Unlike the taverns in the city, this one was barely more than a large, two-story log-cabin. Lacking a name written on the blank wooden board hanging from an uneven beam on the second floor, it appeared relatively innocuous. Almost blending into the woodland surrounding it, only the forested, slate grey cliffs at its back made it stand out. Its logs covered in moss, while the windows weren't of real glass, they were comprised of thinly sliced vellum. The bright, yellow light spilling from them cast the air in a pale, luminous glow. Despite being multiple days' trip from any major city, it was absolutely packed. Likely because it was one of the few specks of civilization out on the frontier, save a few scattered homes and barns surrounding it. Men and women gaily congregated around the front door. Their laughter and loud voices echoing into the night, the smell of alcohol and pipe smoke tickled Connor's nose.
"It be better if I be goin' in first," Thomas casually declared. After stabling their horses next door, they cautiously made their way up the stone path. "That way, ain't no way anyone can go linkin' us together."
"Fine," Connor vaguely shrugged. Scanning the scene, she focused on taking in the number of people milling about, as well as all visible entrances and exits of the tavern.
Obviously expecting her to argue his point as per usual, Thomas plunged on, "See, there ya be go again, always questionin' me-"
"I said fine," she reiterated. "Surely you are not deaf?"
"No need to go gettin' all smart 'n shit," he sneered, shooting her an annoyed glance over his shoulder.
Rolling her eyes, she gave a dismissive wave as she jogged to catch up with his longer strides. "Then perhaps you should listen to what I say."
"Why in the bloody hell do ya have to go be so flippin' mouthy?"
"I only follow your own example," she shot right back.
Running a hand over his face in frustration, he snapped, "Whatever. Let's just go 'n get this fuckin' over with, yeah?" With that, he stomped up the path and slipped in through the front door.
Waiting for roughly ten minutes while Hickey got settled, Connor eventually made her way inside as well. Surprisingly, it wasn't easy to separate him out of the crowd. Letting her vision slip into her instinctive perception, she noticed a few soldiers shining in red. While no one glimmered in blue, the rest of the room gleamed in neutral grey. In the matter of a few seconds, her internal senses allowed her to locate Hickey sitting at a table in a dark corner, outlined in gold. Of course, he chose one only a few feet from the back door. With a fanorona board in front of him and a pint of ale in his hand, he easily blended in with the other patrons. Dropping down in the seat opposite, she appeared a mere stranger challenging him to a game. Especially as she slid a few pounds across the table to him. Ordering an ale from the elderly barkeep completed the illusion.
The liquor seemed to cool their tempers, the two back to distant civility as Hickey arched a surprised brow and asked, "Ya partake, love?" Glancing down, he moved a black fanorona piece into her territory on the game board between them.
"On occasion," Connor replied, "Not mention, one cannot simply sit in a tavern and appear unengaged. It would look suspicious."
"Point taken," Hickey retorted, finishing off his second pint.
Jumping her white piece over his black one and capturing it, Connor took a sip of her ale. "Ugh," she recoiled, wrinkling her nose. Gingerly moving it to the side, she pouted, "It seems this is not quite as good as other brews. It cost almost twice as much as well." Taking a long drink of water, she washed down its tainted flavor.
Thomas immediately found his gaze fixed on her mouth, entranced as her tongue darted out to lick away a final drop.
"Hickey?" she repeated for a third time, narrowing her eyes.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, his grip on table tightened as he exclaimed, "Was'sup?"
"I asked if you wanted anything from the bar?" she nodded at it.
"I…no. I ain't in no need 'o nothin' seein' all I gotta do is take yours." He did just that, dragging her tankard to his side of the table and taking a long drink of it. Letting out a burp and tapping his temple, he smirked, "'Sides, gotta keep me head clear for 'ole Eleanor, yeah? The barkeep said she be rentin' a room last night. Still here, apparently."
"Suit yourself," she lightly jumped up from her seat.
Hearing the door of the tavern open, Thomas craned his head around. Letting out a low chuckle, he cracked Connor a devious grin. "Well would ya look at that? It seems the pretty 'lil poppet has gone 'n made 'er appearance."
