Assassin's Creed: Underworld (32 page)

When the mazurka ended …

Evie’s gaze went to the rooftops again and
her heart leapt to see the familiar figure of Jacob, now in his Assassin’s clothes, as he
moved in on one of the marksmen and slit his throat.

She knew her brother. She knew that if there was
one thing she could depend on him for, it was to get this particular job done.

And he did. By the time the dance was ended, the
rooftops were empty and Starrick was suddenly roused from his reverie. Furious then frantic, his
eyes went to the rooftops, saw them empty and then found the smiling face of his dance partner
as she said, ‘I have a feeling someone is about to cut in …’

He bared his teeth. ‘Then with regret I
will relinquish you.’

He was fast. His hand had reached to snatch the
key from her neck before she had a chance to stop him. Then he turned and was hurrying away,
leaving Evie gasping, her hand at her throat. Around her came outraged cries. ‘Did you see
that? Did you see what he did?’

She moved quickly away in Starrick’s wake
but lost him in the crowd. Behind her scandal raged but she put her head down and made her way
to the edge of the terrace,
grateful for the sight of Jacob who took
advantage of the sudden tumult to emerge.

She pulled the papers from her décolletage,
thrust them into Jacob’s hands. ‘Here,’ she said quickly, breathlessly.
‘The location of the vault. Go.’

He looked at the plans, eyebrows knitted.
‘Just like that? No plan?’

‘No time for plans. I’ll catch up as
soon as I’m rid of this –’ she gestured at the hated dress, took her gauntlet
from Jacob’s outstretched hand scooped up a satchel containing her Assassin’s garb,
and then made off in search of a suitable spot for her transformation.

Jacob ran. The vault marked on the blueprint was
located close to the wine vaults, and presumably had been constructed at the same time before
being struck from the plans and disappearing into secrecy. Its door was hidden, seemingly just
another section of ornate panelling. But as Jacob arrived he saw it ajar, no doubt opened with
the key that Crawford Starrick had stolen from Evie.

The party was a long way behind him now. Probably
they were still clutching their pearls after what happened between Starrick and Evie. This part
of the palace was deserted, silent.

Except not that silent. As Jacob made his way
along a narrow tunnel towards the vault he heard the dull thump of an explosion from ahead.
Starrick had unsealed the vault.

Jacob tensed. He heard his knuckles crack. His
blade made less noise as he flexed his forearm to engage it.

Even more cautiously now he made his way towards
the
blown-out vault door. Stepping through he found himself in a room of
medieval architecture. So, it was older than the wine vaults, which dated back to the
remodelling of the palace in the 1760s. In fact, it looked very much to Jacob as though the
current palace had been built on top of the vault.

Despite himself, he suppressed a smile. How Evie
would have loved to have made this discovery for herself.

At the centre of the vault stood the Templar
Grand Master, having opened a box he’d found there. The trunk was a receptacle the like of
which Jacob had never seen before. A dark grey futuristic rectangle inset with strange angular
indentations, inscriptions and carry handles. And for a second all he could do was stare at it,
as transfixed by it as Starrick. Just to lay eyes on the crate was enough to convince him that
there was something other-worldly and unknowable about it. Perhaps Evie was right to place such
store in these artefacts.

Crawford Starrick still wore his suit, but draped
over it was a shimmering piece of linen that appeared to exude the same sense of suppressed
energy and menace as the box. Even as Jacob watched, patterns seemed to form and dissemble on
the golden cloth, and different colours glowed. Inside the box was a series of what looked like
decorative baubles, and either they too hummed with power or were reflecting it from the crate.
Still Jacob was hypnotized, falling into deep belief, feeling the call of the artefacts –
until, with an effort, he shook his head to free himself of it, stitched the smile back on his
face and stepped forward to greet the Grand Master.

‘Aren’t we a little too old to put
faith in magic?’ he said.

Starrick looked up at him
with a puzzling expression that Evie Fry might have recognized from the dance. Only now he was
so transported it was almost beatific.

‘Come now,’ he said with a smile.
‘Allow an old man his indulgences.’

‘I will allow you nothing,’ said
Jacob, bemused and stepping forward.

Starrick took no steps to defend himself, merely
smiled indulgently. The smile of the truly wise. ‘The young think they can make their mark
on this world, a world entirely built to exploit them.’

