Assassin's Creed: Unity

by Oliver Bowden

  The Middle Man suppressed a smirk. “Never mind, girl. Where you from?”

  Somebody jostled me rudely from behind. I shoved back with my shoulder and heard a drunk rebound to a nearby table, spilling drinks and being roundly cursed for his pains before folding to the floor.

  “From Paris,” I told the Middle Man.

  “Paris, eh?” He took the pipe from his mouth and a rope of drool dropped to the tabletop as he used it as a pointer. “From one of the more salubrious areas of town, though, I’ll be bound, just to look at you, I mean.”

  I said nothing.

  The pipe was returned. The pink gums chomped down. “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Élise,” I told him.

  “No second name?”

  I made a noncommittal sound.

  “Could it be that I might recognize your surname?”

  “I value my privacy, that’s all.”

  He nodded some more. “Well,” he said, “I think I can find you a captain to speak to. Matter of fact me and my friends were just on our way to meet this particular gentleman for an ale or two. Why don’t you join us?”

  He made as if to stand . . .

  This was all wrong. I tensed, aware of the clamor around me, jostled by drinkers and yet, somehow, completely isolated, then gave a small bow without taking my eyes from theirs. “I thank you for your time, gentlemen, but I’ve had second thoughts.”

  The Middle Man looked taken aback and his lips cracked in a smile, revealing more graveyard teeth. This was what a minnow saw—seconds before it was devoured by a shark.

  “Second thoughts, eh?” he said with a sidelong look left and right at his two bigger companions. “How do you mean? Like you’ve decided you don’t want to go to London no more? Or is it that me and my friends don’t look sufficiently seafaring for your liking?”

  “Something like that,” I said, and pretended not to notice the man on his left push back his chair as though ready to leave his seat, and the man on the other flank lean forward almost imperceptibly.

  “You’re suspicious of us, is that it?”

  “Might be,” I agreed, with jutted chin. I folded my arms across my chest and used it as an opportunity to bring my right hand closer to the hilt of my sword.

  “And why might that be?” he asked.

  “Well, you haven’t asked me how much I can afford, for a start.”

  Now his lips cracked in a smile. “Oh, you’ll be earning your berth to London.”

  I pretended not to understand what he meant. “Well, that’s quite all right, and I thank you for your time, but I shall take care of my own passage.”

  Now he laughed openly. “Taking care of your passage was what we had in mind.”

  Again I let it wash over me. “I shall take my leave, messieurs,” I said, bowing slightly, making to turn and push my way back through the throng.

  “No, you won’t,” said the Middle Man, and with a wave of his hand he set his two dogs upon me.

  They stood, hands on their swords at their waists. I stepped back and to the side, drawing my own sword and brandishing it at the first, a movement that stopped them both in their tracks.

  “Ooh,” said one, and the two of them began to laugh. That rattled me. For a second I had no idea how to react as the Middle Man reached into his clothes and produced a curved dagger, and the second man wiped the smile off his face and came forward.

  I tried to ward him off with the sword but I wasn’t assertive enough and there were too many people around. What should have been a confident warning slash across the face was ineffective.

  “You’re to use it for practice.”

  But I hadn’t. In almost ten years of schooling I’d barely practiced my sword fighting at all, and though I had on occasion, when the dormitory around me was quiet, taken the presentation box from its hiding place, opened it to inspect the steel anew, running my fingers over the inscription on the blade, I had rarely taken it to a private place in order to work on my drills. Just enough to prevent my skills calcifying completely, not enough to prevent them rusting.

  And either that or my inexperience, or more likely a combination of the two, meant that I was woefully unprepared to take on these three men. And when it came it wasn’t some dazzling swordplay that sent me sprawling to the wet and stinking sawdust-strewn boards of the tavern, but a two-handed push from the first of the thugs to reach me. He’d seen what I hadn’t. Behind me lay the same drunken man who had recoiled off me earlier, and as I skated back a step and my ankles met him I lost my balance, fell and in the next instant was lying on top of him.

