Assassin's Creed: Black Flag (13 page)

“Oh well done, Duncan.” Rogers clapped. I looked from him and DuCasse to my shadow cast on the grass. I had struck quite a pose, the blade engaged. What’s more, I thought I knew how I had done it. A tensing of muscle that came as much from the upper arm as the forearm . . .

“Very impressive,” said DuCasse. He stepped forward, held my arm with one hand that he used to release a catch, then, very carefully, used the flat of his other palm to ease the blade back into its housing.

“Now, let’s see you do it again.”

Without taking my eyes off him, I took a step back then assumed the same position. This time there was no luck involved, and even though I didn’t know quite what I was doing I had perfect confidence it would work. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. Sure enough:
Snick
. The blade sprang from the support and glinted evilly in the afternoon sun.

“A little noisy,” I smiled, getting cocky now. “Ideally, you’d not hear a thing. Otherwise, they’re fine.”

Their challenges were interminable but by the end I felt I was performing for their pleasure rather than their reassurance. Any tests were over. The guards had drifted away, and even DuCasse, who wore his wariness like a favoured old coat, seemed to have dropped his guard. By the time we left the makeshift training area, he was talking to me like an old friend.

“The Assassins have trained you well, Duncan,” he said.

The Assassins
, I thought. So that’s what this group were called. Walpole had been a member but intended to betray his brothers, low-down scum-sucker he obviously was.

Betray them for what? is the question.

“You chose the perfect time to leave them behind.”

“At great risk,” enthused Rogers. “Betraying the Assassins is never good for one’s health.”

“Well,” I said, somewhat pompously, “neither is drinking liquor, but I am drawn to its dangers all the same.”

He chuckled as I turned my attention to DuCasse.

“What is your business here, sir? Are you an associate of the governor’s? Or a pending acquaintance like me?”

“Ah, I am . . . How do you say? Weapons dealer. I deal in pilfered guns and armaments.”

“A smuggler of sorts,” piped up Rogers.

“Guns, blades, grenadoes. Anything that might kill a man, I am happy to provide,” clarified the Frenchman.

By now we had reached the terrace, where I finally clapped eyes on Governor Torres.

He was about seventy years old, but not fat, the way rich men get. Apart from a clipped beard, his face was brown and lined and topped with brushed-forward thinning white hair, and with one hand on the bowl of a long-stemmed pipe, he peered through round spectacles at correspondence he held in his other hand.

He didn’t look up, not at first. All the looking was taken care of by the big, bearded man who stood patiently at his right shoulder, his arms folded, as still as one of the courtyard statues and ten times as stony.

I recognized him at once, of course. The previous day I’d seen him send three pirates to his death; why, that very morning I’d pretended to procure prostitutes in his name. It was the Spaniard, El Tiburón, and although by then I should have been accustomed to intense examination by my hosts, his eyes seemed to drill right through me. For a while, as his stare bored into me, I was absolutely certain that not only had he spoken to the guards at the Castillo but that they had given him a detailed description, and that any second he would raise a trembling finger, point at me, and demand to know why I’d been at the fortress.

“Grand Master Torres.”

It was Rogers who broke the silence.

“Mr. Duncan Walpole has arrived.”

Torres looked up and regarded me over the top of his spectacles. He nodded, then handed his letter to El Tiburón, and thank God he did, for it meant that at last El Tiburón tore his eyes away from me.

“You were expected one week ago,” said Torres, but without much irritation.

“Apologies, Governor,” I replied. “My ship was set upon by the pirates and we were scuttled. I arrived only yesterday.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Unfortunate. But were you able to salvage from these pirates the items you promised me?”

I nodded, thinking,
One hand gives you the pouch, the other hand takes the money,
and from my robes took the small hunting satchel, bent and dropped it to a low table by Torres’s knees. He puffed on his pipe, then opened the pouch, took out the maps. I’d seen the maps, of course, and they didn’t mean anything to me. Nor did the crystal for that matter. But they meant something to Torres all right. No doubt about it.

