FIRST BLOOD

He spat and beckoned me forward with onehand, rolling the blade in the other. “Comeon, Assassin,” he goaded me. “Come be awarrior for the first time. Come see what itfeels like. Come on, boy. Be a man.”

It was supposed to anger me, but instead itmade me focus. I needed him alive. I neededhim to talk.

I leapt over the branch and into the clear-ing, swinging a little wildly to push him backbut recovering my stance quickly, before hecould press forward with a response of hisown. For some moments we circled one an-other, each waiting for the other to launchhis next attack. I broke the stalemate bylunging forward, slashing, then instantly re-treating to my guard.

For a second he thought I’d missed. Thenhe felt the blood begin to trickle down hischeek and touched a hand to his face, hiseyes widening in surprise. First blood to me.

“You’ve underestimated me,” I said.His smile was a little more strained this

time. “There won’t be a second time.”“There will be,” I replied, and came for-

ward again, feinting towards the left then go-ing right when his body was already commit-ted to the wrong line of defence.

A gash opened up in his free arm. Bloodstained his tattered sleeve and began drip-ping to the forest floor, bright red on brownand green needles.

“I’m better than you know,” I said. “All youhave to look forward to is death . . .”

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Ace titles by Oliver Bowden

ASSASSIN’S CREED: RENAISSANCEASSASSIN’S CREED: BROTHERHOOD

ASSASSIN’S CREED: THE SECRETCRUSADE

ASSASSIN’S CREED: REVELATIONSASSASSIN’S CREED: FORSAKEN

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7/723

Contents

TITLE PAGECOPYRIGHT

PROLOGUE

PART I: 17356 DECEMBER 17357 DECEMBER 17358 DECEMBER 17359 DECEMBER 173510 DECEMBER 173511 DECEMBER 1735

PART II: 1747, TWELVE YEARS LATER10 JUNE 174711 JUNE 174718 JUNE 1747

20 JUNE 17472–3 JULY 174714 JULY 174715 JULY 174716 JULY 174717 JULY 1747

PART III: 1753, SIX YEARS LATER7 JUNE 175325 JUNE 175312 AUGUST 175318 APRIL 17548 JULY 175410 JULY 175413 JULY 175414 JULY 175415 NOVEMBER 17548 JULY 17559 JULY 175510 JULY 175513 JULY 17551 AUGUST 1755

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4 AUGUST 175517 SEPTEMBER 1757 (TWO YEARS

LATER)21 SEPTEMBER 175725 SEPTEMBER 17578 OCTOBER 17579 OCTOBER 175727 JANUARY 175828 JANUARY 1758

PART IV: 1774, SIXTEEN YEARS LATER12 JANUARY 177427 JUNE 1776 (TWO YEARS LATER)28 JUNE 17767 JANUARY 1778 (TWO YEARS LATER)26 JANUARY 17787 MARCH 177816 JUNE 177817 JUNE 177816 SEPTEMBER 1781 (THREE YEARS

LATER)

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EPILOGUE: 16 SEPTEMBER 17812 OCTOBER 178215 NOVEMBER 1783

LIST OF CHARACTERSACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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PROLOGUE

I never knew him. Not really. I thought Ihad, but it wasn’t until I read his journal thatI realized I hadn’t really known him at all.And it’s too late now. Too late to tell him Imisjudged him. Too late to tell him I’msorry.

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF

HAYTHAM E. KENWAY

PART I

1735

6 DECEMBER 1735

i

Two days ago I should have been celebratingmy tenth birthday at my home in QueenAnne’s Square. Instead, my birthday hasgone unremarked; there are no celebrations,only funerals, and our burnt-out house is likea blackened, rotted tooth among the tall,white brick mansions of Queen Anne’sSquare.

For the time being, we’re staying in oneof Father’s properties in Bloomsbury. It’s anice house, and though the family is devast-ated, and our lives torn apart, there is that tobe thankful for at least. Here we’ll stay,shocked, in limbo—like troubled ghosts—un-til our future is decided.

The blaze ate my journals so beginningthis feels like starting anew. That being thecase, I should probably begin with my name,which is Haytham, an Arabic name, for anEnglish boy whose home is London, and whofrom birth until two days ago lived an idylliclife sheltered from the worst of the filth thatexists elsewhere in the city. From QueenAnne’s Square we could see the fog andsmoke that hung over the river, and likeeverybody else we were bothered by thestink, which I can only describe as “wethorse,” but we didn’t have to tread throughthe rivers of stinking waste from tanneries,butchers’ shops and the backsides of animalsand people. The rancid streams of effluentthat hasten the passage of disease: dysen-tery, cholera, typhoid . . .

“You must wrap up, Master Haytham. Orthe lurgy’ll get you.”

On walks across the fields to Hampsteadmy nurses used to steer me away from the

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poor unfortunates wracked with coughs, andshielded my eyes from children with deform-ities. More than anything they feared dis-ease. I suppose because you cannot reasonwith disease; you can’t bribe it or take armsagainst it, and it respects neither wealth norstanding. It is an implacable foe.

And of course it attacks without warning.So every evening they checked me for signsof measles or the pox then reported on mygood health to Mother, who came to kiss megood night. I was one of the lucky ones, yousee, who had a mother to kiss me good night,and a father who did, too; who loved me andmy half sister, Jenny, who told me about richand poor, who instilled in me my good for-tune and urged me always to think of others;and who employed tutors and nursemaids tolook after and educate me, so that I shouldgrow up to be a man of good values and ofworth to the world. One of the lucky ones.

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Not like the children who have to work infields and in factories and up chimneys.

I wondered sometimes, though, did theyhave friends, those other children? If theydid, then, while of course I knew better thanto envy them their lives when mine was somuch more comfortable, I envied them thatone thing: their friends. Me, I had none, withno brothers or sisters close to my age either,and, as for making them, well, I was shy.Besides, there was another problem:something that had come to light when I wasjust five years old.

It happened one afternoon. The man-sions of Queen Anne’s Square were builtclose together, so we’d often see our neigh-bours, either in the square itself or in theirgrounds at the rear. On one side of us lived afamily who had four girls, two around myage. They spent what seemed like hours skip-ping or playing blind man’s bluff in theirgarden, and I used to hear them as I sat in

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the schoolroom under the watchful eye of mytutor, Old Mr. Fayling, who had bushy greyeyebrows and a habit of picking his nose,carefully studying whatever it was that he’ddug from the recesses of his nostrils thensurreptitiously eating it.

This particular afternoon Old Mr. Faylingleft the room and I waited until his footstepshad receded before getting up from my sums,going to the window and gazing out at thegrounds of the mansion next door.

Dawson was the family name. Mr.Dawson was an MP, so my father said, barelyhiding his scowl. They had a high-walledgarden, and, despite the trees, bushes, andfoliage in full bloom, parts of it were visiblefrom my schoolroom window, so I could seethe Dawson girls outside. They were playinghopscotch for a change, and had laid outpall-mall mallets for a makeshift course al-though it didn’t look as if they were taking itvery seriously; probably the two older ones

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were trying to teach the two younger onesthe finer points of the game. A blur of pig-tails and pink, crinkly dresses, they werecalling and laughing, and occasionally I’dhear the sound of an adult voice, a nurse-maid probably, hidden from my sight be-neath a low canopy of trees.

My sums were left unattended on thetable for a moment as I watched them play,until suddenly, almost as if she could senseshe was being watched, one of the youngerones, a year or so my junior, looked up, sawme at the window, and our eyes locked.

I gulped, then very hesitantly raised ahand to wave. To my surprise she beamedback. And next she was calling her sisters,who gathered round, all four of them, ex-citedly craning their necks and shieldingtheir eyes from the sun to gaze up at theschoolroom window, where I stood like anexhibit at a museum—except a moving ex-hibit that waved and went slightly pink with

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embarrassment, but even so felt the soft,warm glow of something that might havebeen friendship.

Which evaporated the moment theirnursemaid appeared from beneath the coverof the trees, glanced up crossly at my windowwith a look that left me in no doubt what shethought of me—an ogler or worse—thenushered all four girls out of sight.

That look the nursemaid gave me I’d seenbefore, and I’d see it again, on the square orin the fields behind us. Remember how mynurses steered me away from the ragged un-fortunates? Other nursemaids kept theirchildren away from me like that. I neverreally wondered why. I didn’t question it be-cause . . . I don’t know, because there was noreason to question it, I suppose; it was justsomething that happened, and I knew nodifferent.

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ii

When I was six, Edith presented me with abundle of pressed clothes and a pair ofsilver-buckled shoes.

I emerged from behind the screen wear-ing my new shiny-buckled shoes, a waistcoatand a jacket, and Edith called one of themaids, who said I looked the spitting imageof my father, which of course was the idea.

Later on, my parents came to see me, andI could have sworn Father’s eyes misted up alittle, while Mother made no pretence at alland simply burst out crying there and then inthe nursery, flapping her hand until Edithpassed her a handkerchief.

Standing there, I felt grown-up andlearned, even as I felt the hotness in mycheeks again. I found myself wondering ifthe Dawson girls would have considered merather fine in my new suit, quite the gentle-man. I’d thought of them often. I’d catch

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sight of them from the window sometimes,running along their garden or being shepher-ded into carriages at the front of the man-sions. I fancied I saw one of them steal aglance up at me once, but if she saw me,there were no smiles or waves that time, justa shadow of that same look worn by thenursemaid, as though disapproval of me wasbeing handed down, like arcane knowledge.

So we had the Dawsons on one side;those elusive, pigtailed, skipping Dawsons,while on the other side were the Barretts.They were a family of eight children, boysand girls, although again I rarely saw them;as with the Dawsons, my encounters were re-stricted to the sight of them getting into car-riages, or seeing them at a distance in thefields. Then, one day shortly before myeighth birthday, I was in the garden, strollingalong the perimeter and dragging a stickalong the crumbling red brick of the highgarden wall. Occasionally I’d stop to

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overturn stones with a stick and inspectwhatever insects scuttled from be-neath—wood lice, millipedes, worms thatwriggled as though stretching out their longbodies—when I came upon the door that ledon to a passage between our home and theBarretts’.

The heavy gate was padlocked with ahuge, rusting chunk of metal that looked as ifit hadn’t been opened for years, and I staredat it for a while, weighing the lock in mypalm, when I heard a whispered, urgent,boyish voice.

“Say, you. Is it true what they say aboutyour father?”

It came from the other side of the gate al-though it took me a moment or so to placeit—a moment in which I stood shocked andalmost rigid with fear. Next, I almost jumpedout of my skin when I saw through a hole inthe door an unblinking eye that was watch-ing me. Again came the question.

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“Come on, they’ll be beckoning me in anyminute. Is it true what they say about yourfather?”

Calming, I bent to bring my eye level withthe hole in the door. “Who is this?” I asked.

“It’s me, Tom, who lives next door.”I knew that Tom was the youngest of

their brood, about my age. I’d heard hisname being called.

“Who are you?” he said. “I mean, what’syour name?”

“Haytham,” I replied, and I wondered ifTom was my new friend. He had a friendly-looking eyeball, at least.

“That’s a strange sort of name.”“It’s Arabic. It means ‘young eagle.’”“Well, that makes sense.”“How do you mean, ‘makes sense’?”“Oh, I don’t know. It just does somehow.

And there’s only you, is there?”“And my sister,” I retorted. “And Mother

and Father.”

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“Pretty small sort of family.”I nodded.“Look,” he pressed. “Is it true or not? Is

your father what they say he is? And don’teven think about lying. I can see your eyes,you know. I’ll be able to tell if you’re lyingstraight away.”

“I won’t lie. I don’t even know what ‘they’say he is, or even who ‘they’ are.”

At the same time I was getting an oddand not altogether pleasant feeling: thatsomewhere there existed an idea of whatconstituted “normal,” and that we, the Ken-way family, were not included in it.

Perhaps the owner of the eyeball heardsomething in my tone, because he hastenedto add, “I’m sorry—I’m sorry if I saidsomething out of turn. I was just interested,that’s all. You see, there is a rumour, and it’sawfully exciting if it’s true . . .”

“What rumour?”“You’ll think it’s silly.”

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Feeling brave, I drew close to the holeand looked at him, eyeball to eyeball, saying,“What do you mean? What do people sayabout Father?”

He blinked. “They say he used to be a—”Suddenly there was a noise from behind

him, and I heard an angry male voice call hisname: “Thomas!”

The shock sent him backwards. “Oh,bother,” he whispered quickly. “I’ve got togo, I’m being called. See you around, Ihope?”

And with that he was gone and I was leftwondering what he meant. What rumour?What were people saying about us, our smallfamily?

At the same time I remembered that Ihad better get a move on. It was nearly mid-day—and time for my weapons training.

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7 DECEMBER 1735

i

I feel invisible, like I’m stuck in a limbobetween the past and the future. Around methe grown-ups hold tense conversations.Their faces are drawn and the ladies weep.Fires are kept lit, of course, but the house isempty apart from the few of us and whatpossessions we saved from the burnt-outmansion, and it feels permanently cold. Out-side, snow has started to fall, while indoors isa sorrow that chills the very bones.

With little else for me to do but write myjournal, I had hoped to get up to date withthe story of my life so far, but it seems there’smore to say than I’d first thought, and ofcourse there have been other important mat-ters to attend to. Funerals. Edith today.

“Are you sure, Master Haytham?” Bettyhad asked earlier, with her forehead creasedin concern, her eyes tired. For years—as longas I could remember—she had assistedEdith. She was as bereaved as I was.

“Yes,” I said, dressed as ever in my suitand, for today, a black tie. Edith had beenalone in the world, so it was the survivingKenways and staff who gathered for a funeralfeast below stairs, for ham and ale and cake.When that was over, the men from the funer-al company, who were already quite drunk,loaded her body into the hearse for taking tothe chapel. Behind it we took our seats inmourning carriages. We only needed two ofthem. When it was over I retired to my room,to continue with my story . . .

ii

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A couple of days after I’d spoken to Tom Bar-rett’s eyeball, what he’d said was still playingon my mind. So one morning when Jennyand I were both alone in the drawing roomtogether, I decided to ask her about it.

Jenny. I was nearly eight and she wastwenty-one, and we had as much in commonas I did with the man who delivered the coal.Less, probably, if I thought about it, becauseat least the man who delivered the coal and Iboth liked to laugh, whereas I’d rarely seenJenny smile, let alone laugh.

She has black hair that shines, and hereyes are dark and . . . well, “sleepy” is whatI’d say although I’d heard them described as“brooding,” and at least one admirer went sofar as to say she had a “smoky stare,”whatever that is. Jenny’s looks were a popu-lar topic of conversation. She is a greatbeauty, or so I’m often told.

Although not to me. She was just Jenny,who’d refused to play with me so often I’d

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long since given up asking her; who whenev-er I picture her was sitting in a high-backedchair, head bent over her sewing, or em-broidery—whatever it was she did with aneedle and thread. And scowling. Thatsmoky stare her admirers said she had? Icalled it scowling.

The thing was, despite the fact that wewere little more than guests in each other’slives, like ships sailing around the samesmall harbour, passing closely but nevermaking contact, we had the same father. AndJenny, being more than a decade older thanI, knew more about him than I did. So eventhough I’d had years of her telling me I wastoo stupid or too young to understand—ortoo stupid and too young to understand; andonce even too short to understand, whateverthat was supposed to mean—I used to try toengage her in conversation. I don’t knowwhy, because, as I say, I always came awaynone the wiser. To annoy her perhaps. But

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on this particular occasion, a couple of daysor so after my conversation with Tom’s eye-ball, it was because I was genuinely curiousto find out what Tom had meant.

So I asked her: “What do people sayabout us?”

She sighed theatrically and looked upfrom her needlework.

“What do you mean, Squirt?” she asked.“Just that—what do people say about us?”“Are you talking about gossip?”“If you like.”“And what would you care about gossip?

Aren’t you a bit too—”“I care,” I interrupted, before we got on to

the subject of my being too young, too stupidor too short.

“Do you? Why?”“Somebody said something, that’s all.”She put down her work, tucking it by the

chair cushion at the side of her leg, and

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pursed her lips. “Who? Who said it and whatdid they say?”

“A boy at the gate in the grounds. He saidour family was strange and that Father wasa . . .”

“What?”“I never found out.”She smiled and picked up her needlework

“And that’s what set you thinking, is it?”“Well, wouldn’t it you?”“I already know everything I need to

know,” she said haughtily, “and I tell youthis, I couldn’t give two figs what they sayabout us in the house next door.”

“Well, tell me then,” I said. “What didFather do before I was born?”

Jenny did smile, sometimes. She smiledwhen she had the upper hand, when shecould exert a little power over someone—es-pecially if that someone was me.

“You’ll find out,” she said.“When?”

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“All in good time. After all, you are hismale heir.”

There was a long pause. “How do youmean, ‘male heir’?” I asked. “What’s the dif-ference between that and what you are?”

She sighed. “Well, at the moment, notmuch, although you have weapons training,and I don’t.”

“You don’t?” But on reflection I alreadyknew that, and I suppose I had wonderedwhy it was that I did swordcraft and she didneedlecraft.

“No, Haytham, I don’t have weaponstraining. No child has weapons training,Haytham, not in Bloomsbury anyway, andmaybe not in all of London. Nobody but you.Haven’t you been told?”

“Told what?”“Not to say anything.”“Yes, but . . .”“Well, didn’t you ever wonder why—why

you’re not supposed to say anything?”

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Maybe I had. Maybe I secretly knew allalong. I said nothing.

“You’ll soon find out what’s in store foryou,” she said. “Our lives have been mappedout for us, don’t you worry about that.”

“Well, then, what’s in store for you?”She snorted derisively. “What is in store

for me? is the wrong question. Who is instore? would be more accurate.” There was atrace of something in her voice that Iwouldn’t quite understand until much later,and I looked at her, knowing better than toenquire further, and risk feeling the sting ofthat needle. But when I eventually put downthe book I had been reading and left thedrawing room, I did so knowing that al-though I had learnt almost nothing about myfather or family, I’d learnt something aboutJenny: why she never smiled; why she wasalways so antagonistic towards me.

It was because she’d seen the future.She’d seen the future and knew it favoured

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me, for no better reason than I had beenborn male.

I might have felt sorry for her. Mighthave done—if she hadn’t been such agrumbler.

Knowing what I now knew, though,weapons training the following day had anextra frisson. So: nobody else had weaponstraining but me. Suddenly it felt as though Iwere tasting forbidden fruit, and the fact thatmy father was my tutor only made it moresucculent. If Jenny was right, and there wassome calling I was being groomed to answer,like other boys are trained for the priest-hood, or as blacksmiths, butchers or car-penters, then good. That suited me fine.There was nobody in the world I looked up tomore than Father. The thought that he waspassing on his knowledge to me was at oncecomforting and thrilling.

And, of course, it involved swords. Whatmore could a boy want? Looking back, I

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know that from that day on I became a morewilling and enthusiastic pupil. Every day,either at midday or after evening meal, de-pending on Father’s diary, we convened inwhat we called the training room but was ac-tually the games room. And it was there thatmy sword skills began to improve.

I haven’t trained since the attack. Ihaven’t had the heart to pick up a blade atall, but I know that when I do I’ll picture thatroom, with its dark, oak-panelled walls,bookshelves and the covered billiard tablewhich had been moved aside to make space.And in it my father, his bright eyes, sharpbut kindly, and always smiling, always en-couraging me: block, parry, footwork, bal-ance, awareness, anticipation. Those wordshe repeated like a mantra, sometimes sayingnothing else for an entire lesson at a time,just barking the commands, nodding when Igot it right, shaking his head when I did itwrong, occasionally pausing, scooping his

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hair out of his face, and going to the back ofme to position my arms and legs.

To me, they are—or were—the sights andsounds of weapons training: the book-shelves, the billiard table, my father’s mantraand the sound of ringing . . .

Wood.Yes, wood.Wooden training swords we used, much

to my chagrin. Steel would come later, he’dsay, whenever I complained.

iii

On the morning of my birthday, Edith wasextra specially nice to me and Mother madesure I was given a birthday breakfast of myfavourites: sardines with mustard sauce, andfresh bread with cherry jam made from thefruit of the trees in our grounds. I caughtJenny giving me a sneering look as I tucked

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in but paid it no mind. Since our conversa-tion in the drawing room, whatever powershe’d had over me, slim as it had been, hadsomehow been made less distinct. Beforethat I might have taken her ridicule to heart,maybe felt a little silly and self-consciousabout my birthday breakfast. But not thatday. Thinking back, I wonder if my eighthbirthday marked the day I began to changefrom boy to man.

So no, I didn’t care about the curl ofJenny’s lip, or the pig noises she made sur-reptitiously. I had eyes only for Mother andFather, who had eyes only for me. I could tellby their expressions, tiny little parentalcodes I’d picked up over the years, thatsomething else was to come; that my birth-day pleasures were set to continue. And so itproved. By the end of the meal my father hadannounced that tonight we would be going toWhite’s Chocolate House on Chesterfield

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Street, where the hot chocolate is made fromsolid blocks of cocoa imported from Spain.

Later that day I stood with Edith andBetty fussing around me, dressing me in mysmartest suit. Then the four of us were step-ping into a carriage at the kerb outside,where I sneaked a look up at the windows ofour neighbours and wondered if the faces ofthe Dawson girls were pressed to the glass,or Tom and his brothers. I hoped so. I hopedthey could see me now. See us all and think,“There go the Kenway family, out for theevening, just like a normal family.”

iv

The area around Chesterfield Street wasbusy. We were able to draw up directly out-side White’s and, once there, our door wasopened and we were helped quickly acrossthe crowded thoroughfare, and inside.

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Even so, during that short walk betweenthe carriage and the sanctuary of the chocol-ate house, I looked to my left and right andsaw a little of London: the body of a dog ly-ing in the gutter, a derelict retching againstsome railings, flower sellers, beggars, drunk-ards, urchins splashing in a river of mud thatseemed to seethe on the street.

And then we were inside, greeted by thethick scent of smoke, ale, perfume and ofcourse chocolate, as well as a hubbub of pi-ano and raised voices. People, all of whomwere shouting, leaned over gaming tables.Men drank from huge tankards of ale; wo-men, too. I saw some with hot chocolate andcake. Everybody, it seemed, was in a state ofhigh excitement.

I looked at Father, who had stoppedshort, and sensed his discomfort. For a mo-ment I was concerned he’d simply turn andleave, before a gentleman holding his canealoft caught my eye. Younger than Father,

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with an easy smile and a twinkle that wasvisible even across the room, he was wag-gling the cane at us. Until with a gratefulwave, Father acknowledged him and beganto lead us across the room, squeezingbetween tables, stepping over dogs and evenone or two children, who scrabbled at thefeet of revellers, presumably hoping forwhatever might fall off the gaming tables:pieces of cake, maybe coins.

We reached the gentleman with the cane.Unlike Father, whose hair was unkempt andbarely tied back with a bow, he wore a whitepowdered wig, the back of it secured in ablack silk bag, and a frock coat in a deep, richred colour. With a nod, he greeted Fatherthen turned his attention to me and made anexaggerated bow. “Good evening, MasterHaytham, I believe that many happy returnsof the day are in order. Remind me please ofyour age, sir? I can see from your bearing

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that you are a child of great maturity.Eleven? Twelve, perhaps?”

As he said this he glanced over myshoulder with a twinkly smile and my moth-er and father chuckled appreciatively.

“I am eight, sir,” I said, and puffed upproudly, as my father completed the intro-ductions. The gentleman was Reginald Birch,one of his senior property managers, and Mr.Birch said he was delighted to make my ac-quaintance then greeted my mother with along bow, kissing the back of her hand.

His attention went to Jenny next, and hetook her hand, bent his head and pressed hislips to it. I knew enough to realize that whathe was doing was courtship, and I glancedquickly over to Father, expecting him to stepin.

Instead what I saw was he and Motherlooking thrilled, though Jenny was stone-faced, and stayed that way as we were led toa private back room of the chocolate house

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and seated, she and Mr. Birch side by side, asthe White’s staff began to busy themselvesaround us.

I could have stayed there all night, havingmy fill of hot chocolate and cake, copiousamounts of which were delivered to thetable. Both Father and Mr. Birch seemed toenjoy the ale. So in the end it was Motherwho insisted we leave—before I was sick, orthey were—and we stepped out into thenight, which if anything had become evenbusier in the intervening hours.

For a moment or so I found myself disori-entated by the noise and the stench of thestreet. Jenny wrinkled her nose, and I saw aflicker of concern pass across my mother’sface. Instinctively, Father moved closer to-wards us all, as if to try and ward off theclamour.

A filthy hand was thrust in front of myface and I looked up to see a beggar silentlyappealing for money with wide, beseeching

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eyes, bright white in contrast to the dirt ofhis face and hair; a flower seller tried tobustle past Father to reach Jenny, and gavean outraged “Oi” when Mr. Birch used hiscane to block her path. I felt myself beingjostled, saw two urchins trying to reach uswith their palms out.

Then suddenly my mother gave a cry as aman burst from within the crowd, clothesragged and dirty, teeth bared and his handoutstretched, about to snatch my mother’snecklace.

And in the next second I discovered whyFather’s cane had that curious rattle, as I sawa blade appear from within as he span toprotect Mother. He covered the distance toher in the blink of an eye, but before itcleared its scabbard, he changed his mind,perhaps seeing the thief was unarmed, andreplaced it, ramming it home with a thumpand making it a cane once again, in the same

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movement twirling it to knock the ruffian’shand aside.

The thief shrieked in pain and surpriseand backed straight into Mr. Birch, whohurled him to the street and pounced onhim, his knees on the man’s chest and a dag-ger at his throat. I caught my breath.

I saw Mother’s eyes widen over Father’sshoulder.

“Reginald!” called Father. “Stop!”“He tried to rob you, Edward,” said Mr.

Birch, without turning. The thief snivelled.The tendons on Mr. Birch’s hands stood out,and his knuckles were white on the handle ofthe dagger.

“No, Reginald, this is not the way,” saidmy father calmly. He stood with his armsaround Mother, who had buried her face inhis chest and was whimpering softly. Jennystood close by at one side, me at another.Around us a crowd had gathered, the samevagrants and beggars who had been

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bothering us now keeping a respectful dis-tance. A respectful, frightened distance.

“I mean it, Reginald,” said Father. “Putthe dagger away, let him go.”

“Don’t make me look foolish like this, Ed-ward,” said Birch. “Not in front of everybodylike this, please. We both know this man de-serves to pay, if not with his life, then per-haps with a finger or two.”

I caught my breath.“No!” commanded Father. “There will be

no bloodshed, Reginald. Any associationbetween us will end if you do not do as I saythis very moment.” A hush seemed to fall oneverybody around us. I could hear the thiefgibbering, saying over and over again,“Please sir, please sir, please sir . . .” Hisarms were pinned to his sides, his legs kick-ing and scraping uselessly on the filth-covered cobbles as he lay trapped.

Until, at last, Mr. Birch seemed to decide,and the dagger withdrew, leaving a small

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bleeding nick behind. When he stood, heaimed a kick at the thief, who needed no fur-ther encouragement to scramble to his handsand knees and take off into ChesterfieldStreet, grateful to escape with his life.

Our carriage driver had recovered hiswits and now stood by the door, urging us tohurry to the safety of our carriage.

Father and Mr. Birch stood facing oneanother, their eyes locked. As Mother hur-ried me past, I saw Mr. Birch’s eyes blazing. Isaw my father’s gaze meet him equally, andhe offered his hand to shake, saying, “Thankyou, Reginald. On behalf of all of us, thankyou for your quick thinking.”

I felt my mother’s hand in the small of myback as she tried to shove me into the car-riage, and craned my head back to see Fath-er, his hand held out to Mr. Birch, whoglared at him, refusing to accept the offer ofaccord.

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Then, just as I was bundled into the car-riage, I saw Mr. Birch reach to grasp Father’shand and his glare melt away into a smile—aslightly embarrassed, bashful smile, asthough he’d just remembered himself. Thetwo shook hands and my father awarded Mr.Birch with the short nod that I knew so well.It meant that everything had been settled. Itmeant that no more need be said about it.

v

At last we returned home to Queen Anne’sSquare, where we bolted the door and ban-ished the smell of smoke and manure andhorse. I told Mother and Father how much Ihad enjoyed my evening, thanked them pro-fusely and assured them that the commotionin the street afterwards had done nothing tospoil my evening, while privately thinkingthat it had been a highlight.

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But it turned out the evening wasn’t overyet, because as I went to climb the stairs, myfather beckoned me follow him instead, andled the way to the games room, where he litan oil lamp.

“You enjoyed your evening, then,Haytham,” he said.

“I enjoyed it very much, sir,” I said.“What was your impression of Mr.

Birch?”“I liked him very much, sir.”Father chuckled. “Reginald is a man who

sets great store by appearance, by mannersand etiquette and edict. He is not like some,who wear etiquette and protocol as a badgeonly when it suits them. He is a man ofhonour.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, but I must have soundedas doubtful as I felt, because he looked at mesharply.

“Ah,” he said, “you’re thinking aboutwhat happened afterwards?”

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“Yes, sir.”“Well—what about it?”He beckoned me over to one of the book-

shelves. He seemed to want me closer to thelight and his eyes to stare at my face. Thelamplight played across his features and hisdark hair shone. His eyes were always kindlybut they could also be intense, as they werenow. I noticed one of his scars, whichseemed to shine more brightly in the light.

“Well, it was very exciting, sir,” I replied;adding quickly, “Though I was most con-cerned for Mother. Your speed in savingher—I’ve never seen anybody move soquickly.”

He laughed. “Love will do that to a man.You’ll find that out for yourself one day. Butwhat of Mr. Birch? His response? What didyou make of it, Haytham?”

“Sir?”

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“Mr. Birch seemed about to administersevere punishment to the scoundrel,Haytham. Did you think it was deserved?”

I considered it before answering. I couldtell from the look on Father’s face, sharp andwatchful, that my answer was important.

And in the heat of the moment I supposeI had thought the thief deserved a harsh re-sponse. There had been an instant, brief as itwas, when some primal anger wished himharm for the attack on my mother. Now,though, in the soft glow of the lamp, withFather looking kindly upon me, I feltdifferently.

“Tell me honestly, Haytham,” promptedFather, as though reading my thoughts. “Re-ginald has a keen sense of justice, or what hedescribes as justice. It’s somewhat . . . biblic-al. But what did you think?”

“At first I felt an urge for . . . revenge, sir.But it soon passed, and I was pleased to seethe man granted clemency,” I said.

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Father smiled and nodded, and then ab-ruptly turned to the bookshelves, where witha flick of his wrist he operated a switch, caus-ing a portion of books to slide across to re-veal a secret compartment. My heart skippeda beat as he took something from it: a box,which he handed to me and, nodding, bademe open.

“A birthday present, Haytham,” he said.I knelt and placed the box on the floor,

opened it to reveal a leather belt that Iplucked quickly away, knowing that beneathwould be a sword, and not a wooden playsword but a shimmering steel sword with anornate handle. I took it from the box andheld it in my hands. It was a short swordand, though, shamefully, I felt a twinge ofdisappointment about that, I knew at oncethat it was a beautiful short sword, and itwas my short sword. I decided at once that itwould never leave my side, and was already

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reaching for the belt when Father stoppedme.

“No, Haytham,” he said, “it stays in here,and is not to be removed or even usedwithout my permission. Is that clear?” Hehad collected the sword from me and alreadyreplaced it in the box, placing the belt on topand closing it.

“Soon you will begin to train with thissword,” he continued. “There is much for youto learn, Haytham, not only about the steelyou hold in your hands, but also the steel inyour heart.”

“Yes, Father,” I said, trying not to look asconfused and disappointed as I felt. Iwatched as he turned and replaced the box inthe secret compartment, and if he was tryingto make sure that I didn’t see which booktriggered the compartment, well, then, hefailed. It was the King James Bible.

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8 DECEMBER 1735

i

There were two more funerals today, of thetwo soldiers who had been stationed in thegrounds. As far as I know, Father’s gentle-man, Mr. Digweed, attended the service forthe captain, whose name I never knew, butnobody from our household was at the funer-al for the second man. There is so much lossand mourning around us at the moment, it’sas if there simply isn’t room for any more,callous as it sounds.

ii

After my eighth birthday, Mr. Birch becamea regular visitor to the house and, when not

squiring Jenny on walks around the grounds,or taking her into town in his carriage, or sit-ting in the drawing room drinking tea andsherry and regaling the women with tales ofarmy life, he held meetings with Father. Itwas clear to all that he intended to marryJenny and that the union had Father’s bless-ing, but there was talk that Mr. Birch hadasked to postpone the nuptials; that hewanted to be as prosperous as possible sothat Jenny should have the husband she de-served, and that he had his eye on a mansionin Southwark in order to keep her in themanner to which she’d become accustomed.

Mother and Father were thrilled aboutthat of course. Jenny less so. I’d occasionallysee her with red eyes, and she’d developed ahabit of flying quickly out of rooms, either inthe throes of an angry tantrum or with herhand to her mouth, stifling tears. More thanonce I heard Father say, “She’ll come round,”

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and on one occasion he gave me a sidewayslook and rolled his eyes.

Just as she seemed to wither under theweight of her future, I flourished with the an-ticipation of my own. The love I felt for Fath-er constantly threatened to engulf me withits sheer magnitude; I didn’t just love him, Iidolized him. At times it was as if the two ofus shared a knowledge that was secret fromthe rest of the world. For example, he’d oftenask me what my tutors had been teachingme, listen intently, and then say, “Why?”Whenever he asked me something, whetherit was about religion, ethics or morality, hewould know if I gave the answer by rote, orrepeated it parrot fashion, and he’d say,“Well, you’ve just told me what Old Mr.Fayling thinks,” or, “We know what acenturies-old writer thinks. But what does itsay in here, Haytham?” and he’d place ahand to my chest.

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I realize now what he was doing. Old Mr.Fayling was teaching me facts and absolutes;Father was asking me to question them. Thisknowledge I was being given by Old Mr.Fayling—where did it originate? Who wiel-ded the quill, and why should I trust thatman?

Father used to say, “To see differently, wemust first think differently.” It sounds stu-pid, and you might laugh, or I might lookback on this in years to come and laugh my-self, but at times it felt as though I could feelmy brain actually expand to look at theworld in Father’s way. He had a way of look-ing at the world that nobody else had, so itseemed; a way of looking at the world thatchallenged the very idea of truth.

Of course, I questioned Old Mr. Fayling. Ichallenged him one day, during Scriptures,and earned myself a whack across theknuckles with his cane, along with the prom-ise that he would be informing my father,

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which he did. Later, Father took me into hisstudy and, after closing the door, grinnedand tapped the side of his nose. “It’s oftenbest, Haytham, to keep your thoughts toyourself. Hide in plain sight.”

So I did. And I found myself looking atthe people around me, trying to look insidethem as though I might be able somehow todivine how they looked at the world, the OldMr. Fayling way, or the Father way.

Writing this now, of course, I can see Iwas getting too big for my boots; I wasfeeling grown-up beyond my years, whichwould be as unattractive now, at ten, as itwould have been at eight, then nine. Prob-ably I was unbearably supercilious. ProbablyI felt like the little man of the household.When I turned nine, Father presented mewith a bow and arrow for my birthday and,practising with it in the grounds, I hopedthat the Dawson girls or the Barrett childrenmight be watching me from the windows.

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It had been over a year since I’d spokento Tom at the gate, but I still sometimesloitered there in the hope of meeting himagain. Father was forthcoming on all sub-jects except his own past. He’d never speakof his life before London, nor of Jenny’smother, so I still held out hope that whateverit was Tom knew might prove illuminating.And, apart from that, of course, I wanted afriend. Not a parent or nursemaid or tutor ormentor—I had plenty of those. Just a friend.And I hoped it would be Tom.

It never will be now, of course.They bury him tomorrow.

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9 DECEMBER 1735

i

Mr. Digweed came to see me this morning.He knocked, waited for my reply then had toduck his head to enter, because Mr. Digweed,as well as being balding, with slightly bulgingeyes and veiny eyelids, is tall and slim, andthe doorways in our emergency residence aremuch lower than they were at home. The wayhe had to stoop as he moved around theplace, it added to his air of discomfiture, thesense of his being a fish out of water here.He’d been my father’s gentleman since be-fore I was born, at least since the Kenwayssettled in London, and like all of us, maybeeven more than the rest of us, he belonged toQueen Anne’s Square. What made his paineven more acute was guilt—his guilt that on

the night of the attack he was away, attend-ing to family matters in Herefordshire; heand our driver had returned the morningafter the attack.

“I hope you can find it in your heart toforgive me, Master Haytham,” he had said tome in the days after, his face pale and drawn.

“Of course, Digweed,” I said, and didn’tknow what to say next; I’d never been com-fortable addressing him by his surname; ithad never felt right in my mouth. So all Icould add was “Thank you.”

This morning his cadaverous face worethe same solemn expression, and I could tellthat, whatever news he had, it was bad.

“Master Haytham,” he said, standing be-fore me.

“Yes . . . Digweed?”“I’m terribly sorry, Master Haytham, but

there’s been a message from Queen Anne’sSquare, from the Barretts. They wish tomake it clear that nobody from the Kenway

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household is welcome at young Master Tho-mas’s funeral service. They respectfully re-quest that no contact is made at all.”

“Thank you, Digweed,” I said, andwatched as he gave a short, sorrowful bowthen dipped his head to avoid the low beamof the doorway as he left.

I stood there for some time, gazingemptily at the space where he’d stood, untilBetty returned to help me out of my funeralsuit and into my everyday ones.

ii

One afternoon a few weeks ago, I was belowstairs, playing in the short corridor that ledoff the servants’ hall to the heavily barreddoor of the plate room. It was in the plateroom that the family valuables were stored:silverware which only ever saw the light ofday on the rare occasions Mother and Father

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entertained guests; family heirlooms, Moth-er’s jewellery and some of Father’s booksthat he considered of greatest value—irre-placeable books. He kept the key to the plateroom with him at all times, on a loop aroundhis belt, and I had only ever seen him entrustit to Mr. Digweed, and then only for shortperiods.

I liked to play in the corridor nearby be-cause it was so rarely visited, which meant Iwas never bothered by nursemaids, whowould invariably tell me to get off the dirtyfloor before I wore a hole in my trousers; orby other well-meaning staff, who would en-gage me in polite conversation and oblige meto answer questions about my education ornon-existent friends; or perhaps even byMother or Father, who would tell me to getoff the dirty floor before I wore a hole in mytrousers and then force me to answer ques-tions about my education or non-existentfriends. Or, worse than any of them, by

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Jenny, who would sneer at whatever game Iwas playing and, if it was toy soldiers, makea malicious effort to kick over each and everytin man of them.

No, the passageway between the servants’hall and the plate room was one of the fewplaces at Queen Anne’s Square where I couldrealistically hope to avoid any of thesethings, so the passageway is where I wentwhen I didn’t want to be disturbed.

Except on this occasion, when a new faceemerged in the form of Mr. Birch, who lethimself into the passage just as I was aboutto arrange my troops. I had a lantern withme, placed on the stone floor, and the candlefire flickered and popped in the draught asthe passage door opened. From my positionon the floor, I saw the hem of his frock coatand the tip of his cane, and as my eyes trav-elled up to see him looking down upon me, Iwondered if he, too, kept a sword hidden in

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his cane, and if it would rattle, the way myfather’s did.

