“So this is how you came to know the Mohawk?”
“Indeed. And it has proved a valuable relationship.”
“But you’ve heard nothing of the precursors’ site? No hidden temple or ancient constructs?”
“Yes and no. Which is to say, they have their fair share of sacred sites but none matching what you describe. Earthen mounds, forest clearings, hidden caves . . . All are natural, though. No strange metal. No . . . odd glows.”
“Hmmm. It is well hidden,” I said.
“Even to them, it seems.” He smiled. “But cheer up, my friend. You’ll have your precursor treasure. I swear it.”
I raised my glass. “To our success, then.”
“And soon!”
I smiled. We were four now. We were a team.
10 JULY 1754
i
We now have our room at the Green Dragon Tavern—a base, if you like—and it was this I entered, to find Thomas, Charles and William: Thomas drinking, Charles looking perturbed and William studying his charts and maps. I greeted them, only to be rewarded with a belch from Thomas.
“Charming,” spat Charles.
I grinned. “Cheer up, Charles. He’ll grow on you,” I said, and sat next to Thomas, who gave me a grateful look.
“Any news?” I said.
He shook his head. “Whispers of things. Nothin’ solid at the moment. I know you’re lookin’ for word of anything out the ordinary . . . Dealin’ with temples and spirits and ancient times and whatnot. But . . . so far, can’t say my boys have heard much.”
“No trinkets or artefacts being moved through your . . . shadow market?”
“Nothin’ new. Couple ill-gotten weapons—some jewellery likely lifted from a living thing. But you said to listen for talk of glows and hums and look out for strange sights, right? An’ I ain’t heard nothin’ ’bout that.”
“Keep at it,” I asked.
“Oh, I will. You done me a great service, mister—and I fully intend to repay my debt—thricefold, if it pleases.”
“Thank you, Thomas.”
“Place to sleep and meal to eat is thanks enough. Don’t you worry. I’ll get you sorted soon.”
He raised his tankard, only to find it was empty, and I laughed, clapped him on the back and watched as he stood and lurched off in search of ale from elsewhere. Then I turned my attention to William, moving over to his lectern and pulling up a chair to sit down beside him. “How fares your search?”
He frowned up at me. “Maps and maths aren’t cutting it.”
Nothing is ever simple, I rued.
“What of your local contacts?” I asked him, taking a seat opposite.
Thomas had bustled back in, with a tankard of foaming ale in his fist and a red mark on his face from where he’d been very recently slapped, just in time to hear William say, “We’ll need to earn their trust before they’ll share what they know.”
“I have an idea on how we might be effectin’ that,” slurred Thomas, and we turned to look at him with varying degrees of interest, Charles in the way he usually regarded Thomas, with a look as though he’d just trodden in dog mess, William with bemusement, and me with a genuine interest. Thomas, drunk or sober, was a sharper customer than either Charles or William gave him credit for. He went on now: “There’s a man who was taken to enslavin’ natives. Rescue ’em and they’ll owe us.”
Natives, I thought. The Mohawk. Now there was an idea. “Do you know where they’re being held?”
He shook his head. But Charles was leaning forward. “Benjamin Church will. He’s a finder and a fixer—he’s also on your list.”
I smiled at him. Good work. I thought. “And there I was, wondering who we might solicit next.”
ii
Benjamin Church was a doctor, and we found his house easily enough. When there was no answer at his door, Charles wasted no time kicking it down, and we hurried in, only to find that the place had been ransacked. Not only had furniture been upturned and documents spread all over the floor, disrupted during a messy search, but there were also traces of blood on the floor.
We looked at one another. “It seems we’re not the only ones looking for Dr. Church,” I said, with my sword drawn.
“Damn it!” exploded Charles. “He could be anywhere. What do we do?”
I pointed to a portrait of the good doctor hanging over the mantelpiece. It showed a man in his early twenties, who nonetheless had a distinguished look. “We find him. Come, I’ll show you how.”
