Assassin's Creed: Unity

by Oliver Bowden

  “It would take time,” I admitted.

  He pounced. “And that’s what you can do. You can bide your time. You can do more on the inside than you can on the outside.”

  “And they’ll know that. They’d have smiling faces and knives behind their backs.”

  “They won’t murder a peacemaker. The Order would think it dishonorable, and what they need above all is harmony within the Order. No. If you bring diplomacy, they’ll respond with diplomacy.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  He gave a small shrug. “No, but either way, I believe risking death that way is better than risking death your way.”

  I stood and glared down at him, this old man hunched over his crutches. “So that’s your advice, is it? Make peace with my father’s killers.”

  He looked up at me with eyes that were sad because we both knew there was only one way this could end.

  “It is,” he said. “As your adviser, that’s my advice.”

  “Then consider yourself dismissed,” I said.

  He nodded. “You want me to leave?”

  I shook my head. “No. I want you to stay.”

  It was I who left.

  2 APRIL 1794

  It was almost too painful to come here again, to the château in Versailles, but this was where Arno was staying, so this was where I came.

  At first I thought the information I’d been given must have been wrong because inside, the château was in the same—if not worse—condition than it had been when I was last here.

  Then again, something else I’d learned was that Arno had evidently taken his banishment from the Assassins badly and had gained something of a name for himself as the local drunk.

  “You look like hell,” I told him, when eventually I found him ensconced in my father’s office.

  Regarding me with tired eyes before his gaze slid away, he said, “You look like you want something from me.”

  “That’s a fine thing to say after you up and vanished.”

  He made a short scoffing sound. “You made it fairly clear my services were no longer required.”

  I felt my anger rise. “Don’t. Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

  “What do you want me to say, Élise? I’m sorry I didn’t leave you to die? Forgive me for caring more about you than killing Germain?”

  And yes, I suppose my heart did melt. Just a little. “I thought we wanted the same thing.”

  “What I wanted was you. It kills me knowing my carelessness got your father killed. Everything I’ve done has been to fix that mistake and to prevent its happening again.” He dropped his eyes. “You must have come here with something in mind. What was it?”

  “Paris is tearing itself apart,” I told him. “Germain has driven the Revolution to new heights of depravity. The guillotines operate nearly twenty-four hours a day now.”

  “And what do you expect me to do about it?”

  “The Arno I love wouldn’t have to ask that question,” I said.

  I waved a hand at the mess that had once been my father’s beloved office. It was in here that I had learned of my Templar destiny; in here I had been told of Arno’s Assassin lineage. Now, it was a hovel. “You’re better than this,” I said.

  “I’m going back to Paris—are you coming?”

  His shoulders slumped and for a moment I thought it was the end for Arno and me. With so many secrets poisoning the lake of our relationship, how could we ever be what we were? Ours was a love thwarted by the plans made for us by other people.

  But he stood, as though having made the decision. He raised his head and looked at me with bleary, hungover eyes that were nevertheless filled with renewed purpose.

  “Not yet,” he told me. “I can’t leave without taking care of La Touche.”

  Aloys La Touche was a new addition to our—or should I say “their”—Order. One of Germain’s appointments, he had joined the ranks of the Crows. Besides a kind of dull, burning hatred I felt for all of those close to Germain, I had no particular feelings for the man either way. Arno could kill him for all I cared. Even so.

  “Is this really necessary?” I asked him. “The longer we wait, the more likely Germain will slip through our fingers.”

  “He’s been grinding Versailles under his boot for months; I should have done something about this a long time ago.”

  He had a point.

  “All right. I’ll go see to our transportation. Stay out of trouble.”

  He looked at me. I grinned and amended my farewell. “Don’t get caught.”

  3 APRIL 1794

  “Things have changed a great deal since you left Paris,” I told him the next day as we took our places on a cart back to the city.

  “A great deal to be set right.” He nodded.

  “And we’re no closer to finding Germain.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” he said. “I have a name.”

  I looked at him. “Who?”

  “Robespierre.”

  Maximilien de Robespierre. Now there was a name to conjure with. The man they called “l’Incorruptible” was president of the Jacobins and the nearest France currently had to a ruler. Thus, he was a man who wielded enormous power.

  I said, “I think you’d better tell me what you know, don’t you?”

  “I’ve seen everything, Élise,” he said, his face crumpling as though unable to cope with the recollection.

  “What do you mean, ‘everything’?” I asked him carefully.

  “I mean—I see things. You remember when I killed Bellec? I saw things then. It’s how I was able to know what to do next.”

  I nodded, thinking about what my father had told me of Arno. It was as though he had believed Arno possessed special gifts. Something not quite . . . usual.

  “Tell me more,” I said, wanting him to open up but at the same time not wanting to speak to him.

  “You remember that I killed Sivert?”

  I pursed my lips, damping down a little surge of denial.

