Havana, Cuba, June 1715
Apr. 28th, 2018 07:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doesnotkneelEdward went straight to Governor Torres’s residence, a vast mansion set behind steep walls and metal gates well away from Havana’s hubbub. There he told the sentries, “Good morning. Mr. Duncan Walpole of England to see the governor. I believe he is expecting me.”
“Yes, Mr. Walpole, please enter.” That was easy.
The gates squeaked, a hot summer’s day sound, and Edward stepped through to be awarded with his first glance of how the other half lived. Everywhere were palm trees and short statues on plinths, and from somewhere the sound of running water. It was a marked contrast to the fortress, opulent where that had been grimy, gaudy where that had been forbidding.
As they walked, the two sentries stayed a respectful but watchful distance behind, and Edward's limited Spanish picked up fragments of their gossip: apparently Ed was a couple of days late; apparently he was an “asesino,” an assassin, and there was something about the way they said the word assassin that was odd. The way they stressed it.
They came into a courtyard. There were two men already there. Both were well-dressed, men of class and distinction. More difficult to fool. Close by them was a rack of weapons. One of them stood aiming a pistol at a target while the other cleaned a pistol.
You’re Duncan Walpole, Edward told himself and tried not to wilt beneath their scrutiny. You’re Duncan Walpole. A man of danger. An equal. Here at the invitation of the governor.
“Good morning, sir!” The man who had been cleaning the gun smiled broadly. He had long greying hair tied back, and a face that had spent many an hour in the sea-breeze. “Would I be correct in thinking you are Duncan Walpole?”
Right. Duncan'd spoken in cultured tones. “I am indeed,” Edward said, and expected them to shoot him on the spot: he sounded fake.
Instead the man said, “I thought as much,” and still beaming strode across the courtyard to offer Edward a hand that was as hard as oak. “Woodes Rogers. A pleasure.”
Woodes Rogers. The name made something in Edward pale. The scourge of pirates, he was. A former privateer who loathed piracy.
But Edward reminded himself who he was - Duncan Walpole - and shook the man's hand firmly. In return, Rogers looked... puzzled?
“I must say, my wife has a terrible eye for description,” he said, evidently letting his curiosity get the better of him.
“I’m sorry?” Edward stammered.
“My wife. You met her some years ago at the Percys’ masquerade ball.”
“Ah, quite...”
“She called you ‘devilishly handsome.’ Obviously a lie to stoke my jealousy.” Edward laughed as though in on the joke.
Now Edward was being introduced to the second man, a dark Frenchman with a guarded look called Julien DuCasse, who was calling him the “guest of honour” and talking about some “order” he was supposed to join. Again Ed was referred to as an “assassin.” Again it was with an odd emphasis he couldn’t quite decode.
“I have not come to disappoint,” Edward said uncertainly. He hadn't a clue, and he worried that while he'd come in looking for a pouch of gold, he'd walk out without his head.
He scrambled. “How is your wife these days, Captain Rogers? Is she here in Havana?”
“Oh, no. No, we’ve been separated these two years past.”
Oh, thank god. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Of course, that was when Rogers decided to start in on a tale of hunting pirates in Libertalia, which made Edward worry for another haven he knew - would Nassau be Rogers' next port of call?
“And how did you deal with their kind?” Edward asked, the picture of innocence.
“Very simply. Most pirates are as ignorant as apes. I merely offered them a choice... Take a pardon and return to England penniless but free men, or be hanged by the neck until dead. It took some work to dislodge the criminals there, but we managed it. In future, I hope to use the same tactics throughout the West Indies.”
“Ah,” Edward said. “I imagine Nassau would be your next target.”
“Very astute, Duncan. Indeed. Point of fact... The moment I return to England, I intend to petition King George with the hope of becoming his emissary in the Bahamas. As governor, no less.”
Edward made a fine show of not twitching, but Rogers had just gone up a few notches in his mental book of foes. Luckily, neither man noticed, and soon they were embroiled in other things: a shooting competition, to start.
