Assassin's Creed: Forsaken (14 page)

18 A
PRIL
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 J
ULY
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 beliefs 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.

And what had become of Those Who Came Before? What had they left behind, and how could it benefit us? That I didn’t know. It was a mystery that had confounded my Order for centuries, a mystery I’d been asked to solve, a mystery that had brought me here, to Boston.

“Master Kenway! Master Kenway!”

I was being hailed by a young gentleman who appeared from within the throng. Going over to him, I said, carefully, “Yes? May I help you?”

He held out his hand to be shaken. “Charles Lee, sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve been asked to introduce you to the city. Help you settle in.”

I had been told about Charles Lee. He was not with the Order but was keen to join us and, according to Reginald, would want to ingratiate himself with me in the hope of securing my sponsorship. Seeing him reminded me: I was Grand Master of the Colonial Rite now.

Charles had long, dark hair, thick sideburns and a prominent, hawk-like nose and, even though I liked him straight away, I noticed that, while he smiled when he spoke to me, he reserved a look of disdain for everybody else on the harbour.

He indicated for me to leave my bags, and we began to thread our way through the crowds of the long pier, past dazed-looking passengers and crew still getting their bearings on dry land; through stevedores, traders and redcoats, excited children and dogs scuttling underfoot.

I tipped my hat to a pair of a giggling women then said to him, “Do you like it here, Charles?”

“There’s a certain charm to Boston, I suppose,” he called back over his shoulder. “To all of the colonies, really. Granted, their cities have none of London’s sophistication or splendour, but the people are earnest and hardworking. They’ve a certain pioneer spirit that I find compelling.”

I looked around. “It’s quite something, really—watching a place that’s finally found its feet.”

“Feet awash in the blood of others, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, that’s a story old as time itself, and one that’s not likely to change. We’re cruel and desperate creatures, set in our conquering ways. The Saxons and the Franks. The Ottomans and Safavids. I could go on for hours. The whole of human history is but a series of subjugations.”

“I pray one day we rise above it,” replied Charles earnestly.

“While you pray, I’ll act. We’ll see who finds success first, hmm?”

“It was an expression,” he said, with a wounded edge to his voice.

“Aye. And a dangerous one. Words have power. Wield them wisely.”

We lapsed into silence.

“Your commission is with Edward Braddock, is it not?” I said, as we passed a cart laden with fruit.

“Aye, but I figured I might . . . well . . . I thought . . .”

I stepped nimbly to the side to avoid a small girl in pigtails. “Out with it,” I said.

“Forgive me, sir. I had . . . I had hoped that I might study under you. If I am to serve the Order, I can imagine no better mentor than yourself.”

I felt a small surge of satisfaction. “Kind of you to say, but I think you overestimate me.”

“Impossible, sir.”

Not far away, a red-faced newsboy wearing a cap yelled out news of the battle at Fort Necessity: “French forces declare victory following Washington’s retreat,” he bawled. “In response, the Duke of Newcastle pledges more troops to counter the foreign menace!”

The foreign menace, I thought. The French, in other words. This conflict they were calling the French and Indian War was set to escalate, if the rumours were to be believed.

There was not an Englishman alive who didn’t detest the French, but I knew one Englishman in particular who hated them with a vein-bulging passion, and that was Edward Braddock. That’s where he would be, leaving me to go about my own business—or so I hoped.

I waved away the newsboy when he tried to extort sixpence from me for the broadsheet. I had no desire to read about more French victories.

Meanwhile, as we reached our horses and Charles told me that we were to ride for the Green Dragon Tavern, I wondered what the other men would be like.

“Have you been told why it is I’ve come to Boston?” I asked.

“No. Master Birch said I should know only as much as you saw fit to share. He sent me a list of names and bade me ensure you could find them.”

“And have you had any luck with that?”

“Aye. William Johnson waits for us at the Green Dragon.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Not well. But he saw the Order’s mark and did not hesitate to come.”

“Prove yourself loyal to our cause and you may yet know our plans as well,” I said.

He beamed. “I should like nothing more, sir.”

ii

The Green Dragon was a large brick building with a sloping pitch roof and a sign over the front door that bore the eponymous dragon. According to Charles, it was the most celebrated coffee-house in the city, where everybody from patriots to redcoats and governors would meet to chat, to plot, to gossip and trade. Anything that happened in Boston, the chances were it originated here, on Union Street.

