Almost entirely by coincidence their destination is on the far side of town from the Green Dragon, in a slightly more run-down area that adjoins the shipyards. All of the activity going in and out of the house is a lot less conspicuous in such a place. Situated at the far end of a row, the house is in a carefully maintained state of desolation and dilapidation, just enough to make it at once both unremarkable yet forbidding. At a passing glance it could just as easily be taken for the family home of a dockworker as it could be for a den of scum and villainy. Tall and narrow, it has a definite slant to its frame and one first-floor window is smashed, with dark wooden boards nailed up behind the pane to seal the breach. None of the other buildings on the street are in a much better state of repair however. Heavy curtains are pulled across its every window, allowing no light to leak out and indicate the usage of any of the rooms or the presence of any of the occupants within. In spite of having been here before, knowing full well what is inside, Connor still feels a twinge of familiar anxiety as they approach the place. This is the sort of dank, dark, cramped place that he can never get used to.
Entirely unaffected, immune from both years of living here and in some of the older cities of Europe, Tom saunters up to the deceptively-thick front door, sparing a quick glance each way before swinging it open. He doesn't have to beckon to get the teenager inside fast, for in spite of his reservations about the place there is no telling if they are being watched or not. They may not be the only ones with spies on the streets anymore, and this hideout must remain as unconnected with the Assassins as he. As soon as he is safely over the threshold the older Assassin quickly but quietly closes the door, sealing it tight behind them and plunging the narrow hallway into near blackness. In spite of a momentary blindness he remains keenly aware of the constricting smallness of the space, the lack of air. It feels uncomfortably like a cage. Eyes soon adjusting, picking up the blue glow of the man behind him, he detects a faint hint of candlelight falling on the stairs from above. A particular policy of Yvette's is to never hold any meetings or discussions of importance on the ground floor, if she can possibly help it.
With some trouble manoeuvring in the small space Connor lets his elder get by him in order to continue properly leading the way, trailing a few steps behind and trying not to feel the walls closing in on him. The staircase is of a particularly tight and narrow construction, forcing anyone who would brave it into single file, a subtle but intentional bottlenecking measure. Not only that, each board creaks loudly at the least weight. Traversing them silently is a near-impossible art, one that no intruder could possibly hope to grasp on their own. It's almost as if the building had been specifically designed to withstand and resist intrusion. Rather than showing off now Tom loudly announces their arrival at every other step. Short of trying to climb up via the walls the teenager has no choice but to do the same. Surprisingly when they reach the first landing, after making about twenty-odd excruciating creaks each, none of the doors leading off it are open. A line of yellowish-orange light can be clearly made out beneath one however.
Tom's fist has barely raised to knock on said door when a shout from inside preempts him, arresting the motion; 'Arête!'
Sighing the Assassin glances back and rolls his eyes, one foot lightly tapping against the floorboards with an impatient beat. Though he is perfectly capable of sitting still for hours at a go should target practice or a mission demand it, the man has remarkably little patience most of the time. Usually this leads to some manner of destruction or annoyance should he be kept waiting and allowed to get bored enough. Very few seconds have passed when the door jerks wide open, the Frenchwoman knows her apprentice all too well.
Light pours from the room in sharp contrast to the dimness of the stairs. Once the spots clear from his vision and Connor can take a step inside the source of all this illumination becomes apparent. A veritable multitude of candles of many mismatched heights and shapes decorate the room. Some stand in holders, some are attached to fittings on the walls, while many others are strewn freely over any available surface, sealed in their places by large clumps of previously-melted wax. It's a fairly impressive display, revealing the true extent of the curtains' achievement in blocking any trace of this from reaching the outside world. Creeping uneasiness prompts him to draw as far away as possible from the army of little flames, instinctively shrinking from the perceived danger. Tom, noticing nothing and still utterly at ease, goes to settle himself between the pair of windows, one of which is completely boarded up. There is little in the way of actual furnishing to the chamber. The far wall, miraculously devoid of candles, is draped with a sheet of white cloth, which he doubts is purely for decorative purposes. Set dead centre is a large table, its surface spread with any number of maps and documents that vie for space with pens, inkwells, and yet more of those flaming sticks of wax. Yvette currently stands bent over it, hands clasped behind her back as she intently examines some note or feature of particular interest among the clutter.
