30
The next day I had been asked to meet my ‘fellow Templars’ at the city’s northern ports, where it was said the treasure fleet would be arriving with my reward, and we could discuss further schemes.
I nodded, keen to give the impression that I was an eager Templar, plotting with my new firm friends to do whatever it was that Templars plot to do – the small matter of being able to influence ‘every man and woman on earth’. In fact, what I intended to do, just between me and you, was pocket the money, make my excuses, whatever those excuses needed to be, and leave. I was looking forward to spending my money and sharing my newfound information with my confederates at Nassau, then finding the Observatory, reaping the rewards, helping the downfall of these Templars.
But first I had to collect my money.
‘Good morning, Duncan.’ I heard Woodes Rogers hailing me from the docks. It was a fresh morning in Havana, the sun yet to reach full temperature and a light breeze blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico.
I began following Rogers, then I heard a voice shout, ‘Edward! Hello, Edward!’
For a second or so I thought it was a case of mistaken identity, even found myself looking over my shoulder to see this ‘Edward’. Until I remembered. Edward was me. I was Edward. Stupid Edward. Who, from a misplaced sense of guilt, had admitted my secret to Havana’s biggest blabbermouth, Stede Bonnet.
‘I found a man to purchase my remaining sugar. Quite a coup I must say,’ he called across the harbour.
I waved back – excellent news – aware of Rogers’s eyes upon me.
‘He just called you Edward,’ said my companion. That same curious smile I’d seen yesterday played about his lips again.
‘Oh, that’s the merchant who sailed me here,’ I explained, with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Out of caution, I gave him a false name.’
‘Ah … Well done,’ said Rogers. But not convinced.
I was thankful to leave the main harbour behind when Rogers and I joined the same group of Templars who’d met at Torres’s mansion the day before. Hands were shaken, the rings of our brotherhood, still fresh on our fingers, glinted, and we gave each other short nods. Brothers. Brothers in a secret society.
And then Torres led us to a line of small fishermen’s huts, with rowing boats tethered in the water nearby. There was no one about, not yet. We had this small area of the harbour to ourselves, which was the intention, no doubt, as Torres guided us to the end, where guards waited at a small hut and inside, sitting on an upturned crate, with a beard and ragged clothes, in his eyes a dejected but defiant look, was the Sage.
I watched the faces of my companions change. Just as the conflict between defeat and belligerence seemed to play out on the face of the Sage, so the Templars appeared to struggle, too, and they returned his glare with a look that was a mix of pity and awe.
‘Here he is,’ said Torres, speaking quietly, almost reverently, whether he knew it or not, ‘A man both Templars and Assassins have sought for over a decade.’
He addressed the Sage. ‘I am told your name is Bartholomew Roberts. Is this so?’
Roberts, or the Sage, or whatever we were calling him today, said nothing. Merely stared balefully at Torres.
Without taking his eyes off the Sage, Torres opened a hand at shoulder level. Into his palm El Tiburón placed the crystal cube. The same crystal cube I’d wondered about. I was going to find out what it was now.
Torres, speaking to the Sage again, said, ‘You recognize this, I think?’
Silence from Bartholomew Roberts – the Sage was saying nothing. Perhaps he knew what was coming next. For now Torres indicated again, and a second upturned crate was brought to him on to which he sat so that he faced the Sage, man to man, except that one of the men was governor of Havana and the other man was ragged and had wild hermit eyes and his hands were bound.
It was to those bound hands that Torres reached, bringing the crystal cube to bear, and then inserting it over the Sage’s thumb.
The two men stared at each other for a moment or so. Torres’s fingers seemed to be manipulating the Sage’s thumb somehow, before a single droplet of blood filled the vial.
I watched, not quite sure what I was witnessing. The Sage seemed to feel no pain and yet his eyes went from one man to the next as though cursing each of us in turn, me included, and he fixed me with a stare of such ferocity that I found myself having to resist the impulse to shrink away.
