In the cloak of shadows, they slipped into the manor, taking their place at the long table in the dining room. Nobody sat in Achilles' chair. Neither did they sit in Connor's.
"I have disturbing news," announced Clipper. "Grand Master Kenway isn't dead."
The young man looked around to the others. As expected they were not shocked but each wore a grimace.
"My contacts have confirmed this, although nobody has actually sighted him," replied Dobby.
Stephane did not seem entirely convinced. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand thoughtfully over his apron. What guarantee was a rumour? He'd made the mistake of trusting them in the past and he would not allow himself to be misled twice.
"I think it warrants further attention. The Templars could be trying to mislead us," he ventured.
His fellow assassins nodded.
"I will press for further information," said Dobby.
"As will I," chimed Clipper.
"And you?" asked Stephane, gesturing to Jacob, Jamie and Duncan.
Jamie shook his head, pushing away from the table. Enraged by this action, Stephane stood, thinking it to be an act of defiance against the Brotherhood.
"Our priority is not chasing a ghost," said Jamie.
"If we do not find out the truth then we are at great risk," spat Stephane.
"And if we do not find Connor then we are at an even greater risk. You three may run after what is clearly a trap, I will dedicate myself to finding our leader."
"Don't be so pig-headed," cried Dobby. "You would abandon us? Your family?"
"He is not abandoning you. Without Connor, we are liable to crumble. Look at us, squabbling like selfish children," snapped Jacob.
Stephane huffed, clutching the handle of his butcher's knife. For a moment he glared at them, and they were silent for fear of setting his firecracker temper off.
"Sit, Jamie. You too, Stephane. And do not even think of putting that on the table," ordered Duncan.
Reluctantly, the two men sat, relinquishing their dominance to the soft-spoken former priest.
"Now, I suggest that Clipper and Dobby continue to look into the Haytham situation. If this is not a rumour, then we are in deep and perilous waters. The rest of us will focus on maintaining control in the cities while investigating Connor's disappearance. I suspect there is more to Haytham's miraculous recovery than a couple of bandages and a few days rest," he continued.
"I fear for Connor's life - if he has been captured, then a week of being in Templar hands..." Dobby trailed off.
Reaching for her shoulder, Clipper clutched it, giving her a reassuring pat. Everyone was concerned, not only Dobby. Voicing the obvious wasn't getting them any closer to finding Connor.
"I know. We must act with haste but also precision. There will only be one chance for everything," said Duncan.
They spent an hour memorising particular code words and laying out protocols for their missions before closing their meeting. As they left, they bowed to Achilles' chair, then slipped out as the sun was beginning to break over the horizon.
***
Captain Zachariah Morgan was a good guard and a loyal Templar. He did his duties, did not question his superiors, and had a reputation for training his men ruthlessly. He was not an ugly man either, and had decent wealth and property. A fiancee was waiting for him in Bristol. All in all, he had many advantages in his favour.
He was to be initiated into one of the lower circles at the opening of the Lodge. After the devastation that the Assassins had wreaked upon their Order, he was comforted by the grand show of power that would be displayed by the opening of the Lodge. While their main forces had been driven from New York and Boston, the Templars did not rest, instead beginning work on a sort of fort.
However, Zachariah wasn't sure what to make of Grand Master Lee's newest pet. After an escape attempt within twenty four hours of capturing the prisoner (which they had all expected, it was only a matter of when), the Grand Master had ordered Zachariah's men to replace the current guards. Now he stood at the only door in or out of the small cabin, peering curiously as Grand Master Lee employed various techniques on breaking his prisoner. It was true that the prisoner mirrored their late Grand Master Kenway in features, and at a distance it was flawless, but this was an assassin. You couldn't break an assassin.
It was a shame. Lee would probably grow tired of playing and eventually order an execution squad. Such a waste of an immaculately kept human weapon.
When his men asked him of Grand Master Lee's intentions, he replied that they should not be asking such things. Their job was to obey. (But on the side, in their time off, he quietly put forth his opinion of Lee's madness as a strange torture. They needed the prisoner for some reason. While their ward was not Grand Master Kenway, he was just as valuable and skilled. Somebody else whispered that the prisoner was the son of Haytham - he was quickly hushed. They agreed not to speak of it.)
Otherwise, Lee appeared to be quite sane, dedicating himself to finding new recruits and pushing to reclaim their lost territories. Admittedly he had lapsed into an intense depression when Kenway had died, alternating between hours of silence and rampages of temper. Zachariah had been present to witness this period. He could quite safely say that the death of Lee's predecessor had broken something in the man.
Still. His men obeyed. They had seen far worse, from both sides. If Lee wanted to force the prisoner into the Grand Master's clothes and groom him into someone else, then that was his prerogative. After all, Zachariah had good standings. Breaking them now would be the height of stupidity.
