“You and your fairy tales got us into this mess, Kenway!”
He stayed in the bushes, like a rodent in the darkened undergrowth, curled up in roots, crouched with his arms around the trunks of trees, crouched in his own stink and watching me with craven eyes. It began to occur to me that Vane might try to kill me. I kept my blades clean and though I didn’t wear them—I’d become accustomed to wearing very little—I kept them close at hand.
Before I knew it he graduated from being a madman ranting at me from within the undergrowth to leaving traps for me.
Until one day I decided I’d enough. I had to kill Charles Vane.
• • •
The morning that I set out to do it was with a heavy heart. I wondered whether it was better to have a madman as a companion than no companion at all. But he was a madman who hated me, and who probably wanted to kill me. It was either me or him.
I found him in a water hole, sitting crouched with his hands between his legs trying to make a fire and singing to himself, some nonsense song.
His back was offered to me, an easy kill, and I tried to tell myself I was being humane by putting him out of his misery as I approached stealthily and activated my blades.
But I couldn’t help myself. I hesitated, and in that moment he sprung his trap, flinging out one arm and tossing hot ashes into my face. As I reeled back he jumped to his feet, cutlass in hand, and the battle was on.
Attack. Parry. Attack. I used my blades as a sword, meeting his steel and replying with my own.
I wondered: did he think of me as betraying him? Probably. His hatred gave him strength and for some moment he was no longer the pathetic troglodyte. But weeks spent crouching in the undergrowth and feeding off what he could steal had weakened him and I disarmed him easily. Instead of killing him then I sheathed my blades, unstrapped them and tossed them away, tearing off my shirt at the same time, and we fought with fists, stripped to the waist.
When I had him down I pummelled him, then I caught myself and stopped. I stood, breathing heavily, with blood dripping from my fists. Below me on the ground, Charles Vane. This unkempt, hermit-looking man—and, of course, I stank myself, but I wasn’t as bad as him. I could smell the shit I saw dried on his thighs as he half-rolled on the ground and spat out a tooth on a thin string of saliva, chuckling to himself. Chuckling to himself like a madman.
“You Nancy boy,” he said, “you’ve only done half the job.”
I shook my head. “Is this my reward for believing the best about men? For thinking a bilge rat like you could muster up some sense once in a while? Maybe Hornigold was right. Maybe the world does need men of ambition, to stop the likes of you from messing it all up.”
Charles laughed. “Or maybe you just don’t have the stones to live with no regrets.”
I spat. “Don’t save me a spot in hell, shanker. I ain’t coming soon.”
I left him there and later, when I was able to help myself to a fisherman’s boat, I wondered whether to go and fetch him, but decided against.
God forgive me, but I’d had just about all I could take of Charles bloody Vane.
FORTY-EIGHT
MAY 1719
I arrived home to Inagua after months away, thankful to be alive and glad to see my crew. Even more when I saw how pleased they were to see me. He is alive! The cap’n is alive! They celebrated for days, drank the bay dry, and it gladdened the heart to see.
Mary was there too, but dressed as James Kidd, so I banished all thoughts of her bosoms, called her James when others were present, even Adewalé, who rarely left my side when I first returned, as though not wanting to let me out of his sight.
Meanwhile Mary had news of my confederates: Stede Bonnet had been hung at White Point.
Poor old Stede. My merchant friend who evidently changed his mind where pirates were concerned—so much so he’d taken up the life himself. “The gentleman pirate,” they had called him. He’d worn a dressing-gown and worked the routes further north for a while, before meeting Blackbeard on his travels. The pair had teamed up, but because Bonnet was as bad a pirate captain as he was a sailor, which is to say a very bad pirate captain, his crew had mutinied and joined Blackbeard. For Bonnet the final insult was that he had to remain as a “guest” on Blackbeard’s ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge. Well, not the “final insult” obviously. The final insult was being caught and hung.