And I began telling Charles about the art of surveillance, of blending into your surroundings, disappearing, noticing routines and habits, studying movement around and adapting to it, becoming at one with the environment, becoming part of the scenery.
I realized how much I was enjoying my new role as tutor. As a boy I’d been taught by my father, and then Reginald, and I had always looked forward to my sessions with them—always relished the passing on and imparting of new knowledge—forbidden knowledge, the sort you couldn’t find in books.
Teaching it to Charles, I wondered if my father and Reginald had felt the way I did now: serene, wise and worldly. I showed him how to ask questions, how to eavesdrop, how to move around the city like a ghost, gathering and processing information. And after that we parted, carried out our investigations individually, then an hour or so later came back together, faces grim.
What we had learnt was that Benjamin Church had been seen in the company of other men—three or four of them—who had been bearing him away from his house. Some of the witnesses had assumed Benjamin was drunk; others had noticed how bruised and bloodied he had been. One man who went to his aid had received a knife in his guts as thanks. Wherever they were going, it was clear that Benjamin was in trouble, but where were they going? The answer came from a herald, who stood shouting out the day’s news.
“Have you seen this man?” I asked him.
“It difficult to say . . .” He shook his head. “So many people pass through the square, it’s hard to . . .”
I pressed some coins into his hand and his demeanour changed at once. He leaned forward with a conspiratorial air: “He was being taken to the waterfront warehouses just east of here.”
“Thank you kindly for your help,” I told him.
“But hurry,” he said. “He was with Silas’s men. Such meetings tend to end poorly.”
Silas, I thought, as we weaved our way through the streets on our way to the warehouse district. Now, who was Silas?
The crowds had thinned considerably by the time we reached our destination, well away from the main thoroughfare, where a faint smell of fish seemed to hang over the day. The warehouse sat in a row of similar buildings, all of them huge and exuding a sense of erosion and disrepair, and I might have walked straight past if it hadn’t been for the guard who lounged outside the main doors. He sat on one barrel, his feet up on another, chewing, not as alert as he should have been, so that it was easy enough to stop Charles and pull him to the side of the building before we were spotted.
There was an entrance on the wall closest to us, and I checked it was unguarded before trying the door. Locked. From inside we heard the sounds of a struggle then an agonized scream. I’m not a gambling man, but I would have bet on the owner of that agonized scream: Benjamin Church. Charles and I looked at each other. We had to get in there, and fast. Craning around the side of the warehouse, I took another look at the guard, saw the telltale flash of a key ring at his waist, and knew what I had to do.
I waited until a man pushing a barrow had passed then, with a finger to my lips, told Charles to wait and emerged from cover, weaving a little as I came around to the front of the building, looking to all intents and purposes as though I’d had too much to drink.
Sitting on his barrel, the sentry looked sideways at me, his lip curled. He began to withdraw his sword from its sheath, showing a little of its gleaming blade. Staggering, I straightened, held up a hand to acknowledge the warning and made as though to move away, be
fore stumbling a little and brushing into him.
“Oi!” he protested, and shoved me away, so hard that I lost my footing and fell into the street. I picked myself up and, with another wave of apology, was on my way.
What he didn’t know was that I left in possession of the key ring, which I had lifted from his waist. Back at the side of the warehouse we tried a couple of the keys before, to our great relief, finding one that opened the door. Wincing at every phantom creak and squeak, we eased it open then crept through, into the dark and damp-smelling warehouse.
Inside, we crouched by the door, slowly adjusting to our new surroundings: a vast space, most of it in darkness. Black, echoing hollows seemed to stretch back into infinity, the only light coming from three braziers that had been set out in the middle of the room. We saw, at last, the man we had been looking for, the man from the portrait: Dr. Benjamin Church. He sat tied to a chair, a guard on either side of him, one of his eyes purple and bruised, his head lolling and blood dripping steadily from a gashed lip to the dirty white scarf he wore.
