She raised her eyes to the night sky, not seeing the clouds or the shy stars trying to peep through the soft gray. She saw the tops of buildings, and knew that the man who might have been her love but who was now her enemy, was out there among them.
But that was all right. The Templars would find him.
They would find them all.
EPILOGUE
The Assassin stood upon the roof of a building. Below him spread the River Thames. Night embraced him. He had discarded the Templar formal robe once it had no longer served as camouflage, and now wore a long overcoat of dark blue wool that protected against the chill of a London late autumn.
He was not alone. His brothers and sisters stood beside him on the roof. There were more out there. As if in solidarity with him, the Assassin caught the dark silhouette of a raptor against the gray-clouded sky. An eagle? He did not know. Perhaps; perhaps.
But he could see with its eyes.
And in his own way, as he had believed he could as a boy, he could fly.
Callum Lynch took a deep breath, spread out his arms, and leaped.
SUBJECT:
* * *
NATHAN
Nathan had vomited, twice, in his room earlier. With every fiber of his being, he did not want to return to the machine, to the arm, to see the hauntingly beautiful, slightly sad, yet implacable visage of Sofia Rikkin staring up at him before he was plunged into the maelstrom of violence, passion, and contemptibleness that was the Assassin Duncan Walpole.
But he wanted even less to become like those poor lost things in the Infinity Room, so he had agreed to go this time. Sofia smiled and said she was glad he was there, that he had decided to come of his own free will, that she was sure that there would only be a few more regressions before he’d be done.
Tears had poured down his face as he nodded sickly at her.
I hate him. I hate Duncan Walpole. I hate how he treats people, and his awful arrogance and greed.
I hate him because he’s too much like me.
And I want to be better than that.
REGRESSION: LONDON, 1714
Duncan Walpole’s head felt like someone was using it for an anvil, but that in and of itself was nothing new. He tended to experience the sensation most mornings. He had learned that a visit to Blake’s Coffee House as soon as he—sometimes literally—rolled out of bed was usually a wise idea. All the rage, coffee was a thick and sludgy beverage, and Walpole had said more than once to anyone who would listen that he never knew whether to drink it, dip a pen in it and write a letter, or pour the stuff in a chamber pot. But it was hot, and reviving, and addictive, and it cleared his head sufficiently that he could then attend to whatever business was required by either of his masters—the East India Company or the Assassins.
London boasted over three thousand of the shops, and every one of them had their own personalities and clientele, and more than once Duncan had learned something that would be to the benefit to either or both of the organizations he worked for. And with that done, he could then turn his attention back to drinking and patronizing the local brothel.
Sometimes, conveniently, the two businesses operated out of the same site. He fancied both the ale and the whores offered by the Rose of England tavern in Covent Garden. It had a leg up, as it were, as far as Duncan was concerned, in that it had a separate room belowground where cockfighting was conducted. Not nearly as satisfactory a pastime as bull-baiting, of course, but at least some blood sport was to be had while one held an ale in one hand and a wench in the other.
The knock on his door sent spikes through his temples and he hissed. “Go away!” he shouted, then winced afresh at how loud his own voice sounded.
“Your pardon, sir, but I’ve a message,” came a youthful voice from the other side of the door. Duncan groaned in recognition. He propped himself up, blinking, finding the light to be too intense even with the shutters closed. He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, observing that he’d forgotten to remove his breeches before unconsciousness last night. He reached for one of the coins he’d dumped on the small, elegant table, then got to his feet, padded to the door with one hand pressed to his pounding head, and pulled it open.
Geoffrey was more than likely ignorant of the true nature of his employers. It was safer for the boy that way. All he needed to know was that he was well paid, and the only services asked of him were those of a courier delivering messages and packages.
He was eight, with bright blue eyes and locks of curly blond hair. The oft-overused word “cherubic” was, in this case, most definitely applicable. Duncan wondered idly if Geoffrey realized that the generous pay the Assassins gave him kept him from falling in with other more unscrupulous men who might take advantage of the angelic child.
Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent was one of the Creed’s tenets, and once, it had been one Walpole cherished. Now, less idealistic than he had been over a decade ago when he’d joined them, he was still glad of that as he looked at the boy. Children didn’t deserve what London—indeed, the world—sometimes offered them.
“Sorry to wake you, sir, but I’ve a message and was told it was important.”
Randall thinks it’s important to know when one of his Assassins takes a piss, Walpole thought, but did not say. Speaking took energy he didn’t possess right now, so he simply nodded, leaned against the door frame and waved for the boy to continue.
“He says, you are to meet him to dine on fish at
one o’clock,” the boy said, adding with obvious reluctance, “… and, ah… you’re to be sober.” At the expression on Walpole’s face, he added hastily, “If it please you, sir.”
Duncan let out an exasperated sound. Like Randall himself, the message was clear and to the point.
“I don’t think he actually said that last part, did he?”
“Erm… well, no, sir. Not the ‘if it please you’ part, at any rate.”
“Good lad. Don’t lie. At least not to me, eh?” Duncan tossed the boy a coin and started to close the door.
“Pardon, sir, but I was particularly instructed to wait for a reply.”
