Siren's Call
VII: Perspective
Never before had Rana realized just how much the people of Boston adored their tea than when she began smuggling on land. Even more so when it was untaxed. It not only fascinated her, but filled her pockets with the lovely weight of a fat coin purse. A decent enough distraction to keep her satisfied until her darling Banshee was at her prime. She also always made a point of bringing Alf along with her during negotiations. There was something about a man that stood the size of an average tree, that looked like he could kill you in twenty different ways with his bare hands, that was useful in discussion.
Hickey had run off to New York and, she assumed, would not be returning anytime soon. Not before negotiating the terms in which she would be smuggling, and the cut she would have to pay back to his subordinates, of course. This was fine with her. His contacts eventually warmed to the thought of doing business with her. Granted, this was accomplished through a combination of coercion, bribery and a bit of skin, but the world was an imperfect place, was it not?
She had sent out letters to friends and fellow cutthroats in the West Indies who had connections to sugar and coffee plantations. Within weeks she had received word of possible business that would benefit all involved. Rana had informed Hickey of as much before he left, and the greedy grin that flashed across her face told her that he approved.
A considerable amount of coin was flooding into her hands. It certainly brightened her spirits. It had spiraled to a point that Rana was considering smuggling weapons, as well as coffee and tea, because that was where the real profit could be found. A war was on after all. How could puffed up Europeans fight their wars without cannon and muskets? But she decided not to get ahead of herself, to strength her alliances in Boston before divulging into weaponry. Such a tricky line of work, that.
One step at a time, she told herself.
It was on a clear afternoon that Rana had decided to survey her stock in the large building she had commandeered for her efforts. Her perfectionism had compelled her to be meticulous, devoting her energy to sorting out the coffee from the tea, and to who would be purchasing what. Politicians were surprisingly receptive about the entire enterprise.
"Captain." Alf interrupted her train of thought, appearing at her side and startling her. "We might have an intruder."
"Might? We either do or we do not," she replied, although she found the prospect morbidly amusing. Who would dare try and slink their way past? Rana made her way over to the wall on the opposite end of the building and fell to one knee, eye-level with one of the holes in the wood as she inspected nearby surroundings.
Rana stifled a snort at the sight of the towering man in the telltale white hood. Connor. The name had managed to stick in her head then. He was failing to be subtle less than ten feet away from her base of operations, surveying the area with narrow eyes. He looked like a man on a mission, and she was thoroughly annoyed to find that mission involved her in any way, shape or form.
"Shall I kill him?" asked Alf from behind her as if he was commenting on the weather.
Standing to her feet, she shook her head. "No, no need to spill this one's blood. A good scare ought to teach him a proper lesson, yes?"
"He does not seem like the type to scare easily," he replied.
She shrugged. "Perhaps. Either way, I have an idea, so listen closely, hm? It is quite simple."
† † † † † † † †
Connor had been in this area once before, just before he had become involved in what the colonists had dubbed, the "Boston Tea Party". Stephane and his informants had told him that the Templars received a surge in income as of late, and this was mostly due to their smuggling efforts. His French friend had commented that they must have employed more men, as they seemed to be more heavily involved in the smuggling game than they had ever been before.
The sound of doors being kicked open forced his muscles to lock down in alarm, his head sharply turning to see a figure in the doorway of the warehouse, staring him down. Connor's eyes widened as he took in just who it was challenging him.
"Did Robbie steal something else of mine you wish to gallantly return?" asked Rana Demir.
Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, he said, "No."
"Then why," as she spoke, she sauntered her way over to him, "are you so suspiciously lurking around my property?"
"My business is my own," he retorted.
"Not when your business takes you so close to my things," she returned with a simpering smile. Rana closed a considerable amount of distance between them before she added, "I find it very odd that our paths continue to cross in such ways. If you wish to fuck me, why not simply ask me?"
Connor did a double-take and felt himself sputter, completely taken aback by such a response. He felt warmth rush to his cheeks as he hastily attempted to defend himself. "What!? No, of course not! That was not my intention─!"
She snorted in a poorly tried attempt to stifle her laughter, looking him up and down with eyebrows raised. "God above, I don't believe I ever met such a glaring example of a virgin in all my life."
