‘Let’s see her,’ I said, and with a short nod, Reginald agreed. He turned and led us through the door, which opened on to a flight of stone steps leading down. Light danced on the walls.
‘Regarding the journal, we’re close now, Haytham,’ he said as we descended. ‘So far, we’ve been able to establish that there exists an amulet. Somehow it fits with the storehouse. If we can get hold of the amulet …’
At the bottom of the steps, iron cressets on poles had been set out to light the way to a door, where a guard stood. He moved to one side and opened the door for us to pass through. Inside, the cellar was as I remembered it, lit by the flickering light of torches. At one end was a desk. It was bolted to the floor and Lucio was manacled to it, and beside him was his mother, who was an incongruous sight. She sat on a chair that looked as though it had been brought into the cellar from upstairs especially for the purpose. She was wearing long skirts and a buttoned-up blouse and would have looked like a churchgoer were it not for the rusting iron restraints around her wrists and the arms of the chair, and especially the scold’s bridle around her head.
Lucio swivelled in his seat, saw me and his eyes burned with hatred, then he turned back to his work.
I had stopped in the middle of the floor, halfway between the door and the code-breakers. ‘Reginald, what is the meaning of this?’ I said, pointing at Lucio’s mother, who regarded me balefully from within the scold’s bridle.
‘The branks is temporary, Haytham. Monica has been somewhat vocal in her condemnation of our tactics this morning. Hence we have moved them here for the day.’ He raised his voice to address the code-breakers, ‘I’m sure they can return to their usual residence tomorrow, when they have recovered their manners.’
‘This is not right, Reginald.’
‘Their usual quarters are much more pleasant, Haytham,’ he assured me testily.
‘Even so, they should not be treated this way.’
‘Neither should the poor child in the Black Forest have been scared half to death with your blade at his throat,’ snapped Reginald.
I started, my mouth working but lost for words. ‘That was … That was …’
‘Different? Because it involved your quest to find your father’s killers? Haytham …’ He took my elbow and led me out of the cellar and back out into the corridor, and we began to climb the steps again. ‘This is even more important than that. You may not think so, but it is. It involves the entire future of the Order.’
I wasn’t sure any more. I wasn’t sure what was more important, but said nothing.
‘And what happens when the decoding is over?’ I asked as we reached the entrance hall once again.
He looked at me.
‘Oh no,’ I said, understanding. ‘Neither is to be harmed.’
‘Haytham, I don’t much care for you giving me orders …’
‘Then don’t think of it as an order,’ I hissed. ‘Think of it as a threat. Keep them here when their work is over if you must, but if they are harmed then you will have me to answer to.’
He looked at me long and hard. I realized that my heart was hammering and hoped to God it wasn’t somehow visible. Had I ever gone against him like this? With such force? I didn’t think so.
‘Very well,’ he said, after a moment, ‘they will not be harmed.’
We spent dinner in near-silence, and the offer of a bed for the night was made reluctantly. I leave in the morning; Reginald promises to be in touch with news concerning the journal. The warmth between us, though, is gone. In me, he sees insubordination; in him, I see lies.
18 April 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 rescuing 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 lays 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 continu
e 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 July 1754
i
Boston twinkled in the sun as squawking gulls circled overhead, water slapped noisily at the harbour wall and the gangplank 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 powder keg, 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 had 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 dock workers, traders and redcoats, excited children and dogs scuttling underfoot.
I tipped my hat to a pair of 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 hard-working. 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 he’s yet to reach America, and I figured I might … well … at least until he arrives … 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 yoursel
f.’
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 paperboy 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. When he did arrive in America, that’s where he’d be heading, leaving me to go about my own business – or so I hoped.
I waved away the paperboy 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.
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