She appeared but a few years older than Connor. Slightly shorter than the assassin, Eleanor Mallow's lithe figure certainly made heads turns as soon as she crossed the threshold. Clad in black boots, finely spun, white silk stockings and dark breeches, the gold buttons twining up their sides sparkled in the dim light. Over that, she sported a long, captain's redcoat. Trimmed in black about the sleeves and down the front, its gold buttons matched those along her trousers. Beneath it, she wore a pristine white waistcoat. Also trimmed in gold, it lay over her white silk tunic and cravat. Tossed about her shoulders was a light blue cloak trimmed in yellow stripe. The left shoulder of it bore three white feathers tipped in black. Tilted on her head at a jaunty angle, her black, beaver fur tricorne made her appear that much more alluringly rakish. Bordered in white silk, pinned to its left side was a black cockade.
Her dark locks loose and curling about her shoulders, they framed her patrician face. Her wide, dark and heavily lashed eyes, dark brows, high cheekbones and full mouth reminded Connor of gilded portraits she'd seen in the some of her richer contacts' homes. But most importantly, her attention focused on the Templar's weapons. Eleanor bore a gleaming silver spadroon, a parrying dagger and a flintlock on her sword belt. The assassin could only assume that she knew how to use them.
"Miss Mallow, I presume?" Connor asked, gaze sweeping over the other woman in predatory appraisal.
"Yep," Thomas nodded in simpering agreement. Grin widening to a rapacious smile, he drawled, "They be callin' 'er 'The Red Coat.'"
"It is no matter," Connor waved in dismissal. "In the meantime, that is your cue. I shall remain at the bar."
"Ain't got no qualms 'bout that," he lazily saluted. Watching as Connor pushed her way through the crowd, Thomas glanced down at the half-played game of fanorona on the table. While Connor captured more his black pieces, she made two mistakes that he would be able to use to his advantage within roughly three moves. Likely, it would result in beating her in the game.
He could only hope the same would prove true upon questioning Mallow.
Thomas' head jerked up at the unexpected sound of a commotion. A man's lecherous chuckle was quickly followed by the loud noise of a slap. "How dare you lay your filthy hands on me, sir?!" Connor's voice lashed out against her apparent harasser.
"Ya high and mighty bitch!"
Her curse in her native language hit Thomas' ears, causing him to spin around in his chair.
"Someone you know?" Eleanor leered from her seat at the table across from him. Languidly tracing the tip of her finger around the rim of her tankard, she shook her head in incredulity as the hubbub seemed to rise.
"Nope," Hickey briefly smirked. Connor could handle herself just fine. Not to mention, getting Mallow's information fit into his personal endgame versus some silly-arsed fisticuffs. At least for the moment. "So…good 'ole Gerard be headin' to Boston?" he blithely continued.
"Perhaps," she idly shrugged, "Perhaps not. What's it to you, dearest?" she slid forward in her chair and unceremoniously dropped her elbows to the table. Clasping her hands together, she rested her chin on them, arching a brow of promise.
"Eh, Haytham needs a bit 'o clean-up to go gettin' done. Word be, ya pop's been enjoyin' Gerard's services. A hell of lot, in fact, wouldn't ya know?"
"That so?" she questioned, pulling back her lips a bit to flash him a playful frown.
"Seems to be the case, dearie," he downed another tankard. Slamming it on the table, he thumbed back his tricorne a bit further on his head. Rocking back in his seat and haphazardly throwing his legs up on the table, he let out an exaggerated yawn and stretched his arms above his head before clasping his hands behind his neck. "So, seein' as I need to be findin' our murderin' 'lil pal, where do he be, hon?"
Roughly an hour ago, he sidled up to her at the bar without a lick of trouble. Flirting with the comely little thing was easy enough. They'd dealt with each other in the past, Thomas her usual purveyor of weapons and cash she needed for her missions. So it appeared nothing was amiss as he pretended to randomly recognize her. Flawlessly lying about being on his way to Fort St. Mathieu to speak with her father concerning Haytham's supposed need to hire the Hessian, he lured her back his table. Her first drink eventually turned into another. Combined with a hell of a lot of come-ons and charm on his end, she finally revealing enough for him to know that she was on her way to Boston. However, despite probing deeper, she refused to reveal where specifically in the city the Hessian preferred to hole up.
"Oh, ya done pissed us off now, wench!" another voice from the bar rang over the crowd, interrupting their conversation.
"Remove yourself from me at once!"
Connor's words were hastily followed by another smack, a flurry of her native curses and then a grunt of pain. Slightly high pitched, Thomas could only assume it was hers. Gritting his teeth, he steeled a flirtatious smile to his face and continued chatting with Mallow. He had an objective to complete, after all.
While there was no real danger, Connor was plenty irritated.
