But they did seem to mean something to Davud. The older youth paled, and he was trembling.
“Davud?” Yusuf said, but Davud lifted a finger to his lips. He touched his ear, indicating that Yusuf should keep listening, then went to the window to peer at the guard for himself. What he saw seemed to shake him even more.
The conversation continued. “You are poised to become one of the wealthiest men in the city,” the first speaker continued.
“One of?” said the new stall owner.
“I think the sultan might have just a few more coins,” the first speaker said. “Regardless, this calls for a celebration.”
“Well, since I am about to become at least one of the richest men in Constantinople, let me share a vintage I have kept for this occasion. It is upstairs, in my room. I lock it in there because one can never trust servants. A moment while I fetch it.”
“Go,” said Davud, suddenly.
He turned to face the door, slipping the sheath off the narrow dagger Yusuf had jokingly handed to him. “Take the bags. You’re much quicker than I am, and you have your blade. You can get away. I can’t. I’ll stall them as long as I can.”
“Davud—”
They both heard booted feet coming up the stairs.
“The merchants are counting on you,” Davud hissed. “So much I wish I had time to tell you, but—go. Stay alive, keep to the shadows, protect the Bazaar!”
Yusuf stood, rooted to the spot.
The door opened, and everything seemed to happen at once.
With a cry, Davud launched himself on the new owner, raising the dagger and plunging it downward. Despite his surprise, the hard-eyed man pivoted just in time, so that the blade went into his shoulder instead of his chest. Grimly, he pulled out the dagger with his right hand, impossibly seizing Davud’s hair with his left despite his wound, and pulling down hard, turning the boy so he faced Yusuf.
Horrified, Yusuf stared into his friend’s eyes as Davud shouted, “Run!”
The stall owner lifted the dagger and brought it plunging down.
Crimson. All Yusuf saw was crimson.
The blood spurting from his friend’s pierced throat.
The red cross on the ring that adorned a murderer’s hand.
Yusuf wanted more than anything to stay and fight, to die alongside his friend. But that choice had been taken from him. Davud had bought him for the merchants and their families with his own life.
Sobbing, Yusuf did as Davud wanted—he fled, taking both bags, leaping out into the night and using the blade bequeathed to him by his father to escape to safety, while his friend bled out on the beautiful rug.
The next day, the hard-eyed man was found dead, and the deal to purchase the stalls mysteriously fell through.
Yusuf didn’t know what happened. All he knew was that he would spend his life doing what his friend had died for.
He would stay in the shadows, and protect those who could not protect themselves.
And he would watch, and wait, for other men wearing the red cross.
SUBJECT:
* * *
MOUSSA
“He’s always difficult,” a male voice said.
“Moussa or Baptiste?” the calm, almost-caring female voice inquired.
“Both.”
“I don’t disagree with you. They are both complex individuals.”
“Baptiste will make the regression even more complicated if his memories are affected by certain toxins.”
“Memories are always tricky, even without chemical alterations,” the female voice said. “We know that. They’re never entirely accurate. We don’t see what’s really there. We only see what he sees.”
“As I said… he’s always difficult.”
“Begin regression,” the woman said.
REGRESSION: SAINT-DOMINGUE, 1758
Drumming.
The sound of drumming, forbidden to them when they were property owned by others, was the sound of liberty to the Maroons of Saint-Domingue. François Mackandal had known this well, and he had taught this truth to those he had trained and liberated.
Had taught that and so much more to the man who now surveyed the dozens of Mackandal’s followers, who danced and drank before him in their base deep in the jungle.
Baptiste took another swig of rum as he watched. There were three bonfires, one in the center of the clearing and two smaller ones over to the sides. The dark, sweat-glistened skin of the dancers gleamed as it caught the light. Baptiste had known many of the dancers since he was thirteen, when he and Agaté had run away from their lives as slaves to join Mackandal in his passionate, angry search for liberty and vengeance.
When they had become full members of the Assassin Brotherhood.
