Assassin's Creed: Underworld (28 page)

Evie and Jacob continued to put their stamp on
London, manoeuvring the Assassins into what must have been the Brotherhood’s strongest
position for a century. They even gave medicine to the sick of Whitechapel – like Henry
they were winning hearts and minds.

And, of course, the Templars were not happy.
Their Grand Master Crawford Starrick was given updates of Assassin activity, receiving them from
his position at the mahogany desk of his office.

‘Jacob Frye intends to endanger all of
London at the hands of the mob,’ his lieutenant James Brudenell told him.

‘Or perhaps he doesn’t intend much of
anything at all,’ chimed in Philip Twopenny, as Starrick added a cube of sugar to his tea.
‘Perhaps he is simply content to dice with our lives.’

Starrick lifted his teacup to breathe in its
scent. His handlebar moustache quivered.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this tea
was brought to me from India by ship, then up from the harbour to a factory, where it was
packaged and ferried by carriage to my door, and packed in the larder and brought upstairs to
me. All by men and women who work for me, who are indebted to me, Crawford Starrick, for their
jobs, their time, the very
lives they lead. They will work in my factories
and so too shall their children. And you come to me with talk of this Jacob Frye? This
insignificant blemish who calls himself an Assassin? You disrespect the very city that worked
day and night so that we may drink this. This miracle. This tea.’

Lucy Thorne had entered the room. She took a
place by her master’s side. The terrifying vision atop the wagon no longer, her hat was on
her head, her composure repaired.

‘I am nearing the end of my
research,’ she said. ‘Our beloved London shall not suffer such a bothersome fool for
much longer.’

‘And what of this sister I hear of? Miss
Frye?’ asked Starrick.

Lucy Thorne pursed her lips. ‘Miss Frye
shall be gutted soon enough.’

Oblivious to the forces who plotted against them,
Evie and Henry’s research continued at his shop and in their hideout. ‘You may not
have found a Piece of Eden,’ he told her, trying to console her, ‘but this material
is invaluable.’

She looked at him gratefully and the pair held
each other’s gaze until Evie gave an awkward little cough and looked away. Together they
went back to looking at the notebook rescued from the crate, until Henry hit on something.
‘Look. It says that the London Assassins had found a shroud.’

A shroud.

Evie came close to read over Henry’s
shoulder. Closer than she needed to. Both knew it. Both maintained contact, tiny little shocks
running through them.

‘The Shroud of Eden is supposed to heal
even the gravest injury,’ Evie read. ‘If the Assassins had found something like
that, surely Father would have known.’

No, he was obsessed with the Metropolitan
artefact
, thought Henry. The apple of his eye was the Apple. ‘There must be
something we’re missing,’ he said.

As if on cue Evie saw how documents inserted into
the notebook came together as a map. Having studied it, she snatched it up, going to leave.

‘Aren’t you coming?’ she said
Henry.

He looked awkward.
‘Fieldwork is not my speciality.’

‘We found a clue to a precursor object
– don’t you want to follow it?’

He did of course. He wanted to stay with Evie
too. ‘Put that way one can hardly refuse.’

The two of them followed the map, excited by the
new discovery and thrilled to be in each other’s company, as it took them to one of the
more well-to-do areas of the city, where the streets were less crowded and the houses more
grand. Something occurred to Henry. Could they be heading in the direction of Queen Square?

‘Do you know, I think this map may be
taking us to the Kenway mansion,’ he said.

‘Kenway? The pirate?’

‘Master Assassin and pirate,
yes.’

‘It’s surprising that you
haven’t already searched the house. Kenway was an Assassin, after all.’

‘Edward’s son Haytham joined the
Templars. They own the house now.’

‘So the Templars own a house with Assassin
treasures stored in it – and have never located them?’

Henry gave a short smile. ‘We must be
better at hiding things than they are.’

They came into the square, which even Henry knew
had changed over the years. Once named Queen Anne’s Square, it had been lined with
mansions on all sides, the Kenways’ among them, and though the statue remained in place,
and the alehouse on the corner, the Queen’s Larder, had stayed open for business since
time immemorial, the
mansions had since been occupied by hospitals and
other charitable institutions, as well as booksellers and printers.

There were fewer buildings used as domiciles now,
but the Kenways’ mansion was among them. This was where Edward Kenway had lived on his
return to these shores. His son, Haytham, had been inducted into the Templars, a long and
ghastly story that had seen father pitted against son.

Jennifer Scott, Edward’s daughter and
Haytham’s half-sister, had spent years living there, cursing Assassin and Templar equally,
though continuing to enjoy the benefits of her links to both, not least of them being the grand
home on what had since been renamed Queen Square.

