Assassin's Creed: Unity (25 page)

30 M
ARCH
1791

The Place des Vosges, the city’s oldest, grandest square, was not far from where I left Arno, and after a night at home, I returned the next day, a mass of nerves, curiosity and barely contained excitement, brimming with the sense that despite the Lafrenière setback, I was getting somewhere. I was moving forward.

I came into the square beneath one of the huge vaulted arcades that formed part of the red brick buildings around its perimeter. Something brought me up short and I stood puzzled for a moment, wondering what was different. After all, the buildings were the same, the ornate pillar still here. But there was something missing.

And then it hit me. The statue in the middle of the square—the equestrian bronze of Louis XIII. It wasn’t there anymore. I’d heard that the revolutionaries were melting down the statues. Here was the proof.

Arno was there, in his robes. In the cold light of day, I studied him again, trying to work out where it was that the boy had matured into the man: a firmer, more determined set of the jaw, perhaps? His shoulders were more square, his chin held high, his granite eyes at once fierce and beautiful. Arno had always been a handsome boy. The women of Versailles would remark upon it. The younger girls would blush and giggle into their gloves whenever he passed, the simple fact of his good looks overcoming any misgivings they might normally have had about his social standing as merely our ward. I used to love the warm, superior feeling of knowing, “He’s mine.”

But now—now there was something almost heroic about him. I felt a twinge of guilt, wondering if by obscuring the true nature of his parentage we’d somehow prevented him reaching his potential before now.

It was joined by another twinge of guilt, this one for Father. If I’d been less selfish and brought Arno over to the fold as I’d once pledged to do, then perhaps this newly minted
man
might now be working in service of our cause rather than the opposition.

But then, as we sat with coffee and some semblance of normal Parisian life carrying on around us, it didn’t seem to matter much that I was a Templar and he was an Assassin. If not for the robes of his Creed we might have been two lovers enjoying our morning drink together, and when he smiled it was the smile of the old Arno, the boy I’d grown up and fallen in love with, and for some moments it was tempting to forget it all and bask in that warm bath of nostalgia, let conflict and duty slip away.

“So . . .” I said, at last.

“So.”

“It seems you’ve been busy.”

“Tracking down the man who killed your father, yes,” he said, averting his eyes, so that again I wondered if there was something he wasn’t letting on.

“Best of luck,” I told him. “He’s killed most of my allies and intimidated the rest into silence. He might as well be a phantom.”

“I’ve seen him.”

“What? When?”

“Last night. Just before I found you.” He stood. “Come. I’ll explain.”

As we walked I pressed for more information and Arno related the events of the previous evening. In fact, what he’d seen was a mysterious cloaked figure. There was no name to go with this apparition. Even so, Arno’s ability to get so much had been almost uncanny.

“How the devil did you do it?” I pressed.

“I have unique avenues of investigation open to me,” he said mysteriously.

I cast him a sideways look and remembered what my father had said about Arno’s supposed “gifts.” I’d assumed he meant as in “skills,” but maybe not. Maybe something else—something so unique the Assassins had managed to sniff it out.

“All right, keep your secrets then. Just tell me where to find him.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he protested.

“You don’t trust me?”

“You said it yourself. He hunted down your allies and took over your Order. He wants you dead, Élise.”

I chortled. “And what? You want to protect me? Is that it?”

“I want to help you.” He was serious now. “The Brotherhood has resources, manpower . . .”

“Pity is not a virtue, Arno,” I said sharply, “and I don’t trust the Assassins.”

“Do you trust
me
?” he asked searchingly.

I turned away, not really knowing the answer—no, knowing that I wanted to trust Arno, and in fact was desperate to do so, but knowing he was an Assassin now.

“I haven’t changed that much, Élise,” he implored. “I’m the same boy who distracted the cook while you stole the jam . . . The same one who helped you over the wall into that dog-infested orchard . . .”

There was something else, too. Another thing to consider. As Mr. Weatherall had pointed out, I was virtually alone: me against them. But what if I had the backing of the Assassins? I didn’t have to ask what my father would have done. I already knew he’d been prepared to truce with the Assassins.