“Master Haytham, I rather hoped I mightfind you here,” he said with a smile. “I waswondering, are you busy?”

I scrambled to my feet. “Just playing, sir,”I said quickly. “Is there something wrong?”

“Oh no.” He laughed. “In fact, the lastthing I want to do is disturb your playtime,though there is something I was hoping todiscuss with you.”

“Of course,” I said, nodding, my heartsinking at the thought of yet another roundof questions concerning my prowess at arith-metic. Yes, I enjoyed my sums. Yes, I enjoyedwriting. Yes, I one day hoped to be as cleveras my father. Yes, I one day hoped to followhim into the family business.

But with a wave of his hand Mr. Birchbade me back to my game and even set asidehis cane and hitched up his trousers in orderto crouch beside me.

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“And what do we have here?” he asked,indicating the small tin figurines.

“Just a game, sir,” I replied.“These are your soldiers, are they?” he

enquired. “And which one is thecommander?”

“There is no commander, sir,” I said.He gave a dry laugh. “Your men need a

leader, Haytham. How else will they knowthe best course of action? How else will theybe instilled with a sense of discipline andpurpose?”

“I don’t know, sir,” I said.“Here,” said Mr. Birch. He reached to re-

move one of the tiny tin men from the pack,buffed him up on his sleeve and placed himto one side. “Perhaps we should make thisgentleman here the leader—what do youthink?”

“If it pleases you, sir.”“Master Haytham”—Mr. Birch

smiled—“this is your game. I am merely an

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interloper, somebody hoping you can showme how it is played.”

“Yes, sir, then a leader would be fine inthe circumstances.”

Suddenly the door to the passagewayopened again, and I looked up, this time tosee Mr. Digweed enter. In the flickeringlamplight I saw him and Mr. Birch share alook.

“Can your business here wait, Digweed?”said Mr. Birch tautly.

“Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Digweed, bow-ing and retreating, the door closing behindhim.

“Very good,” continued Mr. Birch, his at-tention returning to the game. “Then let usmove this gentleman here to be the unit’sleader, in order to inspire his men to greatdeeds, to lead them by example and teachthem the virtues of order and discipline andloyalty. What do you think, MasterHaytham?”

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“Yes, sir,” I said obediently.“Here’s something else, Master

Haytham,” said Mr. Birch, reaching betweenhis feet to move another of the tin soldiersfrom the pack then placing him next to thenominal commander. “A leader needs trus-ted lieutenants, does he not?”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed. There was a longpause, during which I watched Mr. Birchtake inordinate care placing two more lieu-tenants next to the leader, a pause that be-came more and more uncomfortable as themoments passed, until I said, more to breakthe awkward silence than because I wantedto discuss the inevitable, “Sir, did you wantto speak to me about my sister, sir?”

“Why, you can see right through me,Master Haytham,” laughed Mr. Birch loudly.“Your father is a fine teacher. I see he hastaught you guile and cunning—among otherthings, no doubt.”

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I wasn’t sure what he meant so I keptquiet.

“How is weapons training going, may Ienquire?” asked Mr. Birch.

“Very well, sir. I continue to improveeach day, so Father says,” I said proudly.

“Excellent, excellent. And has your fatherever indicated to you the purpose of yourtraining?” he asked.

“Father says my real training is to beginon the day of my tenth birthday,” I replied.

“Well, I wonder what it is that he has totell you,” he said, with furrowed brow. “Youreally have no idea? Not even a tantalizingclue?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” I said. “Only that he willprovide me with a path to follow. A creed.”

“I see. How very exciting. And he’s nevergiven you any indication as to what this‘creed’ might be?”

“No, sir.”

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“How fascinating. I’ll wager you cannotwait. And, in the meantime, has your fathergiven you a man’s sword with which to learnyour craft, or are you still using the woodenpractice batons?”

I bridled. “I have my own sword, sir.”“I should very much like to see it.”“It is kept in the games room, sir, in a

safe place that only my father and I have ac-cess to.”

“Only your father and you? You meanyou have access to it, too?”

I coloured, grateful for the dim light inthe passageway so that Mr. Birch couldn’tsee the embarrassment on my face. “All Imean is that I know where the sword is kept,sir, not that I would know how to access it,” Iclarified.

“I see.” Mr. Birch grinned. “A secretplace, is it? A hidden cavity within thebookcase?”

My face must have said it all. He laughed.

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“Don’t worry, Master Haytham, yoursecret is safe with me.”

I looked at him. “Thank you, sir.”“That’s quite all right.”He stood, reached to pick up his cane,

brushed some dirt, real or imaginary, fromhis trousers and turned towards the door.

“My sister, sir?” I said. “You never askedme about her.”

He stopped, chuckled softly and reachedto ruffle my hair. A gesture I quite liked. Per-haps because it was something my fatherdid, too.

“Ah, but I don’t need to. You’ve told meeverything I need to know, young MasterHaytham,” he said. “You know as little aboutthe beautiful Jennifer as I do, and perhapsthat is how it must be in the proper way ofthings. Women should be a mystery to us,don’t you think, Master Haytham?”

I hadn’t the faintest idea what he wastalking about but smiled anyway, and

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breathed a sigh of relief when I once againhad the plate-room corridor to myself.

iii

Not long after that talk with Mr. Birch I wasin another part of the house and making myway towards my bedroom when as I passedFather’s study I heard raised voices from in-side: Father and Mr. Birch.

The fear of a good hiding meant I stayedtoo far away to hear what was being said, andI was glad I’d kept my distance, because inthe next moment the door to the study wasflung open and out hurried Mr. Birch. Hewas in a fury—his anger was plain to see inthe colour of his cheeks and blazingeyes—but the sight of me in the hallwaybrought him up short, even though he re-mained agitated.

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“I tried, Master Haytham,” he said, as hegathered himself and began to button hiscoat ready to leave. “I tried to warn him.”

And with that he placed his cocked hat onhis head and stalked off. My father had ap-peared at the door of his office and glaredafter Mr. Birch and, though it was clearly anunpleasant encounter, it was grown-up stuff,and I didn’t concern myself with it.

There was more to think about. Just aday or so later came the attack.

iv

It happened on the night before my birthday.The attack, I mean. I was awake, perhaps be-cause I was excited about the next day, butalso because I was in the habit of getting upafter Edith had left the room to sit on mywindowsill and gaze out of my bedroom win-dow. From my vantage point I’d see cats and

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dogs or even foxes passing across the moon-painted grass. Or, if not watching out for an-imals, then just watching the night, lookingat the moon, the watery grey colour it gavethe grass and trees. At first I thought what Iwas seeing in the distance were fireflies. I’dheard all about fireflies but never seen them.All I knew was that they gathered in cloudsand emitted a dull glow. However, I soonrealized the light wasn’t a dull glow at all, butin fact was going on, then off, then on again.I was seeing a signal.

My breath caught in my throat. The flash-ing light seemed to come from close to theold wooden door in the wall, the one whereI’d seen Tom that day, and my first thoughtwas that he was trying to contact me. Itseems strange now, but not for a second did Iassume the signal was meant for anyone butme. I was too busy dragging on a pair oftrousers, tucking my nightclothes into thewaistband then hooking my braces over my

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shoulders. I shrugged on a coat. All I couldthink of was what an awfully splendid adven-ture I was about to have.

And of course I realize now, looking back,that in the mansion next door Tom musthave been another one who liked to sit on hiswindowsill and watch the nocturnal life inthe grounds of his house. And, like me, hemust have seen the signal. And perhaps Tomeven had the same thought as I did: that itwas me signalling him. And in response didthe same as I did: he scrambled from hisperch and pulled on some clothes toinvestigate . . .

Two new faces had appeared at the houseon Queen Anne’s Square, a pair of hard-faced former soldiers employed by Father.His explanation was that we needed thembecause he had received “information.”

Just that. “Information”—that’s all he’dsay. And I wondered then as I wonder nowwhat he meant, and whether it had anything

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to do with the heated conversation I’d over-heard between him and Mr. Birch. Whateverit was, I’d seen little of the two soldiers. All Ireally knew was that one was stationed in thedrawing room at the front of the mansion,while the other stayed close to the fire in theservants’ hall, supposedly to guard the plateroom. Both were easy to avoid as I creptdown the steps to below stairs and slid intothe silent, moonlit kitchen, which I had nev-er seen so dark and empty and still.

And cold. My breath plumed and straightaway I shivered, uncomfortably aware howchilly it was compared to what I’d thoughtwas the meagre heat of my room.

Close by the door was a candle, which I litand, with my hand cupped over its flame,held to light the way as I let myself out intothe stable yard. And if I’d thought it was coldin the kitchen, then, well . . . outside, it wasthe kind of cold where it felt as if the worldaround you was brittle and about to break;

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cold enough to take my cloudy breath away,to give me second thoughts as I stood thereand wondered whether or not I could bear tocontinue.

One of the horses whinnied and stamped,and for some reason the noise made mymind up, sending me tiptoeing past the ken-nels to a side wall and through a large archedgate leading into the orchard. I made my waythrough the bare, spindly apple trees, thenwas out in the open, painfully aware of themansion to my right, where I imagined facesat every window: Edith, Betty, Mother andFather all staring out and seeing me out ofmy room and running amok in the grounds.Not that I really was running amok, ofcourse, but that’s what they’d say; that’swhat Edith would say as she scolded me andwhat Father would say when he gave me thecane for my troubles.

But if I was expecting a shout from thehouse, then none came. Instead I made my

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way to the perimeter wall, began to runquickly along it towards the door. I was stillshivering, but as my excitement grew Iwondered if Tom would have brought foodfor a midnight feast: ham, cake and biscuits.Oh, and a hot toddy would be most welcome,too . . .

A dog began barking. Thatch, Father’sIrish bloodhound, from his kennel in thestable yard. The noise stopped me in mytracks, and I crouched beneath the bare, low-hanging branches of a willow, until it ceasedas suddenly as it had started. Later, ofcourse, I’d understand why it stopped so ab-ruptly. But I didn’t think anything of it at thetime because I had no reason to suspect thatThatch had had his throat cut by an invader.We now think there were five of them alto-gether who crept up on us with knives andswords. Five men making their way to themansion, and me in the grounds, oblivious toit all.

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But how was I to know? I was a silly boywhose head buzzed with adventure andderring-do, not to mention the thought ofham and cake, and I continued along theperimeter wall, until I came to the gate.

Which was open.What had I expected? I suppose, for the

gate to be shut and for Tom to be on the oth-er side of it. Perhaps one of us would haveclimbed the wall. Perhaps we planned totrade gossip with the door between us. All Iknew was that the gate was open, and Ibegan to get the feeling that something waswrong, and at last it occurred to me that thesignalling I’d seen from my bedroom windowmight not have been meant for me.

“Tom?” I whispered.There was no sound. The night was com-

pletely still: no birds, no animals, nothing.Nervous now, I was about to turn and leave,return to the house and to the safety of mywarm bed, when I saw something. A foot. I

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edged further out of the gate where the pas-sageway was bathed in dirty white moonlightwhich gave everything a soft, grubbyglow—including the flesh of the boy sprawledon the ground.

He half lay, half sat, propped up againstthe opposite wall, dressed almost exactly as Iwas, with a pair of trousers and nightclothes,only he hadn’t bothered to tuck his in and itwas twisted around his legs, which lay atstrange, unnatural angles on the hard, ruttedmud of the walkway.

It was Tom, of course. Tom, whose deadeyes stared sightlessly at me from beneaththe brim of his hat, skewwhiff on his head;Tom, with the moonlight gleaming on bloodthat had sheeted down his front from thegash at his throat.

My teeth began to chatter. I heard awhimper and realized it was me. A hundredpanicked thoughts crowded into my head.

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And then things began to happen tooquickly for me even to remember the exactorder in which they took place, though Ithink it started with the sound of breakingglass and a scream that came from thehouse.

Run.I’m ashamed to admit that the voices, the

thoughts jostling in my head, all cried thatone word together.

Run.And I obeyed them. I ran. Only, not in the

direction they wanted me to. Was I doing asmy father had instructed and listening to myinstincts, or ignoring them? I didn’t know.All I knew was that though every fibre of mybeing seemed to want me to flee from what Iknew was the most terrible danger, in fact Iran towards it.

Through the stable yard I ran, and burstinto the kitchen, hardly pausing to acknow-ledge the fact that the door hung open on its

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hinges. From somewhere along the hall Iheard more screaming, saw blood on the kit-chen floor and stepped through the door to-wards the stairs, only to see another body. Itwas one of the soldiers. He lay in the cor-ridor clutching his stomach, eyelids flutter-ing madly and a line of blood trickling fromhis mouth as he slid dying to the floor.

As I stepped over him and ran for thestairs, my one thought was to reach my par-ents. The entrance hall, which was dark, butfull of screams and running feet, and the firsttendrils of smoke. I tried to get my bearings.From above came yet another scream, and Ilooked up to see dancing shadows on the bal-cony, and, briefly, the glitter of steel in thehands of one of our attackers. Meeting himon the landing was one of Father’s valets, butthe skittering light stopped me from seeingthe poor boy’s fate. Instead I heard andthrough my feet felt the wet thump of hisbody as it dropped from the balcony to the

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wooden floor not far away from me. His as-sassin gave a howl of triumph, and I couldhear running feet as he made his way furtheralong the landing—towards the bedrooms.

“Mother!” I screamed, and ran for thestairs at the same time as I saw my parents’door flung open and my father come surgingout to meet the intruder. He wore trousers,and his suspenders were pulled over his na-ked shoulders, his hair untied and hangingfree. In one hand he held a lantern, in theother his blade.

“Haytham!” he called as I reached the topof the stairs. The intruder was between us onthe landing. He stopped, turned to look atme, and in the light of Father’s lantern Icould see him properly for the first time. Hewore trousers, a black leather-armour waist-coat and a small half-face mask like the kindworn for a masked ball. And he was changingdirection. Instead of going up against Father,

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he was charging back along the landing afterme, grinning.

“Haytham!” shouted Father again. Hepulled away from Mother and began to rundown the landing after the intruder. In-stantly the gap between them closed, but itwouldn’t be enough, and I turned to escape,only to see a second man at the foot of thestairs, sword in hand, blocking my way. Hewas dressed the same as the first, although Inoticed one difference: his ears. They werepointed, and with the mask gave him thelook of a hideous, deformed Mr. Punch. Fora moment I froze, then swung back to seethat the grinning man behind me had turnedto meet Father, and their swords clashed.Father had left his lantern behind, and it wasin the half dark that they fought. A short,brutal battle punctuated by grunts and thechiming of sword steel. Even in the heat andthe danger of the moment I wished it had

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been light enough to watch him fightproperly.

Then it was over and the grinning assas-sin was grinning no more, dropping hissword, tumbling over the banisters with ascream and hitting the floor beneath. Thepointy-eared intruder had been halfway upthe stairs but had second thoughts andwheeled around to escape to the entrancehall.

There was a shout from below. Over thebanisters I saw a third man, also wearing amask, who beckoned to the pointy-earedman before both disappeared out of sight be-neath the landing. I glanced up and in thelow light saw a look pass across my father’sface.

“The games room,” he said.And, in the next instant, before Mother or

I could stop him, he’d leapt over the banisterto the entrance hall beneath. As he jumpedmy mother screamed, “Edward!” and the

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anguish in her voice echoed my ownthoughts. No. My one, single thought: he’sabandoning us.

Why is he abandoning us?Mother’s nightclothes were in disarray

around her as she ran along the landing to-wards where I stood at the top of the stairs;her face was a mask of terror. Behind hercame yet another attacker, who appearedfrom the stairway at the far end of the land-ing and reached Mother at the same time asshe reached me. He grabbed her from behindwith one hand while his sword hand sweptforward, about to draw the blade across herexposed throat.

I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t even thinkabout it at all until much later. But in onemovement I stepped up, reached, pluckedthe dead attacker’s sword from the stair,raised it above my head and with two handsplunged it into his face before he could cuther throat.

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My aim was true and the point of thesword drove through the eyehole of the maskand into the socket. His scream tore a raggedhole in the night as he span away from Moth-er with the sword momentarily embedded inhis eye. Then it was wrenched out as he fellagainst the banister, toppled for a moment,sank to his knees and pitched forward, deadbefore his head hit the floor.

Mother ran into my arms and buried herhead in my shoulder, even as I grabbed thesword and took her hand to make our wayback down the stairs. How many times hadFather said to me, on his way to work for theday, “You’re in charge today, Haytham; youlook after Mother for me.” Now, I really was.

We reached the foot of the stairs, where astrange quiet seemed to have descended overthe house. The entrance hall was empty nowand still dark, though lit by an ominous flick-ering orange glow. The air was beginning tothicken with smoke, but through the haze I

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saw bodies: the assassin, the valet who waskilled earlier . . . And Edith, who lay with herthroat open in a pool of blood.

Mother saw Edith, too, whimpered, andtried to pull me in the direction of the maindoors, but the door to the games room washalf-open, and from inside I could hear thesound of sword fighting. Three men, one ofthem my father. “Father needs me,” I said,trying to disentangle myself from Mother,who saw what I was about to do and pulledat me harder, until I snatched my hand awaywith such force that she collapsed to thefloor.

For one strange moment I found myselftorn between helping Mother to her feet andapologizing, the sight of her on the floor—onthe floor because of me—was so appalling.But then I heard a great cry from inside thegames room and it was enough to propel methrough the door.

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The first thing I saw was that the book-case compartment was open, and I could seethe box holding my sword inside. Otherwise,the room was as always, left just as it hadbeen after the last training session, with thecovered billiard table moved and space madefor me to train; where earlier that day I’dbeen tutored and scolded by Father.

Where now Father was kneeling, dying.Standing over him was a man with his

sword buried hilt deep in my father’s chest,the blade protruding from his back drippingblood to the wooden floor. Not far awaystood the pointy-eared man, who had a largegash down his face. It had taken two of themto defeat Father, and only just at that.

I flew at the killer, who was caught bysurprise and without time to retrieve hissword from my father’s chest. Instead hespan away to avoid my blade, letting go of hissword at the same time as Father dropped tothe floor.

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Like a fool I continued after the assassin,forgot to protect my flank, and the next thingI saw was a sudden movement out of thecorner of my eye as the pointy-eared mandanced forward. Whether he meant to do itor mistimed his blow, I’m not sure, but in-stead of striking me with the blade heclubbed me with the pommel, and my visionwent black; my head connected withsomething, and it took me a second to realizeit was the leg of the billiard table. I was onthe floor, dazed, sprawled opposite Father,who lay on his side with the sword handlestill protruding from his chest. There was lifein his eyes still, just a spark, and his eyelidsfluttered momentarily, as if he were focus-ing, taking me in. For a moment or so we layopposite one another, two wounded men.His lips were moving. Through a dark cloudof pain and grief I saw his hand reach for me.

“Father—” I said. Then in the next instantthe killer had strode over and without

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pausing bent and pulled his blade from Fath-er’s body. Father jerked, his body archedwith one last spasm of pain as his lips pulledaway from bloodied teeth, and he died.

I felt a boot on my side that pushed meon to my back, and I looked up into the eyesof my father’s killer, and now my killer, whowith a smirk raised his sword two-handed,about to plunge it into me.

If it gave me shame to report that my in-ner voices had commanded me to run just afew moments before, then it gives me prideto report that now they were calm; that Ifaced my death with dignity and with theknowledge that I had done my best for myfamily; with gratitude that I would soon bejoining my father.

But of course it was not to be. It’s not aghost who writes these words. Somethingcaught my eye, and it was the tip of a swordthat appeared between the killer’s legs and inthe same instant was driven upwards,

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opening his torso from the groin up. I’verealized since that the direction of the strikehad less to do with savagery and more to dowith the need to pull my killer away fromme, not push him forward. But savage it was,and he screamed, blood splattering as he wassplit asunder and his guts dropped from thegash to the floor and his lifeless carcass fol-lowed suit.

Behind him stood Mr. Birch. “Are you allright, Haytham?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I gasped.“Good show,” he said, then span with his

sword up to intercept the pointy-eared man,who came at him with his blade flashing.

I pulled myself to my knees, grabbed afallen sword and stood, ready to join Mr.Birch, who had driven the pointy-eared manback to the door of the games room whensuddenly the attacker sawsomething—something out of sight behindthe door—and danced to one side. In the

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next instant Mr. Birch reared back and heldout a hand to prevent me coming forward,while at the doorway the pointy-eared manhad reappeared. Only this time he had ahostage. Not my mother, as I at first feared.It was Jenny.

“Get back,” snarled Pointy-Ears. Jennysnivelled, and her eyes were wide as theblade pressed into her throat.

Can I admit—can I admit that at that mo-ment I cared far more for avenging my fath-er’s death than I did for protecting Jenny?

“Stay there,” repeated Pointy-Ears man,pulling Jenny back. The hem of her night-dress was caught around her ankles and herheels dragged on the floor. Suddenly theywere joined by another masked man whobrandished a flaming torch. The entrancehall was almost full of smoke now. I couldsee flames coming from another part of thehouse, licking at the doors to the drawingroom. The man with the torch darted to the

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drapes, put his flame to them, and more ofour house began to burn around us, Mr.Birch and I powerless to stop it.

I saw my mother out of the corner of myeye and thanked God she was all right. Jennywas another matter, though. As she wasdragged towards the door of the mansion,her eyes were fixed on me and Mr. Birch asthough we were her last hopes. The torch-bearing attacker came to join his colleague,hauled the door open and darted out towardsa carriage I could see on the street outside.

For a moment I thought they might letJenny go, but no. She began to scream as shewas dragged towards the carriage andbundled in, and she was still screaming as athird masked man in the driver’s seat shookthe reins, wielded his crop and the carriagerattled off into the night, leaving us to escapefrom our burning house and drag our deadfrom the clutches of the flames.

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10 DECEMBER 1735

i

Even though we buried Father today, thefirst thing I thought about when I awoke thismorning didn’t involve him or his funeral, itwas about the plate room at Queen Anne’sSquare.

They hadn’t tried to enter it. Father hademployed the two soldiers because he wasworried about a robbery, but our attackershad made their way upstairs without evenbothering to try to raid the plate room.

Because they were after Jenny, that waswhy. And killing Father? Was that part of theplan?

This was what I thought as I awoke to aroom that was freezing—which isn’t unusual,that it should be freezing. An everyday

occurrence, in fact. Just that today’s roomwas especially cold. The kind of cold thatsets your teeth on edge; that reaches intoyour bones. I glanced over to the hearth,wondering why there wasn’t more heat fromthe fire, only to see that it was unlit and thegrate grey and dusty with ash.

I clambered out of bed and went to wherethere was a thick layer of ice on the inside ofthe window, preventing me from seeing out.Gasping with cold, I dressed, left my room,and was struck by how quiet the houseseemed. Creeping all the way downstairs, Ifound Betty’s room, knocked softly, then alittle harder. When she didn’t answer, I stooddebating what to do, a little concern for hergnawing at the insides of my stomach. Andwhen there was still no answer, I knelt tolook through the keyhole, praying I wouldn’tsee anything I shouldn’t.

She lay asleep in one of the two beds inher room. The other one was empty and

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neatly made up, although there was a pair ofwhat looked like men’s boots at the foot of it,with a strip of silver at the heel. My gazewent back to Betty, and for a moment Iwatched as the blanket covering her rose andfell, and then decided to let her sleep on, andstraightened.

I ambled along to the kitchen, where Mrs.Searle started a little as I entered, looked meup and down with a slightly disapprovinggaze then returned to her work at the chop-ping board. It wasn’t that Mrs. Searle and Ihad fallen out, just that Mrs. Searle regardedeverybody with suspicion, and since the at-tack even more so.

“She’s not one of life’s most forgivingsorts,” Betty had said to me one afternoon.That was another thing that had changedsince the attack: Betty had become a lotmore candid, and every now and then woulddrop hints about how she really felt aboutthings. I had never realized that she and Mrs.

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Searle didn’t see eye to eye, for example, norhad I any idea that Betty regarded Mr. Birchwith suspicion. She did though: “I don’tknow why he’s making decisions on behalf ofthe Kenways,” she had muttered darkly yes-terday. “He’s not a member of the family.Doubt he ever will be.”

Somehow, knowing that Betty didn’tthink much of Mrs. Searle made the house-keeper less forbidding in my eyes, and whilebefore I would have thought twice aboutwandering into the kitchen unannouncedand requesting food, I now had no suchqualms.

“Good morning, Mrs. Searle,” I said.She gave a small curtsy. The kitchen was

cold, just her in it. At Queen Anne’s Square,Mrs. Searle had at least three helpers, not tomention sundry other staff who flitted in andout through the great double doors of the kit-chen. But that was before the attack, whenwe had a full complement, and there’s

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nothing like an invasion of sword-wieldingmasked men for driving the servants away.Most hadn’t even returned the following day.

Now there was just Mrs. Searle, Betty,Mr. Digweed, a chambermaid called Emily,and Miss Davy, who was Mother’s lady’smaid. They were the last of the staff wholooked after the Kenways. Or the remainingKenways, I should say. Just me and Motherleft now.

When I left the kitchen, it was with apiece of cake wrapped in cloth handed to mewith a sour look by Mrs. Searle, who nodoubt disapproved of me wandering aboutthe house so early in the morning, scaven-ging for food ahead of the breakfast she wasin the process of preparing. I like Mrs.Searle, and since she’s one of the few mem-bers of staff to have stayed with us after thatterrible night, I like her even more, but evenso. There are other things to worry about

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now. Father’s funeral. And Mother, ofcourse.

And then I found myself in the entrancehall, looking at the inside of the front door,and before I knew it I was opening the door,and without thinking—without thinking toomuch, anyway—letting myself out on to thesteps and out into a world clouded with frost.

ii

“Now, what in the blazes do you plan to doon such a cold morning, Master Haytham?”

A carriage had just drawn up outside thehouse, and at the window was Mr. Birch. Hewore a hat that was heavier than usual, and ascarf pulled up over his nose so that, at firstglance, he looked like a highwayman.

“Just looking, sir,” I said, from the steps.He pulled his scarf down, trying to smile.

Before when he’d smiled it had set his eyes

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twinkling, now it was like the dwindling,cooling ashes of the fire, trying but unable togenerate any warmth, as strained and tiredas his voice when he spoke. “I think perhapsI know what you’re looking for, MasterHaytham.”

“What’s that, sir?”“The way home?”I thought about it and realized he was

right. The trouble was, I had lived the firstten years of my life being shepherded aroundby parents and the nursemaids. Though Iknew that Queen Anne’s Square was near,and even within walking distance, I had noidea how to get there.

“And were you planning on a visit?” heasked.

I shrugged, but the truth of it was that,yes, I had pictured myself in the shell of myold home. In the games room there. I’d pic-tured myself retrieving . . .

“Your sword?”

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I nodded.“It’s too dangerous to go in the house, I’m

afraid. Would you like to take a trip overthere anyway? You can see it, at least. Comeinside, it’s as cold as a greyhound’s nostrilout there.”

And I saw no reason not to, especiallywhen he produced a hat and a cape fromwithin the depths of the carriage.

When we pulled up at the house somemoments later it didn’t look at all as I hadimagined it. No, it was far, far worse. Asthough a giant God-like fist had pounded in-to it from above, smashing through the roofand the floors beneath, gouging a huge,ragged hole into the house. It wasn’t so mucha house now as a ravaged representation ofone.

Through broken windows we could seeinto the entrance hall and up—throughsmashed floors to the hallway three flightsup, all of them blackened with soot. I could

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see furniture that I recognized, blackenedand charred, burnt portraits hanging lop-sided on the walls.

“I’m sorry—it really is too dangerous togo inside, Master Haytham,” said Mr. Birch.

After a moment he led me back into thecarriage, tapped the ceiling twice with hiscane, and we pulled away.

“However,” said Mr. Birch, “I took theliberty of retrieving your sword yesterday,”and reaching beneath his seat he producedthe box. It, too, was dusty with soot, butwhen he pulled it to his lap and opened thelid, the sword lay inside, as gleaming as ithad been the day Father gave it to me.

“Thank you, Mr. Birch” was all I couldsay, as he closed the box and placed it on theseat between us.

“It’s a handsome sword, Haytham. I’ve nodoubt you’ll treasure it.”

“I will, sir.”

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“And when, I wonder, will it first tasteblood?”

“I don’t know, sir.”There was a pause. Mr. Birch clasped his

cane between his knees.“The night of the attack, you killed a

man,” he said, turning his head to look out ofthe window. We passed houses that wereonly just visible, floating through a haze ofsmoke and freezing air. It was still early. Thestreets were quiet. “How did that feel,Haytham?”

“I was protecting Mother,” I said.“That was the only possible option,

Haytham,” he agreed, nodding, “and you didthe right thing. Don’t for a moment thinkotherwise. But its being the only optiondoesn’t change the fact that it’s no smallmatter to kill a man. For anybody. Not foryour father. Not for me. But especially notfor a boy of such tender years.”

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“I felt no sadness at what I did. I justacted.”

“And have you thought about it since?”“No, sir. I’ve thought only of Father, and

Mother.”“And Jenny . . . ?” said Mr. Birch.“Oh. Yes, sir.”There was a pause, and when he next

spoke his voice was flat and solemn. “Weneed to find her, Haytham,” he said.

I kept quiet.“I intend to leave for Europe, where we

believe she is being held.”“How do you know she is in Europe, sir?”“Haytham, I am a member of an influen-

tial and important organization. A kind ofclub, or society. One of the many advantagesto membership is that we have eyes and earseverywhere.”

“What is it called, sir?” I asked.“The Templars, Master Haytham. I am a

Templar Knight.”

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“A knight?” I said, looking at him sharply.He gave a short laugh. “Perhaps not ex-

actly the kind of knight you’re thinking of,Haytham, a relic of the Middle Ages, but ourideals remain the same. Just as our forebearsset out to spread peace across the Holy Landcenturies ago, so we are the unseen powerthat helps to maintain peace and order in ourtime.” He waved his hand at the window,where the streets were busier now. “All ofthis, Haytham, it requires structure and dis-cipline, and structure and discipline requirean example to follow. The Knights Templarare that example.”

My head span. “And where do you meet?What do you do? Do you have armour?”

“Later, Haytham. Later, I’ll tell youmore.”

“Was Father a member, though? Was hea Knight?” My heart leapt. “Was he trainingme to become one?”

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“No, Master Haytham, he was not, andI’m afraid that as far as I’m aware he wasmerely training you in swordsmanship in or-der that . . . well, the fact that your motherlives proves the worth of your lessons. No,my relationship with your father was notbuilt on my membership of the Order. I’mpleased to say that I was employed by himfor my skill at property management ratherthan any hidden connections. Nevertheless,he knew that I was a Knight. After all, theTemplars have powerful and wealthy con-nections, and these could sometimes be ofuse in our business. Your father may nothave been a member, but he was shrewdenough to see the worth of the connections: afriendly word, the passing on of useful in-formation”—he took a deep breath—“one ofwhich was the warning about the attack atQueen Anne’s Square. I told him, of course. Iasked him why it might be that he had beentargeted, but he scoffed at the very

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idea—disingenuously, perhaps. We clashedover it, Haytham. Voices were raised, but Ionly wish now I’d been even more insistent.”

“Was that the argument I heard?” Iasked.

He looked sideways at me. “So you didhear, did you? Not eavesdropping, I hope?”

The tone in his voice made me more thanthankful I hadn’t been. “No, Mr. Birch, sir, Iheard raised voices, and that was all.”

He looked hard at me. Satisfied I wastelling the truth, he faced forward. “Yourfather was as stubborn as he wasinscrutable.”

“But he didn’t ignore the warning, sir. Heemployed the soldiers, after all.”

Mr. Birch sighed. “Your father didn’t takethe threat seriously, and would have donenothing. When he wouldn’t listen to me, Itook the step of informing your mother. Itwas at her insistence that he employed thesoldiers. I wish now I had substituted the

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men for men taken from our ranks. Theywould not have been so easily overwhelmed.All I can do now is try to find his daughterfor him and punish those responsible. To dothat I need to know why—what was the pur-pose of the attack? Tell me, what do youknow of him before he settled in London,Master Haytham?”

“Nothing, sir,” I replied.He gave a dry chuckle. “Well, that makes

two of us. More than two of us, in fact. Yourmother knows next to nothing also.”

“And Jenny, sir?”“Ah, the equally inscrutable Jenny. As

frustrating as she was beautiful, as inscrut-able as she was adorable.”

“‘Was,’ sir?”“A turn of phrase, Master Haytham—I

hope with all my heart at least. I remainhopeful that Jenny is safe in the hands of hercaptors, of use to them only if she is alive.”

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“You think she has been taken for aransom?”

“Your father was very rich. Your familymight well have been targeted for yourwealth, and your father’s death unplanned.It’s certainly possible. We have men lookinginto that possibility now. Equally, the mis-sion may have been to assassinate your fath-er, and we have men looking into that pos-sibility also—well, me, because of course Iknew him well, and would know if he hadany enemies: enemies with the wherewithalto stage such an attack, I mean, rather thandisgruntled tenants—and I came up with nota single possibility, which leads me to believethat the object may have been to settle agrudge. If so then it’s a long-standinggrudge, something that relates to his timebefore London. Jenny, being the only onewho knew him before London, may have hadanswers, but whatever she knew she has

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taken into the hands of her captors. Eitherway, Haytham, we need to locate her.”

There was something about the way hesaid “we.”

“As I say, it is thought she will have beentaken somewhere in Europe, so Europe iswhere we will conduct our search for her.And by ‘we,’ I mean you and I, Haytham.”

I started. “Sir?” I said, hardly able to be-lieve my ears.

“That’s right,” he said. “You shall be com-ing with me.”

“Mother needs me, sir. I can’t leave herhere.”

Mr. Birch looked at me again, in his eyesneither kindliness nor malice. “Haytham,” hesaid, “I’m afraid the decision is not yours tomake.”

“It is for Mother to make,” I insisted.“Well, quite.”“What do you mean, sir?”

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He sighed. “I mean, have you spoken toyour mother since the night of the attack?”

“She’s been too distressed to see anyonebut Miss Davy or Emily. She’s stayed in herroom, and Miss Davy says I’m to besummoned when she can see me.”

“When you do see her, you will find herchanged.”

“Sir?”“On the night of the attack, Tessa saw her

husband die and her little boy kill a man.These things will have had a profound effecton her, Haytham; she may not be the personyou remember.”

“All the more reason she needs me.”“Maybe what she needs is to get well,

Haytham—possibly with as few reminders ofthat terrible night around her as possible.”

“I understand, sir,” I said.“I’m sorry if that comes as a shock,

Haytham.” He frowned. “And I may well bewrong, of course, but I’ve been dealing with

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your father’s business affairs since his death,and we’ve been making arrangements withyour mother, I’ve had the opportunity of see-ing her first-hand, and I don’t think I’mwrong. Not this time.”

iii

Mother called for me shortly before thefuneral.

When Betty, who had been full of red-faced apologies for what she called “her littlelie-in,” told me, my first thought was that shehad changed her mind about my going toEurope with Mr. Birch, but I was wrong.Darting along to her room, I knocked andonly just heard her tell me to come in—hervoice so weak and reedy now, not at all howit used to be, when it was soft but command-ing. Inside, she was sitting by the window,and Miss Davy was fussing at the curtains;

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even though it was daytime it was hardlybright outside but, nevertheless, Mother waswaving her hand in front of her, as if shewere being bothered by an angry bird, ratherthan just some greying rays of winter sun-light. At last Miss Davy finished to Mother’ssatisfaction and with a weary smile indicatedme to a seat.

Mother turned her head towards me, veryslowly, looked at me and forced a smile. Theattack had exacted a terrible toll on her. Itwas as though all the life had been leechedout of her; as though she had lost the lightshe always had, whether she was smiling orcross or, as Father always said, wearing herheart on her sleeve. Now the smile slowlyslid from her lips, which settled back into ablank frown, as though she’d tried but nolonger had the strength to keep up anypretence.

“You know I’m not going to the funeral,Haytham?” she said blankly.

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“Yes, Mother.”“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Haytham, I really

am, but I’m not strong enough.”She never usually called me Haytham.

She called me “darling.”“Yes, Mother,” I said, knowing that she

was—she was strong enough. “Your Motherhas more pluck than any man I’ve ever met,Haytham,” Father used to say.

They had met shortly after he moved toLondon, and she had pursued him—“like a li-oness in pursuit of her prey,” Father hadjoked, “a sight as bloodcurdling as it wasawe-inspiring,” and earned himself a cloutfor that particular joke, the kind of joke youthought might have had an element of truthto it.

She didn’t like to talk about her family.“Prosperous” was all I knew. And Jenny hadhinted once that they had disowned her be-cause of her association with Father. Why, ofcourse, I never found out. On the odd

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occasion I’d pestered Mother about Father’slife before London, she’d smiled mysteri-ously. He’d tell me when he was ready. Sit-ting in her room, I realized that at least partof the grief I felt was the pain of knowingthat I’d never hear whatever it was Fatherwas planning to tell me on my birthday. Al-though it’s just a tiny part of the grief, Ishould make clear—insignificant comparedto the grief of losing Father and the pain ofseeing Mother like this. So . . . reduced. Solacking in that pluck Father spoke of.

Perhaps it had turned out that the sourceof her strength was him. Perhaps the carnageof that terrible evening had simply been toomuch for her to take. They say it happens tosoldiers. They get “soldier’s heart” and be-come shadows of their former selves. Thebloodshed changes them somehow. Was thatthe case with Mother? I wondered.

“I’m sorry, Haytham,” she added.“It’s all right, Mother.”

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“No—I mean, you are to go to Europewith Mr. Birch.”

“But I’m needed here, with you. To lookafter you.”

She gave an airy laugh: “Mama’s little sol-dier, uh?” and fixed me with a strange,searching look. I knew exactly where hermind was going. Back to what had happenedon the stairs. She was seeing me thrust ablade into the eye socket of the maskedattacker.

And then she tore her eyes away, leavingme feeling almost breathless with the rawemotion of her gaze.

“I have Miss Davy and Emily to look afterme, Haytham. When the repairs are made toQueen Anne’s Square we’ll be able to moveback and I can employ more staff. No, it isme who should be looking after you, and Ihave appointed Mr. Birch the family comp-troller and your guardian, so that you can be

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looked after properly. It’s what your fatherwould have wanted.”

She looked at the curtain quizzically, as ifshe was trying to recall why it was drawn. “Iunderstand that Mr. Birch was going tospeak to you about leaving for Europestraight away.”

“He did, yes, but—”“Good.” She regarded me. Again, there

was something discomfiting about the look;she was no longer the mother I knew, I real-ized. Or was I no longer the son she knew?

“It’s for the best, Haytham.”“But, Mother . . .”She looked at me, then away again

quickly.“You’re going, and that’s the end of it,”

she said firmly, her stare returning to thecurtains. My eyes went to Miss Davy asthough looking for assistance, but I foundnone; in return she gave me a sympatheticsmile, a raise of the eyebrows, an expression

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that said, “I’m sorry, Haytham, there’s noth-ing I can do, her mind is made up.” Therewas silence in the room, no sound apart fromthe clip-clopping of hooves from outside,from a world that carried on oblivious to thefact that mine was being taken apart.

“You are dismissed, Haytham,” Mothersaid, with a wave of her hand.

Before—before the attack, I mean—shehad never used to “summon” me. Or “dis-miss” me. Before, she had never let me leaveher side without at least a kiss on the cheek,and she’d told me she loved me, at least oncea day.

