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

Izzy hisses, wrapping his arms around himself. He feels fucking useless. Roach glances up at him.

"Come over here," he says, holding up a knife, running a flame over its blade. Izzy approaches slowly, uncertainly. Roach nods towards Stede. "Hold his hands."

Izzy crouches down in front of the table. He takes hold of Stede's hands, lacing their fingers together. Stede whimpers as the motion pulls at his injury, but then looks up at Izzy, smiling tightly

"Not to worry, darling," he says. "A pirate's life, eh?"

His hair is soaked with sweat, face pale. Izzy swallows convulsively.

"Oh, shut up," he says, squeezing Stede's hands.

"This might sting a bit," Roach says, uncorking a bottle of rum with his teeth. "Hold him down."

Stede screams as Roach pours rum over the wound to sterilize it. Izzy holds on to his hands for dear life, Frenchie and John pinning his hips and legs as his body writhes in agony.

"Fuck," Izzy says through gritted teeth. His voice breaks again. Roach holds the rum bottle against Stede's lips.

"Drink," he says. Stede does as he's told, amber liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth as Roach pours it down his throat. Finally, he pulls the bottle away, setting it down on the table with a thunk. "Now hold him tight. If he moves too much, I might hit something... essential."

He passes his blade through the flame again.

Roach makes a triumphant sound, fingers parting the flesh he's carving. He sets the knife aside, picking up a pair of tongs and fishing around in the wound. After a moment, he draws them out, slow and cautious. The bullet clatters down on the table, blood-streaking the dull grey surface. Roach grabs the rum bottle again, pouring another measure over the wound, then taking a swig. Stede moans quietly, still unconscious

"Almost done," Izzy murmurs to him

He doesn't expect a response, of course he doesn't, he's not a fucking child. He must be imagining things, he thinks, when Stede's face seems to relax at the sound of his voice.

"Come on, Bonnet," he says anyway, feeling fucking ridiculous. "Stubborn twat like you, you'll be fucking fine. Just... just hold on, alright?"

Roach picks up a curved needle, stitching the wound with surprisingly tidy sutures, tying each off before moving on to the next.

"He's lucky," Roach says at last, mopping up the last of Stede's blood with an alcohol-soaked rag before tying a clean bandage around the shoulder. "Missed all the important bits. Keep it clean, keep it from festering, and he'll be good as new in no time. Well. Mostly."

Izzy keeps his eyes on Stede's face. Slowly, he lets go of his wrists, feeling the numbness in his fingers, the tightness of the muscles in his back and neck from holding Stede down.

He reaches up, pushing the hair out of Stede's eyes at last, stroking it back, tucking strands behind his ears. Stede murmurs softly, wincing as he shifts. Izzy, absurdly, finds himself cooing softly, petting Stede's hair. A knock on the door startles him. Olu hovers just outside.

"How is he?" he asks, looking from Stede's prone form to Roach, now leaning against the counter, smoking a joint with bloodied hands. Roach shrugs.

"He'll live. Probably."

Izzy stands, ignoring the way his legs shake. He needs to work, to do his fucking job.

"What's our heading, Mister Boudhari?" he asks. Olu's eyes widen as he looks at Izzy, and Izzy realizes suddenly that his cheeks are wet. He swipes an arm across his face irritably. "And where the hell is Ed? Stede's his fuckin'-- he should be here."

He looks away, missing the way Olu, glances to Frenchie and John.

"Um. Well. Bit of a problem, there. He's gone."

He has his numbers, sure, and enough letters to do the books, but no more than that. He squints at the page, blurry letters swimming in front of his eyes, useless.

"Fuck!"

He slams the letter down on the table. He could ask the boy for help, Lucius. There's no time for this nonsense. Stede murmurs in his sleep, calling for Izzy, for Ed. Izzy slumps down in a ridiculously plush chair. He buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he sobs.

*

It doesn't take long for Ed to find a ship headed in the right direction. He leaves his leathers on the Revenge, ties his hair back. His beard is short, close to his jawline. It makes him look younger. That plus a simple cotton shirt and breeches--"neutral tones, classic," as Stede would put it--and it becomes almost insultingly easy for Blackbeard to travel incognito. All these years to build his reputation and all it takes is a change of clothes?

But no matter.

He has other things to worry about.

He works for his passage--he doesn't want to attract attention by waving around too much gold. And besides. He needs something to do with his hands, to keep him occupied.

If he thinks too much about where he's headed, what he plans to do, he'll go mad, or worse, lose his nerve. He can't afford that.

Izzy can't afford that.

He keeps his head down, follows orders, competent but not too competent.

Just another body on deck. Keeps to himself.

The other men give him a wide berth. He's not unfriendly exactly, it's just... well, spend long enough at sea and you develop a feel for things.

You know when a man has the devil at his back.

And you know when that man turns to walk through the gates of hell, and spit in the devil's face.

Ed follows orders.

The other men cross themselves and mutter charms against the evil eye.

The ship sails on.