Assassin's Creed Drabbles

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Information is worth more than gold—and Captain Edward Kenway finds he's willing to pay for both and more. Or in which Edward finds an equal to his quick mind and wit.

JACK RACKHAM SENDS him to a peculiar stall in the market center, notorious for dealing in more than just food, spices, wares, and textiles—especially for the right price. It's information Edward Kenway seeks. Something to ease his restless hands and mind until Thatch returns to New Providence.

"Look for the one with the sharp tongue," Jack told him, grinning over his pint at the Old Avery. "Pretty thing. Merchant's daughter. Knows everyone, trusts no one, and charges double if she catches you staring." And he's paid his fair share.

The stall is easy enough to find. It's one of the larger ones. Shaded by faded canvas and crowded with crates. Edward must have walked past it a hundred times, never knowing—he's always thought it belonged to simple, honest folk. A good cover for brokers of information in a growing town of pirates. As he draws closer, Edward can hear raised voices. At the back of the stall is a merchant's daughter holding a ledger in one hand and a quill in the other, arguing with a supplier over missing cargo.

"No," you say flatly, "what you told me yesterday was that the shipment was delayed." That happens from time to time—the seas can be unpredictable at this time of year. "Today you are telling me rats ate three crates of sugarcane in open water." The supplier flushes. You tend to have the patience of a saint, but right now, that's being tested. "Unless these are exceptionally large rats, I suggest you try again." Sharp tongue. The man sputters, not having a response. There's no excuse he can muster, either; you've seen Vega's manifest.

Edward sidles closer, reaching for an orange. You catch the movement from the corner of your eyes, but don't look up. "If you're going to steal," you remark, dipping the quill into the inkwell to make another mark, "least choose something worth the trouble." Gaze flitting over, you eye the stacked and arranged fruit—none of it will last much longer than another day or two before you'll have to sell it as fodder. But even livestock feed brings in a handful of reales. "Those are half-rotten."

The hand pauses. "To think I was being subtle," the stranger remarks—a Welshman to your ear—tossing up the orange and catching it with a shrug. You put your quill aside and finally look up at the would-be thief. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw, crooked nose and mouth, and eyes the color of the sea before a storm: bright and blue.

And now he's standing in your father's market stall with a stolen orange in his hand and the audacity to grin when you catch him. He's the kind of man your mother once warned you about. The kind you've seen passing by and have grown accustomed to dealing with over the years—the kind you always promised your father you'd stay away from outside of business dealings.

He rolls the orange in his palm to inspect it—a little bruised but not spoiled. "So, you admit they're poor quality?" Edward challenges. "I'm doing you a service then."

You snap the ledger shut, setting the bound book aside next to a pouch of coin, annoyed. First, the missing deliveries, and now this pirate has come to pester you and all before the sun has reached midday, too. "And I'd argue you still owe me a real."

His smile widens. There's no doubt in his mind now; this is who Calico Jack intended for him to meet. "Ah," Edward tuts, "but then this becomes business, and I was hoping it would just be a bit of fun."

Fun, you think, odd way to describe petty theft. "You opened by robbing me?" You ask, folding your arms across your chest, clearly unimpressed.

"Bold strategy," he admits, then a bit more cocksure, "memorable, though."

"Mostly criminal," you counter.