As I stood, it occurred to me that shehadn’t said anything about what hadhappened on the stairs that night. She hadnever thanked me for saving her life. At thedoor I paused and turned to look at her, andwondered whether she wished the outcomehad been different.

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iv

Mr. Birch accompanied me to the funeral, asmall, informal service at the same chapel wehad used for Edith, with almost the samenumber in attendance: the household, OldMr. Fayling, and a few members of staff fromFather’s work, whom Mr. Birch spoke to af-terwards. He introduced me to one of them,Mr. Simpkin, a man I judged to be in hismid-thirties, who I was told would be hand-ling the family’s affairs. He bowed a little andgave me a look I’m coming to recognize as amix of awkwardness and sympathy, eachstruggling to find adequate expression.

“I will be dealing with your mother whileyou are in Europe, Master Haytham,” he as-sured me.

It hit me that I really was going; that Ihad no choice, no say whatsoever in the mat-ter. Well, I do have a choice, I suppose—I

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could run away. Not that running awayseems like any kind of choice.

We took carriages home. Trooping intothe house, I caught sight of Betty, wholooked at me and gave me a weak smile. Thenews about me was spreading, so it seemed.When I asked her what she planned to do,she told me that Mr. Digweed had found heralternative employment. When she looked atme her eyes shone with tears, and when sheleft the room I sat at my desk to write myjournal with a heavy heart.

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11 DECEMBER 1735

i

We depart for Europe tomorrow morning. Itstrikes me how few preparations are needed.It is as though the fire had already severedall my ties with my old life. What few things Ihad left were only enough to fill two trunks,which were taken away this morning. TodayI am to write letters, and also to see Mr.Birch in order to tell him about somethingthat occurred last night, after I’d gone to bed.

I was almost asleep when I heard a softknocking at the door, sat up and said, “Comein,” fully expecting it to be Betty.

It wasn’t. I saw the figure of a girl, whostepped quickly into the room and shut thedoor behind her. She raised a candle so Icould see her face and the finger she held to

her lips. It was Emily, blond-haired Emily,the chambermaid.

“Master Haytham,” she said, “I havesomething I need to tell you, which has beenpreying on my mind, sir.”

“Of course,” I said, hoping my voicewouldn’t betray the fact that I felt suddenlyvery young and vulnerable.

“I know the maid of the Barretts,” shesaid quickly. “Violet, who was one of thosewho came out of their houses that night. Shewas close to the carriage they put your sisterin, sir. As they bundled Miss Jenny past herand the carriage, Miss Jenny caught Violet’seye and told her something quickly, whichViolet has told me.”

“What was it?” I said.“It was very quick, sir, and there was

plenty of noise, and before she could say anymore they bundled her into the carriage, butwhat Violet thinks she heard was ‘Traitor.’Next day, a man paid Violet a visit, a man

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with a West Country accent, or so she said,who wanted to know what she’d heard, butViolet said she’d heard nothing, even whenthe gentleman threatened her. He showedher an evil-looking knife, sir, out of his belt,but even then she said nothing.”

“But she told you?”“Violet’s my sister, sir. She worries for

me.”“Have you told anyone else?”“No, sir.”“I shall tell Mr. Birch in the morning,” I

said.“But, sir . . .”“What?”“What if the traitor is Mr. Birch?”I gave a short laugh and shook my head.

“It isn’t possible. He saved my life. He wasthere fighting the . . .” Something struck me.“There is someone who wasn’t there,though.”

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ii

Of course I sent word to Mr. Birch at the firstopportunity this morning, and he reachedthe same conclusion I had.

An hour later another man arrived, whowas shown into the study. He was about thesame age my father had been and had acraggy face, scars and the cold, staring eyesof some species of sea life. He was taller thanMr. Birch, and broader, and seemed to fillthe room with his presence. A dark presence.And he looked at me. Down his nose at me.Down his wrinkled-with-disdain nose at me.

“This is Mr. Braddock,” said Mr. Birch, asI stood fixed into place by the newcomer’sglare. “He is also a Templar. He has my totaland utmost trust, Haytham.” He cleared histhroat, and said loudly, “And a mannersometimes at odds with what I know to be inhis heart.”

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Mr. Braddock snorted, and shot him awithering look.

“Now, Edward,” chided Birch. “Haytham,Mr. Braddock will be in charge of finding thetraitor.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.Mr. Braddock looked me over then spoke

to Mr. Birch. “This Digweed,” he said, “per-haps you can show me his quarters.”

When I moved to follow them, Mr. Brad-dock glared at Mr. Birch, who nodded almostimperceptibly then turned to me, smiling,with a look in his eyes that begged myforbearance.

“Haytham,” he said, “perhaps you shouldattend to other matters. Your preparationsfor leaving, perhaps,” and I was compelled toreturn to my room, where I surveyed myalready packed cases then retrieved myjournal, in which to write the events of theday. Moments ago, Mr. Birch came to mewith the news: Digweed has escaped, he told

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me, his face grave. However, they will findhim, he assured me. The Templars alwayscatch their man and, in the meantime, noth-ing changes. We still depart for Europe.

It strikes me this will be my last entry athome here in London. These are the lastwords of my old life, before my new onebegins.

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PART II

1747, TWELVE YEARSLATER

10 JUNE 1747

i

I watched the traitor today as he movedaround the bazaar. Wearing a plumed hat,colourful buckles and garters, he struttedfrom stall to stall and twinkled in the bright,white Spanish sun. With some of the stall-holders he joked and laughed; with others heexchanged cross words. He was neitherfriend nor despot, it seemed, and indeed, theimpression I formed of him, albeit one Iformed at a distance, was of a fair man, be-nevolent even. But then again it’s not thosepeople he was betraying. It is his Order. It isus.

His guards stayed with him during hisrounds, and they were diligent men, I couldtell. Their eyes never stopped moving around

the market, and when one of the stallholdersgave him a hearty clap on the back andpressed on him a gift of bread from his stall,he waved to the taller of the two guards, whotook it with his left hand, keeping his swordhand free. Good. Good man. Templar-trained.

Moments later a small boy darted outfrom the crowds, and straight away my eyeswent to the guards, saw them tense, assessthe danger and then . . .

Relax?Laugh at themselves for being jumpy?No. They stayed tense. Stayed watchful,

because they’re not fools and they knew theboy might have been a decoy.

They were good men. I wondered if theyhad been corrupted by the teachings of theiremployer, a man who pledged allegiance toone cause while promoting the ideals of an-other. I hoped not, because I’d already de-cided to let them live. And if it appears to be

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somewhat convenient that I’ve decided to letthem live, and that maybe the truth has moreto do with my apprehension of going intocombat with two such competent men, thenthat appearance is false. They may be vigil-ant; undoubtedly they would be expertswordsmen; they would be skilled in thebusiness of death.

But then, I am vigilant. I am an expertswordsman. And I am skilled in the businessof death. I have a natural aptitude for it. Al-though, unlike theology, philosophy, classicsand my languages, particularly Spanish,which is so good that I’m able to pass as aSpaniard here in Altea, albeit a somewhatreticent one, I take no pleasure in my skill atdeath. Simply, I am good at it.

Perhaps if my target were Digweed—per-haps then I might take some small measureof gratification from his death at my hands.But it is not.

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ii

For the five years after we left London, Re-ginald and I scoured Europe, moving fromcountry to country in a travelling caravan ofstaff and fellow Knights who shifted aroundus, drifting in and out of our lives, we two theonly constants as we moved from one coun-try to the next, sometimes picking up thetrail of a group of Turkish slavers who werebelieved to be holding Jenny, and occasion-ally acting on information concerning Dig-weed, which Braddock would attend to, rid-ing off for months on end but alwaysreturning empty-handed.

Reginald was my tutor, and in that re-spect he had similarities to Father; first inthat he tended to sneer at almost anythingfrom books, constantly asserting that thereexisted a higher, more advanced learningthan could be found in dusty old school-books, which I later came to know as

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Templar learning; and second, in that he in-sisted I think for myself.

Where they differed was that my fatherwould ask me to make up my own mind. Re-ginald, I came to learn, viewed the world inmore absolute terms. With Father I some-times felt as if the thinking was enough—thatthe thinking was a means unto itself and theconclusion I reached somehow less import-ant than the journey. With Father, facts, and,looking back over past journals I realize eventhe entire concept of truth, could feel likeshifting, mutable properties.

There was no such ambiguity with Regin-ald, though, and in the early years when Imight say otherwise, he’d smile at me andtell me he could hear my father in me. He’dtell me how my father had been a great manand wise in many ways, and quite the bestswordsman he had ever known, but his atti-tude to learning was not as scholarly as itmight have been.

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Does it shame me to admit that over timeI came to prefer Reginald’s way, the stricterTemplar way? Though he was always good-tempered, quick with a joke and smile, helacked the natural joy, even mischief, ofFather. He was always buttoned and neat,for one thing, and he was fanatical aboutpunctuality; he insisted that things be or-derly at all times. And yet, almost despitemyself there was something fixed about Re-ginald, some certainty, both inner and outer,that came to appeal to me more and more asthe years passed.

One day I realized why. It was the ab-sence of doubt—and with it confusion, inde-cision, uncertainty. This feeling—this feelingof “knowing” that Reginald imbued inme—was my guide from boyhood to adult-hood. I never forgot my father’s teachings;on the contrary, he would have been proudof me because I questioned his ideals. In do-ing so I adopted new ones.

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We never found Jenny. Over the years,I’d mellowed towards her memory. Readingback over my journals, the young me couldnot have cared less about her, something I’msomewhat ashamed of, because I’m a grownman now, and I see things in different terms.Not that my youthful antipathy towards herdid anything to hinder the hunt for her, ofcourse. In that mission, Mr. Birch had morethan enough zeal for the two of us. But itwasn’t enough. The funds we received fromMr. Simpkin in London were handsome, butthey weren’t without end. We found a chat-eau in France, hidden near Troyes in Cham-pagne, in which to make our base, where Mr.Birch continued my apprenticeship, sponsor-ing my admittance as an Adept and then,three years ago, as a fully fledged member ofthe Order.

Weeks would go by with no mention ofeither Jenny or Digweed; then months. Wewere involved in other Templar activities.

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The War of the Austrian Succession hadseemed to gobble the whole of Europe intoits greedy maw, and we were needed to helpprotect Templar interests. My “aptitude,” myskill at death, became apparent, and Regin-ald was quick to see its benefits. The first todie—not my first “kill,” of course; my first as-sassination, I should say—was a greedy mer-chant in Liverpool. My second was an Austri-an prince.

After the killing of the merchant, twoyears ago, I returned to London, only to findthat building work was continuing at QueenAnne’s Square, and Mother . . . Mother wastoo tired to see me that day, and would bethe following day as well. “Is she too tired toanswer my letters, too?” I asked Mrs. Davy,who apologized and averted her gaze. After-wards I rode to Herefordshire, hoping to loc-ate Digweed’s family, to no avail. The traitorin our household was never to be found, it

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seemed—or is never to be found, I shouldsay.

But then, the fire of vengeance in my gutburns less fiercely these days, perhapssimply because I’ve grown; perhaps becauseof what Reginald has taught me about con-trol of oneself, mastery of one’s ownemotions.

Even so, dim it may be, but it continuesto burn within me.

iii

The hostale owner’s wife has just been to vis-it, throwing a quick look down the steps be-fore she closed the door behind her. A mes-senger arrived while I was out, she said, andhanded his missive to me with a lasciviouslook that I might have been tempted to actupon if I hadn’t had other things on mymind. The events of last night, for example.

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So instead I ushered her out of my roomand sat down to decypher the message. Ittold me that as soon as I was finished in Al-tea, I was to travel not home, to France, butto Prague, where I would meet Reginald inthe cellar rooms of the house in CeletnaLane, the Templar headquarters. He has anurgent matter to discuss with me.

In the meantime, I have my cheese. To-night, the traitor meets his end.

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11 JUNE 1747

It is done. The kill, I mean. And though itwas not without its complications, the execu-tion was clean insofar as he is dead and I re-main undetected, and for that I can allowmyself to take a measure of satisfaction inhaving completed my task.

His name was Juan Vedomir, and sup-posedly his job was to protect our interests inAltea. That he had used the opportunity tobuild an empire of his own was tolerated; theinformation we had was that he controlledthe port and market with a benign hand, andcertainly on the evidence of earlier that dayhe seemed to enjoy some support, even if theconstant presence of his guards proved thatwasn’t always the case.

Was he too benign, though? Reginaldthought so, had investigated, and eventually

found that Vedomir’s abandonment of Tem-plar ideologies was so complete as to amountto treachery. We are intolerant of traitors inthe Order. I was despatched to Altea. Iwatched him. And, last night, I took mycheese and left my hostale for the last time,making my way along cobbled streets to hisvilla.

“Yes?” said the guard who opened hisdoor.

“I have cheese,” I said.“I can smell it from here,” he replied.“I hope to convince Señor Vedomir to al-

low me to trade at the bazaar.”His nose wrinkled some more. “Señor Ve-

domir is in the business of attracting patronsto the market, not driving them away.”

“Perhaps those with a more refined pal-ate might disagree, señor?”

The guard squinted. “Your accent. Whereare you from?”

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He was the first to question my Spanishcitizenship. “Originally from the Republic ofGenoa,” I said, smiling, “where cheese is oneof our finest exports.”

“Your cheese will have to go a long way tobeat Varela’s cheese.”

I continued to smile. “I am confident thatit does. I am confident that Señor Vedomirwill think so.”

He looked doubtful but stood aside andlet me into a wide entrance hall, which,though the night was warm, was cool, almostcold, as well as being sparse, with just twochairs and a table, on which were somecards. I glanced at them. A game of piquet, Iwas pleased to see, because piquet’s a two-player game, which meant there were nomore guards hiding in the woodwork.

The first guard indicated for me to placethe wrapped cheese on the card table, and Idid as I was told. The second man stoodback, one hand on the hilt of his sword as his

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partner checked me for weapons, patting myclothes thoroughly and next searching thebag I wore around my shoulder, in whichwere a few coins and my journal, but nothingmore. I had no blade.

“He’s not armed,” said the first guard,and the second man nodded. The first guardindicated my cheese. “You want Señor Ve-domir to taste this, I take it?”

I nodded enthusiastically.“Perhaps I should taste it first?” said the

first guard, watching me closely.“I had hoped to save it all for Señor Ve-

domir,” I replied with an obsequious smile.The guard gave a snort. “You have more

than enough. Perhaps you should taste it.”I began to protest. “But I had hoped to

save it for—”He put his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Taste it,” he insisted.I nodded. “Of course, señor,” I said, and

unwrapped a piece, picked off a chunk and

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ate it. Next he indicated I should try anotherpiece, which I did, making a face to showhow heavenly it tasted. “And now that it’sbeen opened,” I said, proffering the wrap-ping, “you might as well have a taste.”

The two guards exchanged a look, then atlast the first smile, went to a thick woodendoor at the end of the passageway, knockedand entered. Then they appeared again andbeckoned me forward, into Vedomir’schamber.

Inside, it was dark and heavily perfumed.Silk billowed gently on the low ceiling as weentered. Vedomir sat with his back to us, hislong black hair loose, wearing nightclothesand writing by the light of a candle at hisdesk.

“Would you have me stay, Señor Ve-domir?” asked the guard.

Vedomir didn’t turn around. “I take it ourguest isn’t armed?”

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“No, señor,” said the guard, “although thesmell of his cheese is enough to fell anarmy.”

“To me the scent is a perfume, Cristian,”laughed Vedomir. “Please show our guest toa seat, and I shall be over in a moment.”

I sat on a low stool by an empty hearth ashe blotted the book then came over, stoppingto pick up a small knife from a side table ashe came.

“Cheese, then?” His smile split a thinmoustache as he shifted his nightclothes tosit on another low stool, opposite.

“Yes, señor,” I said.He looked at me. “Oh? I was told you

were from the Republic of Genoa, but I canhear from your voice that you are English.”

I started with shock, but the big grin hewore told me I had nothing to worry about.Not yet at least. “And there I was, thinkingme so clever to hide my nationality all this

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time,” I said, impressed, “but you have foundme out, señor.”

“And the first to do so, evidently, which iswhy your head is still on your shoulders. Ourtwo countries are at war, are they not?”

“The whole of Europe is at war, señor. Isometimes wonder if anybody knows who isfighting whom.”

Vedomir chuckled and his eyes danced.“You’re being disingenuous, my friend. Ithink we all know your King George’s allegi-ances, as well as his ambitions. Your BritishNavy is said to think itself the best in theworld. The French, the Spanish—not to men-tion the Swedes—disagree. An Englishman inSpain takes his life in his hands.”

“Should I be concerned for my safetynow, señor?”

“With me?” He spread his hands andgave a crooked, ironic smile. “I like to think Irise above the petty concerns of kings, myfriend.”

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“Then whom do you serve, señor?”“Why, the people of the town, of course.”“And to whom do you pledge allegiance if

not to King Ferdinand?”“To a higher power, señor.” Vedomir

smiled, closing the subject firmly and turn-ing his attention to the wrappings of cheeseI’d placed by the hearth. “Now,” he went on,“you’ll have to forgive my confusion. Thischeese. Is it from the Republic of Genoa or isit English cheese?”

“It is my cheese, señor. My cheeses arethe best wherever one plants one’s flag.”

“Good enough to usurp Varela?”“Perhaps to trade alongside him?”“And what then? Then I have an unhappy

Varela.”“Yes, señor.”“Such a state of affairs might be of no

concern to you, señor, but these are the mat-ters that vex me daily. Now, let me taste thischeese before it melts, eh?”

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Pretending to feel the heat, I loosened myneck scarf then took it off. Surreptitiously, Ireached into my shoulder bag and palmed adoubloon. When he turned his attention tothe cheese I dropped the doubloon into thescarf.

The knife glittered in the candlelight asVedomir cut off a chunk of the first cheese,holding the piece with his thumb and sniff-ing at it—hardly necessary; I could smell itfrom where I sat—then popped it into hismouth. He ate thoughtfully, looked at me,then cut off a second chunk.

“Hm,” he said, after some moments. “Youare wrong, señor, this is not superior toVarela’s cheese. It is in fact exactly the sameas Varela’s cheese.” His smile had faded andhis face had darkened. I realized I had beenfound out. “In fact, this is Varela’s cheese.”

His mouth was opening to shout for helpas I twirled the silk into a garrotte with aflick of my wrists and leapt forward with

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crossed arms, dropping it over his head andaround his neck.

His knife hand arced up, but he was tooslow and caught unawares, and the knifethrashed wildly at the silk above our heads asI secured my rumal, the coin pressing in onhis windpipe, cutting off any noise. Holdingthe garrotte with one hand, I disarmed him,tossed the knife to a cushion then used bothhands to tighten the rumal.

“My name is Haytham Kenway,” I saiddispassionately, leaning forward to look intohis wide-open, bulging eyes. “You have be-trayed the Templar Order. For this you havebeen sentenced to execution.”

His arm rose in a futile attempt to claw atmy eyes, but I moved my head and watchedthe silk flutter gently as the life left him.

When it was over I carried his body to thebed then went to his desk to take his journal,as I had been instructed. It was open, and myeye fell upon some writing: “Para ver de

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manera diferente, primero debemos pensardiferente.”

I read it again, translating it carefully, asthough I were learning a new language: “Tosee differently, we must first thinkdifferently.”

I stared at it for some moments, deep inthought, then snapped the book shut andstowed it in my bag, returning my mind tothe job at hand. Vedomir’s death would notbe discovered until morning, by which time Iwould be long gone, on my way to Prague,where I now had something to ask Reginald.

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18 JUNE 1747

i

“It’s about your mother, Haytham.”He stood before me in the basement of

the headquarters on Celetna Lane. He hadmade no effort to dress for Prague. He worehis Englishness like a badge of honour: neatand tidy white stockings, black breeches and,of course, his wig, which was white and hadshed most of its powder on the shoulders ofhis frock coat. He was lit by the flames fromtall iron cressets on poles on either side ofhim, while mounted on stone walls so darkthey were almost black were torches thatshone with halos of pale light. Normally hestood relaxed, with his hands behind hisback and leaning on his cane, but today therewas a formal air about him.

“Mother?”“Yes, Haytham.”She’s ill, was my first thought, and I in-

stantly felt a hot wave of guilt so intense Iwas almost giddy with it. I hadn’t written toher in weeks; I’d hardly even thought abouther.

“She’s dead, Haytham,” said Reginald,casting his eyes downward. “A week ago shehad a fall. Her back was badly hurt, and I’mafraid that she succumbed to her injuries.”

I looked at him. That intense rush of guiltwas gone as quickly as it had arrived and inits place an empty feeling, a hollow placewhere emotions should be.

“I’m sorry, Haytham.” His weathered facecreased into sympathy and his eyes werekind. “Your mother was a fine woman.”

“That’s quite all right,” I said.“We’re to leave for England straight

away. There’s a memorial service.”“I see.”

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“If you need . . . anything, then pleasedon’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you.”“Your family is the Order now, Haytham.

You can come to us for anything.”“Thank you.”He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“And if you need . . . you know, to talk, thenI’m here.”

I tried not to smile at the idea. “Thankyou, Reginald, but I won’t need to talk.”

“Very well.”There was a long pause.He looked away. “Is it done?”“Juan Vedomir is dead, if that’s what you

mean.”“And you have his journal?”“I’m afraid not.”For a moment his face fell, then it grew

hard. Very hard. I’d seen his face do that be-fore, in an unguarded moment.

“What?” he said simply.

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“I killed him for his betrayal of our cause,did I not?” I said.

“Indeed . . .” said Reginald carefully.“Then what need did I have of his

journal?”“It contains his writings. They are of in-

terest to us.”“Why?” I asked.“Haytham, I had reason to believe that

Juan Vedomir’s treachery went beyond thematter of his adherence to the doctrine. Ithink he may have advanced to working withthe Assassins. Now tell me the truth, please,do you have his journal?”

I pulled it from my bag, gave it to him,and he moved over to one of the candle-sticks, opened it, quickly flicked through,then snapped it shut.

“And have you read it?” he asked.“It’s in cypher,” I replied.“But not all of it,” he said equably.

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I nodded. “Yes—yes, you’re right, therewere some passages I was able to read.His . . . thoughts on life. They made interest-ing reading. In fact, I was particularly in-trigued, Reginald, by how much Juan Ve-domir’s philosophy was consistent with whatmy father once taught me.”

“Quite possibly.”“And yet you had me kill him?”“I had you kill a traitor to the Order.

Which is something else entirely. Of course, Iknew your father felt differently from meconcerning many—perhaps even most—ofthe tenets of the Order, but that’s because hedidn’t subscribe to them. The fact that hewasn’t a Templar didn’t make me respecthim less.”

I looked at him. I wondered if I had beenwrong to doubt him. “Why, then, is the bookof interest?”

“Not for Vedomir’s musings on life, thatmuch is certain,” said Reginald, and gave me

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a sideways smile. “As you say, they were sim-ilar to your father’s, and we both know ourfeelings about that. No, it’s the cyphered pas-sages I’m interested in, which, if I’m right,will contain details of the keeper of a key.”

“A key to what?”“All in good time.”I made a sound of frustration.“Once I have decyphered the journal,

Haytham,” he pressed. “When, if I’m right,we’ll be able to begin the next phase of theoperation.”

“And what might that be?”He opened his mouth to speak, but I said

the words for him. “‘All in good time,Haytham,’ is that it? More secrets,Reginald?”

He bristled. “‘Secrets’? Really? Is thatwhat you think? What exactly have I done todeserve your suspicion, Haytham, other thanto take you under my wing, sponsor you inthe Order, give you a life? You know, I might

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be forgiven for thinking you rather ungrate-ful at times, sir.”

“We were never able to find Digweed,though, were we?” I said, refusing to becowed. “There never was a ransom demandfor Jenny, so the main purpose of the raidhad to be Father’s death.”

“We hoped to find Digweed, Haytham.That’s all we could ever do. We hoped tomake him pay. That hope was not satisfied,but that doesn’t mean we were derelict in ourattempt. Moreover, I had a duty of care toyou, Haytham, which was fulfilled. Youstand before me a man, a respected Knight ofthe Order. You overlook that, I think. Anddon’t forget that I hoped to marry Jenny.Perhaps in the heat of your desire to avengeyour father, you see losing Digweed as ouronly significant failure, but it’s not, is it, be-cause we’ve never found Jenny, have we? Ofcourse, you spare no thought for your sister’shardship.”

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“You accuse me of callousness?Heartlessness?”

He shook his head. “I merely request thatyou turn your stare on your own failings be-fore you start shining light on mine.”

I looked carefully at him. “You never tookme into your confidence regarding thesearch.”

“Braddock was sent to find him. He up-dated me regularly.”

“But you didn’t pass those updates tome.”

“You were a young boy.”“Who grew up.”He bent his head. “Then I apologize for

not taking that fact into account, Haytham.In future I will treat you as an equal.”

“Then start now—start by telling meabout the journal,” I said.

He laughed, as though caught in check atchess. “You win, Haytham. All right, it rep-resents the first step towards the location of

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a temple—a first-civilization temple, thoughtto have been built by Those Who CameBefore.”

There was a moment’s pause in which Ithought, Is that it? Then laughed.

At first he looked shocked, perhaps re-membering the first time he’d ever told meabout Those Who Came Before, when I’dfound it difficult to contain myself. “Thosewho came before what . . . ?” I’d scoffed.

“Before us,” he’d replied tightly. “Beforeman. A previous civilization.”

He frowned at me now. “You’re still find-ing it amusing, Haytham?”

I shook my head. “Not amusing so much,no. More”—I struggled to find thewords—“hard to fathom, Reginald. A race ofbeings who existed before man. Gods . . .”

“Not gods, Haytham, first-civilization hu-mans who controlled humanity. They left usartefacts, Haytham, of immense power, suchthat we can only dream of. I believe that

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whoever can possess those artefacts can ulti-mately control all of human destiny.”

My laugh dwindled when I saw how seri-ous he had become. “It’s a very grand claim,Reginald.”

“Indeed. If it were a modest claim thenwe would not be so interested, no? The As-sassins would not be interested.” His eyesgleamed. The flames from the cressets shoneand danced in them. I’d seen that look in hiseyes before, but only on rare occasions. Notwhen he’d been tutoring me in languages,philosophy, or even in the classics or theprinciples of combat. Not even when hetaught me the tenets of the Order.

No, only when he talked about ThoseWho Came Before.

Sometimes Reginald liked to deride whathe saw as a surfeit of passion. He thought ofit as a shortcoming. When he talked aboutthe beings of the first civilization, however,he talked like a zealot.

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ii

We are staying the night in the Templarheadquarters here in Prague. As I sit herenow in a meagre room with grey stone walls,I can feel the weight of thousands of years ofTemplar history upon me.

My thoughts go to Queen Anne’s Square,to which the household returned when thework was done. Mr. Simpkin had kept usabreast of developments; Reginald had over-seen the building operation, even as wemoved from country to country in search ofDigweed and Jenny. (And yes, Reginald wasright. Failing to find Digweed: that fact eatsat me; but I almost never think of Jenny.)

One day Simpkin sent us the word thatthe household had returned from Blooms-bury to Queen Anne’s Square, that thehousehold was once again in residence, backwhere it belonged. That day my mind went tothe wood-panelled walls of the home I grew

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up in, and I found I could vividly picture thepeople within it—especially my mother. But,of course, I was picturing the mother I hadknown growing up, who shone, bright likethe sun and twice as warm, on whose knee Iknew perfect happiness. My love for Fatherwas fierce, perhaps stronger, but for Motherit was purer. With Father I had a feeling ofawe, of admiration so grand I sometimes feltdwarfed by him, and with that came an un-derlying feeling I can only describe as anxi-ety, that somehow I had to live up to him, togrow into the huge shadow cast by him.

With Mother, though, there was no suchinsecurity, just the almost overwhelmingsense of comfort and love and protection.And she was a beauty. I used to enjoy it whenpeople compared me to Father because hewas so striking, but if they said I looked likeMother I knew they meant handsome. OfJenny, people would say, “She’ll break a fewhearts”; “She’ll have men fighting over her.”

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They applied the language of struggle andconflict. But not with Mother. Her beautywas a gentle, maternal, nurturing thing, to bespoken of not with the wariness Jenny’slooks inspired, but with warmth andadmiration.

Of course, I had never known Jenny’smother, Caroline Scott, but I had formed anopinion of her: that she was “a Jenny,” andthat my father had been captivated by herlooks just as Jenny’s suitors were captivatedby hers.

Mother, though, I imagined to be an en-tirely different sort of person altogether. Shewas plain old Tessa Stephenson-Oakleywhen she met my father. That’s what she hadalways said, anyway: “plain old TessaStephenson-Oakley,” which didn’t sound atall plain to me, but never mind. Father hadmoved to London, arriving alone with nohousehold, but a purse large enough to buyone. When he had rented a London home

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from a wealthy landowner, the daughter hadoffered to help my father find permanent ac-commodation, as well as employing thehousehold to run it. The daughter, of course,was “plain old Tessa Stephenson-Oakley” . . .

She had all but hinted that her familywasn’t happy about the liaison; indeed, wenever saw her side of the family. She devotedher energies to us and, until that dreadfulnight, the person who had her undivided at-tention, her unending affection, her uncondi-tional love, was me.

But the last time I had seen her there wasno sign of that person. When I think back toour final meeting now, what I remember isthe suspicion in her eyes, which I realize wascontempt. When I killed the man about tokill her, I changed in her eyes. I was nolonger the boy who had sat on her knee.

I was a killer.

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20 JUNE 1747

En route to London, I re-read an old journal.Why? Some instinct, perhaps. Some subcon-scious nagging . . . doubt, I suppose.

Whatever it was, when I re-read the entryof 10 December 1735, I all of a sudden knewexactly what I had to do when I reachedEngland.

2–3 JULY 1747

Today was the service, and also . . . well, Ishall explain.

After the service, I left Reginald talking toMr. Simpkin on the steps of the chapel. Tome, Mr. Simpkin said that he had some pa-pers I needed to sign. In light of Mother’sdeath, the finances were mine. With an ob-sequious smile he said he hoped that I hadconsidered him more than satisfactory inmanaging the affairs so far. I nodded,smiled, said nothing committal, told them Iwanted a little time to myself, and slippedaway, seemingly to be alone with mythoughts.

I hoped that the direction of my wander-ings looked random as I made my way alongthe thoroughfare, staying clear of carriagewheels that splashed through mud and

manure on the highway, weaving throughpeople thronging the streets: tradesmen inbloodied leather aprons, whores and washer-women. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t random atall.

One woman in particular was up ahead,like me, making her way through the crowds,alone and, probably, lost in thought. I hadseen her at the service, of course. She’d satwith the other staff—Emily, and two or threeothers I didn’t recognize—on the other sideof the chapel, with a handkerchief at hernose. She had looked up and seen me—shemust have done—but she made no sign. Iwondered, did Betty, one of my old nurse-maids, even recognize me?

And now I was following her, keeping adiscreet distance behind so she wouldn’t seeme if she happened to glance backwards. Itwas getting dark by the time she reachedhome, or not home but the household forwhich she now worked, a grand mansion that

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loomed in the charcoal sky, not too dissimil-ar to the one at Queen Anne’s Square. Wasshe still a nursemaid, I wondered, or had shemoved up in the world? Did she wear theuniform of a governess beneath her coat?The street was less crowded than before, andI lingered out of sight across the street,watching as she took a short flight of stonesteps down towards the below-stairs quar-ters and let herself in.

When she was out of sight I crossed thehighway and sauntered towards the house,aware of the need to look inconspicuous incase eyes were seeing me from the windows.Once upon a time I was a young boy who hadlooked from the windows of the house inQueen Anne’s Square, watched passers-bycome and go and wondered about their busi-ness. Was there a little boy in this householdwatching me now, wondering who is thisman? Where has he come from? Where is hegoing?

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So I wandered along the railings at thefront of the mansion and glanced down tosee the lit windows of what I assumed werethe servants’ quarters, only to be rewardedwith the unmistakable silhouette of Betty ap-pearing at the glass and drawing a curtain. Ihad the information I’d come for.

I returned after midnight, when thedrapes at the windows of the mansion wereshut, the street was dark and the only lightswere those fixed to the occasional passingcarriage.

Once again I made my way to the front ofthe house, and with a quick look left andright scaled the railings and dropped silentlydown into the gully on the other side. Iscuttled along it until I found Betty’s win-dow, where I stopped and very carefullyplaced my ear to the glass, listening for somemoments until I was satisfied that there wasno movement from within.

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And then, with infinite patience, I appliedmy fingertips to the bottom of the sash win-dow and lifted, praying it wouldn’t squeakand, when my prayers were answered, lettingmyself in and closing the window behind me.

In the bed she stirred slightly—at thebreath of air from the open window perhaps;some unconscious sensing of my presence?Like a statue I stood and waited for her deepbreathing to resume, and felt the air aroundme settle, my incursion absorbed into theroom so that after a few moments it was asthough I were a part of it—as though I hadalways been a part of it, like a ghost.

And then I took out my sword.It was fitting—ironic, perhaps—that it

should have been the sword given to me bymy father. These days, I rarely go anywherewithout it. Years ago, Reginald asked mewhen I expected it to taste blood, and it has,of course, many times. And if I was rightabout Betty, then it would once again.

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I sat on the bed and put the blade of thesword close to her throat, then clamped myhand over her mouth.

She woke. Immediately her eyes werewide with terror. Her mouth moved and mypalm tickled and vibrated as she tried toscream.

I held her thrashing body still and saidnothing, just allowed her eyes to adjust untilshe could see me, and she must have recog-nized me. How could she not, when shenursed me for ten years, was like a mother tome? How can she not have recognizedMaster Haytham?

When she had finished struggling, Iwhispered, “Hello, Betty,” with my hand stillover her mouth. “I have something I need toask you. To answer you will need to speak.For you to speak I’ll need to take my handfrom your mouth and you may be tempted toscream, but if you scream . . .” I applied thetip of the sword to her throat to make my

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point. And, then, very gently, I lifted myhand from her mouth.

Her eyes were hard, like granite. For amoment I felt myself retreat to childhoodand was almost intimidated by the fire andfury there, as though the sight of themtriggered a memory of being scolded that Icouldn’t help but respond to.

“I should put you over my knee for this,Master Haytham,” she hissed. “How dareyou creep into a lady’s room when shesleeps? Did I teach you nothing? Did Edithteach you nothing? Your mother?” Her voicewas rising. “Did your father teach younothing?”

That childhood feeling stayed with me,and I had to reach into myself to find resolve,fighting an urge simply to put away mysword, and say, “Sorry, Nurse Betty,” prom-ise never to do it again, that I would be agood boy from now on.

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The thought of my father gave me thatresolve.

“It’s true you were like a mother to meonce, Betty,” I said to her. “It’s true that whatI’m doing is a terrible, unforgivable thing todo. Believe me, I’m not here lightly. But whatyou’ve done is terrible, and unforgivable,too.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”With my other hand I reached inside my

frock coat and retrieved a folded piece of pa-per, which I held for her to see in the neardark of the room. “You remember Laura, thekitchen maid?”

Cautious, she nodded.“She sent me a letter,” I went on. “A letter

that told me all about your relationship withDigweed. For how long was Father’s gentle-man your fancy man, Betty?”

There was no such letter; the piece of pa-per I held contained nothing more revelatorythan the address of my lodgings for the

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night, and I was relying on the low light tofool her. The truth was that when I’d re-readmy old journals I’d been taken back to thatmoment many, many years ago when I hadgone to look for Betty. She had been havingher “little lie-in” that cold morning, andwhen I peered through her keyhole I’d seen apair of men’s boots in her room. I hadn’trealized at the time because I was too young.I’d seen them with the eyes of a nine-year-old and thought nothing of them. Not then.Not ever since.

Not until reading it afresh, when, like ajoke that suddenly makes sense, I had under-stood: the boots had belonged to her lover.Of course they had. What I was less certainof was that her lover was Digweed. I remem-ber that she used to speak of him with greataffection, but then so did everyone; he hadfooled us all. But when I left for Europe inthe care of Reginald, Digweed had found al-ternative employment for Betty.

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Even so, it was a guess that they were lov-ers—a considered, educated guess, but risky,with terrible consequences, if I was wrong.

“Do you remember the day you had alittle lie-in, Betty?” I asked. “A ‘little lie-in,’do you remember?”

She nodded warily.“I came to see where you were,” I contin-

ued. “I was cold, you see. And in the passageoutside your room—well, I don’t like to ad-mit it, but I knelt and I looked through yourkeyhole.”

I felt myself colour slightly, despiteeverything. She’d been staring balefully up atme, but now her eyes went flinty and her lipspursed crossly, almost as though this ancientintrusion were as bad as the current one.

“I didn’t see anything,” I clarified quickly.“Not unless you count you, slumbering inbed, and also a pair of men’s boots that I re-cognized as belonging to Digweed. Were youhaving an affair with him, is that it?”

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“Oh, Master Haytham,” she whispered,shaking her head and with sad eyes, “whathas become of you? What sort of man hasthat Birch turned you into? That you shouldbe holding a knife to the throat of a lady ofmy advancing years is bad enough—oh,that’s bad enough. But look at you now,you’re ladling hurt on hurt, accusing me ofhaving an affair, wrecking a marriage. It wasno affair. Mr. Digweed had children, that’strue, who were looked after by his sister inHerefordshire, but his wife died many yearsbefore he even joined the household. Ourswas not an affair the way you’re thinkingwith your dirty mind. We were in love, andshame on you thinking otherwise. Shame onyou.” She shook her head again.

Feeling my hand tighten on the handle ofthe sword, I squeezed my eyes shut. “No, no,it’s not me who should be made to feel atfault here. You can try and come high-and-mighty with me all you like, but the fact is

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that you had a . . . relationship of some kind,of whatever kind—it doesn’t matter whatkind—with Digweed, and Digweed betrayedus. Without that betrayal my father would bealive. Mother would be alive, and I would notbe sitting here with a knife to your throat, sodon’t blame me for your current predica-ment, Betty. Blame him.”

She took a deep breath and composedherself. “He had no choice,” she said at last,“Jack didn’t. Oh, that was his name, by theway: Jack. Did you know that?”

“I’ll read it on his gravestone,” I hissed,“and knowing it makes not a blind bit of dif-ference, because he did have a choice, Betty.Whether it was a choice between the deviland the deep blue sea, I don’t care. He had achoice.”

“No—the man threatened Jack’schildren.”

“‘Man’? What man?”

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“I don’t know. A man who first spoke toJack in town.”

“Did you ever see him?”“No.”“What did Digweed say about him? Was

he from the West Country?”“Jack said he had the accent sir, yes.

Why?”“When the men kidnapped Jenny, she

was screaming about a traitor. Violet fromnext door heard her, but the following day aman with a West Country accent came tospeak to her—to warn her not to tell anyonewhat she’d heard.”

West Country. Betty had blanched, I saw.“What?” I snapped. “What have I said?”

“It’s Violet, sir,” she gasped. “Not longafter you left for Europe—it could even havebeen the day after—she met her end in astreet robbery.”

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“They came good on their word,” I said. Ilooked at her. “Tell me about the man givingDigweed his orders,” I said.