She'd dealt with far worse than these four rough looking sorts. Their attention focused on the bartender currently cursing at them to get fuck off his property, they weren't paying her much heed at the moment. While they were only a bit taller than her, they all had a solid look about them. Dressed in the tell-tale mismatched, striped clothes of sailors, no doubt they'd been in their share of bar fights. That much he could surmise from tales of the Aquila's crew. The fourth and youngest of them supposedly held Connor trapped against the bar, her back pressed to his chest. Fingers cruelly digging into her upper arms, he cursed as she lurched back and shifted her weight away from him. His mouth stretching into a devilish smile, his yellowing teeth were crooked and foul. A dirty, dark blue stocking cap barely covered his dark blond locks.
"I believe I told you to unhand me," Connor ordered, voice cold and stony as her eyes darkened with rising fury. "If you leave me be, I will not be forced to engage you," she shoved back against him again. It didn't do much, save knocking his balance off kilter enough to allow her to get her arms free from her sides. Then again, that was all she needed.
"Shut ya yap, ya bloomin' moppet!" he young sailor scowled at her. His features lean and sharp, they were made all the more menacing by the sneer on his face as he snapped his attention back to the barkeep, who chided him to lay off of it.
"I ain't wanting no trouble up in 'ere," the barkeep warned with a shake of his meaty hand.
Looking the balding old man up and down with derision, the sailor let out of a snort of obvious disgust. Meanwhile, the corner of Connor's mouth twitched with a repressed snarl at the feel of a bruise beginning to bloom along her cheek from where he'd struck her roughly a minute ago, before he had her up against the counter. Normally, she would've kicked him in the shin, punched him in the nose and then caught him by arm to heave him away. Either she'd wrench it far enough behind his back to break it in at least two places. Or perhaps, upper cut him in the chin and knock out handful teeth to finish him off. But glancing back at Hickey and Mallow deep in conversation, she knew her mission came first. Even if her patience was quickly wearing thin.
"For the love 'o God, get yer bloody hands off the woman!" the barkeep he insisted in front of her, thumping an empty tankard along the hardwood of the counter for emphasis.
"Go fuck yourself, ya bastard!" another sailor of the group hissed.
"You have no right to speak to him in such a way," Connor commanded, voice dropping to dangerous menace.
"What's it to ya, half-breed?" the man holding her spat. Her blood boiled at his insult as a glob of tobacco-laced spit landed nearly on top of her hands on the bar. "That it, precious?" he hissed in her ear, his alcohol-soaked breath causing her to swallow back a gag. "Are ya fuckin' this old geezer, then love?" he jerked his head in the direction of the barkeep. "He got ya all wet betwixt yer legs every night? He like the feel of yer mouth up on his cock, suckin' away for all yer worth? No wonder I don't want ya now, ya Injun whore-"
The sound of his scream reverberated throughout the tavern as the bottle she seized up off the counter collided with the side of his face. The sheer force of it caused it to shatter into pieces. A collective gasp rang up from the crowd at the sight of blood streaming from his nose as he staggered back. Bringing a shaking hand to his bloodied, shard-filled cheek, his icy blue eyes narrowed in hatred and disbelief.
"Y-y-you hit me!" he pathetically screeched, his hand seizing out to grab her, "Oi! The t-triflin', w-wanton…chit…HIT ME!"
"It is no less than you deserve," Connor barked, her heartbeat roaring in her ears as she smoothly sidestepped his attempted grasp at her. FUCK 'im 'n his bullshit, Hickey's voice randomly echoed in her head, I'd of shanked two bottles all up into 'is mangy fuckin' mug, the pikey git.
Spinning on her heel and brandishing the broken bottle, she easily jumped out of his reach at his lame efforts to punch her. To her chagrin, she also was met by the solid expanse of one of his cronies at her side. Snatching her by the hair, he wretched her head back. She responded by elbowing him in the ribs, forcing him to release her in surprised pain. The shock of her follow-up stomp to his foot then sent him crashing to the floor. Stomping on his family jewels for good measure, she snarled in warning at his remaining cohorts.
Now, the entire place was as still as a tomb, everyone's eyes glued to the escalating scene playing out before them. Save the first man's whimpers of pain and the litany of curses flying from his friend's lips as he rolled about on the ground and clutched at his crotch, no one said a word.
"Hey-o, sweetheart?" Hickey's voice inexplicably cut through the anxious silence, somewhere behind her and to her left.
"Yes?" she snorted, grip still firmly on the bottle in spite of her rush of adrenaline. It wasn't as though she was going to risk taking her eyes off of the remaining two sailors to directly address him.