I nodded, said, “Take me to your Brotherhood. I’ll hear their offer.”

He looked awkward. “
Offer
might be a bit strong . . .”

31 M
ARCH
1791

i

The Assassin Council had turned out to be held in a salon on the Île de la Cité in the shadow of Notre Dame.

“You sure this is a good idea?” I said to Arno as we entered a room surrounded by vaulted stone arches. In one corner was a large wooden door with a steel-ring handle, and standing by it a large, bearded Assassin whose eyes gleamed within the dark depths of his cowl. Without a word he had nodded to Arno, who nodded back, and I had to fight a wave of unreality seeing Arno this way: Arno the man, Arno the Assassin.

“We have a common enemy,” said Arno, as the door was opened and we passed through into a corridor lit by burning torches on the walls. “The Council will understand that. Besides, Mirabeau was a friend of your father’s, wasn’t he?”

I nodded. “Not friends exactly but my father trusted him. Lead on.”

First, though, Arno had produced a blindfold from his pocket, insisting I wear it. Just to spite him I counted the steps and the turns, confident I could make my way out of the labyrinth if need be.

When the journey was over I took stock of my new surroundings, sensing I was in a dank underground chamber, similar to the one above, except this one was populated. From around me I heard voices. At first they were difficult to locate and I thought they were coming from galleries above before I realized that the gathered council members were arranged around the walls, their voices rising as though seeping into the stone as they shuffled suspiciously and muttered to themselves.

“Is that . . . ?”

“What’s he doing?”

I sensed a figure in front of us, who spoke with a rough and rasping, French-Mr.-Weatherall sort of voice.

“What the hell have you done this time, pisspot?” he said.

My heart hammered, my breathing heavy. What if this infraction was too much? A step too far? What would I hear? More cries of, “Kill the redheaded bint”? It wouldn’t be the first time and after all, Arno had allowed me to keep my pistol and sword, but what good would they be if I was blindfolded and facing multiple opponents? Multiple
Assassin
opponents?

But no. Arno had saved me from one trap. He would never deliver me into another. I trusted him. I trusted him as much as I loved him. And when he spoke to address the man who blocked our way, his voice was reassuringly calm and steady, a balm to soothe my nerves.

“The Templars have marked her for death,” he said.

“So you brought her
here
?” said the commanding voice doubtfully. This was Bellec, surely?

But Arno had no time to answer. There was another new entrant to the council chamber. Another voice that demanded to know, “Well, who have we here?”

“My name is . . .” I began, but the new arrival had interrupted me.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, take that blindfold off. Ridiculous.”

I took it off and faced them, the Assassin Council, who were, just as I’d thought, arranged around the stone walls of this deep and dark inner sanctum, the orange glow of the flames flickering on their robes and their faces unreadable beneath cowls.

My eyes settled on Bellec. Hawk-nosed and suspicious, he stared at me with open contempt, his body language protective of Arno.

The other man I took to be the Grand Master, Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, comte de Mirabeau. As a president of the Assembly he’d been a hero of the Revolution, but these days was a moderate voice compared to others clamoring for more radical change.

I’d heard it said he was mocked for his looks, but though he was a portly, round-faced gentleman, with quite spectacularly bad skin, he had kind, trustworthy eyes and I liked him at once.

I threw my shoulders back. “My name is Élise de la Serre,” I told the room. “My father was François de la Serre, Grand Master of the Templar Order. I’ve come to ask for your help.”

Heads were inclined as the council members began to talk quietly among themselves until the new arrival—Mirabeau, surely—silenced them with a raised finger.

“Continue,” he instructed.

Other council members protested—“Must we rehash this debate again?”—but again Mirabeau quietened them.

“We must,” he told them, “and we will. If you cannot see the advantage in being owed a favor by François de la Serre’s daughter, I despair for our future. Continue, mademoiselle.”

“Here we go,” spat the man I presumed to be Bellec.

It was to him I addressed my next comments.

“You are not men with whom I would normally parley, monsieur, but my father is dead, as are my allies within the Order. If I must turn to the Assassins for my revenge, so be it.”

