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 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, color 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 proud of 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 too. 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, who was not even ten years old but so desperately wanted to please his father because his father was his king, said, “Yes, Father.”
ELEVEN
Letter from Ethan Frye to Arbaaz Mir, decoded from the original.
Dear Arbaaz,
Six years have passed since I left India in order 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 learned 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 reevaluate 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 learned to walk. We instill in them philosophies and values that are not their own but 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 molding them into our image, when in fact 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, Jacob and Evie, I have attempted to take an alternative path to the one I have always followed in the past, and different from 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 suited 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 defense 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 the time of his fifteenth 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 from you and me. Perhaps different from 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 mold 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 favor 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
TWELVE
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 fiber 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 judgments 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 appear to be a gibe 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
THIRTEEN
Internal dispatch sent to George Westhouse of London, decoded from the original.
Please relay immediately to Ethan Frye: Jayadeep Mir in The Darkness.
FOURTEEN
The door closed behind them. Torches bolted to the walls lit stone steps down to a second door, the dungeon portal.
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 armory, but their crepuscular atmosphere and cell-like design ensured rumors constantly swirled around what might have taken place there in the past: plots hatched, enemies interrogated. It was said that even 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 tiny chamber which, 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 floor. He’d been here for weeks, while Ethan 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 reach to brush from his eyes, and flawless chestnut-colored 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; the look in Jayadeep’s eyes as he turned his gaze from contemplating his lap to find his old tutor in the doorway, a penetrating, heartwrenching 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 pull 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 your 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 defense, 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?”
“I would think it was part of the story. But just part.”
“You would be right, Jayadeep. For the truth is that I saw in your eyes something I have seen in the eyes of men I killed; men whose very own lack of heart in combat was a weakness I recognized and exploited in order to plunge my blade into them.”
“And you thought you saw it in me?”
“I did. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
“We thought you were wrong. Father believed I could be instilled with the mettle needed to be a killer. He set about showing me the way. We practiced and rehearsed with live subjects.”
“Putting an animal to the sword is very different from—”
“I know that now.” The words came out sharply. A little of the old master-pupil interaction returned and Jayadeep lowered fearful eyes in apology. “I know that now, Master, and believe me I regret it.”
“But you and Arbaaz felt that you were ready to take the life of one of your own species, to take from a man everything he ever was and everything he ever will be; to leave his family grieving, to begin a wave of sadness and sorrow and possible revenge and recrimination that might ripple throughout the ages? You and your father felt you were ready for that?”
“Please, Master, don’t make this more difficult for me. Yes, you are right, in the face of what you say, our preparations might seem dreadfully feeble, but then again what Assassin can claim differently? Everything is theory until it is put into practice. And my turn came to put theory into practice. For my blooding I was to kill an Indian Templar by the name of Tjinder Dani. A man we believed was making plans to establish a Templar outpost in the city.”
“And what was to be the method of his execution?”
“The garrotte.”
Inwardly, Ethan cursed. A garrotte. Of all things. You didn’t need a huge amount of skill to use a garrotte, but you needed resolve, and what Jayadeep had was plenty of skill but not so much resolve. What the hell was Arbaaz thinking?
Jayadeep continued. “Under cover of darkness, Father and I rode o
ut to the street where Dani kept his lodgings. One of our agents had bribed a night watchman for the key, and in the street we took possession of it, thanked and paid the man and sent him on his way.”
A witness, thought Ethan. It gets better.
“I know what you’re thinking. I could have picked the lock.”
“You are an excellent picklock.”
“The information given to us by the agent was that the Templar Dani was expecting an attack and thus was accompanied by bodyguards during the day. Our enemies were relying on the fact that a daytime attempt on his life would have resulted in a public confrontation. A street skirmish involving multiple Assassins and Templars was to be avoided at all costs. For that reason it was decided to make a nighttime incursion and so we assembled as much information as possible regarding the target’s nocturnal activities.”
“And you did this, didn’t you?”
“I did, Master, yes, and I learned that Dani barred his door and laid traps at night; that an invasion either by the door or the window would result in alarms being activated.”
“And so?”
“And so, you see, the key given to us was not to the door of Dani’s room, not even to his lodgings, but to the warehouse next door, where I was able to make an unobtrusive entrance. There were three men stationed in the street, looking for all the world as though they were providing security for the warehouse, but I knew them to be Templar guards, and their job was to see to it that no Assassin scaled the walls of either the lodging house or the warehouse. It was clever. They had the outside of the buildings covered while inside Dani had his room secure. It would take a measure of stealth and guile to get inside. I have both.
“And so, I waited in the shadows, taking strength and reassurance from the knowledge that not far away my father waited with our horses, ready for our escape. At the same time I measured the movements of the guards as they carried out their patrol.
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