“Nothing. Jack never said anything abouthim. That he meant business; that if Jackdidn’t do as they told him then they wouldfind his children and kill them. They saidthat if he told the master then they’d find hisboys, cut them and kill them slowly, all ofthat. They told him what they were planningto do to the house, but on my life, MasterHaytham, they told him that nobody wouldbe hurt; that it would all happen at the deadof night.”

Something occurred to me. “Why did theyeven need him?”

She looked perplexed.“He wasn’t even there on the night of the

attack,” I continued. “It wasn’t as if they re-quired help getting in. They took Jenny,killed Father. Why was Digweed needed forthat?”

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“I don’t know, Master Haytham,” shesaid. “I really don’t.”

When I looked down at her, it was with akind of numbness. Before, when I’d beenwaiting for darkness to fall, anger had beensimmering, bubbling within me, the idea ofDigweed’s treachery lighting a fire beneathmy fury, the idea that Betty had colluded, oreven known, adding fuel to it.

I’d wanted her to be innocent. Most of allI’d wanted her dalliance to be with anothermember of the household. But if it was withDigweed then I wanted her to know nothingabout his betrayal. I wanted her to be inno-cent, for if she was guilty then I had to killher, because if she could have donesomething to stop the slaughter of that nightand failed to act, then she had to die. Thatwas . . . that was justice. It was cause and ef-fect. Checks and balances. An eye for an eye.And that’s what I believe in. That’s my ideo-logy. A way of negotiating a passage through

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life that makes sense even when life itself sorarely does. A way of imposing order uponchaos.

But the last thing I wanted to do was killher.

“Where is he now?” I asked softly.“I don’t know, Master Haytham.” Her

voice quavered with fear. “The last time Iheard from him was the morning hedisappeared.”

“Who else knew you and he were lovers?”“Nobody,” she replied. “We were always

so careful.”“Apart from leaving his boots in view.”“They were moved sharpish.” Her eyes

hardened. “And most folk weren’t in thehabit of peering through the keyhole.”

There was a pause. “What happens now,Master Haytham?” she said, a catch in hervoice.

“I should kill you, Betty,” I said simply,and looking into her eyes I saw the

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realization dawn on her that I could if Iwanted to; that I was capable of doing it.

She whimpered.I stood. “But I won’t. There’s already

been too much death as a result of that night.We will not meet again. For your years ofservice and nurture I award you your life andleave you with your shame. Good-bye.”

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14 JULY 1747

i

After neglecting my journal for almost twoweeks I have much to tell and should recap,going right back to the night I visited Betty.

After leaving I’d returned to my lodgings,slept for a few fitful hours, then rose, dressedand took a carriage back to her house. ThereI bid the driver wait some distance away,close enough to see, but not close enough todraw suspicion, and as he snoozed, gratefulfor the rest, I sat and gazed out of the win-dow, and waited.

For what? I didn’t know for sure. Yetagain I was listening to my instinct.

And yet again it proved correct, for notlong after daybreak, Betty appeared.

I dismissed the driver, followed her onfoot and, sure enough, she made her way tothe General Post Office on Lombard Street,went in, reappeared some minutes later, andthen made her way back along the street un-til she was swallowed up by the crowds.

I watched her go, feeling nothing, not theurge to follow her and slit her throat for hertreachery, not even the vestiges of the affec-tion we once had. Just . . . nothing.

Instead I took up position in a doorwayand watched the world go by, flicking beg-gars and street sellers away with my cane as Iwaited for perhaps an hour until . . .

Yes, there he was—the letter carrier, car-rying his bell and case full of mail. I pushedmyself out of the doorway and, twirling mycane, followed him, closer and closer until hemoved on to a side road where there werefewer pedestrians, and I spotted mychance . . .

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Moments later I was kneeling by hisbleeding and unconscious body in an alley-way, sorting through the contents of his let-ter case until I found it—an envelope ad-dressed to “Jack Digweed.” I read it—it saidthat she loved him, and that I had found outabout their relationship; nothing in there Ididn’t already know—but it wasn’t the con-tents of the letter I was interested in so muchthe destination, and there it was on the frontof the envelope, which was bound for theBlack Forest, for a small town called St.Peter, not far from Freiburg.

Almost two weeks of journeying later, Re-ginald and I came within sight of St. Peter inthe distance, a cluster of buildings nestled atthe bottom of a valley otherwise rich withverdant fields and patches of forest. That wasthis morning.

ii

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We reached it at around noon, dirty andtired from our travels. Trotting slowlythrough narrow, labyrinthine streets, I sawthe upturned faces of the residents, glimpsedeither from pathways or turning quicklyaway from windows, closing doors and draw-ing curtains. We had death on our minds,and at the time I thought they somehowknew this, or perhaps were easily spooked.What I didn’t know was that we weren’t thefirst strangers to ride into town that morn-ing. The townspeople were already spooked.

The letter had been addressed care of theSt. Peter General Store. We came to a smallplaza, with a fountain shaded by chestnuttrees, and asked for directions from anervous townswoman. Others gave us a wideberth as she pointed the way then sidled off,staring at her shoes. Moments later we weretethering our horses outside the store andwalking in, only for the sole customer to takea look at us and decide to stock up on

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provisions another time. Reginald and I ex-changed a confused look, then I cast an eyeover the store. Tall, wooden shelves linedthree sides, stocked with jars and packetstied up with twine, while at the back was ahigh counter behind which stood the store-keeper, wearing an apron, a wide moustacheand a smile that had faded like an exhaustedcandle on getting a good look at us.

To my left was a set of steps used to reachthe high shelves. On them sat a boy, aboutten years old, the storekeeper’s son, by thelook of him. He almost lost his footing in hishaste to scuttle off the steps and stand in themiddle of the floor with his hands by hisside, awaiting his orders.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said theshopkeeper in German. “You look like youhave been riding a long time. You need somesupplies to continue your journey?” He in-dicated an urn on the counter before him.

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“You need some refreshments perhaps? Adrink?”

Next he was waving a hand at the boy.“Christophe, have you forgotten your man-ners? Take the gentlemen’s coats . . .”

There were three stools in front of thecounter and the shopkeeper waved a hand atthem, saying, “Please, please, take a seat.”

I glanced again at Reginald, saw he wasabout to move forward to accept the store-keeper’s offer of hospitality, and stoppedhim.

“No, thank you,” I said to the shopkeeper.“My friend and I don’t intend to stay.” Fromthe corner of my eye I saw Reginald’sshoulders sag, but he said nothing. “All weneed from you is information,” I added.

A cautious look fell across the shopkeep-er’s face like a dark curtain. “Yes?” he saidwarily.

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“We need to find a man. His name is Dig-weed. Jack Digweed. Are you acquaintedwith him?”

He shook his head.“You don’t know him at all?” I pressed.Again the shake of the head.“Haytham . . .” said Reginald, as though

he could read my mind from the tone of myvoice.

I ignored him. “Are you quite sure aboutthat?” I insisted.

“Yes, sir,” said the shopkeeper. His mous-tache quivered nervously. He swallowed.

I felt my jaw tighten; then, before any-body had a chance to react, I’d drawn mysword and with my outstretched arm tuckedthe blade beneath Christophe’s chin. The boygasped, raised himself on his tiptoes, and hiseyes darted as the blade pressed into histhroat. I hadn’t taken my eyes off theshopkeeper.

“Haytham . . .” said Reginald again.

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“Let me handle this, please, Reginald,” Isaid, and addressed the storekeeper: “Dig-weed’s letters are sent care of this address,” Isaid. “Let me ask you again. Where is he?”

“Sir,” pleaded the shopkeeper. His eyesdarted from me to Christophe, who wasmaking a series of low noises as though hewere finding it difficult to swallow. “Pleasedon’t hurt my son.”

His pleas fell on deaf ears.“Where is he?” I repeated.“Sir,” pleaded the owner. His hands im-

plored. “I cannot say.”With a tiny flick of the wrist I increased

the pressure of my blade on Christophe’sthroat and was rewarded with a whimper.From the corner of my eye I saw the boy riseeven higher on his tiptoes and felt, but didnot see, Reginald’s discomfort to the otherside of me. All the time, my eyes never leftthose of the shopkeeper.

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“Please sir, please sir,” he said quickly,those imploring hands waving in the air asthough he were trying to juggle an invisibleglass, “I can’t say. I was warned not to.”

“Ah-ha,” I said. “Who? Who warned you?Was it him? Was it Digweed?”

“No, sir,” insisted the shopkeeper. “Ihaven’t seen Master Digweed for someweeks. This was . . . someone else, but I can’ttell you—I can’t tell you who. These men,they were serious.”

“But I think we know that I, too, am seri-ous,” I said with a smile, “and the differencebetween them and me is that I am here andthey are not. Now tell me. How many men,who were they and what did they want toknow?”

His eyes flicked from me to Christophe,who though brave and stoic and displayingthe kind of fortitude under duress that I’dhope for my own son, whimpered again non-etheless, which must have made up the

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storekeeper’s mind, because his moustachetrembled a little more, then he spoke,quickly, the words tumbling from him.

“They were here, sir,” he said. “Just anhour or so ago. Two men with long blackcoats over the red tunics of the British Army,who came into the store just as you did andasked the whereabouts of Master Digweed.When I told them, thinking little of it, theybecame very grave, sir, and told me thatsome more men might arrive looking forMaster Digweed, and, if they did, then I wasto deny all knowledge of him, on pain ofdeath, and not to say that they had beenhere.”

“Where is he?”“A cabin, fifteen miles north of here in

the woods.”Neither Reginald nor I said a word. We

both knew we didn’t have a minute to spare,and without pausing to make more threats,or to say good-bye, or perhaps even

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apologize to Christophe for frightening himhalf to death, we both dashed out of thedoor, untethered and mounted our steedsand spurred them on with yells.

We rode as hard as we dared for over halfan hour, until we had covered maybe eightmiles of pasture, all of it uphill, our horsesnow becoming tired. We came to a tree line,only to discover that it was a narrow band ofpine, and we arrived on the other side to seea ribbon of trees stretching around the sum-mit of a hill on either side. Meanwhile, infront of us the ground sloped down intomore woodland, then away, undulating like ahuge blanket of green, patched with forestry,grass and fields.

We pulled up and I called for the spy-glass. Our horses snorted and I scanned thearea in front of us, swinging the spyglassfrom left to right, crazily at first, with theemergency getting the better of me, panicmaking me indiscriminate. In the end I had

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to force myself to calm down, taking deepbreaths and screwing up my eyes tight thenstarting again, this time moving the spyglassslowly and methodically across the land-scape. In my head I divided the territory intoa grid and moved from one square to anoth-er, back to being systematic and efficient,back to having logic in charge, not emotion.

A silence of gentle wind and the songs ofbirds was broken by Reginald. “Would youhave done it?”

“Done what, Reginald?”He meant kill the child.“Kill the boy. Would you have done it?”“There is little point in making a threat if

you can’t carry it out. The storekeeper wouldhave known if I was shamming. He wouldhave seen it in my eyes. He would haveknown.”

Reginald shifted uneasily in his saddle.“So, yes, then? Yes, you would have killedhim?”

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“That’s right, Reginald, I would havekilled him.”

There was a pause. I completed the nextsquare of land, then the next.

“When was the killing of innocents everpart of your teaching, Haytham?” saidReginald.

I gave a snort. “Just because you taughtme to kill, Reginald, it doesn’t give you the fi-nal say on whom I kill and to what end.”

“I taught you honour. I taught you acode.”

“I remember you, Reginald, about to dis-pense your own form of justice outsideWhite’s all those years ago. Was thathonourable?”

Did he redden slightly? Certainly he shif-ted uncomfortably on his horse. “The manwas a thief,” he said.

“The men I seek are murderers,Reginald.”

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“Even so,” he said, with a touch of irrita-tion, “perhaps your zeal is clouding yourjudgement.”

Again I gave a contemptuous snort. “Thisfrom you. Is your fascination with ThoseWho Came Before strictly speaking in linewith Templar policy?”

“Of course.”“Really? Are you sure you haven’t been

neglecting your other duties in favour of it?What letter-writing, what journalling, whatreading have you been doing lately,Reginald?”

“Plenty,” he said indignantly.“That hasn’t been connected with Those

Who Came Before,” I added.For a moment he blustered, sounding like

a red-faced fat man given the wrong meat atdinner. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Indeed, Reginald,” I said, just as I saw atiny plume of smoke coming from the

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woodland. “I see smoke in the trees, possiblyfrom a cabin. We should head for there.”

At the same time there was a movementnot far away in a crop of fir trees and I saw arider heading up the furthest hill, away fromus.

“Look, Reginald, there. Do you see him?”I adjusted the focus. The rider had his

back to us of course and was a distance away,but one thing I thought I could see was hisears. I was sure he had pointed ears.

“I see one man, Haytham, but where isthe other?” said Reginald.

Already pulling on the reins of my steed, Isaid, “Still in the cabin, Reginald. Let’s go.”

iii

It was perhaps another twenty minutes be-fore we arrived. Twenty minutes duringwhich I pushed my steed to her limit, risking

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her through trees and over wind-fallenbranches, leaving Reginald behind as I racedtowards where I’d seen the smoke—to thecabin where I was sure I’d find Digweed.

Alive? Dead? I didn’t know. But the store-keeper had said there were two men askingfor him, and we’d only accounted for one ofthem, so I was eager to know about the otherone. Had he gone on ahead?

Or was he still in the cabin?There it was, sitting in the middle of a

clearing. A squat wooden building, one horsetethered outside, with a single window at thefront and tendrils of smoke puffing from thechimney. The front door was open. Wideopen. At the same time as I came bolting intothe clearing I heard a scream from inside,and I spurred my steed to the door, drawingmy sword. With a great clatter we came on tothe boards at the front of the house and Icraned forward in my saddle to see the sceneinside.

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Digweed was tied to a chair, shoulderssagging, head tilted. His face was a mask ofblood, but I could see that his lips were mov-ing. He was alive, and standing over him wasthe second man, holding a bloodstainedknife—a knife with a curved, serratedblade—and about to finish the job. About toslit Digweed’s throat.

I’d never used my sword as a spear beforeand, take it from me, it’s a far-from-ideal usefor it, but at that exact moment my prioritywas keeping Digweed alive. I needed tospeak to him, and, besides, nobody was go-ing to kill Digweed but me. So I threw it. Itwas all I had time to do. And though mythrow had as little power as it did aim, it hitthe knifeman’s arm just as the blade arceddown, and it was enough—enough to sendhim staggering back with a howl of pain atthe same time as I threw myself off thehorse, landed on the boards inside the cabin,

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rolled forward and snatched out my shortsword at the same time.

And it had been enough to save Digweed.I landed right by him. Bloodstained rope

kept his arms and legs tied to the chair. Hisclothes were torn and black with blood, hisface swollen and bleeding. His lips stillmoved. His eyes slid lazily over to see meand I wondered what he thought in the briefmoment that he took me in. Did he recognizeme? Did he feel a bolt of guilt, or a flash ofhope?

Then my eyes went to a back window,only to see the knifeman’s legs disappearingthrough it as he squeezed himself out and fellwith a thump to the ground outside. To fol-low through the window meant putting my-self in a vulnerable position—I didn’t fancybeing stuck in the frame while the knifemanhad all the time in the world to plunge hisblade into me. So instead I ran to the frontdoor and back into the clearing to give chase.

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Reginald was just arriving. He’d seen theknifeman, had a better view of him than Idid, and was already taking aim with hisbow.

“Don’t kill him,” I roared, just as he fired,and he howled in displeasure as the arrowwent wide.

“Damn you, man, I had him,” he shouted.“He’s in the trees now.”

I’d rounded the front of the cabin in time,feet kicking up a carpet of dead and dry pineneedles just in time to see the knifeman dis-appear into the tree line. “I need him alive,Reginald,” I shouted back at him. “Digweed’sin the cabin. Keep him safe until I return.”

And with that I burst into the trees,leaves and branches whipping my face as Ithundered on, short sword in hand. Ahead ofme I saw a dark shape in the foliage, crash-ing through it with as little grace as I was.

Or perhaps less grace, because I wasgaining on him.

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“Were you there?” I shouted at him.“Were you there the night they killed myfather?”

“I didn’t have that pleasure, boy,” hecalled back over his shoulder. “How I wish Ihad been. I did my bit, though. I was thefixer.”

Of course. He had a West Country accent.Now, who had been described as having aWest Country accent? The man who hadblackmailed Digweed. The man who hadthreatened Violet and shown her an evil-looking knife.

“Stand and face me!” I shouted. “You’reso keen for Kenway blood, let’s see if youcan’t spill mine!”

I was nimbler than he was. Faster, andcloser now. I’d heard the wheeze in his voicewhen he spoke to me, and it was only a mat-ter of time before I caught him. He knew it,and rather than tire himself further he de-cided to turn and fight, hurdling one final

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wind-fallen branch, which brought him intoa small clearing, spinning about, the curvedblade in his hand. The curved, serrated,“evil-looking” blade. His face was grizzledand terribly pockmarked, as though scarredfrom some childhood disease. He breathedheavily as he wiped the back of his handacross his mouth. He’d lost his hat in thechase, revealing close-cropped, greying hair,and his coat—dark, just as the storekeeperhad described it—was torn, fluttering open toreveal his red army tunic.

“You’re a British soldier,” I said.“That’s the uniform I wear,” he sneered,

“but my allegiances lie elsewhere.”“Indeed, do they? To whom do you swear

loyalty, then?” I asked. “Are you anAssassin?”

He shook his head. “I’m my own man,boy. Something you can only dream ofbeing.”

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“It’s a long time since anybody’s calledme boy,” I said.

“You think you’ve made a name for your-self, Haytham Kenway. The killer. The Tem-plar blademan. Because you’ve killed acouple of fat merchants? But to me you’re aboy. You’re a boy because a man faces histargets, man to man, he doesn’t steal up be-hind them in the dead of night, like a snake.”He paused. “Like an Assassin.”

He began to swap his knife from onehand to the other. The effect was almost hyp-notic—or at least that’s what I let himbelieve.

“You think I can’t fight?” I said.“You’re yet to prove it.”“Here’s as good a place as any.”He spat and beckoned me forward with

one hand, rolling the blade in the other.“Come on, Assassin,” he goaded me. “Comebe a warrior for the first time. Come see whatit feels like. Come on, boy. Be a man.”

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It was supposed to anger me, but insteadit made me focus. I needed him alive. Ineeded him to talk.

I leapt over the branch and into the clear-ing, swinging a little wildly to push him backbut recovering my stance quickly, before hecould press forward with a response of hisown. For some moments we circled one an-other, each waiting for the other to launchhis next attack. I broke the stalemate bylunging forward, slashing, then instantly re-treating to my guard.

For a second he thought I’d missed. Thenhe felt the blood begin to trickle down hischeek and touched a hand to his face, hiseyes widening in surprise. First blood to me.

“You’ve underestimated me,” I said.His smile was a little more strained this

time. “There won’t be a second time.”“There will be,” I replied, and came for-

ward again, feinting towards the left then

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going right when his body was already com-mitted to the wrong line of defence.

A gash opened up in his free arm. Bloodstained his tattered sleeve and began drip-ping to the forest floor, bright red on brownand green needles.

“I’m better than you know,” I said. “Allyou have to look forward to is death—unlessyou talk. Unless you tell me everything youknow. Who are you working for?”

I danced forward and slashed as his knifeflailed wildly. His other cheek opened. Therewere now two scarlet ribbons on the brownleather of his face.

“Why was my father killed?”I came forward again and this time sliced

the back of his knife hand. If I’d been hopinghe’d drop the knife, then I was disappointed.If I’d been hoping to give him a demonstra-tion of my skills, then that’s exactly what I’ddone, and it showed on his face. His nowbloody face. He wasn’t grinning any more.

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But he still had fight in him, and when hecame forward it was fast and smooth and heswapped his knife from one hand to the oth-er to try to misdirect me, and almost madecontact. Almost. He might even have doneit—if he hadn’t already showed me that par-ticular trick; if he hadn’t been slowed downby the injuries I’d inflicted on him.

As it was, I ducked easily beneath hisblade and struck upwards, burying my ownin his flank. Immediately I was cursing,though. I’d hit him too hard and in the kid-ney. He was dead. The internal bleedingwould kill him in around thirty minutes; buthe could pass out straight away. Whether heknew it himself or not I don’t know, for hewas coming at me again, his teeth bared.They were coated with blood now, I noticed,and I swung easily away, took hold of hisarm, twisted into his body and broke it at theelbow.

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The sound he made wasn’t a scream somuch as an anguished inhalation, and as Icrunched the bones in his arm, more for ef-fect than for any useful purpose, his knifedropped to the forest floor with a soft thumpand he followed it, sinking to his knees.

I let go of his arm, which dropped limply,a bag of broken bones and skin. Lookingdown, I could see the blood had alreadydrained from his face, and around his midriffwas a spreading, black stain. His coat pooledaround him on the ground. Feebly, he felt forhis loose and limp arm with his good hand,and when he looked up at me there wassomething almost plaintive in his eyes,something pathetic.

“Why did you kill him?” I asked evenly.Like water escaping from a leaking flask

he crumpled, until he was lying on his side.All that concerned him now was dying.

“Tell me,” I pressed, and bent close towhere he now lay, with pine needles clinging

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to the blood on his face. He was breathinghis last breaths into the mulch of the forestfloor.

“Your father . . .” he started, thencoughed a small gobbet of blood before start-ing again. “Your father was not a Templar.”

“I know,” I snapped. “Was he killed forthat?” I felt my brow furrow. “Was he killedbecause he refused to join the Order?”

“He was an . . . an Assassin.”“And the Templars killed him? They

killed him for that?”“No. He was killed for what he had.”“What?” I leaned forward, desperate to

catch his words. “What did he have?”There was no reply.“Who?” I said, almost shouting. “Who

killed him?”But he was out. Mouth open, his eyes

fluttered then closed, and however much Islapped him, he refused to regainconsciousness.

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An Assassin. Father was an Assassin. Irolled the knifeman over, closed his staringeyes and began to empty his pockets on tothe ground. Out came the usual collection oftins, as well as few tattered bits of paper, oneof which I unfurled to find was a set of enlist-ment papers. They were for a regiment, theColdstream Guards to be precise, one andone-half guineas for joining, then a shilling aday. The paymaster’s name was on the en-listment papers. It was Lieutenant-ColonelEdward Braddock.

And Braddock was with his army in theDutch Republic, taking arms against theFrench. I thought of the pointy-eared manI’d seen riding out earlier. All of a sudden Iknew where he was heading.

iv

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I turned and crashed back through the forestto the cabin, making it back in moments.Outside were the three horses, grazing pa-tiently in bright sunshine; inside, it was darkand cooler, and Reginald stood over Dig-weed, whose head lolled as he sat, still tied tothe chair, and, I knew, from the second Iclapped eyes on him . . .

“He’s dead,” I said simply, and looked atReginald.

“I tried to save him, Haytham, but thepoor soul was too far gone.”

“How?” I said sharply.“Of his wounds,” snapped Reginald.

“Look at him, man.”Digweed’s face was a mask of drying

blood. His clothes were caked with it. Theknifeman had made him suffer, that muchwas certain.

“He was alive when I left.”“And he was alive when I arrived, damn

it,” seethed Reginald.

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“At least tell me you got something fromhim.”

His eyes dropped. “He said he was sorrybefore he died.”

With a frustrated swish of my sword Islammed a beaker into the fireplace.

“That was all? Nothing about the night ofthe attack? No reason? No names?”

“Damn your eyes, Haytham. Damn youreyes, do you think I killed him? Do you thinkI came all this way, neglected my other du-ties, just to see Digweed dead? I wanted tofind him as much as you did. I wanted himalive as much as you did.”

It was as though I could feel my entireskull harden. “I doubt that very much,” Ispat.

“Well, what happened to the other one?”asked Reginald back.

“He died.”Reginald wore an ironic look. “Oh, I see.

And whose fault was that, exactly?”

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I ignored him. “The killer, he is known toBraddock.”

Reginald reared back. “Really?”Back at the clearing I’d stuffed the papers

into my coat, and I brought them out now ina handful, like the head of a cauliflower.“Here—his enlistment papers. He’s in theColdstream Guards, under Braddock’scommand.”

“Hardly the same thing, Haytham. Ed-ward has a force fifteen hundred strong,many of them enlisted in the country. I’msure every single man has an unsavoury pastand I’m sure Edward knows very little aboutit.”

“Even so, a coincidence, don’t you think?The storekeeper said they both wore the uni-form of the British Army, and my guess is therider we saw is on his way to them now. Hehas—what?—an hour’s head start? I’ll not befar behind. Braddock’s in the Dutch

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Republic, is he not? That’s where he’ll beheading, back to his general.”

“Now, careful, Haytham,” said Reginald.Steel crept into his eyes and into his voice.“Edward is a friend of mine.”

“I have never liked him,” I said, with atouch of childish impudence.

“Oh, pish!” exploded Reginald. “An opin-ion formed by you as a boy because Edwarddidn’t show you the deference you were ac-customed to—because, I might add, he wasdoing his utmost to bring your father’s killersto justice. Let me tell you, Haytham, Edwardserves the Order, is a good and faithful ser-vant and always has been.”

I turned to him, and it was on the tip ofmy tongue to say, “But wasn’t Father an As-sassin?” when I stopped myself. Some . . .feeling, or instinct—difficult to say what itwas—made me decide to keep that informa-tion to myself.

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Reginald saw me do it—saw the wordspile up behind my teeth and maybe even sawthe lie in my eyes.

“The killer,” he pressed, “did he say any-thing else at all? Were you able to drag anymore information out of him before hedied?”

“Only as much as you could get from Dig-weed,” I replied. There was a small stove atone end of the cabin and by it a choppingblock, where I found part of a loaf, which Istuffed into my pocket.

“What are you doing?” said Reginald.“Getting what provisions I can for my

ride, Reginald.”There was a bowl of apples, too. I’d need

those for my horse.“A stale loaf. Some apples? It isn’t

enough, Haytham. At least go back to thetown for supplies.”

“No time, Reginald,” I said. “And, any-way, the chase will be short. He only has a

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short head start and he doesn’t know he’s be-ing pursued. With any luck I can catch himbefore I have need of supplies.”

“We can collect food on the way. I canhelp you.”

But I stopped him. I was going alone, Isaid, and before he could argue I’d mountedmy steed and taken her in the direction I’dseen the pointy-eared man go, my hopeshigh I could catch him shortly.

They were dashed. I rode hard, but in theend the dark drew in; it had become too dan-gerous to continue and I risked injuring myhorse. In any case, she was exhausted, so re-luctantly I decided to stop and let her rest fora few hours.

And as I sit here writing, I wonder why,after all the years of Reginald’s being like afather to me, a mentor, a tutor andguide—why did I decide to ride out alone?And why did I keep from him what I’d dis-covered about Father?

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Have I changed? Has he changed? Or is itthat the bond we once shared has changed?

The temperature has dropped. Mysteed—and it seems only right that I shouldgive her a name and so, in honour of the wayshe’s already starting to nuzzle me when inneed of an apple, I’ve called her Scratch—liesnearby, her eyes closed, and seems content,and I write in my journal.

I think about what Reginald and I talkedof. I wonder if he’s right to question the manI have become.

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15 JULY 1747

I rose early in the morning, as soon as it waslight, raked over the dying coals of my fireand mounted Scratch.

The chase continued. As I rode I mulledover the possibilities. Why had Pointy-Earsand the knifeman gone their separate ways?Were they both intending to journey to theDutch Republic and join Braddock? WouldPointy-Ears be expecting his confederate tocatch him up?

I had no way of knowing. I could onlyhope that, whatever their plans, the manahead of me had no idea I was in pursuit.

But if he didn’t—and how couldhe?—then why wasn’t I catching him?

And I rode fast but steadily, aware thatcoming upon him too quickly would be justas disastrous as not catching him at all.

After about three-quarters of an hour Icame upon a spot where he had rested. If I’dpushed Scratch longer, would I have dis-turbed him, taken him by surprise? I knelt tofeel the dying warmth of his fire. To my left,Scratch nuzzled something on the ground, abit of discarded sausage, and my stomachrumbled. Reginald had been right. My preywas much better equipped for the journeythan I was, with my half a loaf of bread andapples. I cursed myself for not going throughthe saddlebags of his companion.

“Come on, Scratch,” I said. “Come on,girl.”

For the rest of the day I rode, and theonly time I even slowed down was when I re-trieved the spyglass from my pocket andscanned the horizon, looking for signs of myquarry. He remained ahead of me. Frustrat-ingly ahead of me. All day. Until, as lightbegan to fade I started becoming concerned I

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had lost him altogether. I could only hope Iwas right about his destination.

In the end I had no choice but to restagain for the day, make camp, build a fire, al-low Scratch to rest, and pray that I hadn’tlost the trail.

And as I sit here I wonder, Why haven’t Imanaged to catch him?

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16 JULY 1747

i

When I woke up this morning it was with aflash of inspiration. Of course. Pointy-Earswas a member of Braddock’s army and Brad-dock’s army had joined with forces com-manded by the Prince of Orange in the DutchRepublic, which was where Pointy-Earsshould have been. The reason he was hurry-ing was because . . .

Because he had absconded and was rush-ing to get back, presumably before his ab-sence was discovered.

Which meant that his presence in theBlack Forest wasn’t officially sanctioned.Which meant that Braddock, as hislieutenant-colonel, didn’t know about it. Orprobably didn’t know about it.

Sorry, Scratch. I rode her hard again—itwould be her third successive day—and no-ticed the tiredness in her, the fatigue thatslowed her down. Even so, it was onlyaround half an hour before we came uponthe remains of Pointy-Ears’ camp and, thistime, instead of stopping to test the embers, Iurged Scratch on and only let her rest at thenext hilltop, where we stopped as I pulledout the spyglass and scanned the area aheadof us, square by square, inch by inch—until Isaw him. There he was, a tiny speck ridingup the hill opposite, swallowed by a clump oftrees as I watched.

Where were we? I didn’t know whether ornot we had passed over the border into theDutch Republic. I hadn’t seen another soulfor two days, had heard nothing but thesound of Scratch and my own breathing.

That was soon to change. I spurredScratch and some twenty minutes later wasentering the same band of trees I’d seen my

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quarry disappear into. The first thing I sawwas an abandoned cart. Nearby, with fliescrawling over sightless eyes, was the body ofa horse, the sight of which made Scratch rearslightly, startled. Like me, she had been usedto the solitude: just us, the trees, the birds.Here suddenly was the ugly reminder that inEurope one is never far from conflict, neverfar from war.

We rode on more slowly now, being care-ful among the trees and whatever otherobstacles we might find. Moving onwards,more and more of the foliage was blackened,broken or trampled down. There’d beensome action here, that much was certain: Ibegan to see bodies of men, splayed limbsand staring, dead eyes, dark blood and mudrendering the corpses anonymous apart fromflashes of uniform: the white of the Frencharmy, the blue of the Dutch. I saw brokenmuskets, snapped bayonets and swords, any-thing of use having already been salvaged.

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When I emerged from the tree line we werein a field, the field of battle, where there wereeven more bodies. Evidently it had been onlya small skirmish by the standards of war but,even so, it felt as though death wereeverywhere.

How long ago it had been I couldn’t saywith certainty: enough time for scavengers tostrip the field of battle but not enough for thebodies to be removed; within the last day, Iwould have thought, judging by the state ofthe corpses and the blanket of smoke thatstill hung over the pasture—a shroud of it,like morning fog but with the heavy yet sharpscent of gunpowder smoke.

Here the mud was thicker, churned up byhooves and feet, and as Scratch began tostruggle, I reined her to the side, trying totake us around the perimeter of the field.Then just as she stumbled in the mud and al-most pitched me forward over her neck Icaught sight of Pointy-Ears ahead of us. He

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was the length of the field away, perhaps halfa mile or so, a hazy, almost indistinct figurealso struggling in the claggy terrain. Hishorse must have been as exhausted as mine,because he’d dismounted and was trying topull it by the reins, his curses carrying faintlyacross the field.

I pulled out my spyglass to get a betterlook at him. The last time I’d seen him upclose was twelve years ago and he’d beenwearing a mask, and I found myself wonder-ing—hoping, even—that my first proper lookat him might contain some kind of revela-tion. Would I recognize him?

No. He was just a man, weathered andgrizzled, like his partner had been, filthy andexhausted from his ride. Looking at him nowthere was no sense of suddenly knowing.Nothing fell into place. He was just a man, aBritish soldier, same as the one I had killedin the Black Forest.

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I saw him crane his neck as he staredthrough the haze at me. From his coat heproduced his own spyglass, and for a mo-ment the two of us studied one anotherthrough our telescopes, then I watched as heran to the muzzle of his horse and with re-newed vigour began yanking at the reins, atthe same time throwing glances back acrossthe field at me.

He recognized me. Good. Scratch had re-gained her feet and I pulled her to where theground was a little harder. At last we wereable to make some headway. In front of me,Pointy-Ears was becoming more distinct andI could make out the effort on his face as hepulled out his own horse, then saw the realiz-ation dawn on him that he was stuck, and Iwas gaining on him and would be upon himin a matter of a few short moments.

And then he did the only thing he coulddo. He dropped the reins and started to run.At the same time the verge around us gave

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way sharply, and once again Scratch wasfinding it difficult to keep her feet. With aquick and whispered “thank you” I jumpedfrom her to give chase on foot.

The efforts of the last few days caught upwith me in a rush that threatened to engulfme. The mud sucked at my boots, makingevery step not like running but wading, andthe breath was jagged in my lungs, as thoughI were inhaling grit. Every muscle screamedin protest and pain at me, begging me not togo on. I could only hope that my friendahead was having it just as hard, even harderperhaps, because the one thing that spurredme on, the one thing that kept my legspumping and my chest pulling raggedbreaths from the air was the knowledge thatI was closing the gap.

He glanced behind and I was closeenough to see his eyes widen in fear. He hadno mask now. Nothing to hide behind. Des-pite the pain and exhaustion I grinned at

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him, feeling dry, parched lips pulling backover my teeth.

He pressed on, grunting with the effort. Ithad begun to rain, a drizzle that gave the dayan extra layer of haze, as though we werestuck inside a landscape coloured incharcoal.

Again he risked another look behind andsaw that I was even closer now; this time hestopped and drew his sword, held it in twohands with his shoulders slumped, breathingheavily. He looked exhausted. He looked likea man who’d spent day after day riding hardwith little sleep. He looked like a man wait-ing to be beaten.

But I was wrong; he was luring me for-ward and, like a fool, I fell for it, and in thenext instant was stumbling forward, literallyfalling as the ground gave way and I wadedstraight into a vast pool of thick, oozing mudthat stopped me in my tracks.

“Oh, God,” I said.

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My feet disappeared, then my ankles, andbefore I knew it I was in up to my knees, des-perately yanking at my legs, trying to pullthem free, while at the same time bracingmyself with one hand on the firmer groundaround me, trying to keep my sword raisedwith the other.

My eyes went to Pointy-Ears, and it washis turn to grin now as he came forward andbrought his sword down in a chopping, two-handed blow that had plenty of force but wasclumsy. With a grunt of effort and a ring ofsteel I met it and parried, sending him back acouple of steps. Then, as he was off balance, Ipulled one of my feet clear of the mud, andmy boot, saw my white stocking, filthy as itwas, bright compared to the dirt around it.

Seeing his advantage being squandered,Pointy-Ears pressed forward again, this timestabbing forward with his sword, and I de-fended once and then twice. For a secondthere was only the sound of clashing steel, of

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grunts and the rain, harder now, slapping in-to the mud, me silently thanking God his re-serves of cunning were exhausted.

Or were they? At last he realized I wouldbe beaten more easily if he moved to the rearof me, but I saw what was on his mind andlashed out with my sword, catching him atthe knee just above his boot and sending himcrashing back, howling in agony. With a cryof pain and indignity he got to his feet, driv-en on perhaps by outrage that his victorywasn’t being given to him more easily, andkicked out with his good foot.

I caught it with my other hand and twis-ted it as hard as I could, hard enough to sendhim spinning and sprawling facedown to themud.

He tried to roll away, but was too slow, ortoo dazed, and I stabbed downwards with mysword, driving it through the back of histhigh, straight into the ground and spearinghim there. At the same time I used the

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handle as a grip and with a wrench pulledmyself from the mud, leaving my secondboot behind.

He screamed and twisted, but was held inplace by my sword through his leg. Myweight on him as I used the sword as lever-age to drag myself from the ooze must havebeen unbearable, and he shrieked in painand his eyes rolled back in their sockets.Even so, he slashed wildly with his swordand I was unarmed so that, as I flopped on tohim, like a badly landed fish, the bladecaught me on the side of the neck, opening acut and letting out blood that felt warm onmy skin.

My hands went to his, and suddenly wewere grappling for possession of the sword.Grunting and cursing we fought, when frombehind I heard something—something thatwas surely the sound of approaching feet.Then voices. Somebody speaking in Dutch. Icursed.

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“No,” said a voice, and I realized it wasme.

He must have heard it, too.“You’re too late, Kenway,” he snarled.The tramping of the feet from behind me.

The rain. My own cries of “No, no, no,” as avoice said, in English, “You there. Stop atonce.”

And I twisted away from Pointy-Ears,smacking the wet mud in frustration as Ipulled myself upright, ignoring the sound ofhis harsh and jagged laugh as I rose to meetthe troops who appeared from within the fogand rain, trying to bring myself to full heightas I said, “My name is Haytham Kenway, andI am an associate of Lieutenant-Colonel Ed-ward Braddock. I demand this man be giveninto my custody.”

The next laugh I heard, I wasn’t sure if itcame from Pointy-Ears, who still lay pinnedto the ground, or perhaps from one of thesmall band of troops who had materialized

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before me, like wraiths delivered from thefield. Of the commander I saw a moustache,a dirty, wet, double-breasted jacket trimmedwith sodden braid that had once been thecolour gold. I saw him raisingsomething—something that seemed to flashacross my eye line—and realized he wasstriking me with the hilt of the sword an in-stant before he made contact, and I lostconsciousness.

ii

They don’t put unconscious men to death.That would not be noble. Not even in anarmy commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Ed-ward Braddock.

And so the next thing I felt was cold wa-ter slapping into my face—or was it an openpalm on my face? Either way, I was beingrudely awakened, and as my senses returned

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I spent a moment wondering who I was,where I was . . .

And why I had a noose around my neck.And why my arms were tied behind my

back.I was at one end of a platform. To my left

were four men, also, like me, with their necksin nooses. As I watched, the man on the farleft jerked and shook, his feet kicking atempty air.

A gasp went up in front of me and I real-ized that we had an audience. We were nolonger in the battlefield but in some smallerpasture where men had assembled. Theywore the colours of the British Army and thebearskin hats of the Coldstream Guards, andtheir faces were ashen. They were here undersufferance, it was clear, forced to watch asthe poor unfortunate at the end of the linekicked his last, his mouth open, and the tipof his tongue, bleeding from having been

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bitten, protruding, his jaw working in to tryand gulp air.

He continued to twitch and kick, his bodyshaking the scaffold, which ran the length ofthe platform above our heads. I looked upand saw my own noose tied to it, cast myeyes downwards to the wooden stool onwhich I stood, and saw my feet, mystockinged feet.

There was a hush. Just the sound of thehanged man dying, the creak of the rope andthe complaint of the scaffold.

“That’s what happens when you’re athief,” screeched the executioner, pointing athim then striding down the platform towardsthe second man, calling out to the stock-stillcrowd, “You meet your maker at the end of arope, orders of Lieutenant-ColonelBraddock.”

