The time had come for Ethan to leave Amritsar, but there was something troubling him and he had called a meeting of the family, the outcome of which was to send shockwaves through the Mir family.
At this meeting Arbaaz had been expecting Ethan to announce that Jayadeep was ready to embark upon the next stage of his education – in the field.
However …
‘I don’t think he’s ready,’ said Ethan bluntly without ceremony or warning.
Arbaaz broke bread and smiled. ‘Then you cannot leave, Ethan. That was our agreement.’
The two men had shared great adventures. They talked of the Koh-i-Noor diamond. How Arbaaz had retrieved it. Sometimes Jayadeep’s mother would be present and all three would reminisce. Names like Alexander Burnes and William Sleeman meant nothing to Jayadeep, but to his parents they were a doorway to another world of exciting memories.
‘I’ve already sent word. They expect me home and I intend to honour the commitment I’ve made to them. I will return, Arbaaz, of that you can be sure.’
‘Then I fail to understand. Our agreement was that you should train Jayadeep until he was ready for the field.’
The boy had sat beside his mother feeling invisible as they discussed him without acknowledging his presence. It wasn’t exactly an unknown occurrence; the more important the issue, the less likely he was to have a say. He had never been consulted on his future, nor would he expect to be; it was simply a matter of fact that until further notice he had no say in matters involving his own destiny.
‘You’re going to have to enlighten me, my old friend,’ said Arbaaz. ‘Throughout your years here you have assured me that Jayadeep is one of the most talented young Assassins you have ever encountered, which we all know means you think Jayadeep is the most talented Assassin you have ever encountered. And why not! He was tutored first by me and then by your good self. I’ve seen for myself that he has no lack of skill, and unless you’ve been honey-coating my ears all this time, you think so too, and yet now, on the eve of your departure, comes this news the boy isn’t ready. You must excuse my confusion. In what way is this highly trained, consummately skilled boy whose mentor is about to embark for home not ready? And more to the point, why?’
A note of angry irritation was evident in his father’s voice, which had risen as he delivered his speech. Even a breadcrumb clinging obstinately to his bottom lip did nothing to diminish his formidable look. Jayadeep shrank back. Even his mother appeared concerned.
Only Ethan was unperturbed, returning Arbaaz’s daunting stare with an unfathomable gaze of his own.
‘It’s true that the boy has astonishing natural skill. It’s true that I have been able to mould that natural talent into Assassinship of a greater-than-usual standard. For my own part, I have learnt much from the boy, which is partly the reason I intend to leave for home and have no intention of deviating from that path, no matter how many breadcrumbs you spit at me, old friend.’
Arbaaz, abashed, wiped his mouth and when his hand came away it revealed the very beginnings of a smile. ‘So why then?’ he asked. No, demanded. ‘Why leave us at this crucial time, when there is still so much to teach the boy?’
Ethan’s smile wasn’t so much a smile as a look of kindness and concern that reached his lips as well as his eyes. A look that he passed first to the parents and then to the boy.
‘He lacks the killer instinct. The boy can kill and no doubt will, but he lacks something we have, you and I, or perhaps he has something we lack.’
Arbaaz tilted his chin, colour rising. ‘Are you saying my boy’s a coward?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Arbaaz,’ huffed an exasperated Ethan. ‘No, of course I’m bloody not. It’s a matter of disposition. If you put this boy in the field, he will either fail or …’
‘I won’t,’ said Jayadeep suddenly, surprising even himself, anticipating a scolding, maybe even a more painful punishment for this sudden unwarranted and uninvited outburst.
Instead his father looked proudly at him, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder in a gesture that made Jayadeep’s heart swell with pride.
Ethan ignored him. He had turned his attention to Pyara. ‘There is no shame in this,’ he told her, and he could see the softness in her eyes, the secret hope that maybe just maybe her family might at long last be free of bloodshed. ‘He can serve the Brotherhood in other ways. What a mentor he will be. A master tactician. A policymaker. A great leader. And somebody has to be these things. Jayadeep can be these things. Just not … never … a warrior.’
Arbaaz could contain himself no longer. Pyara, calm and resolute, accustomed to the sight of her husband in full flight, remained implacable as he exploded with rage. ‘Jayadeep, my son, will be a great warrior, Frye. He will be a master Assassin, a mentor of the Indian Brotherhood …’
‘He can still …’
‘Not unless he has proven himself in combat. As a warrior. As an Assassin.’
Ethan shook his head. ‘He is not ready and, Arbaaz, I’m sorry if it breaks your heart but in my opinion he never will be.’
‘Ah,’ said Arbaaz, rising and shepherding Jayadeep. Pyara surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye as she too stood, loyal, despite her torn emotions. ‘There we have it, Ethan. It is just your opinion. What do you think, Jay, shall we prove our English friend wrong?’