Bellec snorted. “‘Parley,’ my ass. This is a trick to make us lower our guard. We should kill her now and send her head back as a warning.”

“Bellec . . .” warned Arno.

“Enough,”
shouted Mirabeau. “Plainly this discussion is better conducted in private. If you will excuse us, Mademoiselle de la Serre?”

I gave a short bow. “Certainly.”

“Arno, perhaps you should accompany her. I’m sure you to have much to talk about.”

ii

We left, returning across the bridge and walking the busy thoroughfares until we found ourselves back at the Place des Vosges.

“Well,” I said, as we walked, “that went about as well as I expected.”

“Give it time. Mirabeau will talk them round.”

We walked, and as we did so my thoughts went from Mirabeau, the Grand Master of the Assassins, to the man who had overthrown my own Order.

“Do you really think we can find him?” I asked.

“His luck can’t last forever. François Germain believed Lafrenière was . . .

I stopped him. “François Germain?”

“Yes,” said Arno, “the silversmith who led me to Lafrenière.”

A wave of cold excitement swept through me.

“Arno,” I gasped, “François Thomas Germain was my father’s lieutenant.”

“A Templar?”

“Former. He was cast out when I was younger, something about heretical notions and Jacques de Molay. I’m not entirely sure. But he should be dead. He died years ago.”

Germain. Jacques de Molay. I put those thoughts aside to return to later, perhaps with the help of Mr. Weatherall.

“This Germain is remarkably active for a corpse,” Arno was saying.

I nodded. “I would very much like to ask him a few questions.”

“I would too. His workshop’s on rue Saint-Antoine. Not far from here.”

With renewed purpose we hurried through a tree-lined passageway that opened out onto a square, bunting hanging above our heads, canopies from the shops and coffeehouses fluttering in a slight summer breeze.

The street bore some of the scars of the unrest still: an overturned cart, a small pile of smashed barrels, a series of scorch marks on the cobbles, and of course there were tricolors hanging overhead, some of which bore the marks of battle.

Otherwise, however, it seemed peaceful, just as it once had been, with people passing to and fro, going about their everyday lives, and for a moment it was difficult to picture its being the site of cataclysmic events that were changing our country.

Arno led us along cobbled streets until we reached a gateway leading into a courtyard. Overlooking it was a grand house in which he said were the workshops. In there we would find the silversmith. Germain.

“There were guards here last time I came,” said Arno and stopped, a wary look crossing his face.

“There are none now,” I said.

“No. But then again a lot has happened since the last time I was here. Perhaps the guards have been withdrawn.”

“Or perhaps something else.”

All of a sudden we were hushed and cautious. My hand went to my sword and I was glad of the feeling of the pistol tucked into my belt.

“Is anybody home?” he called across the empty courtyard.

There was no response. Though there was the noise of the street from behind us, from the foreboding mansion ahead of us came only silence and the unblinking stare of the windows.

The door opened at his touch. With a look at me we made our way inside, only to find the entrance hall deserted. We made our way upstairs, Arno leading us to the workshop. From the sparse look of the place it had recently been abandoned. Inside were most of the accoutrements of a silversmith’s trade—at least as far as I could see—but no sign of the silversmith.

We began to look around, cautiously at first, rifling through papers, pulling aside items on shelves, not really sure what we were looking for, just looking, hoping to find some confirmation of the theory that this apparently innocent silversmith was in fact the former high-ranking Templar Germain.

Because if he was, then that meant this apparently innocent silversmith was the man who had targeted my parents and was doing his level best to destroy every other aspect of my life.

My fists clenched at the thought. My heart hardened to think of the pain this man had brought the de la Serre family. Never had the thought of revenge felt more real to me than it did at that moment.

There came a noise from the door. The tiniest of noises—a mere whisper of fabric—it was nevertheless loud enough to alert heightened senses. Arno heard it too, and as one we spun in the direction of the entryway.

“Don’t tell me it’s a trap,” he said.