"Ya mind if ya duck a bit? It'd be real fuckin' helpful right 'bout now."
Without hesitation, she did as asked, only to see the flash of the first man's fist barely miss her head. Out the corner of her eye, a heavy wooden fanorona board swiftly snapped into view. A blur of speed saw Thomas wielding it with ruthless, calculating grace. Creating a breathtaking display of brutality, he first whipped its edge into the first man's throat, only to spin it about in his hands and then smash it completely into the other side of his face. Her attacker hit the floor like a ton of bricks. Grappling at his throat, he gurgled for a few nauseating moments before falling unconscious.
"Well, that seems to have solved the issue at hand-"
She had no time to finish her astonished exclamation before all hell broke loose.
The crowd roared for blood as the remaining two sailors charged Connor from either side. For a normal person, the two thugs going up against a lone, quiet spoken, 20 year-old woman would end up a disaster. Little did they realize Connor was no stranger to standing her ground. Admittedly, the encounter lasted less than a couple of minutes or so. But as Thomas witnessed it, it seemed to play out in spectacular, slow motion. It was made all the more absurd by the fact that the musicians in the corner of the tavern abruptly struck up a frenzied tune that seemed to match the ferocious action of the fight.
Easily ducking the first sailor's punch, Connor shoved him away by the shoulder while fluidly side-stepping the second one's bid drop kick her in the shins. A flash, and her fist connected with the first sailor's chin. Dazed, her opponent wildly lashed out, which only resulted in Connor catching his fist in mid-air. Fluently bending back his wrist at a sharp angle resulted in a sickening snap that seemed to reverberate off the walls around them. A moan of horror from the crowd filled the room, mingling in bizarre harmony with the sailor's howl of agony. Tears streaming from his eyes, he doubled over. It proved an unfortunate reaction for him, as it easily allowed Connor to knee him in the head. Effectively breaking his nose and sending him toppling over, Connor then grabbed him by the neck only to slam him down into the table next to her. The sailor and the table collapsed to the floor in a bloody, screaming heap.
Assaulting her from behind, the second sailor landed a lucky punch to Connor's left side. "That'll teach ya, ya red sonofabitch!" he crowed in triumph as the Native stumbled backwards. A follow-up punch caught Connor on the side of the jaw.
Yet the assassin regained her footing in less than a blink of eye. Gracefully throwing her weight to her other foot, she spun about and nabbed the sailor by the shirt. His eyes widening in horrified astonishment, he vainly tried to dance out of range. Regrettably for him, his luck had run dry. Connor's speed allowed her reach easily overmatch his own. Bobbing another punch, Connor viciously twisted his collar hard enough to cut off his supply of air, leaving him clawing at his throat. Without further ado, she flung him into a support beam behind her. He hit the solid wood with horrifying precision, a loud snap of something on his body breaking (his back?! Thomas' mind raced). A pathetic wheeze and the sailor crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll.
Thomas couldn't deny a rather large, primal part of him found this wanton play of destruction violently beautiful. Well, except when the sailor that Connor kicked in the crotch apparently recovered enough land a punch to his face and then make a running leap onto his back.
Barely flinching and shrugging it off easily enough, Thomas let out a venomous growl and threw himself backwards to propel the sailor into the wall next to Connor. Halfway to toppling over on her, the battered man stumbled to his feet. He only had time to let out a single, rattling gulp before he was knocked to the ground by a chair Thomas hurled right into him. Striking with him so hard that it split into a near dozen pieces, the bar stool was rendered utterly useless. Well, except for the large piece that lodged itself straight through the man's forearm. Never one leave anything unfinished, Thomas stalked across the room and ended his hysterical shrieks of terror with one final backhand to the face, completely knocking him out.
Scrambling forward to avoid stepping on the four bloodied sailors, Connor was left speechless. Particularly as Thomas swiftly yanked her up against his side and dragged her behind him by the wrist. "Alrighty, so I be thinkin' it be best if we get fuck up outta 'ere," he hummed.
"What about Mallow-?"
"I gots wot we be needin'," he cut her off.
Glancing around at the destroyed table, wrecked chair, a few shattered liquor bottles and the blood-spattered floor, Connor nodded, "It seems best that we, uh, leave."
The angry silence of the patrons didn't help either. Not when they were quickly making their way to the front door in what she could only assume was an attempt to block their exit. Fortunately, Thomas' sheer size and her own air of menace managed to stop them from completing the task. Regardless, she grimaced as a couple of them yelled out various foul racial slurs against her. Luckily, they cleared the door and made it outside before anything escalated into another fight.
