space.
It was sunrise, which didn’t make sense—it had been the middle of the day when they went into the tunnels, and they couldn’t have been down there that long. Even more impossibly, they were now very clearly standing on a mountaintop surrounded by other mountains, a long, long way from the sea. Jack looked down at the quipu in puzzlement. “Did you do that?” he asked it.
“Jack,” Jean said warningly. Jack turned around and realized that scattered across the mountaintop was a small city with stone temples, stairs, and wells built high above the jungle. And this city was most definitely occupied. A crowd was gathered around an altar, where a man in a long robe stood holding a tall, golden spear. He was glaring at Jack. In fact, they were all glaring at Jack.
“Oh, bugger,” Jack said.
He had found the Incas…but the Incas were clearly not very pleased about it.
C HAPTER T WELVE
T he fort was small, but the solid stone walls were thick and steep, and the noses of small cannons poked over them ominously. Double wooden doors at the front were reinforced with an iron portcullis. Up above, the Spanish flag fluttered in the warm breeze. But there were no signs of guards—no signs of any human life at all.
“Maybe there’s nobody here,” Gombo said. “Perhaps they left their loot unguarded, thinking the jungle was enough to guard it for them.”
Diego shook his head. “I know the Spanish army,” he said. “The generals would never take that risk. They will have left a squadron here to keep an eye on the fort, no matter what’s in there.”
“Wow,” Marcella said, leaning on his arm and batting her eyelashes. “You’re so smart, Diego. Not like some people.” She shot Gombo a glare and he glared back. The fight over swabbing the deck had never quite ended between the two of them.
Diego nodded at the flag above. “But I also know Spanish soldiers, and most would happily take any chance to be lazy. They are probably all inside having an afternoon siesta, or gambling, or just sitting around complaining about what a boring place they are stuck in.”
“That’s not just Spanish soldiers,” Gombo said. “That’s almost every man I’ve ever met, except perhaps this Jack Sparrow.”
Barbossa grunted. “Well, let’s make things a little less boring for them, shall we?” he proposed with a cunning grin.
“First we need to find a way in,” Gombo said, carefully studying the walls.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear your clever plan,” Marcella sniped. “Let me guess—march up to the door and knock?”
Gombo turned and looked at her slowly. A grin spread across his face. “Why, Miss High-and-Mighty,” he said, “I believe that just might work.”
The other two turned to look at her as well.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no,” Marcella said. “Absolutely not! No way! Are you insane? Me? I won’t! I won’t do it! You can’t make me!”
F ernando Ruiz could not wait to be sent home to Spain. He dreamed of the long paved streets of Madrid, the fiery eyes of the flamenco dancers, the drama and glory of the bullfights. He had thought to capture that glory by becoming a soldier in the Spanish army—but instead here he was, stuck in what was basically a stone prison in the middle of a jungle, without a taberna or a bullfight or a flamenco dancer for hundreds of miles in any direction. Nothing but heat and buzzing insects persecuting him day and night. His red-and-gold uniform made his skin itch, and his tall leather boots made his feet sweat and smell horrible.
The other three men at the table looked equally hot and lifeless. Even the cards in their hands were limp and damp with sweat. The captain waved away a fly and then paused with his hand still in the air. All four of them raised their heads and listened.
“Was that knocking?” asked Bartana, one of the card players. “I could almost swear I heard knocking.”
“And shouting…maybe?” mused Salamanco, another soldier.
“Out
It was sunrise, which didn’t make sense—it had been the middle of the day when they went into the tunnels, and they couldn’t have been down there that long. Even more impossibly, they were now very clearly standing on a mountaintop surrounded by other mountains, a long, long way from the sea. Jack looked down at the quipu in puzzlement. “Did you do that?” he asked it.
“Jack,” Jean said warningly. Jack turned around and realized that scattered across the mountaintop was a small city with stone temples, stairs, and wells built high above the jungle. And this city was most definitely occupied. A crowd was gathered around an altar, where a man in a long robe stood holding a tall, golden spear. He was glaring at Jack. In fact, they were all glaring at Jack.
“Oh, bugger,” Jack said.
He had found the Incas…but the Incas were clearly not very pleased about it.
C HAPTER T WELVE
T he fort was small, but the solid stone walls were thick and steep, and the noses of small cannons poked over them ominously. Double wooden doors at the front were reinforced with an iron portcullis. Up above, the Spanish flag fluttered in the warm breeze. But there were no signs of guards—no signs of any human life at all.
“Maybe there’s nobody here,” Gombo said. “Perhaps they left their loot unguarded, thinking the jungle was enough to guard it for them.”
Diego shook his head. “I know the Spanish army,” he said. “The generals would never take that risk. They will have left a squadron here to keep an eye on the fort, no matter what’s in there.”
“Wow,” Marcella said, leaning on his arm and batting her eyelashes. “You’re so smart, Diego. Not like some people.” She shot Gombo a glare and he glared back. The fight over swabbing the deck had never quite ended between the two of them.
Diego nodded at the flag above. “But I also know Spanish soldiers, and most would happily take any chance to be lazy. They are probably all inside having an afternoon siesta, or gambling, or just sitting around complaining about what a boring place they are stuck in.”
“That’s not just Spanish soldiers,” Gombo said. “That’s almost every man I’ve ever met, except perhaps this Jack Sparrow.”
Barbossa grunted. “Well, let’s make things a little less boring for them, shall we?” he proposed with a cunning grin.
“First we need to find a way in,” Gombo said, carefully studying the walls.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear your clever plan,” Marcella sniped. “Let me guess—march up to the door and knock?”
Gombo turned and looked at her slowly. A grin spread across his face. “Why, Miss High-and-Mighty,” he said, “I believe that just might work.”
The other two turned to look at her as well.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no,” Marcella said. “Absolutely not! No way! Are you insane? Me? I won’t! I won’t do it! You can’t make me!”
F ernando Ruiz could not wait to be sent home to Spain. He dreamed of the long paved streets of Madrid, the fiery eyes of the flamenco dancers, the drama and glory of the bullfights. He had thought to capture that glory by becoming a soldier in the Spanish army—but instead here he was, stuck in what was basically a stone prison in the middle of a jungle, without a taberna or a bullfight or a flamenco dancer for hundreds of miles in any direction. Nothing but heat and buzzing insects persecuting him day and night. His red-and-gold uniform made his skin itch, and his tall leather boots made his feet sweat and smell horrible.
The other three men at the table looked equally hot and lifeless. Even the cards in their hands were limp and damp with sweat. The captain waved away a fly and then paused with his hand still in the air. All four of them raised their heads and listened.
“Was that knocking?” asked Bartana, one of the card players. “I could almost swear I heard knocking.”
“And shouting…maybe?” mused Salamanco, another soldier.
“Out
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