“It’s a trap.”

iii

Arno and I exchanged a glance and drew our swords as four grim-faced men filed through the door, took up position to bar our exit, and gazed balefully at us. With their battered hats and scruffy boots, they’d taken care to look like fearsome revolutionaries, unlikely to be challenged in the street, but they had more on their minds than freedom, liberty or . . .

Well, they had death on their minds. They sectioned off, two each for me and Arno. One of the men facing me fixed me with a look, his eyes sunken deep into a high forehead, a red neckscarf tied at his throat. With a knife in one hand he drew a sword from behind his back, twirled it in a brief, dramatic figure-of-eight formation, then held me on point. His companion did similar, offering me the back of his hand raised slightly higher than the flat of his sword. Had they really been revolutionaries, keen to rob or otherwise assault me, then they would have been laughing right now, busy underestimating me in the few brief moments before their swift demise. But they weren’t. They were Templar killers. And word had reached their ears that Élise de la Serre was no easy prey; that she would give them a battle.

The one who held his sword high moved forward first, swinging it in a tactical zigzag toward my midriff at the same time as he shifted his weight onto a leading foot.

The steel rang as I parried his blade to the side and danced a little to my left, correctly anticipating that Red-Scarf would time his own attack simultaneously.

He did, and I was able to meet his sword with a downward sweep of my own, keeping both of the men at bay for at least one moment more, giving them pause for thought, letting them know that what they had been told was right: I was trained; I had been trained by the best. And I was stronger than I had ever been.

From my right I heard the swords of Arno and his two opponents ring out, followed by a scream that wasn’t Arno.

Now Flat-Sword made his first mistake, his eyes swiveling to see what fate had befallen his companion, and though it was a momentary lapse of concentration, a half second that his attention was not focused on me, I made him pay for it.

I had him on point, danced forward beneath his guard and struck upward, opening his throat with a flick of the wrist.

Red-Scarf was good. He knew his companion’s death gave him a chance and he lurched forward, his sword in a flat, offensive swing that if he’d made contact would have sent me off balance at the very least.

But he didn’t. He was just a little too hasty, a little too desperate to take advantage of what he thought was an opening and I had expected his attack from that side, had dropped to one knee and brought my own blade to bear, still sparkling with the fresh blood of Flat-Sword and now embedded beneath Red-Scarf’s armpit, between two layers of thick leather armor.

At the same time there came a second squeal from my left and I heard a thud as the fourth body hit the floor and the battle was over, Arno and I the only two left standing.

We caught our breath, shoulders heaving as the final gurgles of our would-be killers dwindled to dry death rasps.

We looked at the corpses, looked back at one another, then mutually decided to resume searching the workshop.

iv

“There’s nothing here,” I said, after a while.

“He must have known his bluff wouldn’t hold up,” said Arno.

“So we’ve lost again.”

“Maybe not. Let’s keep looking.”

He tried a door that wouldn’t open and seemed about to leave it before I gave him a grin and kicked it down. What greeted us was another, slightly smaller chamber, this one full of symbols I recognized: Templar crosses wrought in silver, beautifully crafted goblets and carafes.

No doubt about it, this was a Templar meeting place. On a raised dais at one end of the room was an ornate, intricately carved chair where the Grand Master would sit. On either side were chairs for his lieutenants.

In the center of the room was a plinth, inset with crosses, and lying on it was a set of documents that I went to now, snatching them up, the feel of them familiar to me but also strange, as though they were out of place here in a chamber adjacent to a silversmith’s workshop and not in the château of the de la Serre family.

One of them was a set of orders. I had seen similar orders before, of course, signed by my father, but this one—this one was signed by Germain. Sealed with a red wax Templar cross.

“It’s him. Germain is Grand Master now. How did this happen?”

Arno shook his head, walking toward the window as he spoke. “Son of a bitch. We must tell Mirabeau. As soon as . . .”

He didn’t finish his sentence. There was the sound of gunshots from outside, then glass shattering as musket balls zipped through the windows, slapped into the ceiling above us, showering us with plaster stone chippings. We took cover, Arno by the window, me near the door, just as there came another volley of shots.