Assassin's Creed: Black Flag
Page 51
Now we were both inside and darting across the compound towards his manor. Probably we were seen by slaves, but we had to hope they wouldn’t raise the alarm. Our prayers were answered because moments after that we were creeping into the manor, using hand signals to move stealthily around the rooms—until we came across him standing in a gazebo in a rear yard of the house. Crouched on either side of an archway, we peeked around the frame and saw him there, standing with his back to us, his hands across his stomach looking out over his grounds, pleased with his lot in life, a fat slaver, his fortune built on the suffering of others. You remember me saying I’d met some who were all bad? Laurens Prins was top of that list.
We looked at one another. The kill belonged to her and yet, for some reason (because they were trying to recruit me?), she waved me onward. I stood, went through to the yard, crept beneath the gazebo and stood behind Laurens Prins.
And engaged my blade.
Oh, I kept it well greased; the one thing you can be sure of when it comes to pirates is that while we may not be a particularly domesticated breed, we kept our weapons in good condition. It was the same philosophy as keeping the galleon ship-shape. A question of need, of survival.
So it was with my blade. When it got wet I cleaned it thoroughly, and I kept it greased to within an inch of its life, and so these days it barely made a noise when I ejected it. It was so quiet, in fact, that Prins didn’t hear it.
I cursed, and at last he turned in surprise, perhaps expecting to see one of his guards there, about to shout at the man for his impudence, creeping up on him like that. Instead I thrust the blade into him and his eyes opened wide in surprise, frozen like that as I let him down to the floor, keeping the blade in him, holding him there as blood filled his lungs and the life began to leave him.
“Why hang over me like a leering crow?” he coughed. “To see an old man suffer?”
“You’ve caused no small portion of suffering yourself, Mr. Prins,” I told him dispassionately. “This is retribution, I suppose.”
“You absurd cut-throats and your precious philosophy,” he jeered, the final pathetic contempt of a dying man. “You live in the world, but you cannot make it move.”
I smiled down at him. “You mistake my motive, old man. I’m only after a bit of coin.”
“As was I, lad,” he said. “As was I . . .”
He died.
I stepped out of the gazebo, leaving his body behind, when I heard a noise from above me. Looking up, I saw on a balcony The Sage, Roberts, just as I remembered him. He held Mary hostage, with a flint-lock pistol aimed at the side of her head and—clever lad—he held her wrist to stop her engaging her blade.
“I found your man,” she called down, seemingly unconcerned about the pistol at her forehead. He’d use it too. The heat in his eyes said so. They blazed. Remember me, do you, mate? I thought. The man who stood by while they took your blood?
He did. “The Templar from Havana,” he said, nodding.
“I’m no Templar, mate,” I called back, “that was just a ruse. We’ve come here to save your arse.”
(By which, of course, I meant, “Torture you until you tell us where The Observatory is.”)
“Save me? I work for Mr. Prins.”
“Well then he’s a poor man to call master. He meant to sell you out to the Templars.”
He rolled his eyes. “You can’t trust anyone, it seems.”
Perhaps he relaxed, for Mary chose that moment to make her move. She dragged the heel of her boot down his shin and he cried out in pain as she twisted to one side and from underneath his grasp. She flailed for his gun arm but he whipped it away, aimed and fired but missed. Now she was off balance and he saw his chance, pivoting on the rail of the balcony and kicking her with both feet. With a yell she flipped over the rail and I was already starting forward to try and catch her when she caught herself and swung into the balcony below.
Meanwhile, The Sage had drawn another pistol, but guards were arriving, alerted by the gunfire.
“Roberts,” I shouted, but instead of shooting at the guards he aimed his second shot at the bell.
Clang.
He couldn’t miss, and it had the desired effect: as Mary dropped lithely down from the second balcony to join me, engaging her blade at the same time, guards came pouring from the archways into the courtyard. Back-to-back we stood but there was no time to appraise our enemy at leisure. Muskets and pistols were being produced, so into action we sprang.
Six each, I think, was the tally. Twelve men who died with varying degrees of bravery and skill, and at least one case of dubious suitability for any kind of combat. It was the way he screwed up his eyes and whimpered as he came running into battle.
We heard the running feet of more men arriving and knew that was our cue to escape, dashing from the courtyard, then across the compound, urging the slaves to run, run, free themselves, as we went. If there had not been scores of soldiers on our tails, then we would have stopped and forced them to escape. As it was, I don’t know whether they pressed home the advantage we’d given them.
• • •
Later, when we stopped and I was done cursing my luck at losing Roberts, I asked her real name.
“Mary Read to my mum,” she answered, and at the same time I felt something press into my crotch and when I looked down, saw that it was the point of Mary’s hidden blade.
She was smiling, thank God.
“But not a word of it to anyone,” she said. “Or I’ll unman you as well.”
I never did tell anyone. After all, this was a woman who knew how to piss standing up. I wasn’t about to underestimate her.
FORTY-ONE
JANUARY 1718
Dear Edward,
I write with sad news of your father, who passed away one month ago, taken by pleurisy. His passing was not painful, and he died in my arms I am pleased to say. So at least we were together until the very end.
We were poor at the time of his passing and so I have taken a job at a local tavern where you may reach me if you wish to correspond. News of your exploits has found my ears. They say you are a pirate of some infamy. I wish that you could write to me and allay my fears on this matter. I regret to say I have not seen Caroline since you left, and so I am unable to pass you any details regarding her health.