There Jennifer had remained, occasionally
venturing forth to propose that Assassins and Templars should seek some accord, until her death
of old age when the London Templars – and probably the Assassins as well – breathed
a sigh of relief.

Evie and Henry came on to the square now, passing
the Roman Catholic Aged Poor Society and the Society of St Vincent de Paul, before Evie suddenly
ground to a halt, dragging Henry towards the scant shelter of iron railings lining the
square.

‘Look,’ she said, breathing the word
into his ear.

Sure enough, a carriage stood outside the Kenway
mansion. Emerging from it was the unmistakable personage of Lucy Thorne.

‘I’ll be in the study,’ they
heard her say to a male companion. ‘I don’t want to be interrupted, unless you have
news of the lost notebook.’

And in the next second the
two Templars were inside, and Evie and Henry were exchanging a look of concern. Getting in would
be a challenge. Staying clear of Lucy Thorne would be another one.

But they had come too far now.

Above them were open windows. No problem for an
Assassin. The two of them scaled the wall quickly then dropped into what turned out to be a
music room, complete with a vast grand piano and overlooked by a portrait of Edward Kenway
standing with the young Haytham. Other paintings gave a clue to the mansion’s seafaring
history.

Henry brought his mouth close to Evie’s
cowl and she reached a finger to hook it back.

‘What are we looking for?’ he
whispered.

Her eyes roved around the space. ‘I’m
not quite sure.’ The pair of them set about conducting a search, finding that there were
musical notes hidden around the room.

‘What are the Templars not seeing?’
said Henry almost to himself.

‘Something only we can.’

‘Edward Kenway was a pirate. Where would a
pirate hide his treasure?’

‘I’d hide mine in a library,’
said Evie, and Henry chuckled.

‘Mine would
be
the library,’
he said and the pair of them shared another look. Kindred spirits.

‘The piano is beautiful.’

‘Do you play?’

‘No. I wish I could. I
love the sound. You?’

‘A little. Enough to pass as a genteel
young lady if I need to.’

‘I would love to hear you play if the
opportunity presents itself,’ he said, and noticed a blush come to her cheeks.

He went to the piano now. ‘Some of these
keys are more raised than others,’ he said, and studied them, trying to find some rhyme or
reason to the almost imperceptible way that certain keys sat more proudly than others.

He tried one –
tink
– which
made Evie start, and she looked over, about to rebuke him for the noise, when suddenly the piano
began playing itself. They forgot to panic about the sound carrying, when, at the same time, a
section of the floor opened to reveal steps that led down into some unseen basement.

This, then, was the Kenway vault.

‘Not enormously subtle, is it?’ said
Henry.

Evie rolled her eyes. ‘Clearly Kenway had a
strong sense of spectacle.’

They went down and found themselves in the Kenway
vault, their breath held as they began to make sense of a lifetime’s worth of
paraphernalia that was stored here.

‘This is incredible. I think this is the
Jackdaw
,’ said Henry, his eyes alighting on a model of Edward Kenway’s
legendary pirate brig. ‘To think this has been hidden for a century.’

But Evie had moved to a high table in the centre
of the vault, where her eyes had gone to a document and an engraved disc. She scanned the
parchment. ‘The history
of the London Assassins … Boltholes
… Vaults … A hidden key.’ Excited now she added, ‘This is it.’

Henry moved across and again they enjoyed the
sudden proximity, before the moment was broken by the sound of Lucy Thorne from the music room
above them. ‘You say you heard music,’ they heard her snap at unseen guards. And
then: ‘There was no opening there before.’

Evie and Henry looked at one another.
Uh-oh
. Henry found a latch that he closed, exciting general dismay from those
above.

‘Help me block it,’ called Lucy
Thorne, sensing that this newly opened door was crucial to their continued progress.

Down below, the door shut and Evie and Henry were
left wondering what to do now.

A way out. There had to be one. Together they
scoured the walls with a fingertip search until, with a small cry of triumph, Henry found it: a
wall panel that opened to reveal stone steps spiralling down and beyond the reach of any
lantern. Next they were making their way along a passageway beneath the great house, grateful to
escape the clutches of Lucy Thorne but tinged with disappointment.

‘An entire vault filled with Assassin
history, left behind once again,’ bemoaned Evie.

‘We’ll just have to find an even
better cache or reclaim this one later,’ Henry said.

She scoffed. ‘
We
? I thought you
preferred to stay out of fieldwork.’

‘I … I was thinking more of you and
your brother. I shall provide planning assistance. From the train.’