  “Monsieur,” I said, hoping that somehow my desperation would penetrate the veil of alcohol, but his eyes were glassy and his face wet with drink. In the next second I was screaming with pain as the heel of a boot landed on the back of my hand, grinding the flesh and making me let go of the sword. Another foot kicked my beloved sword away, and I rolled and tried to get to my feet but hands grabbed me and pulled me up. My desperate eyes went from the crowds who shrunk away, most laughing as they enjoyed the show, to the prone, drunken man and then to my short sword, which was now beneath the table, out of harm’s way. I kicked and writhed. Before me was the Middle Man, brandishing his curved knife, lips pulled back in a mirthless grin, teeth still chomped around the stem of the pipe. I heard a door open behind, felt a sudden rush of chill wind, and then I was being dragged out into the night.

  It had all happened so quickly. One moment I was in the heaving tavern, the next in an almost empty yard, just me, the Middle Man and his two thugs. They shoved me to the ground and I stayed there a second, snarling and catching my breath, trying to show them a brave face but inside, thinking, Stupid—stupid, inexperienced, arrogant little girl.

  What the hell had I been thinking?

  The yard opened out to the dockside at the front of the Antlers, where just a few yards away people passed by ignorant or oblivious to my plight, while not far away was a small carriage. The Middle Man jumped up to it now, one of his thugs grabbing me roughly by the shoulders while the other dragged open the door. I caught a glimpse of another girl inside, younger than me, maybe fifteen or sixteen, who had long blond hair down to her shoulders, and wore a ragged brown smock dress, the dress of a peasant girl. Her eyes were wide and frightened and her mouth open in an appeal I didn’t hear over the sound of my own screaming and shouting. The thug carried me easily, but as he tried to swing me into the carriage, my feet found purchase on the side and, knees bent, I shoved myself off, forcing him backward into the yard and making him curse. I used the force of our momentum to my advantage, twisting around again so that this time he lost his footing and we both tumbled to the dirt.

  Our dance was greeted with a gale of laughter from the Middle Man atop the carriage as well as the thug holding the door, and behind their merriment I could hear the sobbing of the girl and knew that if the thugs managed to bundle me into the carriage, then we were both lost.

  And then the back door to the tavern opened, cutting off their the laugher with a gust of noise and heat and smoke, and a figure staggered out, already reaching into his breeches.

  It was the same drunken man. He stood with his legs apart, about to relieve himself on the wall of the tavern, craning back over his shoulder.

  “Everything all right over there?” he croaked, head lolling as he returned to the serious business of undoing the buttons of his breeches.

  “No, monsieur,” I started, but thug grabbed me and held my mouth, muffling my cry. I wriggled and tried to bite, to no avail. Sitting in the driver’s seat still, the Middle Man gazed down upon us all: me, pinned to the ground and gagged by the first thug; the drunk man still fiddling with his breeches; the second thug awaiting his instructions with an upturned face. The Middle Man drew a finger across his throat.

  I increased my efforts to get free, shouting into the hand clamped over my mouth and ignoring the pain of his elbows and knees as I writhed on the ground, hoping somehow to wriggle
free or at least make enough noise to attract the drunkard’s attention.

  Casting a look toward the yard entrance, the thug drew his sword silently and moved up on the oblivious drunkard. I saw the girl in the carriage. She had moved across the seats and was peeking out. Shout out, warn him. I wanted to scream but couldn’t and so settled for gnashing my teeth instead, trying to nip the flesh of the sweaty hand across my mouth. For a second our eyes met and I tried to urge her simply with the power of my gaze, blinking furiously and widening my eyes and swiveling them over to the drunk man who stood concentrating on his breeches, death just a foot or so away.

  But she couldn’t do anything. She was too scared. Too scared to shout out and too scared to move, and the drunk man was going to die and the thugs were going to bundle us in the carriage and into a ship, then . . . well, put it this way, I was going to wish I was back at the school.

