I continued to smile. “I am confident that it does. I am confident that Señor Vedomir will think so.”
He looked doubtful but stood aside and let me into a wide entrance hall, which, though the night was warm, was cool, almost cold, as well as being sparse, with just two chairs and a table, on which were some cards. I glanced at them. A game of piquet, I was pleased to see, because piquet’s a two-player game, which meant there were no more guards hiding in the woodwork.
The first guard indicated for me to place the wrapped cheese on the card table, and I did as I was told. The second man stood back, one hand on the hilt of his sword as his partner checked me for weapons, patting my clothes thoroughly and next searching the bag I wore around my shoulder, in which were a few coins and my journal, but nothing more. I had no blade.
“He’s not armed,” said the first guard, and the second man nodded. The first guard indicated my cheese. “You want Señor Vedomir to taste this, I take it?”
I nodded enthusiastically.
“Perhaps I should taste it first?” said the first guard, watching me closely.
“I had hoped to save it all for Señor Vedomir,” I replied with an obsequious smile.
The guard gave a snort. “You have more than enough. Perhaps you should taste it.”
I began to protest. “But I had hoped to save it for—”
He put his hand to the hilt of his sword. “Taste it,” he insisted.
I nodded. “Of course, señor,” I said, and unwrapped a piece, picked off a chunk and ate it. Next he indicated I should try another piece, which I did, making a face to show how heavenly it tasted. “And now that it’s been opened,” I said, proffering the wrapping, “you might as well have a taste.”
The two guards exchanged a look, then at last the first smile, went to a thick wooden door at the end of the passageway, knocked and entered. Then they appeared again and beckoned me forward, into Vedomir’s chamber.
Inside, it was dark and heavily perfumed. Silk billowed gently on the low ceiling as we entered. Vedomir sat with his back to us, his long black hair loose, wearing nightclothes and writing by the light of a candle at his desk.
“Would you have me stay, Señor Vedomir?” asked the guard.
Vedomir didn’t turn around. “I take it our guest isn’t armed?”
“No, señor,” said the guard, “although the smell of his cheese is enough to fell an army.”
“To me the scent is a perfume, Cristian,” laughed Vedomir. “Please show our guest to a seat, and I shall be over in a moment.”
I sat on a low stool by an empty hearth as he blotted the book then came over, stopping to pick up a small knife from a side table as he came.
“Cheese, then?” His smile split a thin moustache as he shifted his nightclothes to sit on another low stool, opposite.
“Yes, señor,” I said.
He looked at me. “Oh? I was told you were from the Republic of Genoa, but I can hear from your voice that you are English.”
I started with shock, but the big grin he wore told me I had nothing to worry about. Not yet at least. “And there I was, thinking me so clever to hide my nationality all this time,” I said, impressed, “but you have found me out, señor.”
“And the first to do so, evidently, which is why your head is still on your shoulders. Our two countries are at war, are they not?”
“The whole of Europe is at war, señor. I sometimes wonder if anybody knows who is fighting whom.”
Vedomir chuckled and his eyes danced. “You’re being disingenuous, my friend. I think we all know your King George’s allegiances, as well as his ambitions. Your British Navy is said to think itself the best in the world. The French, the Spanish—not to mention the Swedes—disagree. An Englishman in Spain takes his life in his hands.”
“Should I be concerned for my safety now, señor?”
“With me?” He spread his hands and gave a crooked, ironic smile. “I like to think I rise above the petty concerns of kings, my friend.”
“Then whom do you serve, señor?”
“Why, the people of the town, of course.”
“And to whom do you pledge allegiance if not to King Ferdinand?”
“To a higher power, señor.” Vedomir smiled, closing the subject firmly and turning his attention to the wrappings of cheese I’d placed by the hearth. “Now,” he went on, “you’ll have to forgive my confusion. This cheese. Is it from the Republic of Genoa or is it English cheese?”