“I know Braddock,” I shouted suddenly.“Where is he? Bring him here.”

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“Shut your mouth, you!” bawled the exe-cutioner, his finger pointed, while at thesame time his assistant, the man who’dthrown water in my face, came from my rightand slapped me again, only this time not tobring me to my senses but to silence me.

I snarled and struggled with the rope ty-ing my hands, but not too vigorously, notenough so that I would overbalance and fallfrom the stool on which I was so perilouslyperched.

“My name is Haytham Kenway,” I called,the rope digging into my neck.

“I said, ‘Shut your mouth!’” the execu-tioner roared a second time, and again hisassistant struck me, hard enough so that healmost toppled me from the stool. For thefirst time I caught sight of the soldier strungup to my immediate left and realized who itwas. It was Pointy-Ears. He had a bandagethat was black with blood around his thigh.

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He regarded me with cloudy, hooded eyes, aslow, sloppy smile on his face.

By now the executioner had reached thesecond man in the line.

“This man is a deserter,” he screeched.“He left his comrades to die. Men like you.He left you to die. Tell me, what should hispunishment be?”

Without much enthusiasm, the mencalled back, “Hang him.”

“If you say so,” smirked the executioner,and he stepped back, planted his foot in thesmall of the condemned man’s back andpushed, savouring the revolted reaction ofthe watching men.

I shook the pain of the assistant’s blowfrom my head and continued to struggle justas the executioner reached the next man,asking the crowd the same question, receiv-ing the same muted, dutiful reply then push-ing the poor wretch to his death. The plat-form quaked and shook as the three men

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jerked on the end of the ropes. Above myhead the scaffold creaked and groaned, andglancing up I saw joints briefly part beforecoming back together.

Next the executioner reached Pointy-Ears.

“This man—this man enjoyed a small so-journ in the Black Forest and thought hecould sneak back undetected, but he iswrong. Tell me, how should he bepunished?”

“Hang him,” mumbled the crowdunenthusiastically.

“Do you think he should die?” cried theexecutioner.

“Yes,” replied the crowd. But I saw someof them surreptitiously shaking their headsno, and there were others, drinking fromleather flasks, who looked happier about thewhole affair, the way you might if you werebeing bribed with ale. Indeed, did that ac-count for Pointy-Ears’ apparent stupor? He

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was still smiling, even when the executionermoved behind him and planted his foot inthe small of his back.

“It’s time to hang a deserter!” he shouted,and shoved at the same time as I cried, “No!”and thrashed at my bonds, desperately tryingto break free. “No, he must be kept alive!Where is Braddock? Where is Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Braddock?”

The executioner’s assistant appeared be-fore my eyes, grinning through a scratchybeard, with hardly a tooth in his mouth.“Didn’t you hear the man? He said, ‘Shutyour mouth.’” And he pulled back his fist topunch me.

He didn’t get the chance. My legs shotout, knocked the stool away and in the nextinstant were locked around the assistant’sneck, crossed at the ankle—and tightening.

He yelled. I squeezed harder. His yell be-came a strangulated choke and his facebegan to flush as his hands went to my

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calves, trying to prise them apart. I wrenchedfrom side to side, shaking him like a dog withprey in its jaws, almost taking him off hisfeet, straining my thigh muscles at the sametime as I tried to keep the weight off thenoose at my neck. Still, at my side, Pointy-Ears thrashed on the end of his rope. Histongue poked from between his lips and hismilky eyes bulged, as if about to burst fromhis skull.

The executioner had moved to the otherend of the platform, where he was pulling onthe legs of the hanged men to make sure theywere dead, but the commotion at this endcaught his attention and he looked up to seehis assistant trapped in the vise grip of mylegs and came dashing up the platform to-wards us, cursing at the same time as hereached to draw his sword.

With a shout of effort, I twisted my bodyand wrenched my legs, pulling the assistantwith me and by some miracle timing it just

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right so that his body slammed into the exe-cutioner as he arrived. With a shout the exe-cutioner tumbled messily from the platform.In front of us the men were standing, open-mouthed with shock, none moving to getinvolved.

I squeezed my legs even more tightly to-gether and was rewarded with a cracking,crunching sound that came from the assist-ant’s neck. Blood began pouring from hisnose. His grip on my arms began to slacken.Again I twisted. Again I shouted as mymuscles protested and I wrenched him, thistime to the other side, where I slammed himinto the scaffold.

The shaking, creaking, coming-apartscaffold.

It creaked and complained some more.With a final effort—I had no more strengthleft, and if this didn’t work then here waswhere I died—I rammed the man into thescaffold again and, this time, at last, it gave.

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At the same time, as I began to feel myselfblack out, as though a dark veil were beingbrought across my mind, I felt the pressureat my neck suddenly relax as the supportcrashed to the ground in front of the plat-form, the crossbar toppled, then the platformitself gave way with the sudden weight ofmen and wood, falling in on itself with asplintering and crashing of disintegratingwood.

My last thought before I lost conscious-ness was, Please let him be alive, and myfirst words on regaining consciousness insidethe tent where I now lie were, “Is he alive?”

iii

“Is who alive?” asked the doctor, who had adistinguished-looking moustache and an ac-cent that suggested he was higher born thanmost.

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“The pointy-eared man,” I said, and triedto raise myself upright, only to find his handon my chest guiding me back down to a lyingposition.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest ideawhat you’re talking about,” he said, not un-kindly. “I hear that you are acquainted withthe lieutenant-colonel. Perhaps he will beable to explain everything to you when he ar-rives in the morning.”

Thus, I now sit here, writing up theevents of the day and awaiting my audiencewith Braddock . . .

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17 JULY 1747

He looked like a larger, smarter version ofhis men, with all of the bearing that his rankimplied. His shining black boots were up tothe knee. He wore a frock coat with whitetrim over a dark, buttoned-up tunic, a whitescarf at his neck, and on a thick brown leath-er belt at his waist hung his sword.

His hair was pulled back and tied with ablack ribbon. He tossed his hat to a smalltable at the side of the bed where I lay, puthis hands to his hips and regarded me withthat deep, colourless gaze I knew well.

“Kenway,” he said simply, “Reginald didnot send word that you were due to be join-ing me here.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,Edward,” I said, suddenly feeling young inhis presence, intimidated almost.

“I see,” he said. “You thought you’d justdrop in, did you?”

“How long have I been here?” I asked.“How many days have passed?”

“Three,” replied Braddock. “Dr. Tennantwas concerned you might develop a fever.According to him, a feebler man might nothave been able to fight it off. You’re lucky tobe alive, Kenway. Not every man gets to es-cape both the gallows and a fever. Fortunatefor you, too, that I was informed about one ofthe men to be hanged calling for me person-ally; otherwise, my men might well have fin-ished the job. You see how we punishwrongdoers.”

I put my hand to my neck, which wasbandaged from the fight with Pointy-Earsand still painful from the rope burn. “Yes,Edward, I have had first-hand experience ofhow you treat your men.”

He sighed, waved away Dr. Tennant, whoretired, closing the flaps of the tent behind

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him, then sat heavily, putting one boot to thebed as though to stake his claim on it. “Notmy men, Kenway. Criminals. You were de-livered to us by the Dutch in the company ofa deserter, a man who had gone absent witha companion. Naturally, you were assumedto be the companion.”

“And what of him, Edward? What of theman I was with?”

“This is the man you’ve been askingabout, is it? The one Dr. Tennant tells meyou’re especially interested in, a—what didhe say now?—‘a pointy-eared man.’” Hecouldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice as hesaid it.

“That man, Edward—he was there thenight of the attack on my home. He’s one ofthe men we have been seeking these lasttwelve years.” I looked at him hard. “And Ifind him enlisted in your army.”

“Indeed—in my army. And what of it?”“A coincidence, don’t you think?”

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Braddock always wore a scowl, but now itdeepened. “Why don’t you forget the insinu-ations, boy, and tell me what’s really on yourmind. Where is Reginald, by the way?”

“I left him in the Black Forest. No doubthe’s halfway home by now.”

“To continue his research into myths andold wives’ tales?” said Braddock with a con-temptuous flick of his eyes. Him doing thatmade me feel strangely loyal to Reginald andhis investigations, despite my ownmisgivings.

“Reginald believes that if we were able tounlock the secrets of the storehouse, theOrder would be the most powerful it hasbeen since the Holy Wars, perhaps ever. Wewould be poised to rule completely.”

He gave a slightly tired, disgusted look.“If you really believe that then you’re as fool-ish and idealistic as he is. We don’t need ma-gic and tricks to persuade people to ourcause, we need steel.”

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“Why not use both?” I reasoned.He leaned forward. “Because one of them

is a rank waste of time, that’s why.”I met his gaze. “That’s as may be.

However I don’t think the best way to winmen’s hearts and minds is to execute them,do you?”

“Again. Scum.”“And has he been put to death?”“Your friend with—sorry, what was

it?—‘pointy ears.’”“Your ridicule means nothing to me, Ed-

ward. Your ridicule means as much to me asyour respect, which is nothing. You maythink you tolerate me only because of Regin-ald—well, I can assure you the feeling is en-tirely mutual. Now, tell me, the pointy-earedman, is he dead?”

“He died on the scaffold, Kenway. Hedied the death he deserved.”

I closed my eyes and for a second laythere aware of nothing but my own . . . what?

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Some evil, boiling broth of grief, anger andfrustration; of mistrust and doubt. Aware,also, of Braddock’s foot on my bed and wish-ing I could lash out with a sword and purgehim from my life for ever.

That was his way, though, wasn’t it? Itwasn’t my way.

“So he was there that night, was he?”asked Braddock, and did he have a slightlymocking tone in his voice? “He was one ofthose responsible for killing your father, andall of this time he’s been among us, and wenever knew. A bitter irony, wouldn’t you say,Haytham?”

“Indeed. An irony or a coincidence.”“Be careful, boy, there’s no Reginald here

to talk you out of trouble now, you know.”“What was his name?”“Like hundreds of men in my army his

name was Tom Smith—Tom Smith of thecountry; much more about them we don’tknow. On the run, probably from the

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magistrates, or perhaps having killed hislandlord’s son in a duel, or deflowered alandowner’s daughter, or perhaps rompedwith his wife. Who’s to say? We don’t askquestions. If you were to ask does it surpriseme that one of the men we hunted was hereamong my army all of the time, then my an-swer would be no.”

“Did he have associates in the army?Somebody that I could talk to?”

Slowly, Braddock took his foot from mycot. “As a fellow Knight you are free to enjoymy hospitality here and you may of courseconduct your own enquiries. I hope that inreturn I can also call upon your assistance inour endeavours.”

“And what might they be?” I asked.“The French have laid siege to the fort-

ress of Bergen op Zoom. Inside are our allies:the Dutch, Austrians, Hanoverians and Hes-sians, and of course the British. The Frenchhave already opened the trenches and are

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digging a second set of parallel trenches.They will soon begin their bombardment ofthe fortress. They will be trying to take it be-fore the rains. They think it will give them agateway to the Netherlands, and the Alliesfeel that the fortress must be held at all costs.We need every man we can get. You see nowwhy we do not tolerate deserters. Do youhave a heart for the battle, Kenway, or areyou so focused on revenge that you cannothelp us any more?”

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PART III

1753, SIX YEARSLATER

7 JUNE 1753

i

“I have a job for you,” said Reginald.I nodded, expecting as much. It had been

a long time since I’d last seen him and I’dhad the feeling that his request to meetwasn’t just an excuse to catch up on tittle-tattle, even if the venue was White’s, wherewe sat supping an ale each, an attentiveand—it hadn’t escaped my notice—buxomwaitress keen to bring us more.

To the left of us a table of gentlemen—theinfamous “gamesters of White’s”—were play-ing a rowdy game of dice, but otherwise thehouse was empty.

I hadn’t seen him since that day in theBlack Forest, six years ago, and a lot hadhappened since. Joining Braddock in the

Dutch Republic, I’d served with the Cold-streams at the Siege of Bergen op Zoom, thenuntil the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle the fol-lowing year, which marked the end of thatwar. After that I’d remained with them onseveral peace-keeping campaigns, which hadkept me away from Reginald, whose corres-pondence arrived either from London orfrom the chateau in France. Aware that myown letters could be read before they weresent, I’d kept my correspondence vaguewhile privately looking forward to the mo-ment I could at last sit down with Reginaldand talk over my fears.

But, returning to London, and once againtaking up residence at Queen Anne’s Square,I found he was not available. That was what Iwas told: he had been sequestered with hisbooks—he and John Harrison, anotherKnight of the Order, and one who seeminglywas as obsessed with temples, ancient

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storehouses and ghostly beings from the pastas he was.

“Do you remember we came here for myeighth birthday?” I said, wanting, somehow,to put off the moment when I learnt theidentity of the person I would have to kill.“Do you remember what happened outside,the hot-headed suitor prepared to dispensesummary justice on the street?”

He nodded. “People change, Haytham.”“Indeed—you have. You’ve been mainly

preoccupied with your investigations into thefirst civilization,” I said.

“I’m so close now, Haytham,” he said, asif the thought of it shrugged off a wearyshroud he’d been wearing.

“Were you ever able to decypher Ve-domir’s journal?”

He frowned. “No, worst luck, and not forwant of trying, I can tell you. Or should I say‘not yet,’ because there is a decypherer, anItalian Assassin affiliate—a woman, would

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you believe? We have her at the French chat-eau, deep within the forest, but she says sheneeds her son to help her decypher the book,and her son has been missing these past fewyears. Personally, I doubt what she says andthink she could very well decypher the journ-al herself if she chose. I think she’s using usto help reunite her with her son. But she hasagreed to work on the journal if we locatehim and, finally, we have.”

“Where?”“Where you will soon be going to recover

him: Corsica.”So I’d been wrong. Not an assassination. I

would be minding a child.“What?” he said, at the look on my face.

“You think it below you? Quite the opposite,Haytham. This is the most important task Ihave ever given you.”

“No, Reginald”—I sighed—“it’s not; itsimply appears that way in your thinking.”

“Oh? What are you saying?”

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“That perhaps your interest in this hasmeant you have neglected affairs elsewhere.Perhaps you have let certain other mattersbecome out of control . . .”

Perplexed, he said, “What ‘matters’?”“Edward Braddock.”He looked surprised. “I see. Well, is there

something you want to tell me about him?Something you’ve been keeping from me?”

I indicated for more ales and our waitressbrought them over, set them down with asmile then walked away with her hipsswaying.

“What has Braddock told you of hismovements in recent years?” I askedReginald.

“I have heard very little from him, seenhim even less,” he replied. “In the last sixyears we’ve met just once, as far as I can re-call and his communications have becomeincreasingly sporadic. He disapproves of myinterest in Those Who Came Before and,

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unlike you, has not kept his objections tohimself. It appears we differ greatly on howbest to spread the Templar message. As aresult, no, I know very little of him; in fact, ifI wanted to know about Edward, I dare sayI’d ask someone who has been with him dur-ing his campaigns—” He gave a sardoniclook. “Where might I find such a person, doyou think?”

“You’d be a fool to ask me,” I chortled.“You know full well that, where Braddock isconcerned, I’m not an especially impartialobserver. I began by disliking the man andnow like him even less, but in the absence ofany more objective observations, here’smine: he has become a tyrant.”

“How so?”“Cruelty, mainly. To the men suffering

under him, but also to innocents. I’ve seen itwith my own eyes, for the first time, in theDutch Republic.”

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“How Edward treats his men is his busi-ness,” said Reginald with a shrug. “Men re-spond to discipline, Haytham, you knowthat.”

I shook my head. “There was one particu-lar incident, Reginald, on the last day of thesiege.”

Reginald settled back to listen: “Goon . . .” as I continued.

“We were retreating. Dutch soldiers wereshaking their fists at us, cursing King Georgefor not sending more of his men to help re-lieve the fortress. Why more men had not ar-rived I don’t know. Would they have evenmade any difference? Again, I don’t know.I’m not sure any of us who were stationedwithin those pentagonal walls knew how tocontend with a French onslaught that was ascommitted as it was brutal, and as ruthlessas it was sustained.

“Braddock had been right: the Frenchhad dug their parallel trench lines and begun

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their bombardment of the city, pressing closeto the fortress walls, and they were on themby September, when they dug mines beneaththe fortifications and destroyed them.

“We made attacks outside the walls to tryto break the siege, all to no avail until, on 18September, the French broke through—atfour in the morning, if memory serves. Theycaught the Allied forces quite literally nap-ping, and we were overrun before we knew it.The French were slaughtering the entire gar-rison. We know, of course, that eventuallythey broke free of their command and inflic-ted even worse damage on the poor inhabit-ants of that town, but the carnage hadalready begun. Edward had secured a skiff atthe port, and had long since decided that,were a day to come when the French brokethrough, he would use it to evacuate his men.That day had arrived.

“A band of us made our way to the port,where we began to oversee the loading of

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men and supplies on to the skiff. We kept asmall force at the port walls to keep any ma-rauding French troops back, while Edward, Iand others stood by the gang-board, oversee-ing the loading of men and supplies on to theskiff. We took some fourteen hundred mento the fortress at Bergen op Zoom, but themonths of fighting had depleted numbers byabout half. There was room on the skiff. Notlots of it—it wasn’t as though we could havetaken a great many passengers; certainly notthe numbers who needed to evacuate fromthe fortress—but there was space.” I lookedhard at Reginald. “We could have takenthem, is what I’m saying.”

“Could have taken whom, Haytham?”I took a long pull on my ale. “There was a

family who approached us on the port. In-cluded in their number was an old man whocould barely walk, as well as children. Fromamong them came a young man, who ap-proached us and asked me if we had room on

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the boat. I nodded yes—I saw no reason whynot—and indicated to Braddock, but insteadof waving them aboard as I expected, he heldup a hand and ordered them off the port,beckoning his men to board the boat morequickly. The young man was as surprised as Iwas, and I opened my mouth to protest, buthe got there before me; his face darkenedand he said something to Braddock that Ididn’t catch, but was obviously an insult ofsome kind.

“Braddock told me later that the insultwas ‘craven.’ Hardly the most insulting af-front, certainly not worth what happenednext, which was that Braddock drew hissword and plunged it into the young manwhere he stood.

“Braddock kept a small party of the mennearby at most times. His two regular com-panions were the executioner, Slater, and hisassistant—his new assistant, I should say. Ikilled the old one. These men, you might

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almost have called them bodyguards. Cer-tainly they were much closer to him than Iwas. Whether or not they had his ear Icouldn’t say, but they were fiercely loyal andprotective and were rushing forward even asthe young man’s body fell. They set about thefamily, Reginald, Braddock and these two ofhis men, and cut them down, every singleone of them: the two men, an older woman, ayounger woman, and of course the children,one of them an infant, one of them a babe inarms . . .” I felt my jaw clench. “It was a mas-sacre, Reginald, the worst atrocity of war Ihave seen—and I’m afraid I’ve seen a greatmany.”

He nodded gravely. “I see. Naturally, thishardened your heart against Edward.”

I scoffed. “Of course—of course it has. Weare all men of war, Reginald, but we are notbarbarians.”

“I see, I see.”

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“Do you? Do you see at last? That Brad-dock is out of control?”

“Steady on, Haytham. ‘Out of control’?The red mist descending is one thing. ‘Out ofcontrol’ is quite another.”

“He treats his men like slaves, Reginald.”He shrugged. “So? They’re British sol-

diers—they expect to be treated like slaves.”“I think he is moving away from us. These

men he has serving him, they’re not Tem-plars, they’re free agents.”

Reginald nodded. “The two men in theBlack Forest. Were these men part of Brad-dock’s inner circle?”

I looked at him. I watched him very care-fully as I lied: “I don’t know.”

There was a long pause and, to avoidmeeting his eye, I took a long drink on myale and pretended to admire the waitress,pleased to have the subject changed whenReginald at last leaned forward to give me

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more details of my forthcoming journey toCorsica.

ii

Reginald and I parted outside White’s andwent to our carriages. When my carriage wassome distance away I tapped on the ceiling tostop, and my driver climbed down, lookedleft and right to check that nobody waswatching, then opened the door and joinedme inside. He sat opposite me and removedhis hat, placing it on the seat beside him andregarding me with bright, curious eyes.

“Well, Master Haytham?” he said.I looked at him, took a deep breath and

stared out of the window. “I’m due to leaveby sea tonight. We will return to QueenAnne’s Square, where I will pack, thenstraight to the docks, if you would.”

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He doffed an imaginary cap. “At your ser-vice, Mr. Kenway, sir, I’m getting quite usedto this driving lark. Lots of waiting around,mind, could do without all that, but other-wise, well, at least you ain’t got Frenchmenshooting at you, or your own officers shoot-ing at you. In fact, I’d say the lack of blokesshooting at you is a real perk of the job.”

He could be quite tiresome sometimes.“Quite so, Holden,” I said, with a frown thatwas intended to shut him up, althoughchance would be a fine thing.

“Well, anyway, sir, did you learnanything?”

“I’m afraid nothing concrete.”I looked out of the window, wrestling

with feelings of doubt, guilt and disloyalty,wondering if there was anyone I truly trus-ted—anyone to whom I remained truly loyalnow.

Ironically, the person I trusted most wasHolden.

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I had met him while in the Dutch Repub-lic. Braddock had been as good as his wordand allowed me to move among his men,asking them if they knew anything of the“Tom Smith” who had met his end on thescaffold, but I wasn’t surprised when my in-vestigations proved fruitless. No man I askedwould even admit to knowing this Smith, ifindeed Smith was his name—until, onenight, I heard a movement at the door of mytent and sat up in my cot in time to see a fig-ure appear.

He was young, in his late twenties, withclose-cropped, gingery hair and an easy,impish smile. This, it would turn out, wasPrivate Jim Holden, a London man, a goodman who wanted to see justice done. Hisbrother had been one of those who had beenhanged the same day I almost met my ownend. He had been executed for the crime ofstealing stew—that was all he had done, steala bowlful of stew because he was starving; a

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flogging offence, at worst, but they hangedhim. His biggest mistake, it seemed, hadbeen to steal the stew from one of Braddock’sown men, one of his private mercenary force.

This was what Holden told me: that thefifteen-hundred-strong force of ColdstreamGuards was made up mainly of British Armysoldiers like himself, but that there was with-in that a smaller cadre of men personally se-lected by Braddock: mercenaries. These mer-cenaries included Slater and his assist-ant—and, more worryingly, the two men whohad ridden to the Black Forest.

None of these men wore the ring of theOrder. They were thugs, brutes. I wonderedwhy—why Braddock chose men of this stripefor his inner circle, and not TemplarKnights? The more time I’d spent with him,the more I thought I had my answer: he wasmoving away from the Order.

I looked back at Holden now. I had pro-tested that night, but he was a man who had

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glimpsed the corruption at the heart of Brad-dock’s organization. He was a man whowanted to see justice for his brother and, as aresult, no amount of my protesting made theslightest bit of difference. He was going tohelp me whether I liked it or not.

I had agreed, but on the understandingthat his assistance was kept secret at alltimes. In the hope of hoodwinking those whoalways seemed one step ahead of me, Ineeded it to appear as though I’d droppedthe matter of finding my father’s killers—sothat they might no longer be one step aheadof me.

Thus, when we left the Dutch RepublicHolden took on the title of my gentleman’sgentleman, my driver, and, to all intents andpurposes, as far as the outside world wasconcerned, that’s exactly what he was.Nobody knew that in fact he was carrying outinvestigations on my behalf. Not even Regin-ald knew that.

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Perhaps especially not Reginald.Holden saw the guilt written across my

face.“Sir, it ain’t lies you’re telling Mr. Birch.

All you’re doing is what he’s been doing,which is withholding certain bits of informa-tion, just until you’ve satisfied yourself thathis name is clear—and I’m sure it will be, sir.I’m sure it will be, him being your oldestfriend, sir.”

“I wish I could share your optimism onthe matter, Holden, I really do. Come, weshould move on. My errand awaits.”

“Certainly, sir, and where is that errandtaking you, may I ask?”

“Corsica,” I said. “I’m going to Corsica.”“Ah, in the midst of a revolution, so I

hear . . .”“Quite right, Holden. A place of conflict is

a perfect place to hide.”“And what will you be doing there, sir?”

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“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Suffice it tosay, it has nothing to do with finding myfather’s killers and is therefore of only peri-pheral interest to me. It’s a job, a duty, noth-ing more. I hope that, while I’m away, youwill continue your own investigations?”

“Oh, certainly sir.”“Excellent. And see to it that they remain

covert.”“Don’t you be worrying about that, sir. As

far as anybody is concerned, Master Kenwayhas long since abandoned his quest forjustice. Whoever it is, sir, their guard willdrop eventually.”

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25 JUNE 1753

i

It was hot on Corsica during the day, but atnight the temperature dropped. Not toomuch—not freezing—but enough to make ly-ing on a rock-strewn hillside with no blanketan uncomfortable experience.

Cold as it was, though, there were evenmore pressing matters to attend to, such asthe squad of Genoese soldiers moving up thehill, who I’d like to have said were movingstealthily.

I’d like to have said that, but couldn’t.At the top of the hill, on a plateau, was

the farmhouse. I’d been keeping watch on itfor the past two days, my spyglass trained onthe doors and windows of what was a largebuilding and a series of smaller barns and

outbuildings, taking note of comings and go-ings: rebels arriving with supplies and leav-ing with them, too; while on the first day asmall squad of them—I counted eight—hadleft the complex on what, when they re-turned, I realized had been some kind of at-tack: the Corsican rebels, striking out againsttheir Genoese masters. There were only sixof them when they came back, and those sixlooked exhausted and bloodied, but, never-theless, without words or gestures, wore anaura of triumph.

Women arrived with supplies not long af-terwards, and there was celebration far intothe night. This morning, more rebels had ar-rived, with muskets wrapped in blankets.They were well equipped and had support, itseemed; it was no wonder the Genoesewanted to wipe this stronghold off the map.

I had spent the two days moving aroundthe hill so as to avoid being seen. The terrainwas rocky and I kept a safe distance from the

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buildings. On the morning of the second day,however, I realized I had company. Therewas another man on the hill, another watch-er. Unlike me, he had remained in the sameposition, dug into an outcrop of rocks, hid-den by the brush and the skeletal trees thatsomehow survived on the otherwise parchedhillside.

ii

Lucio was the name of my target, and therebels were hiding him. Whether they, too,were affiliates of the Assassins, I had no idea,and it didn’t matter anyway; he was the one Iwas after: a twenty-one-year-old boy whowas the key to solving a puzzle that has tor-mented poor Reginald for six years. Anunprepossessing-looking boy, with shoulder-length hair, who, as far as I could tell fromwatching the farmhouse, helped out by

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carrying pails of water, feeding the livestockand, yesterday, wringing the neck of achicken.

So he was there: that much I’d estab-lished. That was good. But there were prob-lems. Firstly, he had a bodyguard. Never faraway from him was a man who wore thegowns and cowl of an Assassin; his gazewould often sweep the hillside while Luciofetched water or scattered chicken feed. Athis waist was a sword, and the fingers of hisright hand would flex. Did he wear the fam-ous hidden blade of the Assassins? Iwondered. No doubt he would. I’d have tobeware of him, that much was for certain,not to mention the rebels who were based atthe farmhouse. The compound seemed to becrawling with them.

One other thing to take into account: theywere clearly planning to leave soon. Perhapsthey’d been using the farmhouse as a tem-porary base for the attack; perhaps they

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knew that the Genoese would soon be seek-ing revenge and come looking for them. Eith-er way, they had been moving supplies intothe barns, no doubt piling carts high withthem. My guess was that they would leavethe next day.

A night-time incursion then, would seemto be the answer. And it had to be tonight.This morning I managed to locate Lucio’ssleeping quarters: he shared a medium-sizedouthouse with the Assassin and at least sixother rebels. They had a code phrase theyused when entering the quarters, and I readtheir lips through my spyglass: “We work inthe dark to serve the light.”

So—an operation that required someforethought, but, no sooner was I preparingto retire from the hillside in order to concoctmy plans, than I saw the second man.

And my plans changed. Edging closer tohim, I had managed to identify him as a Gen-oese soldier. If I was right, that meant he was

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the forward party of the men who would beattempting to take the stronghold; the restwould be along—when?

Sooner, I thought, rather than later. Theywould want to exact swift revenge for theprevious day’s raid. Not only that, but theywould want to be seen to be reacting quicklyto the rebels. Tonight, then.

So I left him. I let him continue his sur-veillance and, instead of withdrawing, stayedon the hillside concocting a different plan.My new plan involved Genoese troops.

The observation man had been good.He’d stayed out of sight and then, when darkfell, retreated stealthily, noiselessly, backdown the hill. Where, I wondered, was therest of the force?

Not far away; and an hour or so later Ibegan to notice movement at the bottom ofthe hill and, even, at one point, heard amuffled curse in Italian. By this stage I wasabout halfway up and, realizing that they

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would soon begin to advance, I moved evencloser to the plateau and the fence of an an-imal enclosure. Maybe fifty yards away Icould see one of the sentries. Last night,they’d had five altogether, around the entireperimeter of the farmyard. Tonight, theywould no doubt increase the guard.

I took out my spyglass and trained it onthe nearest guard, who stood, silhouetted bythe moon at his back, diligently scanning thehillside below him. Of me, he would seenothing, just another irregular shape in alandscape of irregular shapes. No wonderthey were deciding to move so quickly aftertheir ambush. It wasn’t the most securehideout I’d ever seen. In fact, they’d havebeen sitting ducks were it not for the factthat the approaching Genoese soldiers wereso damned clumsy. The conduct of their ob-servation man flattered the operation as awhole. These were men to whom stealth wasclearly a foreign and unfamiliar idea, and I

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was beginning to hear more and more noisefrom the bottom of the hill. The rebels werealmost certain to hear them next. And if therebels heard them, they would have morethan enough opportunity to make their es-cape. And if the rebels made their escape,they would take Lucio with them.

So I decided to lend a hand. Each guardhad responsibility for a pie-slice of the farm-yard. Thus, the one nearest to me wouldmove slowly back and forth across a distanceof about twenty-five yards. He was good; hemade sure that even while he was scanningone section of his area the rest of it was nev-er fully out of sight. But he was also on themove and, when he was, I had a precious fewseconds in which to move closer.

So I did. Bit by bit. Until I was closeenough to see the guard: his bushy, greybeard, his hat with the brim covering eyeslike dark shadows, and his musket slung overhis shoulder. And while I couldn’t see or hear

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the marauding Genoese soldiers yet, I wasaware of them, and soon he would be, too.

I could only assume that the same scenewas being played out on the other side of thehill, which meant I had to work fast. I drewmy short sword and readied myself. I feltsorry for the guard and offered up a silentapology. He had done nothing to me but be agood and diligent guard and he did not de-serve to die.

And then, there on the rocky hillside, Ipaused. For the first time in my life, Idoubted my ability to go through with it. Ithought of the family on the port, cut downby Braddock and his men. Seven senselessdeaths. And all of a sudden I was struck bythe conviction that I was no longer preparedto add to the death toll. I couldn’t put thisguard, who was no enemy of mine, to thesword. I couldn’t do it.

The hesitation almost cost me dear, be-cause at that same moment the clumsiness of

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the Genoese soldiers finally made its pres-ence felt, and there were the sounds of clat-tering rock and a curse from further downthe hill that was carried on the night air, firstto my ears, then to the sentry.

His head jerked, and straight away hewas reaching for his musket, craning hisneck as he strained his eyes, staring downthe hill. He saw me. For a second our eyeslocked. My moment of hesitation was overand I sprang, covering the distance betweenus in one leap.

I led with my empty right hand out-stretched in a claw, and my sword held in myleft. As I landed I grabbed the back of hishead with my right hand and plunged thesword into his throat. He had been about toalert his comrades, but the shout died to agurgle as blood gushed over my hand anddown his front. Holding his head secure withmy right hand, I embraced him then lowered

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him gently and noiselessly to the dry dirt ofthe farmyard.

I crouched. About sixty yards away wasthe second guard. He was a dim figure in thedark, but I could see that he was about toturn and, when he did, he was likely to spotme. I ran—so fast that, for a moment, I couldhear the rush of the night, and caught himjust as he turned. Again, I took the back ofthe man’s neck with my right hand andslammed the sword into him. Again, the manwas dead before he hit the dirt.

From further down the hill I heard morenoise from the Genoese assault troop, whichwas blissfully unaware that I had preventedtheir advance being heard. Sure enough,though, their comrades on the other side hadbeen just as inept, and without a Kenwayguardian angel had been heard by thesentries on their side. Straight away the crywent up and, in moments, lights were beinglit in the farmhouse and rebels were pouring

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out carrying lit torches, pulling boots on overtheir britches, dragging jackets across theirbacks and passing each other swords andmuskets. As I crouched, watching, I saw thedoors to a barn thrown open and two menbegin pulling out a cart by hand, alreadypiled high with supplies, while another hur-ried across with a horse.

The time for stealth was over and theGenoese soldiers on all sides knew it,abandoning their attempts to storm the farmquietly and rushing up the hill towards thefarmyard with a shout.

I had an advantage—I was already in thefarmyard, plus I was not in the uniform of aGenoese soldier, and in the confusion I wasable to move among the running rebelswithout attracting suspicion.

I moved towards the outhouse where Lu-cio was quartered and almost ran into him ashe came darting out. His hair was untied butotherwise he was dressed, and he was calling

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to another man, exhorting him to make hisway to the barn. Not far away was the Assas-sin, who ran, pulling his robes across hischest and pulling his sword at the same time.Two Genoese raiders appeared around theside of the outhouse and straight away he en-gaged them, calling back over his shoulder,“Lucio, run for the barn.”

Excellent. Just what I wanted: the Assas-sin’s attention diverted.

Just then I saw another trooper comerunning on to the plateau, crouch, raise hismusket and take aim. Lucio, holding thetorch, was his target, but the soldier didn’tget a chance to fire before I had darted overand was upon him before he even saw me.He gave a single, muted cry as I buried mysword hilt deep in the back of his neck.

“Lucio!” I yelled, and at the same timejogged the dead man’s trigger finger so thatthe musket discharged—but harmlessly, intothe air. Lucio stopped, shielding his eyes to

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look across the yard, where I made a show oftossing away the limp corpse of the soldier.Lucio’s companion ran on, which was justwhat I wanted. Some distance away, the As-sassin was still fighting, and for a second Iadmired his skills as he fended off the twomen at the same time.

“Thank you,” called Lucio.“Wait,” I responded. “We’ve got to get out

of here before the farmyard’s overrun.”He shook his head. “I need to make my

way to the cart,” he called, “Thank you again,friend.” Then he turned and darted off.

Damn. I cursed and took off in the direc-tion of the barn, running parallel to him butout of sight in the shadows. To my right Isaw a Genoese raider about to come off thehillside and into the yard, and was closeenough to see his eyes widen as our gazesmet. Before he could react, I’d grabbed hisarm, span and thrust my sword into hisarmpit, just above his chest plate, and let

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him fall, screaming, backwards to the rock,snatching his torch at the same time. I keptgoing, staying parallel with Lucio, makingsure he was out of danger. I reached the barnjust ahead of him. As I passed by, still in theshadows, I could see inside the still-openfront doors, where two rebels were tetheringa horse to the cart while two stood guard,one firing his musket while the other re-loaded then knelt to fire. I continued runningthen darted close to the wall of the barn,where I found a Genoese soldier about to lethimself in through a side door. I thrust thesword blade upwards at the base of his spine.For a second he writhed in agony, impaledon the blade, and I shoved his body throughthe door ahead of me, tossed the lit torch in-to the back of the cart and stayed back in theshadows.

“Get them!” I called, in what I hoped wasan approximation of the voice and accent ofa Genoese soldier. “Get the rebel scum.”

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Then: “The cart’s ablaze!” I shouted, thistime in what I hoped was an approximationof the voice and accent of a Corsican rebel,and at the same time I moved forward out ofthe shadows, clasping my Genoese corpse,and let him drop as though he were a freshkill.

“The cart’s ablaze!” I repeated, and nowturned my attention to Lucio, who had justarrived at the barn. “We’ve got to get out ofhere. Lucio, come with me.”

I saw two of the rebels exchange a con-fused look, each wondering who I was andwhat I wanted with Lucio. There was the re-port of musket fire, and wood splinteredaround us. One of the rebels fell, a musketball embedded in his eye, and I dived on theother one, pretending to shield him from themusket fire but punching the knife blade intohis heart at the same time. It was Lucio’scompanion, I realized, as he died.

“He’s gone,” I said to Lucio, rising.

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“No!” he shouted, tearful already. Nowonder they’d considered him fit only forfeeding livestock, I thought, if he was goingto dissolve into tears the first time a comradewas killed in action.

By now the barn was ablaze around us.The other two rebels, seeing that there wasnothing they could salvage, made their es-cape and ran pell-mell across the yard to-wards the hillside, melting into the dark.Other rebels were making their escape, andacross the yard I saw that Genoese soldiershad put torches to farm buildings as well.

“I must wait for Miko,” called Lucio.I gambled that Miko was his Assassin

bodyguard. “He’s otherwise engaged. Heasked me, a fellow member of the Brother-hood, to take care of you.”

“Are you sure?”“A good Assassin questions everything,” I

said. “Miko has taught you well. But now is

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not the time for lessons in the tenets of ourcreed. We must go.”

He shook his head. “Tell me the codephrase,” he said firmly.

“‘We work in the dark to serve the light.’”And at last I seemed to have established

enough trust to persuade Lucio to come withme, and we began to make our way down thehillside; me, gleeful, thanking God that atlast I had him; him, not so sure. Suddenly,he stopped.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’tdo it—I can’t leave Miko.”

Great, I thought.“He said to go,” I replied, “and to meet

him at the bottom of the ravine, where ourhorses are tethered.”

Behind us at the farmyard, the fires ragedon and I could hear the remnants of thebattle. The Genoese soldiers were clearing upthe last of the rebels. Not far away was thesound of a clattering stone, and I saw other

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figures in the darkness: a pair of rebels es-caping. Lucio saw them, too, and went to callto them, but I clamped a hand over hismouth.

“No, Lucio,” I whispered. “The soldierswill be after them.”

His eyes were wide. “These are my com-rades. They are my friends. I need to be withthem. We need to ensure that Miko is safe.”

From high above us drifted the sound ofpleading and screaming, and Lucio’s eyesdarted as though trying to deal with the con-flict in his head: did he help his friends aboveor join those escaping? Either way, I couldsee he had decided that he didn’t want to bewith me.

“Stranger . . .” he began, and I thought,“Stranger,” now, eh?

“I thank you for all that you have done tohelp me and I hope that we can meet againin happier circumstances—perhaps when Ican express my gratitude even more

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thoroughly—but at the moment I’m neededwith my people.”

He stood up to go. With a hand on hisshoulder I brought him down to my levelagain. He pulled away with his jaw set.“Now, Lucio,” I said, “listen. I’ve been sentby your mother to take you to her.”

At this he reared back. “Oh no,” he said.“No, no, no.”

Which wasn’t the reaction I’d beenexpecting.

I had to scramble across rock to catchhim up. But he began to fight me off. “No,no,” he said. “I don’t know who you are, justleave me alone.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” I said, and si-lently admitted defeat as I grabbed him in asleeper hold, ignoring his struggles and ap-plying pressure, restricting the flow to his ca-rotid artery; not enough to cause him per-manent damage but enough to render himunconscious.

