Ahead of me stretched the chateau lawn, and walking across it I felt a strange crawling sensation in my belly that I knew to be nostalgia for the time I had spent at this chateau in my youth, when Reginald had . . .
. . . continued my father’s teachings? He’d said so. But of course I now know he’d been misleading me about that. In the ways of combat and stealth, perhaps, he had done so, but Reginald had raised me in the ways of the Templar Order, and taught me that the way of the Templar was the only way; and that those who believed in another way were at best misguided, at worst evil.
But I’d since learnt that Father was one of those misguided, evil people, and who’s to say what he would have taught me as I grew up. Who’s to say?
The grass was unkempt and overgrown, despite the presence of two gardeners, both of whom wore short swords at their waists, hands going to the hilts as I made my way towards the front door of the chateau. I came close to one of them, who, when he saw who I was, nodded. “An honour finally to meet you, Master Kenway,” he said. “I trust your mission was successful?”
“It was, thank you, yes,” I replied to the guard—or gardener, whatever he was. To him I was a Knight, one of the most celebrated in the Order. Could I really hate Reginald when his stewardship had brought me such acclaim? And, after all, had I ever doubted his teachings? The answer was no. Had I been forced to follow them? Again, no. I’d always had the option to choose my own path but had stayed with the Order because I believed in the code.
Even so, he has lied to me.
No, not lied to me. How had Holden put it? “Withheld the truth.”
Why?
And, more immediately, why had Lucio reacted that way when I told him he was to see his mother?
At the mention of my name, the second gardener looked at me more sharply, then he too was genuflecting as I made my way past, acknowledging him with a nod, feeling taller all of a sudden and all but puffing out my chest as I approached the front door that I knew so well. I turned before I knocked, to look back across the lawn, where the two guards stood watching me. I had trained on that lawn, spent countless hours honing my sword skills.
I knocked, and the door was opened by yet another similarly attired man who also wore a short sword at his waist. The chateau had never been this fully staffed when I had lived here, but then again, when I lived here, we never had a guest as important as the decypherer.
The first familiar face I saw belonged to John Harrison, who looked at me then did a double take. “Haytham,” he blustered, “what the hell are you doing here?”
“Hello, John,” I said equably, “is Reginald here?”
“Well, yes, Haytham, but Reginald is supposed to be here. What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on Lucio.”
“You what?” Harrison was becoming somewhat red-faced. “You ‘came to check on Lucio’?” He was having trouble finding his words now. “What? Why? What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“John,” I said gently, “please calm yourself. I was not followed from Italy. Nobody knows I’m here.”
“Well, I should bloody well hope not.”
“Where’s Reginald?”
“Below stairs, with the prisoners.”
“Oh? Prisoners?”
“Monica and Lucio.”
“I see. I had no idea they were considered prisoners.”
But a door had opened beneath the stairs, and Reginald appeared. I knew that door; it led down to the cellar, which, when I lived there, was a dank, low-ceilinged room, with mouldering, mainly empty wine racks along one side and a dark, damp wall along the other.
“Hello, Haytham,” said Reginald, curtly. “You were not expected.”
Not far away lingered one of the guards, and now he was joined by another. I looked from them back to Reginald and John, who stood like a pair of concerned clergymen. Neither was armed, but even if they had been, I thought I could probably take all four. If it came to it.
“Indeed,” I said, “John was just telling me how surprised he was by my visit.”
“Well, quite. You’ve been very reckless, Haytham . . .”
“Perhaps, but I wanted to see that Lucio was being looked after. Now I’m told he is a prisoner here, so perhaps I have my answer.”
Reginald chortled. “Well, what did you expect?”
“What I was told. That the mission was to reunite mother and son; that the decypherer had agreed to work on Vedomir’s journal if we were able to rescue her son from the rebels.”
“I told you no lies, Haytham. Indeed, Monica has been working on decoding the journal since being reunited with Lucio.”
“Just not on the basis I imagined.”
“The carrot doesn’t work, we use the stick,” said Reginald, his eyes cold. “I’m sorry if you had formed the impression that there was more carrot than stick involved.”
“Let’s see her,” I said, and with a short nod, Reginald agreed. He turned and led us through the door, which opened on to a flight of stone steps leading down. Light danced on the walls.
“Regarding the journal, we’re close now, Haytham,” he said, as we descended. “So far, we’ve been able to establish that there exists an amulet. Somehow it fits with the storehouse. If we can get hold of the amulet . . .”
At the bottom of the steps, iron cressets on poles had been set out to light the way to a door, where a guard stood. He moved to one side and opened the door for us to pass through. Inside, the cellar was as I remembered it, lit by the flickering light of torches. At one end was a desk. It was bolted to the floor and Lucio was manacled to it, and beside him was his mother, who was an incongruous sight. She sat on a chair that looked as though it had been brought into the cellar from upstairs especially for the purpose. She was wearing long skirts and a buttoned-up overgarment and would have looked like a churchgoer were it not for the rusting iron restraints around her wrists and the arms of the chair, and especially the scold’s bridle around her head.