‘Jacob’s off
marauding,’ she said. ‘There is a vacancy, should you decide to broaden your
horizons.’

‘I’ll think on it,’ he
said.

‘You do that,’ she said with a gently
mocking smile. ‘Now let’s get above ground.’

‘So, the hints you found in the Kenway house
lead here …’

Jacob waved a somewhat disparaging hand at the
huge column rising from the ground below them. They stood on a hillside overlooking it, yet were
still dwarfed by it. The Great Fire Monument. Built near the spot in Pudding Lane where the
eponymous Fire of London had started on 2 September 1666, and a suitably awe-inspiring tribute
to that epochal event.

For some moments the twins simply gazed at it,
eyes going from the sculpted plinth at the booth, up the fluted column and to the top, where a
cage had been constructed to prevent suicides. As the tallest tower in the world, it dwarfed
surrounding buildings and on a clear day it was possible to see it from right across the city.
At close quarters it took their breath away.

Evie wished Henry were here. Then chided herself
for the disloyal thought. After all, Jacob was her brother, her twin brother with whom she
shared an almost supernatural communication. Things she’d save from a fire? Number one,
her blade; number two, her brother. And on a good day, if Jacob were being especially pleasant
company, well, she might even rescue her brother first.

Today, however, was not one of those days. Jacob
was
not pleasant company. Instead he was choosing to mock and lampoon her
at every available opportunity, specifically, it seemed, the growing affection between herself
and Henry Green.

Henry, of course, wasn’t here to defend
himself. He was at the shop, reviewing the material, so Jacob was taking advantage of his
absence.

‘Oh yes, Mr Green,’ Jacob said,
parroting his sister, ‘that’s a fascinating idea. Oh please, Mr Green, come and take
a look at this book and stand oh-so-close to me, Mr Green.’

She fumed. ‘I do not …’ And
then composed herself. ‘Well, perhaps you have nothing better to do, but
I
am
busy protecting the Assassins.’

‘Are you really? What was it Father used to
say …?’

‘“Don’t allow personal feelings
to compromise the mission”?’ Evie rolled her eyes.

‘Precisely,’ replied her brother.
‘Anyway, I’m off. If I find any more wild geese for you to chase, I’ll be in
touch.’

To show his scorn he lowered his cowl, retrieved
his hat from inside his clothes, popped it out and then rolled it along his arm to the top of
his head.

And with that he left.

She watched Jacob go, pleased to see the back of
him almost as much as she mourned the tension between them, and then made her way to the
monument. On its base was a small and familiar-looking recess. Sure enough the disc she’d
liberated from the Kenway mansion fitted perfectly. In response the stone seemed to crack, just
enough to open, and she took a set of spiral steps up the inside of the
monument. These were not the usual steps – not those taken by sightseers and suicides
and James Boswell, who had apparently suffered a panic attack halfway up, before gathering
himself, completing the journey and then declaring the view an abomination. No, these steps were
purely for he or she who was in possession of the disc.

Sure enough, when she reached the summit, two
hundred feet high, two things greeted her. Firstly, the view – and she stood buffeted by
wind as she gasped at a panorama that bristled with chimneys and spires, a skyline of industry
and worship. Secondly, she found another disc, this one larger, and with a slot. She compared
the two discs in her hand and then, on a whim, decided to try to fit the first one into the
aperture of the second.

It fitted. Perfectly. Still pummelled by the
wind, she looked at it in blank amazement as a picture formed. If where she currently stood was
London’s best-known landmark, then this was pointing her to the second best-known, another
Sir Christopher Wren building: St Paul’s Cathedral.

A short time later she had made her way there,
wishing she’d stopped to collect either Jacob or, preferably, Henry on the way, but
knowing they could be anywhere. She ascended to the roof of the grand cathedral. No problem for
a woman of her skills.

There, at the statue of St Paul, she inserted the
two disc pieces into a slot in the stone. Next – did she sense it or genuinely feel it?
– a door deep below her opened, and shortly afterwards she had gone down and was walking
into a vault in the chapel.

It was a large room
dominated by a table in the centre. On one wall was an Assassin symbol. Ah, so it was a
dedicated Assassin vault. Across the room was a stained-glass window, while in an alcove hung
what Evie at first took for a beautiful item of jewellery. She moved closer, examining a chain
that was decorated with links and small intricate spheres, about the size of pearls but
inscribed with odd angular hieroglyphics, as well as a pendant that she lifted in her palm.
Again there was something infinitely precious about it, as though it had been fashioned by a
silversmith who was not of this earth or of this era. A thrill ran through her. The knowledge
that in all likelihood she was holding something of the First Civilization.