Mother
I looked at the return address. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
FORTY-TWO
Well, I know I was in Nassau during that early part of 1718—where else would I be, it was my home—but to be honest I remember only fragments. Why? That’s a question you need to direct to him in there. Him, that little voice inside who tells you you need one more drink when you know you’ve had enough. That was the little man who started hooting and wouldn’t let me pass The Old Avery without a trip inside to while away the day, then wake up the next, rough as arseholes, knowing there was only one thing that would make me feel better, and it was served by Anne Bonny, barmaid at The Old Avery. And then, what do you know? The whole circle—a vicious bloody circle—would begin again.
We looked at one another. The kill belonged to her and yet, for some reason (because they were trying to recruit me?), she waved me onward. I stood, went through to the yard, crept beneath the gazebo and stood behind Laurens Prins.
And engaged my blade.
Oh, I kept it well greased; the one thing you can be sure of when it comes to pirates is that while we may not be a particularly domesticated breed, we kept our weapons in good condition. It was the same philosophy as keeping the galleon ship-shape. A question of need, of survival.
So it was with my blade. When it got wet I cleaned it thoroughly, and I kept it greased to within an inch of its life, and so these days it barely made a noise when I ejected it. It was so quiet, in fact, that Prins didn’t hear it.
I cursed, and at last he turned in surprise, perhaps expecting to see one of his guards there, about to shout at the man for his impudence, creeping up on him like that. Instead I thrust the blade into him and his eyes opened wide in surprise, frozen like that as I let him down to the floor, keeping the blade in him, holding him there as blood filled his lungs and the life began to leave him.
“Why hang over me like a leering crow?” he coughed. “To see an old man suffer?”
“You’ve caused no small portion of suffering yourself, Mr. Prins,” I told him dispassionately. “This is retribution, I suppose.”
“You absurd cut-throats and your precious philosophy,” he jeered, the final pathetic contempt of a dying man. “You live in the world, but you cannot make it move.”
I smiled down at him. “You mistake my motive, old man. I’m only after a bit of coin.”
“As was I, lad,” he said. “As was I . . .”
He died.
I stepped out of the gazebo, leaving his body behind, when I heard a noise from above me. Looking up, I saw on a balcony The Sage, Roberts, just as I remembered him. He held Mary hostage, with a flint-lock pistol aimed at the side of her head and—clever lad—he held her wrist to stop her engaging her blade.
“I found your man,” she called down, seemingly unconcerned about the pistol at her forehead. He’d use it too. The heat in his eyes said so. They blazed. Remember me, do you, mate? I thought. The man who stood by while they took your blood?
He did. “The Templar from Havana,” he said, nodding.
“I’m no Templar, mate,” I called back, “that was just a ruse. We’ve come here to save your arse.”
(By which, of course, I meant, “Torture you until you tell us where The Observatory is.”)
“Save me? I work for Mr. Prins.”
“Well then he’s a poor man to call master. He meant to sell you out to the Templars.”
He rolled his eyes. “You can’t trust anyone, it seems.”
Perhaps he relaxed, for Mary chose that moment to make her move. She dragged the heel of her boot down his shin and he cried out in pain as she twisted to one side and from underneath his grasp. She flailed for his gun arm but he whipped it away, aimed and fired but missed. Now she was off balance and he saw his chance, pivoting on the rail of the balcony and kicking her with both feet. With a yell she flipped over the rail and I was already starting forward to try and catch her when she caught herself and swung into the balcony below.
Meanwhile, The Sage had drawn another pistol, but guards were arriving, alerted by the gunfire.
“Roberts,” I shouted, but instead of shooting at the guards he aimed his second shot at the bell.
Clang.
He couldn’t miss, and it had the desired effect: as Mary dropped lithely down from the second balcony to join me, engaging her blade at the same time, guards came pouring from the archways into the courtyard. Back-to-back we stood but there was no time to appraise our enemy at leisure. Muskets and pistols were being produced, so into action we sprang.
Six each, I think, was the tally. Twelve men who died with varying degrees of bravery and skill, and at least one case of dubious suitability for any kind of combat. It was the way he screwed up his eyes and whimpered as he came running into battle.
We heard the running feet of more men arriving and knew that was our cue to escape, dashing from the courtyard, then across the compound, urging the slaves to run, run, free themselves, as we went. If there had not been scores of soldiers on our tails, then we would have stopped and forced them to escape. As it was, I don’t know whether they pressed home the advantage we’d given them.
• • •
Later, when we stopped and I was done cursing my luck at losing Roberts, I asked her real name.
“Mary Read to my mum,” she answered, and at the same time I felt something press into my crotch and when I looked down, saw that it was the point of Mary’s hidden blade.
She was smiling, thank God.
“But not a word of it to anyone,” she said. “Or I’ll unman you as well.”
I never did tell anyone. After all, this was a woman who knew how to piss standing up. I wasn’t about to underestimate her.
FORTY-ONE
JANUARY 1718
Dear Edward,
I write with sad news of your father, who passed away one month ago, taken by pleurisy. His passing was not painful, and he died in my arms I am pleased to say. So at least we were together until the very end.
We were poor at the time of his passing and so I have taken a job at a local tavern where you may reach me if you wish to correspond. News of your exploits has found my ears. They say you are a pirate of some infamy. I wish that you could write to me and allay my fears on this matter. I regret to say I have not seen Caroline since you left, and so I am unable to pass you any details regarding her health.
Mother
I looked at the return address. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
FORTY-TWO
Well, I know I was in Nassau during that early part of 1718—where else would I be, it was my home—but to be honest I remember only fragments. Why? That’s a question you need to direct to him in there. Him, that little voice inside who tells you you need one more drink when you know you’ve had enough. That was the little man who started hooting and wouldn’t let me pass The Old Avery without a trip inside to while away the day, then wake up the next, rough as arseholes, knowing there was only one thing that would make me feel better, and it was served by Anne Bonny, barmaid at The Old Avery. And then, what do you know? The whole circle—a vicious bloody circle—would begin again.