Lucio swivelled in his seat, saw me and his eyes burned with hatred, then he turned back to his work.
I had stopped in the middle of the floor, halfway between the door and the decypherers. “Reginald, what is the meaning of this?” I said, pointing at Lucio’s mother, who regarded me balefully from within the scold’s bridle.
“The branks is temporary, Haytham. Monica has been somewhat vocal in her condemnation of our tactics this morning. Hence we have moved them here for the day.” He raised his voice to address the mother and son. “I’m sure they can return to their usual residence tomorrow, when they have recovered their manners.”
“This is not right, Reginald.”
“Their usual quarters are much more pleasant, Haytham,” he assured me testily.
“Even so, they should not be treated this way.”
“Neither should the poor child in the Black Forest have been scared half to death with your blade at his throat,” snapped Reginald.
I started, my mouth working but lost for words. “That was . . . That was . . .”
“Different? Because it involved your quest to find your father’s killers? Haytham . . .” He took my elbow and led me out of the cellar and back out into the corridor, and we began to climb the steps again. “This is even more important than that. You may not think so, but it is. It involves the entire future of the Order.”
I wasn’t sure any more. I wasn’t sure what was more important but said nothing.
“And what happens when the decoding is over?” I asked, as we reached the entrance hall once again.
He looked at me.
“Oh no,” I said, understanding. “Neither is to be harmed.”
“Haytham, I don’t much care for your giving me orders . . .”
“Then don’t think of it as an order,” I hissed. “Think of it as a threat. Keep them here when their work is over if you must, but if they are harmed then you will have me to answer to.”
He looked at me long and hard. I realized tha
t my heart was hammering and hoped to God it wasn’t somehow visible. Had I ever gone against him like this? With such force? I didn’t think so.
“Very well,” he said, after a moment, “they will not be harmed.”
We spent dinner in near silence, and the offer of a bed for the night was made reluctantly. I leave in the morning; Reginald promises to be in touch with news concerning the journal. The warmth between us, though, is gone. In me, he sees insubordination; in him, I see lies.
18 APRIL 1754
i
Earlier this evening I found myself at the Royal Opera House, taking a seat next to Reginald, who was settling in for a performance of The Beggar’s Opera with evident glee. Of course, the last time we’d met, I’d threatened him, which wasn’t something I had forgotten, but evidently he had. Forgotten or forgiven, one of the two. Either way, it was as though the confrontation had never taken place, the slate wiped clean, either by his anticipation of the night’s forthcoming entertainment or by the fact that he believed the amulet to be near.
It was inside the opera house, in fact, around the neck of an Assassin who had been named in Vedomir’s journal then tracked down by Templar agents.
An Assassin. He was my next target. My first job since acquiring Lucio in Corsica, and the first to feel the bite of my new weapon: my hidden blade. As I took the opera glasses and looked at the man across the hall—my target—the irony of it suddenly struck me.
My target was Miko.
I left Reginald in his seat and made my way along the corridors of the opera house, along the back of the seats, past the opera’s patrons, until I found myself at the stalls. At the box where Miko sat I let myself in silently then tapped him gently on the shoulder.
I was ready for him, if he tried anything, but though his body tensed and I heard him give a sharp intake of breath, he made no move to defend himself. It was almost as though he expected it when I reached and took the amulet from his neck—and did I sense a feeling of . . . relief? As though he were grateful to relinquish the responsibility, pleased no longer to be its custodian?
“You should have come to me”—he sighed—“we would have found another way . . .”
“Yes. But then you would have known,” I replied.
There was a click as I engaged the blade, and I saw him smile, knowing it was the one I had taken from him in Corsica.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” I told him.
“As am I,” he said, and I killed him.
ii
Some hours later, I attended the meeting at the house on Fleet and Bride, standing around a table with others, our attention focused on Reginald, as well as the book on the table before us. It was open, and I could see the symbol of the Assassins on the page.
“Gentlemen,” said Reginald. His eyes were shining, as though he were close to tears. “I hold in my hand a key. And if this book is to be believed, it will open the doors of a storehouse built by Those Who Came Before.”
I contained myself. “Ah, our dear friends who ruled, ruined and then vanished from the world,” I said. “Do you know what it is we’ll find within?”
If Reginald picked up on my sarcasm, then he made no sign. Instead, he reached for the amulet, held it up and basked in the hush from those assembled as it began to glow in his hand. It was impressive, even I had to admit, and Reginald looked over at me.
“It could contain knowledge,” he replied. “Perhaps a weapon, or something as of yet unknown, unfathomable in its construction and purpose. It could be any of these things. Or none of them. They are still an enigma, these precursors. But of one thing I am certain—whatever waits behind those doors shall prove a great boon to us.”
“Or our enemies,” I said, “should they find it first.”
He smiled. Was I beginning to believe, at last?
“They won’t. You’ve seen to that.”