“It is my cheese, señor. My cheeses are the best wherever one plants one’s flag.”
“Good enough to usurp Varela?”
“Perhaps to trade alongside him?”
“And what then? Then I have an unhappy Varela.”
“Yes, señor.”
“Such a state of affairs might be of no concern to you, señor, but these are the matters that vex me daily. Now, let me taste this cheese before it melts, eh?”
Pretending to feel the heat, I loosened my neck scarf then took it off. Surreptitiously, I reached into my shoulder bag and palmed a doubloon. When he turned his attention to the cheese I dropped the doubloon into the scarf.
The knife glittered in the candlelight as Vedomir cut off a chunk of the first cheese, holding the piece with his thumb and sniffing at it—hardly necessary; I could smell it from where I sat—then popped it into his mouth. He ate thoughtfully, looked at me, then cut off a second chunk.
“Hm,” he said, after some moments. “You are wrong, señor, this is not superior to Varela’s cheese. It is in fact exactly the same as Varela’s cheese.” His smile had faded and his face had darkened. I realized I had been found out. “In fact, this is Varela’s cheese.”
His mouth was opening to shout for help as I twirled the silk into a garrotte with a flick of my wrists and leapt forward with crossed arms, dropping it over his head and around his neck.
His knife hand arced up, but he was too slow and caught unawares, and the knife thrashed wildly at the silk above our heads as I secured my rumal, the coin pressing in on his windpipe, cutting off any noise. Holding the garrotte with one hand, I disarmed him, tossed the knife to a cushion then used both hands to tighten the rumal.
“My name is Haytham Kenway,” I said dispassionately, leaning forward to look into his wide-open, bulging eyes. “You have betrayed the Templar Order. For this you have been sentenced to execution.”
His arm rose in a futile attempt to claw at my eyes, but I moved my head and watched the silk flutter gently as the life left him.
When it was over I carried his body to the bed then went to his desk to take his journal, as I had been instructed. It was open, and my eye fell upon some writing: “Para ver de manera diferente, primero debemos pensar diferente.”
I read it again, translating it carefully, as though I were learning a new language: “To see differently, we must first think differently.”
I stared at it for some moments, deep in thought, then snapped the book shut and stowed it in my bag, returning my mind to the job at hand. Vedomir’s death would not be discovered until morning, by which time I would be long gone, on my way to Prague, where I now had something to ask Reginald.
18 JUNE 1747
i
“It’s about your mother, Haytham.”
He stood before me in the basement of the headquarters on Celetna Lane. He had made no effort to dress for Prague. He wore his Englishness like a badge of honour: neat and tidy white stockings, black breeches and, of course, his wig, which was white and had shed most of its powder on the shoulders of his frock coat. He was lit by the flames from tall iron cressets on poles on either side of him, while mounted on stone walls so dark they were almost black were torches that shone with halos of pale light. Normally he stood relaxed, with his hands behind his back and leaning on his cane, but today there was a formal air about him.
“Mother?”
“Yes, Haytham.”
She’s ill, was my first thought, and I instantly felt a hot w
ave of guilt so intense I was almost giddy with it. I hadn’t written to her in weeks; I’d hardly even thought about her.
“She’s dead, Haytham,” said Reginald, casting his eyes downward. “A week ago she had a fall. Her back was badly hurt, and I’m afraid that she succumbed to her injuries.”
I looked at him. That intense rush of guilt was gone as quickly as it had arrived and in its place an empty feeling, a hollow place where emotions should be.
“I’m sorry, Haytham.” His weathered face creased into sympathy and his eyes were kind. “Your mother was a fine woman.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said.
“We’re to leave for England straight away. There’s a memorial service.”
“I see.”
“If you need . . . anything, then please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.”
“Your family is the Order now, Haytham. You can come to us for anything.”
“Thank you.”
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And if you need . . . you know, to talk, then I’m here.”
