“Was it your brothers who put the idea of battle and war into your pretty little head?”
She emitted a short, bitter laugh. “I would rather stay with my poor mother in Domrémy and spin. This is not my station. But I must go, and I must do it, for God wishes me to.”
Her voice and words were strong, and the light, that magnificent radiance that always lifted Gabriel’s heart, blazed fiercely. The glibness faded from de Metz’s handsome face, to be replaced by something else; something joyful, but deeper, and before the astonished gaze of Catherine, Gabriel, and the Maid herself, Jean de Metz went down on one knee before her.
“La Pucelle,” he said, and there was no hint of humor now in his voice or his mien. “I offer you my hands as a sign of my faith in you. I will take you before Lord de Baudricourt, my master, and I pledge by my honor, I will see to it that you reach the Dauphin safely.”
De Metz pressed his hands together, as if in prayer, and then raised them to Joan. Wonderingly, her face growing so bright that Gabriel could scarcely stand to look upon it, she clasped her hands around both of his. It was an age-old gesture of fealty, and the hairs on Gabriel’s—and Simon’s—arms lifted.
Gabriel was responding to de Metz’s pledge to be Joan’s liegeman. Simon was reacting to something else entirely.
Joan’s beautiful face was not the only thing that was radiant. Hidden in the shadows of de Metz’s sleeves, invisible to all eyes but those of a very few who could see more than ordinary men, something glinted.
Something sharp. Something deadly.
The tip of a Hidden Blade.
Jean de Metz was an Assassin.
CHAPTER
SIX
“Do you see it?” Simon shouted before he could help himself. The second the words were out of his mouth he was terribly sorry, as the images twisted, contorted, faded to gray, and he felt a sharp pain in his skull as if de Metz’s Hidden Blade was neatly spearing his temple.
And then he was out of the simulation, sweat sheeting his body, his eyes wide and his heart pounding. Victoria lifted off the helm and clucked her tongue reprovingly. “Simon, you are worse than my younger subjects. You get far too excited sometimes.”
The comment stung Simon, who fancied himself a rather cool customer. But it was true—and surprising. As a child, he had always preferred history—true “stories”—to fairy tales, and the predilection followed him into adulthood. He realized now that part of the appeal had been how distant it was. History’s lessons were to be observed and made note of, not experienced. Certainly not experienced like this, not until now, and Simon was only starting to realize how profoundly it was affecting him.
I blame Gabriel, he thought.
“So what did you see that excited you so much you had to desynchronize?” she continued, lifting his arms so she could free him from the Animus’s embrace.
“Jean de Metz had a Hidden Blade,” he said calmly.
Her head whipped up and her eyes widened. Joy flooded her face. “An Assassin! Oh, Simon, this is truly wonderful news!”
“I’m kicking myself for not thinking about it sooner,” Simon said, working it out as he spoke. “Joan was a galvanizing figure. Of course both Assassins and Templars would be interested in her. They’d probably be keeping an eye out for anyone who looked to fulfill the prophecies. It appears we’ll have the opportunity to increase our knowledge about Assassin activity in the fifteenth century, as well as learn about Piece of Eden 25 and study two fascinating individuals with traces of Precursor DNA.”
“Yet another way to keep Rikkin’s interest in your new approach.” Victoria unfastened the last clasp and stepped away as he descended. Simon realized he was trembling, his heart still beating fast, and he let Victoria guide him to a seat and hand him a glass of water. She fetched her tablet and started looking through it.
“You look almost more pleased than I am,” he observed.
“And why shouldn’t I be?” She offered a smile as she drew up a chair next to him.
He craned his neck to look at the screen. “Any idea as to who might be a Templar or Assassin? We will make sure to include those encounters in our research if so.”
“Well, of course, at this time in history,” Victoria said, tapping and swiping as she spoke, “it has only been a bit over a century since the execution of Jacques de Molay and the disarray of the Order.”
