Assassin's Creed: Unity Part 8

"Because I saw you, Elise de la Serre. I saw you creeping around outside the cottage the other night. I saw you spying on me and Jacques. And so I thought, not unreasonably, that your journal might illuminate me as to your intentions. Do you deny that you intended to blackmail me, de la Serre?" Her color rose. "Blackmail the headmistress of the school?"

But our fury was at cross-purposes.

"Reading my journal is unforgivable," I raged.

Her voice rose. "What you planned to do was unforgivable. Blackmail." She spat the word as though she couldn't quite believe it. As though she had never even encountered the concept before.

I bridled. "I meant you no harm. It was a means to an end."

"I daresay you relished the prospect of it, Elise de la Serre." She brandished my journal. "I've read exactly what you think of me. Your hatred-no, worse, your contempt-for me pours off every page."

I shrugged. "Does that surprise you? After all, don't you hate me?"

"Oh, you stupid girl," she raged, "of course I don't hate you. I'm your headmistress. I want what's best for you. And, for your information, I don't listen at doors either."

I gave her a doubtful look. "You seemed gleeful enough when it came to the thought of my impending punishment."

Her eyes dropped. "In the heat of the moment we all say things we shouldn't, and I regretted that remark. But the fact is, while you're by no means my favorite person in the world, I'm your headmistress. Your guardian. And you, in particular, came to me a damaged girl, fresh from the loss of her mother. You, in particular, needed special attention. Oh, yes, my attempts to help have taken the form of a battle of wills, and I suppose that's hardly surprising, and, yes, I suppose the fact you think I hate you is to be expected-or was, when you were younger and first arrived here. But you're a young lady now, Elise, you should know better. I read no more of your journal than I needed to in order to establish your guilt, but I read enough to know that your future lies in a different direction from that of the majority of the pupils here, and for that I'm pleased. n.o.body with your spirit should settle down to a life of domesticity."

I started, hardly able to believe what I was hearing, and she soaked it up before continuing, her voice softer. "And now we find ourselves at a difficult juncture, for we have both done something terrible and we both have something the other wants. From you I want silence about what you saw; from me you want a letter to your father." She pa.s.sed the journal across the table to me. "I'm going to give you your letter. I'm going to lie for you. I'm going to tell him that you will be spending part of your final year in London so that you can do what it is you need to do, and when you have exorcised whatever it is that compels you to go, I trust it will be a different Elise de la Serre who returns to me. One who has held on to the spirit of the little girl but abandoned the hotheaded juvenile."

The letter would be with me by the afternoon, she said, and I stood to leave, feeling mollified, shame making my head heavy. As I reached the door she stopped me. "One more thing, Elise. Jacques isn't my lover. He's my son."

I don't think Mother would be very proud of me just now.

7 FEBRUARY 1788.

i I am a long way from Saint-Cyr now. And after a fairly tumultuous last two days I write this entry in . . .

Well, no. Let's not give anything away just yet. Let's go back to when I took my carriage away from the dreaded Le Palais de la Misere, when there was no backward glance, no friends to bid me bon voyage and certainly no Madame Levene standing at the window waving her handkerchief good-bye. There was just me in a carriage and my trunk lashed to the top.

"We're here," the coachman said when we arrived at the docks in Calais. It was late and the sea was a dark, undulating shimmer beyond the cobbles of the harbor and the bobbing mast of moored ships. Above us were squawking gulls and around us were the people of the docks, staggering from tavern to tavern, the night in full swing, a rowdy hubbub in the air. My coachman took disapproving looks left and right, then stood on the footboard to free my trunk before laying it on the cobbles of the dockside. He opened my door and his eyes boggled. I was not the same girl he'd picked up.

Why? Because during the journey I'd changed. Off had come the accursed dress and I now wore breeches, a shirt, waistcoat and justaucorps. I'd cast aside the dreaded bonnet, unpinned my hair and tied it back. And now, as I stepped out of the carriage, I plonked my tricorn on my head, bent to my trunk and opened it, all under the speechless gaze of the coachman. My trunk full of the clothes I hated and trinkets I planned to throw away anyway. All I needed was in my satchel-that and the short sword that I pulled from the trunk's depths and tied around my waist, allowing my satchel to fall over it so it was hidden.

"You can keep the trunk, if you like," I said. From my waistcoat I took a small leather purse and proffered coins.

