Assassin's creed : Black flag - Bowden Oliver (библиотека книг .txt) 📗

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 Tiburon, 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 Tiburon, and thank God he did, for it meant that at last El Tiburon 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 Tiburon, 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.

TWENTY-NINE

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

El Tiburon, 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 Tiburon 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.