  “I had a vision then,” Arno continued. “I have had visions for them all, Élise. All of the targets—men and women with whom I have personal connection. I saw Sivert denied entrance to a Templar meeting by your father, the first seeds of his resentment toward your father; I saw Sivert approach the King of Beggars. I saw the pair of them attack your father.”

  “Two of them,” I spat.

  “Oh, your father fought bravely, and as I say, he managed to take out Sivert’s eye; indeed, he would most definitely have prevailed were it not for the intervention of the King of Beggars . . .”

  “You saw it happen?”

  “In the vision, yes.”

  “Which is how you knew that an initiation pin was used?”

  “Indeed.”

  I leaned into him.

  “This thing you do. How do you do it?”

  “Bellec said that some men are born with the ability, others can learn it over time through training.”

  “And you’re one of those born with it.”

  “It would seem so.”

  “What else?”

  “From the King of Beggars I learned that your father resisted his overtures. I saw Sivert offer him the pin, with talk of how his ‘master’ could help.”

  “His ‘master’? Germain?”

  “Exactly. Though I didn’t know that then. All I saw was a robed figure accepting the King of Beggars into your Order.”

  I thought of Mr. Weatherall with a pang of regret that we had parted on such bad terms, wishing I could share with him the fact that our theories had been correct.

  “The King of Beggars was rewarded for killing my father?” I said.

  “It would seem so. When I killed Madame Levesque I saw behind the Templars’ plans to raise the price of grain. I also witnessed your father expelling Germain from the Order. Germain invoked de Molay as they dragged him away. I saw Germain later approach Madame Levesque. I saw the Templars plotting to release information that would be dama
ging to the king.

  “Germain said that when the king was executed like a common criminal he could show the world the truth of Jacques de Molay.

  “I saw something else, too. I saw Germain introduce his Templar confederates to none other than Maximilien de Robespierre.”

  8 JUNE 1794

  i

  I could barely remember a time when the streets of Paris weren’t thronged with people. I had seen so many uprisings and executions, so much blood spilled on the streets. Now, on the Champ de Mars, the city had gathered again. But there was a different feeling in the air this time.

  Before, Parisians had come ready for battle, certainly prepared to kill, and prepared to die if need be; where before they had gathered to fill their nostrils with the smell of guillotine blood, now they came to celebrate.

  They were arranged in columns, with the men on one side, the women on the other. Many carried flowers, bouquets and branches of oak, and those who didn’t held flags aloft, and they filled the Champ de Mars, this huge park space, looking toward the man-made mountain at its center, on which they hoped to see their new leader.

  This, then, was the Festival of the Supreme Being, one of Robespierre’s ideas. While the other revolutionary factions wanted to dispense with religion altogether, Robespierre understood its power. He knew that the common man was attached to the idea of belief. How they wanted to believe in something.

  With many Republicans supporting what they were now calling “de-Christianisation,” Robespierre had had an idea. He had come up with the creation of a new creed. He had put forward the idea of a new, non-Christian deity: the Supreme Being. And last month announced the birth of a new state religion, with a decree that the “French people recognizes the existence of the Supreme Being and the immortality of the soul . . .”

  To convince the people what a great idea it was, he had come up with the idea of festivals. The Festival of the Supreme Being was the first one.

  What his real motives were, I had no idea. All I knew was that Arno had discovered something. Arno had discovered that Robespierre was Germain’s puppet. Whatever was happening here today had less to do with the needs of the general populace and more to do with furthering the aims of my former Templar associates.

  “We’ll never get close to him in the middle of all this,” observed Arno. “We had best retire and wait for a better opportunity.”

  “You’re still thinking like an Assassin,” I chided him. “This time, I have the plan.”

  He looked at me with raised eyebrows and I ignored his attempts at humorous disbelief.

  “Oh? And what plan is that?”

  “Think like a Templar.”

  There came the sound of artillery in the distance. The babble of the crowd died, then rose again as they readied themselves, and solemnly the two columns of people began moving toward the mount.

  There were thousands of them. They sang songs and called, “Viva Robespierre,” as they advanced on the mount. Everywhere the tricolor was held aloft, fluttering in a gentle breeze.

  As we approached I saw more and more of the white breeches and buttoned double-breasted jackets of the National Guard. Every one of them had a sword at his hip, most with muskets and bayonets too. They formed a barrier between the crowds and the mount from which Robespierre would deliver his address. We drew to a halt before them, waiting for the great speech to begin.

  “All right, what now?” asked Arno, appearing at my side.

  “Robespierre is unassailable, he’s got half the Guard out in force,” I said, indicating the men. “We’ll never get within yards of him.”

  Arno shot me a look. “Which is what I said.”

  Not far away from where we stood was a large tent, ringed by vigilant-looking National Guard. In there would be Robespierre.

  In there, Robespierre would no doubt be preparing himself for his great speech, like an actor before the show, ready to appear before the people as regal and presidential. Indeed, there was no doubt in anyone’s minds to whom the Supreme Being referred; I’d heard mumbles of it as we made our way inside the main arena. True, there was a celebratory mood in the air, with the singing, the laughter, the branches and bouquets we all held, but there was no shortage of dissension either, even if it was delivered at far lower volume.

