Cloth Protection

“Here you go, Jack,” Robby said, passing him a generous dollop of rum in a cup. Jack swigged it down, then pulled off his blood-streaked shirt. His first mate busied himself with the needle and thread Jack kept for mending—either clothing or skin.

“Don’t move.” Robby carefully eased the needle into the skin on his shoulder, and began to stitch. Jack hissed, but stayed still. “I swear I’ve never seen you fence better, Jack, but I’m still surprised you won.”

“I am, too,” Jack admitted. “Though Christophe wasn’t rational tonight, Robby. You heard him. That might have—ow!—affected his skill. He used to be a very canny fighter. But not tonight.”

“You were lucky.”

Jack nodded, not offended. “I was, mate—ow!” He grimaced.

“Sorry. That’s the last one, though.” Without asking permission, Robby sloshed a bit of rum over the five stitches, then, for good measure, over the nick between Jack’s collarbones.

“Mmmhhh! Dammit, Robby! You and Esmeralda, wasting good rum! That’s a sin!”

Robby ignored him as he peered at the tiny cut. “Lord in Heaven, Jack, you were so lucky! If that had gone an inch or two deeper, you’d have been lying there dead, right beside Christophe.”

Jack grinned. “But you’d have given me a nice service, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. I’d have written the eulogy myself,” Robby said, gazing at the little wound, still shaking his head in wonder. His gaze moved lower. “What’s that you’re wearing?” he asked, as Jack got up and reached into his sea chest for Esmeralda’s red bandanna.

“Here, tie this around me upper arm, so I don’t rub those stitches out,” Jack said. He looked down at his midsection, and saw the striped sash Amenirdis had woven. “A present, from Amen—er, Ayisha, Robby. She told me it would—”

He broke off, staring down at the sash, as Robby tied the bandanna around his arm. “Wait a moment. Do you suppose…?” Jack muttered.

“Suppose what?” Robby asked, putting the needle and thread away.

Jack ran his thumb along the edge of the sash. “Uh…nothing…” he mumbled. *Probably just coincidence,* he thought.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to always wear it, Jack decided. He hoped he wouldn’t need protection when he reported to Cutler Beckett in a few weeks, but he’d take all the help he could get.…

***

The Price of Freedom, Chapter 18