Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘Hm,’ he said, after some moments. ‘You are wrong, señor, this is not superior to Varela’s cheese. It is in fact exactly the same as Varela’s cheese.’ His smile had faded and his face had darkened. I realized I had been found out. ‘In fact, this is Varela’s cheese.’

  His mouth was opening to shout for help as I dropped the doubloon into the scarf, twirled the silk into a garrotte with a flick of my wrists and leapt forward with crossed arms, dropping it over his head and around his neck.

  His knife hand arced up, but he was too slow and caught unawares, and the knife thrashed wildly at the silk above our heads as I secured my rumal, the coin pressing in on his windpipe, cutting off any noise. Holding the garrotte with one hand, I disarmed him, tossed the knife to a cushion then used both hands to tighten the rumal.

  ‘My name is Haytham Kenway,’ I said dispassionately, leaning forward to look into his wide-open, bulging eyes. ‘You have betrayed the Templar Order. For this you have been sentenced to execution.’

  His arm rose in a futile attempt to claw at my eyes, but I moved my head and watched the silk flutter gently as the life left him.

  When it was over I carried his body to the bed then went to his desk to take his journal, as I had been instructed. It was open, and my eye fell upon some writing: ‘Para ver de manera diferente, primero debemos pensar diferente.’

  I read it again, translating it carefully, as though I were learning a new language: ‘To see differently, we must first think differently.’

  I stared at it for some moments, deep in thought, then snapped the book shut and stowed it in my bag, returning my mind to the job at hand. Vedomir’s death would not be discovered until morning, by which time I would be long gone, on my way to Prague, where I now had something to ask Reginald.

  18 June 1747

  i

  ‘It’s about your mother, Haytham.’

  He stood before me in the basement of the headquarters on Celetna Lane. He had made no effort to dress for Prague. He wore his Englishness like a badge of honour: neat and tidy white stockings, black breeches and, of course, his wig, which was white and had shed most of its powder on the shoulders of his frock coat. He was lit by the flames from tall iron cressets on poles on either side of him, while mounted on stone walls so dark they were almost black were torches that shone with halos of pale light. Normally he stood relaxed, with his hands behind his back and leaning on his cane, but today there was a formal air about him.

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Yes, Haytham.’

  She’s ill, was my first thought, and I instantly felt a hot wave of guilt so intense I was almost giddy with it. I hadn’t written to her in weeks; I’d hardly even thought about her.

  ‘She’s dead, Haytham,’ said Reginald, casting his eyes downward. ‘A week ago she had a fall. Her back was badly hurt, and I’m afraid that she succumbed to her injuries.’

  I looked at him. That intense rush of guilt was gone as quickly as it had arrived and in its place an empty feeling, a hollow place where emotions should be.

  ‘I’m sorry, Haytham.’ His weathered face creased into sympathy and his eyes were kind. ‘Your mother was a fine woman.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ I said.

  ‘We’re to leave for England straight away. There’s a memorial service.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘If you need … anything, then please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your family is the Order now, Haytham. You can come to us for anything.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘And if you need … you know, to talk, then I’m here.’

  I tried not to smile at the idea. ‘Thank you, Reginald, but I won’t need to talk.’

  ‘Very well.’

  There was a long pause.

  He looked away. ‘Is it done?’

  ‘Juan Vedomir is dead, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘And you have his journal?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  For a moment his face fell, then it grew hard. Very hard. I’d seen his face do that before, in an unguarded moment.

  ‘What?’ he said simply.

  ‘I killed him for his betrayal of our cause, did I not?’ I said.

  ‘Indeed …’ said Reginald carefully.

  ‘Then what need did I have of his journal?’

  ‘It contains his writings. They are of interest to us.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Haytham, I had reason to believe that Juan Vedomir’s treachery went beyond the matter of his adherence to the doctrine. I think he may have advanced to working with the Assassins. Now tell me the truth, please, do you have his journal?’

  I pulled it from my bag, gave it to him, and he moved over to one of the candelabras, opened it, quickly flicked through then snapped it shut.

  ‘And have you read it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s in code,’ I replied.

  ‘But not all of it,’ he said equably.

  I nodded. ‘Yes – yes, you’re right, there were some passages I was able to read. His … thoughts on life. They made interesting reading. In fact, I was particularly intrigued, Reginald, by how much Juan Vedomir’s philosophy was consistent with what my father once taught me.’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘And yet you had me kill him?’

  ‘I had you kill a traitor to the Order. Which is something else entirely. Of course, I knew your father felt differently to me concerning many – perhaps even most – of the tenets of the Order, but that’s because he didn’t subscribe to them. The fact that he wasn’t a Templar didn’t make me respect him less.’

  I looked at him. I wondered if I had been wrong to doubt him. ‘Why, then, is the book of interest?’

  ‘Not for Vedomir’s musings on life, that much is certain,’ smiled Reginald, and gave me a sideways smile. ‘As you say, they were similar to your father’s, and we both know our feelings about that. No, it’s the coded passages I’m interested in, which, if I’m right, will contain details of the keeper of a key.’

  ‘A key to what?’

  ‘All in good time.’

