"I'm the captain," Stede insists, stomping his foot, "and the captain goes down with the ship!"

"We're not on a ship you fuckin' tw--"

"Hey!" Roach interrupts them as the door crunches again, a few splinters flying into the room. "I don't give a shit who goes first--just go!"

Stede manhandles Izzy up to the window ledge, he and Roach supporting Izzy when he sways. Part of a man's shoulder bursts through the door. Jim catches Izzy by the hand.

A man sticks his head out the window, looking at the street below.

"Nothing here!" he shouts to what sounds like at least six other men, if the volume of their cursing is anything to go by. Izzy, Roach, Jim and Stede lie on the rooftop, hearts pounding, gasping quietly for breath. After a moment, Stede frowns.

"You don't suppose the innkeeper sold us out, do you?" he asks.

"Yes," the other three reply in unison.

"It's like I said--" Roach says.

"I know," Stede sighs. "It's a big bounty."

"We've gotta get back to the ship," Jim says. They stare over the network of rooftops towards the harbour, eyes glittering in the grey, predawn light. They can just barely make out the faintest outline of sails, the water shrouded in mist so early in the morning.

"It's not going to be easy," Roach says, shaking his head grimly. "But I think I know someone who might help."

They move through alleys and narrow passageways, heads down. Jim steals a length of cloth from a merchant's table, wrapping it around Izzy like a cloak. Stede, still in slub silk trousers, feels more conspicuous than ever. He sighs in relief when Roach finally stops at a door, half-hidden in the shadows

"This way," Roach says, opening the door and letting Izzy slip through first, followed by Stede. Jim enters last, still scanning the street for threats

A figure hunches on a stool in front of it, silver hair concealing the face, skinny arms covered in ropy muscle working to grind a handful of iridescent beetle shells into a fine, shimmering dust.

Roach clears his throat.

The man looks up, one glittering eye staring at Roach, then moving over the rest of them. Whatever he sees in them doesn't impress him, it seems--he snorts, turning back to his task. Roach, unperturbed, folds his arms over his chest.

He waits as the man continues grinding the shells. At last, he picks up the heavy-looking mortar, pouring the powder, so fine it moves more like liquid, into a small glass vial. He looks up again, pushing sweaty hair out of his eyes, leaving a streak of iridescence across his brow.

"Roach," he says, toneless.

"Hezekiah," Roach replies, equally unreadable. "You owe me a favour. I am here to collect."

"And I want safe passage back to our ship," he adds. Hezekiah hesitates, then looks up, suddenly keenly interested.

"That's two favours," he says, then turns back to his work. He picks up another little jar, pouring a couple of droplets of a bright, carmine-coloured substance into the mix. Roach shrugs.

"Then I guess I'll owe you one," he says simply. The whole room smells of Hezekiah's mixture. Izzy finds it familiar somehow. Bile rises in his throat

Hezekiah nods. He steps around the table and walks over to stand in front of Izzy. Izzy flinches as he reaches out abruptly. Stede growls, hand going to the knife at his belt--Jim's knife, already drawn, grazes Hezekiah's throat. He glares at them, one eye bright, the other a faded bluish-white.

"Can't say what's in him if I don't examine him," he says simply. Izzy puts a hand on Stede's wrist.

"It's fine," he says. Jim lowers their knife reluctantly.

Hezekiah reaches out again, pulling back one of Izzy's eyelids with red-stained fingertips.

"Stick out your tongue," he demands after a moment, grabbing Izzy's wrist to take his pulse. Izzy does it, feeling ridiculous and more than a little dizzy. Hezekiah mutters to himself, stalking back over to his table. Stede pulls Izzy against him and Jim steps in closer, protective. Roach just watches Hezekiah.

"Well?" he asks, after several moments pass.

Izzy sways a little, the air too thick around him. Stede's arm wraps around his waist tightly. As steam rises from the bowl Hezekiah has prepared, Stede glances around, trying to find the best exit.

"Hard to say," Hezekiah says. He picks up another glass jar, this one apparently empty. Carefully, steadily, he pours the liquid he's just prepared into it. It swirls behind glass, little eddies of the beetle shell powder glimmering in the candlelight.

"Wouldn't care to hazard a guess at what they gave him, exactly," he says. "I'd guess it might last another week, maybe two. Hard to say."