  The blade rose. But then, something happened—the drunk man wheeled around, faster than I would have thought possible, and in his hands was my short sword, which flashed, tasting blood for the first time as he swept it flat across the thug’s throat, which opened, spraying crimson mist into the yard.

  For maybe half a second the only reaction was shock and the only noise the wet sound of lifeblood leaving the thug. Then with a roar of anger and defiance the second thug took his knee off my neck and leapt at the drunkard.

  I’d allowed myself to believe that the drunkenness was an act, and that he was in fact an expert swordsman pretending to be drunk. But no, I realized, as he stood there, swaying from side to side and trying to focus on the advancing henchman. Though he might well have been an expert swordsman, he was certainly drunk. Enraged, the second thug charged him, wielding his sword. It wasn’t pretty; even though he was in his cups, my savior seemed to dodge him easily, striking backhand with my short sword, catching the thug on the arm and eliciting a scream of pain.

  From above me I heard, “Ha!” and looked up in time to see the Middle Man shake the reins. For him the battle was over and he didn’t want to leave empty-handed. As the carriage lurched toward the entrance, with its passenger door swinging, I sprang to my feet and sprinted after it, reaching inside just as we came to the narrow entrance.

  I had one chance. One moment. “Grab my hand,” I screamed and thank God she was more decisive than she had been before. With desperate, frightened eyes, her cry a guttural shout, she lunged across the seats and grabbed my outstretched hand. I flung myself backward and dragged her out of the carriage door just as it skittered through the yard entrance and was gone, clacking away along the cobbles of the dockside. From my left came a shout. It was the remaining thug. I saw his mouth drop open in the shock of abandonment.

  The drunken swordsman made him pay for his moment of outrage. He ran him through where he stood and my sword tasted blood for the second time tonight.

  Mr. Weatherall had once made me promise never to name my sword. Now, as I watched the henchman slide off the blood-dripping blade and crumple dead to the dirt, I understood why.

  ii

  “Thank you, monsieur,” I called into the silence that descended over the yard in the wake of the battle.

  The drunken swordsman looked at me. He had long hair tied back, high cheekbones and faraway eyes.

  “May we know your name, monsieur?” I called across the yard.

  We might have been meeting at a civilized social function but for the two bodies sprawled on the dirt—that and the fact that he held a sword stained red with blood. He moved as though to hand my sword back to me, realized it needed cleaning, looked for somewhere to wipe it, then, finding nothing, settled for the body of the nearest thug. When that was done he raised a finger, said, “Excuse me,” turned and vomited against the wall of the Antlers.

  The blond girl and I looked at one another. That finger was still held up as the drunkard coughed up the last of his vomit, spat out a final mouthful then turned and gathered himself before sweeping off an imaginary hat, making an exaggerated bow and introducing himself. “My name is Captain Byron Jackson. At your service.”

  “Captain?”

  “Yes—as I was trying to tell you in the tavern before you so rudely shoved me away.”

  I bristled. “I did no such thing. You were very rude. You pushed into me. You were drunk.”

  “Correction, I am drunk. And maybe also rude. However, there’s no disguising the fact that though drunk and rude, I was also trying to help you. Or the very least keep you from the grasp of these reprobates.”

  “Well, you didn’t manage that.”

  “Yes, I did,” he said, offended, then seemed to think. “Eventually, I did. And on that note, we had better leave before these bodies are discovered by the soldiers. You desire passage to Dover, is that right?”

  He saw me hesitate and waved an arm at the two bodies. “Surely I’ve proved my suitability as an escort. I promise you, mademoiselle, that despite appearances to the contrary, my drunkenness and perhaps a certain uncouth manner, I fly with the angels. Just that my wings are a little singed is all.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “You don’t have to trust me.” He shrugged. “No skin off my nose who you trust. Go back in there, and you can get the packet.”

  “The packet?” I repeated, irritated. “What is this packet?”