And Jayadeep, the boy who would one day be The Ghost, was not even ten years old but who so desperately wanted to please Arbaaz because his father was his king, said, ‘Yes, Father.’
11
Text of a letter from Ethan Frye to Arbaaz Mir, decoded from the original:
Dear Arbaaz,
Six years have passed since I left India to return home here to England. Six years since we last spoke, my old friend. And far, far too long.
In the meantime I have learnt to mourn the loss of my beloved wife, Cecily, and do so in a manner of which she would have approved, which is to say that I have set aside my former resentment in order to build a relationship with our two children, Evie and Jacob. I regret that I ever considered them responsible for my loss; I have done my best to make reparations for the lost years of their childhood.
It was the years spent with your extraordinary son, Jayadeep, that galvanized me, and for that I am eternally grateful to you both. Jayadeep set me on a path of enlightenment that made me re-evaluate my thinking. I’m sorry to say, Arbaaz, that it has only strengthened my resolve regarding the matter that drove a wedge between us all those years ago, and now prompts me to make contact once again.
I should explain. As Assassins we are instilled with a certain philosophy. Unlike the Templars who divide the world’s inhabitants into shepherds and sheep, we see millions of bright spots: intelligent, feeling beings, each with their own potential and capable of working within a greater whole.
Or so we like to think. These days I wonder. Do we always put this philosophy into practice? When we train our young Assassins we put swords into their hands when they have only just learnt to walk. We teach values passed down the generations, sculpting the child into a creature of preconception and discrimination and, above all, in our particular case, a killer.
What we are doing is right. Please don’t read into this an expression of ideological doubt on my behalf, for I have never been more firm in my beliefs that the Brotherhood stands for what is right in this world. My doubt, dear Arbaaz, lies in the application of that ideology, and this doubt is what keeps me awake at night, wondering if we fail our children by moulding them into our image, when, in fac
t, we should be teaching them to follow a path of their own. I wonder, are we merely paying lip service to the very principles we espouse?
With my own children I have attempted to take an alternative path to the one I have always followed in the past, and different to the one I tried to follow with Jayadeep. Rather than indoctrinating them, I have instead strived to give them the tools with which to teach themselves.
It pleases me that their trajectory follows my own. As you know, in London, the Assassin presence is long since depleted. Our Brotherhood is weak here, while the Templars, under the command of their Grand Master, Crawford Starrick, continue to thrive; indeed, news has reached us that our enemy’s infiltration into the city’s elite is even more pronounced than we feared. They have plans afoot, of that there is no doubt. Big plans. And one day, when they are ready, Jacob and Evie will join the struggle against them.
When they are ready. Note that well, Arbaaz. I allowed them to find their own path, and I have abided by the principle that they should only call themselves fully fledged Assassins when I know them to be as mentally capable of fulfilling the task as they are physically. I do this in the knowledge that we are all individuals, some of us suited to one direction, some to another. Assassins we may be in name, yet not all of us can be ‘assassins’ in nature.
And so it is with Jayadeep. I understand how heartbreaking it must be for you. He is, after all, your son. You yourself are a great Assassin and he has the potential to be one. However, what I know for sure is that though he may be skilled and talented in the means of dealing death, Jayadeep lacks the heart to do so.
He will kill. Yes, he will kill, if needs be. In a heartbeat if it were in defence of himself or of those he loves. But I wonder, will he do so in the name of an ideology? Will he do so for the creed?
Will he do so in cold blood?
Which brings me to the timing of my letter. The troubling news has reached me that Jayadeep is to embark upon his first real-world assignment. An assassination.
Firstly, I must say how much I appreciate that you took my concerns of six years ago seriously enough to delay his blooding until after his seventeenth birthday. For this I am grateful, and commend you for your wisdom and restraint. However, it is my view that Jayadeep lacks the core resolve needed for such an act – and nor will he ever attain it.
Simply put, he is different to you and me. Perhaps different to Jacob and Evie. Further, it is my belief – and a belief that is entirely consistent with the core values of the Brotherhood – that we should embrace what is different about him. We should celebrate that individuality and turn it to good use for the Brotherhood, rather than try to deny it and mould it into rough and awkward shapes.
To put it another way, by sending Jayadeep into action, you are inviting something far worse than your (imagined, if I may say so) disgrace that your son cannot follow in your own esteemed footsteps, in favour of a much, much more profound disgrace: abject failure.
I beg of you, please, retire him from this assignation, take a fresh view of him, utilize the best of your extraordinary son’s abilities for the good of the Brotherhood rather than depending on the worst.
I hope to hear your decision by return, and I pray that you show the same wisdom and restraint for which I have already commended you. You have trusted me in the past; please, Arbaaz, trust me again.