"Who's here to escort you, then?" he said, pocketing them as he looked around, scowling at the nighttime revelers making the way along the dockside.

"n.o.body."

He looked askance at me. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, why would it be?"

"You can't be roaming the docks on your own at this hour."

I dropped another coin into his palm. He looked at it.

"No," he said firmly, "I can't allow it, I'm afraid."

I dropped another coin into his palm.

"All right, then," he acquiesced. "On your own head be it. Just steer clear of the taverns and stay near the lantern light. Watch the docks, they're high and uneven, and many an unfortunate has fallen off them from getting too close for a peek over the edge. And don't catch anybody's eye. Oh, and whatever you do, keep that purse hidden."

I smiled sweetly, knowing I intended to take all of his advice apart from the bit about the taverns because the taverns were exactly where I wanted to be. I watched the carriage draw away, then headed straight to the nearest one.

The first one I came to had no name, but hanging above a set of windows set high was a wooden sign on which was a pair of crudely drawn antlers, so let's call it the Antlers. As I stood on the cobbles gathering the courage to go inside, the door opened, allowing out a blast of warm air, exuberant piano and the stink of ale, as well as a man and woman, rosy-cheeked and unsteady on their feet, each holding the other up. In the instant of the open door I got a glimpse of the tavern inside and it was like staring into a furnace before the door shut quickly and it was quiet on the dockside once more, the noise from inside the Antlers reduced to a background babble.

I braced myself. All right, Elise. You wanted to get away from that prim and proper school, the rules and regulations you hated. On the other side of that door lies the exact opposite to school. The question is, Are you really as tough as you think you are?

(The answer, I was about to find out, was no.) Entering was like walking into a new world fashioned entirely from smoke and noise. The sound of raucous laughter, squawking birds, the piano and drunken singing a.s.saulted my ears.

It was a small room, with a balcony at one end and birdcages hanging from beams, and it was heaving with drinkers. Men lounged at tables or on the floor and the balcony seemed to heave with people craning over to heckle revelers below. I stayed by the door, lingering in the shadows. Drinkers nearby eyed me with interest, and I heard a wolf whistle cut through the din, then caught the eye of a servingwoman in an ap.r.o.n, who turned from setting down two jugs of ale on a table, the ale thankfully arresting the attention of the men sitting there.

"I'm looking for the captain of a ship leaving for London in the morning," I said, loudly.

She wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n and rolled her eyes. "Any particular captain? Any particular ship?"

I shook my head. It didn't matter.

She nodded, looking me up and down. "See that table at the back there." I squinted through the ropes of smoke and capering bodies to a table in the far corner. "Go up back, speak to the one they call the Middle Man. Tell him Selene sent you."

I looked harder, seeing three men sitting with their backs to the far wall, curtains of smoke giving them the look of ghosts, like returning spirit-drinkers, cursed to haunt the tavern forevermore.

"Which one is the Middle Man?" I asked Selene.

She smirked as she moved off. "He's the one in the middle."

Feeling exposed I began to make my way toward the Middle Man and his two friends. Faces were upturned as I threaded through tables.

"Now that's a very fetching little one to be in a place like this," I heard, as well as a couple of other, more near-the-knuckle suggestions that modesty forbids me sharing. Thank G.o.d for the smoke and gloom and noise and the overall state of drunkenness that hung over the place. It meant that only those nearest to me paid me any interest.

I came to the three spirit-men and stood before the table where they sat facing the room with tankards close at hand, dragging their gaze away from the festivities and to me. Whereas others had leered or pulled faces or made lewd, drunken suggestions, they simply stared appraisingly. The Middle Man, smaller than his two companions, gazed past me and I turned in time to catch a glimpse of the grinning servingwoman as she slid away.

Uh-oh. All of a sudden I was conscious of how far away I was from the door. Here in the depths of the tavern it was even darker. The drinkers behind me seemed to have closed in on me. The flames from a fire flickered on the walls and the faces of the three men watching me. I thought of my mother's advice, wondered what Mr. Weatherall would say. Stay impa.s.sive but watchful. a.s.sess the situation. (And ignore that nagging feeling that you should have done all that before entering the tavern.) "And what's a fine-dressed young woman doing all by herself in a place like this?" said the man in the middle. Unsmiling, he fished a long-stemmed pipe from his breast pocket and fitted it into a gap between his crooked, blackened teeth, chomping on it with pink gums.