Agaté. Agaté, with whom he had grown up on the plantation, and had fought beside. Baptiste had always expected that they would die beside one another. Never had he thought he would witness what Agaté had done earlier today.
The recollection knotted his stomach and he made a sour face. He took another drink, deeper this time, trying and failing to dull the combination of shock, white-hot fury, and, shamefully, pain that stirred in his heart at the thought of the other man.
Agaté. The two men had been as close as brothers, once.
But the third plantation slave Mackandal had selected for training… she had ruined that closeness.
Mackandal had come to the plantation in secret, by night, and no one had betrayed him. Those who could—those who dared—managed to sneak away to meetings where he taught them about the life they could have away from the plantation, away from slavery.
At first, he only spoke. Told them about his own life, free, to do as he pleased. Then he taught the eager slaves how to read and write. “Much I will share with those who are worthy,” he had promised, “but this may be the most powerful weapon I give you.”
She had liked that, skittish little Jeanne. And she had liked Agaté, too. Baptiste had caught them holding hands once, and he had laughed at them, warning that Mackandal would not be pleased.
“You’re not strong enough,” he had told Jeanne scornfully. “All you do is keep Agaté from his training.”
“Training?” she had asked, looking at them both. “For what?”
Baptiste had scowled and dragged his “brother” off to their private meeting with Mackandal. “She will never be an Assassin,” he told Agaté. “She is not one of us. Not really. Not in her heart.”
Mackandal realized it, too, after a time. She learned how to read and write, but nothing more. He never invited Jeanne to participate in the real training. It filled Baptiste with pride to realize that Mackandal—a former slave, one who was even missing an arm due to a childhood accident with a sugarcane press—had not only managed to escape, but could lead others. And win.
In this special training, Baptiste and Agaté learned how to use weapons—and how to attack without them. How to mix poisons—and how to deliver them, as powder in drinks, as a thick coating on darts.
The pair of boys learned how to kill, openly and from the shadows; even, as Mackandal demonstrated, how to do so with only one arm. And when at last they escaped the plantation, leaving the cowardly Jeanne behind, they did kill.
The drums grew louder, drawing Baptiste’s thoughts from the happy past to the solemn present. Tonight, he, Baptiste, would lead the ritual. This, too, Mackandal had taught him.
Vodou.
Not the true ritual of it, no, but the trappings. The power of symbol, and the power of what was not magic, but appeared to be.
“Let them fear you,” Mackandal said, “those who hate you. Even those who love you. Especially those who love you.”
Tonight’s ceremony would change everything. It had to, or all that Mackandal had fought for—all Baptiste and, once upon a time, Agaté, had fought for—would fall apart.
The celebrants had drunk deeply of the rum he had handed out, unaware that there was more in their cups than alcohol. Soon, they would be rea
dy for the ritual; ready to see things they would not otherwise see.
To believe things they would otherwise question.
To do things they would otherwise not do.
The drumming increased, climbing to an almost frantic crescendo, and there was a bawling, bellowing sound off to one side. The bull that was led out had a wreath of flowers around his massive neck. He was drugged and calm, and would not struggle.
Baptiste rose, his powerful fingers curling around the hilt of his machete. He was a large, well-muscled man, and he had done this before, for Mackandal’s rites. He leaped lithely down from the platform and strode to the beast. Earlier, by his command, it had been bathed and anointed with perfumes stolen from former masters. Now it turned its horned head, peering at him with wide, dilated eyes. He patted its shoulder and it grunted, as placid as an old cow.
Gripping his machete, Baptiste turned to his people.
“It is time to begin the rite! We will make an offering to the loa, and invite them to come to us, to tell us what the Brotherhood must do to go forward!”
The words hurt as they left his lips. Mackandal. For twenty years, from age thirteen to thirty-three, Baptiste and Agaté had fought at his side. They had learned their Mentor’s version of the Assassin’s Creed—one, he had assured them as they listened to him raptly, that was not watered down with misplaced ideals like mercy and compassion. These were weaknesses, not strengths. No one was really innocent; everyone was either with you, or they were against you.