They were not supposed to care. So they didn't.
***
Wake up at dawn.
Train alone. Exception: guards watching set up obstacle course. Their punishment for lazy soldiers is to train with me. Exceed them, if only for the fact that most mornings I see hellfire.
Eat breakfast. Try to pick out the hard lumps. Must eat.
Lessons, extending my linguistics, law, political skills, charisma. I don't see the point of charisma.
Eat.
Study Haytham's journals.
Write in my own journal. Limited, often scathing.
Train with Captain Morgan. Good swordsman, friendly enough, if not slightly timid to land hits.
Late supper. Talk with Lee. Answer his questions correctly. Bear collar or water if I don't.
Read for my own pleasure, if not experiencing visions.
Sleep. Sometimes with Lee beside me.
***
The tailor was blindfolded. Charles tied a mask over Connor's face before removing the cloth from the tailor's eyes. Thankfully Connor could see. Thankfully he could avoid another flashback to that horrible day he was to be executed.
His measurements were taken in near silence with an occasional rustling of tape measure and the squeak of a pencil on paper. Swatches of fabric were shown to Charles, lots of silvers and crimsons, some dark navy blues, and Connor craned his neck to see what Charles would pick. The tailor quivered in his seat, handing Charles prospective designs and annotating the rejected prospectives. While the tailor made sure he had taken his measurements correctly, Connor looked to the designs scattered across the small table. They were all beautiful, elaborate, perfect for an Initiation night, but not perfect for him.
"Have you any experience of Naval uniforms?" Connor asked. "Their cut is clean."
The tailor jumped, dropping his tape measure, not expecting Connor to speak nor with the deep aristocratic tone that it had been meticulously trained into. Charles twitched his moustache, fighting an amused smile.
"Well?"
"Y-yes, sir. Some sir," stammered the tailor.
"Something like that then," said Connor.
Even as he gave his request, he stomach churned over. Precisely how big was this celebration going to be? Charles was setting him up for something quite impossible.
Lee, Connor scolded himself, not Charles.
But it was so hard to think of him as Lee. Damn his compassion. Damn his stupid ability to empathise. He was actually growing fond of Cha - LEE. Lee. Fond of Lee.
"Well, mister..."
"Mr Kenway," supplied Lee.
"Mr Kenway, I'll be back in a week for a first fitting," said the tailor.
Haytham nodded, but Connor screamed on the inside, curling around Ratonhnhaké:ton protectively. He wasn't angry at Lee anymore. He was changing. Lee knew this, this was what Lee wanted.
As soon as the tailor had been led out, blinded and bundled into his carriage, and he was alone, Ratonhnhaké:ton sank to the ground. He was turning into a Templar. He was beginning to lose his own stance, mannerisms, his own voice. He had betrayed the Brotherhood.
"No," he choked. "No, no, no!"
But try as he did, Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't pronounce a single word of English without Haytham rising to the fore. He half-screamed, half-howled, his agony demanding to be felt. What happened to the four-year-old that had demanded Charles Lee's name?
"Sir?" asked a voice from the door.
Captain Morgan was leaning in, closing the door behind him. He slowly approached the man huddled on the ground, bare hands outstretched. Ratonhnhaké:ton watched with cautious eyes, chest heaving, slowly shifting his feet into a position that allowed him to leap or roll away as the situation called for it.
"Grand Master Kenway, are you hurt?" he asked.
Connor narrowed his eyes, fingers curling into fists. He saw his chance and he was going to damn well take it.
"What is my name?" he asked.
"Grand Master Haytham Kenway," replied Captain Morgan.
Connor bowled him down, clapping a hand over Morgan's mouth. The captain flailed and beat at Connor, but one large hand grabbed his wrists and slammed them over his head.
"Wrong," snarled Connor. "Now you are going to listen to me, and you are going to remember what I say. My name is Captain Connor Davenport of the Aquila. I am an Assassin, and so help me I will kill you, your family, and your loved ones if you so much as peep a single word of this to anyone other than the intended. If you do not help me now, you will not have a second chance. Do you understand?"
Wisely, Morgan nodded, although he did not seem afraid, his eyes were wide with clarity.
Connor continued, "Travel to Boston or New York, whichever is closer, spread the trail at every tavern, public house, and slum. Tell them that I am alive. Connor Davenport is alive. Let them track you when you return."
He raised his hand, letting Morgan speak, "Yes, yes. Don't hurt them. Please don't hurt my family. I worked hard to bring them here."
"Good."
"Now what?" asked Morgan. "I need an excuse to go to New York."
A smile twisted on Connor's face. So they were closer to New York. Funny, Boston would have been in the Templar's advantage, if only for the shipping port.
Well now, Captain Morgan," he paused, thinking. "Now, I am going to put you in the infirmary."