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And as I threw him over my shoulder—atiny slip of a thing, he was—and carried himdown the hill, careful to avoid the last pock-ets of rebels fleeing the Genoese attack, Iwondered why I hadn’t simply knocked himout in the first place.

iii

I stopped at the ravine edge and lowered Lu-cio to the floor, then found my rope, securedit and lowered it into the darkness below.Next I used Lucio’s belt to tie his hands,looped the other end under his thighs andtied it so that his limp body was slung acrossmy back. Then I began the slow climb down.

About halfway down, the weight becameunbearable, but it was an eventuality I’d pre-pared for, and I managed to hang on until Ireached an opening in the cliff face that ledinto a dark cave. I scrambled in and pulled

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Lucio off my back, feeling my muscles relaxgratefully.

From ahead of me, in the cave, came anoise. A movement at first, like a shiftingsound, and then a click.

The sound an Assassin’s hidden blademakes when it is engaged.

“I knew you’d come here,” said a voice—avoice that belonged to Miko, the Assassin. “Iknew you’d come here because that’s what Iwould have done.”

And then he struck, came shooting for-ward from within the cave, using my shockand surprise against me. I was already draw-ing my short sword and had it out as weclashed, his blade slicing at me like a clawand meeting my sword with such force that itwas knocked out of my hand, sent skitteringto the lip of the cave, and into the blacknessbelow.

My sword. My father’s sword.

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But there was no time to mourn it, for theAssassin was coming at me a second timeand he was good, very good. In a confinedspace, with no weapon, I had no chance. All Ihad, in fact, was . . .

Luck.And luck is all it was, that, as I pressed

myself against the cave wall, he had miscal-culated slightly, enough to overbalance afraction. In any other circumstances, againstany other opponent, he would have re-covered immediately and finished hiskill—but this wasn’t any other circumstancesand I wasn’t any other opponent, and I madehim pay for his tiny error. I leaned into him,grabbed his arm, twisted and helped him onhis way, so that he, too, sailed out into theblackness. But he held on, pulled me withhim, dragged me to the edge of the cave sothat I was screaming in pain as I tried to stopmyself being dragged out into open space.Lying flat on my belly, I looked out and saw

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him, one arm grabbing mine, the other try-ing to reach for the rope. I could feel thebrace of his hidden blade, brought my otherhand forward and began fumbling with thefastenings. Too late he realized what I wasdoing and abandoned trying to catch hold ofthe rope, instead focusing his efforts on try-ing to stop me from unfastening the brace.For some moments our hands flapped ateach other for possession of the blade,which, as I opened the first catch, suddenlyslipped further up his wrist and sent himlurching to one side, his position even moreprecarious than before, his other arm pin-wheeling. It was all I needed, and with a finalshout of effort I unclipped the last fastening,wrenched the brace free and at the sametime bit into the hand that gripped my wrist.A combination of pain and lack of tractionwas enough to dislodge him at last.

I saw him swallowed up by the dark andprayed he wouldn’t hit my horse when he

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landed. But nothing came. No sound of alanding, nothing. The next thing I saw wasthe rope, taut and quivering, and I cranedmy neck, strained my eyes to search thedarkness and was rewarded by the sight ofMiko, some distance below, very much alive,and beginning to climb up towards me.

I pulled his blade to me and held it to therope.

“If you climb much higher the fall will killyou when I cut the rope,” I called. He wasalready close enough so that I could look intohis eyes when he stared up at me, and I couldsee the indecision in them. “You shouldn’tsuffer such a death, friend,” I added. “Startyour descent and live to fight another day.”

I began to saw slowly at the rope, and hestopped, looked down into the dark, wherethe bottom of the ravine was not in sight.

“You have my blade,” he said.“To the victor the spoils.” I shrugged.

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“Perhaps we will meet again,” he said,“and I can reclaim it.”

“I sense that only one of us will survive asecond meeting,” I said.

He nodded. “Perhaps,” he said, and soonhad shimmied down into the night.

The fact that I now had to climb back up,and had been forced to surrender my horse,was awkward. But rather that than face theAssassin again.

And for now we are resting. Well, I amresting; poor Lucio remains unconscious.Later, I will hand him over to associates ofReginald, who will take him in a coveredwagon, make the passage across the Mediter-ranean to the south of France and then to thechateau, where Lucio will be reunited withhis mother, the decypherer.

Then I’ll charter a ship to Italy, beingsure to be seen doing it, referring to my“young companion” once or twice. If and

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when the Assassins come looking for Lucio,that’s where they’ll concentrate their efforts.

Reginald says I’m no longer needed afterthat. I am to melt away in Italy, leave notrace, no trail to follow.

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12 AUGUST 1753

i

I began the day in France, having doubledback from Italy. No small undertaking; it’sall very well writing it down, but one doesn’tsimply “double back” from Italy to France.My reason for being in Italy was to misdirectthe Assassins when they came looking forLucio. So, by returning to France, to the veryplace where we were holding Lucio and hismother, I was endangering not just my re-cently accomplished mission but everythingReginald had been working for these pastyears. It was risky. It was so risky, in fact,that if I thought about it, the risk took mybreath away. It made me wonder, was I stu-pid? What kind of fool would take such arisk?

And the answer was, a fool with doubt inhis heart.

ii

One hundred yards or so from the gate, Icame upon a lone patrol, a guard dressed asa peasant, with a musket slung across hisback, who looked sleepy, but was alert andwatchful. As we drew up to him our eyes metfor a moment. His flickered briefly as he re-cognized me, and he jerked his head slightlyto let me know I was free to pass. Therewould be another patrol, I knew, on the oth-er side of the chateau. We came out of theforest and followed the tall perimeter walluntil we came to a large, arched wooden gateinset with a smaller wicket gate, where aguard stood, a man I recognized from myyears spent at the chateau.

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“Well, well,” he said, “if it isn’t MasterHaytham, all grown-up.” He grinned andtook the reins of my horses as I dismounted,before opening the wicket gate, which Istepped through, blinking in the sudden sun-light after the comparative gloom of theforest.

Ahead of me stretched the chateau lawn,and walking across it I felt a strange crawlingsensation in my belly that I knew to be nos-talgia for the time I had spent at this chateauin my youth, when Reginald had . . .

. . . continued my father’s teachings? He’dsaid so. But of course I now know he’d beenmisleading me about that. In the ways ofcombat and stealth, perhaps, he had done so,but Reginald had raised me in the ways ofthe Templar Order, and taught me that theway of the Templar was the only way; andthat those who believed in another way wereat best misguided, at worst evil.

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But I’d since learnt that Father was one ofthose misguided, evil people, and who’s tosay what he would have taught me as I grewup. Who’s to say?

The grass was unkempt and overgrown,despite the presence of two gardeners, bothof whom wore short swords at their waists,hands going to the hilts as I made my way to-wards the front door of the chateau. I cameclose to one of them, who, when he saw whoI was, nodded. “An honour finally to meetyou, Master Kenway,” he said. “I trust yourmission was successful?”

“It was, thank you, yes,” I replied to theguard—or gardener, whatever he was. Tohim I was a Knight, one of the most celeb-rated in the Order. Could I really hate Regin-ald when his stewardship had brought mesuch acclaim? And, after all, had I everdoubted his teachings? The answer was no.Had I been forced to follow them? Again, no.I’d always had the option to choose my own

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path but had stayed with the Order because Ibelieved in the code.

Even so, he has lied to me.No, not lied to me. How had Holden put

it? “Withheld the truth.”Why?And, more immediately, why had Lucio

reacted that way when I told him he was tosee his mother?

At the mention of my name, the secondgardener looked at me more sharply, then hetoo was genuflecting as I made my way past,acknowledging him with a nod, feeling tallerall of a sudden and all but puffing out mychest as I approached the front door that Iknew so well. I turned before I knocked, tolook back across the lawn, where the twoguards stood watching me. I had trained onthat lawn, spent countless hours honing mysword skills.

I knocked, and the door was opened byyet another similarly attired man who also

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wore a short sword at his waist. The chateauhad never been this fully staffed when I hadlived here, but then again, when I lived here,we never had a guest as important as thedecypherer.

The first familiar face I saw belonged toJohn Harrison, who looked at me then did adouble take. “Haytham,” he blustered, “whatthe hell are you doing here?”

“Hello, John,” I said equably, “is Reginaldhere?”

“Well, yes, Haytham, but Reginald is sup-posed to be here. What are you doing here?”

“I came to check on Lucio.”“You what?” Harrison was becoming

somewhat red-faced. “You ‘came to check onLucio’?” He was having trouble finding hiswords now. “What? Why? What on earth doyou think you’re doing?”

“John,” I said gently, “please calm your-self. I was not followed from Italy. Nobodyknows I’m here.”

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“Well, I should bloody well hope not.”“Where’s Reginald?”“Below stairs, with the prisoners.”“Oh? Prisoners?”“Monica and Lucio.”“I see. I had no idea they were considered

prisoners.”But a door had opened beneath the stairs,

and Reginald appeared. I knew that door; itled down to the cellar, which, when I livedthere, was a dank, low-ceilinged room, withmouldering, mainly empty wine racks alongone side and a dark, damp wall along theother.

“Hello, Haytham,” said Reginald, curtly.“You were not expected.”

Not far away lingered one of the guards,and now he was joined by another. I lookedfrom them back to Reginald and John, whostood like a pair of concerned clergymen.Neither was armed, but even if they had

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been, I thought I could probably take allfour. If it came to it.

“Indeed,” I said, “John was just telling mehow surprised he was by my visit.”

“Well, quite. You’ve been very reckless,Haytham . . .”

“Perhaps, but I wanted to see that Luciowas being looked after. Now I’m told he is aprisoner here, so perhaps I have my answer.”

Reginald chortled. “Well, what did youexpect?”

“What I was told. That the mission was toreunite mother and son; that the decyphererhad agreed to work on Vedomir’s journal ifwe were able to rescue her son from therebels.”

“I told you no lies, Haytham. Indeed,Monica has been working on decoding thejournal since being reunited with Lucio.”

“Just not on the basis I imagined.”“The carrot doesn’t work, we use the

stick,” said Reginald, his eyes cold. “I’m sorry

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if you had formed the impression that therewas more carrot than stick involved.”

“Let’s see her,” I said, and with a shortnod, Reginald agreed. He turned and led usthrough the door, which opened on to aflight of stone steps leading down. Lightdanced on the walls.

“Regarding the journal, we’re close now,Haytham,” he said, as we descended. “So far,we’ve been able to establish that there existsan amulet. Somehow it fits with the store-house. If we can get hold of the amulet . . .”

At the bottom of the steps, iron cressetson poles had been set out to light the way toa door, where a guard stood. He moved toone side and opened the door for us to passthrough. Inside, the cellar was as I re-membered it, lit by the flickering light oftorches. At one end was a desk. It was boltedto the floor and Lucio was manacled to it,and beside him was his mother, who was anincongruous sight. She sat on a chair that

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looked as though it had been brought intothe cellar from upstairs especially for thepurpose. She was wearing long skirts and abuttoned-up overgarment and would havelooked like a churchgoer were it not for therusting iron restraints around her wrists andthe arms of the chair, and especially thescold’s bridle around her head.

Lucio swivelled in his seat, saw me andhis eyes burned with hatred, then he turnedback to his work.

I had stopped in the middle of the floor,halfway between the door and the decypher-ers. “Reginald, what is the meaning of this?”I said, pointing at Lucio’s mother, who re-garded me balefully from within the scold’sbridle.

“The branks is temporary, Haytham.Monica has been somewhat vocal in her con-demnation of our tactics this morning.Hence we have moved them here for theday.” He raised his voice to address the

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mother and son. “I’m sure they can return totheir usual residence tomorrow, when theyhave recovered their manners.”

“This is not right, Reginald.”“Their usual quarters are much more

pleasant, Haytham,” he assured me testily.“Even so, they should not be treated this

way.”“Neither should the poor child in the

Black Forest have been scared half to deathwith your blade at his throat,” snappedReginald.

I started, my mouth working but lost forwords. “That was . . . That was . . .”

“Different? Because it involved yourquest to find your father’s killers?Haytham . . .” He took my elbow and led meout of the cellar and back out into the cor-ridor, and we began to climb the steps again.“This is even more important than that. Youmay not think so, but it is. It involves the en-tire future of the Order.”

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I wasn’t sure any more. I wasn’t surewhat was more important but said nothing.

“And what happens when the decoding isover?” I asked, as we reached the entrancehall once again.

He looked at me.“Oh no,” I said, understanding. “Neither

is to be harmed.”“Haytham, I don’t much care for your

giving me orders . . .”“Then don’t think of it as an order,” I

hissed. “Think of it as a threat. Keep themhere when their work is over if you must, butif they are harmed then you will have me toanswer to.”

He looked at me long and hard. I realizedthat my heart was hammering and hoped toGod it wasn’t somehow visible. Had I evergone against him like this? With such force?I didn’t think so.

“Very well,” he said, after a moment,“they will not be harmed.”

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We spent dinner in near silence, and theoffer of a bed for the night was made reluct-antly. I leave in the morning; Reginaldpromises to be in touch with news concern-ing the journal. The warmth between us,though, is gone. In me, he sees insubordina-tion; in him, I see lies.

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18 APRIL 1754

i

Earlier this evening I found myself at theRoyal Opera House, taking a seat next to Re-ginald, who was settling in for a performanceof The Beggar’s Opera with evident glee. Ofcourse, the last time we’d met, I’d threatenedhim, which wasn’t something I had forgot-ten, but evidently he had. Forgotten or for-given, one of the two. Either way, it was asthough the confrontation had never takenplace, the slate wiped clean, either by his an-ticipation of the night’s forthcoming enter-tainment or by the fact that he believed theamulet to be near.

It was inside the opera house, in fact,around the neck of an Assassin who had

been named in Vedomir’s journal thentracked down by Templar agents.

An Assassin. He was my next target. Myfirst job since acquiring Lucio in Corsica, andthe first to feel the bite of my new weapon:my hidden blade. As I took the opera glassesand looked at the man across the hall—mytarget—the irony of it suddenly struck me.

My target was Miko.I left Reginald in his seat and made my

way along the corridors of the opera house,along the back of the seats, past the opera’spatrons, until I found myself at the stalls. Atthe box where Miko sat I let myself in silentlythen tapped him gently on the shoulder.

I was ready for him, if he tried anything,but though his body tensed and I heard himgive a sharp intake of breath, he made nomove to defend himself. It was almost asthough he expected it when I reached andtook the amulet from his neck—and did Isense a feeling of . . . relief? As though he

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were grateful to relinquish the responsibility,pleased no longer to be its custodian?

“You should have come to me”—hesighed—“we would have found anotherway . . .”

“Yes. But then you would have known,” Ireplied.

There was a click as I engaged the blade,and I saw him smile, knowing it was the oneI had taken from him in Corsica.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” I toldhim.

“As am I,” he said, and I killed him.

ii

Some hours later, I attended the meeting atthe house on Fleet and Bride, standingaround a table with others, our attention fo-cused on Reginald, as well as the book on the

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table before us. It was open, and I could seethe symbol of the Assassins on the page.

“Gentlemen,” said Reginald. His eyeswere shining, as though he were close totears. “I hold in my hand a key. And if thisbook is to be believed, it will open the doorsof a storehouse built by Those Who CameBefore.”

I contained myself. “Ah, our dear friendswho ruled, ruined and then vanished fromthe world,” I said. “Do you know what it iswe’ll find within?”

If Reginald picked up on my sarcasm,then he made no sign. Instead, he reachedfor the amulet, held it up and basked in thehush from those assembled as it began toglow in his hand. It was impressive, even Ihad to admit, and Reginald looked over atme.

“It could contain knowledge,” he replied.“Perhaps a weapon, or something as of yetunknown, unfathomable in its construction

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and purpose. It could be any of these things.Or none of them. They are still an enigma,these precursors. But of one thing I am cer-tain—whatever waits behind those doorsshall prove a great boon to us.”

“Or our enemies,” I said, “should theyfind it first.”

He smiled. Was I beginning to believe, atlast?

“They won’t. You’ve seen to that.”Miko had died wanting to find another

way. What had he meant? An accord of As-sassin and Templar? My thoughts went tomy father.

“I assume you know where this store-house is?” I said, after a pause.

“Mr. Harrison?” said Reginald, and Johnstepped forward with a map, unfurling it.

“How fare your calculations?” said Regin-ald, as John circled an area of the mapwhich, leaning closer, I saw contained NewYork and Massachusetts.

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“I believe the site lies somewhere withinthis region,” he said.

“That’s a lot of ground to cover.” Ifrowned.

“My apologies. Would that I could bemore accurate . . .”

“That’s all right,” said Reginald. “It suf-fices for a start. And this is why we’ve calledyou here, Master Kenway. We’d like for youto travel to America, locate the storehouse,and take possession of its contents.”

“I am yours to command,” I said. To my-self, I cursed him and his folly and wished Icould be left alone to continue my own in-vestigations, then added, “Although a job ofthis magnitude will require more than justmyself.”

“Of course,” said Reginald, and handedme a piece of paper. “Here are the names offive men sympathetic to our cause. Each isalso uniquely suited to aid you in your

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endeavour. With them at your side, you’llwant for nothing.”

“Well then, I’d best be on my way,” I said.“I knew our faith in you was not mis-

placed. We’ve booked you a passage to Bo-ston. Your ship leaves at dawn. Go forth,Haytham—and bring honour to us all.”

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8 JULY 1754

i

Boston twinkled in the sun as squawkinggulls circled overhead, water slapped noisilyat the harbour wall and the gang-boardbanged like a drum as we disembarked fromthe Providence, weary and disorientated byover a month at sea but weak with happinessat finally reaching land. I stopped in mytracks as sailors from a neighbouring frigaterolled barrels across my path with a soundlike distant thunder, and my gaze went fromthe glittering emerald ocean, where themasts of Royal Navy warships, yachts andfrigates rocked gently from side to side, tothe dock, the wide stone steps that led fromthe piers and jetties to the harbour throngingwith redcoats, traders and sailors, then up

past the harbour to the city of Boston itself,the church spires and distinctive red brickbuildings seemingly resisting any attempts atarrangement, as though flung by some godlyhand on to the side of the hill. And, every-where, Union Flags that fluttered gently inthe breeze, just to remind visitors—in casethey had any doubts—that the British werehere.

The passage from England to Americahad been eventful, to say the least. I hadmade friends and discovered enemies, sur-viving an attempt on my life—by Assassins,no doubt—who wanted to take revenge forthe killing at the opera house and to recoverthe amulet.

To the other passengers and crew of theship I was a mystery. Some thought I was ascholar. I told my new acquaintance, JamesFairweather, that I “solved problems,” andthat I was travelling to America to see whatlife was like there; what had been retained

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from the empire and what had been dis-carded; what changes British rule hadwrought.

Which were fibs, of course. But not out-right lies. For though I came on specificTemplar business, I was curious, too, to seethis land I had heard so much about, whichwas apparently so vast, its people infusedwith a pioneering, indomitable spirit.

There were those who said that spiritmight one day be used against us, and thatour subjects, if they harnessed that determ-ination, would be a formidable foe. Andthere were others who said America wassimply too big to be governed by us; that itwas a tinderbox, ready to go off; that itspeople would grow tired of the taxes imposedupon them so that a country thousands ofmiles away could fight wars with other coun-tries thousands of miles away; and that whenit did go off we might not have the resources

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to protect our interests. All of this I hoped tobe able to judge for myself.

But only as an adjunct to my main mis-sion, though, which . . . well, I think it’s fairto say that, for me, the mission has changeden route. I’d stepped on the Providence hold-ing a particular set of beliefs and stepped offhaving had them first challenged, thenshaken and, finally, changed, and all becauseof the book.

The book that Reginald had given me: I’dspent much of my time aboard the ship por-ing over it; I must have read it no fewer thantwo dozen times, and still I’m not sure I havemade sense of it.

One thing I do know, though. Whereasbefore, I’d thought of Those Who Came Be-fore with doubt, as would a sceptic, an unbe-liever, and considered Reginald’s obsessionwith them to be at best an irritation, at worsta preoccupation that threatened to derail the

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very workings of our Order, I no longer did. Ibelieved.

The book seemed to have been writ-ten—or should I say written, illustrated, dec-orated, scrawled—by a man, or maybe sever-al of them: several lunatics who had filledpage after page with what, at first, I took tobe wild and outlandish claims, fit only forscoffing at then ignoring.

Yet, somehow, the more I read, the moreI came to see the truth. Over the years, Re-ginald had told me (I used to say “bored mewith”) his theories concerning a race of be-ings that predated our own. He’d always as-serted that we were born of their strugglesand thus obliged to serve them; that our an-cestors had fought to secure their own free-dom in a long and bloody war.

What I discovered during my passage wasthat all of this originated from the book,which as I read it, was having what I can onlydescribe as a profound effect upon me.

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Suddenly I knew why Reginald had becomeso obsessed with this race. I’d sneered athim, remember? But, reading the book, I feltno desire to sneer at all, just a sense of won-derment, a feeling of lightness inside me thatat times made me feel almost giddy with anexcitement and a sense of what I can de-scribe as “insignificance,” of realizing myown place in the world. It was as though Ihad peered through a keyhole expecting tosee another room on the other side but seena whole new world instead.

And what had become of Those WhoCame Before? What had they left behind,and how could it benefit us? That I didn’tknow. It was a mystery that had confoundedmy Order for centuries, a mystery I’d beenasked to solve, a mystery that had broughtme here, to Boston.

“Master Kenway! Master Kenway!”I was being hailed by a young gentleman

who appeared from within the throng. Going

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over to him, I said, carefully, “Yes? May Ihelp you?”

He held out his hand to be shaken.“Charles Lee, sir. A pleasure to make youracquaintance. I’ve been asked to introduceyou to the city. Help you settle in.”

I had been told about Charles Lee. Hewas not with the Order but was keen to joinus and, according to Reginald, would want toingratiate himself with me in the hope of se-curing my sponsorship. Seeing him re-minded me: I was Grand Master of the Colo-nial Rite now.

Charles had long, dark hair, thick side-burns and a prominent, hawk-like nose and,even though I liked him straight away, I no-ticed that, while he smiled when he spoke tome, he reserved a look of disdain for every-body else on the harbour.

He indicated for me to leave my bags, andwe began to thread our way through thecrowds of the long pier, past dazed-looking

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passengers and crew still getting their bear-ings on dry land; through stevedores, tradersand redcoats, excited children and dogs scut-tling underfoot.

I tipped my hat to a pair of a giggling wo-men then said to him, “Do you like it here,Charles?”

“There’s a certain charm to Boston, I sup-pose,” he called back over his shoulder. “Toall of the colonies, really. Granted, their cit-ies have none of London’s sophistication orsplendour, but the people are earnest andhardworking. They’ve a certain pioneer spiritthat I find compelling.”

I looked around. “It’s quite something,really—watching a place that’s finally foundits feet.”

“Feet awash in the blood of others, I’mafraid.”

“Ah, that’s a story old as time itself, andone that’s not likely to change. We’re crueland desperate creatures, set in our

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conquering ways. The Saxons and theFranks. The Ottomans and Safavids. I couldgo on for hours. The whole of human historyis but a series of subjugations.”

“I pray one day we rise above it,” repliedCharles earnestly.

“While you pray, I’ll act. We’ll see whofinds success first, hmm?”

“It was an expression,” he said, with awounded edge to his voice.

“Aye. And a dangerous one. Words havepower. Wield them wisely.”

We lapsed into silence.“Your commission is with Edward Brad-

dock, is it not?” I said, as we passed a cartladen with fruit.

“Aye, but I figured I might . . . well . . . Ithought . . .”

I stepped nimbly to the side to avoid asmall girl in pigtails. “Out with it,” I said.

“Forgive me, sir. I had . . . I had hopedthat I might study under you. If I am to serve

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the Order, I can imagine no better mentorthan yourself.”

I felt a small surge of satisfaction. “Kindof you to say, but I think you overestimateme.”

“Impossible, sir.”Not far away, a red-faced newsboy wear-

ing a cap yelled out news of the battle at FortNecessity: “French forces declare victory fol-lowing Washington’s retreat,” he bawled. “Inresponse, the Duke of Newcastle pledgesmore troops to counter the foreign menace!”

The foreign menace, I thought. TheFrench, in other words. This conflict theywere calling the French and Indian War wasset to escalate, if the rumours were to bebelieved.

There was not an Englishman alive whodidn’t detest the French, but I knew oneEnglishman in particular who hated themwith a vein-bulging passion, and that wasEdward Braddock. That’s where he would be,

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leaving me to go about my own business—orso I hoped.

I waved away the newsboy when he triedto extort sixpence from me for the broad-sheet. I had no desire to read about moreFrench victories.

Meanwhile, as we reached our horses andCharles told me that we were to ride for theGreen Dragon Tavern, I wondered what theother men would be like.

“Have you been told why it is I’ve come toBoston?” I asked.

“No. Master Birch said I should knowonly as much as you saw fit to share. He sentme a list of names and bade me ensure youcould find them.”

“And have you had any luck with that?”“Aye. William Johnson waits for us at the

Green Dragon.”“How well do you know him?”“Not well. But he saw the Order’s mark

and did not hesitate to come.”

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“Prove yourself loyal to our cause and youmay yet know our plans as well,” I said.

He beamed. “I should like nothing more,sir.”

ii

The Green Dragon was a large brick buildingwith a sloping pitch roof and a sign over thefront door that bore the eponymous dragon.According to Charles, it was the mostcelebrated coffee-house in the city, whereeverybody from patriots to redcoats and gov-ernors would meet to chat, to plot, to gossipand trade. Anything that happened in Bo-ston, the chances were it originated here, onUnion Street.

Not that Union Street itself was at all pre-possessing. Little more than a river of mud,it slowed our pace as we approached the tav-ern, being sure not to splash any of the

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groups of gentlemen who stood outside,leaning on canes and chattering intently.Avoiding carts and giving curt nods to sol-diers on horseback, we reached a low,wooden stables building where we left ourhorses, then made our way carefully acrossthe streams of muck to the tavern. Inside, weimmediately became acquainted with theowners: Catherine Kerr, who was (withoutwishing to be ungentlemanly), a little on thelarge side; and Cornelius Douglass, whosefirst words I heard upon entering were, “Kissmy arse, ya wench!”

Fortunately, he wasn’t talking either tome or to Charles, but to Catherine. When thetwo of them saw us, their demeanours in-stantly changed from warlike to servile andthey saw to it that my bags were taken up tomy room.

Charles was right: William Johnson wasalready there, and in a room upstairs wewere introduced. An older man, similarly

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attired to Charles but with a certain weari-ness to him, an experience that was etchedinto the lines on his face, he stood fromstudying maps to shake my hand. “A pleas-ure,” he said, and then, as Charles left tostand guard, leaned forward and said to me,“A good lad, if a bit earnest.”

I kept any feelings I had on Charles tomyself, indicating with my eyes that heshould continue.

“I’m told you’re putting together an ex-pedition,” he said.

“We believe there is a precursor site inthe region,” I said, choosing my words care-fully, then adding, “I require your knowledgeof the land and its people to find it.”

He pulled a face. “Sadly, a chest contain-ing my research has been stolen. Without it,I’m of no use to you.”

I knew from experience that nothing wasever easy. “Then we’ll find it.” I sighed.“Have you any leads?”

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“My associate, Thomas Hickey, has beenmaking the rounds. He’s quite good atloosening tongues.”

“Tell me where I can find him and I’ll seeabout speeding things along.”

“We’ve heard rumours of bandits operat-ing from a compound south-west of here,”said William. “You’ll likely find him there.”

iii

Outside the city, corn in a field waved in alight night-time breeze. Not far away was thehigh fencing of a compound that belonged tothe bandits, and from inside came the soundof raucous festivities. Why not? I thought.Every day you’ve avoided death by the hang-man’s noose or on the end of a redcoat’s bay-onet is a cause for celebration when you livedlife as a bandit.

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At the gates there were various guardsand hangers-on milling around, some ofthem drinking, some attempting to standguard, and all of them in a constant state ofargument. To the left of the compound, thecornfield rose to a small hill peak and on itsat a lookout tending to a small fire. Sittingtending a fire isn’t quite the desired positionfor a lookout, but, otherwise, he was one ofthe few on this side of the compound whoseemed to be taking his job seriously. Cer-tainly, they’d failed to post any scoutingparties. Or if they had, then the scoutingparties were lounging under a tree some-where, blind drunk, because there wasnobody to see Charles and me as we creptcloser, approaching a man, who was crouch-ing by a crumbling stone wall, keeping watchon the compound.

It was him: Thomas Hickey. A round-faced man, a little shabby, and probably toofond of the grog himself, if my guess was

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correct. This was the man who, according toWilliam, was good at loosening tongues? Helooked like he’d have problems loosening hisown drawers.

Perhaps, arrogantly, my distaste of himwas fed by the fact that he was the first con-tact I’d met since arriving in Boston to whommy name meant nothing. But, if that an-noyed me, it was nothing compared to the ef-fect it had on Charles, who drew his sword.

“Show some respect, boy,” he snarled.I laid a restraining hand on him. “Peace,

Charles,” I said, then addressed Thomas:“William Johnson sent us in the hopes wemight . . . expedite your search.”

“Don’t need no expediting,” drawled Tho-mas. “Don’t need none of your fancyLondon-speak, neither. I’ve found the mendone the theft.”

Beside me, Charles bristled. “Then whyare you just lazing around?”

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“Figurin’ out how to deal with those var-lets,” said Thomas, indicated the compoundthen turned to us with expectant eyes and animpudent grin.

I sighed. Time to go to work. “Right, I’llkill the lookout and take a position behindthe guards. You two approach from the front.When I open fire on a group, you charge in.We’ll have the element of surprise on ourside. Half will fall before they’ve even real-ized what’s happening.”

I took my musket, left my two comradesand crept to the edge of the cornfield, whereI crouched and took aim at the lookout. Hewas warming his hands with his riflebetween his legs, and probably wouldn’t haveseen or heard me if I’d approached riding acamel. It felt almost cowardly to squeeze thetrigger, but squeeze it I did.

I cursed as he pitched forward, sendingup a shower of sparks. He’d start to burnsoon, and if nothing else the smell was going

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to alert his compatriots. Hurrying now, I re-turned to Charles and Thomas, who drewcloser to the bandit compound while I tookup position not far away, pushed my riflebutt into my shoulder and squinted alongwith sights at one of the bandits, whostood—though “swayed” might have beenmore accurate—just outside the gates. As Iwatched he began to move towards the corn-field, perhaps to relieve the sentry I’d alreadyshot, who even now was roasting on his ownfire. I waited until he was at the edge of thecornfield, pausing as there was a sudden lullin the merriment from inside the compound,and then, as a roar went up, squeezing thetrigger.

He dropped to his knees then keeled overto one side, part of his skull missing, and mygaze went straight to the compound entranceto see if the shot had been heard.

No, was the answer. Instead the rabble atthe gate had turned their attention on

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Charles and Thomas, drawn their swordsand pistols and began to shout at them:“Clear off!”

Charles and Thomas loitered, just as I’dtold them. I could see their hands itching todraw their own weapons, but they bidedtheir time. Good men. Waiting for me to takethe first shot.

The time was now. I drew a bead on oneof the men, whom I took to be the ringleader.I pulled the trigger and saw blood spray fromthe back of his head, and he lurched back.

This time my shot was heard, but it didn’tmatter, because at the same time Charlesand Thomas drew their blades and struckand two more of the guards keeled over withblood fountaining from neck wounds. Thegate was in disarray and the battle began inearnest.

I managed to pick off two more of thebandits before abandoning my musket,drawing my sword and running forward,

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leaping into the fray and standing side byside with Charles and Thomas. I enjoyedfighting with companions for once, andfelled three of the thugs, who died screamingeven as their companions made for the gatesand barricaded themselves inside.

In no time at all, the only men left stand-ing were me, Charles and Thomas, all threeof us breathing hard and flicking the bloodfrom our steel. I regarded Thomas with anew respect: he’d acquitted himself well,with a speed and skill that belied his looks.Charles, too, was looking at him, though withrather more distaste, as though Thomas’sproficiency in battle had annoyed him.

Now we had a new problem, though: we’dtaken the outside of the compound, but thedoor had been blocked by those retreating. Itwas Thomas who was suggested we shoot thepowder barrel—another good idea from theman I’d previously dismissed as a drunk—soI did, blowing a hole in the wall, through

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which we poured, stepping over the torn andragged corpses littering the hallway on theother side.

We ran on. Thick, deep carpets and rugswere on the floor, while exquisite tapestrieshad been hung at the windows. The wholeplace was in semi-darkness. There wasscreaming, male and female, and runningfeet as we made our way through quickly, mewith a sword in one hand and a pistol in theother, using both, slaying any man in myway.

Thomas had looted a candlestick, and heused it to cave in the head of a bandit, wipingbrains and blood from his face just asCharles reminded us why we were there: tofind William’s chest. He described it as weraced along more gloomy corridors, findingless resistance now. Either the bandits werestaying clear of us or were marshalling them-selves into a more cohesive force. Not that it

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mattered what they were doing: we neededto find the chest.

Which we did, nestled at the back of aboudoir that stank of ale and sex and wasseemingly full of people: scantily clad womenwho grabbed clothes and ran screaming, andseveral thieves loading guns. A bulletsmacked into the wood of the doorway by myside and we took cover as another man, thisone naked, raised his pistol to fire.

Charles returned fire around the frame ofthe door, and the naked man crashed to thecarpet with an untidy red hole at his chest,grabbing a fistful of bedclothes as he went.Another bullet gouged the frame, and weducked back. Thomas drew his sword as twomore bandits came hurtling down the cor-ridor towards us, Charles joining in.

“Lay down your weapons,” called one ofthe remaining bandits from inside the bou-doir, “and I’ll consider letting you live.”

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“I make you the same offer,” I said frombehind the door. “We have no quarrel. I onlywish to return this chest to its rightfulowner.”

There was a sneer in his voice. “Nothingrightful about Mr. Johnson.”

“I won’t ask again.”“Agreed.”I heard a movement nearby and flitted

across the doorway. The other man had beentrying to creep up on us, but I put a bulletbetween his eyes and he flopped to the floor,his pistol skittering away from him. The re-maining bandit fired again and made a divefor his companion’s gun, but I’d already re-loaded and anticipated his move, and I put ashot in his flank as he stretched for it. Like awounded animal he jackknifed back to thebed, landing in a wet mess of blood and bed-clothes and staring up at me as I enteredcautiously, gun held in front of me.

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He gave me a baleful look. This can’t havebeen how he planned for his night to end.

“Your kind has no need for books andmaps,” I said, indicating William’s chest.“Who put you up to this?”

“Never seen a person,” he wheezed, shak-ing his head. “It’s always dead drops and let-ters. But they always pay, so we do the jobs.”

Everywhere I went I met men like thebandit, who would do anything, itseemed—anything for a bit of coin. It wasmen like him who had invaded my childhoodhome and killed my father. Men like himwho set me on the path I walk today.

They always pay. We do the jobs.Somehow, through a veil of disgust, I

managed to resist the urge to kill him.“Well, those days are done. Tell your

masters I said as much.”He raised himself slightly, perhaps realiz-

ing I planned to let him live. “Who do I sayyou are?”

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“You don’t. They’ll know,” I said. And lethim go.

Thomas began grabbing more loot whileCharles and I took the chest, and we madeour way out of the compound. Retreatingwas easier, most of the bandits having de-cided that discretion was the better part ofvalour and staying out of our way, and wemade it outside to our horses and gallopedaway.

iv

At the Green Dragon, William Johnson wasonce again poring over his maps. Straightaway he was digging through the chest whenwe returned it to him, checking that his mapsand scrolls were there.

“My thanks, Master Kenway,” he said, sit-ting back at his table, satisfied that

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everything was in order. “Now tell me what itis you need.”

Around my neck was the amulet. I’dfound myself taking it off and admiring it.Was it my imagination, or did it seem toglow? It hadn’t—not on the night I took itfrom Miko at the opera house. The first timeI had seen it glow was when Reginald held itup at Fleet and Bride. Now, though, itseemed to do in my hand what it had done inhis, as though it were powered—how ridicu-lous it seemed—by belief.

I looked at him, then reached my handsto my neck, removed the amulet from overmy head and handed it across the table. Heheld my gaze as he took it, sensing its im-portance, then squinted at it, studying itcarefully as I said, “The images on this amu-let—are they familiar to you? Perhaps one ofthe tribes has shown you somethingsimilar?”

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“It appears Kanien’kehá:ka in origin,”said William.

The Mohawk. My pulse quickened.“Can you trace it to a specific location?” I

said. “I need to know where it came from.”“With my research returned, perhaps. Let

me see what I can do.”I nodded my thanks. “First, though, I’d

like to know a little more about you, William.Tell me about yourself.”

“What’s to tell? I was born in Ireland, toCatholic parents—which, I learnt early in life,severely limited my opportunities. So I con-verted to Protestantism and journeyed hereat the behest of my uncle. But I fear myUncle Peter was not the sharpest of tools. Hesought to open trade with the Mohawk—butchose to build his settlement away from thetrade routes instead of on them. I tried toreason with the man . . . But”—hesighed—“as I said, not the sharpest. So I tookwhat little money I’d earned and bought my

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own plot of land. I built a home, a farm, astore and a mill. Humble beginnings—butwell situated, which made all the difference.”

“So this is how you came to know theMohawk?”

“Indeed. And it has proved a valuablerelationship.”

“But you’ve heard nothing of the precurs-ors’ site? No hidden temple or ancientconstructs?”

“Yes and no. Which is to say, they havetheir fair share of sacred sites but nonematching what you describe. Earthenmounds, forest clearings, hidden caves . . .All are natural, though. No strange metal.No . . . odd glows.”

“Hmmm. It is well hidden,” I said.“Even to them, it seems.” He smiled. “But

cheer up, my friend. You’ll have your pre-cursor treasure. I swear it.”

I raised my glass. “To our success, then.”“And soon!”

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I smiled. We were four now. We were ateam.

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10 JULY 1754

i

We now have our room at the Green DragonTavern—a base, if you like—and it was this Ientered, to find Thomas, Charles and Willi-am: Thomas drinking, Charles looking per-turbed and William studying his charts andmaps. I greeted them, only to be rewardedwith a belch from Thomas.

“Charming,” spat Charles.I grinned. “Cheer up, Charles. He’ll grow

on you,” I said, and sat next to Thomas, whogave me a grateful look.

“Any news?” I said.He shook his head. “Whispers of things.

Nothin’ solid at the moment. I know you’relookin’ for word of anything out the ordin-ary . . . Dealin’ with temples and spirits and

ancient times and whatnot. But . . . so far,can’t say my boys have heard much.”

“No trinkets or artefacts being movedthrough your . . . shadow market?”

“Nothin’ new. Couple ill-gottenweapons—some jewellery likely lifted from aliving thing. But you said to listen for talk ofglows and hums and look out for strangesights, right? An’ I ain’t heard nothin’ ’boutthat.”

“Keep at it,” I asked.“Oh, I will. You done me a great service,

mister—and I fully intend to repay mydebt—thricefold, if it pleases.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”“Place to sleep and meal to eat is thanks

enough. Don’t you worry. I’ll get you sortedsoon.”