The person responsible for letting the pair of them in remains by the door, waiting for a dismissal, no doubt used to leaving when the mistress of the house has other company. Wiry with dirty features and rather ragged clothes, including a woollen cap and fingerless gloves, the man reminds him a little of how Dobby had looked when she first came to the homestead. This alone would have immediately identified him as one of the local thieves. That he is here suggests he is experienced, probably used to fleeing over the rooftops, outrunning pursuit, and skilled at generally going unseen in a crowd. It's unlikely that this is the leader of Boston's thieves though, he doesn't look nearly old or scarred enough for that.
'Your displeasure was loud.' Although the woman doesn't look up, or move in the slightest, her reprimand is clearly directed at her apprentice. While each of those words is delicately enunciated, pronunciation clipped, she lapses back into a more natural, lightly accented speech when she continues; 'It would have been impossible to concentrate with you standing out there.'
In the midst of arranging himself more comfortably, Tom shrugs off the displeasure. 'Thought you'd want to talk to our new infiltrator as soon as possible.'
'I am sure you did, Ton,' she replies distractedly, as if indulging a child. For a few moments more the master Assassin peruses her papers, before abruptly straightening and turning to the man by the door. 'This will wait until morning.'
Nodding his acknowledgement the informant mutters a vague goodbye before promptly showing himself out, knowing better than to stick around when no longer wanted. His footsteps can easily be heard descending the stairs as they collectively wait in silence. Trying to resist the urge to shift his weight, and thus draw the full attention of the room, Connor wishes he were more at ease here. With a mixture of relief and trepidation he hears the distant click of the back door closing.
Satisfied now that they no longer have an audience, the woman finally advances to regard the novice properly. As she walks a circle, looking him up and down, her expression is set, inscrutable. 'You have quite recovered from your injuries, yes? Your journey did not exacerbate them?'
'The sprain is mostly healed, yes. I did not encounter any difficulties with it on the way here.' An inquiry after his health wasn't quite the opening he expected here. It throws him slightly, although not quite so much as the almost predatory circling. Self-conscious, he straightens his back.
'Good.' No particular clue as to her mood comes from her voice when she paces round behind him again. 'It would not do to send you in there in a bad condition. You need always to be prepared to run, in case things should go badly suddenly. This is a dangerous course you pursue.'
Word had always had it that briefings with Yvette have a tendency of getting very intense, very quickly. Certainly her approach is rather different to that of Achilles, which isn't surprising. Yet, while this feels like her trying to make him reevaluate things, this could just as easily be her way of being upfront with him. It also seems like another of those warnings.
'Are you quite sure about this?' Finally coming to a halt directly in front of him now, she proceeds to stare him down, keenly searching for the least trace of a waver in his resolution.
'Completely,' he lies, steadily holding the challenging eye contact nonetheless. Unsure though he may be at present it needs to be done, if only to quell the disquiet of his own confused mind.
Some moments of stillness pass, in which it is impossible to tell if she intends to call him out on the lie or not. Only when Tom impatiently clears his throat does she make her decision, breaking the stare. Her eyes briefly flick over the teenager once more. 'Very well...'
Yvette crosses the room to take up position beside the covered wall, a hand rising to grip the material. Prompted by a pointed look Connor reluctantly draws further into the room, managing to find himself another spot that is relatively isolated from the numerous little points of flame. With a sharp, well-placed tug the woman brings the whole sheet down in a single, fluid cascade of cloth to expose the wall behind. Or, at least, what little of it is actually visible beneath a vast collage of tacked-up papers that spreads from floor to ceiling. Set amidst this web of writings in pride of place are rather impressively accurate portraits depicting each of the major Templars of the new colonial rite. Wondering quite how she would have come to have them, he's unsure whether it's harder to imagine that she managed to have such pictures conveniently located and then promptly stolen or that she commissioned one of her spies to create them. One must always know your enemy, after all. Unwittingly he takes a step forward, then a few more, ostensibly with the intent of deciphering some of the various scrawls of handwriting that no doubt detail all of the information they have been able to dig up so far. The sheer volume of it temporarily worries him, until he reads one note detailing something about Pomeranians.
'You already have had the pleasure of meeting them, I believe.'