Why on earth did they need this poor man’s blood? What did it have to do with the Observatory?
‘According to the old tales, the blood of a Sage is required to enter the Observatory,’ said DuCasse in a whisper, as though reading my thoughts.
The operation was over and Torres stood up from his crate, a little shaky, with one hand holding the vial for all to see. Caught by the light the blood-filled crystal gave his hand a red glow.
‘We have the key,’ he announced. ‘Now we need only its location. Perhaps Mr Roberts will be eager to provide it.’
He waved guards forward. ‘Transfer him to my residence.’
And that was it. The ghastly procedure was over, and I was pleased to leave the strange scene behind as we began making our way back to the main harbour, where a vessel had arrived. The one containing the treasure, I hoped. I sorely hoped.
‘Such a fuss over one man,’ I said to Torres as we walked, trying to sound more casual than I felt. ‘Is the Observatory really such a grand prize?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Torres, ‘the Observatory was a tool built by the precursor race. Its worth is without measure.’
I thought of the ancients I had seen in the pictures at the mansion. Torres’s precursor race?
‘I do wish I could remain to see our drama done,’ said Rogers, ‘but I must avail myself of these winds and sail for England.’
Torres nodded. That familiar twinkle had returned to his eyes. ‘By all means, captain. Speed and fortune to you.’
The two men shook hands. Brothers. Brothers in a secret society. And then Rogers and I did the same, before the legendary pirate-hunter turned and left, off to continue being the scourge of buccaneers everywhere. We would meet again, I knew. Though I hoped the day would come later rather than sooner.
By now one of the ship’s deckhands had arrived and handed Torres something that looked suspiciously like it might contain my money. Not that the bag seemed quite as hefty as I’d hoped.
‘I consider this the first payment in a long-term investment,’ said Torres, handing me the pouch – the suspiciously light pouch. ‘Thank you.’
I took it cautiously, knowing by the weight that there was more to come, and by more to come I mean more money as well as more challenges for me to face.
‘I would like you to be present for the interrogation tomorrow. Call around noon,’ said Torres.
So that was it. In order to collect the rest of my fee I needed to see the Sage terrorized further.
Torres left me and I stood there for a moment on the dock, deep in thought, before leaving to prepare. I had decided I was going to rescue the Sage.
And I wonder why I decided to rescue the Sage. I mean, why didn’t I simply take what money I’d been given, show a clean pair of heels and fill the sails on a passage to Nassau in the north-east? Back to Edward, Benjamin and the delights of the Old Avery?
I’d like to say it was a noble desire to free the Sage, but there was a bit more to it than that. After all, he could help find this Observatory, this device to follow people around. And what would a thing like that be worth? Sell it to the right person and I would be rich, the richest pirate in the West Indies. Return to Caroline a rich man. So perhaps it was merely greed that made me decide to rescue him. Looking back, probably a mixture of the two.
Either way, it was a decision I’d shortly regret.
31
Night-time, and the walls of Torres’s mansion formed a black border beneath a grey starless night. The chirping insects were at their loudest, almost drowning o
ut the trickle of running water and the soft rattle of the palm trees.
With a quick look left and right – my approach had been timed to make sure no sentries were present – I flexed my fingers and jumped, pulled myself up to the top of the wall, then lay there for a second to control my breath and listen out for running feet, cries of ‘hey!’ and the swish of swords being drawn …
And then, when there was nothing – nothing apart from the insects, the water and the whisper of night wind among the trees, I dropped down to the other side and into the grounds of the governor of Havana’s mansion.
Like a ghost I made my way across the gardens and into the main building, where I hugged the walls along the perimeter of the courtyard. On my right forearm I felt the comforting presence of my hidden blade and strapped across my chest were my pistols. A short sword hung from my belt beneath my robes and I wore my cowl over my head. I felt invisible. I felt lethal. I felt as though I was about to deliver a blow against the Templars and even though, no, freeing the Sage wasn’t equal to the harm their brothers had done me, and it wasn’t like this was going to even the score, it was a start. It was a first strike.
