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talking about,” he said, turning to Ross. “Three thousand miles, mon.”
    The captain of the William Wallace shrugged. “The Spaniards do it in their heavy galleons all the time.”
    â€œAnd the galleons b’ attacked by the likes of us all the time,” argued Stede. “Or did ya forget that Bartholomew Thorne’s whole fleet b’ hunting the seas for us soon?”
    The monk grew suddenly stiff. He pulled his robe up to cover his back and turned to Ross. “Even under pain of torture, the Brothers of Saint Celestine would not tell Thorne that I am with you. Thorne should not have cause to chase us in particular.”
    â€œWell,” Ross said as he ran his fingers through his coppery mane, “actually, that’s not quite true. Before we picked you up, we killed Thorne’s second-in-command.”
    â€œWhat?” The monk raised an eyebrow.
    â€œWe fixed him good, we did,” Jules said. “Stede buried his machetes into old Chevillard’s back, and Nubby finished him off with about the biggest kitchen knife I’ve ever seen. We used his own cannons and blew holes out both ends of his ship. Sent her to the bottom quick.”
    â€œYou killed Thierry Chevillard?” The monk’s eyes widened. Ross nodded. “And sank his ship?” Ross nodded again. Padre Dominguez shook his head. “The Butcher will no doubt be welcomed to perdition—vile and bloodthirsty man that he was. Did you leave any survivors . . . any who could tell Thorne?”
    Ross lowered his eyes. “Of course you did,” said the monk. “For you are not like they are. But Bartholomew Thorne will not let that go lightly. The journey to the Isle of Swords would be treacherous enough without that threat hanging over our heads.”
    â€œYou mean the storms?” Ross asked. “Padre, I am Scotland-born— the North Atlantic, my old backyard. The Brothers of Saint Celestine did a smart job fixing up the Wallace . We can handle the storms.”
    â€œMore than storms,” said the monk. “In the open ocean, there is always the threat of storm. Perhaps worse, the doldrums. But aside from those perils, it is just a long voyage. We will need even more provisions than the Brothers of Saint Celestine were able to provide.”
    â€œThat’s no problem,” said Ross. “I have a place in mind.”
    The monk nodded. “But as we draw within the last one hundred miles of our destination . . . there, the real dangers will begin. The first is an anomaly in the sea—two strong currents collide and form a deceptive perimeter around the island. The turbulent waters will misguide a ship, but the unwary seaman will not discover that he is off course until it is far too late. This is marked by a red dagger on the map, but it cannot be found without the help of the stars. We must make for this point by nightfall and use the stars to pass over the boundary and onto the real course. We will either find the way or become hopelessly lost, wasting precious days seeking the spot where we began.”
    â€œThis sounds like voodoo, if ya b’ asking me,” said Stede. “I’ve sailed that way many times. I tell ya, there b’ no island there.”
    â€œVoodoo, no,” said the monk. “But supernatural, I agree. To my knowledge, there is no other place in all the oceans of the world where this occurs. I believe it is the Almighty’s way of keeping the island private.”
    Stede snorted and crossed his arms.
    â€œMock if you wish,” said the monk, “but I have a suspicion that we will all need guidance from heaven before this venture ends.”
    Stede uncrossed his arms. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Jules was amazed. It wasn’t often that he’d seen his captain and his quartermaster dressed down in the same afternoon.
    â€œAnd if we do navigate the stars successfully and find the perimeter where the