Miko had died wanting to find another way. What had he meant? An accord of Assassin and Templar? My thoughts went to my father.
“I assume you know where this storehouse is?” I said, after a pause.
“Mr. Harrison?” said Reginald, and John stepped forward with a map, unfurling it.
“How fare your calculations?” said Reginald, as John circled an area of the map which, leaning closer, I saw contained New York and Massachusetts.
“I believe the site lies somewhere within this region,” he said.
“That’s a lot of ground to cover.” I frowned.
“My apologies. Would that I could be more accurate . . .”
“That’s all right,” said Reginald. “It suffices for a start. And this is why we’ve called you here, Master Kenway. We’d like for you to travel to America, locate the storehouse, and take possession of its contents.”
“I am yours to command,” I said. To myself, I cursed him and his folly and wished I could be left alone to continue my own investigations, then added, “Although a job of this magnitude will require more than just myself.”
“Of course,” said Reginald, and handed me a piece of paper. “Here are the names of five men sympathetic to our cause. Each is also uniquely suited to aid you in your endeavour. With them at your side, you’ll want for nothing.”
“Well then, I’d best be on my way,” I said.
“I knew our faith in you was not misplaced. We’ve booked you a passage to Boston. Your ship leaves at dawn. Go forth, Haytham—and bring honour to us all.”
8 JULY 1754
i
Boston twinkled in the sun as squawking gulls circled overhead, water slapped noisily at the harbour wall and the gang-board banged like a drum as we disembarked from the Providence, weary and disorientated by over a month at sea but weak with happiness at finally reaching land. I stopped in my tracks as sailors from a neighbouring frigate rolled barrels across my path with a sound like distant thunder, and my gaze went from the glittering emerald ocean, where the masts of Royal Navy warships, yachts and frigates rocked gently from side to side, to the dock, the wide stone steps that led from the piers and jetties to the harbour thronging with redcoats, traders and sailors, then up past the harbour to the city of Boston itself, the church spires and distinctive red brick buildings seemingly resisting any attempts at arrangement, as though flung by some godly hand on to the side of the hill. And, everywhere, Union Flags that fluttered gently in the breeze, just to remind visitors—in case they had any doubts—that the British were here.
The passage from England to America had been eventful, to say the least. I had made friends and discovered enemies, surviving an attempt on my life—by Assassins, no doubt—who wanted to take revenge for the killing at the opera house and to recover the amulet.
To the other passengers and crew of the ship I was a mystery. Some thought I was a scholar. I told my new acquaintance, James Fairweather, that I “solved problems,” and that I was travelling to America to see what life was like there; what had been retained from the empire and what had been discarded; what changes British rule had wrought.
Which were fibs, of course. But not outright lies. For though I came on specific Templar business, I was curious, too, to see this land I had heard so much about, which was apparently so vast, its people infused with a pioneering, indomitable spirit.
There were those who said that spirit might one day be used against us, and that our subjects, if they harnessed that determination, would be a formidable foe. And there were others who said America was simply too big to be governed by us; that it was a tinderbox, ready to go off; that its people would grow tired of the taxes imposed upon them so that a country thousands of miles away could fight wars with other countries thousands of miles away; and that when it did go off we might not have the resources to protect our interests. All of this I hoped to be able to judge for myself.
But only as an adjunct to my main mission, though, which . . . well, I think it’s fair to say that, for me, the mission has changed en route. I’d stepped on the Providence holding a particular set of b
eliefs and stepped off having had them first challenged, then shaken and, finally, changed, and all because of the book.
The book that Reginald had given me: I’d spent much of my time aboard the ship poring over it; I must have read it no fewer than two dozen times, and still I’m not sure I have made sense of it.
One thing I do know, though. Whereas before, I’d thought of Those Who Came Before with doubt, as would a sceptic, an unbeliever, and considered Reginald’s obsession with them to be at best an irritation, at worst a preoccupation that threatened to derail the very workings of our Order, I no longer did. I believed.
The book seemed to have been written—or should I say written, illustrated, decorated, scrawled—by a man, or maybe several of them: several lunatics who had filled page after page with what, at first, I took to be wild and outlandish claims, fit only for scoffing at then ignoring.
Yet, somehow, the more I read, the more I came to see the truth. Over the years, Reginald had told me (I used to say “bored me with”) his theories concerning a race of beings that predated our own. He’d always asserted that we were born of their struggles and thus obliged to serve them; that our ancestors had fought to secure their own freedom in a long and bloody war.
What I discovered during my passage was that all of this originated from the book, which as I read it, was having what I can only describe as a profound effect upon me. Suddenly I knew why Reginald had become so obsessed with this race. I’d sneered at him, remember? But, reading the book, I felt no desire to sneer at all, just a sense of wonderment, a feeling of lightness inside me that at times made me feel almost giddy with an excitement and a sense of what I can describe as “insignificance,” of realizing my own place in the world. It was as though I had peered through a keyhole expecting to see another room on the other side but seen a whole new world instead.
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