What’s more, I’d have the location of the Observatory and could reach it before they did. And that was a far, far bigger blow. That would hurt. I’d think of how much it hurt while I was counting my money.
I’d had to make an informed guess as to where the governor kept his state prisons, but I’m pleased to say I was right. It was a small compound, separate from the mansion, where I found a high wall and …
That’s odd. Why is the door hanging open?
I slid through. Flaming torches bracketed on the walls illuminated a scene of carnage. Four or five soldiers were dead in the dirt, gaping holes at their throats, pulverized meat at their chests.
Where the Sage had been kept, I had no idea. But one thing was beyond doubt: he wasn’t here now.
I heard a sound behind me too late to stop the blow but in time to prevent it knocking me out, and I pitched forward, landing badly on the dirt, but having the presence of mind to roll at the same time. A pikestaff with my name on it was driven into the ground where I’d been. At the other end of it was a surprised soldier. I kicked myself up, grabbed his shoulders and span. At the same time I booted the shaft of the pikestaff and snapped it, then rammed his body on to it at the same time.
He flopped like a landed fish, impaled on the broken shaft of his own pikestaff, but I didn’t stick around to admire his death throes. The second soldier was upon me, angry, the way you get when you see your friend die.
Now, I thought, let’s see if this works every time.
Snick.
The hidden blade engaged and I met the steel of his blade with steel of my own, knocking his sword away and slashing open his throat with the backswipe. I drew the sword at my belt in time to meet a third attacker. Behind him were two soldiers with muskets. Close by was El Tiburón, his sword drawn but held at his hip as he watched the fight. I saw one of the soldiers grimace and it was a look I recognized, a look I’ve seen before from men on the deck of a ship lashed to mine.
He fired just as I drove both my sword and hidden blade into the soldier in front of me, pinning him with the blades and swinging him round at the same time. His body, already dead, jerked as the musket ball slammed into him.
I let my human shield go, plucking a dagger from his belt as he dropped and praying that my aim would be as good as it always had been, after countless hours at home spent tormenting tree trunks with throwing knives.
It was. I took out, not the first musketeer – he was already making a panicky attempt to reload – but the second, who fell with the knife embedded between his ribs.
In a bound I was over to the first one and punched him in the stomach with my blade hand, so that he coughed and died on the shaft. Blood beads described an arc in the night as I pulled the blade free and span to meet the attack of El Tiburón.
There was no attack, though.
Instead El Tiburón calmed the tempo of the fight, and rather than begin his attack straight away, simply stood and very casually tossed his sword from one hand to the other before addressing me with it.
Fine. At least there wouldn’t be a lot of chat during this bout.
I snarled and went forward, blades cutting half-circles in the air, hoping to daze him, disorientate him. His expression hardly changed, and with fast movements of his elbow and forearm he met my attack easily. He was concentrating on my left hand, the hand that held the sword, and before I even realized he was doing it, my cutlass went spinning from my bloody fingers to the dirt.
My blade now. He concentrated on it, seeming to know it was new to me. Behind him more guards had gathered in the courtyard and though I couldn’t understand what they were saying it was obvious: that I was no match for El Tiburón; that my end was but a heartbeat away.
And so it proved. The last of his attacks ended with a smash of the knuckle guard across my chin, and I felt teeth loosen and my head spin as I sank, first to my knees, before pitching forward. Beneath my robes, blood sluiced my sides like sweat, and what little fight was left in me was leeched away by the pain.
El Tiburón came forward. A boot stepped on to my blade and held my arm in place, and dimly I wondered if the blade had a quick-release buckle, even though it would do me no good, as the tip of his sword nudged my neck ready for the final lethal strike …
‘Enough,’ came the cry from the compound door. Squinting through a veil of blood I saw the guards part and Torres step through, followed closely by DuCasse. The two Templars shouldered El Tiburón aside, and with the merest flicker of irritation in his eyes – the hunter denied his kill – the enforcer stepped away. I’ll be honest. I wasn’t sad to see him go.
