Assassin's Creed: Heresy

by Christie Golden

  Rodrigo glanced at the clock. “What do you say the four of us knock off early so we can take Anaya out for a celebratory drink and dinner? We’ll leave your surprise going-away party for the actual day before your departure.”

  Anaya laughed. “I’m going to miss you all,” she said, “but honestly— a drink sounds absolutely brilliant right now.”

  “It’s a weeknight, fairly early—I’ll see if I can’t pull rank and grab us a table at Bella Cibo.”

  Somewhat to Anaya’s surprise, considering Bella Cibo was usually reserved for private parties or visiting CEOs and political figures, Rodrigo was indeed able to get them a table for four. It was next to the viewing window, no less. On warm summer days, the best seats in the house were on the balcony, where lucky diners had a marvelous view of the London Eye and the Palace of Westminster. Both sun and rain were held at bay by a long red-and-white striped awning. At this time of year, though, it was already starting to get dark, and the lights on the Eye formed a blue-white circle.

  The interior wasn’t hard on the eyes, either. Dark, polished wood and the strategic grouping of tables, small fountains, and ivy-encased pillars made the large space feel cozy. The chairs were simple, elegant, and comfortable, the tables black slate covered with white and red tablecloths.

  “On me tonight,” Rodrigo said to his team. “Order whatever you’d like. Well, except for the ’70 Barolo.” Anaya found it on the twenty-plus page wine list and her eyes widened. A thousand pounds a bottle? It was no wonder she’d never even thought about darkening the door.

  “Oh, I think house red will do smashingly,” she said, trying not to squeak.

  “Well, well,” Andrew said, “we’re in fine company. Guess who just walked in the door?”

  Anaya looked up. It was Alan Rikkin. She’d met him exactly once, when he’d come to “inspect” the workings of the team. It had consisted of him smiling and shaking their hands, listening politely to Rodrigo, and telling them in that silky voice to keep up the good work before he and Rodrigo went into an office for an hour.

  Rodrigo had emerged looking about ten years older, and by close of business there had been a round of layoffs. To this day, her boss had never told her what had happened. She’d thought of Rikkin as charming but cold, and she had been just as glad that their paths hadn’t crossed.

  Now the head of Abstergo Industries stood in his Savile Row suit speaking politely to the maître d’, who promptly ushered him and his companion off to a private room.

  Anaya blinked and frowned. “What is it?” Max asked.

  “Nothing. Just… one never really imagines one would be in the same restaurant as him, that’s all,” she said quickly. But Anaya’s eyes continued to follow Rikkin and the athletic woman with the pixie haircut. She did not look happy.

  Anaya turned back to her companions, making a crack about tinned spaghetti, and then the wine came and everyone forgot about the Alan Rikkin sighting.

  Everyone except Anaya, who was wondering why the hell Victoria Bibeau was dining privately with Alan Rikkin.

  Simon leaned against the comfortable leather upholstery of the company car, glad he’d let Victoria talk him into getting a driver, and checked his phone. Only one text, from Anaya:

  GOT IT!!!!

  Simon found himself smiling, genuinely glad she’d found something that made her happy. She certainly hadn’t been able to find it with him. He knew he should reply, but a wave of tiredness washed over him. I’ll text her in the morning, he thought. He closed his eyes and let the driver bear him to his flat in Kensington.

  The dreams were unsettling, vivid, drenched with color. At one point Simon woke up—or thought he did—to hear the driver speaking on his phone in what sounded like Latin. The symbols and the Latin carvings Gabriel had seen crowded his mind’s eye, and he smiled a little to himself and then drifted back into sleep before he came to full wakefulness.

  “Sir?”

  Simon bolted upright, his heart pounding, only to discover the driver looking at him worriedly. He realized he had clenched his fists.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, forcing his hands open. “Bad dream.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for a holiday,” the driver joked.

  “Maybe so,” Simon said, thinking how lovely a dive in warm Caribbean waters would be right about now. Then, feeling slightly stupid, he asked, “Don’t suppose you know Latin?”

