A! anon is wondering what possessed her to put a plot in here. Plots are messy things. :P
Also, today majorly sucked in ALL POSSIBLE WAYS. //hyperventilates// So unfortunately, A! anon was only able to write this half a chapter. ._. Enjoy though!
Chapter 4: At the Auction
The High Society Slave Market of Boston was exactly what would come to the minds of most people who cared to think about it. It was a tall, brick red building, furnished with the most luxurious furs, silks and leathers. Ebony and ivory and gold decorated the bidding hall within and a bevy of slaves attended to the whims of its patrons. It was the very image of two distinct worlds, of the opulence, the decadence, the pretentious grandeur of the nouveau rich and the greed and the casual dehumanization of traditional slave markets.
Several carriages carrying ladies in silks and satins arrived, a rush of young men elbowed each other to help them enter the premises. Men with silk hats, fine cloaks and well-polished shoes mingled with them, boasting of the profits from their shipping businesses, of the lushness of their relatives’ plantations down South or their connections to the court while they sipped champagne (never mind the embargo on trade with the French, they had the connections and money to get around that) handed to them by their slave girls.
On the other side of the market, a loading cart, drawn by five horses, came to a rest. A burly looking man with a large jingling ring of keys leapt off the cart and made his way to the doors in the back. A bevy of guards stood at attention, clubs at the ready. The man unlocked the cart and reached within, grabbing hold of one dark, slender arm and, heaving, dragged a young Native woman out. She stood shivering and sobbing in her simple dress, watching fearfully as 15 more young Natives, mostly young women with the occasional child were pushed to stand next to her.
A smartly dressed man, with a fine jacket and soft leather gloves came out of the market, squinting at the assembled Natives. He gestured at the guards, who roughly pushed the Natives within. Walking up to the driver of the cart, he took hold of a bag at his belt and dropped it into the man’s waiting hand. A shake of the hand later, he had disappeared through the gold-gilded white doors of the market.
On top of one of the parapets of a neighboring building, Connor crouched and waited. His father, who was to join him on this mission as part of the Native Liberation’s demands, had not yet arrived. Connor wondered if the man would show at all. While his father had proposed the alliance, Connor had no doubts that he had been taken aback by the enormity of the demands Achilles and the Native Liberation had demanded in return. Connor was well aware that their request for so many arms, weapons and supplies would strain the Templar Order’s funds, as substantial as they were. But, while they could not be sure of Haytham’s motives, they could make sure that the Assassin Brotherhood and Native Liberation left the arrangement as well-positioned as possible. If Haytham chose to accept the demands, then they would have access to much needed weapons and supplies. If Haytham chose to scorn them, then they were no worse off than before and would not have a viper in their midst.
It was clear which Achilles preferred.
A soft footstep on a neighboring parapet alerted Connor, and he looked up to see the familiar dark-grey cloak his father was fond of wearing. So the man had decided to honor their demands after all.
Connor wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
He shook himself out of his reverie. There were more important matters to consider at hand.
“I trust you remember the plan?” Connor murmured, careful not to alert the guards patrolling the building.
“Yes, yes,” Haytham gestured impatiently. “I will take out the guards out here with this,” he held up a fistful of poison darts, “climb through the window on the second floor and wait in the closet therein.”
He grimaced, clearly unhappy about the thought of hiding within women’s clothing.
“You will slip through the window on the first floor there,” one gloved finger pointed at an ornate window, “after the patrol walks past, take out the auctioneer, his assistants and his private guards and alert the slaves to keep quiet and calm. And in exactly 15 minutes, I am to escape from the closet, start a fire in one of the rooms, alert the ladies and gentlemen waiting to bid to the fact that there is a fire above their heads and make my way through the no doubt panicking crowd of patrons to outside where I shall ready the cart for your arrival with the Native slaves. And then we shall smuggle the slaves through the Frontier to the Homestead where you and I will part ways until I can meet the rest of your ludicrous requirements.”
Haytham sounded distinctly less than impressed. “Have I got the basics of your idiotic plan?”
Connor bristled at that. It was the best way to free those slaves and see if he and Haytham could actually work together. Besides which… “I do not see you coming up with anything better.”
Haytham shrugged. “Your idea, your plan. And when this idea fails, and I’m saving your arse, you’d better be grateful.”