"What?" He had no idea what this had to do with anything and he felt increasingly uncomfortable. What made it worse was the look on her face, entertained at his expense, mocking him every second that this horrible conversation continued.
Rana smirked. "I do not even think you have ever touched a woman."
"How is this relevant to anything?" he demanded. The only thing he wanted to do was exit this situation, but something told him that was not so easily done with someone like Rana Demir.
Before his question could be answered, he felt a blunt force on the back of his head, the world around him darkened and the distinct sound of a laugh resounded in the mid-afternoon air, vaguely reminding him of bells before everything blackened into nothingness.
† † † † † † † †
"Is he heavy?" she asked as an afterthought as Alf carried Connor's unconscious body into the building. Rana had fetched a chair and some rope; two essential tools for a successful questioning session. "He looks heavy."
Incidentally, he was also the first person she found to be nearly as tall as Alf: a feat within itself.
"He is large," Alf conceded. 'Large' by Alf's standards meant that he was gargantuan. "But not enough to deter me."
"Of course not," she snorted. "An elephant could not deter you, my friend."
Once he was steady against the chair, she began tying knots around his unconscious body. Such things were second nature to her, as deft fingers were a necessity on a ship in the middle of a storm. One had to be able to tie and retie knots to stabilize the sails against currents and torrential winds. As she began to remove the knives from his belt, her fingers smoothed over the daggers on his wrist.
"Curious," she murmured to herself, yanking them off of him one by one for a better inspection. Rana instructed Alf to make sure his weapons were removed from his body before he woke up as she plopped to the floor, holding the weapons to the sunlight poking through the walls.
An insignia was carved into the weapon. Triangular and regal-looking. It was vaguely familiar to her for a few moments before she realized where she had seen it before. Every now and then she would cross the path of those that adhered to the order; she had the unfortunate honor of being subjected to a history lesson about it by an old Italian man three years prior.
"Well I'll be damned," muttered Rana. "Alf! It appears we have an Assassin on our hands. Be very careful to make sure all of his weapons are gone."
Eyebrows furrowed together and Alf appeared to reexamine him. "How are you so sure?"
She slipped on one of his hidden blades and applied the pressure to her wrists. The dagger hissed out of its hiding place and she presented it to Alf with a knowing smile. "I have seen this symbol once or twice in my travels. Edward Kenway was an Assassin, in fact! Quite a talented one if the stories ring true."
"I know little of Assassins," said Alf.
Rana made a face. "Just another group of bastards with sticks jammed up their asses, pledging to rid the world of tyranny or some such nonsense. Idealistic fools that get themselves killed, if you ask me. The world is a horrible place and the weak are going to suffer and die. That is the way it is. One cannot change it by jamming daggers into men's throats."
Her captive groaned, finally beginning to stir and Rana resolved to continue her explanation later. She pulled the hidden blade off of her wrist and directed Alf to place all of the weapons out of sight and out of mind. Connor swore under his breath in some bizarre tongue before looking up at her, bleary-eyed and disorientated.
"Where …?"
"Oh, we did not go far," she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I simply felt you would be more honest with me in this manner."
"I meant … you no harm," he said through his teeth, struggling against his bonds.
A skeptic eyebrow raised as she tugged down his hood. "You will forgive me if I do not believe you, yes?" She found it all quite amusing. "An Assassin armed to the teeth, sneaking around my property. Or were you simply wondering if I wished to have a nice cup of tea?"
His eyes widened in alarm before narrowing. "What would be the point of that? It would inevitably be the tea you are smuggling."
A triumphant smirk made itself known on her face. It always felt nice to hear about her current success from others. "Quite right."
"What do you intend to do with all the money?" he demanded then. "Are you trying to purchase my people's land again? Did William Johnson's death teach you people nothing?"
Rana blinked. He had lost her. "I … what? What in God's name are you babbling about?"
"I was foolish enough not to believe you the type to be a Templar," he said, a prominent scowl on his face. "Now I must pay the price."
"Templar?" Ah, yes. Where there were Assassins, inevitably, Templars would follow. Rana folded her arms across her chest. She remembered when her fool of a father tried to win their favor, hopeful of the coin such friendships might bring. That man sought coin like a beggar would bread. "You appear to have your facts wrong, Connor."