Jacob shook his head and drew himself up to
gang-leader stature. ‘I don’t think I can make my mark, old man, I know.’

Starrick’s face hardened. He was back in
the here and now, drawing ancient power from his find.

And then Jacob attacked.

Henry had decided. He would leave the Assassins to
whom he had become a burden, and leave Evie to whom he was a liability. He had spent his entire
life running away from the knowledge that he was an unfit Assassin. Held prisoner in the grounds
of St Paul’s Church, Covent Garden, Henry understood that it had caught up with him.

Awash with memories, he had closed up shop and
extinguished the lights at the front, retiring behind the curtain to his workroom. Clocks ticked
and he wondered what Evie was doing now. No doubt she and Jacob were arriving at the
Queen’s Ball. When they returned it would be the end of the line. Either way, win or lose,
this battle would have been fought to its conclusion: the Assassins would be once more in the
ascendance, with the rule of the London Templars at an end, or they would be having to retreat,
regroup, think again.

And Henry? He sat at the central table, with
documents and inscriptions laid out around him, maps and plans over which he and Evie had pored,
and put his face in his hands, thinking back to his life as a child and the years he had spent
as The Ghost. A lifetime of delusion and shattered dreams and failure.

Years ago he’d thought
of leaving the Brotherhood.
You can’t turn your back on a belief
, he’d
thought at the time.

Yes, he decided now. Yes you could.

He drew a blank piece of paper towards him,
reached for his stylus and inkwell.

‘Dear Evie,’ he wrote.

And then he was stopped by a sound from the front
of the shop. It came again. Knocking.

Henry stood, reached for his blade and began to
strap it on as he moved through the curtain, bare feet noiseless on the floorboards as he
traversed the clutter of the shop to the door. He shook his sleeve, obscuring the blade and
studied the glass of the door where he could see a figure, an outline he recognized at once.

‘Come in,’ he said, opening the door
and throwing glances up and down the busy Whitechapel street outside.

Over the threshold, stepping from the balmy
evening outside into the darkened, oppressive atmosphere of Henry’s shop, came George
Westhouse. ‘You’re armed,’ he said, by way of a greeting. Trained eyes.

‘We have the Templars cornered,’
replied Henry, ‘and you know what a cornered rat does?’

‘It attacks shopkeepers?’ said
George.

Henry tried to force a smile but smiles never
came easily to him and sure enough the muscles refused to obey. Instead he closed the bolts,
turned and led George through the tottering shelves to his workroom. There he brushed aside the
letter he had begun and directed George to a chair; previous occupant, Evie Frye.

George carried a small
leather satchel that he placed on the tabletop as he sat down. ‘Perhaps you’d like
to fill me in on events in the city?’ he said.

Henry told him how, with the help of his
information network, Jacob had organized the gangs in the East End, then successfully carried
out a series of operations against the Templars, severely weakening their position; how he and
Evie had discovered the likely location of the latest Piece of Eden; how Evie and Jacob were at
this very moment at the Queen’s Ball, Evie seeking the vault where the Shroud was kept
…

At mention of the artefact George’s
eyebrows raised.

Yes, thought Henry, more accursed artefacts. More
death in the name of baubles.

‘And you’ve had a willing cohort in
the shape of Evie Frye, no doubt?’

‘We had different reasons for seeking the
Piece of Eden,’ agreed Henry. ‘She wanted to witness it. She wanted to look upon the
powers of the First Civilization. I had already done so. I wanted to make sure that that power
never fell into the hands of the Templars.’

‘“Had” you say
…’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘You said you
had
very different
reasons for seeking out the Piece of Eden. What makes you think these events belong in the past
tense?’

‘I have every faith in the twins. Even if
Evie should fail to recover the Shroud then I am confident Jacob will neutralize Crawford
Starrick. Either way, the Piece of Eden will be safe for the time being.’

‘And that’s it,
is it?’ George pointed across the table to where Henry’s ‘Dear Evie’
letter lay. ‘Nothing else?’

Henry looked at him. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Nothing else.’

George nodded sagely. ‘Well, then good.
That’s very good. Because, you know, as Ethan told you, and as your mother told you, the
Assassins need their analytical minds as much as they need their warriors.’

Henry avoided George’s eye. ‘A true
Assassin would be both.’