Connor ground his teeth in irritation and mentally counted to 10. When he had first come up with the idea of a joint mission, he had not thought about the possibility that his father would be an utter jackass to work with. He had certainly seemed more amenable when Connor had confronted him last at the Templar building.
But back then, Haytham had been taken aback, clearly on uneven footing when Connor had walked into his office. He has certainly found his footing now, Connor thought glumly.
If this was how Haytham normally worked with other people, then Connor had the sinking feeling that he was in for a long mission.
“Are you sitting around waiting for a bloody invitation?”
A very, very long, very miserable mission.
~_~_~_~_~
Haytham is very glad that the darkness of the night hid the blush on his cheeks. When he had first climbed to the neighboring parapet and gotten a good look at his son, he’d nearly fallen right off (and what a disaster that would have been).
Good God, the way that Connor’s leather breeches hugged his legs and (very fine) arse as he crouched was positively obscene. And the Assassin jacket certainly wasn’t helping matters. The long tails that normally draped over the Assassin’s behind had been swept up and tied to man’s belt, most likely to keep it from trailing bits of debris off the rooftops and alerting the guards below.
What was the boy thinking wearing such tight trousers? Haytham shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Well, at least he wouldn’t have much trouble dealing with the guards inside. They’d be paying so much attention to his—assets—that they’d likely miss the hidden blade heading for their throats.
He wondered if Connor had noticed his reaction before his son had made his way to his position, but between the darkness and Haytham’s natural snark, he’d guessed he successfully distracted the boy.
Idly, Haytham wondered if his son (his estranged son, his mind whispered) was aware of exactly how he appeared. On the heels of that thought came a far more disturbing one. Did Achilles teach Connor to dress like that?
Haytham decided he would need to pay a visit to Achilles and possibly eviscerate the old man.
Shaking the disconcerting thoughts out of his head, Haytham readied his sword and hidden blade. He spied a single guard wandering out of eyesight of the other guards, crouched, and leapt.
15 minutes later, he was pulling himself through the window on the second floor. His cheeks still flamed red.
Three Princes, Chapter 4 part 1
A! anon is wondering what possessed her to put a plot in here. Plots are messy things. :P
Also, today majorly sucked in ALL POSSIBLE WAYS. //hyperventilates// So unfortunately, A! anon was only able to write this half a chapter. ._. Enjoy though!
Chapter 4: At the Auction
The High Society Slave Market of Boston was exactly what would come to the minds of most people who cared to think about it. It was a tall, brick red building, furnished with the most luxurious furs, silks and leathers. Ebony and ivory and gold decorated the bidding hall within and a bevy of slaves attended to the whims of its patrons. It was the very image of two distinct worlds, of the opulence, the decadence, the pretentious grandeur of the nouveau rich and the greed and the casual dehumanization of traditional slave markets.
Several carriages carrying ladies in silks and satins arrived, a rush of young men elbowed each other to help them enter the premises. Men with silk hats, fine cloaks and well-polished shoes mingled with them, boasting of the profits from their shipping businesses, of the lushness of their relatives’ plantations down South or their connections to the court while they sipped champagne (never mind the embargo on trade with the French, they had the connections and money to get around that) handed to them by their slave girls.
On the other side of the market, a loading cart, drawn by five horses, came to a rest. A burly looking man with a large jingling ring of keys leapt off the cart and made his way to the doors in the back. A bevy of guards stood at attention, clubs at the ready. The man unlocked the cart and reached within, grabbing hold of one dark, slender arm and, heaving, dragged a young Native woman out. She stood shivering and sobbing in her simple dress, watching fearfully as 15 more young Natives, mostly young women with the occasional child were pushed to stand next to her.
A smartly dressed man, with a fine jacket and soft leather gloves came out of the market, squinting at the assembled Natives. He gestured at the guards, who roughly pushed the Natives within. Walking up to the driver of the cart, he took hold of a bag at his belt and dropped it into the man’s waiting hand. A shake of the hand later, he had disappeared through the gold-gilded white doors of the market.