I tried not to smile at the idea. “Thank you, Reginald, but I won’t need to talk.”
“Very well.”
There was a long pause.
He looked away. “Is it done?”
“Juan Vedomir is dead, if that’s what you mean.”
“And you have his journal?”
“I’m afraid not.”
For a moment his face fell, then it grew hard. Very hard. I’d seen his face do that before, in an unguarded moment.
“What?” he said simply.
“I killed him for his betrayal of our cause, did I not?” I said.
“Indeed . . .” said Reginald carefully.
“Then what need did I have of his journal?”
“It contains his writings. They are of interest to us.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Haytham, I had reason to believe that Juan Vedomir’s treachery went beyond the matter of his adherence to the doctrine. I think he may have advanced to working with the Assassins. Now tell me the truth, please, do you have his journal?”
I pulled it from my bag, gave it to him, and he moved over to one of the candlesticks, opened it, quickly flicked through, then snapped it shut.
“And have you read it?” he asked.
“It’s in cypher,” I replied.
“But not all of it,” he said equably.
I nodded. “Yes—yes, you’re right, there were some passages I was able to read. His . . . thoughts on life. They made interesting reading. In fact, I was particularly intrigued, Reginald, by how much Juan Vedomir’s philosophy was consistent with what my father once taught me.”
“Quite possibly.”
“And yet you had me kill him?”
“I had you kill a traitor to the Order. Which is something else entirely. Of course, I knew your father felt differently from me concerning many—perhaps even most—of the tenets of the Order, but that’s because he didn’t subscribe to them. The fact that he wasn’t a Templar didn’t make me respect him less.”
I looked at him. I wondered if I had been wrong to doubt him. “Why, then, is the book of interest?”
“Not for Vedomir’s musings on life, that much is certain,” said Reginald, and gave me a sideways smile. “As you say, they were similar to your father’s, and we both know our feelings about that. No, it’s the cyphered passages I’m interested in, which, if I’m right, will contain details of the keeper of a key.”
“A key to what?”
“All in good time.”
I made a sound of frustration.
“Once I have decyphered the journal, Haytham,” he pressed. “When, if I’m right, we’ll be able to begin the next phase of the operation.”
“And what might that be?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I said the words for him. “‘All in good time, Haytham,’ is that it? More secrets, Reginald?”
He bristled. “‘Secrets’? Really? Is that what you think? What exactly have I done to deserve your suspicion, Haytham, other than to take you under my wing, sponsor you in the Order, give you a life? You know, I might be forgiven for thinking you rather ungrateful at times, sir.”
“We were never able to find Digweed, though, were we?” I said, refusing to be cowed. “There never was a ransom demand for Jenny, so the main purpose of the raid had to be Father’s death.”
“We hoped to find Digweed, Haytham. That’s all we could ever do. We hoped to make him pay. That hope was not satisfied, but that doesn’t mean we were derelict in our attempt. Moreover, I had a duty of care to you, Haytham, which was fulfilled. You stand before me a man, a respected Knight of the Order. You overlook that, I think. And don’t forget that I hoped to marry Jenny. Perhaps in the heat of your desire to avenge your father, you see losing Digweed as our only significant failure, but it’s not, is it, because we’ve never found Jenny, have we? Of course, you spare no thought for your sister’s hardship.”
“You accuse me of callousness? Heartlessness?”
He shook his head. “I merely request that you turn your stare on your own failings before you start shining light on mine.”
I looked carefully at him. “You never took me into your confidence regarding the search.”
“Braddock was sent to find him. He updated me regularly.”
“But you didn’t pass those updates to me.”
“You were a young boy.”
“Who grew up.”
He bent his head. “Then I apologize for not taking that fact into account, Haytham. In future I will treat you as an equal.”
“Then start now—start by telling me about the journal,” I said.
He laughed, as though caught in check at chess. “You win, Haytham. All right, it represents the first step towards the location of a temple—a first-civilization temple, thought to have been built by Those Who Came Before.”