But eventually DuCasse turned to Edward with a small box. “Duncan, where are your wrist blades? I have never seen an Assassin so ill-equipped", he said, and it sounded vaguely like a threat.
Again, assassin. “Ah, damaged, sadly, beyond repair,” Edward replied.
“Then have your choice,” DuCasse purred. "These were souvenirs."
So dead man's blades. Still-- Edward had been infatuated with these blades when the real Duncan had wielded them. He could not resist: neither to take the blades, nor to engage in the makeshift assassination course that DuCasse and Rogers urged him towards.
Afterwards, it appeared that Edward had passed whatever test the two had foisted on him. "The Assassins have trained you well," said DuCasse, who visibly dropped his guard.
Again, those assassins. But Edward had no time to think about it. An old man approached, clearly of importance.
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.
Within a moment, Edward recognized him. Governor Torres, who had already sent many a pirate to their death.
“Grand Master Torres.” It was Rogers who broke the silence. “Mr. Duncan Walpole has arrived.”
“You were expected one week ago,” said Torres, but without much irritation.
“Apologies, Governor,” Edward replied. “My ship was set upon by the pirates and we were scuttled. I arrived only yesterday.”
Torres nodded thoughtfully. “Unfortunate. But were you able to salvage from these pirates the items you promised me?”
Ed nodded, thinking, One hand gives you the pouch, the other hand takes the money, and from his robes took the small hunting satchel, bent and dropped it to a low table by Torres’s knees.
Torres puffed on his pipe, then opened the pouch, took out the maps. “Incredible,” he said in tones of wonderment. “The Assassins have more resources than I had imagined...”
He put the items back into their satchel and handed them to his guard - a man Edward recognized from earlier that day. El Tiburon. But the heavyset executioner didn't seem to recognize him, and so Ed relaxed, if but a fraction.
“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Duncan,” Torres said. “You are most welcome. Come, gentlemen.” He motioned to the others. “We have much to discuss. Come...”
[[ taken from the Assassin's Creed: Black Flag novelization. ]]
“Yes, Mr. Walpole, please enter.” That was easy.
The gates squeaked, a hot summer’s day sound, and Edward stepped through to be awarded with his first glance of how the other half lived. Everywhere were palm trees and short statues on plinths, and from somewhere the sound of running water. It was a marked contrast to the fortress, opulent where that had been grimy, gaudy where that had been forbidding.
As they walked, the two sentries stayed a respectful but watchful distance behind, and Edward's limited Spanish picked up fragments of their gossip: apparently Ed was a couple of days late; apparently he was an “asesino,” an assassin, and there was something about the way they said the word assassin that was odd. The way they stressed it.
They came into a courtyard. There were two men already there. Both were well-dressed, men of class and distinction. More difficult to fool. Close by them was a rack of weapons. One of them stood aiming a pistol at a target while the other cleaned a pistol.
You’re Duncan Walpole, Edward told himself and tried not to wilt beneath their scrutiny. You’re Duncan Walpole. A man of danger. An equal. Here at the invitation of the governor.
“Good morning, sir!” The man who had been cleaning the gun smiled broadly. He had long greying hair tied back, and a face that had spent many an hour in the sea-breeze. “Would I be correct in thinking you are Duncan Walpole?”
Right. Duncan'd spoken in cultured tones. “I am indeed,” Edward said, and expected them to shoot him on the spot: he sounded fake.
Instead the man said, “I thought as much,” and still beaming strode across the courtyard to offer Edward a hand that was as hard as oak. “Woodes Rogers. A pleasure.”
Woodes Rogers. The name made something in Edward pale. The scourge of pirates, he was. A former privateer who loathed piracy.
But Edward reminded himself who he was - Duncan Walpole - and shook the man's hand firmly. In return, Rogers looked... puzzled?