  “Me, sir?” The driver laughed. “My father used to say, ‘Latin is a dead language, dead as it can be. First—’”

  “First it killed the Romans, now it’s killing me.” Simon finished the joke that was about as old as the Romans themselves. “Quite right. I don’t speak the bloody language either. Part of a dream, I imagine.”

  “Definitely time for a holiday,” the driver said, and they both laughed. The driver added apologetically, “You look a bit pale, sir, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. Do you need any help getting to your flat?”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary.” How bad did he look? Food first, then a long, hot shower, and then sleep. Simon desperately hoped he wouldn’t dream about hearing Latin again. He tipped the man generously, thanked him for his concern, and entered the building.

  He didn’t recognize the doorman who greeted him politely, but then again, he’d never been back to his flat this early before. The thought was mildly depressing. He nodded at the man and got into the lift.

  Simon had a lovely flat, but he seldom saw it by daylight. It was filled with all the things he loved—books, statuary, antique furniture—along with the best in modern conveniences. He phoned his favorite Indian restaurant, placed an order, and was told it would be ready in a half hour. Plenty of time for his favorite modern convenience—a scalding hot shower.

  He turned it on and let the water wash away the sweat and tension of the day, closing his eyes and letting the droplets beat against his scalp and back. Simon tried not to panic as he realized they only had five days left of Rikkin’s original deadline. Mentally, he began composing the e-mail he intended to send first thing tomorrow.

  He’s got to give us time, Simon thought. He’s got to see how valuable this is, how I can’t just barrel through it.

  The bathroom was steamy when he stepped out. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he reached for his razor and shaving mug, then wiped the mirror clean of fog.

  Gabriel Laxart’s face stared back at him.

  Simon squeezed his eyes shut, counted to ten, and opened them. His own face, intimately familiar from over three decades of inspection, reflected back to him. It was flushed from the heat to a falsely healthy ruddiness. His cheekbones, always angular, now appeared to want to jut right through his skin, and his pale blue eyes were bloodshot with deep circles. No wonder he’d passed out earlier; no wonder, either, that he’d dreamed, ridiculously, of a chauffeur chatting comfortably in Latin.

  Part of him said, You can’t keep this up much longer. But the rest of him, the historian, the Templar, the part of Simon Hathaway that was all that was left of Gabriel Laxart, had the blunt, implacable response.

  You don’t have a choice.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  DAY 4

  Benjamin Clarke was waiting for Anaya when she arrived fifteen minutes early. She shook her head mentally as she regarded him, thinking, They just keep getting younger. Benjamin looked about, oh, twelve, but he had worked for two years with Abstergo in addition to obtaining undergraduate and a master’s degree in mathematics from MIT, although he’d done both in four years. So he wasn’t really that much younger.

  He was about average height, with straight brown hair and an open, eager face that looked even more excited-puppyish as he spotted her and stuck out his hand.

  “Good morning! You’re Miss Chodary, right? I’m Benjamin Clarke, but call me Ben. Unless they don’t do first names here?”

  Anaya had always found American accents to be oddly endearing. She thought it made them sound innocent and vulnerable, traits t
hey likely detested given their opinion of themselves as scrappy, independent sorts. Ben’s accent suited him—much more so than his tie, which he kept fidgeting with.

  “Hello, Ben, it’s nice to meet you.” His handshake was firm, but not crushing, and just a tad bit sweaty. “And yes, we do use first names here, except when you’re talking to the higher-ranking execs. So please call me Anaya.”

  “Call her Ny, she hates that,” Andrew offered. “Hello, Ben, I’m Andrew.”

  “Oh, hi,” Ben said. He couldn’t seem to stop smiling and pumped Andrew’s hand eagerly.

  “Come on in,” Anaya invited. “You came very highly recommended. Salutatorian at MIT, well done!”

  “Tell that to my mom,” Ben replied with an eye roll. “She still complains every Thanksgiving that I didn’t make valedictorian.”

  “Ah, well, we can’t always please our mums,” Anaya replied. “Come on. Drop your things in the office and I’ll show you ‘round.”