Duncan swore colorfully.
“Should I tell him that, then, sir?”
Ah, wouldn’t that be nice, Duncan thought. “No, you probably shouldn’t. Tell him I’ll be there.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir!” And the boy scurried off down the stairs.
Duncan leaned against the door. His London lodgings were small but elegant, located on Tottenham Court Road, although he seldom spent much time here. Conscious time, at least. Nonetheless, whether it was consciously appreciated or not, the lavishness was not inexpensive. He trudged to the table and picked up his pocket watch, a gift from his second cousin, Robert Walpole, upon his twenty-first birthday. The two had never been particularly close, but Duncan was fond of the watch.
He had no other meetings at East India House until the afternoon, and it was only seventeen past ten now.
Plenty of time to call for a hot bath and visit the coffeehouse before his meeting with the Assassin Mentor.
“Dine on fish” meant to meet outside Mrs. Salmon’s Waxworks in Fleet Street. It was an extraordinarily popular attraction. For a ha’penny or thereabouts, one could stand in the presence of wax versions of royalty, from King Charles I upon the scaffold to the warrior queen Boadicea, and experience such lurid scenes as Canaanite women sacrificing children to the god Moloch or the inside of a Turkish harem. A fairly realistic figure of a crippled child greeted visitors outside the door. Duncan was peering at it, grinning, when he sensed the Mentor’s presence behind him, followed by the familiar cool, clipped voice.
“You’re late.”
“Damn you, I’m here now,” Walpole said, standing and turning to face the Mentor. “And I’m sober. That should count for something at least.”
Randall’s hair was iron gray, his eyes pale blue. Never known for his sense of humor, his lips were usually little more than a thin line. Now, th
ey were pressed together so tightly his mouth almost disappeared until he spoke.
“It counts for less every time, Duncan. And if you address me like that again, it will be the last time.”
Duncan stepped away from the lines thronging to get in as he spoke. “You wouldn’t kill a Master Assassin for having colorful language,” he said.
“No,” Randall replied, “but one who is also unreliable, erratic, disrespectful, and drunk half the time?”
“Even so.”
Randall sighed, clasping his hands behind him and looking out at the busy street. “What happened to you, man? Thirteen years ago when we met, you were all on fire to make a difference. To make things better. You despised the exclusivity the Templars stood for and their desire to control everyone and everything. You believed in freedom.” His blue eyes were melancholy.
“I still do,” Duncan snapped. “But thirteen years can change a man. The Brotherhood is no different from the army. You say pretty things, Randall, but in the end, there’s a rank, and everybody has to answer to it.”
“Of course we do.” Only someone who had known Randall as long as Walpole had would have noticed the man was distressed. His voice, always calm and precise, was even more so now. “Duncan, you’re one of the smartest people I know. You understand what we’re up against. You know that we need good coordination. I must be able to rely on my people to carry out their missions as planned, not turn them into spur of the moment tavern brawls. We, all of us, work in the dark to serve the Light. We don’t get our names engraved on plaques, or statues erected in our honor. Those trappings are for the Templars, and well do we know such frippery is transient and hollow.”
He sighed slightly, and shook his head. “The work we do is our legacy,” Randall continued in a gentler tone. “Our names aren’t important. All that matters is what we leave behind.”
Duncan felt a hot wave of fury surge through him and he tamped it down. Calmly, carefully, he said, “Did you send Geoffrey to bring me here to scold me? He’s the one who’s eight years old, not I. I,” and he took a step forward, towering over the smaller man, “will not be spoken so in such a way. I am a Master Assassin.”
“Yes, you are. And I am your Mentor.”
Oh, and that was a warning if there ever was one. Their eyes met and for a fraction of a heartbeat, Duncan actually considered taking him down right there.
It was the same everywhere Duncan went. The navy was like this. The aristocracy was like this. One was stuck where one was, no matter what one did.
Even the Assassins, who extolled individuality, were hypocrites in the end.
“My apologies, Mentor,” he said, placing a hand on his heart and bowing. “I am here, and I am sober. Why did you summon me?”
Summon. It was an accurate word. Like a dog to heel.
Phillip’s cool gaze seemed to bore into him as he spoke. “I have a new assignment for you. We’ve received word from Ah Tabai in Tulum. There are rumors that another Sage has appeared, and Ah Tabai has reached out to us and others for aid in tracking him down.”
No, Walpole thought. He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying.
Ah Tabai was a Mayan Assassin, Mentor of the Brotherhood in the Caribbean. He was the son of an Assassin and had grown up in the Brotherhood, and all reports of him and his instruction had been excellent. Randall had spoken ere now of trying to strengthen ties with the Caribbean Brotherhood, feeling that the aptly named New World, still quite new, would eventually become a seat of power for the Templars. And, therefore, would need Assassins to keep them in check.
But Tulum was five thousand miles away, in the jungle and set amid ruins, and there were no coffeehouses, no taverns, no whores, and, as Walpole well knew from his days in the Royal Navy, if there was any grog to be had, it would be horrible. There would be no fame, and no fortune, and if Randall wanted him to go there—
“We don’t have a strong presence in the New World yet—at least not as strong as we’d like. Ah Tabai can help us change that. I’d like you to assist him in the hunt for the Sage, and continue your training under him.”