Disarray. It was an apt word choice. The Order, once so powerful, had been plunged into chaos—especially in France. The Templars had been forced to retreat. The Assassins had pressed their advantage, ruthlessly hunting their enemies down and eliminating them one by one. But nothing could keep the Templar Order from rising again, and it had been slowly clawing its way back, having retreated from Europe to Britain for a time.
“France would be an important prize for the Templars to reclaim, and the Assassins would dearly love to keep it from them,” Simon said.
“We don’t have many names from this time period,” Victoria said. “So much was lost. The Assassins rejoiced when the Order fell and de Molay was burned as a heretic. They would not want to see France become a foothold for a strong Templar resurgence. For the Assassins, France must be French, and for the Templars, it would need to be under the control of Britain and its stronger Templar presence. The English and the Burgundians would be doing everything they could to discredit the Dauphin—and all those who supported him.”
“Like our Joan.”
Victoria nodded. “Now… we do know of one Templar’s ancestor for certain.” She showed him the image, and Simon’s pleasure dimmed somewhat.
“Ah, him. Lovely chap.”
He had read the file on this particular individual. The late and, as far as Simon was concerned, unlamented Warren Vidic, the cruel and clever creator of the Animus, had explored his own genetic memories as part of the technology’s development. He claimed as his ancestor someone almost as unpleasant as he—Geoffroy Thérage, one of Joan’s executioners.
“One of the more ghoulish rumors from those wanting miracles was that Joan’s heart stubbornly refused to burn,” he informed Victoria. “Some witnesses claimed it remained whole in the pile of ashes. Thérage is the fellow who gathered up the ashes—and, conveniently, the seemingly magical noncombustible heart—of the future saint and tossed them into the Seine, so there would be no rumors of relics to trouble her enemies down the line. The irony’s delicious. His descendant—any Templar, really—would have been thrilled to have had some of Joan’s DNA to study. Must have vexed Vidic to no end.”
Thérage had been an Englishman. Simon was starting to get the uncomfortable feeling that he, as a British Templar, was coming down on the wrong side of history on this particular occasion.
Victoria interrupted his rumination with a light touch on his arm. “It’s getting late.”
“Not that late.”
“You’ve done a great deal of good work today, but your brain needs to process what you’ve learned. The first few days in the Animus take a lot out of one.”
Simon started to protest, then sighed. “I suppose that’s doctor’s orders, not just friendly advice?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is. Your dreams are going to be very interesting tonight. You might want to try to remember them and jot them down when you wake up. Sometimes there’s a secondary recall after sleep.”
Simon tried and failed to stifle a yawn. “My body betrays me,” he grumbled. “As you wish. I’ll bring a Temp’s Hard @ Work basket to the office. See you there first thing?”
“First thing.”
In his office with the door closed, Alan Rikkin poured a small snifter of brandy. He offered it to Bibeau, but she declined.
“We have some solid progress already,” she began, but he held up his hand.
“First things first,” he said. “I want to know your thoughts on Hathaway. You are my eyes and ears when it comes to our new head of Historical Research—and our newest member of the Inner Sanctum. I think it’s apparent tha
t he is, shall we say, enthusiastic.”
“I’m flattered by the trust you place in me in asking for my assistance,” Bibeau said. “I’m honored to help. And to be honest—I would rather see an overabundance of enthusiasm than a lack of it.”
He eyed her for a moment, swirling the amber beverage in the glass to release its fragrance before taking a small sip. Dr. Victoria Bibeau sat in front of his desk, patiently awaiting his response. Rikkin returned to his seat, tapped on his keyboard, then turned the monitor so she could see it. She blanched and looked down at her folded hands.
The picture showed a man who once might have been pleasant-looking, but who now presented a picture of stark horror. His body had been riddled with bullets, and he had died with his eyes and mouth open in what might have been terror or rage—or both. His hands clutched torn pieces of paper.
“Are you quite sure about that, Dr. Bibeau?”