Not that Union Street itself was at all prepossessing. Little more than a river of mud, it slowed our pace as we approached the tavern, being sure not to splash any of the groups of gentlemen who stood outside, leaning on canes and chattering intently. Avoiding carts and giving curt nods to soldiers on horseback, we reached a low, wooden stables building where we left our horses, then made our way carefully across the streams of muck to the tavern. Inside, we immediately became acquainted with the owners: Catherine Kerr, who was (without wishing to be ungentlemanly), a little on the large side; and Cornelius Douglass, whose first words I heard upon entering were, “Kiss my arse, ya wench!”

Fortunately, he wasn’t talking either to me or to Charles, but to Catherine. When the two of them saw us, their demeanours instantly changed from warlike to servile and they saw to it that my bags were taken up to my room.

Charles was right: William Johnson was already there, and in a room upstairs we were introduced. An older man, similarly attired to Charles but with a certain weariness to him, an experience that was etched into the lines on his face, he stood from studying maps to shake my hand. “A pleasure,” he said, and then, as Charles left to stand guard, leaned forward and said to me, “A good lad, if a bit earnest.”

I kept any feelings I had on Charles to myself, indicating with my eyes that he should continue.

“I’m told you’re putting together an expedition,” he said.

“We believe there is a precursor site in the region,” I said, choosing my words carefully, then adding, “I require your knowledge of the land and its people to find it.”

He pulled a face. “Sadly, a chest containing my research has been stolen. Without it, I’m of no use to you.”

I knew from experience that nothing was ever easy. “Then we’ll find it.” I sighed. “Have you any leads?”

“My associate, Thomas Hickey, has been making the rounds. He’s quite good at loosening tongues.”

“Tell me where I can find him and I’ll see about speeding things along.”

“We’ve heard rumours of bandits operating from a compound south-west of here,” said William. “You’ll likely find him there.”

iii

Outside the city, corn in a field waved in a light night-time breeze. Not far away was the high fencing of a compound that belonged to the bandits, and from inside came the sound of raucous festivities.
Why not?
I thought. Every day you’ve avoided death by the hangman’s noose or on the end of a redcoat’s bayonet is a cause for celebration when you lived life as a bandit.

At the gates there were various guards and hangers-on milling around, some of them drinking, some attempting to stand guard, and all of them in a constant state of argument. To the left of the compound, the cornfield rose to a small hill peak and on it sat a lookout tending to a small fire. Sitting tending a fire isn’t quite the desired position for a lookout, but, otherwise, he was one of the few on this side of the compound who seemed to be taking his job seriously. Certainly, they’d failed to post any scouting parties. Or if they had, then the scouting parties were lounging under a tree somewhere, blind drunk, because there was nobody to see Charles and me as we crept closer, approaching a man, who was crouching by a crumbling stone wall, keeping watch on the compound.

It was him: Thomas Hickey. A round-faced man, a little shabby, and probably too fond of the grog himself, if my guess was correct. This was the man who, according to William, was good at loosening tongues? He looked like he’d have problems loosening his own drawers.

Perhaps, arrogantly, my distaste of him was fed by the fact that he was the first contact I’d met since arriving in Boston to whom my name meant nothing. But, if that annoyed me, it was nothing compared to the effect it had on Charles, who drew his sword.

“Show some respect, boy,” he snarled.

I laid a restraining hand on him. “Peace, Charles,” I said, then addressed Thomas: “William Johnson sent us in the hopes we might . . . expedite your search.”

“Don’t need no expediting,” drawled Thomas. “Don’t need none of your fancy London-speak, neither. I’ve found the men done the theft.”

Beside me, Charles bristled. “Then why are you just lazing around?”

“Figurin’ out how to deal with those varlets,” said Thomas, indicated the compound then turned to us with expectant eyes and an impudent grin.

I sighed. Time to go to work. “Right, I’ll kill the lookout and take a position behind the guards. You two approach from the front. When I open fire on a group, you charge in. We’ll have the element of surprise on our side. Half will fall before they’ve even realized what’s happening.”