  And that gave me an idea . . .

  “But he’s not as popular as he was,” I said to Arno. “The purges, this Supreme Being cult . . . All we have to do is discredit him.”

  Arno agreed. “And a massive public spectacle is the perfect venue.”

  “Exactly. Paint him as a dangerous lunatic and his power will evaporate like snow in April. All we need is some convincing evidence.”

  ii

  From the mount, Robespierre gave his speech. “The eternally happy day which the French people consecrates to the Supreme Being has finally arrived . . .” he began. The crowd lapped up his every word, and as I moved through the crowd I thought, He’s really doing it. He was really inventing a new God, and he meant for us all to worship it.

  “He did not create kings to devour the human species,” Robespierre said. “Neither did he create priests to harness us like brute beasts to the carriages of kings.”

  Truly this new God was a God fit for a revolution.

  Then he was finished and the crowd was roaring, perhaps even those naysayers caught up in the communal joy of the occasion. You had to hand it to Robespierre. For a country so divided we were at last calling with one voice.

  Arno, meanwhile, had found his way into Robespierre’s tent, looking for something we could use to incriminate our supreme leader. He reappeared bearing gifts, a letter I read, proving beyond a doubt Robespierre’s link to Germain.

  Monsieur Robespierre,

  Take care that you do not allow your personal ambitions to come before the Great Work. That which we do, we do not for our own glory, but to remake the world in de Molay’s image.

  G

  There was also a list. “A list of names—about fifty or so deputies of the National Convention,” said Arno. “All written in Robespierre’s hand and all opposed to him.”

  I chuckled. “I imagine those good gentlemen would be quite interested to know they’re on that list. But first . . .”

  I indicated a short distance away. “Monsieur Robespierre brought his own refreshments. Distract the guards for me. I have an idea.”

  iii

  We performed our tasks well. Arno had ensured that the list grabbed the attention of some of Robespierre’s fiercest critics; I, meanwhile, had drugged his wine.

  “What exactly was in that wine?” said Arno as we stood and waited for the show to begin—for Robespierre to make a speech under the influence of what I had slipped in his drink, which was . . .

  “Powdered ergot. In small doses it causes mania, slurred speech, even hallucinations.”

  Arno grinned. “Well, this should be interesting.”

  Indeed it had been. Robespierre had rambled and slurred his way through his speech, and when his adversaries challenged him about the list, he had no sensible answer.

  We left as Robespierre was clambering down from the mount accompanied by the boos and jeers of the crowd, probably confused by how the Festival could start so well and end quite so catastrophically.

  I wondered if he could sense the presence of hands behind the scenes, manipulating events. If he was Templar, he should be accustomed to it. Either way, the process of discrediting him had well and truly begun. We only needed to wait.

  27 JULY 1794

  i

  Reading that last entry back. “We only needed to wait.”

  Well, pah! A pox on it, as Mr. Weatherall would have said. It was the waiting that drove me insane.

  Alone, I whirled across the bare floors of the empty villa, sword in hand, practicing my swordplay, and I found myself looking for Mr. Weatherall, who would be sitting watching me with his crutches close to hand, telling me my stance was wrong, my footwork overcomplicated—“And
will you stop bloody showing off”—only he wasn’t there. I was alone. And I should know better, really, because alone was no good for me. Alone I pondered. I had too much time to wallow in my own thoughts and dwell on things.

  Alone I festered like an infected wound.

  All of which was part of the reason that today I lost sight of myself.

  ii

  It began with news that spurred me into action, then a meeting with Arno. Robespierre had been arrested, I told him. “Apparently he made vague threats about a purge against ‘enemies of the state’ and the Committee turned on him. He’s scheduled for execution in the morning.”

  We needed to see him before that, of course, but at the For-l’Évêque prison we found a scene of carnage. Dead men were everywhere, Robespierre’s escort slaughtered, but there was no sign of Robespierre himself. From a corner came a groan and Arno scrambled to kneel with a guard who lay half–sitting up against the wall, his chest sticky with blood. He reached to loosen the soldier’s clothes, find the wound and stop the bleeding. “What happened here?” he asked.

  I stepped closer, craning to hear the answer. As Arno struggled to help him live, I stepped over a puddle of his blood to bring my ear closer to his mouth.

  “Warden refused to take the prisoners,” coughed the dying man. “While we were waiting for orders, troops from the Paris Commune ambushed us. They took Robespierre and the other prisoners.”

  “Where?”

  “That way.” He pointed. “Can’t be going far. Half the city’s turned out against Robespierre.”

  “Merci.”

  And of course I should have helped tend to the man’s wounds. I should not have hastened away to find Robespierre. It was the wrong thing to do. It was bad.

  Even so, it was not as bad as what happened next.

  iii

  Robespierre had tried to escape, but as with many of his plans lately, it was thwarted by me and Arno. We reached him at the Hôtel de Ville, with the Convention troops moments away from bursting through the door.