Everyone was a Templar or an Assassin, in one way or another.
A master who did not beat a slave was still a master. An owner. And even those who did not own slaves could still do so, by law. Therefore, they were guilty. They served the Templars, even if they were unaware of it. They had no place in Mackandal’s world, nor in Baptiste’s.
And so it was that Baptiste—and the others who had now stopped their dancing and had turned to face him—had attempted a few nights ago to poison the colonists with whom they were forced to share this island.
But they had failed, and their leader had paid the price for them.
“François Mackandal was our Mentor. Our brother. He inspired us and led by example. And he died without betraying us—died in torment, his body taken by the fire!”
Roars went up. They were drunk, and drugged, and angry, but they were listening to him. That was good. It was Baptiste’s plan that soon, they would do even more.
He continued. “And in this time of grief and anger, one who was my brother—your brother—has left us as well. He was not killed in a struggle, nor did he suffer the flames. He simply left us. Left us! Agaté has fled like a coward instead of carrying on the legacy François Mackandal bought with his life!”
More roaring. Oh, yes, they were angry. They were almost as angry as Baptiste.
“But I am here, as your houngan, your priest, to plead to the loa for their wisdom. I have not abandoned you! I will never abandon you!”
He drew his hand back. The long, steel blade of the machete caught the firelight. And then Baptiste brought it down, quickly, cleanly, putting all the strength of his body into the blow.
Blood fountained from the creature’s slashed throat. It tried to make sounds, but could not. The earth beneath it turned red and spongy with the bull’s life fluid, but it died quickly. Probably more swiftly than it would have in a plantation owner’s abattoir, Baptiste thought; certainly in less pain due to the drug.
He wiped the blade on the beast’s hide, then dipped his fingers into the hot blood, marking his face with it. He raised his hands in invitation, and they surged forward now, Mackandal’s people, anointing themselves with crimson, placing death on their bodies as it had touched their souls.
Later, the corpse would be roasted at the central large bonfire. Machetes would be used to carve off hunks of delicious, juicy meat. The living would continue to live through death.
But before then, Baptiste had a plan.
Once everyone assembled had bloodied themselves with the sacrifice, Baptiste announced, “I will drink of the potion, and ask the loa to come to me. They will, as they have done before.”
They had not, of course, nor had they come to Mackandal, although both men had experienced some interesting hallucinations. The mixture he prepared was lethal at a certain dose; unsettling but harmless when lower amounts were ingested.
And Baptiste was a master at knowing exactly how much to use for what purpose.
Now, he crushed some fragrant herbs between his hands, smelling the clean, fresh scent mingled with blood, and then produced, seemingly out of nowhere, a small bottle of the toxin. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Baptiste hid a smile. He was a master at sleight of hand.
He brandished it and cried, “Tonight, with death so close to our memory, I offer the death of this powerful bull to the Ghede loa! Who will come to speak through me to offer wisdom tonight? Who will tell us what Mackandal’s people should do?” And he downed the bitter draft in a gulp.
It was but three breaths later that the world began to change.
Colors shifted, seemed to shimmer. There was drumming, drumming, but no one was striking the drums, and the sound was distorted and mixed with what might have been screams of ecstasy or torment. The noise increased, became overwhelming, and Baptiste grunted in pain and clapped his hand to his ears.
Then he realized where the sound was coming from.
It was his own heart, slamming against his ribs, crying out to break loose.
And then it did break loose, tearing through his chest, lying on the earth in front of him, red and pulsing and reeking of hot blood. Baptiste stared down at the hole it had torn in his body, aghast.
It’s the poison. I took too much. I’m going to die.
Fear surged through him. Stupidly, knowing this all to be an illusion, he reached out and grabbed his still-beating heart. It slipped through his bloody hands like a fish, flopping about, eluding him as he raced for it.
