I was being tested. Every question, every challenge they threw my way—it was all an attempt to force me to prove my mettle. So far I’d passed. Not with flying colours, but I’d passed.

But we’d stepped outside the confines of the courtyard and I was greeted with what looked like a newly constructed practice area, tall palms lining either side of a grassed avenue, with targets at one end and just beyond that what looked like an ornamental lake, shimmering like a plateful of blue sunshine.

Behind the tree line, shadows moved among the scaly trunks of the palm trees. More guards, in case I made a break for it.

“We put together a small training course in the anticipation of your arrival,” said Rogers.

I swallowed.

My hosts stood to one side: expectant. Rogers still carried the pistol, held loosely in one hand, but his finger was on the trigger and Julien rested his right palm on the hilt of his sword. Behind the trees the figures of the guards stood motionless, waiting. Even the chirruping of insects and birds seemed to drop away.

“It would be a shame to leave here without seeing you in action.”

Woodes Rogers smiled but his eyes were cold.

And just my luck, the only weapon I had I couldn’t bloody use.

Doesn’t matter. I can take them anyway.

To the old Bristolian scrapper in me, they were just another pair of lairy twats outside a tavern. I thought of how I’d watched Walpole fight, with perfect awareness of his surroundings. How I could lay these two out, then be upon the nearest guards before they had a chance to even raise their muskets. Yes, I could do that, catch them unawares . . .

Now was the time, I thought. Now.

I braced and drew back my arm to throw the first punch.

And the blade engaged.

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Oh well done, Duncan.” Rogers clapped. I looked from him and DuCasse to my shadow cast on the grass. I had struck quite a pose, the blade engaged. What’s more, I thought I knew how I had done it. A tensing of muscle that came as much from the upper arm as the forearm . . .

“Very impressive,” said DuCasse. He stepped forward, held my arm with one hand that he used to release a catch, then, very carefully, used the flat of his other palm to ease the blade back into its housing.

“Now, let’s see you do it again.”

Without taking my eyes off him, I took a step back then assumed the same position. This time there was no luck involved, and even though I didn’t know quite what I was doing I had perfect confidence it would work. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. Sure enough: Snick. The blade sprang from the support and glinted evilly in the afternoon sun.

“A little noisy,” I smiled, getting cocky now. “Ideally, you’d not hear a thing. Otherwise, they’re fine.”

Their challenges were interminable but by the end I felt I was performing for their pleasure rather than their reassurance. Any tests were over. The guards had drifted away, and even DuCasse, who wore his wariness like a favoured old coat, seemed to have dropped his guard. By the time we left the makeshift training area, he was talking to me like an old friend.

“The Assassins have trained you well, Duncan,” he said.

The Assassins, I thought. So that’s what this group were called. Walpole had been a member but intended to betray his brothers, low-down scum-sucker he obviously was.

Betray them for what? is the question.

“You chose the perfect time to leave them behind.”

“At great risk,” enthused Rogers. “Betraying the Assassins is never good for one’s health.”

“Well,” I said, somewhat pompously, “neither is drinking liquor, but I am drawn to its dangers all the same.”

He chuckled as I turned my attention to DuCasse.

“What is your business here, sir? Are you an associate of the governor’s? Or a pending acquaintance like me?”

“Ah, I am . . . How do you say? Weapons dealer. I deal in pilfered guns and armaments.”

“A smuggler of sorts,” piped up Rogers.

“Guns, blades, grenadoes. Anything that might kill a man, I am happy to provide,” clarified the Frenchman.

By now we had reached the terrace, where I finally clapped eyes on Governor Torres.

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.

He didn’t look up, not at first. All the looking was taken care of by the big, bearded man who stood patiently at his right shoulder, his arms folded, as still as one of the courtyard statues and ten times as stony.

I recognized him at once, of course. The previous day I’d seen him send three pirates to his death; why, that very morning I’d pretended to procure prostitutes in his name. It was the Spaniard, El Tiburón, and although by then I should have been accustomed to intense examination by my hosts, his eyes seemed to drill right through me. For a while, as his stare bored into me, I was absolutely certain that not only had he spoken to the guards at the Castillo but that they had given him a detailed description, and that any second he would raise a trembling finger, point at me, and demand to know why I’d been at the fortress.

“Grand Master Torres.”

It was Rogers who broke the silence.

“Mr. Duncan Walpole has arrived.”

Torres looked up and regarded me over the top of his spectacles. He nodded, then handed his letter to El Tiburón, and thank God he did, for it meant that at last El Tiburón tore his eyes away from me.

“You were expected one week ago,” said Torres, but without much irritation.

“Apologies, Governor,” I replied. “My ship was set upon by the pirates and we were scuttled. I arrived only yesterday.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Unfortunate. But were you able to salvage from these pirates the items you promised me?”

I nodded, thinking, One hand gives you the pouch, the other hand takes the money, and from my robes took the small hunting satchel, bent and dropped it to a low table by Torres’s knees. He puffed on his pipe, then opened the pouch, took out the maps. I’d seen the maps, of course, and they didn’t mean anything to me. Nor did the crystal for that matter. But they meant something to Torres all right. No doubt about it.

“Incredible,” he said in tones of wonderment. “The Assassins have more resources than I had imagined . . .”