  I made a sound of frustration.

  ‘Once I have decoded the journal, Haytham,’ he pressed. ‘When, if I’m right, we’ll be able to begin the next phase of the operation.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  He opened his mouth to speak, but I said the words for him. ‘ “All in good time, Haytham,” is that it? More secrets, Reginald?’

  He bristled. ‘ “Secrets”? Really? Is that what you think? What exactly have I done to deserve your suspicion, Haytham, other than to take you under my wing, sponsor you in the Order, give you a life? You know, I might be forgiven for thinking you rather ungrateful at times, sir.’

  ‘We were never able to find Digweed, though, were we?’ I said, refusing to be cowed. ‘There never was a ransom demand for Jenny, so the main purpose of the raid had to be Father’s death.’

  ‘We hoped to find Digweed, Haytham. That’s all we could ever do. We hoped to make him pay. That hope was not satisfied, but that doesn’t mean we were derelict in our attempt. Moreover, I had a duty of care to you, Haytham, which was fulfilled. You stand before me a man, a respected Knight of the Order. You overlook that, I think. And don’t forget that I hoped to marry Jenny. Perhaps in the heat of your desire to avenge your father, you see losing Digweed as our only significant failure, but it’s not, is it, because we’ve never found Jenny, have we? Of course, you spare no thought for your sister’s hardship.’

  ‘You accuse me of callousness? Heartlessness?’

  He shook his head. ‘I merely request that you turn your stare on your own failings before you start shining light on mine.’

  I looked carefully at him. ‘You never took me into your confidence regarding the search.’

  ‘Braddock was sent to find him. He updated me regularly.’

  ‘But yo
u didn’t pass those updates to me.’

  ‘You were a young boy.’

  ‘Who grew up.’

  He bent his head. ‘Then I apologize for not taking that fact into account, Haytham. In future I will treat you as an equal.’

  ‘Then start now – start by telling me about the journal,’ I said.

  He laughed, as though caught in check at chess. ‘You win, Haytham. All right, it represents the first step towards the location of a temple – a first-civilization temple, thought to have been built by Those Who Came Before.’

  There was a moment’s pause in which I thought, Is that it? Then laughed.

  At first he looked shocked, perhaps remembering the first time he’d ever told me about Those Who Came Before, when I’d found it difficult to contain myself. ‘Those who came before what … ?’ I’d scoffed.

  ‘Before us,’ he’d replied tightly, ‘Before man. A previous civilization.’

  He frowned at me now. ‘You’re still finding it amusing, Haytham?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not amusing so much, no. More …’ I struggled to find the words ‘… hard to fathom, Reginald. A race of beings who existed before man. Gods …’

  ‘Not gods, Haytham, first-civilization humans who controlled humanity. They left us artefacts, Haytham, of immense power, such that we can only dream of. I believe that whoever can possess those artefacts can ultimately control all of human destiny.’

  My laugh dwindled when I saw how serious he had become. ‘It’s a very grand claim, Reginald.’

  ‘Indeed. If it was a modest claim then we would not be so interested, no? The Assassins would not be interested.’ His eyes gleamed. The flames from the cressets shone and danced in them. I’d seen that look in his eyes before, but only on rare occasions. Not when he’d been tutoring me in languages, philosophy, or even in the classics or the principles of combat. Not even when he taught me the tenets of the Order.

  No, only when he talked about Those Who Came Before.

  Sometimes Reginald liked to deride what he saw as a surfeit of passion. He thought of it as a shortcoming. When he talked about the beings of the first civilization, however, he talked like a zealot.

  ii

  We are staying the night in the Templar headquarters here in Prague. As I sit here now in a meagre room with grey stone walls, I can feel the weight of thousands of years of Templar history upon me.

  My thoughts go to Queen Anne’s Square, to which the household returned when the work was done. Mr Simpkin had kept us abreast of developments; Reginald had overseen the building operation, even as we moved from country to country in search of Digweed and Jenny. (And yes, Reginald was right. Failing to find Digweed: that fact eats at me; but I almost never think of Jenny.)

  One day Simpkin sent us the word that the household had returned from Bloomsbury to Queen Anne’s Square, that the household was once again in residence, back where it belonged. That day my mind went to the wood-panelled walls of the home I grew up in, and I found I could vividly picture the people within it – especially my mother. But, of course, I was picturing the mother I had known growing up, who shone, bright like the sun and twice as warm, on whose knee I knew perfect happiness. My love for Father was fierce, perhaps stronger, but for Mother it was purer. With Father I had a feeling of awe, of admiration so grand I sometimes felt dwarfed by him, and with that came an underlying feeling I can only describe as anxiety, that somehow I had to live up to him, to grow into the huge shadow cast by him.

  With Mother, though, there was no such insecurity, just the almost overwhelming sense of comfort and love and protection. And she was a beauty. I used to enjoy it when people compared me to Father because he was so striking, but if they said I looked like Mother I knew they meant handsome. Of Jenny, people would say, ‘She’ll break a few hearts’; ‘She’ll have men fighting over her.’ They applied the language of struggle and conflict. But not with Mother. Her beauty was a gentle, maternal, nurturing thing, to be spoken of not with the wariness Jenny’s looks inspired, but with warmth and admiration.