And he knocked Captain Morgan's head against the floor.
Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)
"I have disturbing news," announced Clipper. "Grand Master Kenway isn't dead."
The young man looked around to the others. As expected they were not shocked but each wore a grimace.
"My contacts have confirmed this, although nobody has actually sighted him," replied Dobby.
Stephane did not seem entirely convinced. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand thoughtfully over his apron. What guarantee was a rumour? He'd made the mistake of trusting them in the past and he would not allow himself to be misled twice.
"I think it warrants further attention. The Templars could be trying to mislead us," he ventured.
His fellow assassins nodded.
"I will press for further information," said Dobby.
"As will I," chimed Clipper.
"And you?" asked Stephane, gesturing to Jacob, Jamie and Duncan.
Jamie shook his head, pushing away from the table. Enraged by this action, Stephane stood, thinking it to be an act of defiance against the Brotherhood.
"Our priority is not chasing a ghost," said Jamie.
"If we do not find out the truth then we are at great risk," spat Stephane.
"And if we do not find Connor then we are at an even greater risk. You three may run after what is clearly a trap, I will dedicate myself to finding our leader."
"Don't be so pig-headed," cried Dobby. "You would abandon us? Your family?"
"He is not abandoning you. Without Connor, we are liable to crumble. Look at us, squabbling like selfish children," snapped Jacob.
Stephane huffed, clutching the handle of his butcher's knife. For a moment he glared at them, and they were silent for fear of setting his firecracker temper off.
"Sit, Jamie. You too, Stephane. And do not even think of putting that on the table," ordered Duncan.
Reluctantly, the two men sat, relinquishing their dominance to the soft-spoken former priest.
"Now, I suggest that Clipper and Dobby continue to look into the Haytham situation. If this is not a rumour, then we are in deep and perilous waters. The rest of us will focus on maintaining control in the cities while investigating Connor's disappearance. I suspect there is more to Haytham's miraculous recovery than a couple of bandages and a few days rest," he continued.
"I fear for Connor's life - if he has been captured, then a week of being in Templar hands..." Dobby trailed off.
Reaching for her shoulder, Clipper clutched it, giving her a reassuring pat. Everyone was concerned, not only Dobby. Voicing the obvious wasn't getting them any closer to finding Connor.
"I know. We must act with haste but also precision. There will only be one chance for everything," said Duncan.
They spent an hour memorising particular code words and laying out protocols for their missions before closing their meeting. As they left, they bowed to Achilles' chair, then slipped out as the sun was beginning to break over the horizon.
***
Captain Zachariah Morgan was a good guard and a loyal Templar. He did his duties, did not question his superiors, and had a reputation for training his men ruthlessly. He was not an ugly man either, and had decent wealth and property. A fiancee was waiting for him in Bristol. All in all, he had many advantages in his favour.
He was to be initiated into one of the lower circles at the opening of the Lodge. After the devastation that the Assassins had wreaked upon their Order, he was comforted by the grand show of power that would be displayed by the opening of the Lodge. While their main forces had been driven from New York and Boston, the Templars did not rest, instead beginning work on a sort of fort.
However, Zachariah wasn't sure what to make of Grand Master Lee's newest pet. After an escape attempt within twenty four hours of capturing the prisoner (which they had all expected, it was only a matter of when), the Grand Master had ordered Zachariah's men to replace the current guards. Now he stood at the only door in or out of the small cabin, peering curiously as Grand Master Lee employed various techniques on breaking his prisoner. It was true that the prisoner mirrored their late Grand Master Kenway in features, and at a distance it was flawless, but this was an assassin. You couldn't break an assassin.
It was a shame. Lee would probably grow tired of playing and eventually order an execution squad. Such a waste of an immaculately kept human weapon.
When his men asked him of Grand Master Lee's intentions, he replied that they should not be asking such things. Their job was to obey. (But on the side, in their time off, he quietly put forth his opinion of Lee's madness as a strange torture. They needed the prisoner for some reason. While their ward was not Grand Master Kenway, he was just as valuable and skilled. Somebody else whispered that the prisoner was the son of Haytham - he was quickly hushed. They agreed not to speak of it.)
Otherwise, Lee appeared to be quite sane, dedicating himself to finding new recruits and pushing to reclaim their lost territories. Admittedly he had lapsed into an intense depression when Kenway had died, alternating between hours of silence and rampages of temper. Zachariah had been present to witness this period. He could quite safely say that the death of Lee's predecessor had broken something in the man.
Still. His men obeyed. They had seen far worse, from both sides. If Lee wanted to force the prisoner into the Grand Master's clothes and groom him into someone else, then that was his prerogative. After all, Zachariah had good standings. Breaking them now would be the height of stupidity.
They were not supposed to care. So they didn't.
