James bristles at the tone of Sparrow's voice as he answers- there is contempt there, and distaste, and perhaps something like pity, and he likes it not at all. He follows the finger as Sparrow traces a route East, but does not really pay attention to it; it's easy enough to see, at least on a map.

'If,' he says, his tone icy, 'I am mistaken about the inhabitants of the Côte d'Ivoire, then I shall surely learn better if we go there. As I say, I have never made port there, and rely solely on what I have been told by others.'

I should thank you to consider that before passing judgement on me, he wants to say, but bites back the words. It will not do, after all, to let Sparrow think that James cares what he says of him, though it rankles that the pirate should think of him as a bigot.

When Sparrow's finger lands on the small green blot that is England, he wrinkles his nose. Thoughts of home have no place here in the middle of the Caribbean, in the stifling heat and palm trees and bright blue waters, and he twists his mouth in a grimace. It's something of a sore point, England, for he misses her deeply. Serving King and Country is one thing, but living there is infinitely better; he is made for the wet, green hills and the dank, busy city streets of England, and the tempestuous black seas that surround the island. So he shakes his head.

'Eight years,' he says, gazing absently at the map, 'But that was only a brief stop, to bring to Port Royal the man who was to be governor. And his daughter.' A brief smile. 'Before that... too long.'

But he will say no more on the subject, and turns his eyes on Sparrow. 'But you have not answered my question; what is it you want there?' His finger passes over the map, past Sparrow's hand and down, and lands once again on the coastline of the Côte d'Ivoire.

'I must admit, I am... most curious.'