'I would not call it that. Haytham is the only one I have ever spoken to.' Slightly too late he realises that referring to the grandmaster by that name is a mistake, using a degree of familiarity that is entirely out of place in this manner of discussion.
If she notices the slip she does not show it. Instead she gestures to the wall with a broad sweep of one arm; 'Allow me then to better acquaint you with the enemy.'
Directing his attention to each of the images in turn, she proceeds to give him brief rundowns of the more essential basics of what her men have been able to learn so far. Thankfully the Frenchwoman chooses not to tell him every little detail, saving them from having to stand here all night. Knowing too much would only be harmful to his subterfuge, as the slightest slip, of drawing on things he shouldn't rightly have any idea of, could quite easily be a death sentence. After all, most of them have no real reason to trust him in the first place. The true gravity of the situation he is placing himself in begins to fall properly into perspective as she talks. It seemed almost easier when he knew nothing more than their faces and what few observations he had been able to make during the Southgate raid. And this is only going to get worse...
'William Johnson; the intellectual of the group. Our paths have come close to crossing before this due to his particular interest in and dealings with the Iroquois. He seems to have a keen grasp of the language, competent skills as a negotiator, and a considerable knowledge of the area. Given what we now know of their purpose here, it is a good bet that he was Kenway's first call regarding the artefact and the location of the temple.
'Thomas Hickey is the man's assistant, although god knows why. Drinking and womanising are the only real skills we have as yet observed him possessing. One can only assume that he is a decent fighter, and extra pair of hands, if nothing else.
'A doctor, in name more than nature, Benjamin Church was the one who had the most obvious grievance with the late Silas Thatcher. Apparently he places profit over the value of other's lives, refusing treatment to those who cannot afford his prices, so a natural choice for the Order. Out of all of them, he seems most like a weak link to be exploited.
'Jonathan Pitcairn had also come to our attention before Southgate, with his rather suspiciously abrupt transfer to Boston from another command. It caused quite a stir with Braddock, apparently furthering this divide between he and the Templars. Pitcairn is their main soldier and point of contact with the redcoats over here, with some years of service and experience behind him.
'Then there is Charles Lee. He is, as yet, uninitiated but I am told that it is not for lack of trying. An ambitious little climber if ever I saw one; he seems to stick to Kenway like glue half the time, and when he's not is busy running errands or doing whatever he can to better ingratiate himself with the group in general. Last I heard he had been called away south with Braddock, but rest assured that he will be back at the first opportunity. What with this dangerous enthusiasm of his he may pose the greatest single threat to you, should he feel you are beginning to get in his way that is.'
Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [13.5/?]
Entirely unaffected, immune from both years of living here and in some of the older cities of Europe, Tom saunters up to the deceptively-thick front door, sparing a quick glance each way before swinging it open. He doesn't have to beckon to get the teenager inside fast, for in spite of his reservations about the place there is no telling if they are being watched or not. They may not be the only ones with spies on the streets anymore, and this hideout must remain as unconnected with the Assassins as he. As soon as he is safely over the threshold the older Assassin quickly but quietly closes the door, sealing it tight behind them and plunging the narrow hallway into near blackness. In spite of a momentary blindness he remains keenly aware of the constricting smallness of the space, the lack of air. It feels uncomfortably like a cage. Eyes soon adjusting, picking up the blue glow of the man behind him, he detects a faint hint of candlelight falling on the stairs from above. A particular policy of Yvette's is to never hold any meetings or discussions of importance on the ground floor, if she can possibly help it.
With some trouble manoeuvring in the small space Connor lets his elder get by him in order to continue properly leading the way, trailing a few steps behind and trying not to feel the walls closing in on him. The staircase is of a particularly tight and narrow construction, forcing anyone who would brave it into single file, a subtle but intentional bottlenecking measure. Not only that, each board creaks loudly at the least weight. Traversing them silently is a near-impossible art, one that no intruder could possibly hope to grasp on their own. It's almost as if the building had been specifically designed to withstand and resist intrusion. Rather than showing off now Tom loudly announces their arrival at every other step. Short of trying to climb up via the walls the teenager has no choice but to do the same. Surprisingly when they reach the first landing, after making about twenty-odd excruciating creaks each, none of the doors leading off it are open. A line of yellowish-orange light can be clearly made out beneath one however.