"I was told you might be able to help me find the captain of a ship," I said.

"And what might you be wanting a captain for?"

"For pa.s.sage to London."

"To London?"

"Yes," I said.

"You mean to Dover?"

I felt my color rise, swallowed my stupidity. "Of course," I said.

The Middle Man's eyes danced with amus.e.m.e.nt. "And you need a captain for this trip, do you?"

"Quite."

"Well, why don't you just take the packet?"

The out-of-depth feeling had returned. "The packet?"

The Middle Man suppressed a smirk. "Never mind, girl. Where you from?"

Somebody jostled me rudely from behind. I shoved back with my shoulder and heard a drunk rebound to a nearby table, spilling drinks and being roundly cursed for his pains before folding to the floor.

"From Paris," I told the Middle Man.

"Paris, eh?" He took the pipe from his mouth and a rope of drool dropped to the tabletop as he used it as a pointer. "From one of the more salubrious areas of town, though, I'll be bound, just to look at you, I mean."

I said nothing.

The pipe was returned. The pink gums chomped down. "What's your name, girl?"

"Elise," I told him.

"No second name?"

I made a noncommittal sound.

"Could it be that I might recognize your surname?"

"I value my privacy, that's all."

He nodded some more. "Well," he said, "I think I can find you a captain to speak to. Matter of fact me and my friends were just on our way to meet this particular gentleman for an ale or two. Why don't you join us?"

He made as if to stand . . .

This was all wrong. I tensed, aware of the clamor around me, jostled by drinkers and yet, somehow, completely isolated, then gave a small bow without taking my eyes from theirs. "I thank you for your time, gentlemen, but I've had second thoughts."

The Middle Man looked taken aback and his lips cracked in a smile, revealing more graveyard teeth. This was what a minnow saw-seconds before it was devoured by a shark.

"Second thoughts, eh?" he said with a sidelong look left and right at his two bigger companions. "How do you mean? Like you've decided you don't want to go to London no more? Or is it that me and my friends don't look sufficiently seafaring for your liking?"

"Something like that," I said, and pretended not to notice the man on his left push back his chair as though ready to leave his seat, and the man on the other flank lean forward almost imperceptibly.

"You're suspicious of us, is that it?"

"Might be," I agreed, with jutted chin. I folded my arms across my chest and used it as an opportunity to bring my right hand closer to the hilt of my sword.

"And why might that be?" he asked.

"Well, you haven't asked me how much I can afford, for a start."

Now his lips cracked in a smile. "Oh, you'll be earning your berth to London."

I pretended not to understand what he meant. "Well, that's quite all right, and I thank you for your time, but I shall take care of my own pa.s.sage."

Now he laughed openly. "Taking care of your pa.s.sage was what we had in mind."

Again I let it wash over me. "I shall take my leave, messieurs," I said, bowing slightly, making to turn and push my way back through the throng.

"No, you won't," said the Middle Man, and with a wave of his hand he set his two dogs upon me.

They stood, hands on their swords at their waists. I stepped back and to the side, drawing my own sword and brandishing it at the first, a movement that stopped them both in their tracks.

"Ooh," said one, and the two of them began to laugh. That rattled me. For a second I had no idea how to react as the Middle Man reached into his clothes and produced a curved dagger, and the second man wiped the smile off his face and came forward.

I tried to ward him off with the sword but I wasn't a.s.sertive enough and there were too many people around. What should have been a confident warning slash across the face was ineffective.

"You're to use it for practice."

But I hadn't. In almost ten years of schooling I'd barely practiced my sword fighting at all, and though I had on occasion, when the dormitory around me was quiet, taken the presentation box from its hiding place, opened it to inspect the steel anew, running my fingers over the inscription on the blade, I had rarely taken it to a private place in order to work on my drills. Just enough to prevent my skills calcifying completely, not enough to prevent them rusting.

And either that or my inexperience, or more likely a combination of the two, meant that I was woefully unprepared to take on these three men. And when it came it wasn't some dazzling swordplay that sent me sprawling to the wet and stinking sawdust-strewn boards of the tavern, but a two-handed push from the first of the thugs to reach me. He'd seen what I hadn't. Behind me lay the same drunken man who had recoiled off me earlier, and as I skated back a step and my ankles met him I lost my balance, fell and in the next instant was lying on top of him.