“Incredible,” he said in tones of wonderment. “The Assassins have more resources than I had imagined . . .”

He reached for the crystal, squinting at it through his spectacles and turning it over in his fingers. This
ornament
or whatever it was . . . well, to him it was no ornament.

He placed the papers and crystal back into the satchel and crooked a hand for El Tiburón, who stepped forward and took the satchel. With that, Torres reached for my hand to shake, pumping it vigorously as he spoke.

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Duncan,” he said. “You are most welcome. Come, gentlemen.” He motioned to the others. “We have much to discuss. Come . . .”

We began to move away from the terrace, all friends together.

Still no word about the bloody reward.
Shit
. I was getting deeper—deeper into something I wanted no part of.

We stood around a large table in a private room inside the main building: me, Torres, El Tiburón, DuCasse and Rogers.

El Tiburón, who remained at his master’s shoulder, held a long, thin box, like a cigar box. Did I imagine it, or were his eyes constantly on me? Had he somehow seen through me, or been alerted?
“Sir, a strange man in robes was looking for you at the fortress earlier.”

I didn’t think so, though. Apart from him, everybody else in the room seemed relaxed, accepting drinks from Torres and chatting amiably while he made his own. Like any good host, he’d ensured his guests were holding full glasses first, but I wondered why he didn’t have staff to serve them, then thought I knew the answer: it was the nature of our business in this room. The atmosphere might well have been relaxed—at least it was for the time being—but Torres was sure to post a sentry, then close the door with a gesture that seemed to say,
Anything said in this room is for our ears only
, the kind of gesture that was making me feel less reassured with each passing moment, wishing I’d taken note of the line in the letter about my support for their “secret and most noble cause.”

I must remember that next time I’m considering becoming an imposter
, I thought—give noble causes a wide berth. Especially if they’re
secret
noble causes

But we all had our drinks so a toast was raised, Torres saying, “Convened at last and in such Continental company . . . England, France, Spain . . . Citizens of sad and corrupted empires.”

At a wave from Torres, El Tiburón moved across, opened the box he held and placed it to the table. I saw red-velvet lining and the gleam of metal from inside. Whatever it was, it looked significant and indeed proved to be, as Torres, his smile fading, the natural gleam of his eyes replaced by something altogether more serious, began what was obviously a ceremony of some importance.

“But you are Templars now,” he was saying. “The secret and true legislators of the world. Please hold out your hands.”

The convivial atmosphere was suddenly solemn. Drinks were set down. I shuffled quickly to the side, seeing that the others had placed themselves at intervals around the table. Next I did as I was asked and proffered my hand, thinking,
Templars
—so that’s what they were.

It seems odd to say now, but I relaxed—I relaxed in the belief that they were nothing more sinister than a secret society. A silly club like any other silly club, full of deluded, pompous fools, whose grandiose aims (“the secret and true legislators of the world” no less!) were hot air, just an excuse for bickering about meaningless titles and trinkets.

What were their petty concerns? I wondered. I found I didn’t care. After all, why would I? As a pirate I’d renounced all law but pirate law; my freedom was absolute. I was governed by rules, of course, but they were the rules of the sea and adhering to them was a matter of
need
, for survival rather than the acquisition of status and the peacocking of sashes and baubles. What were their squabbles with the Assassins? I wondered, and found I couldn’t give a fig about that either.

So yes, I relaxed. I didn’t take them seriously.

Torres placed the first ring on DuCasse’s finger. “Mark and remember our purpose. To guide all wayward souls till they reach a quiet road.”

A second ring was placed on Rogers’s finger. “To guide all wayward desire till impassioned hearts are cooled.”

Hot air, I thought. Nothing but empty, meaningless statements. No purpose other than to award their speaker unearned authority. Look at them all, lapping it up, like it means something. Silly men so deluded by a sense of their own importance that they were unable to see that it extended no further than the walls of the mansion.

Nobody cares, my friends. Nobody cares about your secret society.

Then Torres was addressing me, and he placed on my finger a third ring, saying, “To guide all wayward minds to safe and sober thought.”