The scent of the liquid fades a touch as he pushes a cap down on the jar. Izzy tries to catch his breath, the air still too close.

"And the way back to our ship?" Roach asks. Hezekiah looks faintly irritated at the question.

"Split up," he says. "You take that one." He gestures towards Izzy with his chin.

"Head west on the back streets, double back at devil's cross. The other two, head east. Stick to the main roads until you come to the village green, then take the third alley on the left--you'll reach the harbour before nightfall."

"Well, hang on a minute, I'm not going anywhere without--" Stede begins to protest, still holding Izzy against his chest.

"You want him safe, yes?" Roach interrupts.

"Well, of course," Stede snaps, still ready to argue.

"Then you'll do as I say," Roach says. He gives his old friend a wary nod. "Hezekiah."

Hezekiah says nothing as they leave. Izzy glances back as Roach closes the door behind them--he sees the glint of Hezekiah's good eye, watching.

Roach pushes them along the narrow side street and into an even narrower alley, eyes darting back and forth.

"You really think we can trust este pendejo?" Jim asks, dubious. Roach snorts.

"Of course not," he replies.

Even those few disappear as the crossroads comes into view before them.

"You ready?" Roach asks. His companion just nods. They step out into the open space, still moving quickly, heading for an alley that will let them double back towards the port. For a long moment, they're alone. Roach's shoulders relax ever so slightly. And then...

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

A thickset man steps out from one of the alleyways. He smirks unpleasantly.

Another man, tall and thin, steps out of the mouth of another of the dozens or so little alleys that branch off devil's cross into the twisting rabbit warren complexity of the Republic. He holds a long knife. The light gleams gold on one of his teeth as he leers at them. Three more men flank him, all professional bounty hunters, by the looks of them.

"You have something that doesn't belong to you," the thin man drawls, his voice nasal and piercing.

Roach rolls his eyes.

"I have a lot of things that don't belong to me," he says. "I'm a pirate."

His light tone belies the shift in his body language. He scans his surroundings.

"Give us Hands," the larger man sneers. He holds an ugly cudgel, stained and dented. "No need for anybody to get hurt."

"Over your dead body," Roach says, stepping between them and the smaller figure, hood still raised, head still down. Men block the alley behind them, too.

"You're outnumbered," the thin man says. The men shuffle towards Roach, a little hesitant. Roach grins at them, eyes wide. He has a reputation to keep up, after all. "Why don't you just give us Hornigold's man?"

"Like I said," Roach says, voice high, unnerving. Suddenly, with deadly precision, a knife darts out from his hooded companion's cloak, embedding itself in the neck of the thickset man. He gurgles, stumbling back. "Over your dead body."

They sprint at first, dodging down side streets and through buildings, finally slowing as the sound of pursuit fades behind them.

"You think we lost them?" Roach asks, breathing hard, still holding two blood-stained cleavers.

"Not a chance," Jim mutters. They slip into another alley, pulling their hood tighter around their face

"Good," Roach says, smile fierce

"Easy for you to say," Jim mutters, wiping their forehead. "I'm sweating my ass off here."

"Not long now," Roach says. "One way or another."

Beneath the hood, Jim grimaces.

"You think we bought them enough time?" they ask. Roach glances around the corner of the alley, pulling back abruptly when he spots two men, pistols drawn, creeping along the street.

"Only one way to find out," he says with a little shrug. Jim grins, drawing another knife as they crouch at the mouth of the alley, waiting to pounce.

Stede's heart pounds in his throat. He keeps his steps steady, measured. In tattered, grey-brown woollen trousers, a stained cotton shirt and a fisherman's cap pulled tight over his ears, he knows he's barely recognizable. He's never felt more conspicuous. He keeps his head down. Izzy, similarly attired, with a bandana wrapped around the bottom half of his face, holds his hand, pulling him along

"Come on," he'd said gruffly when he grabbed Stede's hand

He'd tugged Stede roughly into a shadowy corner of a muddy alley so they could change. He'd even smudged Stede's face with some of the muck, barely making eye contact as he did so. And then they were off.

Izzy's shoulders are stiff, his jaw tight--Stede sees it flex under the bandana as he stares at the back of Izzy's head. He'd thought at first that Izzy was annoyed with him, with the necessity of a posh idiot, as he was wont to say, slowing him down.