Standing in front of him was a sharp-dressed man—Silas, no doubt—and a companion, who was sharpening a knife. The soft swooshing sound it made was almost gentle, hypnotic, and for a moment was the only noise in the room.
“Why must you always make things so difficult, Benjamin?” asked Silas, with an air of theatrical sadness. He had an English accent, I realized, and sounded highborn. He continued: “Merely provide me with recompense and all shall be forgiven.”
Benjamin regarded him with an injured but defiant gaze. “I’ll not pay for protection I don’t need,” he snapped back, undaunted.
Silas smiled and airily waved a hand around at the dank, wet and dirty warehouse. “Clearly, you do require protection, else we wouldn’t be here.”
Benjamin turned his head and spat a gobbet of blood, which slapped to the stone floor, then turned his eyes back to Silas, who wore a look as though Benjamin had passed wind at dinner. “How very gauche,” he said. “Now, what shall we do about our guest?”
The man sharpening the knives looked up. This was his cue. “Maybe I take his hands,” he rasped. “Put an end to ’is surgerin’? Maybe I take ’is tongue. Put an end to ’is wagglin? Or maybe I take ’is cock. Put an end to ’is fuckin’ us.”
A tremor seemed to go through the men, of disgust, fear and amusement. Silas reacted: “So many options, I can’t possibly decide.” He looked at the knifeman and pretended to be lost in indecision, then added, “Take all three.”
“Now hold on a moment,” said Benjamin quickly. “Perhaps I was hasty in refusing you earlier.”
“I’m so very sorry, Benjamin, but that door has closed,” said Silas sadly.
“Be reasonable . . .” started Benjamin, a pleading note in his voice.
Silas tilted his head to one side, and his eyebrows knitted together in false concern. “I rather think I was. But you took advantage of my generosity. I won’t be made a fool of a second time.”
The torturer moved forward, holding the point of the knife up to his own eyeball, bugging his eyes and grinning maniacally.
“I fear I lack the constitution to witness such barbarism,” said Silas, with the air of an easily offended old woman. “Come and find me when you’ve finished, Cutter.”
Silas went to leave as Benjamin Church screamed, “You’ll regret this, Silas! You hear me? I’ll have your head!”
At the door Silas stopped, turned and looked at him. “No,” he said with the beginnings of a giggle. “No, I rather think you won’t.”
Then Benjamin’s screams began as Cutter began his work, snickering slightly as he began to wield the knife like an artist making his first painterly strokes, as though at the outset of a much larger project. Poor old Dr. Church was the canvas and Cutter was painting his masterpiece.
I whispered to Charles what needed to be done, and he moved away, scuttling through the dark to the rear of the warehouse, where I saw him put a hand to his mouth to call, “Over here, y’ bastards,” then immediately move away, quick and silent.
Cutter’s head jerked up, and he waved the two guards over, glancing warily around the warehouse at the same time as his men drew their swords and moved carefully towards the back, where the noise had come from—even as there was another call, this time from a different pocket of blackness, an almost whispered, “Over here.”
The two guards swallowed, exchanged a nervous glance, while Cutter’s gaze roamed the shadows of the building, his jaw set, half in fear, half in frustration. I could see his mind working: was it his own men playing a prank? Kids messing about?
No. It was enemy action.
“What’s going on?” snarled one of the heavies. Both craned their necks to stare into the dark spaces of the warehouse. “Get a torch,” the first snapped at his companion, and the second man darted back into the middle of the room, gingerly lifted one of the braziers, and then was bent over with the weight of it as he tried to move it over.
Suddenly there was a yelp from within the shadows and Cutter was shouting: “What? What the hell is going on?”
The man with the brazier set it down then peered into the gloom. “It’s Greg,” he called back over his shoulder. “He ain’t there no more, boss.”