Meanwhile on Nassau—poor, ailing Nassau—James Bonny was spying for Woodes Rogers, bringing more shame upon Anne than her roving eye ever had upon him, while Rogers had struck a mortal blow to the pirates. In a show of strength he’d ordered eight of them be hung on Nassau harbour, and since then his opposition had crumbled. Even a plot to kill him had been half-hearted and easily overthrown.
And—joy of joys—Calico Jack had been captured and the Jackdaw recovered. Turned out the liquor had got the better of Jack. Privateers commissioned by Jamaica’s governor had caught up with him south of Cuba. Jack and his men had gone ashore and were sleeping off the booze under tents when the privateers arrived, so they fled into the jungle and the Jackdaw was recovered. Since then the scurvy dog had crawled back to Nassau where he’d persuaded Rogers to give him a pardon and was hanging around the taverns selling stolen watches and stockings.
“So what now?” said Mary, having delivered her news. “Still chasing your elusive fortune?”
“Aye, and I’m close. I’ve heard The Sage is sailing out of Kingston on a ship called the Princess.”
Mary had stood and was beginning to walk away, headed for the port. “Put your ambition to better use, Kenway. Find The Sage with us.”
The Assassins she meant, of course. There was silence when I thought about them.
“I’ve no stomach for you and your mystics . . . Mary. I want a taste of the good life. An easy life.”
She shook her head and began to walk away. Over her shoulder she said, “No one honest has an easy life, Edward. It’s aching for one that causes the most pain.”
• • •
If the Princess was sailing out of Kingston, then that was where I needed to be.
And my God, Kingston was beautiful. It had grown from a refugee camp into the largest town in Jamaica, which isn’t to say it was an especially large town, just the largest in Jamaica, the buildings new yet rickety-looking, overlooked by hills populated by beautiful greenery and caressed by a cool sea-breeze that rolled off Port Royal and took some of the sting out of a blistering sun—just some of it, mind. I loved it. In Kingston, I’d look around and wonder if Nassau could have been this way, if we’d stuck at it. If we hadn’t allowed ourselves to be so easily corrupted.
The sea was the clearest blue and it seemed to glitter and hold aloft the ships that were anchored in the bay. For a moment, as I gasped at the beauty of the sea and was reminded of the treasures it held, I thought of Bristol. How I’d stood on the harbour there and looked out to the ocean, dreaming of riches and adventure. The adventure I’d found. The riches? Well, the Jackdaw hadn’t lain completely dormant during my time on Providencia. They’d taken some prizes. Added to what I already had in my coffers, I wasn’t rich, exactly, but neither was I poor. Perhaps I was finally a man of means.
But if I could just find The Observatory.
(Greed, you see, my sweet, is the undoing of many a man.)
Tethered at the quay were row-boats, dandies and yawls, but it wasn’t those I was interested in. I stopped and held a spyglass to my eye, scanning the horizon for signs of a slaver—the Princess—stopping to relish the glorious sight of the Jackdaw, then continued. Citizens and traders bustled past, all wares for sale. Soldiers too. Spaniards, with their blue tunics and tricorns, muskets over their shoulders. A pair of them passed, looking bored and gossiping.
“What’s all this fuss about here? Everyone’s got sticks shoved well up their arse today.”
“Aye, we’re on alert because of some visiting Spaniard. Toreador or Torres or something.”
So he was here. H
im and Rogers. Did they know about The Sage on the Princess too?
Then something struck me as very interesting indeed, when I overheard a soldier say, “Do you know what I heard? Governor Rogers and Captain Hornigold are part of a secret society. A secret order made up of Frenchies and Spaniards and Italians and even some Turks.”
Templars, I was thinking, even as I caught sight of Ade beckoning to me. He stood with a sweaty, nervous-looking sailor, who was introduced as working for the Royal Africa Company. A jack-tar persuaded to talk with a surreptitious dagger in his ribs.
“Tell him what you told me,” said Ade.