On top of one of the parapets of a neighboring building, Connor crouched and waited. His father, who was to join him on this mission as part of the Native Liberation’s demands, had not yet arrived. Connor wondered if the man would show at all. While his father had proposed the alliance, Connor had no doubts that he had been taken aback by the enormity of the demands Achilles and the Native Liberation had demanded in return. Connor was well aware that their request for so many arms, weapons and supplies would strain the Templar Order’s funds, as substantial as they were. But, while they could not be sure of Haytham’s motives, they could make sure that the Assassin Brotherhood and Native Liberation left the arrangement as well-positioned as possible. If Haytham chose to accept the demands, then they would have access to much needed weapons and supplies. If Haytham chose to scorn them, then they were no worse off than before and would not have a viper in their midst.
It was clear which Achilles preferred.
A soft footstep on a neighboring parapet alerted Connor, and he looked up to see the familiar dark-grey cloak his father was fond of wearing. So the man had decided to honor their demands after all.
Connor wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
He shook himself out of his reverie. There were more important matters to consider at hand.
“I trust you remember the plan?” Connor murmured, careful not to alert the guards patrolling the building.
“Yes, yes,” Haytham gestured impatiently. “I will take out the guards out here with this,” he held up a fistful of poison darts, “climb through the window on the second floor and wait in the closet therein.”
He grimaced, clearly unhappy about the thought of hiding within women’s clothing.
“You will slip through the window on the first floor there,” one gloved finger pointed at an ornate window, “after the patrol walks past, take out the auctioneer, his assistants and his private guards and alert the slaves to keep quiet and calm. And in exactly 15 minutes, I am to escape from the closet, start a fire in one of the rooms, alert the ladies and gentlemen waiting to bid to the fact that there is a fire above their heads and make my way through the no doubt panicking crowd of patrons to outside where I shall ready the cart for your arrival with the Native slaves. And then we shall smuggle the slaves through the Frontier to the Homestead where you and I will part ways until I can meet the rest of your ludicrous requirements.”
Haytham sounded distinctly less than impressed. “Have I got the basics of your idiotic plan?”
Connor bristled at that. It was the best way to free those slaves and see if he and Haytham could actually work together. Besides which… “I do not see you coming up with anything better.”
Haytham shrugged. “Your idea, your plan. And when this idea fails, and I’m saving your arse, you’d better be grateful.”
Connor ground his teeth in irritation and mentally counted to 10. When he had first come up with the idea of a joint mission, he had not thought about the possibility that his father would be an utter jackass to work with. He had certainly seemed more amenable when Connor had confronted him last at the Templar building.
But back then, Haytham had been taken aback, clearly on uneven footing when Connor had walked into his office. He has certainly found his footing now, Connor thought glumly.
If this was how Haytham normally worked with other people, then Connor had the sinking feeling that he was in for a long mission.
“Are you sitting around waiting for a bloody invitation?”
A very, very long, very miserable mission.
~_~_~_~_~
Haytham is very glad that the darkness of the night hid the blush on his cheeks. When he had first climbed to the neighboring parapet and gotten a good look at his son, he’d nearly fallen right off (and what a disaster that would have been).
Good God, the way that Connor’s leather breeches hugged his legs and (very fine) arse as he crouched was positively obscene. And the Assassin jacket certainly wasn’t helping matters. The long tails that normally draped over the Assassin’s behind had been swept up and tied to man’s belt, most likely to keep it from trailing bits of debris off the rooftops and alerting the guards below.
What was the boy thinking wearing such tight trousers? Haytham shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Well, at least he wouldn’t have much trouble dealing with the guards inside. They’d be paying so much attention to his—assets—that they’d likely miss the hidden blade heading for their throats.
He wondered if Connor had noticed his reaction before his son had made his way to his position, but between the darkness and Haytham’s natural snark, he’d guessed he successfully distracted the boy.
Idly, Haytham wondered if his son (his estranged son, his mind whispered) was aware of exactly how he appeared. On the heels of that thought came a far more disturbing one. Did Achilles teach Connor to dress like that?
Haytham decided he would need to pay a visit to Achilles and possibly eviscerate the old man.
Shaking the disconcerting thoughts out of his head, Haytham readied his sword and hidden blade. He spied a single guard wandering out of eyesight of the other guards, crouched, and leapt.
15 minutes later, he was pulling himself through the window on the second floor. His cheeks still flamed red.
~_~_~_~_~