd, heart battering his ribs. The sea breeze slapped his face, cool and sharp. Bare feet smacked the planks as he dove into a narrow alley, leaving the shouting far behind.
He stopped only when he reached the far end of the dock, near where the big Navy ships rested silent and still. His chest heaved. He pulled out the compass, flipping it open again.
The needle spun. Round and round. It refused to stay still.
"What are you supposed to do, huh?" he asked it, frowning. "Point to treasure, maybe?"
The reflection of the sun shimmered on the metal lid, turning the brass bright.
"Quite right, eh?" came a voice behind him.
Vikram jumped so high he almost dropped the compass. The man was there again, standing at his side as if he'd appeared out of thin air. The sun caught in his dark hair and the glint of gold beads woven into it.
He snatched the compass back with a practiced flick of his wrist, tucking it into his coat pocket. "You're quick," he said approvingly. "For a lad who still trips over his own feet."
Vikram glared. "You followed me!"
Jack shrugged. "Followed, found, same difference." He studied Vikram for a moment and reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single silver coin. "For your troubles, lad. A shilling."
Vikram eyed it suspiciously. "You giving me money?"
"Call it a reward," Jack said, pressing it into his palm. "For effort. And for not biting when caught."
The boy's frown softened a little. He glanced at the shining coin, then at the man. "You're weird."
"Frequently." Jack smiled faintly, then turned his attention to the water, where the Royal Navy ships loomed, polished wood, white sails, and flags snapping in the breeze.
He stared at one ship in particular.
Vikram followed his gaze. "Why're you looking at that one?"
"That one?" Jack tipped his head. "Because I want it."
Vikram nearly laughed. "That's the Interceptor! Fastest ship in all the Caribbean, it is."
"Ah," Jack murmured, eyes twinkling. "Well… except, of course, the Black Pearl."
Vikram blinked. "The what?"
"The Black Pearl," Jack said softly, both hands exclaiming with excitement, as though the name itself was a secret. "A ship like no other."