  ***

  Victoria’s eyebrows reached for her hairline as Simon slid into a seat opposite her at Temp’s. She had already ordered a pot of tea for him and he poured it with a shaky hand.

  “I thought I told you to rest,” she said bluntly.

  “I did. Eventually.”

  “Simon—”

  He looked up, angry. “Don’t. Just… don’t. I didn’t drive, I took a shower, I ate, I wrote the e-mail, and I went to bed. And obviously overslept.”

  She blanched. “You didn’t send—”

  “No, I didn’t send the bloody e-mail. Again, I followed doctor’s orders.”

  He sloshed some milk into his tea and sipped at it. The familiar metallic taste worked its magic, as it always did, although it had started to cool. He reached for some toast. Victoria remained quiet.

  A tall blonde woman came over. “Is the tea quite hot enough, sir?” she asked.

  “Just fine, thanks,” he replied absently. When she nodded and left, he said quietly, “Sorry I bit your head off.”

  “I’ve heard worse. I’m just worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll be fine once we talk to Rikkin.” Victoria looked down at her plate. Slowly, Simon lowered his toast. “Oh, what now?”

  “I called his secretary to make an appointment. Unfortunately, Mr. Rikkin will not be available at all today. He’s got back-to-back meetings in preparation for his trip to Spain.”

  Simon dropped the knife onto the plate with an annoyed gesture. It clattered. A few other customers turned to look their way. “Well, that’s just brilliant, isn’t it?”

  “We can still send the e-mail. He might find a window where he’ll have a few moments to look at it.”

  Simon removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose for a long moment. “Fair enough,” he said, putting his specs back on. “Let’s hurry up and eat. I’m more than ready to get to work.”

  “What exactly will the sword do?” Gabriel asked as he bit into a chunk of butter-slathered bread. He had wanted to leave immediately upon the discovery of the sword, but the town insisted they stay while they cleaned the sword and made a sheath for it.

  “Each artifact is different. Unique. All the swords are, of course, functional weapons. Anyone can swing it in battle and it will do what a sword should do. But in the right hands….” De Metz shook his head as he cut a piece of cheese with his knife. “In Jeanne’s hands… who knows?”

  Gabriel’s mind reeled. “It’s like magic,” he breathed.

  “Like magic, but it isn’t,” de Metz reminded him. “To the rest of the world—yes, it is magic, or something divine. But it’s no more magical than an astrolabe, or Greek fire, or gunpowder.”

  Jean de Metz had accepted the sword from Father Michel before it had been spirited away to be lovingly cleaned, holding it up to great cheers from those who had watched the unearthing process. While to Gabriel’s eyes the sword still glowed, its radiance didn’t change. De Metz had offered it to Gabriel. At first he had hesitated, but at last he reached out, folding nervous fingers about the hilt.

  He had felt nothing. It isn’t for me, he had thought. Mine are not the right hands. Nor are de Metz’s.

  “We’ll make use of the days we’re stuck here by continuing your training,” de Metz said.

  “Good,” Gabriel said. “And what did you mean, you would stay with Jeanne unless you were ordered away? I thought you were supposed to take care of her. Us.” It was such an odd thing to say. To even think, or feel.

  De Metz hesitated. “Our Brotherhood is not like the Templars. We value individuality, and do our own thinking. But even so, we have ranks, and we have orders, and we defy them at our peril. Our leader is our Mentor, and the Mentor’s task for me was to see if someone like Jeanne would cross my path—and to get her in front of the Dauphin if she did.”

  “You… your Mentor was expecting Jeanne?”

  “Someone like her,” de Metz said. “Just like so-called legendary swords exits, so too are prophecies often correct. We didn’t want to miss the Maid if she came knocking. Which she did—right on de Baudricourt’s door. Assassins like myself have been stationed in various places, waiting. I just happened to be the lucky one who found her. You,” he said, grinning, “were a happy accident. A bonus, shall we say.”

  “But… if you are sent away, or if something happens to you—”

  “There are others who would complete your training.”

  “Who?”