There was a moment’s pause in which I thought, Is that it? Then laughed.
At first he looked shocked, perhaps remembering the first time he’d ever told me about Those Who Came Before, when I’d found it difficult to contain myself. “Those who came before what . . . ?” I’d scoffed.
“Before us,” he’d replied tightly. “Before man. A previous civilization.”
He frowned at me now. “You’re still finding it amusing, Haytham?”
I shook my head. “Not amusing so much, no. More”—I struggled to find the words—“hard to fathom, Reginald. A race of beings who existed before man. Gods . . .”
“Not gods, Haytham, first-civilization humans who controlled humanity. They left us artefacts, Haytham, of immense power, such that we can only dream of. I believe that whoever can possess those artefacts can ultimately control all of human destiny.”
My laugh dwindled when I saw how serious he had become. “It’s a very grand claim, Reginald.”
“Indeed. If it were a modest claim then we would not be so interested, no? The Assassins would not be interested.” His eyes gleamed. The flames from the cressets shone and danced in them. I’d seen that look in his eyes before, but only on rare occasions. Not when he’d been tutoring me in languages, philosophy, or even in the classics or the principles of combat. Not even when he taught me the tenets of the Order.
No, only when he talked about Those Who Came Before.
Sometimes Reginald liked to deride what he saw as a surfeit of passion. He thought of it as a shortcoming. When he talked about the beings of the first civilization, however, he talked like a zealot.
ii
We are staying the night in the Templar headquarters here in Prague. As I sit here now in a meagre room with grey stone walls, I can feel the weight of thousands of years of Templar history upon me.
My thoughts go to Queen Anne’s Square, to which the household returned when the work was done. Mr. Simpkin had kept us abreast of developments; Reginald had overseen the building operation, even as we moved f
rom country to country in search of Digweed and Jenny. (And yes, Reginald was right. Failing to find Digweed: that fact eats at me; but I almost never think of Jenny.)
One day Simpkin sent us the word that the household had returned from Bloomsbury to Queen Anne’s Square, that the household was once again in residence, back where it belonged. That day my mind went to the wood-panelled walls of the home I grew up in, and I found I could vividly picture the people within it—especially my mother. But, of course, I was picturing the mother I had known growing up, who shone, bright like the sun and twice as warm, on whose knee I knew perfect happiness. My love for Father was fierce, perhaps stronger, but for Mother it was purer. With Father I had a feeling of awe, of admiration so grand I sometimes felt dwarfed by him, and with that came an underlying feeling I can only describe as anxiety, that somehow I had to live up to him, to grow into the huge shadow cast by him.
With Mother, though, there was no such insecurity, just the almost overwhelming sense of comfort and love and protection. And she was a beauty. I used to enjoy it when people compared me to Father because he was so striking, but if they said I looked like Mother I knew they meant handsome. Of Jenny, people would say, “She’ll break a few hearts”; “She’ll have men fighting over her.” They applied the language of struggle and conflict. But not with Mother. Her beauty was a gentle, maternal, nurturing thing, to be spoken of not with the wariness Jenny’s looks inspired, but with warmth and admiration.
Of course, I had never known Jenny’s mother, Caroline Scott, but I had formed an opinion of her: that she was “a Jenny,” and that my father had been captivated by her looks just as Jenny’s suitors were captivated by hers.
Mother, though, I imagined to be an entirely different sort of person altogether. She was plain old Tessa Stephenson-Oakley when she met my father. That’s what she had always said, anyway: “plain old Tessa Stephenson-Oakley,” which didn’t sound at all plain to me, but never mind. Father had moved to London, arriving alone with no household, but a purse large enough to buy one. When he had rented a London home from a wealthy landowner, the daughter had offered to help my father find permanent accommodation, as well as employing the household to run it. The daughter, of course, was “plain old Tessa Stephenson-Oakley” . . .
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