Sober
, I thought. That was a laugh.

I looked down at the ring he’d put on my finger and suddenly I was no longer laughing. Suddenly I was no longer thinking of these Templars as a silly secret society with no influence outside their own homes, because on my finger was the same ring as worn by the East India Company’s ship captain Benjamin Pritchard, the same ring worn by the man in the hood, the leader of the group who burned my father’s farmhouse, both of whom had warned me of great and terrible powers at work. Suddenly I was thinking that whatever squabbles these people had with the Assassins then, well, I was on the side of the Assassins.

For the moment, I would bide my time.

Torres stood back. “By the father of understanding’s light let our work now begin,” he said. “Decades ago, the council entrusted me with the task of locating in the West Indies a forgotten place our precursors once called The Observatory. See here . . .”

On the table before him were spread out the documents from the satchel, placed there by El Tiburón.

“Look upon these images and commit them to memory,” added Torres. “They tell a very old and important story. For two decades now I have endeavoured to locate this Observatory. It is a place rumoured to contain a tool of incredible utility and power. It houses a kind of armillary sphere, if you like. A device that would grant us the power to locate and monitor
every man and woman on
Earth
, whatever his or her location.

“Only imagine what it would mean to have such power. With this device, there would be no secrets among men. No lies. No trickery. Only justice. Pure justice. This is The Observatory’s promise and we must take it for our own.”

So that, then, was where I first learnt of The Observatory.

“Do we know its whereabouts?” asked Rogers.

“We will soon,” replied Torres, “for in our custody is the one man who does. A man named Roberts. Once called a Sage.”

DuCasse gave a small, scoffing laugh. “It has been forty-five years since anyone has seen an actual Sage. Can you be sure this one is authentic?”

“We are confident he is,” replied Torres.

“The Assassins will come for him,” said Rogers.

I looked at the documents spread out before us. Drawings of what looked like an ancient race of people building something—The Observatory, presumably. Slaves breaking rocks and carrying huge stone blocks. They looked human, but not quite human.

One thing I did know—a plan was beginning to form. This Observatory, which meant so much to the Templars. What would it be worth? More to the point, what would it be worth to a man planning revenge on the people who had helped torch his childhood home?

The small crystal cube from the pouch was still on the table. I puzzled over it, just as I had on the beach at Cape Buena Vista. Now I watched as Torres reached and picked it up, replying to Rogers at the same time.

“Indeed the Assassins will come for us but, thanks to Duncan and the information he has delivered, the Assassins won’t be a problem for much longer. All will be made clear tomorrow, gentlemen, when you meet The Sage for yourselves. Until then, let us drink.”

Our host indicated a drinks table, and while backs were turned I reached to the documents and pocketed a manuscript page—a picture of The Observatory.

I was just in time before Torres turned, handing glasses to the men.

“Let us find The Observatory together, for with its power, kings will fall, clergy will cower, and the hearts and minds of the world will be ours.”

We drank.

We drank together though I know for sure we drank in honour of very different things indeed.

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 Templars were plotting 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 new-found information with my confederates at Nassau, then finding The Observatory, reaping the pay-day, 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 babbler, 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.

Torres led us to a line of small fishermen’s huts, with row-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 before one of the small huts. Inside, sitting on an upturned crate with a beard and ragged clothes and 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 surname is Roberts. Is this so?”

Roberts, or The Sage, or whatever we were calling him that day, said nothing. Merely stared balefully at Torres.

Without taking his eyes off The Sage, Torres reached a hand up to shoulder level. Onto his palm El Tiburón placed the crystal cube from the pouch. I’d wondered what it was. I was about to find out.

Torres, speaking to The Sage again, said, “You recognize this, I think?”

Silence from The Sage. Perhaps he knew what was coming next for Torres indicated again, and a second upturned crate was brought and he sat on it 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, 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, fixed 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.

When the operation was over, Torres stood 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.”

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 in a secret society. 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 then one of the ship’s deck-hands 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-lived 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, both in terms of 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 terrified 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.

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. 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. I could 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.