"So," Thomas chuckled, thumping her on the back, "Ya just beat the ever-livin' shit out of that lot."
"Yes," she stiffened at his touch.
"Three men-"
"Only two," she retorted, "You stopped the first one when you smashed the fanorona board into his face. The fourth one made the grave mistake of leaping onto your back."
"Huh?" he shrugged, "I believe ya be right. Still, ya probably up 'n killed one of 'em. The one ya threw into one of them beams-"
"Hardly. Though they will all likely suffer some permanent injury," she replied, sounding downright nonplussed. He let out a loud guffaw at her apparent apathy.
Stopping in his tracks so rapidly that she collided right into his back, Thomas suddenly spun about to face her. By now, they were a good distance away from the tavern. But one could never be too cautious. Especially as he spotted a group of soldiers marching towards them. "Aw, shit on a stick," he declared in irritation. Grabbing Connor by the forearm, he whipped her around and thrust her into the alley on their left. Her back sharply hit the brick wall, causing her to wince at the impact. "Sorry 'bout that 'en," he murmured as he fluidly shielded her with his body with his own. Bracing his hands against the bricks on either side of her head, they appeared as though lovers taking a private moment to a casual passerby.
Connor certainly found herself fully aware of the solid expanse of his chest against hers. It was made all the more evident as he unexpectedly let his head fall to rest on her shoulder. Not to mention the heat radiating from him in the frigid night. His breathing slightly hitched and white in the icy air, it tickled the side of her neck. Yet the acrid smell of sweat, ale and blood littering his overcoat from the earlier fisticuffs wafted beneath her nose as well.
Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, Connor hissed, "What are you doing-?"
"Shut it," he hushed her, causing her to let out a snort of disagreement, "And stay." Placing a hand to her arm, he turned her so that she see could the soldiers marching by. Thankfully, they paid no mind to the two, continuing onward.
"Well then," she breathed, "That makes sense." Thomas said nothing, outside of giving her a hasty nod.
By now, the adrenaline had run its course through both of them. Connor found herself tiredly slumping against him, her hands limply hanging at her sides. His head still upon her shoulder, Thomas closed his eyes for a few seconds and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Are you badly injured?" Connor murmured, feeling him take a deep sigh against her ear.
"I should be the one askin' if they fucked ya up any," he replied. Leaning out from the alley and checking one last time for any soldiers, he pushed himself up off the wall. Gaze sliding to her face, he stopped on the mottled bruise on her right cheek, just to the side of her nose. Eyes narrowing, he reached out to take her by the chin. However, he stopped short and abruptly dropped his hand. "Considerin' your face-?"
"I have tangled with far, far worse," she huffed, fingers gingerly touching her bruise, "As you well know."
"Yeah," he sniffed. Bridewell he mused as Connor silently shook her head in agreement. "Still," his eyes flashed with mischief, "Ya didn't fuck up too bad. Fightin' that bunch and ya not murderin' 'em counts for somethin'."
"They were but drunken troublemakers," she adamantly replied, "Certainly nothing worth ending their lives over. Teaching them a lesson will suffice."
"Still," he rejoined, "Ya came out with a couple 'o punches and a bit 'o bruisin'."
"No worse than you," she steadily replied. Without thinking, she reached up to inspect his injuries. Fingertips breezing across the bruise on the underside of his jaw, she lightly brushed his injured lip as well. "That should not have happened," she said at seeing him wince. Rocking back on her heels, she shook her head in dismay and frowned, "I should not have involved you in that group back there. Not while you were gathering information. It could have put everything at risk-"
"Hell, it was a bit 'o mad fun," he insisted with a crooked smile. "'Sides, I haven't had the pleasure of a right proper bar fight in a bit. Gets the blood all riled up and goin', wouldn't ya know?" he suggestively waggled his brows.
"Oh, come now-"
"Ya never know, sweetheart," he cut her off, moving to exit the alley, "Ya should go mixin' it up like that more 'n more. Maybe it'll go coolin' ya bloodlust down a bit-"
"You two 'lil heathens! On them!"
Letting out an annoyed groan, Connor spun around and slit her eyes at the earlier patrol they avoided now doubling back. This time, tearing along the dirt road and screaming bloody murder at them. Somehow, she could only assume word of the bar fight seemed to have spread.
Without hesitation, she scrambled up a barn and out of sight.
"Wot in the bloody-?!"
"Flee, you fool!" he heard her hiss above him. A shadow along the skyline and she was gone.