“I must say, my wife has a terrible eye for description,” he said, evidently letting his curiosity get the better of him.
“I’m sorry?” Edward stammered.
“My wife. You met her some years ago at the Percys’ masquerade ball.”
“Ah, quite...”
“She called you ‘devilishly handsome.’ Obviously a lie to stoke my jealousy.” Edward laughed as though in on the joke.
Now Edward was being introduced to the second man, a dark Frenchman with a guarded look called Julien DuCasse, who was calling him the “guest of honour” and talking about some “order” he was supposed to join. Again Ed was referred to as an “assassin.” Again it was with an odd emphasis he couldn’t quite decode.
“I have not come to disappoint,” Edward said uncertainly. He hadn't a clue, and he worried that while he'd come in looking for a pouch of gold, he'd walk out without his head.
He scrambled. “How is your wife these days, Captain Rogers? Is she here in Havana?”
“Oh, no. No, we’ve been separated these two years past.”
Oh, thank god. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Of course, that was when Rogers decided to start in on a tale of hunting pirates in Libertalia, which made Edward worry for another haven he knew - would Nassau be Rogers' next port of call?
“And how did you deal with their kind?” Edward asked, the picture of innocence.
“Very simply. Most pirates are as ignorant as apes. I merely offered them a choice... Take a pardon and return to England penniless but free men, or be hanged by the neck until dead. It took some work to dislodge the criminals there, but we managed it. In future, I hope to use the same tactics throughout the West Indies.”
“Ah,” Edward said. “I imagine Nassau would be your next target.”
“Very astute, Duncan. Indeed. Point of fact... The moment I return to England, I intend to petition King George with the hope of becoming his emissary in the Bahamas. As governor, no less.”
Edward made a fine show of not twitching, but Rogers had just gone up a few notches in his mental book of foes. Luckily, neither man noticed, and soon they were embroiled in other things: a shooting competition, to start.
But eventually DuCasse turned to Edward with a small box. “Duncan, where are your wrist blades? I have never seen an Assassin so ill-equipped", he said, and it sounded vaguely like a threat.
Again, assassin. “Ah, damaged, sadly, beyond repair,” Edward replied.
“Then have your choice,” DuCasse purred. "These were souvenirs."
So dead man's blades. Still-- Edward had been infatuated with these blades when the real Duncan had wielded them. He could not resist: neither to take the blades, nor to engage in the makeshift assassination course that DuCasse and Rogers urged him towards.
Afterwards, it appeared that Edward had passed whatever test the two had foisted on him. "The Assassins have trained you well," said DuCasse, who visibly dropped his guard.
Again, those assassins. But Edward had no time to think about it. An old man approached, clearly of importance.
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.
Within a moment, Edward recognized him. Governor Torres, who had already sent many a pirate to their death.
“Grand Master Torres.” It was Rogers who broke the silence. “Mr. Duncan Walpole has arrived.”
“You were expected one week ago,” said Torres, but without much irritation.
“Apologies, Governor,” Edward replied. “My ship was set upon by the pirates and we were scuttled. I arrived only yesterday.”
Torres nodded thoughtfully. “Unfortunate. But were you able to salvage from these pirates the items you promised me?”
Ed nodded, thinking, One hand gives you the pouch, the other hand takes the money, and from his robes took the small hunting satchel, bent and dropped it to a low table by Torres’s knees.
Torres puffed on his pipe, then opened the pouch, took out the maps. “Incredible,” he said in tones of wonderment. “The Assassins have more resources than I had imagined...”
He put the items back into their satchel and handed them to his guard - a man Edward recognized from earlier that day. El Tiburon. But the heavyset executioner didn't seem to recognize him, and so Ed relaxed, if but a fraction.
“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Duncan,” Torres said. “You are most welcome. Come, gentlemen.” He motioned to the others. “We have much to discuss. Come...”
[[ taken from the Assassin's Creed: Black Flag novelization. ]]