‘No, no.’ George shook his head.
‘What you’re describing isn’t a person, it’s an automaton. Our
organization –
any
organization – needs a conscience, Henry. It’s an
important function. We may be slow to recognize it on occasion, but the fact remains it’s
a vital function. Whatever you do, I’d like you to remember that.’

Henry nodded.

‘Right, now that’s clear, perhaps I
should come to my next order of business …’

George opened the satchel, removed a
leather-bound book and slid it across the table to Henry. ‘Evie contacted me about this. A
book she dimly remembered seeing in her father’s library, which may or may not contain
some information about the artefact you seek.’

Henry frowned at him and George shrugged.
‘Yes, all right, I knew about the Shroud. I merely wanted to hear it from the
horse’s mouth. Well,
another
horse’s mouth.’

Curious, Henry drew the book towards him, slipped
open the cover and straightaway felt a tickle of the old excitement. Contained within was what
looked to be a series of testimonies handed down throughout the ages –
details of battles fought, assassinations carried out, treasures won and lost – all
of it referring back to the very earliest years of the English Brotherhood.

Had Evie come across something about the Shroud,
perhaps? Something that made no sense to her at the time but which resonated now?

George watched Henry’s face with a smile.
‘It took some finding, I can tell you,’ he said. ‘Hopefully it will be of
use.’ He stood to go. ‘No doubt you will want to read it at once, so I shall leave
you in peace. You’ve done well, Henry. Your mother and father will be proud. Ethan would
be proud.’

When Henry had locked up after George he returned
to the book. They knew that the Shroud was reputed to offer eternal life, and from that Evie
assumed the artefact had healing abilities.

However, she had since become convinced that it
also contained some greater, perhaps darker power. Her curiosity had sparked a memory; the
memory had brought her to this book.

Henry leafed through it quickly now, anticipating
what he might find, until he came to a particular entry, one that told of – yes – a
shroud. It was written in the most elliptical terms but nevertheless confirmed that it did
indeed confer eternal life upon its wearer.

However, the account mentioned something else
besides. A negative to its positive. The drawback – or maybe, for some, the advantage
– of wearing the Shroud was that it would draw energy from whomsoever he or she
touched.

The report concluded that nothing else was known
of
the Shroud, that what appeared here might be mere gossip or conjecture.
Even so, it was enough for Henry to think of Evie – Evie going to the vault without
knowing the Shroud’s true power.

At last Evie was back in her usual clothes. She
tossed the dreaded dress to one side, adjusted the clips on her gauntlet and shook her shoulders
into her coat at the same time. Once more she caught her own reflection in a window of the small
antechamber she had chosen for the quick change, but was altogether happier with the results
this time.

Forget that imposter’s finery. This was her
real self. Her father’s daughter.

And now to the vault. Like Jacob she left the
ongoing uproar of the party behind and rushed in the direction of where she knew it to be, and
like him she arrived to find the door open. She rushed down the slope and into the tunnel,
checking herself as she came closer to the open vault door.

From inside came the sounds of a struggle. The
unmistakable sound of Jacob in pain. And her blade was already deploying as she rushed towards
the portal, crashing through in time to see Starrick wearing the Shroud and pinning Jacob with
one hand.

She stood and gawped for a second. It
wasn’t possible. A man of Starrick’s age and build managing to restrain Jacob. Yet
there it was. Sourcing power from the Shroud it was as though Starrick was leeching it from
Jacob at the
same time. ‘You do not listen,’ she caught him
saying as her gaze travelled to an ornately decorated chest. Inside were what looked like jewels
that had begun to rise as if of their own accord and glowed malevolently in the murky gloom of
the vault. Guardian drones, they began to revolve as if setting up a protective perimeter around
the Grand Master and his helpless victim.

She was about to find out how powerful they were,
for having taken several steps into the vault she whirled at a noise from behind her. A guard
had rushed into the vault, already breathlessly trying to address Starrick. ‘Sir,
there’s –’

But he never finished his words. The sudden
movement from the doorway seemed to excite the guardians and a bolt shot from one of them,
catching the guard in the face and propelling him backwards – dead before he hit the
floor.

As his singed and blackened face lolled she
realized it was the movement, the sudden movement that had set them off. She remained still, one
eye on the deadly hovering insects, but also monitoring the centre of the room, where Starrick
held her brother captive, sucking the life from him.