It’s never been like this. The dream state—
“That’s because this isn’t a dream,” came a voice, smooth and thick with humor that might or might not be cruel.
Baptiste lifted his eyes to see the skeleton laughing at him.
And screamed.
He clawed at his eyes, forcing himself to see clearly, but even as his vision sharpened, the images didn’t depart. The skeleton’s body slowly transformed, putting on flesh and formal clothing, looking like one of the fine, wealthy plantation owners—if a plantation owner had black skin and a skull for a head.
“Baron Samedi,” breathed Baptiste.
“You asked to be ridden by a loa, my friend,” the Baron replied in a silky voice. “You need to be careful who you invite to the party.”
In vodou, the loa were the intermediary spirits between humans and the distant god Bondye. The Ghede loa were spirits of the dead. And their leader was the lord of the graveyard—Baron Samedi. Now that loa strode up to the kneeling, shivering Assassin and reached out a hand. “I think you look better with my face rather than bull blood,” he said. “You wear it from now on, yes?”
Baptiste reached up his bloodied hands to touch his face.
He felt no warm, living flesh… only dry bone.
The skull peering down at him grinned.
Baptiste closed his eyes and rubbed at them frantically, whimpering as his fingers dug into empty sockets. His face—Baron Samedi had taken his face—
Don’t be a child, Baptiste! You know better! You made this potion yourself! This is only a hallucination! Open your eyes!
He did.
The Baron was still there, grinning, grinning.
And beside him stood Mackandal.
Baptiste’s Mentor looked as he did in life—tall, muscular, proud and strong, a decade or so older than Baptiste. As in life, he was missing his left arm.
“Mackandal,” breathed Baptiste. Tears sprung to his eyes—joy, relief, and wonder. Still on his knees on the bloody earth, he
reached out a hand to his Mentor, to grasp at the robes he wore. His hands touched something soft—not fabric—and passed through it.
Baptiste fell backward, staring, shocked, at a hand covered with soot.
“I died, burned by those who should have died by my hand,” Mackandal said. It was his voice, and his mouth moved, but the words seemed to float in the air around the mentor, like smoke, twisting around Baptiste’s head, into his ears, his mouth, his nostrils—
I am breathing his ashes, Baptiste thought
His stomach churned, as it had done earlier, and he began to retch.
A snake emerged from his mouth—thick as his arm, black and glistening with Baptiste’s saliva, undulating as it emerged from his body. When at last he had vomited forth the serpent’s tail, the reptile slithered over to the specter of Mackandal. He reached down and picked it up, placing it across his shoulders. Its tongue flickered and its small eyes watched Baptiste.
“The serpent is wise, not evil,” Baron Samedi said. “It knows when it is time to change its skin, so that it might grow larger and stronger than it was before. Are you ready to change your skin, Baptiste?”
“No!” he cried, but he knew it was useless. Baron Samedi stepped back, doffing his formal hat to Mackandal to reveal that his skull was as devoid of hair as his face was of flesh.
“You summoned us, Baptiste,” Mackandal said. “You told our people you would never abandon them. Now that I am dead, they need a leader.”
“I—I will lead them, Mackandal, I swear,” Baptiste stammered. “I will not flee from whatever you would have me do. I’m not Agaté.”
“No, you are not,” Mackandal replied. “But neither will you lead them. I will lead them.”
“But you are….”
Mackandal began to dissolve into smoke, the snake around his shoulders vanishing with him. The smoke hovered, like mist, then formed itself into tendrils and began to waft toward Baptiste.
Suddenly, Baptiste understood what was about to happen and he tried to get to his feet. Abruptly the Baron appeared behind him. Strong hands—flesh, not bone, but even so, as cold as the grave—clamped down on Baptiste’s shoulders and he couldn’t move. The thin wisps of smoke drifted to his ears and nostrils, seeking entrance. Baptiste clenched his jaw shut, but Baron Samedi clucked his tongue.
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