Duncan blinked. “I’m sorry… I must be misunderstanding you. Because I could have sworn that you just told a Master Assassin to go get more training from a primitive—”
Randall’s hand shot out so fast Duncan didn’t even see it coming, and he was reminded just why this mild-seeming, unprepossessing man was the Mentor. He felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment and anger as Randall gripped his arm tightly, strong fingers pressing in at precisely the right spots to cause extreme pain without causing damage.
“You will take the missions you are given, and you will give them your best,” that Mentor said. His voice was as calm and conversational as ever. “If the Templars find this Sage before we do, they will have a terrible weapon to use against us and humanity. Ah Tabai knows things the rest of us could all stand to learn… and I believe he could teach you how to control that temper of yours as well.”
The term “Sage” referred to an individual who was a particularly powerful descendant of the Precursors, the creators of the artifacts like Apples of Eden that could give an individual—or an organization—a great deal of power.
Randall was right. This was important.
But the implication that Walpole needed training after almost a decade and a half as an Assassin….
“The East India Company values me,” Walpole said, a touch too harshly. “They won’t be happy if I suddenly disappear.”
“That’s another reason I’m sending you. We believe that you have attracted unwanted notice, and you—and we—may be in danger. Tender your resignation and tell them you need more adventure and independence. They’ll believe you.”
That got Walpole’s attention. The East India Company, with its de facto monopoly on imports of spices, silks and other textiles, and tea, unsurprisingly attracted its share of Templars. For years, Duncan had been watching its employees, trying to determine who was and who wasn’t a Templar. He had narrowed it down to a few suspects, but it was a man he had never considered whom Randall had recently confirmed as member of the hated Order: Henry Spencer, Esquire, one of the newest members of the EIC’s powerful Court of Directors.
Duncan knew the man only in passing, of course. Walpole had started out as a sailor, but even though he’d risen in the company, he seldom had cause to interact with one of the Directors. Spencer was a soft, doughy man, with pink cheeks and a small red mouth seemingly permanently set in a jovial smile. He seemed utterly harmless. Duncan wondered how it was that Spencer had deduced his association with the Assassins, and he was vexed that not once had the man’s name floated in his consciousness as a member of the domineering and selfish Templar Order.
Although all the points Randall raised had validity, they also emphasized one cold and unpleasant fact: As long as Walpole operated within the tenets of the Brotherhood, he would never achieve the honors and wealth that he felt were his due. And he knew that despite Randall’s words about “all” of them standing to benefit from training with the Mayan mentor, he was the only one of “all” of them Randall felt could use it.
On some level, it was a rebuke.
He would have none of it. “I’m not going.”
“Of course you’re not,” Randall said affably, surprising him. “You’re angry with me. You feel slighted. You and I have danced this gavotte before, Duncan. But you’re a good man, and I think you still believe in the goals and philosophy of the Brotherhood.” His thin lips curled in the rarest of smiles. “Why else do you think we’ve put up with you as long as we have? You’ll come around. You always do.”
“You are lucky we are in a public place, old man,” Duncan hissed. “Or you’d be dead where you stand.”
“Indeed, this spot was chosen deliberately. You don’t acquire the rank of Mentor without wisdom,” Randall said wryly. “Take some time to cool that hot head of yours, Duncan, and we’ll talk again when you’re ready. This could be an enorm
ous opportunity for you, if you’ll just step out of your own way long enough to see it.”
“You’re about to see my arse, and you may kiss it if you like,” Duncan shot back as he turned and stalked off, seething with fury and wounded pride.
He spent the day sulking at India House, where, as luck would have it, the weekly meeting of the Court of Directors was occurring, and the rotund Henry Spencer, Esquire, was in attendance. As the man departed, Duncan decided to go on the offense.
He followed Spencer’s carriage through the streets of London, waiting patiently as he stopped at his inn before leaving again to dine with other members of the Court of Directors, and then finally presumably settling in for the evening at one of the more respectable taverns.
Walpole feigned a double take as he spotted Spencer sitting alone, puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe and reading one of the seemingly hundreds of pamphlets that littered the city.
“Henry Spencer, Esquire, isn’t it?” He gave a little bow as the man looked up. “Duncan Walpole, at your service. I have the honor of working for your fine company.”
“Ah, yes,” Spencer exclaimed, his pink face beaming as if this was the nicest thing in the world. “Your name’s been bandied about, Mr. Walpole. Have a seat, have a seat. Care for some sherry?” Without waiting for an answer, he made eye contact with one of the servers and she brought over an extra glass, blushing prettily as she set it down before Duncan.
He was more than a little disappointed that he wasn’t simply tavern crawling tonight, but made a note of her for the future.
“There goes a pretty piece,” he said. “Too bad she’s not on the menu.”
“Oh, I’m sure for the right fellow, everything is permitted,” Spencer said, and let his gaze linger on Walpole’s just a moment too long before taking another pull on his pipe. And all of a sudden, he didn’t look quite so harmless.
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