  Of course, I had never known Jenny’s mother, Caroline Scott, but I had formed an opinion of her: that she was ‘a Jenny’, and that my father had been captivated by her looks just as Jenny’s suitors were captivated by hers.

  Mother, though, I imagined to be an entirely different sort of person altogether. She was plain old Tessa Stephenson-Oakley when she met my father. That’s what she had always said, anyway: ‘plain old Tessa Stephenson-Oakley,’ which didn’t sound at all plain to me, but never mind. Father had moved to London, arriving alone with no household, but a purse large enough to buy one. When he had rented a London home from a wealthy landowner, the daughter had offered to help my father find permanent accommodation, as well as employing the household to run it. The daughter, of course, was ‘plain old Tessa Stephenson-Oakley’ …

  She had all but hinted that her family wasn’t happy about the liaison; indeed, we never saw her side of the family. She devoted her energies to us and, until that dreadful night, the person who had her undivided attention, her unending affection, her unconditional love, was me.

  But the last time I had seen her there was no sign of that person. When I think back to our final meeting now, what I remember is the suspicion in her eyes, which I realize was contempt. When I killed the man about to kill her, I changed in her eyes. I was no longer the boy who had sat on her knee.

  I was a killer.

  20 June 1747

  En route to London, I re-read an old journal. Why? Some instinct, perhaps. Some sub-conscious nagging … doubt, I suppose.

  Whatever it was, when I re-read the entry of 10 December 1735, I all of a sudden knew exactly what I had to do when I reached England.

  2-3 July 1747

  Today was the service, and also … well, I shall explain.

  After the service, I left Reginald talking to Mr Simpkin on the steps of the chapel. To me, Mr Simpkin said that he had some papers for me to sign. In the light of Mother’s death, the finances were mine. With an obsequious smile he said he hoped that I had considered him more than satisfactory in managing the affairs so far. I nodded, smiled, said nothing committal, told them I wanted a little time to myself, and slipped away, seemingly to be alone with my thoughts.

  I hoped that the direction of my wanderings looked random as I made my way along the thoroughfare, staying clear of carriage wheels that splashed through mud and manure on the highway, weaving through people thronging the streets: tradesmen in bloodied leather aprons, whores and washerwomen. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t random at all.

  One woman in particular was up ahead, like me, making her way through the crowds, alone and, probably, lost in thought. I had seen her at the service, of course. She’d sat with the other staff – Emily, and two or three others I didn’t recognize – on the other side of the chapel, with a handkerchief at her nose. She had looked up and seen me – she must have done – but she made no sign. I wondered, did Betty, my old nursemaid, even recognize me?

  And now I was following her, keeping a discreet distance behind so she wouldn’t see me if she happened to glance backwards. It was getting dark by the time she reached home, or not home but the household for which she now worked, a grand mansion that loomed in the charcoal sky, not too dissimilar to the one at Queen Anne’s Square. Was she still a nursemaid, I wondered, or had she moved up in the world? Did she wear the uniform of a governess beneath her coat? The street was less crowded than before, and I lingered out of sight, watching as she took a short flight of stone steps down towards the below-stairs quarters and let herself in.

  When she was out of sight I crossed the highway and sauntered towards the house, aware of the need to look inconspicuous in case eyes were seeing me from the windows. Once upon a time I was a young boy who had looked from the windows of the house in Queen Anne’s Square, watched passers-by come and go and wondered about their business. Was there a little boy in this household watching me now, wondering who is this man?
Where has he come from? Where is he going?

  So I wandered along the railings at the front of the mansion and glanced down to see the lit windows of what I assumed were the servants’ quarters, only to be rewarded with the unmistakable silhouette of Betty appearing at the glass and drawing a curtain. I had the information I’d come for.

  I returned after midnight, when the drapes at the windows of the mansion were shut, the street was dark and the only lights were those fixed to the occasional passing carriage.

  Once again I made my way to the front of the house, and with a quick look left and right scaled the railings and dropped silently down into the gully on the other side. I scuttled along it until I found Betty’s window, where I stopped and very carefully placed my ear to the glass, listening for some moments until I was satisfied that there was no movement from within.

  And then, with infinite patience, I applied my fingertips to the bottom of the sash window and lifted, praying it wouldn’t squeak and, when my prayers were answered, letting myself in and closing the window behind me.

  In the bed she stirred slightly – at the breath of air from the open window perhaps; some unconscious sensing of my presence? Like a statue I stood and waited for her deep breathing to resume, and felt the air around me settle, my incursion absorbed into the room so that after a few moments it was as though I were a part of it – as though I had always been a part of it, like a ghost.

  And then I took out my sword.

  It was fitting – ironic, perhaps – that it should have been the sword given to me by my father. These days, I rarely go anywhere without it. Years ago, Reginald asked me when I expected it to taste blood, and it has, of course, many times. And if I was right about Betty, then it would once again.

  I sat on the bed and put the blade of the sword close to her throat, then clamped my hand over her mouth.