Cutter bridled. “What do you mean, ‘he ain’t there’? He was there before.”
“Greg!” called the second man. “Greg?”
There was no reply. “I’m telling you, boss, he ain’t there no more.” And just at that moment, as though to emphasize the point, a sword came flying from the dark recesses, skittered across the stone floor and stopped to rest by Cutter’s feet.
The blade was stained with blood.
“That’s Greg’s sword,” said the first man nervily. “They got Greg.”
“Who got Greg?” snapped Cutter.
“I don’t know, but they got him.”
“Whoever you are, you better show your face,” shouted Cutter. His eyes darted to Benjamin, and I could see his brain working, the conclusion he came to: that they were being attacked by friends of the doctor; that it was a rescue operation. The first thug remained where he was by the safety of the brazier, the tip of his sword glinting in the firelight as he trembled. Charles stayed in the shadows, a silent menace. I knew it was only Charles, but to Cutter and his pal he was an avenging demon, as silent and implacable as death itself.
“You better get out here, before I finish your buddy,” rasped Cutter. He moved closer to Benjamin, about to hold the blade to his throat, and, his back to me, I saw my chance and crept out of my hiding place, stealthily moving towards him. At the same time, his pal turned, saw me, yelped, “Boss, behind you!” and Cutter wheeled.
I leapt and at the same time engaged the hidden blade. Cutter panicked, and I saw his knife hand tauten, about to finish Benjamin. At full stretch I managed to knock his hand away and send him flying back, but I too was off balance and he had the chance to draw his sword and meet me face-to-face, sword in one hand, torture knife in the other.
Over his shoulder I saw that Charles hadn’t wasted his opportunity, had come flying out at the guard, and there was the chime of steel as their blades met. In seconds Cutter and I were fighting, too. His features were fixed, but it swiftly became clear he was out of his depth. Good with a knife he may have been, but he wasn’t used to opponents who fought back; he was a torture master not a warrior. And while his hands moved quickly and his blades flicked across my vision, all he showed me were tricks, sleight of hand, moves that might terrify a man tied to a chair, but not me. What I saw was a sadist—a frightened sadist. And if there’s one thing more loathsome and pathetic than a sadist, it’s a frightened one.
He had no anticipation. No footwork or defensive skills. Behind him, the fight was over: the second thug dropped to his knees with a groan, and Charles planted a foot to his chest and withdrew his sword, letting him fall to the stone.
Cutter saw it, too, and I let him watch, stood back and allowed him to
see his companion, the last of his protection, die. There was a thumping on the door—the guard from outside had at last discovered the theft of his keys and was trying and failing to get in. Cutter’s eyes swivelled in that direction, looking for salvation. Finding none. Those frightened eyes came back to me and I grinned then moved forward and began some cutting of my own. I took no pleasure in it. I merely gave him the treatment he deserved, and when he at last folded to the floor with a bright red gash open in his throat and blood sheeting down his front, I felt nothing besides a detached sense of gratification, of justice having been served. No one else would suffer by his blade.
I’d forgotten about the banging at the door until it stopped, and in the sudden silence I glanced at Charles, who came to the same conclusion I did: the guard had gone for help. Benjamin groaned and I went to him, sliced through his bindings with two slashes of my blade then caught him as he fell forward from the chair.
Straight away my hands were slick with his blood, but he seemed to be breathing steadily and, though his eyes occasionally squeezed shut as he flinched with pain, they were open. He’d live. His wounds were painful but they weren’t deep.
He looked at me. “Who . . . who are you?” he managed.
I tipped my hat. “Haytham Kenway at your service.”
There were the beginnings of a smile on his face as he said, “Thank you. Thank you. But . . . I don’t understand . . . why are you here?”
“You are a Templar Knight, are you not?” I said to him.
He nodded.
“As am I, and we don’t make a habit of leaving fellow Knights at the mercy of knife-wielding madmen. That, and the fact I need your help.”
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