The sailor looked uncomfortable. As you would, I suppose. “I haven’t seen the Princess for eight weeks or more,” he said. “Meaning she may soon be back.”
We let him go and I mulled over the news. The Princess wasn’t here . . . yet. We could stay, I decided. Bring the men ashore, make sure they behaved themselves, try not to attract too much attention . . .
Adewalé pulled me to one side. “I grow tired of chasing these fantasies of yours, Edward. As does the crew.”
That’s all I need. Unrest in the bloody crew.
“Hang in there, man,” I reassured him, “we’re getting close.”
Meanwhile, I had an idea. Find Rogers and Benjamin . . .
• • •
By sticking close to the harbour I found them, and began tailing them, remembering what I’d been taught by Mary. Staying out of sight and using the Sense to listen to their conversation.
“Have you alerted the men?” Woodes Rogers was saying. “We’re short on time.”
“Aye,” replied Hornigold, “there’ll be two soldiers waiting for us at the crossroads.”
“Very good.”
Ah, bodyguards. Now where might they be lurking?
Not wanting to be taken by surprise, I glanced around. But by then Hornigold was speaking again. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir. What’s the meaning behind these blood samples we’re taking?”
“Torres tells me that blood is required for The Observatory to properly function.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“If one wishes to use The Observatory to, say . . . spy on King George, then one would require a drop of the king’s blood to do so. In other words, a small sample of blood gives us access to a man’s everyday life.”
Mumbo jumbo. I paid it little mind at the time, but I’d regret that later.
“Does Torres mean to spy on me, then?” Benjamin was saying. “For I have just given him a sample of my own blood.”
“As have I, Captain Hornigold. As will all Templars. As a measure of insurance.”
“And trust, I reckon.”
“Yes, but fear not. Torres has shipped our samples to a Templar base in Rio de Janeiro. We will not be The Observatory’s first subjects, I assure you.”
“Aye, sir. I suppose it’s a small price to pay for what the Templars have given me in return.”
“Precisely . . .”
“And what can we do for you?” a voice asked.
And that was when I met the two bodyguards they were talking about.
FORTY-NINE
Let’s call them brute number one and brute number two. Brute number one was left-handed but wanted me to think he’d lead with his right. Brute number two was not quite as combat proficient. Too relaxed. Thought I’d be easily beaten.
“Now where would you be going?” said number one. “Because my friend and I have been watching you, and you’ll have to forgive me for saying but it looks awfully like you’re following Mr. Rogers and Mr. Hornigold and listening in on their conversation . . .”
The Mr. Rogers and Mr. Hornigold in question were oblivious to the work their guards were doing on their behalf. That was good. What wasn’t quite so good was that they were moving off, and I still had much to learn.
So get rid of these guys.
The advantage I had was my hidden blade. It was strapped to my right hand. My sword hung on that side too so I would reach for it with my left. An experienced swordsman would expect my attack to come from that side and would defend himself accordingly. Big brute number one, he was an experienced swordsman. I could see by the way he’d planted one foot slightly in front of the other and angled his body side-on because big brute number one was expecting my sword to be drawn with my left hand (and yet, when the time came he would quickly switch feet, feinting to take me from a different side—I knew that too). Neither knew I had a hidden blade, which would sprout from my right.
So we stared at one another. Mainly me and big brute number one. I made my move. Right hand outstretched as though in protection, but then—engage blade, strike—and brute number two was still reaching for his own sword when it pierced his neck. At the same time I’d snatched my sword from my belt with my left hand and was able to defend big brute number one’s first attack, our swords clashing with the force of first impact.
Big brute number two gurgled and died, the blood pumping through fingers he held to his own throat, and now we were on equal footing. I brandished blades and sword at big brute number one and saw that the look he’d worn, a look of confidence—you might even say arrogance—had been replaced by fear.
He should have run. I probably would have caught him, but he should have run anyway. Should have tried to warn his lords and masters that a man was following them. A dangerous man with the skills of an Assassin.