Tom's fist has barely raised to knock on said door when a shout from inside preempts him, arresting the motion; 'Arête!'
Sighing the Assassin glances back and rolls his eyes, one foot lightly tapping against the floorboards with an impatient beat. Though he is perfectly capable of sitting still for hours at a go should target practice or a mission demand it, the man has remarkably little patience most of the time. Usually this leads to some manner of destruction or annoyance should he be kept waiting and allowed to get bored enough. Very few seconds have passed when the door jerks wide open, the Frenchwoman knows her apprentice all too well.
Light pours from the room in sharp contrast to the dimness of the stairs. Once the spots clear from his vision and Connor can take a step inside the source of all this illumination becomes apparent. A veritable multitude of candles of many mismatched heights and shapes decorate the room. Some stand in holders, some are attached to fittings on the walls, while many others are strewn freely over any available surface, sealed in their places by large clumps of previously-melted wax. It's a fairly impressive display, revealing the true extent of the curtains' achievement in blocking any trace of this from reaching the outside world. Creeping uneasiness prompts him to draw as far away as possible from the army of little flames, instinctively shrinking from the perceived danger. Tom, noticing nothing and still utterly at ease, goes to settle himself between the pair of windows, one of which is completely boarded up. There is little in the way of actual furnishing to the chamber. The far wall, miraculously devoid of candles, is draped with a sheet of white cloth, which he doubts is purely for decorative purposes. Set dead centre is a large table, its surface spread with any number of maps and documents that vie for space with pens, inkwells, and yet more of those flaming sticks of wax. Yvette currently stands bent over it, hands clasped behind her back as she intently examines some note or feature of particular interest among the clutter.
The person responsible for letting the pair of them in remains by the door, waiting for a dismissal, no doubt used to leaving when the mistress of the house has other company. Wiry with dirty features and rather ragged clothes, including a woollen cap and fingerless gloves, the man reminds him a little of how Dobby had looked when she first came to the homestead. This alone would have immediately identified him as one of the local thieves. That he is here suggests he is experienced, probably used to fleeing over the rooftops, outrunning pursuit, and skilled at generally going unseen in a crowd. It's unlikely that this is the leader of Boston's thieves though, he doesn't look nearly old or scarred enough for that.
'Your displeasure was loud.' Although the woman doesn't look up, or move in the slightest, her reprimand is clearly directed at her apprentice. While each of those words is delicately enunciated, pronunciation clipped, she lapses back into a more natural, lightly accented speech when she continues; 'It would have been impossible to concentrate with you standing out there.'
In the midst of arranging himself more comfortably, Tom shrugs off the displeasure. 'Thought you'd want to talk to our new infiltrator as soon as possible.'
'I am sure you did, Ton,' she replies distractedly, as if indulging a child. For a few moments more the master Assassin peruses her papers, before abruptly straightening and turning to the man by the door. 'This will wait until morning.'
Nodding his acknowledgement the informant mutters a vague goodbye before promptly showing himself out, knowing better than to stick around when no longer wanted. His footsteps can easily be heard descending the stairs as they collectively wait in silence. Trying to resist the urge to shift his weight, and thus draw the full attention of the room, Connor wishes he were more at ease here. With a mixture of relief and trepidation he hears the distant click of the back door closing.
Satisfied now that they no longer have an audience, the woman finally advances to regard the novice properly. As she walks a circle, looking him up and down, her expression is set, inscrutable. 'You have quite recovered from your injuries, yes? Your journey did not exacerbate them?'
'The sprain is mostly healed, yes. I did not encounter any difficulties with it on the way here.' An inquiry after his health wasn't quite the opening he expected here. It throws him slightly, although not quite so much as the almost predatory circling. Self-conscious, he straightens his back.
'Good.' No particular clue as to her mood comes from her voice when she paces round behind him again. 'It would not do to send you in there in a bad condition. You need always to be prepared to run, in case things should go badly suddenly. This is a dangerous course you pursue.'
Word had always had it that briefings with Yvette have a tendency of getting very intense, very quickly. Certainly her approach is rather different to that of Achilles, which isn't surprising. Yet, while this feels like her trying to make him reevaluate things, this could just as easily be her way of being upfront with him. It also seems like another of those warnings.