He raised his tankard, only to find it wasempty, and I laughed, clapped him on theback and watched as he stood and lurchedoff in search of ale from elsewhere. Then I

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turned my attention to William, moving overto his lectern and pulling up a chair to sitdown beside him. “How fares your search?”

He frowned up at me. “Maps and mathsaren’t cutting it.”

Nothing is ever simple, I rued.“What of your local contacts?” I asked

him, taking a seat opposite.Thomas had bustled back in, with a tank-

ard of foaming ale in his fist and a red markon his face from where he’d been very re-cently slapped, just in time to hear Williamsay, “We’ll need to earn their trust beforethey’ll share what they know.”

“I have an idea on how we might be ef-fectin’ that,” slurred Thomas, and we turnedto look at him with varying degrees of in-terest, Charles in the way he usually re-garded Thomas, with a look as though he’djust trodden in dog mess, William with be-musement, and me with a genuine interest.Thomas, drunk or sober, was a sharper

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customer than either Charles or Williamgave him credit for. He went on now:“There’s a man who was taken to enslavin’natives. Rescue ’em and they’ll owe us.”

Natives, I thought. The Mohawk. Nowthere was an idea. “Do you know wherethey’re being held?”

He shook his head. But Charles was lean-ing forward. “Benjamin Church will. He’s afinder and a fixer—he’s also on your list.”

I smiled at him. Good work. I thought.“And there I was, wondering who we mightsolicit next.”

ii

Benjamin Church was a doctor, and wefound his house easily enough. When therewas no answer at his door, Charles wasted notime kicking it down, and we hurried in, onlyto find that the place had been ransacked.

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Not only had furniture been upturned anddocuments spread all over the floor, disrup-ted during a messy search, but there werealso traces of blood on the floor.

We looked at one another. “It seemswe’re not the only ones looking for Dr.Church,” I said, with my sword drawn.

“Damn it!” exploded Charles. “He couldbe anywhere. What do we do?”

I pointed to a portrait of the good doctorhanging over the mantelpiece. It showed aman in his early twenties, who nonethelesshad a distinguished look. “We find him.Come, I’ll show you how.”

And I began telling Charles about the artof surveillance, of blending into your sur-roundings, disappearing, noticing routinesand habits, studying movement around andadapting to it, becoming at one with the en-vironment, becoming part of the scenery.

I realized how much I was enjoying mynew role as tutor. As a boy I’d been taught by

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my father, and then Reginald, and I had al-ways looked forward to my sessions withthem—always relished the passing on andimparting of new knowledge—forbiddenknowledge, the sort you couldn’t find inbooks.

Teaching it to Charles, I wondered if myfather and Reginald had felt the way I didnow: serene, wise and worldly. I showed himhow to ask questions, how to eavesdrop, howto move around the city like a ghost, gather-ing and processing information. And afterthat we parted, carried out our investigationsindividually, then an hour or so later cameback together, faces grim.

What we had learnt was that BenjaminChurch had been seen in the company ofother men—three or four of them—who hadbeen bearing him away from his house.Some of the witnesses had assumed Ben-jamin was drunk; others had noticed howbruised and bloodied he had been. One man

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who went to his aid had received a knife inhis guts as thanks. Wherever they were go-ing, it was clear that Benjamin was introuble, but where were they going? The an-swer came from a herald, who stood shout-ing out the day’s news.

“Have you seen this man?” I asked him.“It difficult to say . . .” He shook his head.

“So many people pass through the square,it’s hard to . . .”

I pressed some coins into his hand andhis demeanour changed at once. He leanedforward with a conspiratorial air: “He wasbeing taken to the waterfront warehousesjust east of here.”

“Thank you kindly for your help,” I toldhim.

“But hurry,” he said. “He was with Silas’smen. Such meetings tend to end poorly.”

Silas, I thought, as we weaved our waythrough the streets on our way to the ware-house district. Now, who was Silas?

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The crowds had thinned considerably bythe time we reached our destination, wellaway from the main thoroughfare, where afaint smell of fish seemed to hang over theday. The warehouse sat in a row of similarbuildings, all of them huge and exuding asense of erosion and disrepair, and I mighthave walked straight past if it hadn’t been forthe guard who lounged outside the maindoors. He sat on one barrel, his feet up onanother, chewing, not as alert as he shouldhave been, so that it was easy enough to stopCharles and pull him to the side of the build-ing before we were spotted.

There was an entrance on the wall closestto us, and I checked it was unguarded beforetrying the door. Locked. From inside weheard the sounds of a struggle then an agon-ized scream. I’m not a gambling man, but Iwould have bet on the owner of that agon-ized scream: Benjamin Church. Charles and Ilooked at each other. We had to get in there,

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and fast. Craning around the side of thewarehouse, I took another look at the guard,saw the telltale flash of a key ring at hiswaist, and knew what I had to do.

I waited until a man pushing a barrowhad passed then, with a finger to my lips,told Charles to wait and emerged from cover,weaving a little as I came around to the frontof the building, looking to all intents andpurposes as though I’d had too much todrink.

Sitting on his barrel, the sentry lookedsideways at me, his lip curled. He began towithdraw his sword from its sheath, showinga little of its gleaming blade. Staggering, Istraightened, held up a hand to acknowledgethe warning and made as though to moveaway, before stumbling a little and brushinginto him.

“Oi!” he protested, and shoved me away,so hard that I lost my footing and fell into

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the street. I picked myself up and, with an-other wave of apology, was on my way.

What he didn’t know was that I left inpossession of the key ring, which I had liftedfrom his waist. Back at the side of the ware-house we tried a couple of the keys before, toour great relief, finding one that opened thedoor. Wincing at every phantom creak andsqueak, we eased it open then crept through,into the dark and damp-smelling warehouse.

Inside, we crouched by the door, slowlyadjusting to our new surroundings: a vastspace, most of it in darkness. Black, echoinghollows seemed to stretch back into infinity,the only light coming from three braziersthat had been set out in the middle of theroom. We saw, at last, the man we had beenlooking for, the man from the portrait: Dr.Benjamin Church. He sat tied to a chair, aguard on either side of him, one of his eyespurple and bruised, his head lolling and

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blood dripping steadily from a gashed lip tothe dirty white scarf he wore.

Standing in front of him was a sharp-dressed man—Silas, no doubt—and a com-panion, who was sharpening a knife. The softswooshing sound it made was almost gentle,hypnotic, and for a moment was the onlynoise in the room.

“Why must you always make things sodifficult, Benjamin?” asked Silas, with an airof theatrical sadness. He had an English ac-cent, I realized, and sounded highborn. Hecontinued: “Merely provide me with recom-pense and all shall be forgiven.”

Benjamin regarded him with an injuredbut defiant gaze. “I’ll not pay for protection Idon’t need,” he snapped back, undaunted.

Silas smiled and airily waved a handaround at the dank, wet and dirty ware-house. “Clearly, you do require protection,else we wouldn’t be here.”

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Benjamin turned his head and spat a gob-bet of blood, which slapped to the stonefloor, then turned his eyes back to Silas, whowore a look as though Benjamin had passedwind at dinner. “How very gauche,” he said.“Now, what shall we do about our guest?”

The man sharpening the knives lookedup. This was his cue. “Maybe I take hishands,” he rasped. “Put an end to ’is surger-in’? Maybe I take ’is tongue. Put an end to ’iswagglin? Or maybe I take ’is cock. Put an endto ’is fuckin’ us.”

A tremor seemed to go through the men,of disgust, fear and amusement. Silas re-acted: “So many options, I can’t possibly de-cide.” He looked at the knifeman and preten-ded to be lost in indecision, then added,“Take all three.”

“Now hold on a moment,” said Benjaminquickly. “Perhaps I was hasty in refusing youearlier.”

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“I’m so very sorry, Benjamin, but thatdoor has closed,” said Silas sadly.

“Be reasonable . . .” started Benjamin, apleading note in his voice.

Silas tilted his head to one side, and hiseyebrows knitted together in false concern.“I rather think I was. But you took advantageof my generosity. I won’t be made a fool of asecond time.”

The torturer moved forward, holding thepoint of the knife up to his own eyeball, bug-ging his eyes and grinning maniacally.

“I fear I lack the constitution to witnesssuch barbarism,” said Silas, with the air of aneasily offended old woman. “Come and findme when you’ve finished, Cutter.”

Silas went to leave as Benjamin Churchscreamed, “You’ll regret this, Silas! You hearme? I’ll have your head!”

At the door Silas stopped, turned andlooked at him. “No,” he said with the

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beginnings of a giggle. “No, I rather thinkyou won’t.”

Then Benjamin’s screams began as Cutterbegan his work, snickering slightly as hebegan to wield the knife like an artist makinghis first painterly strokes, as though at theoutset of a much larger project. Poor old Dr.Church was the canvas and Cutter was paint-ing his masterpiece.

I whispered to Charles what needed to bedone, and he moved away, scuttling throughthe dark to the rear of the warehouse, whereI saw him put a hand to his mouth to call,“Over here, y’ bastards,” then immediatelymove away, quick and silent.

Cutter’s head jerked up, and he waved thetwo guards over, glancing warily around thewarehouse at the same time as his men drewtheir swords and moved carefully towardsthe back, where the noise had comefrom—even as there was another call, this

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time from a different pocket of blackness, analmost whispered, “Over here.”

The two guards swallowed, exchanged anervous glance, while Cutter’s gaze roamedthe shadows of the building, his jaw set, halfin fear, half in frustration. I could see hismind working: was it his own men playing aprank? Kids messing about?

No. It was enemy action.“What’s going on?” snarled one of the

heavies. Both craned their necks to stare intothe dark spaces of the warehouse. “Get atorch,” the first snapped at his companion,and the second man darted back into themiddle of the room, gingerly lifted one of thebraziers, and then was bent over with theweight of it as he tried to move it over.

Suddenly there was a yelp from withinthe shadows and Cutter was shouting:“What? What the hell is going on?”

The man with the brazier set it down thenpeered into the gloom. “It’s Greg,” he called

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back over his shoulder. “He ain’t there nomore, boss.”

Cutter bridled. “What do you mean, ‘heain’t there’? He was there before.”

“Greg!” called the second man. “Greg?”There was no reply. “I’m telling you, boss,

he ain’t there no more.” And just at that mo-ment, as though to emphasize the point, asword came flying from the dark recesses,skittered across the stone floor and stoppedto rest by Cutter’s feet.

The blade was stained with blood.“That’s Greg’s sword,” said the first man

nervily. “They got Greg.”“Who got Greg?” snapped Cutter.“I don’t know, but they got him.”“Whoever you are, you better show your

face,” shouted Cutter. His eyes darted toBenjamin, and I could see his brain working,the conclusion he came to: that they were be-ing attacked by friends of the doctor; that itwas a rescue operation. The first thug

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remained where he was by the safety of thebrazier, the tip of his sword glinting in thefirelight as he trembled. Charles stayed inthe shadows, a silent menace. I knew it wasonly Charles, but to Cutter and his pal he wasan avenging demon, as silent and implacableas death itself.

“You better get out here, before I finishyour buddy,” rasped Cutter. He moved closerto Benjamin, about to hold the blade to histhroat, and, his back to me, I saw my chanceand crept out of my hiding place, stealthilymoving towards him. At the same time, hispal turned, saw me, yelped, “Boss, behindyou!” and Cutter wheeled.

I leapt and at the same time engaged thehidden blade. Cutter panicked, and I saw hisknife hand tauten, about to finish Benjamin.At full stretch I managed to knock his handaway and send him flying back, but I too wasoff balance and he had the chance to draw

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his sword and meet me face-to-face, sword inone hand, torture knife in the other.

Over his shoulder I saw that Charleshadn’t wasted his opportunity, had come fly-ing out at the guard, and there was the chimeof steel as their blades met. In seconds Cut-ter and I were fighting, too. His featureswere fixed, but it swiftly became clear he wasout of his depth. Good with a knife he mayhave been, but he wasn’t used to opponentswho fought back; he was a torture master nota warrior. And while his hands movedquickly and his blades flicked across my vis-ion, all he showed me were tricks, sleight ofhand, moves that might terrify a man tied toa chair, but not me. What I saw was a sad-ist—a frightened sadist. And if there’s onething more loathsome and pathetic than asadist, it’s a frightened one.

He had no anticipation. No footwork ordefensive skills. Behind him, the fight wasover: the second thug dropped to his knees

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with a groan, and Charles planted a foot tohis chest and withdrew his sword, lettinghim fall to the stone.

Cutter saw it, too, and I let him watch,stood back and allowed him to see his com-panion, the last of his protection, die. Therewas a thumping on the door—the guard fromoutside had at last discovered the theft of hiskeys and was trying and failing to get in. Cut-ter’s eyes swivelled in that direction, lookingfor salvation. Finding none. Those frightenedeyes came back to me and I grinned thenmoved forward and began some cutting ofmy own. I took no pleasure in it. I merelygave him the treatment he deserved, andwhen he at last folded to the floor with abright red gash open in his throat and bloodsheeting down his front, I felt nothing be-sides a detached sense of gratification, ofjustice having been served. No one elsewould suffer by his blade.

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I’d forgotten about the banging at thedoor until it stopped, and in the sudden si-lence I glanced at Charles, who came to thesame conclusion I did: the guard had gonefor help. Benjamin groaned and I went tohim, sliced through his bindings with twoslashes of my blade then caught him as hefell forward from the chair.

Straight away my hands were slick withhis blood, but he seemed to be breathingsteadily and, though his eyes occasionallysqueezed shut as he flinched with pain, theywere open. He’d live. His wounds were pain-ful but they weren’t deep.

He looked at me. “Who . . . who are you?”he managed.

I tipped my hat. “Haytham Kenway atyour service.”

There were the beginnings of a smile onhis face as he said, “Thank you. Thank you.But . . . I don’t understand . . . why are youhere?”

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“You are a Templar Knight, are you not?”I said to him.

He nodded.“As am I, and we don’t make a habit of

leaving fellow Knights at the mercy of knife-wielding madmen. That, and the fact I needyour help.”

“You have it,” he said. “Just tell me whatyou need . . .”

I helped him to his feet and wavedCharles over. Together we helped him to theside door of the warehouse and let ourselvesout, savouring the cool, fresh air after thedank smell of blood and death inside.

And as we began to make our way back toUnion Street and the sanctuary of the GreenDragon, I told Dr. Benjamin Church aboutthe list.

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13 JULY 1754

i

We were gathered in the Green Dragon, be-neath the low, dark beams of the back roomthat we now called our own, and which wewere rapidly expanding to fill, stuffingourselves into the dusty eaves: Thomas, wholiked to lounge in a horizontal positionwhenever he wasn’t hoisting tankards of aleor bothering our hosts for more; William,whose frown lines deepened as he labouredover charts and maps spread out over atable, moving from that to his lectern and oc-casionally letting out a frustrated gasp, wav-ing Thomas and his ale-slopping tankardaway whenever he lurched too close; Charles,my right-hand man, who took a seat besideme whenever I was in the room, and whose

devotion I felt sometimes as a burden, atother times as a great source of strength; andnow, of course, Dr. Church, who had spentthe last couple of days recuperating from hisinjuries in a bed that had been begrudginglyprovided for him by Cornelius. We had leftBenjamin to it; he had dressed his ownwounds, and when he at last rose, he assuredus that none of the injuries to his face werelikely to be permanent.

I had spoken to him two days before,when I interrupted him in the process ofdressing the worst of his wounds, certainlythe most painful-looking: a flap of skin thatCutter had removed.

“So, a question for you,” I said, still feel-ing I hadn’t quite got the measure of theman: “Why medicine?”

He smiled grimly. “I’m supposed to tellyou I care for my fellow man, right? That Ichose this path because it allows me to ac-complish a greater good?”

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“Are these things not true?”“Perhaps. But that’s not what guided me.

No . . . for me it was a less abstract thing: Ilike money.”

“There are other paths to fortune,” I said.“Aye. But what better ware to peddle than

life? Nothing else is as precious—nor so des-perately craved. And no price is too great forthe man or woman who fears an abrupt andpermanent end.”

I winced. “Your words are cruel,Benjamin.”

“But true as well.”Confused, I asked, “You took an oath to

help people, did you not?”“I abide the oath, which makes no men-

tion of price. I merely require compensa-tion—fair compensation—for my services.”

“And if they lack the required funds?”“Then there are others who will serve

them. Does a baker grant free bread to a beg-gar? Does the tailor offer a dress to the

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woman who cannot afford to pay? No. Whyshould I?”

“You said it yourself,” I said. “Nothing ismore precious than life.”

“Indeed. All the more reason one shouldensure one has the means to preserve it.”

I looked at him askance. He was a youngman—younger than I. I wondered, had Ibeen like him once?

ii

Later, my thoughts returned to matters mostpressing. Silas would want revenge for whathad happened at the warehouse, we all knewthat; and it was just a matter of time beforehe struck at us. We were in the GreenDragon, perhaps the most visible spot in thecity, so he knew where we were when hewanted to launch his strike. In the mean-time, I had enough experienced swordsmen

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to give him pause for thought and I wasn’tminded to run or go into hiding.

William had told Benjamin what we wereplanning—to curry favour with the Mohawkby going up against the slaver—and Ben-jamin leaned forward now. “Johnson hastold me what you intend,” he said. “As it hap-pens, the man who held me is the same oneyou seek. His name is Silas Thatcher.”

Inwardly, I cursed myself for not havingmade the connection. Of course. Beside me,the penny had dropped with Charles, too.

“That fancy lad is a slaver?” he saiddisbelievingly.

“Don’t let his velvet tongue deceive you,”said Benjamin, nodding. “A crueller andmore vicious creature I’ve never known.”

“What can you tell me of his operation?” Iasked.

“He hosts at least a hundred men, morethan half of whom are redcoats.”

“All of this for some slaves?”

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At this Benjamin laughed. “Hardly. Theman is a commander in the King’s Troop, incharge of the Southgate Fort.”

Perplexed, I said, “But if Britain standsany chance of pushing back the French, shemust ally with the natives—not enslavethem.”

“Silas is loyal only to his purse,” said Wil-liam from his lectern perch. “That his actionsharm the Crown is irrelevant. So long asthere are buyers for his product, he’ll contin-ue to procure it.”

“All the more reason to stop him, then,” Isaid grimly.

“My days are spent in congress with thelocals—attempting to convince them thatwe’re the ones they should trust,” added Wil-liam, “that the French are merely using themas tools, to be abandoned once they’ve won.”

“Your words must lose their strengthwhen held against the reality of Silas’s ac-tions.” I sighed.

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“I’ve tried to explain that he does not rep-resent us,” he said with a rueful look. “But hewears the red coat. He commands a fort. Imust appear to them either a liar or a fool . . .likely both.”

“Take heart, brother,” I assured him.“When we deliver them his head, they willknow your words were true. Firstly, we needto find a way inside the fort. Let me think onit. In the meantime, I’ll attend to our finalrecruit.”

At this, Charles perked up. “John Pit-cairn’s our man. I’ll take you to him.”

iii

We found ourselves at a military encamp-ment outside the city, where redcoats dili-gently checked those entering and leaving.These were Braddock’s men, and I wondered

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if I’d recognize any from my campaigns allthose years ago.

I doubted it; his regime was too brutal,his men mercenaries, ex-convicts, men onthe run who never stayed in one place forlong. One stepped forward now, looking un-shaven and shabby despite his redcoatuniform.

“State your business,” he said, as his eyesranged over us, not much liking what he saw.

I was about to answer when Charlesstepped forward, indicated me, and said tothe guard, “New recruit.”

The sentry stood to one side. “More kind-ling for the pyre, eh?” he smirked. “Go onthen.”

We moved through the gates into thecamp.

“How did you manage that?” I said toCharles.

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“Did you forget, sir? My commission iswith General Braddock—when I’m not at-tending to you, of course.”

A cart on its way out of the camptrundled past, led by a man in a wide-brimmed hat, and we stepped aside for agroup of washerwomen who crossed ourpath. Tents were dotted around the site, overwhich hung a low blanket of smoke fromfires around the campsite, tended to by menand children, camp followers whose job itwas to brew coffee and make food for theirimperial masters. Washing hung on linesstretched from canopies at the front of thetents; civilians loaded crates of supplies on towooden carts, watched over by officers onhorseback. We saw a knot of troops strug-gling with a cannon stuck in the mud andmore men stacking crates, while in the mainsquare was a troop of twenty or thirty red-coats being put through its paces by an of-ficer screaming barely intelligible words.

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Looking around, it struck me that thecamp was unmistakably the work of theBraddock I knew: busy and ordered, a hive ofindustry, a crucible of discipline. Any visitorwould have thought it a credit to the BritishArmy and to its commander, but if youlooked harder, or if you knew Braddock ofold, as I did, you could sense the resentmentthat pervaded the place: the men gave off abegrudging air about their activities. Theyworked not out of a sense of pride in theiruniform but under the yoke of brutality.

Talking of which . . . We were approach-ing a tent and, as we grew closer to it, Iheard, with a crawling and deeply unpleas-ant sensation in the pit of my stomach, thatthe voice I could hear shouting belonged toBraddock.

When was the last time I’d seen him?Several years ago, when I’d left the Cold-streams, and never had I been so pleased toturn my back on a man as I had been with

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Braddock that day. I’d departed the companyswearing I would do my utmost to see to itthat he answered for the crimes I’d witnessedduring my time with him—crimes of crueltyand brutality. But I’d reckoned without theties that bind the Order; I’d reckonedwithout Reginald’s unswerving loyalty tohim; and, in the end, I’d had to accept thatBraddock was going to continue as he alwayshad. I didn’t like it. But I had to accept it.The answer was simply to steer clear of him.

Right now, though, I couldn’t avoid him.He was inside his tent as we entered, in

the middle of lecturing a man who was aboutmy age, dressed in civilian clothes but obvi-ously a military man. This was John Pitcairn.He was standing there, taking the full blastof Braddock’s rage—a rage I knew so well—asthe general screamed: “. . . were you plan-ning to announce yourself? Or did you hopemy men wouldn’t notice your arrival?”

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I liked him immediately. I liked the un-blinking way he responded, his Scots accentmeasured and calm, unintimidated by Brad-dock as he replied, “Sir, if you’d allow me toexplain . . .”

Time had not been kind to Braddock,though. His face was ruddier than ever, hishair receding. He became even more red-faced now, as he replied, “Oh, by all means. Ishould like very much to hear this.”

“I have not deserted, sir,” protested Pit-cairn, “I am here under Commander Amh-erst’s orders.”

But Braddock was in no mood to be im-pressed by the name of Commander JeffreyAmherst; and, if anything, his mooddarkened.

“Show me a letter bearing his seal andyou might be spared the gallows,” he snarled.

“I have no such thing,” replied Pitcairn,swallowing—the only sign of nerves he’dshown; perhaps thinking of the noose

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tightening around his neck—“the nature ofmy work, sir . . . it’s . . .”

Braddock reared back as though bored ofthe whole facade—and might well have beenabout to order Pitcairn’s summary execu-tion—when I took the opportunity to stepforward.

“It’s not the sort of thing best put to pa-per,” I said.

Braddock turned to look at me with ajerky movement, seeing for the first time thatCharles and I were there and taking us inwith varying degrees of irritation. Charles, hedidn’t mind so much. Me? Put it this way:the antipathy was mutual.

“Haytham,” he said simply, my name likea swear word on his lips.

“General Braddock,” I returned, withoutbothering to hide my distaste for his newrank.

He looked from me to Pitcairn and, per-haps, at last, made the connection. “I

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suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Wolves of-ten travel in packs.”

“Master Pitcairn won’t be here for a fewweeks,” I told him, “and I shall return him tohis proper post once our work is finished.”

Braddock shook his head. I did my best tohide my smile and succeeded, mainly, inkeeping my glee internal. He was furious, notonly that his authority had been underminedbut, worse, that it had been undermined byme.

“The devil’s work, no doubt,” he said. “It’sbad enough my superiors have insisted Igrant you use of Charles. But they said noth-ing about this traitor. You will not have him.”

I sighed. “Edward . . .” I began.But Braddock was signalling to his men.

“We are done here. See these gentlemenout,” he said.

iv

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“Well, that didn’t go as I expected.” Charlessighed.

We were once again outside the walls,with the camp behind us and Boston aheadof us, stretching away to glittering sea on thehorizon, the masts and sails of boats in theharbour. At a pump in the shade of a cherrytree, we stopped and leaned on the wall,from where we could watch the comings andgoings at the camp without attractingattention.

“And, to think, I used to call Edward abrother . . .” I said ruefully.

It had been a long time ago now, and dif-ficult to recall, but it was true. There was atime when I’d looked up to Braddock,thought of him and Reginald as my friendsand confederates. Now, I actively despisedBraddock. And Reginald?

I still wasn’t sure about him.“What now?” asked Charles. “They’ll

chase us off if we try to return.”

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Gazing into the camp, I could see Brad-dock striding out of his tent, shouting as usu-al, gesticulating at an officer—one of hishand-picked mercenaries, no doubt—whocame scuttling over. In his wake came John.He was still alive, at least; Braddock’s temperhad been either abated or directed some-where else. Towards me, probably.

As we watched, the officer gathered thetroops we’d seen drilling on the barrackssquare and organized them into a patrol,then, with Braddock at their head, beganleading them out of the camp. Other troopsand followers scurried out of their way, andthe gate, which had previously beenthronged with people, promptly cleared toallow the marchers through. They passed usby, a hundred yards or so away, and wewatched them between the low-hangingbranches of the cherry tree, as they madetheir way down the hill and towards the

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outskirts of the city, proudly bearing theUnion Flag.

A strange kind of peace descended intheir wake, and I pushed myself off the walland said to Charles, “Come along.”

We stayed more than two hundred yardsbehind, and even then we could hear thesound of Braddock’s voice, which, if any-thing, began to increase in volume as wemade our way into the city. Even on themove he had the air of someone who washolding court, but what quickly became clearwas that this was a recruitment mission.Braddock began by approaching a black-smith, ordering the squad to watch andlearn. All signs of his former fury were goneand he wore a warm smile to address theman, more in the manner of a concerneduncle than of the heartless tyrant he reallywas.

“You seem in a low spirits, my friend,” hesaid, heartily. “What’s wrong?”

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Charles and I stayed some distance away.Charles in particular kept his head low andremained out of sight, from fear of being re-cognized. I strained my ears to hear theblacksmith’s reply.

“Business has been poor as of late,” hesaid. “I have lost my stall and wares both.”

Braddock threw up his hands as thoughthis were an easily solved problem,because . . .

“What if I told you I could wipe yourtroubles away?” he said.

“I’d be wary, for one—”“Fair enough! But hear me out. The

French and their savage companions laywaste to the countryside. The king has com-missioned men such as me to raise an armythat we might force them back. Join my ex-pedition, and you will be richly com-pensated. Just a few weeks of your time, andyou’ll return loaded with coin and able toopen a new store—bigger and better!”

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As they were talking, I noticed officers or-dering members of the patrol to approachother citizens and start the same patter.Meanwhile, the blacksmith was saying,“Truly?”

Braddock was already handing him com-mission papers, which he’d fished from hisjacket.

“See for yourself,” he said proudly, asthough he were handing the man gold, ratherthan papers to enlist in the most brutal anddehumanizing army I had ever known.

“I’ll do it,” said the poor, gullible black-smith. “Only tell me where to sign!”

Braddock walked on, leading us to a pub-lic square, where he stood to deliver a shortspeech, and more of his men began wander-ing off.

“Hear me out, good people of Boston,” heannounced, in the tone of an avuncular gentabout to impart great news. “The king’s armyhas need of strong and loyal men. Dark

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forces gather to the north, desirous of ourland and its great bounty. I come before youtoday with a request: if you value your pos-sessions, your families, your very lives—thenjoin us. Take up arms in service to God andcountry both, that we might defend all wehave created here.”

Some of the townspeople shrugged theirshoulders and moved on; others conferredwith their friends. Still others approachedthe redcoats, presumably keen to lend theirservices—and earn some money. I couldn’thelp but notice a definite correlationbetween how poor they looked and howlikely they were to be moved by Braddock’sspeech.

Sure enough, I overheard him talking tohis officer. “Where shall we head next?”

“Perhaps down to Marlborough?” repliedthe trusty lieutenant, who, though he was toofar away for me to see properly, had afamiliar-sounding voice.

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“No,” replied Braddock, “its residents aretoo content. Their homes are nice; their daysuntroubled.”

“What of Lyn or Ship Street?”“Yes. Those fresh arrived are often soon

in dire straits. They’re more likely to seizeupon an opportunity to fatten their pursesand feed their young.”

Not far away stood John Pitcairn. Iwanted to get closer to him. Looking at thesurrounding redcoats, I realized that what Ineeded was a uniform.

Pity the poor soul who peeled off fromthe group to relieve himself. It was Brad-dock’s lieutenant. He sauntered away fromthe group, shouldered his way past two well-dressed women in bonnets and snarled whenthey tutted his way—doing a great job of win-ning local hearts and minds in the name ofHis Majesty.

At a distance, I followed, until he came tothe end of the street, where there was a squat

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wooden building, a storehouse of some kind,and, with a glance to make sure he wasn’t be-ing watched, he leaned his musket againstthe timber then undid the buttons of hisbritches to have a piss.

Of course, he was being watched. By me.Checking to see there were no other redcoatsnearby, I drew close, wrinkling my nose atthe acrid stench; many a redcoat had re-lieved himself in this particular spot, itseemed. Then I engaged my blade with a softchk, which he heard, tensing slightly as hepissed, but not turning.

“Whoever that is, he better have a goodreason for standing behind me when I’mhaving a piss,” he said, shaking then puttinghis cock back in his britches. And I recog-nized his voice. It was the executioner. Itwas . . .

“Slater,” I said.“That’s my name. And who might you

be?”

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He was pretending to have trouble withhis buttons, but I could see his right handstraying towards the hilt of his sword.

“You might remember me. My name isHaytham Kenway.”

Again he tensed, and his headstraightened. “Haytham Kenway,” he rasped.“Indeed—now there’s a name to conjurewith, so it is. I had hoped I’d seen the last ofyou.”

“And me of you. Turn around, please.”A horse and cart passed in the mud as,

slowly, Slater turned to face me, his eyes go-ing to the blade at my wrist. “You an Assas-sin now, are ya?” he sneered.

“A Templar, Slater, like your boss.”He sneered. “Your lot have no attraction

for General Braddock any more.”Just as I’d suspected. That was why he’d

been trying to sabotage my efforts to recruita team for Reginald’s mission. Braddock hadturned against us.

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“Go for your sword,” I told Slater.His eyes flickered. “You’ll run me through

if I do.”I nodded. “I can’t kill you in cold blood.

I’m not your general.”“No,” he said, “you’re a fraction of the

man he is.”And he went for his sword . . .A second later the man who had once

tried to hang me, whom I had watched helpslaughter a whole family at the Siege of Ber-gen op Zoom, lay dead at my feet, and Ilooked down at his still-twitching corpse,thinking only that I needed to take his uni-form before he bled all over it.

I took it and rejoined Charles, who lookedat me with raised eyebrows. “Well, you cer-tainly look the part,” he said.

I gave him an ironic smile. “Now to makePitcairn aware of our plans. When I give youthe signal, you’re to cause a fracas. We’ll usethe distraction to slip away.”

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Meanwhile, Braddock was issuing orders.“All right men, we move,” he said, and I usedthe opportunity to slip into the ranks of thepatrol, keeping my head down. Braddock, Iknew, would be concentrating on the recruit-ment and not on his men; equally, I trustedthat the men of the patrol would be so terri-fied of incurring his wrath that they wouldalso be too concerned with enlisting newmen to notice a new face in their ranks. I fellin beside Pitcairn and, my voice low, said,“Hello again, Jonathan.”

By my side, he started slightly, looked atme and exclaimed, “Master Kenway?”

I shushed him with a hand and glancedup to ensure we hadn’t attracted any un-wanted attention before continuing: “Itwasn’t easy slipping in . . . but here I am,come to rescue you.”

This time he kept his voice down. “Youdon’t honestly think we can get away withthis?”

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I smiled. “Have you no faith in me?”“I hardly know you—”“You know enough.”“Look,” he whispered, “I’d very much like

to help. But you heard Braddock. If hecatches wind of this, you and I are bothfinished.”

“I’ll take care of Braddock,” I reassuredhim.

He looked at me. “How?” he asked.I gave him a look to say I knew exactly

what I was doing, put my fingers in mymouth and whistled loudly.

It was the signal Charles had been wait-ing for, and he came rushing from betweentwo buildings into the street. He’d taken hisshirt off and was using it to obscure his face;the rest of his clothes were in disarray, too:he’d used mud on himself so that he lookednothing like the army officer he truly was. Helooked, in fact, like a madman, and promptlybehaved like one, standing in front of the

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patrol, which came to a disorganized halt,too surprised or bemused even to raiseweapons, as Charles began to shout, “Oi!You’re thieves and scoundrels one and all!You swear the empire will . . . will rewardand honour us! But in the end you deliveronly death! And for what? Rocks and ice,trees and streams? A few dead Frenchmen?Well, we don’t want it! Don’t need it! So takeyour false promises, your dangled purses,your uniforms and guns—take all thosethings that you hold so dear, and shove themup your arse!”

The redcoats looked at one another,open-mouthed with disbelief, so taken abackthat, for a moment, I worried they weren’tgoing to react at all. Even Braddock, who wassome distance away, simply stood, his jawhanging open, not sure whether to be angryor amused by this unexpected outburst ofpure lunacy.

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Were they simply going to turn aroundand carry on? Perhaps Charles had the sameworry, because all of a sudden he added, “Fieon you and your false war,” then added hiscrowning touch. He reached, scooped up apiece of horseshit and flung it in the generaldirection of the group, most of whom turnedsmartly away. The lucky ones, thatwas—General Edward Braddock notincluded.

He stood, with horseshit on his uniform,no longer undecided about whether to beamused or angry. Now he was just angry,and his roar seemed to shake the leaves inthe trees: “After him!”

Some of the men peeled away from thegroup and went to grab Charles, who hadalready turned and was now running, past ageneral store, then left from the streetbetween the store and a tavern.

This was our chance. But instead of seiz-ing it, John merely said, “Damn it.”

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“What’s wrong?” I said. “Now’s ourchance to escape.”

“I’m afraid not. Your man just led theminto a dead end. We need to rescue him.”

Inwardly, I groaned. So it was a rescuemission—just not of the man I had intendedto rescue. And I, too, went running towardsthe passageway: only I had no intention ofsatisfying our noble general’s honour; Isimply had to keep Charles from harm.

I was too late. By the time I got there hewas already under arrest, and I stood back,cursing silently as he was dragged back intothe main thoroughfare and brought to standbefore a seething General Braddock, whowas already reaching for his sword when Idecided things had gone too far.

“Unhand him, Edward.”He turned to me. If it was possible for his

face to darken more than it already had, thenit did. Around us, breathless redcoats gaveeach other confused looks, while Charles,

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held by a redcoat on either side and stillshirtless, shot me a grateful look.

“You again!” spat Braddock, furious.“Did you think I wouldn’t return?” I

replied equably.“I’m more surprised about how easily you

were unmasked,” he gloated. “Going soft, itseems.”

I had no wish to trade insults with him.“Let us go—and John Pitcairn with us,” Isaid.

“I will not have my authority challenged,”said Braddock

“Nor I.”His eyes blazed. Had we really lost him?

For a moment I pictured myself sitting downwith him, showing him the book and watch-ing the transformation come over him, justas it had with me. Could he feel that samesense of suddenly knowing that I had? Couldhe return to us?

“Put them all in chains,” he snapped.

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No, I decided he couldn’t.And, again, I wished for Reginald’s pres-

ence, because he would have nipped this ar-gument in the bud: he would have preventedwhat happened next.

Which is that I decided I could take them;and I made my move. In a trice my blade wasout and the nearest redcoat died with a lookof surprise on his face as I ran him through.Out of the corner of my eye I saw Braddockdart to the side, draw his own sword and yellat another man, who reached for his pistol,already primed. John reached him before Idid, his sword flashing down and choppingat the man’s wrist, not quite severing thehand but slicing through the bone, so that fora moment his hand flapped at the end of hisarm and the pistol fell harmlessly to theground.

Another trooper came at me from my leftand we exchanged blows—one, two, three. Ipushed forward until his back was against

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the wall, and my final thrust was between thestraps across his tunic, into his heart. Iwheeled and met a third man, deflected hisblow and swept my blade across his midriff,sending him to the dirt. With the back of myhand I wiped blood from my face in time tosee John run another man through andCharles, who had snatched a sword from oneof his captors, finish the other with a fewconfident strokes.

Then the fight was over and I faced thelast man standing—and the last man stand-ing was General Edward Braddock.

It would have been be so easy. So easy tohave ended this here. His eyes told me thathe knew—he knew that I had it in my heartto kill him. Perhaps, for the first time, herealized that any ties that had once bound us,those of the Templar, or mutual respect forReginald, no longer existed.

I let the moment hang then dropped mysword. “I stay my hand today because you

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were once my brother,” I told him, “and abetter man than this. But should we crosspaths again, all debts will be forgotten.”

I turned to John. “You’re free now, John.”The three of us—me, John and

Charles—began to walk away.“Traitor!” called Braddock. “Go on then.

Join them on their fool’s errand. And whenyou find yourself lying broken and dying atthe bottom of some dark pit, I pray my wordstoday are the last that you remember.”

And, with that, he strode off, steppingover the corpses of his men and shoulderinghis way past bystanders. You were never toofar from a redcoat patrol on Boston’s streetsand, with Braddock able to call on reinforce-ments, we decided to make ourselves scarce.As he left, I cast my eye over the bodies ofthe felled redcoats lying in the mud and re-flected that, as recruitment drives go, it hadnot been the most successful afternoon.

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No wonder townsfolk gave us a wideberth as we hurried back along the streets to-wards the Green Dragon. We were mud-splattered and bloodstained, and Charleswas struggling back into his clothes. John,meanwhile, was curious to know about myanimosity towards Braddock, and I told himabout the slaughter at the skiff, finishing bysaying, “Things were never the same afterthat. We campaigned together a few moretimes, but each outing was more disturbingthan the last. He killed and killed: enemy orally, civilian or soldier, guilty or innocent—itmattered not. If he perceived people to be anobstacle, they died. He maintained that viol-ence was a more efficient solution. It becamehis mantra. And it broke my heart.”

“We should stop him,” said John, glan-cing behind, as though we might try at once.

“I suppose you’re right . . . But I maintaina foolish hope that he might yet be saved andbrought back round to reason. I know, I

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know . . . it’s a silly thing, to believe that oneso drenched in death might suddenlychange.”

Or was it so silly? I wondered, as wewalked. After all, hadn’t I changed?

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14 JULY 1754

i

By staying at the Green Dragon, we were inthe right place to hear of any rumblingsagainst us, and my man Thomas kept his earto the ground. Not that it was much of achore for him, of course: listening out for anysigns of a plot against us meant supping alewhile he eavesdropped on conversations andpressed others for gossip. He was very goodat that. He needed to be. We had made en-emies: Silas, of course; but, most worryingly,General Edward Braddock.

Last night, I had sat at the desk in myroom to write my journal. My hidden bladewas on the table beside me, my sword withineasy reach in case Braddock launched his in-evitable retributive strike straight away, and

I knew that that this was how it would befrom now on: sleeping with one eye open,weapons never far from hand, always lookingover our shoulders, every strange face be-longing to a potential enemy. Just thethought of it was exhausting, but what otherchoice was there? According to Slater, Brad-dock had renounced the Templar Order. Hewas a loose cannon now, and the one thingworse than a loose cannon is a loose cannonwith an army at his disposal.