But he didn’t run. He stood to fight, and though he was a man of skill and fought with more intelligence and more bravery than I was used to, it was that pride he could not bear to sacrifice on the streets of Kingston with a crowd of people looking on that ultimately was his undoing. When the end came, which it did, but only after a hard-fought battle, I made sure that for him the end was swift, his pain kept to a minimum.
The bystanders shrank back as I made my escape, swallowed up by the docks, hoping to catch Rogers and Hornigold. I made it, arriving at a quayside and crouching beside two drunks at the harbour wall as they met another man. Laureano Torres. They greeted each other with nods. Supremely aware of their own importance. I ducked my head—groan, had too much rum—as his gaze swept past where I sat, then he delivered his news.
“The Princess was taken by pirates six weeks ago,” he said. “Insofar as we know, The Sage, Roberts, was still aboard.”
I cursed to myself. If only the men knew how close they’d been to a short holiday in Kingston. But this meant that we were going to have to hunt pirates.
Then they walked and I stood and joined the crowds, following, invisible. Using the Sense. Hearing everything they said. “What of The Sage’s present location? Do we know?” asked Torres.
“Africa, your Excellency,” said Rogers.
“Africa . . . By God, the winds do not favour that route.”
“I concur, Grand Master. I should have sailed there myself. One of my slave galleys would be more than capable of making a swift journey.”
“Slave galley?” said Torres, not happy. “Captain, I asked you to divest yourself of that sick institution.”
“I fail to see the difference between enslaving some men and all men,” said Rogers. “Our aim is to steer the entire course of civilization, is it not?”
“A body enslaved inspires the mind to revolt,” said Torres curtly, “but enslave a man’s mind and his body will trot along naturally.”
Rogers conceded. “A fair point, Grand Master.”
Now they had reached the perimeter of the docks, where they stopped at the entrance to a dilapidated warehouse, watching the activities inside the open door. Men seemed to be disposing of bodies, either clearing them from the warehouse or putting them to one side, perhaps for loading onto a cart or ship. Or, what was more likely, tipping them straight into the sea.
Torres asked the question I wanted answered myself. “What has happened here?”
Rogers smiled thinly. “These were men who resisted our generous requests for blood. Pirates and privateers mostly.”
Torres nodded. “I see.”
I tightened at the thought, looked at the bodies, crooked arms and crooked legs, unseeing eyes. Men no different than me.
“I have been using my King’s Pardon as an excuse to collect samples from as many men as possible,” said Rogers. “When they refuse, I hang them. All within the boundaries of my mandate, of course.”
“Good. For if we cannot keep watch on all the world’s scoundrels, then the seas should be rid of them entirely.”
Now they moved on, heading towards the gang-board of a ship moored nearby. I followed, darting behind a stack of crates to listen.
“Remind me,” said Torres. “Where in Africa are we looking?”
“Principé, sir. A small island,” said Hornigold.
Torres and Rogers strode up the gang-board but Hornigold hung back. Why? Why was he hanging back? And now I saw. With squinted eyes, the practised look of a seafarer, he scanned the horizon and studied the ships anchored like sentinels in the glittering ocean, and his eyes alighted on one ship in particular. And then with a lurch of shock, I realized where we were—within sight of the Jackdaw.
Hornigold tensed, his hand went to the hilt of his sword and he turned around slowly. He was looking for me, I knew, guessing that wherever the Jackdaw was, I wouldn’t be far away.
“Edward Kenway,” he called out, as his gaze passed around the docks. “Imagine my surprise at seeing your Jackdaw anchored here. Have you heard all you came to hear? Will you now go and rescue the poor Sage from our clutching hands?”
In retrospect it was a bit rash, what I did next. But I was unable to think of anything but the fact that Benjamin had been one of us. One of my mentors, a friend of Edward Thatch. Now he worked to try and destroy us. All of that bubbled to the surface in a rage as I emerged from behind the crates to face him.
Assassin's Creed: Black Flag Page 22