Bibeau took a deep breath and forced herself to regard the brutal image. “Robert Fraser was a fairly ordinary man,” Rikkin continued. “A talented amateur artist, a keen observer, a loyal employee. He had an abundance of enthusiasm for his work, too.”
“Mr. Fraser was not a Templar, let alone a member of the Inner Sanctum,” Bibeau replied. “Professor Hathaway is much more mentally stable.”
“Again… are you certain, Doctor? Fraser found himself too caught up in the excitement of being Arno Dorian, Assassin. And,” he added, “swept away by Dorian’s ill-fated romance. Now, we have a man who is already more passionate about history than most who is studying Joan of Arc through the eyes of a besotted teenager. It’s… concerning.”
His words made Bibeau stiffen. “I know what part I played in the tragedy that was Robert Fraser. No one wants this to happen again less than I do—particularly with someone as valuable to the Order as Simon Hathaway.”
Rikkin smiled in a friendly manner, pulling back from his cool attack. “You, too, are valuable to the Order, Doctor. I wouldn’t want either of you to come to harm. It’s why I’ve instructed you to report to me—so that if anything does arise, we’ll be prepared to act, quickly and efficiently, to nip it in the bud.”
Her gaze was level with his. “I will of course come to you at once with any suspicions I have, sir.”
He simply continued to smile. “I feel vigilance is a more… appropriate attitude, with so much at stake. Now. You mentioned the happy words ‘solid progress,’ I believe?”
“Of course, sir. On several fronts. First, Joan of Arc appears to have an almost excessive amount of Precursor DNA.” He listened as she described Joan’s charisma and her ability to influence others even without Piece of Eden 25.”
“Fascinating,” he said. “It’s a shame she doesn’t have any descendants.”
“Secondly,” Bibeau said, “one of her loyal followers has revealed himself to be an Assassin.”
Rikkin’s eyes widened slightly. “Only one? Given the political climate, I would have expected more.”
“We’ve identified one for certain. I agree it’s likely there will be more. Once I realized the potential for interacting with Assassins, I cross-referenced what we know of the political climate in France in 1429 with information gleaned from previous Animus research. If my extrapolations are correct, I think there’s better than an eighty percent chance that Joan and Gabriel will encounter a Mentor at some point.”
Rikkin sank back in his chair, regarding her with renewed respect. “That would be quite useful,” Rikkin was forced to admit. “We know about Thomas de Carneillon in the early 1300s. We don’t hear anything about another one until Ezio Auditore, two centuries later. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised one would turn up during the Hundred Years’ War.”
“It does support Professor Hathaway’s theory of casting a wide net,” she said. “All we knew going into this was that Joan of Arc possessed a Sword of Eden, which was later taken from her. We knew nothing about the Assassin connection, or Joan’s own DNA.”
“Duly noted. But… you still haven’t even found the sword.” He smiled. “You and Professor Hathaway have five days left. Make good use of them, Doctor.”
Rodrigo Lima, Anaya’s supervisor, poked his head in into the office she shared with two other coworkers.
“You’re not high-level enough to have your own office,” he said, looking meaningfully at the two empty desks. “You don’t get overtime, you know.”
She gave him a smile. “Look who’s talking. You’re here late, too.”
“Ah, yes, but I’m leaving now. And you’re not.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not after your job,” she said. “You’re too good a boss.”
He grinned, leaning against the door. “Well, good, because I like my job. And part of my job is taking care of my staff.” Rodrigo’s smile faded a little. “This job can get to you, and I don’t want to see you burn out. Abstergo needs you. So not too much later, okay?”
She nodded. “Okay, mother hen.” He rolled his eyes and left, closing her door behind him.
Anaya had meant it. Rodrigo was the best kind of boss—he pushed his people hard, but worked right alongside them, blending Brazilian warmth with experience and a knack for understanding how to inspire his team. Abstergo needed him here.
But… did Abstergo need her here?
