Assassin's creed : Black flag - Bowden Oliver - Страница 52

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“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?”

“Principe, 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.

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