***
Wake up at dawn.
Train alone. Exception: guards watching set up obstacle course. Their punishment for lazy soldiers is to train with me. Exceed them, if only for the fact that most mornings I see hellfire.
Eat breakfast. Try to pick out the hard lumps. Must eat.
Lessons, extending my linguistics, law, political skills, charisma. I don't see the point of charisma.
Eat.
Study Haytham's journals.
Write in my own journal. Limited, often scathing.
Train with Captain Morgan. Good swordsman, friendly enough, if not slightly timid to land hits.
Late supper. Talk with Lee. Answer his questions correctly. Bear collar or water if I don't.
Read for my own pleasure, if not experiencing visions.
Sleep. Sometimes with Lee beside me.
***
The tailor was blindfolded. Charles tied a mask over Connor's face before removing the cloth from the tailor's eyes. Thankfully Connor could see. Thankfully he could avoid another flashback to that horrible day he was to be executed.
His measurements were taken in near silence with an occasional rustling of tape measure and the squeak of a pencil on paper. Swatches of fabric were shown to Charles, lots of silvers and crimsons, some dark navy blues, and Connor craned his neck to see what Charles would pick. The tailor quivered in his seat, handing Charles prospective designs and annotating the rejected prospectives. While the tailor made sure he had taken his measurements correctly, Connor looked to the designs scattered across the small table. They were all beautiful, elaborate, perfect for an Initiation night, but not perfect for him.
"Have you any experience of Naval uniforms?" Connor asked. "Their cut is clean."
The tailor jumped, dropping his tape measure, not expecting Connor to speak nor with the deep aristocratic tone that it had been meticulously trained into. Charles twitched his moustache, fighting an amused smile.
"Well?"
"Y-yes, sir. Some sir," stammered the tailor.
"Something like that then," said Connor.
Even as he gave his request, he stomach churned over. Precisely how big was this celebration going to be? Charles was setting him up for something quite impossible.
Lee, Connor scolded himself, not Charles.
But it was so hard to think of him as Lee. Damn his compassion. Damn his stupid ability to empathise. He was actually growing fond of Cha - LEE. Lee. Fond of Lee.
"Well, mister..."
"Mr Kenway," supplied Lee.
"Mr Kenway, I'll be back in a week for a first fitting," said the tailor.
Haytham nodded, but Connor screamed on the inside, curling around Ratonhnhaké:ton protectively. He wasn't angry at Lee anymore. He was changing. Lee knew this, this was what Lee wanted.
As soon as the tailor had been led out, blinded and bundled into his carriage, and he was alone, Ratonhnhaké:ton sank to the ground. He was turning into a Templar. He was beginning to lose his own stance, mannerisms, his own voice. He had betrayed the Brotherhood.
"No," he choked. "No, no, no!"
But try as he did, Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't pronounce a single word of English without Haytham rising to the fore. He half-screamed, half-howled, his agony demanding to be felt. What happened to the four-year-old that had demanded Charles Lee's name?
"Sir?" asked a voice from the door.
Captain Morgan was leaning in, closing the door behind him. He slowly approached the man huddled on the ground, bare hands outstretched. Ratonhnhaké:ton watched with cautious eyes, chest heaving, slowly shifting his feet into a position that allowed him to leap or roll away as the situation called for it.
"Grand Master Kenway, are you hurt?" he asked.
Connor narrowed his eyes, fingers curling into fists. He saw his chance and he was going to damn well take it.
"What is my name?" he asked.
"Grand Master Haytham Kenway," replied Captain Morgan.
Connor bowled him down, clapping a hand over Morgan's mouth. The captain flailed and beat at Connor, but one large hand grabbed his wrists and slammed them over his head.
"Wrong," snarled Connor. "Now you are going to listen to me, and you are going to remember what I say. My name is Captain Connor Davenport of the Aquila. I am an Assassin, and so help me I will kill you, your family, and your loved ones if you so much as peep a single word of this to anyone other than the intended. If you do not help me now, you will not have a second chance. Do you understand?"
Wisely, Morgan nodded, although he did not seem afraid, his eyes were wide with clarity.
Connor continued, "Travel to Boston or New York, whichever is closer, spread the trail at every tavern, public house, and slum. Tell them that I am alive. Connor Davenport is alive. Let them track you when you return."
He raised his hand, letting Morgan speak, "Yes, yes. Don't hurt them. Please don't hurt my family. I worked hard to bring them here."
"Good."
"Now what?" asked Morgan. "I need an excuse to go to New York."
A smile twisted on Connor's face. So they were closer to New York. Funny, Boston would have been in the Templar's advantage, if only for the shipping port.
Well now, Captain Morgan," he paused, thinking. "Now, I am going to put you in the infirmary."
And he knocked Captain Morgan's head against the floor.