The situation was desperate now; Jacob was
holding on but only just.

‘London will soon be rid of your
chaos!’ Starrick roared. His eyes were wide and wild and saliva flecked his lips.
‘This city was a safe harbour. A light for all humanity. You would rather destroy the
fabric of society. What alternatives do you propose? Bedlam?’

Freedom
, thought
Evie, but stayed silent. Instead she directed her efforts towards her brother, feeling his pain
as if it were her own. ‘Jacob, resist,’ she called, and heard her own voice crack
with helplessness and frustration. Her brother’s eyes bulged, and the tendons in his neck
pulsed so hard she feared they might actually burst.

‘Evie,’ he managed, ‘stay
back.’

‘You do not know how to use the
artefact,’ Evie called to Starrick. ‘The Shroud was never meant for you.’

But Starrick wasn’t listening. He was
applying more pressure to Jacob’s neck, the power surging through him as he did so. He
snarled as he went to complete the death grip.

At the same time, as though they sensed events
drawing to a close, the guardian drones had withdrawn, their pulsing light fading as they
receded. Evie took the chance to dash forward with a shout of defiance. Her blade rose and fell
but Starrick was enjoying the assistance of the artefacts and seemed to easily dodge the blow.
At least she’d done enough to knock him off balance, though, and in the next instant Jacob
was rolling on the stone, gasping and spluttering with his hands at his neck, released at last
from the grip of Crawford Starrick.

Suddenly caught by the combined aura of the
Shroud, the trunk and drone artefacts, Evie found herself disorientated, and in the next moment
was taken by Starrick who held her in the same grip he’d used on Jacob.

‘Another Frye to feed on,’ he shouted
triumphantly. His manic gaze bore into Evie. When they’d danced she’d wondered about
his state of mind. Now she was in no
doubt. Whatever was left of Crawford
Starrick was in there somewhere but it was buried deep. He was in some other place. ‘I
admire your pluck,’ he was saying, showering her with spittle, ‘but there is little
you can accomplish now. Like Jesus himself, I am immortal. Behold the power of the
Shroud.’

‘Jesus wore it better,’ she managed,
but if Starrick heard her he made no sign, ranting on.

‘I will begin again. And this new London
shall be even more magnificent. First you will fall, then the queen.’

Around her the guardians had begun orbiting with
greater urgency. It was as if they responded to Starrick’s increased emotional intensity.
Or perhaps – more likely – they were somehow inextricably linked to the impulses
shooting through the Shroud he wore, themselves drawing off his excitement.

Either way, Jacob had pulled himself to his feet
but they prevented him from coming any closer. Now it was he who urged her to stay strong and
resist the darkness of Starrick’s death grip. Bolts shot from the drones, keeping him
away.

‘No amount of planning or might shall beat
me,’ Starrick was raving. ‘I have history on my side. London deserves a ruler who
will remain vigilant, who will prevent the city from devolving into chaos.’

‘Chaos that you are about to cause,’
she shouted, and came in close, hoping to dodge the guardians and strike at Starrick.

She was too slow. A bolt of energy slammed into
her, knocking her to the wall.

Starrick capitalized on this
and with an almost unimaginable burst of strength pounced on her, his hand at her neck.

Now the Templar Grand Master held both Evie and
Jacob. The power of the Shroud’s energy seemed to flow through the linen, through his arms
and to the hands he made his claws, gripping the twins harder. Lifting them like trophies.
Squeezing. They hung helpless, shoulders thrown back, chins jutting, jaws working with an agony
so intense it refused to allow them even to scream.

And Evie felt the very life force was being drawn
from her. Short of breath, her vision clouding, her muscles refusing to respond to any of the
weak signals of resistance sent by her brain, Starrick’s claw-like hands gripped her
throat, but it was as if he were driving the point of a pike into her neck.

‘Get. Out. Of. My. City,’ he snarled
and these, she realized, would be the last words she ever heard because his grip was increasing,
and her consciousness receding. Thoughts passed through her dying mind. Regrets that she would
never have the opportunity to tell Henry how she felt about him. Visit Amritsar with him. How
she would never make her peace with Jacob. Tell her brother she loved him. Say sorry things had
turned out this way.