"Monsieur," I said, hoping that somehow my desperation would penetrate the veil of alcohol, but his eyes were gla.s.sy and his face wet with drink. In the next second I was screaming with pain as the heel of a boot landed on the back of my hand, grinding the flesh and making me let go of the sword. Another foot kicked my beloved sword away, and I rolled and tried to get to my feet but hands grabbed me and pulled me up. My desperate eyes went from the crowds who shrunk away, most laughing as they enjoyed the show, to the p.r.o.ne, drunken man and then to my short sword, which was now beneath the table, out of harm's way. I kicked and writhed. Before me was the Middle Man, brandishing his curved knife, lips pulled back in a mirthless grin, teeth still chomped around the stem of the pipe. I heard a door open behind, felt a sudden rush of chill wind, and then I was being dragged out into the night.

It had all happened so quickly. One moment I was in the heaving tavern, the next in an almost empty yard, just me, the Middle Man and his two thugs. They shoved me to the ground and I stayed there a second, snarling and catching my breath, trying to show them a brave face but inside, thinking, Stupid-stupid, inexperienced, arrogant little girl.

What the h.e.l.l had I been thinking?

The yard opened out to the dockside at the front of the Antlers, where just a few yards away people pa.s.sed by ignorant or oblivious to my plight, while not far away was a small carriage. The Middle Man jumped up to it now, one of his thugs grabbing me roughly by the shoulders while the other dragged open the door. I caught a glimpse of another girl inside, younger than me, maybe fifteen or sixteen, who had long blond hair down to her shoulders, and wore a ragged brown smock dress, the dress of a peasant girl. Her eyes were wide and frightened and her mouth open in an appeal I didn't hear over the sound of my own screaming and shouting. The thug carried me easily, but as he tried to swing me into the carriage, my feet found purchase on the side and, knees bent, I shoved myself off, forcing him backward into the yard and making him curse. I used the force of our momentum to my advantage, twisting around again so that this time he lost his footing and we both tumbled to the dirt.

Our dance was greeted with a gale of laughter from the Middle Man atop the carriage as well as the thug holding the door, and behind their merriment I could hear the sobbing of the girl and knew that if the thugs managed to bundle me into the carriage, then we were both lost.

And then the back door to the tavern opened, cutting off their the laugher with a gust of noise and heat and smoke, and a figure staggered out, already reaching into his breeches.

It was the same drunken man. He stood with his legs apart, about to relieve himself on the wall of the tavern, craning back over his shoulder.

"Everything all right over there?" he croaked, head lolling as he returned to the serious business of undoing the b.u.t.tons of his breeches.

"No, monsieur," I started, but thug grabbed me and held my mouth, m.u.f.fling my cry. I wriggled and tried to bite, to no avail. Sitting in the driver's seat still, the Middle Man gazed down upon us all: me, pinned to the ground and gagged by the first thug; the drunk man still fiddling with his breeches; the second thug awaiting his instructions with an upturned face. The Middle Man drew a finger across his throat.

I increased my efforts to get free, shouting into the hand clamped over my mouth and ignoring the pain of his elbows and knees as I writhed on the ground, hoping somehow to wriggle free or at least make enough noise to attract the drunkard's attention.

Casting a look toward the yard entrance, the thug drew his sword silently and moved up on the oblivious drunkard. I saw the girl in the carriage. She had moved across the seats and was peeking out. Shout out, warn him. I wanted to scream but couldn't and so settled for gnashing my teeth instead, trying to nip the flesh of the sweaty hand across my mouth. For a second our eyes met and I tried to urge her simply with the power of my gaze, blinking furiously and widening my eyes and swiveling them over to the drunk man who stood concentrating on his breeches, death just a foot or so away.

But she couldn't do anything. She was too scared. Too scared to shout out and too scared to move, and the drunk man was going to die and the thugs were going to bundle us in the carriage and into a ship, then . . . well, put it this way, I was going to wish I was back at the school.

The blade rose. But then, something happened-the drunk man wheeled around, faster than I would have thought possible, and in his hands was my short sword, which flashed, tasting blood for the first time as he swept it flat across the thug's throat, which opened, spraying crimson mist into the yard.