Yours, as ever,
Ethan Frye
London
12
Letter to Ethan Frye from Arbaaz Mir, decoded from the original:
Ethan, I thank you for your correspondence. However, I regret that you chose to build bridges over such turbulent waters. There is no debate to be had regarding Jayadeep’s abilities as an Assassin. You gave him the skills, I in the interim have provided him with the moral fibre necessary to put them into practice. You’re fond of putting things simply, Ethan, so I shall do so now: it is six long years since you last saw Jayadeep and you are no longer in a position to make judgements concerning his suitability as an Assassin. He has changed, Ethan. He has developed and grown. I am confident he is ready for his blooding, and he will indeed carry out the assassination as planned. His target is a low-ranking Templar whose termination is a necessity in order to warn our enemies that their increased presence in India shall not be tolerated. I apologize if these next words appeared to be a jibe against you and George Westhouse in London, Ethan, but we are keen that the Templars should not gain a foothold here as they did in London, for we know where that leads.
I thank you for your correspondence, Ethan. I hope and trust that the foundations of our relationship are secure enough that this need not be the end of a great friendship for you and me. However, I have made my decision, and just as you abide by your own principles, I must abide by mine.
Yours, as ever,
Arbaaz Mir
Amritsar
13
Internal dispatch sent to George Westhouse of London, decoded from the original:
Please relay immediately to Ethan Frye: Jayadeep Mir in The Darkness.
14
The door closed behind them. Torches bolted to the walls lit stone steps down to a second door.
Ahead of Ethan was the meeting-room custodian, Ajay. Like Ethan, his cowl covered his head as though to acknowledge the grim nature of their business here in this dark, cold and unforgiving place. In addition, Ajay wore a curved sword at his belt and Ethan had caught a glimpse of his hidden blade as he opened the door. Yes, Ajay would do his duty if needs be. With regret, for sure, but he would do it.
They called this place The Darkness. A series of small chambers beneath Amritsar’s main Brotherhood meeting room. Nominally the rooms were designated for document storage or as an armoury, but their crepuscular atmosphere and cell-like design ensured rumours constantly swirled around about what might have taken place there in the past: plots hatched, enemies interrogated. It was even said that a baby had been born in The Darkness, though few gave the story much credibility.
Today, however, The Darkness would earn its reputation. Today The Darkness had a guest.
Ajay led Ethan through a second fortified door and into a dimly lit stone corridor beyond, doors lining either side. At the passage end, he unlocked a door inset with nothing but a tiny viewing hole, then stood to one side, bowing slightly to allow his visitor inside. Ethan stepped over the threshold into a small chamber that, whatever its previous function, had been repurposed as a cell, complete with a wooden cot.
Out of respect for Ethan, Ajay laid his lantern at the Assassin’s feet before withdrawing and closing the door behind him. And then, as light glowed on the forbidding dark stone of the room, Ethan gazed upon his former pupil for the first time in over six years, and his heart broke afresh to see him laid so low.
Jayadeep sat cross-legged in a corner among the dirty straw that covered the cell floor. He’d been here for weeks, while Ethan had made the lengthy crossing from England to India. As a result, his new living quarters were none too fresh and he’d no doubt been in better health too, but even so Ethan was struck by the boy’s looks. In the intervening years he had matured into a handsome young man, with intense, piercing eyes, dark hair that he would occasionally reach to brush from his eyes, and flawless chestnut-coloured skin. He’ll break some hearts, thought Ethan, gazing at him from the doorway.
First things first, though.
The Assassin put a fist to his nose and mouth, as
much to replace the stink of the cell with the familiar scent of his own skin as to register his dismay at his former pupil’s predicament. The possibility that he himself could have done more to prevent the situation sharpened his regret, and the look in Jayadeep’s eyes as he turned his gaze from contemplating his lap to finding his old tutor in the doorway, a penetrating, heart-wrenching stare of gratitude, relief, sorrow and shame, only sharpened it further.
‘Hello, master,’ said Jayadeep simply.
It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but Ethan took a seat beside Jayadeep, the two men together again, circumstances so different this time, the smell of jasmine a memory of an ancient and now unattainable past.
Ethan reached a hand to pluck at the rags Jayadeep wore. ‘They stripped you of your robes then?’
Jayadeep gave a rueful look. ‘There’s a little more to it than that.’
‘In that case, how about we start with you telling me what happened?’
The boy gave a short, sad snort. ‘You mean you don’t already know?’
Ethan had arrived in Amritsar to find the Brotherhood in mild disarray, a more than usually visible presence as they worked to nullify the repercussions of what had taken place. So, yes, of course he knew the story. But even so …
‘I’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth, as it were.’
‘It’s difficult for me to talk about.’
‘Please try.’
Jayadeep sighed. ‘Your training had shaped my mind and body into a series of responses and reactions, into combinations of attack and defence, calculations, forecast and prognostication. I was ready to go into action in all but one respect. You were right, master, I lacked the heart. Tell me, how did you know?’
Ethan said, ‘If I were to say to you that it all came down to the difference between a wooden training kukri and the real thing, would you believe me?’
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