Fights Like The Devil, Dressed As A Man

“Good morning, Duncan,” Woodes Rogers called 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.

Edward started towards Rogers, but then he heard a voice shout, “Edward! Hello, Edward!”

For a second or so Edward thought it was a case of mistaken identity, even found himself looking over his shoulder to see this “Edward.” Until he remembered. Edward was Edward. He was Edward. Stupid Edward. Who, from a misplaced sense of guilt, had admitted his 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.

Edward waved back—excellent news—aware of Rogers’s eyes upon him.

“He just called you Edward,” said Rogers. That same curious smile Edward’d seen yesterday played about his lips again.

“Oh, that’s the merchant who sailed me here,” Edward explained, with a conspiratorial wink. “Out of caution, I gave him a false name.”

“Ah... well done,” said Rogers.

But not convinced.

Edward was thankful to leave the main harbour behind when he and Rogers joined the same group of Templars who’d met at Torres’s mansion the day before. Hands were shaken, the rings of their brotherhood, still fresh on their fingers, glinted, and they gave each other short nods. Brothers. Brothers in a secret society.

Torres led them to a line of small fishermen’s huts, with row-boats tethered in the water nearby. There was no one about, not yet. He guided them 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.

Edward watched the faces of his 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.

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.

Edward wasn't sure what he 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, Edward included, fixed with a stare of such ferocity that Ed found himself 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 his 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.

The two men shook hands. Brothers in a secret society. Rogers and Edward did the same before the legendary pirate hunter turned and left, off to continue being the scourge of buccaneers everywhere. They would meet again, Edward knew.

By then one of the ship’s deck-hands had arrived and handed Torres something that looked suspiciously like it might contain Edward's money. Not that the bag seemed quite as hefty as he’d hoped.

“I consider this the first payment in a long-lived investment,” said Torres, handing Edward the pouch—the suspiciously light pouch. “Thank you.”

Ed took it cautiously, knowing by the weight that there was more to come, both in terms of money as well as more challenges for him 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 his fee Edward needed to see The Sage terrified further.

Torres left and Edward stood there for a moment on the dock, deep in thought, before leaving to prepare. He had decided. He was going to rescue The Sage.

He’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 Edward would be rich, the richest pirate in the West Indies. He could return to Caroline a rich man. So perhaps it was merely greed that made Ed decide to rescue him. Looking back, probably a mixture of the two.

Either way, it was a decision Edward’d shortly regret.

Night-time, and the walls of Torres’s mansion formed a black border beneath a grey, starless sky. The chirping insects were at their loudest, almost drowning out the trickle of running water and the soft rattle of the palm trees.

With a quick look left and right—Edward's approach had been timed to make sure no sentries were present—he flexed his fingers and jumped, pulled himself up to the top of the wall, then lay there for a second to control his breathing and listen for running feet, cries of “hey!” or the swish of swords being drawn.

When there was nothing—nothing apart from the in-sects, the water, the whisper of night wind among the trees—Edward dropped down to the other side and into the grounds of the Havana governor’s mansion.

Like a ghost he made his way across the gardens and into the main building, where he hugged the walls along the perimeter of the courtyard. On his right forearm he felt the comforting presence of his hidden blade and strapped across his chest were my pistols. A short-sword hung from his belt beneath his robes and he wore his cowl over his head. Edward felt invisible. he felt lethal. He felt as though he was about to deliver a blow against the Templars and even though freeing The Sage wasn’t equal to the harm their brothers had done Edward and this wasn’t going to even the score, it was a start. It was a first strike.

Edward’d had to make an informed guess as to where the governor kept his state prisons, but he had been right. It was a small compound, separate from the mansion, where he found a high wall and...

That’s odd. Why is the door hanging open?

Edward slid through. Flaming torches bracketed on the walls illuminated a scene of carnage. Four of five soldiers dead in the dirt, gaping holes at their throats, pulverized meat at their chests.