It wasn’t the first time this question had occurred to her. She’s looked into this before—more than once. Now, yet again, she went to the official Abstergo website, clicked on “careers,” and entered her clearance code. The subset of positions specifically available to Templars popped up. She scrolled down until she found what she wanted. What had been sitting there for three whole weeks already.
Director, Information Security: Montreal.
Everyone said Abstergo Entertainment was a fun place to work. Conventional wisdom held that it was better for one’s career to be at a lower level in London, Madrid, or Tokyo than a top rank at AE-Montreal, which wasn’t even featured on Abstergo’s main page… but Anaya wondered. There wasn’t much opportunity for upward mobility here; she’d gone about as far as she could go without dethroning the capable Rodrigo, whose position she really didn’t even want.
Anaya took a deep breath. She didn’t want to be reactionary, but running into Simon so unexpectedly had rattled her more than she would have thought. Considering the nigh-obsessive relationship between Security and the Animus department, such encounters were sure to become much more likely. They hadn’t parted badly. Anaya thought it might have been easier if they had. No, it had just… died out. Hadn’t even fizzled out, really; there hadn’t even been that much of a spark there. On his end, at least.
But there was still enough there on her side for her to have felt an unwelcome stab at the sight of his sharp-featured face.
Besides—she loved the idea of being able to use her French again. She’d worked in the Paris office before coming to London, and missed it.
Anaya had to smile at herself. Her entire career had been built on being daring, but when it came to doing anything outside of the job, she balked at change. What was that quote? “Fortune favors the bold,” she murmured under her breath, and clicked “apply online.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
DAY 3
Temp’s Hard @ Work delivery basket had been designed by wiser heads than Simon’s some years ago and was terribly popular with its customers. As Simon thanked the delivery person and tipped her generously, he dolefully predicted to himself that he’d polish off the whole thing before Victoria actually arrived at the office.
Victoria had told him to watch his dreams. Simon had had a very busy night, it would seem, as he woke exhausted. He remembered no specifics, but had been sufficiently unsettled to come in early, deciding to hunker down and do some work before Victoria arrived, though he did fire off a text in case she, too, was up early.
Careful to keep the Hard @ Work provisions safely away from the more fragile texts, he went over everything that might be of import, scribbling down
questions like What about Dauphin?, Where Templars?, and Which Bloody Sword???
Victoria showed up at nine on the dot. “Despite my best efforts, I think I still have a muffin and some tea left, if you’d care for anything,” he said, indicating the basket.
She sank down onto the leather couch and lifted a large takeaway cup. “I’ve got some coffee, thanks.”
“Coffee is of the devil.”
“It’s the devil I know,” she shrugged, and peered at him more closely. “You look exhausted,” she observed.
“Busy dreams,” he replied. “I’ll be right as rain once we get back in the Animus.” He sat down next to her on the couch and gave her a copy of his notes so they could go over them together. “All right. Here’s what comes next for our Joan. De Metz does arrange a meeting with his lord. A rather clever fellow, this de Baudricourt. He—oh, what do the Americans call it—‘passed the buck’ to his own liege lord, Charles, Duke of Lorraine. The duke was fairly keen to see her.”
“Do you think this duke might be an Assassin?”
“It’s highly doubtful,” he said as she entered the information, her fingers dancing over her tablet. “I looked into him thoroughly over the last hour. By 1429, he was sixty-five and quite ill, which is, honestly, likely the reason he agreed to meet with her. Rumors were swirling about the prophecy, so he might have thought Joan could perform some sort of miraculous healing. Unfortunately for him, all she did was request the aid of his son-in-law, René, and other men to accompany her, and then scold him for his morals and tell him to put aside his mistress and return to his wife.”
“Ha! Did he?”
“No, but he did approve her journey to Chinon, and assigned several men to escort her. Quite frankly, if I were an old man in my last two years on this earth, if that little spitfire had come in and dared say such things to me, I’d have done exactly the same. Probably the most entertainment the old fellow had had in years.”
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