But his eyes... Stede watches them shift, widening a little too much, shining a little too bright.

Izzy is terrified. His hand tightens again as they step past another alley. Stede squeezes back, eyes on the shifting crowd around them, then back on Izzy's profile. Even with a bandana around his face, Stede can trace the elegant contour of his aquiline nose, can imagine the mouth beneath it, set firm, determined. Stede keeps his other hand on his pistol

He forces himself to breathe evenly, to move with no more urgency than any other drunk in the crowd. Every shadow seems to hold some hidden threat, every face a potential enemy. All that matters is getting Izzy back to the ship.

They're close now--the streets here smell of saltwater, fish guts and sick. Stede starts to recognize some of the streets around them, or at least he thinks he does. Hard to tell one den of iniquity from another, truth be told.

He wonders where Jim and Roach are, if they've started back to the ship yet. If they're safe. They round the corner, and now he's certain--he knows these streets. The Revenge is just around the corner. They've done it. Now all they have to do is--

"Shit!"

Stede's head swivels so quickly he feels his neck twinge. Jim and Roach spill out of an alley a few meters back, yelling and cursing. Jim spots him instantly--so much for his bloody disguise.

"Run!" they yell. Stede stands frozen for a moment, trying to comprehend what he's seeing. That's-- they're--

"Who in the bloody hell is that!" he squawks, pointing at the unconscious man the two of them are carrying, Jim with his feet tucked under their arms, Roach holding him firmly under the armpits as his head lolls.

"Hostage!" Roach replies, grinning manically as Stede registers yelling, the pounding of footstepts behind them. "Now, RUN!"

Stede runs, not letting go of Izzy's hand. He takes the lead, pistol drawn, shoves his way through the crowded streets, around the corner.

The Revenge stands just ahead of them, its sails slack, hull glowing in the late morning sun. It's the most beautiful sight Stede's ever seen. A man rears up in front of him, all gap-toothed grin and grasping hands, reaching out to snatch at Izzy. Stede doesn't break his stride, backhanding the man with his pistol.

He hears a grunt as the man stumbles back, blood pouring from a gash in his forehead. A few others fall back with alarmed shouts as Stede waves the gun wildly, teeth bared.

"Out of my fucking way!" he shouts. He sees Olu peer over the Revenge's railing, sees him shout to the rest of the crew, and then they're tearing up the gangplank. Roach and Jim toss their hostage to the side--he hits the deck like a sack of potatoes as they pull up the gangplank.

"Mister Buttons, get us under way immediately!" Stede shouts. A pistol shot sounds from below. He moves without thinking, tackling Izzy to the deck. Feet thud as the crew rushes about, returning fire, making the ship ready to sail. Finally, sails billow to life with a crack--the ship pulls away from the dock, crew still firing at the mercenaries below. As the ship breaks heads for open water, Izzy shoves at Stede's chest

"Fuck, Bonnet you're heavy..."

He shoves at Stede again. Stede doesn't respond.

"Bonnet?" he says, panic making his voice sharp, and then "Stede?"

He grips Stede's shoulders. The man groans and Izzy's head spins with relief even as his adrenaline spikes. He runs his hands over Stede's head, down his neck, searching for...

"Fuck! Somebody help me!" he shouts. "Roach! Bonnet's been shot!"

There's a flurry of activity and then Stede's limp body lifts, freeing Izzy to scramble out.

Frenchie and Wee John help Roach maneuvre him onto a stretcher as Izzy pushes his hair out of his face. Stede groans again as they move him, eyes blinking open, focusing on Izzy. He reaches out, grabbing for Izzy's hand, holding on tight.

"Izzy, darling, are you alright?" he says, speech slightly slurred. Izzy laughs, a pained little sound.

"I'm not the one who got shot, you idiot," he says, voice breaking.

"Oh," Stede says, looking down at himself.

Frenchie and John carry the stretcher belowdecks, into Roach's makeshift surgery. Izzy stays next to Stede, holding his hand. Stede keeps his eyes on Izzy. Blood spreads across the back of his shirt, no exit wound.

"Flip him," Roach says. "I'm going to dig it out."

Izzy steps back as John takes hold of Stede's shoulders, Frenchie taking his legs. Roach stabilizes his hips as they roll him onto his belly. Stede cries out, the sound harsh and choked off