  “The packet is any ship carrying mail or freight to Dover. Virtually every man in there is a packetman, and they’ll be in the process of drinking up because the tides and winds are ripe for a crossing tonight. So by all means go back in there, flash your coin and you can secure yourself passage. Who knows? You might even get lucky and find yourself in the company of other fine lady travelers such as yourself.” He pulled a face. “You might not, of course . . .”

  “And what’s in it for you if I come with you?”

  He scratched the back of his neck, looking amused. “A lonely merchant would be very glad of the company for the crossing.”

  “As long as the lonely merchant didn’t get any ideas.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the ways in which he might pass the time.”

  He gave a hurt look. “I can assure you the thought never crossed my mind.”

  “And you, of course would never consider telling an untruth?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Such as claiming to be a merchant when you are in fact a smuggler.”

  He threw up his hands. “Oh, that’s just dandy. She’s never heard of the packet and thinks you can sail straight to London, but makes me for a smuggler.”

  “So you are a smuggler?”

  “Look, do you want passage or not?”

  I thought about that for a moment or so.

  “Yes,” I said, and stepped forward to retrieve my sword.

  “Tell me, what is the inscription near the hilt?” he asked, handing it over. “I would of course read it myself but for the fact that I’m drunk.”

  “Are you sure it’s not that you cannot read?” I said teasingly.

  “Oh, woe. Truly my lady has been fooled by my rough manners. What can I do to convince her that I really am a gentleman?”

  “Well, you could try behaving like one,” I said.

  I took the proffered sword and with it held loosely in my palm I read the inscription on the hilt—“May the father of understanding guide you. Love, Mother”—and then before he could say anything, I brought the point of the sword to his neck and pressed it into the flesh of his throat.

  “And on her life if you do anything to harm me, then I will run you through,” I snarled.

  He tensed, held out his arms, looked along the blade at me with eyes that were laughing a little too much for my liking. “I promise, mademoiselle. Tempting though it would be to touch a creature quite so exquisite as yourself, I shall be sure to keep my hands to myself. And anyway,” he said, looking over my shoulder, “what about your friend?”

  “My name is Helene,” she said, as she came forward. Her v
oice trembled. “I am indebted to the mademoiselle for my life. I belong to her now.”

  “What?”

  I dropped the sword and turned to face her. “No you aren’t. No you don’t. You must find your people.”

  “I have no people. I am yours, mademoiselle,” she said, and I had never seen a face so earnest.

  “I think that settles that,” said Byron Jackson from behind me. I looked from him then back to her, lost for words.

  And with that I had acquired a lady’s maid and a captain.

  iii

  Byron Jackson, it turned out, was indeed a smuggler. An Englishman posing as a Frenchman, he piled his small ship, the Granny Smith, with tea, sugar and whatever else was taxed heavily by his government, sailed it to along England’s east coast, then by means he would only describe as “magic” smuggled it past the customs houses.

  Helene, meanwhile, was a peasant girl who had watched both her mother and father die, and so traveled to Calais in the hope of finding her last remaining living relative, her uncle Jean. She hoped to find a new life with him; instead, he sold her to the Middle Man. And, of course, the Middle Man would want his money back and Uncle Jean would have spent the money within a day or so of receiving it, so there would be trouble involving Helene if she stayed. So I let her be indebted to me, and we made a fellowship of three as we set off from Calais earlier.

  And now I can hear the sounds of supper being laid. Our gracious host, the captain of the Granny Smith, has promised us a hearty repast. He has enough food, he says, for the whole of the two-day crossing.

  8 FEBRUARY 1788

  i

  “If she’s to be your lady’s maid, she needs to learn some manners,” Byron Jackson had remarked at dinner last night.

  Which, when you considered that he drank constantly from his flask of wine, ate with his mouth open and his elbows propped on the table, was a statement burdened with a staggering degree of hypocrisy.

  I looked at Helene. She’d torn off a piece of crust, dipped it in her soup and was about to shove the whole dripping hunk into her mouth, but had stopped and was now regarding us from under her hair, as though we were talking in a strange, foreign language.