At dawn, the troops sprang into motion. By order of Lieutenant Inzunza, the soldiers set about preparing the grounds for the duel. In the open plaza before the three stone stelae, a canopy had been erected for the lieutenant. Beneath it stood a fine French baroque chair—clearly part of the contraband cargo from the Santa Carmen—along with a small table laid with wine and delicacies.

  Kwame and Skippy were tied to a wooden post, back to back. A brazier burned at their feet, and a burly soldier stirred a red-hot iron within the coals using a metal rod, tending to it with deliberate care. From time to time he lifted the glowing iron and displayed it mockingly before the pirates.

  “Like it, lad?” he said to the elf, grinning.

  “Have you nothing better to do than stir embers, soldier?” Skippy replied coolly.

  “Silence, heretic… I burn with desire to warm your feet and make you dance… like the witch in Snow White,” the man said, provoking laughter from the other soldiers.

  Skippy drew a slow breath.

  “Captain, let me say that I trust you… even if you do not win,” Kwame murmured.

  “Spare me encouragement, Kwame,” Skippy answered. “Better concern yourself with not dancing, as that Spaniard so eagerly promises.”

  Kwame pressed his lips together and fell silent.

  Meanwhile, inside the warehouse, the light of morning filtered through the windows when suddenly the door was flung open.

  “Up, all of you! Come now, it’s daylight!” shouted the stout Spanish soldier, clapping his hands.

  “The crew of the pirate vessel—present yourselves at once,” added his lean companion, “unless you wish to be shot where you stand.”

  The prisoners rose grumbling under their breath. The crew of the Garnor stood beneath the watchful eyes of the other captives and began filing out. The last to leave was Trumper, who discreetly pointed two fingers to his eyes toward Larry, who returned the gesture in kind.

  Trumper caught up with the column of prisoners.

  “Can we trust these dogs?” Goodwin muttered.

  “What choice have we?” the boatswain replied.

  “The mulatto stayed in the tunnel?” another pirate asked.

  “Yes… guarding Worthy. He’ll see to everything.”

  “It unnerves me to depend on a sea rat…”

  “Silence. Thanks to him we found the tunnel,” Cade snapped.

  Once outside, the Spaniards tied their right ankles together with a single rope, binding them one to another.

  “Well then, pirates… show us how well you coordinate,” the stout soldier jeered.

  They attempted to walk, but immediately began stumbling—one pulling harder than the next, tripping, arguing. Laughter erupted among the Spaniards.

  “Enough! Carry yourselves with dignity, damn it!” ordered the boatswain. “We move to a rhythm—no one steps without my signal.”

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  “What’s the point of obedience if they’re going to hang us?” Ford muttered.

  Goodwin, walking behind him, struck him sharply at the back of the head. The gesture drew fresh laughter from the soldiers.

  Following Trumper’s commands, they began marching in measured cadence.

  “Look at them! Quite the gentlemen!” the Spaniards mocked.

  Thus they marched until they reached the plaza before the pyramid, where soldiers, auxiliary troops, servants—and to everyone’s surprise—the remainder of the Garnor crew were already gathered.

  “Heavens… they’ve got them all, even the bookish mouse,” one pirate whispered.

  “Well now… did you miss me?” the boatswain said upon arrival.

  The secretary trembled visibly.

  “I was not assigned to this,” he protested nervously at finding himself among the prisoners.

  “Did you imagine you’d do nothing but count doubloons and pieces of eight aboard a pirate ship?” one of the crew retorted.

  “It’s damned misfortune,” muttered the steward. “I was preparing a fine clam stew… it’ll all go to waste.”

  “I only hope they grant us a clean drop—and not leave us to choke for half the morning,” Frank said grimly.

  Mr. Paine pressed a hand to his throat, pale with dread.

  Skippy was led to the center of the dueling ground, shackled at both ankles with a chain. The soldier positioned him in place.

  “Will you not remove the chain?” the elf asked.

  “It allows you to move, does it not?” the Spaniard replied.

  Skippy exhaled sharply in irritation. This duel would be a true trial.

  Expectation hung thick in the air. Only scattered murmurs could be heard, along with the harsh cries of seabirds over the estuary. Minutes passed. Skippy remained standing beneath the morning sun, sweat streaming down his brow.

  “What is it? Do Spaniards now fear a duel?” one pirate shouted.

  “It is part of the strategy,” Trumper answered.

  Meanwhile, Sammy awoke with a start. She had fallen asleep. Opening her eyes, she saw Yanga seated nearby, leafing through the journal, two soldiers standing beside him.

  “Good morning,” Yanga said upon noticing her.

  In a sudden impulse, the girl tried to rise, but the soldiers seized her shoulders and forced her back down.

  “I must admit, you have surprised me,” Yanga continued, laying the journal upon the table and holding up the severed ropes. “Of all the pirates I have known, you, at such a tender age, possess more cunning and boldness than most.”

  He cast the straps aside and signaled with his head for the soldiers to bind her anew.

  “Her ankles as well?” one asked.

  “No… we are taking her to enjoy the spectacle,” Yanga replied.

  He moved toward the door, then paused and turned back.

  “Search him thoroughly. This boy is exceedingly clever.”

  Sammy clenched her jaw and struggled as they hauled her to her feet and began searching her.

  “Leave me be,” she protested.

  Then they found the concealed knife.

  “Well now… full of surprises, aren’t you?” one soldier laughed, drawing more amusement from the others.

  Sammy arched an eyebrow. She had fallen into her own snare.

  “Plan B!” she shouted.

  “What did he say?”

  “Something… perhaps he’s warning someone,” the soldier muttered. “You take him. I’ll inspect the perimeter.”

  Sammy was shoved from the armory and driven toward the rest of the prisoners. The soldier began inspecting the room for irregularities.

  Inside the tunnel, Kayin slept undisturbed as rats scurried across his lap. At the sound of Sammy’s cry, he jolted awake. He climbed toward the mouth of the shaft and peered upward, catching sight of a soldier’s boots pacing across the floor.

  “Oh heavens…” he whispered.

  The soldier rummaged through cupboards, drawers, and chests. He glanced about, approached the dresser, and dropped to one knee. Kayin slipped back into the shaft, musket in hand. After a tense moment, footsteps receded and a door slammed shut.

  Kayin remained motionless for some time. At last, with utmost caution, he peered out—the chamber stood empty. He lowered himself once more into the shaft, troubled, and made his way down the tunnel leading outward.

  More than an hour had passed. Skippy still stood beneath the sun, drenched in sweat, when at last the soldiers began forming a circle around the arena. Inzunza appeared, walking and conversing with Yanga, who remained beneath the canopy, discussing something with him in low tones.

  The boatswain and his men watched uneasily.

  “Those two are plotting something,” Trumper muttered.

  “Perhaps it has to do with that,” Goodwin replied, nodding toward Sammy.

  “Oh, damnation…” Trumper whispered. “We’re finished.”

  Murmurs spread among the prisoners.

  “I don’t want to die…” Ford whimpered, though this time no one answered.

  Sammy was placed beside Trumper. She kept her eyes fixed upon the plaza, ashamed to look at the men.

  “For a moment,” Trumper whispered into her ear, “I trusted you.”