A key of some kind. Inscribed on it was Latin,
meaning ‘the remedy is worse than the disease’, and she picked it up, turning it
over in her hands. It was nothing she recognized from any of her readings. Nothing she could
make sense of there and then. Perhaps when she had the literature in front of her …

She hung it round her neck – just as the
door opened to admit Lucy Thorne.

‘Good day, Miss Frye. I’ll take
that,’ said the Templar. All in black, her features baked into a predatory stare, she
crossed the chamber towards Evie. She came alone, supremely confident of her dominion.

Evie let the key fall to her chest. She raised
her cowl then let her hands drop to her sides, loose but ready. ‘You want the Shroud to
cement your own power,’ she said, ‘but what if you cannot control it?’

Lucy pursed her lips. ‘And why do
you
want the Shroud?
Merely to keep the Templars from having it?
How like an Assassin – to hold the power of eternal life and yet be too afraid to use
it.’

Lucy had stopped a few feet away from Evie, just
out of striking range. The two women sized each other up. Evie saw no obvious weapons, but then
who could say what was concealed in the voluminous folds of her opponent’s funereal garb.
‘Eternal life,’ she said, every muscle alert, ‘is that what you think the
Shroud offers?’

‘What I think is no longer your
concern,’ said Lucy, whose eyes gave away her intentions a second before she made her
move, and in one eye-wateringly fast motion she had snatched a blade from her boot and sprang,
full-length, knife hand extended, in an action that almost took Evie by surprise.

Almost
being the operative word. The
young Assassin skipped back, triggered her blade at the same time and was pleased to see the
expression on her opponent’s face instantly transform. If Lucy Thorne saw easy pickings
she had made a dire mistake, for a Templar and a boot knife were no match for Evie Frye. A
spirited attack it might have been, but it was predicated on surprise, and without that Lucy had
nothing save a desire to win and an instinct for survival. And neither were enough to best
Evie.

Their blades clashed. The ringing sound
ricocheted around the stone walls. With bared teeth Lucy tried again but Evie fended her off
easily, taking the measure of her opponent, biding her time, ready for the death blow.

But Lucy Thorne wasn’t done. As Evie
approached, her hand shot out. What bloomed from the centre of her
fist was
a globe and for a strange, mad moment, Evie thought that Lucy Thorne was attacking her with a
Piece of Eden, until it registered: a smoke bomb.

Blinded and temporarily disorientated, Evie
staggered back, bringing her blade into a defensive position and restoring her balance, ready to
meet a follow-up attack. Sure enough, it came. Lucy Thorne was an inferior combatant but she
lacked for nothing when it came to commitment and she was brave.
My God
, thought Evie,
is she brave
. Through the smoke of the bomb, Lucy flew forward with her boot dagger
slashing more in hope than confidence and thanks to the fog and ferocity of her attack very
nearly succeeded.

Nearly
being the operative word.

Smoke billowed as Evie turned smartly to one
side, thrusting out her chest as she swept back her shoulders and brought her blade low,
knocking Lucy Thorne’s knife aside. In the next moment she swung about, bringing her right
shoulder forward in a most unladylike but very Evie Frye-like roundhouse punch that made hard
and sickening contact with Lucy Thorne’s jaw, sending the Templar’s eyeballs
spinning and her teeth rattling as she staggered back. Evie sheathed her blade then stepped
forward and swung the gauntlet hand.

The move had been neat. It had won her the fight.
But maybe Evie had a little too much of her father and brother in her. Perhaps she was
overconfident. For the punch was too much and instead of flooring Lucy Thorne it sent her
flailing back, blade skittering off to one side, arms wildly pinwheeling, towards a plate-glass
window behind her.

Evie saw what was going to
happen and realized her mistake. But it was too late. She sprang forward and in her haste lost
her footing. Her grasping fingers failed to find Lucy Thorne, and for a split second the two
women scrabbled at one another trying to prevent the inevitable.

They could not. The glass shattered around Lucy
Thorne and she seemed about to fall to her certain death when one desperate hand found the key
round Evie’s neck. Suddenly it was all that prevented her from falling and Evie was
trapped too, crying out in pain as the chain dug into her flesh.

‘Coming with me?’ sneered Lucy
Thorne, and once again Evie had to hand it to her opponent. She didn’t lack for
valour.

But …

‘I have other plans,’ said Evie, and
out came her blade and she sliced the chain, dismissing Lucy Thorne.

With a scream the Templar fell, still holding the
key, and Evie was dumped back inside the room. She pulled herself up, coughing and panting as
she dragged herself to check the broken window and the stone below.

Lucy Thorne was gone.

‘Dammit,’ said Evie.