Now he was as confused as she was. "Then, you're not─?"
"Of course not," she scoffed. "Do you think I care a fig for the fools who dedicate their lives to changing an unchangeable world?"
"Wh … Then why do you work for them?" he asked, in a tone that made it feel like he was asking her why she set fire to orphanages in her spare time. "Why do you give them money, when you do not agree with what they intend to do with it?"
When did this interrogation turn on its backside? Still, there was no use informing him that up until that point, she was not aware that anyone was a Templar. "Let's make something clear. I do not work for anyone. I work with people. Many people. And what they do with their share of the coin I earn is no concern of mine."
"So you would idly stand by and let them subject this land and its people to tyranny?"
Rana chuckled simply in reaction to how ridiculous he sounded. He was preachy and so self-righteous. "Whatever they do with the coin they earn is no affair of mine, you understand. As long as I earn what I am owed, what cause have I to question the morality of it all?"
"That is a selfish, lazy position to take," he said, the scowl on his face growing. He continued to struggle in vain against his bonds.
She paused, scrutinizing him. Rana wondered if he was reckless or simply downright idiotic to insult the one who could stab him between the eyes if she so pleased. "Tell me, how far is that stick shoved up your ass?"
"What?"
"You trespass on my property and dare to try and lecture me?" she demanded with an incredulous laugh. "You have gall, I will give you that." Rana made her way over to him and grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, pulling him closer so that their faces had little distance between them. She unsheathed a knife at her belt and pushed the blunt edge into the skin of his cheek.
In a voice she hoped conveyed the severity of his situation she said, "You did me a service. I do not forget such things. But if I ever see you snooping around here again or, God help you, tampering with my things to satisfy your self-righteous horseshit? I will cut your pretty face."
There was an unspoken tension between them, their eyes in a glare for a few silent moments, neither willing to back down. Nostrils flared, he refused to give her the satisfaction of watching him sink backward. Despite his lack of reply, she knew all too well that this was not the last time they would clash. No doubt he would find another way to interfere with her business, and she would have to find some sort of creative punishment in retaliation.
"Alf," she said, shoving his chair back upright and turning on her heel, "I'm going. Untie him and let him go. I am sure he has some damsel to rescue from a burning building or has to turn water into wine or something."
† † † † † † † †
"That Turkish puta stole more gold than you would make in ten years."
It had been a year and a half since the Sack of Santo Domingo. A year and a half since he had to endure looking into that wretched bitch's eyes, as smug as a lion with prey between its jaws, as she burned down his warships and slaughtered his men like dogs. As she set her pale giant upon his sailors and colored the sea crimson with their blood.
The moment when she had cornered him was burned into his memory. She could have ran him through right then and there, gave him an honorable death defending but instead she had grinned at him and said in accented Spanish,
"Tell Su Majestad that his generosity towards our cause is much appreciated."
However, Almirante Adolfo Segovia was a man notorious for the grudges he held, for the way they festered and mutated in the pit of his shriveled heart. And the need for vengeance against this woman, this Barbary Banshee as she was so arrogantly named, who had grievously wronged both himself and his country was mighty indeed.
"So what do you wish of me, Almirante?"
The man sitting in the chair on the opposite end of the room was young, hired by Segovia to deal with the problem. He was a known privateer, talented, shrewd, discreet. Everything a privateer ought to be.
Segovia reclined in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. He looked around his office in Madrid, feeling the anger brew in his stomach. "The law-abiding Spaniard in me demands she be brought to justice in irons. But … I would not object if extreme circumstances compelled you to run her through."
Héctor Amancio Araya Sanz's eyebrows rose, taken aback by this desire for retribution coming from the Admiral. In normal circumstances, he was a civil, flexible man.
"You will go to Boston in the British colonies," continued the Admiral. "Our spies have tracked her there. Find her and see to it that she is dealt with. I reserve the judgment of apprehending her or killing her to you, Señor Araya."
He nodded. "Por supuesto, Almirante." Of course. The coin he was being paid alone was enough motivation for any man in his right mind to leave at once and take the woman by storm. However, Héctor did not delude himself into believing that the coin was the only reason he took the job.
It was of a more personal nature at its heart.