'Are you quite sure about this?' Finally coming to a halt directly in front of him now, she proceeds to stare him down, keenly searching for the least trace of a waver in his resolution.
'Completely,' he lies, steadily holding the challenging eye contact nonetheless. Unsure though he may be at present it needs to be done, if only to quell the disquiet of his own confused mind.
Some moments of stillness pass, in which it is impossible to tell if she intends to call him out on the lie or not. Only when Tom impatiently clears his throat does she make her decision, breaking the stare. Her eyes briefly flick over the teenager once more. 'Very well...'
Yvette crosses the room to take up position beside the covered wall, a hand rising to grip the material. Prompted by a pointed look Connor reluctantly draws further into the room, managing to find himself another spot that is relatively isolated from the numerous little points of flame. With a sharp, well-placed tug the woman brings the whole sheet down in a single, fluid cascade of cloth to expose the wall behind. Or, at least, what little of it is actually visible beneath a vast collage of tacked-up papers that spreads from floor to ceiling. Set amidst this web of writings in pride of place are rather impressively accurate portraits depicting each of the major Templars of the new colonial rite. Wondering quite how she would have come to have them, he's unsure whether it's harder to imagine that she managed to have such pictures conveniently located and then promptly stolen or that she commissioned one of her spies to create them. One must always know your enemy, after all. Unwittingly he takes a step forward, then a few more, ostensibly with the intent of deciphering some of the various scrawls of handwriting that no doubt detail all of the information they have been able to dig up so far. The sheer volume of it temporarily worries him, until he reads one note detailing something about Pomeranians.
'You already have had the pleasure of meeting them, I believe.'
'I would not call it that. Haytham is the only one I have ever spoken to.' Slightly too late he realises that referring to the grandmaster by that name is a mistake, using a degree of familiarity that is entirely out of place in this manner of discussion.
If she notices the slip she does not show it. Instead she gestures to the wall with a broad sweep of one arm; 'Allow me then to better acquaint you with the enemy.'
Directing his attention to each of the images in turn, she proceeds to give him brief rundowns of the more essential basics of what her men have been able to learn so far. Thankfully the Frenchwoman chooses not to tell him every little detail, saving them from having to stand here all night. Knowing too much would only be harmful to his subterfuge, as the slightest slip, of drawing on things he shouldn't rightly have any idea of, could quite easily be a death sentence. After all, most of them have no real reason to trust him in the first place. The true gravity of the situation he is placing himself in begins to fall properly into perspective as she talks. It seemed almost easier when he knew nothing more than their faces and what few observations he had been able to make during the Southgate raid. And this is only going to get worse...
'William Johnson; the intellectual of the group. Our paths have come close to crossing before this due to his particular interest in and dealings with the Iroquois. He seems to have a keen grasp of the language, competent skills as a negotiator, and a considerable knowledge of the area. Given what we now know of their purpose here, it is a good bet that he was Kenway's first call regarding the artefact and the location of the temple.
'Thomas Hickey is the man's assistant, although god knows why. Drinking and womanising are the only real skills we have as yet observed him possessing. One can only assume that he is a decent fighter, and extra pair of hands, if nothing else.
'A doctor, in name more than nature, Benjamin Church was the one who had the most obvious grievance with the late Silas Thatcher. Apparently he places profit over the value of other's lives, refusing treatment to those who cannot afford his prices, so a natural choice for the Order. Out of all of them, he seems most like a weak link to be exploited.
'Jonathan Pitcairn had also come to our attention before Southgate, with his rather suspiciously abrupt transfer to Boston from another command. It caused quite a stir with Braddock, apparently furthering this divide between he and the Templars. Pitcairn is their main soldier and point of contact with the redcoats over here, with some years of service and experience behind him.
'Then there is Charles Lee. He is, as yet, uninitiated but I am told that it is not for lack of trying. An ambitious little climber if ever I saw one; he seems to stick to Kenway like glue half the time, and when he's not is busy running errands or doing whatever he can to better ingratiate himself with the group in general. Last I heard he had been called away south with Braddock, but rest assured that he will be back at the first opportunity. What with this dangerous enthusiasm of his he may pose the greatest single threat to you, should he feel you are beginning to get in his way that is.'