  “They would find you, don’t worry.” Again, he hesitated. “Jeanne… is not just important politically. I hope you know that. I care very much what happens to her. And I can think of no better hands than yours for her to be in.”

  “She has God,” Gabriel demurred, feeling his face grow hot. “She doesn’t need me.”

  “We all need someone,” de Metz said. “Even—perhaps especially—if we have God.”

  De Metz wasted no time in beginning the promised training. No sooner had they finished their meal than he had ordered Gabriel to change into his armor and bring his sword. This time, it was easier than it had been. By the end of the day, Jean de Metz was the one whose arms trembled as they brought up the sword and shield.

  Simon was glad that he was a regular and vigorous exerciser, but just the same, he was grateful his flat had a deep soaking tub. Now that the Animus enabled the subject to move according to the memory’s stipulations, he would be sore as hell.

  The mists of the Memory Corridor closed in around him, and he asked Victoria, “I’m sure I’ll have the body of an Adonis after all these workouts, but honestly, why am I here?”

  Well, you have an idea of how the Animus works, she told him. I’ve put in an algorithm for it to show us anything particularly useful about your Assassin training.

  “I can’t tell you how disgusted I am to hear those three words in that order.”

  I… can tell you that everything is a little more gray than you think, Simon. The Assassins have done a few admirable things in their day.

  “Heresy,” muttered Simon, but without any real rancor. The mists reformed again, and this time he stood with de Metz in a copse of trees. Most were pines, but there was a single massive old oak. He wrapped his horse’s reins around one of the pine trees and nodded that Gabriel do the same. Then he opened the saddlebag and handed Gabriel a small hand axe.

  “Cut pine boughs,” he said. “A lot of them. And make sure they’re young and have lots of needles.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll see why soon enough. Don’t question your training.” De Metz grinned. He was clearly enjoying the mystery. Gabriel shrugged and began cutting off pine boughs. Every time he thought they had cut enough, de Metz just shook his head and said, “More. Trust me, you’ll thank me.”

  Finally, they had accumulated a large collection of boughs beneath the big oak tree. De Metz inspected it, piling it up here, making it wider and longer there, then he nodded.

  Then, to Gabriel’s shock, he leaped up into the tree and
shinnied up it like he was a squirrel. Gabriel’s jaw dropped. He was fast! And brave—now and then he seemed to put his weight on a branch that seemed no wider than his finger.

  And he didn’t stop. He kept going, up and up and up, until Gabriel could barely see him.

  “Now,” de Metz shouted, “Watch, and learn.”

  He jumped.

  Gabriel wasn’t sure, but he thought he cried out in horror. De Metz spread his arms, as if, like the Lord and Savior, he too was on a cross, and arched his back slightly. Then he bent his head and rolled over in mid-air, so that he was on his back when he crashed down into the pile of tree branches. He emerged grinning and smelling of pine.

  “You’re mad!” yelped Gabriel.

  “No,” de Metz said, grinning, “I’m an Assassin. We’re all able to do this, with a little bit of practice. We call it the Leap of Faith. It comes in very handy when you’re on the roof of a tall building. Even more useful if someone’s chasing you atop said roof. Much faster than climbing back down. Come on, it’s your turn.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh come now, it’s barely seventy feet. I’ve made jumps from buildings two, three times this tall.”

  “I suppose you’ll tell me it’s all in the fall,” Gabriel said.

  “No, it’s all in your blood, Gabriel. You should be flattered. We very rarely teach this to those who aren’t full members of the Brotherhood. If you’re that much of a coward, we can start from a lower branch.”

  Gabriel flushed. “No, it’s fine, it’s just….” He muttered under his breath and started climbing.

  “Keep going,” called de Metz. Gabriel found himself surprised at how comfortable he was, how he seemed to know which branch would bear his weight. He made good time, and sooner than he had expected he had arrived at the place where de Metz had stood when he leaped. Grasping the branches firmly, he risked a look down. The pile of pine boughs looked very small indeed, and he recalled de Metz saying Gabriel would be glad of every single one he’d cut. The Assassin was absolutely correct.