I gasped ragged breath. My mouth filled with blood and I spat as Torres and DuCasse crouched, studying me like two medical men examining a patient. When the Frenchman reached for my forearm I half expected him to feel for my pulse but instead he disengaged the hidden blade, unclipped it with practised fingers then tossed it away. Torres looked at me, and I wondered if he really was as disappointed as he looked, or whether it was theatrics. He took hold of my other hand, removed my Templar ring and pocketed it.
‘What is your true name, rogue?’ said Torres.
Disarmed as I was, they let me pull myself to a sitting position. ‘It’s, ah … Captain Piss Off.’
Again I spat, this time close to DuCasse’s shoe, and he looked from the gobbet of blood to me with a sneer. ‘Nothing but a filthy peasant.’ He moved to strike me, but Torres held him back. He had been looking around the courtyard at the bodies, as though trying to assess the situation.
‘Where is the Sage?’ he asked. ‘Did you set him free?’
‘I had nothing to do with that, much as I wish I did,’ I managed.
As far as I was concerned the Sage had either been sprung by Assassin friends or staged a breakout himself. Either way, he was out – out of harm’s way and in possession of the one secret we all wanted: the Observatory location. And my trip was a wasted one.
Torres looked at me and must have seen the truth in my eyes. His Templar affiliations made him my enemy, but there was something in the old man I liked, or respected at least. Perhaps he saw something in me, a sense that maybe we weren’t so different. Certainly one thing I knew: if the decision had been left to DuCasse I’d have been watching my guts drop to the compound floor. Instead, Torres stood up and signalled to his men. ‘Take him to the ports. Send him to Seville with the treasure fleet.’
‘To Seville?’ queried DuCasse.
‘Yes,’ replied Torres.
‘But we can interrogate him ourselves,’ said DuCasse. I heard the cruel smile in his voice. ‘Indeed … it would be a pleasure.’
‘Which is exactly why I intend to entrust the job to our colleagues in Spain,’ said Torres firmly. ‘I hope this is not a problem for you, Julien?’
Even fogged by pain I could hear the irritat
ion in the Frenchman’s voice.
‘Non, monsieur,’ he replied.
Still, he took a great pleasure in knocking my lights out.
32
When I awoke I was on the floor of what looked like the lower deck of a galleon. A large galleon it was, the kind that looked like it was used to transport … people. My legs were gripped by iron bilboes – big, immovable manacles that were scattered all around the deck, some empty, some not.
Not far away I could make out more bodies in the gloom. More men back there, at a guess maybe a dozen or so, shackled just as I was, but in what sort of shape it was difficult to tell from the low groans and mumblings that reached my ears. At the other end of the deck was piled what I took to be the captives’ possessions – clothes, boots, hats, leather belts, backpacks and chests. In among them I thought I saw my robes, still dirty and bloody from the fight in the prison compound.
You remember me saying how lower decks had their own smell? Well, this one had a different smell altogether. The smell of misery. The smell of fear.
A voice said, ‘Eat it fast,’ and a wooden bowl landed with a dull thump by my bare feet before the black leather boots of a guard retreated, and I saw sunlight from a hatch and heard the clip-clop of a ladder being climbed.
Inside the bowl: a dry flour biscuit and a splodge of oatmeal. Not far away sat a black man, and, like me, he was eyeing the food dubiously.
‘You hungry?’ I asked him.
He said nothing, made no move to reach for the food. Instead he reached to the manacles at his feet and began to work at them, on his face an expression of profound concentration.
At first I thought he was wasting his time, but as his fingers worked, sliding between his feet and the irons, his eyes went to me, and though he said nothing I thought I saw in them the ghost of painful experience. His hands went to his mouth and for a moment he looked like a cat cleaning itself, until the same hand dipped into the oatmeal, mixing the goo inside with saliva and then using it to lubricate his foot in the manacle.
Assassin’s Creed® Page 179