He had no idea where The Sage had been kept but one thing was beyond doubt: he wasn’t here any longer.

Edward heard a sound behind me too late to stop the blow but in time to prevent its knocking him out, and he pitched forward, landing badly on the dirt, but having the presence of mind to roll. A pikestaff with my name on it was driven into the ground where he’d been. At the other end of it was a surprised soldier. Edward kicked himself up, grabbed his shoulders and span. At the same time he kicked at the shaft of the pikestaff and snapped it, then rammed the soldier's body onto it.

He flopped like a landed fish, impaled on the snapped shaft of his own pikestaff, but Edward didn’t stick around to admire his death-throes. The second soldier was upon me, angry, the way you get when you see your friend die.

Now, Edward thought, let’s see if this works every time.

Snick.

The hidden blade engaged and he met the steel of the soldier's blade with his own steel, knocking his sword away and slashing open the soldier's throat with the backswipe. Edward drew the sword at his belt in time to meet a third attacker. Behind him were two soldiers with muskets. Close by was El Tiburón, his sword drawn but held at his hip as he watched the fight.

One of the soldiers fired just as Edward drove both his sword and hidden blade into the soldier in front of him, pinning him with the blades and swinging him around at the same time. His body, already dead, jerked as the musket ball slammed into him.

Edward let his human shield go, plucking a dagger from the man's belt as he dropped and praying that his aim would be as good as it always had been, after countless hours at home spent tormenting the trunks of trees with throwing knives.

El Tiburón came forward. A boot stepped onto my blade and held Edward's arm in place, and dimly he wondered if the blade had a quick-release buckle even though it would do Ed no good, as the tip of his sword nudged Edward's neck, ready for the final lethal strike...

“Enough,” came the cry from the compound door. Squinting through a veil of blood Edward saw the guards part and Torres step through, followed closely by DuCasse. The two Templars shouldered El Tiburón aside, and with the merest flicker of irritation in his eyes—the hunter denied his kill—the enforcer stepped away. Ed wasn’t sad to see him go.

Edward gasped ragged breath. His mouth filled with blood and he spat as Torres and DuCasse crouched, studying him like two medical men examining a patient. When the Frenchman reached for Edward's forearm he disengaged the hidden blade, unclipped it with practised fingers, then tossed it away. Torres looked at him, and Edward wondered if he really was as disappointed as he looked, or whether it was theatrics. He took hold of Edward's other hand, removed his Templar ring and pocketed it.

“What is your true name, rogue?” said Torres.

Disarmed as Edward was, they let him pull himself to a sitting position. “It’s, ah... Captain Pissoff.”

Again Edward spat close to DuCasse’s shoe, and he looked from the gobbet of blood to Ed with a sneer. “Nothing but a filthy peasant.” He moved to strike Edward, but Torres held him back. Torres had been looking around the courtyard at the bodies, as though trying to assess the situation.

“Where is The Sage?” he asked. “Did you set him free?”

“I had nothing to do with that, much as I wish I did,” Edward managed.

As far as he was concerned The Sage had either been sprung by Assassin friends or staged an escape himself. Either way, he was out—out of harm’s way and in possession of the one secret they all wanted: The Observatory location.

Torres looked at me and must have seen the truth in Edward's eyes. His Templar affiliations made him Ed's enemy, but there was something in the old man he liked, or respected, at least. Torres stood up and signalled to his men.

“Take him to the ports. Send him to Seville with the treasure fleet.”

“To Seville?” queried DuCasse.

“Yes,” replied Torres.

“But we can interrogate him ourselves,” said DuCasse. Edward heard the cruel smile in his voice. “Indeed... it would be a pleasure.”

“Which is exactly why I intend to entrust the job to our colleagues in Spain,” said Torres firmly. “I hope this is not a problem for you, Julien?”

Even fogged by pain Edward could hear the irritation in the Frenchman’s voice.

“Non, monsieur,” he replied.

Still, he took a great pleasure in knocking Edward's lights out.