I could at least console myself with know-ing that I now had a hand-picked team and,once again, we were assembled in the backroom, boosted by the addition of John Pit-cairn, a more formidable proposition foreither of our two opponents.

As I entered the room, they rose to greetme—even Thomas, who seemed more soberthan usual as I cast my eyes over them. Ben-jamin’s wounds had healed nicely. Johnseemed to have cast off the shackles of his

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commission with Braddock, his preoccupiedair replaced by a new lightness of spirit.Charles was still a British Army officer andwas worried that Braddock might recall himand, consequently, when not looking downhis nose at Thomas wore a concerned look.William stood at his lectern holding a quill inhis hand, still hard at work comparing themarkings on the amulet with the book andhis own maps and graphs, still perplexed, thetelling details still eluding him. I had an ideaabout that.

I gestured at them to take their seats, andsat among them.

“Gentlemen, I believe I’ve found the solu-tion to our problem. Or, rather, Odysseushas.”

The mention of the Greek hero’s namehad a somewhat varied effect on my compan-ions and, as William, Charles and Benjaminall nodded sagely, John and Thomas looked

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somewhat confused, Thomas being the leastself-conscious.

“Odysseus? Is he a new guy?” He belched.“The Greek hero, you lobcock,” said

Charles, disgusted.“Allow me to explain,” I said. “We’ll enter

Silas’s fort under the pretence of kinship.Once inside, we spring our trap. Free thecaptives and kill the slaver.”

I watched as they absorbed my plan. Tho-mas was the first to speak. “Dodgy, dodgy.”He grinned. “I like it.”

“Then let us begin,” I continued. “First,we need to find ourselves a convoy . . .”

ii

Charles and I were on a rooftop overlookingone of Boston’s public squares, both dressedas redcoats.

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I looked down at my own uniform. Therewas still a little of Slater’s blood on mybrown leather belt and a stain on the whitestockings, but otherwise I looked the part;Charles, too, even though he picked at hisuniform.

“I’d forgotten how uncomfortable theseuniforms are.”

“Necessary, I’m afraid,” I said, “in orderto properly effect our deception.”

I looked at him. He wouldn’t have to suf-fer for long at least. “The convoy should behere soon,” I told him. “We’ll attack on mysignal.”

“Understood, sir,” replied Charles.In the square below us an upturned cart

blocked the far exit, and two men were huff-ing and puffing as they tried to turn it theright way up again.

Or pretending to huff and puff and turnthe cart the right way up, I should say, be-cause the two men were Thomas and

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Benjamin and the cart had been deliberatelytipped over by all four of us a few momentsbefore, strategically placed to block the exit.Not far away from it were John and William,who waited in the shadows of a nearby black-smith’s hut, sitting on upturned buckets withtheir hats pulled down low over their eyes, acouple of smithys taking a break, lazing theday away, watching the world go by.

The trap was set. I put my spyglass to myeye and looked over the landscape beyondthe square, and this time I saw them—theconvoy, a squad of nine redcoats making itsway towards us. One of them was driving ahay cart and, beside him on the board,was . . .

I adjusted the focus. It was a Mohawkwoman—a beautiful Mohawk woman, who,despite the fact that she was chained in placewore a proud, defiant expression and satstraight, in marked contrast to the redcoatwho sat beside her driving, whose shoulders

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were hunched and who had a long-stemmedpipe in his mouth. She had a bruise on herface, I realized, and was surprised to feel asurge of anger at the sight of it. I wonderedhow long ago they’d caught her and how, in-deed, they’d managed it. Evidently, she’d putup a fight.

“Sir,” said Charles from by my side,prompting me, “hadn’t you better give thesignal?”

I cleared my throat. “Of course, Charles,”I said, and put my fingers in my mouth andgave a low whistle, watching as my comradesbelow exchanged “ready” signals, and Tho-mas and Benjamin kept up the pretence oftrying to upturn the cart.

We waited—we waited until the redcoatsmarched into the square and found the cartblocking their way.

“What the hell is this?” said one of thefront guards.

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“A thousand pardons, sirs—seems we’vehad ourselves an unhappy little accident,”said Thomas, with open hands and an ingra-tiating smile.

The lead redcoat took note of Thomas’saccent and at once assumed a contemptuouslook. He went a shade of purple, not quiteangry enough to match the colour of his tu-nic, but deep enough.

“Get it sorted—and quickly,” he snapped,and Thomas touched a servile hand to hisforelock before turning back to help Ben-jamin with the cart.

“’Course, milord, at once,” he said.Charles and I, now on our bellies,

watched. John and William sat with theirfaces hidden but they, too, watched the sceneas the redcoats, rather than simply marchingaround the cart or even—God forbid—help-ing Thomas and Benjamin to put the cartstraight, stood and looked on as the lead

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guard became more and more furious, untilhis temper finally snapped.

“Look—either get your cart right, or we’reriding through it.”

“Please don’t.” I saw Thomas’s eyes dartup to the rooftop where we lay, then acrossto where William and John sat ready, theirhands now on the hilts of their swords, andhe spoke the action phrase, which was“We’re nearly finished.”

In one movement Benjamin had drawnhis sword and run through the nearest man,while, before the lead guard had a chance toreact, Thomas had done the same, a daggerappearing from within his sleeve, which wasjust as quickly embedded into the leadguard’s eye.

At the same time, William and John burstfrom cover, and three men fell beneath theirblades, while Charles and I jumped fromabove, catching those nearest by surprise:four men died. We didn’t even give them the

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solace of breathing their last breath with dig-nity. Worried about getting their clothesstained with blood, we were already strip-ping the dying men of their uniforms. In mo-ments we had pulled the bodies into somestables, shut and bolted the door, and wethen stood in the square, six redcoats whohad taken the place of nine. A new convoy.

I looked around. The square had not beenbusy before, but now it was deserted. We hadno idea who might have been a witness to theambush—colonials who hated the Britishand were glad to see them fall? British Armysympathizers who even now were on theirway to Southgate Fort to warn Silas aboutwhat had happened? We had no time to lose.

I jumped into the driver’s seat, and theMohawk woman pulled away slightly—as faras her manacles would allow, anyway—andgave me a wary but mutinous look.

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“We’re here to help you,” I tried to reas-sure her. “Along with those held withinSouthgate Fort.”

“Free me then,” she said.Regretfully, I told her, “Not until we’re

inside. I can’t chance an inspection at thegate going wrong,” and was rewarded with adisgusted look, as though to say it was just asshe’d expected.

“I’ll see you safe,” I insisted, “you havemy word.” I shook the reins and the horsesbegan to move, my men walking either sideof me.

“Do you know anything of Silas’s opera-tion?” I asked the Mohawk woman. “Howmany men we might expect? The nature oftheir defences?”

But she said nothing. “You must be prettyimportant to him if you were given your ownescort,” I pressed, and still she ignored me.“I wish you’d trust us . . . though I supposeit’s only natural for you to be wary. So be it.”

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When she still didn’t answer, I realized mywords were wasted, and decided to shut up.

When at last we reached the gates, aguard stepped forward. “Hold,” he said.

I tightened the reins and we drew to astop, me and my redcoats. Looking past theprisoner, I tipped my hat to the guards:“Evening, gentlemen.”

The sentry was in no mood for pleasant-ries, I could tell. “State your business,” hesaid flatly, staring at the Mohawk womanwith interested, lustful eyes. She returned hisstare with a venomous look of her own.

For a moment I mused that when I’d firstarrived in Boston I’d wanted to see whatchanges British rule had wrought on thiscountry, what effect our governance had hadon its people. For the native Mohawk, it wasclear to see that any effect had not been forthe good. We talked piously of saving thisland; instead, we were corrupting it.

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I indicated the woman now. “Delivery forSilas,” I said, and the guard nodded, lickedhis lips then rapped on the door for it toopen, for us to trundle slowly forward. In-side, the fort was quiet. We found ourselvesnear to the battlements, low dark-stone wallswhere cannons were ranged to look out overBoston, towards the sea, and redcoats withmuskets slung over their shoulders patrolledback and forth. The focus of their attentionwas outside the walls; they feared an attackfrom the French and, looking down fromtheir battlements, hardly gave us a secondglance as we trundled in on our cart and, try-ing to look as casual as possible, made ourway to a secluded section, where the firstthing I did was to cut the woman free.

“See? I’m freeing you, just as I said Iwould. Now, if you’ll allow me to explain . . .”

But her answer was no. With a final glareat me she had leapt from the cart and disap-peared into the darkness, leaving me to stare

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after her with the distinct feeling of unfin-ished business; wanting to explain myself toher; wanting to spend more time with her.

Thomas went to go after her, but Istopped him. “Let her go,” I said.

“But she’ll give us away,” he protested.I looked at where she had been—already

she was a memory, a ghost. “No, she won’t,”I said, and got down, casting a look aroundto make sure we were alone in the quad-rangle then gathering the others to give themtheir orders: free the captives and avoid de-tection. They nodded grimly, each of themcommitted to the task.

“What of Silas?” asked Benjamin.I thought of the snickering man I had

seen at the warehouse, who had left Ben-jamin to the mercy of Cutter. I rememberedBenjamin’s pledge to have his head, andlooked at my friend now. “He dies,” I said.

I watched as the men melted away intothe night, and decided to keep a close watch

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on Charles, my pupil. And saw as he ap-proached a group of redcoats and introducedhimself. I glanced across the quadrangle tosee that Thomas had inveigled himself withanother of the patrols. William and John,meanwhile, were walking casually in the dir-ection of a building I thought was probablythe stockade, where the prisoners were kept,where a guard was even now shifting andmoving to block their way. I looked to checkthat the other guards were being kept occu-pied by Charles and Thomas and, when I wassatisfied, gave John a surreptitious signal,then saw him exchange a quick word withWilliam as they came to the guard.

“Can I help you?” I heard the guard say,his voice drifting over the quad just as Johnkneed him in the bollocks. With a low groanlike an animal in a trap, he dropped hispikestaff and fell to his knees. Straight awayJohn was feeling at his waist and retrieving akey ring then, with his back to the quad, he

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opened the door, grabbed a torch from abracket outside and disappeared inside.

I glanced around. None of the guards hadseen what was going on at the stockade.Those on the battlements were diligentlystaring out to sea; those inside had their at-tention diverted by Charles and Thomas.

Looking back at the door of the stockade,I saw John reappear then usher out the firstof the prisoners.

And suddenly one of the troops on thebattlements saw what was happening. “Oi,you there, what’s your game?” he shouted,already levelling his musket, and the crywent up. Immediately I dashed over to thebattlements, where the first redcoat wasabout to pull the trigger, bounded up thestone steps and was upon him, thrusting myblade under his jaw in one clean move. Idropped into a crouch and let his body fallover me, springing from beneath it to spearthe next guard in his heart. A third man had

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his back to me, drawing a bead on William,but I whipped my blade across the backs ofhis legs then delivered the coup de grâce tothe back of his neck when he fell. Not faraway, William thanked me with a raisedhand then turned to meet another guard. Hissword swung as a redcoat fell beneath theblade, and when he turned to meet a secondman his face was stained with blood.

In moments, all of the guards were dead,but the door to one of the outbuildings hadopened and Silas had appeared, alreadyangry. “An hour of quiet was all I asked,” heroared. “Instead I’m awakened not tenminutes later by this cacophonous madness.I expect an explanation—and it had best begood.”

He was stopped in his tracks, his outburstdying on his lips as the colour drained fromhis face. All around the quad were the bodiesof his men, and his head jerked as he lookedacross to the stockade, where the door hung

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open, natives pouring out and John urgingthem to move more quickly.

Silas drew his sword as more men ap-peared from behind him. “How?” heshrieked. “How did this happen? My pre-cious merchandise set free. It’s unacceptable.Rest assured, I’ll have the heads of those re-sponsible. But first . . . first we clean up thismess.”

His guards were pulling on tunics, strap-ping swords to their waists, priming mus-kets. The quadrangle, empty but for corpsesa moment ago, was suddenly filled with moretroops, eager for retribution. Silas was besidehimself, screaming at them, frantically wav-ing at the troops to take up their arms, calm-ing himself as he continued: “Seal the fort.Kill any who try to escape. I don’t care if theybe one of us or one of . . . them. To approachthe gate is to be made a corpse! Am Iunderstood?”

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The fighting continued. Charles, Thomas,William, John and Benjamin moved amongthe men and made the most of their dis-guises. The men they attacked were reducedto fighting among themselves, not surewhich man in an army uniform was friendand which an enemy. The natives, unarmed,sheltered to wait the fighting out, even as agroup of Silas’s redcoats formed a line at theentrance to the fort. I saw my chance—Silashad positioned himself to one side of histroops and was exhorting them to be ruth-less. Silas, it was clear, did not care who diedas long as his precious “merchandise” wasnot allowed to escape, as long as his pridewas not damaged in the process.

I motioned to Benjamin, and we movedup close to Silas, saw that he had spotted usout of the corner of his eye. For a moment Icould see the confusion play across his fea-tures, until he realized that, firstly, we weretwo of the interlopers and, secondly, he had

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no means of escape, as we stood blockinghim from reaching the rest of his men. To allintents and purposes we looked like a pair ofloyal bodyguards keeping him from harm.

“You don’t know me,” I told him, “but Ibelieve the two of you are well acquain-ted . . .” I said, and Benjamin Church steppedforward.

“I made a promise to you, Silas,” saidBenjamin, “one I intend to keep . . .”

It was over in seconds. Benjamin was farmore merciful with Silas than Cutter hadbeen with him. With their leader dead, thefort’s defence broke up, the gates opened andwe allowed the rest of the redcoats to pourout. Behind them came the Mohawk prison-ers, and I saw the woman from earlier. Rath-er than escaping, she’d stayed to help herpeople: she was courageous as well as beauti-ful and spirited. As she helped members ofher tribe away from the accursed fort, our

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eyes met, and I found myself entranced byher. And then she was gone.

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15 NOVEMBER 1754

i

It was freezing, and snow covered the groundall around us as we set off early this morningand rode towards Lexington in pursuit of . . .

Perhaps “obsession” is too strong a word.“Preoccupation,” then: my “preoccupation”with the Mohawk woman, from the cart. Spe-cifically, with finding her.

Why?If Charles had asked me, I’d have told

him that I wanted to find her because I knewher English was good and I thought shewould be a useful contact within the Mohawkto help locate the precursor site.

That’s what I would have said if Charleshad asked me why I wanted to find her, andit would have been partly the truth. Partly.

Anyway, Charles and I took one of my ex-peditions, this one out to Lexington, when hesaid, “I’m afraid I have some bad news, sir.”

“What is it, Charles?”“Braddock’s insisting I return to service

under him. I’ve tried to beg off, to no avail,”he said sadly.

“No doubt he’s still angry about losingJohn—to say nothing of the shaming we gavehim,” I responded thoughtfully, wondering ifI could have finished it then, when I had thechance. “Do as he asks. In the meantime, I’llwork on having you released.”

How? I wasn’t sure. After all, there was atime when I could have relied on a stiff letterfrom Reginald to change Braddock’s mind,but it had become clear that Braddock nolonger had any affinity with our ways.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” said Charles.“Not your fault,” I replied.I was going to miss him. After all, he had

already done a lot to locate my mystery

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woman, who, according to him, was to befound outside Boston in Lexington, whereshe was apparently stirring up troubleagainst the British, who were led by Brad-dock. Who could blame her, after seeing herpeople imprisoned by Silas? So Lexingtonwas where we were—at a recently vacatedhunting camp.

“She’s not too far away,” Charles told me.And did I imagine it, or did I feel my pulsequicken a little? It had been a long time sinceany woman had made me feel this way. Mylife had been spent either in studying ormoving around and, as for women in mybed, there had been nobody serious: the oc-casional washerwoman during my servicewith the Coldstreams, waitresses, landlords’daughters—women who had provided solaceand comfort, physical and otherwise, butnobody I’d have described as at all special.

This woman, though: I had seensomething in her eyes, as if she were

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something of a kindred spirit—another loner,another warrior, another bruised soul wholooked at the world with weary eyes.

I studied the camp. “The fire’s only justbeen snuffed, the snow recently disturbed.” Ilooked up. “She’s close.”

I dismounted but, when I saw Charleswas about to do the same, I stopped him.

“Best you return to Braddock, Charles,before he grows suspicious. I can handlethings from here.”

He nodded, reined his horse round, and Iwatched as they left then turned my atten-tion to the snow-covered ground around me,wondering about my real reason for sendinghim off. And knowing exactly what it was.

ii

I crept though the trees. It had begun tosnow again, and the forest was strangely

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silent, but for the sound of my own breath-ing, which billowed in vapours in front ofme. I moved fast but stealthily, and it wasn’tlong before I saw her, or at least the back ofher. She was kneeling in the snow, a musketleaning against a tree, as she examined asnare. I came closer, as quietly as I could,only to see her tense.

She’d heard me. God she was good.And in the next instant she had rolled to

her side, snatched up the musket, thrown alook behind her then taken off into thewoods.

I ran after her. “Please stop running,” Icalled as we flew through the snow-blanketed woodland. “I only wish to talk. Iam not your enemy.”

But she kept on going. I dashed nimblythrough the snow, moving fast and easily ne-gotiating the terrain, but she was faster andnext she took to the trees, raising herself offthe hard-to-negotiate snow and swinging

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from branch to branch wherever she wasable.

In the end, she took me further and fur-ther into the forest and would have escapedwere it not for a piece of bad fortune. Shetripped on a tree root, stumbled, fell, and Iwas upon her at once, but not to attack, tocome to her aid, and I held up a hand,breathing hard as I managed to say, “Me.Haytham. I. Come. In. Peace.”

She looked at me as though she hadn’tunderstood a word I’d said. I felt the begin-nings of a panic. Maybe I’d been wrongabout her in the cart. Maybe she couldn’tspeak English at all.

Until, suddenly, she replied with, “Areyou touched in the head?”

Perfect English.“Oh . . . sorry . . .”She gave a disgusted shake of her head.“What do you want?”

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“Well, your name, for one.” My shouldersheaved as I gradually caught my breath,which was steaming in the freezing cold.

And then, after a period of indecision—Icould see it playing across her face—she said,“I am Kaniehtí:io.

“Just call me Ziio,” she said, when I triedand failed to repeat her name back to her.“Now tell me why it is you’re here.”

I reached around my neck and took offthe amulet, to show her. “Do you know whatthis is?”

Without warning, she grabbed my arm.“You have one?” she asked. For a second Iwas confused, until I realized she was look-ing not at the amulet, but at my hiddenblade. I watched her for a moment, feelingwhat I can only describe as a strange mixtureof emotions: pride, admiration, then trepida-tion as, accidentally, she ejected the blade.To her credit, though, she didn’t flinch, justlooked up at me with wide brown eyes, and I

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felt myself fall a little deeper as she said,“I’ve seen your little secret.”

I smiled back, trying to look more confid-ent than I felt, and raised the amulet, start-ing again.

“This.” I dangled it. “Do you know what itis?”

Taking it in her hand, she gazed at it.“Where did you get it?”

“From an old friend,” I said, thinking ofMiko and offering a silent prayer for him. Iwondered, should it have been him here in-stead of me, an Assassin instead of aTemplar?

“I’ve only seen such markings in one oth-er place,” she said, and I felt an instant thrill.

“Where?”“It . . . it is forbidden for me to speak of

it.”I leaned towards her. I looked into her

eyes, hoping to convince with the strength of

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my conviction. “I saved your people. Doesthis mean nothing to you?”

She said nothing.“Look,” I pressed, “I am not the enemy.”And perhaps she thought of the risks we

had taken at the fort, how we had freed somany of her people from Silas. Andmaybe—maybe—she saw something in meshe liked.

Either way, she nodded then replied,“Near here, there is a hill. On top of it growsa mighty tree. Come, we’ll see if you speakthe truth.”

iii

She led me there, and indicated below us,where there was a town she told me wascalled Concord.

“The town hosts soldiers who seek todrive my people from these lands. They are

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led by a man known as the Bulldog,” shesaid.

The realization dawned. “EdwardBraddock . . .”

She rounded on me. “You know him?”“He is no friend of mine,” I assured her,

and never had I been more sincere.“Every day, more of my people are lost to

men like him,” she said fiercely.“And I suggest we put a stop to it.

Together.”She looked hard at me. There was doubt

in her eyes, but I could see hope as well.“What do you propose?”

Suddenly I knew. I knew exactly whathad to be done.

“We have to kill Edward Braddock.”I let the information sink in. Then added,

“But first we have to find him.”We began to head down the hill towards

Concord.“I don’t trust you,” she said flatly.

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“I know.”“Yet you remain.”“That I might prove you wrong.”“It will not happen.” Her jaw was set. She

believed it. I had a long way to go with thismysterious, captivating woman.

In town, we approached the tavern,where I stopped her. “Wait here,” I said. “AMohawk woman is likely to raise suspi-cions—if not muskets.”

She shook her head, instead pulling upher hood. “This is hardly the first time I’vebeen among your people,” she said. “I canhandle myself.”

I hoped so.We entered to find groups of Braddock’s

men drinking with a ferocity that would haveimpressed Thomas Hickey, and we movedamong them, eavesdropping on their conver-sations. What we discovered was that Brad-dock was on the move. The British plannedto enlist the Mohawk to march further north

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and go against the French. Even the menseemed frightened of Braddock, I realized.All talk was of how merciless he could be,and how even his officers were scared of him.One name I overheard was George Washing-ton. He was the only one brave enough toquestion the general, according to a pair ofgossiping redcoats I eavesdropped upon.When I moved through to the back of thetavern, I found the selfsame George Wash-ington sitting with another officer at a se-cluded table, and loitered close by in order tolisten in on their conversation.

“Tell me you’ve good news?” said one.“General Braddock refused the offer.

There will be no truce,” said the other.“Damn it.“Why, George? What reason did he give?”The man he called George—whom I took

to be George Washington—replied, “He saida diplomatic solution was no solution at all.That allowing the French to retreat would

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only delay an inevitable conflict—one inwhich they now have the upper hand.”

“There’s merit in those words, much as Ihate to admit it. Still . . . can’t you see this isunwise?”

“It doesn’t sit well with me either. We’refar from home, with forces divided. Worse, Ifear private bloodlust makes Braddock care-less. It puts the men at risk. I’d rather not bedelivering grim news to mothers and widowsbecause the Bulldog wanted to prove apoint.”

“Where is the general now?”“Rallying the troops.”“And then it’s on to Fort Duquesne, I

assume?”“Eventually. The march north will surely

take time.”“At least this will be ended soon . . .”“I tried, John.”“I know, my friend. I know . . .”

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“Braddock has left to rally his troops,” Itold Ziio outside the tavern. “And they’remarching on Fort Duquesne. It’ll be a whileyet until they’re ready, which gives us time toform a plan.”

“No need,” she said. “We’ll ambush himnear the river. Go and gather your allies. Iwill do the same. I’ll send word when it’stime to strike.”

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8 JULY 1755

It has been nearly eight months since Ziiotold me to wait for her word, but at last itcame, and we travelled to the Ohio Country,where the British were about to begin a ma-jor campaign against the French forts. Brad-dock’s expedition was aimed at overthrowingFort Duquesne.

We had all been busy in that time, andnone more than Ziio, I discovered, when wedid eventually meet and I saw that she hadbrought with her many troops, many of themnatives.

“All these men are from many differenttribes—united in their desire to see Braddocksent away,” she said. “The Abenaki, theLenape, the Shawnee.”

“And you?” I said to her, when the intro-ductions had been made. “Who do you standfor?”

A thin smile: “Myself.”“What would you have me do?” I said at

last.“You will help the others to prepare . . .”She wasn’t joking. I put my men to work

and joined them building blockades, filling acart with gunpowder in order to prepare atrap, until everything was in place and Ifound myself grinning, saying to Ziio, “I can’twait to see the look on Braddock’s face whenthe trap is finally sprung.”

She gave me a distrusting look. “You takepleasure in this?”

“You’re the one who asked me to help youkill a man.”

“It does not please me to do so. He is sac-rificed so that the land and the people wholive on it might be saved. What motivates

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you? Some past wrongs? A betrayal? Or is itsimply the thrill of the hunt?”

Mollified, I said, “You misread me.”She indicated through the trees, towards

the Monongahela River.“Braddock’s men will be here soon,” she

said. “We should prepare for their arrival.”

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9 JULY 1755

i

A Mohawk scout on horseback quickly spokesome words I didn’t understand but, as hegestured back down the valley towards theMonongahela, I could guess what he wassaying: that Braddock’s men had crossed theriver and would soon be upon us. He left toinform the rest of the ambush, and Ziio, ly-ing by my side, confirmed what I alreadyknew.

“They come,” she said simply.I’d been enjoying lying next to her in our

hiding place, the proximity of her. So it waswith a measure of regret that I looked outfrom beneath a fringe of undergrowth to seethe regiment emerge from the tree line at thebottom of the hill. I heard it at the same

time: a distant rumble growing louder whichheralded the arrival of not a patrol, not ascouting party, but an entire regiment ofBraddock’s men. First came the officers onhorseback, then the drummers and bands-men, then the troops marching, then portersand camp followers guarding the baggagetrain. The entire column stretched back al-most as far as the eye could see.

And, at the head of the regiment, the gen-eral himself, who sat, gently rocking with therhythm of his horse, his freezing breathclouding the air ahead of him, and GeorgeWashington by his side.

Behind the officers the drummers kept upa steady beat, for which we were eternallygrateful, because in the trees were Frenchand Indian snipers. On the high ground werescores of men who lay on their bellies, theundergrowth pulled over them, waiting forthe sign to attack: a hundred or more menwaiting to spring the ambush; a hundred

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men who held their breath as, suddenly,General Braddock held up his hand, an of-ficer on his other side barked an order, thedrums stopped and the regiment came to ahalt, horses whinnying and sneezing, pawingat the snowy, frozen ground, the columngradually descending into silence.

An eerie calm settled around the men inthe column. In the ambush, we held ourbreath, and I’m sure every man and woman,like me, wondered if we’d been discovered.

George Washington looked at Braddockthen behind, where the rest of the column,officers’ soldiers and followers stood waitingexpectantly, then back at Braddock.

He cleared his throat.“Everything all right, sir?” he asked.Braddock took a deep breath. “Just sa-

vouring the moment,” he replied, then tookanother deep breath, and added: “No doubtmany wonder why it is we’ve pushed so farwest. These are wild lands, as yet untamed

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and unsettled. But it shall not always be so.In time, our holdings will no longer suffice,and that day is closer than you think. Wemust ensure that our people have ampleroom to grow and further prosper. Whichmeans we need more land. The French un-derstand this—and endeavour to preventsuch growth. They skirt around our territ-ory—erecting forts and forging alli-ances—awaiting the day they might strangleus with the noose they’ve built. This mustnot come to pass. We must sever the cordand send them back. This is why we ride. Tooffer them one last chance: the French willleave or they will die.”

By my side, Ziio gave me a look, and Icould see that there was nothing she wouldlike better than to prick the man’s pompositystraight away.

Sure enough. “Now is the time to strike,”she hissed.

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“Wait,” I said. When I turned my head Ifound she was looking at me, and our faceswere just an inch or so apart. “To scatter theexpedition is not enough. We must ensureBraddock fails. Else he is sure to try again.”

Kill him, I meant, and there would neverbe a better time to strike. I thought quicklythen, pointing at a small scouting convoythat had peeled away from the main regi-ment, said, “I’ll disguise myself as one of hisown and make my way to his side. Your am-bush will provide the perfect cover for me todeliver the killing blow.”

I made my way down towards the groundand stole towards the scouts. Silently, I en-gaged my blade, slid it into the neck of thenearest soldier and was unbuttoning hisjacket before he’d even hit the floor.

The regiment, some three hundred yardsaway now, began to move with a rumble likeapproaching thunder, the drums began againand the Indians used the sudden noise as

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cover to begin moving in the trees, adjustingtheir positions, readying the ambush.

I mounted the scout’s horse and spent amoment or so calming the animal, letting herget used to me, before taking her down asmall incline towards the column. An officer,also on horseback, spotted me, and orderedme back into position, so I waved an apologythen began to trot towards the head of thecolumn, past the baggage train and camp fol-lowers, past the marching soldiers, whothrew me resentful looks and talked aboutme behind my back, and past the band, untilI came almost level with the front of thecolumn. Close now, but also more vulner-able. Close enough to hear Braddock talkingto one of his men—one of his inner circle, hismercenaries.

“The French recognize they are weak inall things,” he was saying, “and so they haveallied themselves with the savages that in-habit these woods. Little more than animals,

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they sleep in trees, collect scalps and eveneat their own dead. Mercy is too kind forthem. Spare no one.”

I didn’t know whether to chuckle or not.“Eat their own dead.” Nobody still believedthat, surely?

The officer seemed to be thinking thesame thing. “But sir,” he protested, “thoseare just stories. The natives I have known donothing of the sort.”

In the saddle, Braddock rounded on him.“Are you calling me a liar?” he roared.

“I misspoke, sir,” said the mercenary,trembling. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am grateful toserve.”

“Have served, you mean,” snarledBraddock.

“Sir?” said the man, frightened.“You are grateful to ‘have served,’” Brad-

dock repeated, drew his pistol and shot theman. The officer fell back from his horse, ared hole where his face had been, his body

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thumping to the tinder-dry forest floor.Meanwhile, the report of the gun had scaredthe birds from the trees and the column sud-denly drew to a halt, the men pulling mus-kets from shoulders, drawing weapons, be-lieving they were under attack.

For a few moments they remained at fullalert, until the order came to stand down,and the word filtered back to them, a mes-sage delivered in hushed tones: the generalhad just shot an officer.

I was near enough to the front of thecolumn to see George Washington’s shockedreaction, and he alone had the courage tostand up to Braddock.

“General!”Braddock rounded on him, and perhaps

there was a moment in which Washingtonwondered if he was to receive the same treat-ment. Until Braddock thundered, “I will nottolerate doubt among those I command. Nor

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sympathy for the enemy. I’ve no time forinsubordination.”

Bravely George Washington countered,“None denied he erred, sir, only . . .”

“He paid for his treachery as all traitorsmust. If we are to win this war against theFrench . . . Nay, when we win this war . . . itwill be because men like you obeyed men likeme—and did so without hesitation. We musthave order in our ranks, and a clear chain ofcommand. Leaders and followers. Withoutsuch structure, there can be no victory. Am Iunderstood?”

Washington nodded but quickly lookedaway, keeping his true feelings to himself,and then, as the column moved off oncemore, moved away from the front on the pre-text of attending to business elsewhere. I sawmy chance and manoeuvred my way to be-hind Braddock, falling into position by hisside, just slightly behind so that he wouldn’tsee me. Not yet.

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I waited, biding my time, until suddenlythere was a commotion from behind us, andthe officer on the other side of Braddockpeeled away to investigate, leaving just thetwo of us up front. Me and GeneralBraddock.

I drew my pistol.“Edward,” I said, and enjoyed the mo-

ment as he swivelled in his saddle and hiseyes went from me, to the barrel of my pistoland then to me again. His mouth opened,about to do what, I wasn’t sure—call for helpprobably—but I wasn’t going to give him thechance. There was no escape for him now.

“Not so fun on the other end of the barrel,is it?” I said, and squeezed the trigger . . .

At exactly the same time as the regimentcame under attack—damn, the trap had beensprung too soon—my horse gave a start andthe shot went wide. Braddock’s eyes flashedwith hope and triumph as, suddenly, therewere Frenchmen all around us and arrows

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began raining down from the trees above us.Braddock pulled on the reins of his horsewith a yell and in the next moment wasmounting the verge towards the trees, while Isat, my pistol in my hand, stunned by the ab-rupt turn of events.

The hesitation almost cost me my life. Ifound myself in the path of a French-man—blue jacket, red breeches—his swordswinging and heading straight for me. It wastoo late to engage my blade. Too late to drawmy sword.

And then, just as rapidly, the Frenchmanwas flying from his saddle, as though jerkedon a piece of rope, the side of his head ex-ploding into a red spray. In the same mo-ment I heard the gunshot and saw, on ahorse behind him, my friend Charles Lee.

I nodded my thanks, but would have togive him more effusive gratitude later, as Isaw Braddock disappearing into the trees,his feet kicking at the flank of his steed and

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casting a quick look behind him, seeing meabout to give chase.

ii

Yelling encouragement at my horse, I fol-lowed Braddock into the forest, passing Indi-ans and Frenchmen who were rushing downthe hill towards the column. Ahead of me, ar-rows rained down on Braddock, but nonefound its target. Now, too, the traps we hadlaid were being sprung. I saw the cart,primed with gunpowder, come trundling outof the trees and scatter a group of riflemenbefore exploding and sending riderlesshorses scattering away from the column,while, from above me, native snipers pickedoff frightened and disorientated soldiers.

Braddock stayed frustratingly ahead ofme, until at last the terrain was too much for

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his horse, which reared up and sent him fall-ing to the ground.

Howling in pain, Braddock rolled in thedirt and briefly fumbled for his pistol beforedeciding against it, pulled himself to his feetand began to run. For me, it was a simplematter to catch him up, and I spurred myhorse on.

“I never took you for a coward, Edward,”I said as I reached him, and levelled mypistol.

He stopped in his tracks, span aroundand met my gaze. There—there was the ar-rogance. The scorn I knew so well.

“Come on then,” he sneered.I trotted closer, my gun held, when, sud-

denly, there was the sound of a gunshot, mysteed fell dead beneath me and I crashed tothe forest floor.

“Such arrogance,” I heard Braddock call.“I always knew it would be the end of you.”

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Now at his side was George Washington,who raised his musket to aim at me. In-stantly I had a fierce, bittersweet sense ofconsolation that at least it should be Wash-ington, who clearly had a conscience and wasnothing like the general, who was to end mylife, and I closed my eyes, ready to acceptdeath. I regretted that I had never seen myfather’s killers brought to justice, and that Ihad come tantalizingly close to discoveringthe secrets of Those Who Came Before butnever entered the storehouse; and I wishedthat I’d been able to see the ideals of myOrder spread throughout the world. In theend, I had not been able to change the world,but I had at least changed myself. I had notalways been a good man, but I had tried tobe a better one.

But the shot never came. And when Iopened my eyes it was to see Washingtonknocked off his horse and Braddockswinging round to see his officer on the deck,

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tussling with a figure that I recognized im-mediately as Ziio, who had not only takenWashington by surprise but had disarmedhim and had her knife to his throat. Brad-dock used the opportunity to flee, and Iscrambled to my feet, racing across the clear-ing to where Ziio held Washington firm.

“Hurry,” she snapped at me. “Before hegets away.”

I hesitated, not wanting to leave her alonewith Washington, and more troops on theway no doubt, but she struck him with thehilt of her knife, sending his eyes rolling,dazed, and I knew she could take care of her-self. So I took off after Braddock once again,this time both of us on foot. He still had hispistol, and darted behind a huge tree trunk,spinning and raising his gun arm. I stoppedand rolled into cover at the same time as hefired, heard the shot thump harmlessly into atree to my left and without pausing leapt outof my cover to continue the chase. He had

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already taken to his feet, hoping to outrunme, but I was thirty years younger than he; Ihadn’t spent the last two decades getting fatin charge of an army, and I hardly broke asweat as he began to slow. He glanced be-hind and his hat tumbled off as he mis-stepped and almost fell over the raised rootsof a tree.

I slowed, let him regain his balance andcontinue running, then chased after him,barely jogging now. Behind us, the sounds ofgunshots, of screams, of men and animals inpain, became fainter. The forest seemed todrown out the noise of battle, leaving just thesound of Braddock’s ragged breathing andhis footfalls on the soft forest floor. Again, heglanced behind and saw me—saw that I wasbarely even running now, and, finally, hedropped, exhausted, to his knees.

I flicked my finger, engaged the blade andcame close to him. Shoulders heaving as hefought for breath, he said, “Why, Haytham?”

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“Your death opens a door; it’s nothingpersonal,” I said.

I plunged the blade into him and watchedas blood bubbled up around the steel and hisbody tautened and jerked with the agony ofimpalement. “Well, maybe it’s a little bit per-sonal,” I said, as I lowered his dying body tothe ground. “You’ve been a pain in my ass,after all.”

“But we are brothers in arms,” he said.His eyelids fluttered as death beckoned tohim.

“Once, perhaps. No longer. Do you thinkI’ve forgotten what you did? All those inno-cents slaughtered without a second thought.And for what? It does not engender peace tocut your way to resolution.”

His eyes focused, and he looked at me.“Wrong,” he said, with a surprising and sud-den inner strength. “Were we to apply thesword more liberally and more often, the

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world would be possessed of far fewertroubles than it is today.”

I thought. “In this instance, I concur,” Isaid.

I took his hand and pulled off the ring hewore that bore the Templar crest.

“Farewell, Edward,” I said, and stoodwaiting for him to die.

At that moment, however, I heard thesound of a group of soldiers approaching andsaw I had no time to make my escape. In-stead, I dropped to my belly and wormed myway beneath a fallen tree trunk, where I wassuddenly at eye level with Braddock. Hishead turned to me, his eyes gleamed, and Iknew he’d give me away if he could. Slowly,his hand stretched out, his crooked fingertrying to point in my direction as the menarrived.

Damn. I should have delivered the killingblow.

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I saw the boots of the men who came intothe clearing, wondered how the battle hadgone, and saw George Washington shoulderhis way through a small knot of troops torush forward and kneel by the side of his dy-ing general.

Braddock’s eyes fluttered still. His mouthworked as he tried to form words—the wordsto give me away. I steeled myself, countingthe feet: six or seven men at least. Could Itake them?

But, I realized, Braddock’s attempts toalert his men to my presence were being ig-nored. Instead, George Washington had puthis head to his chest, listened then ex-claimed, “He lives.”

Beneath the tree trunk I closed my eyesand cursed as the men picked Braddock upand took him away.

Later, I rejoined Ziio. “It’s done,” I toldher. She nodded.

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“Now I’ve upheld my part of the bargain,I expect that you will honour yours?” Iadded.

She nodded again and bade me followher, and we began to ride.

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10 JULY 1755

We rode overnight, and at last she stoppedand indicated a dirt mound ahead of us. Itwas almost as if it had appeared from theforest. I wondered if I would even have seenit had I been here by myself. My heartquickened, and I swallowed. Did I imagine it,or was it as though the amulet suddenlywoke up around my neck, became heavier,warmer?

I looked at her before walking to theopening then slid inside, where I found my-self in a small room that had been lined withsimple ceramic. There was a ring of picto-graphs around the room, leading to a depres-sion on the wall. An amulet-sized depression.

I went to it and took the amulet fromaround my neck, pleased to see it glowslightly in my palm. Looking at Ziio, who

returned my gaze, her own eyes wide withtrepidation, I approached the indentationand, as my eyes adjusted to the dark, sawthat two figures painted on the wall knelt be-fore it, offering their hands to it as though tomake an offering.

The amulet seemed to glow even morebrightly now, as though the artefact itselfwere anticipating being reunited with thefabric of the chamber. How old was it? Iwondered. How many millions of years be-fore had the amulet been hewn from thisvery rock?

I had been holding my breath, I realized,and let it out in a whoosh now, as I reachedup and pressed the amulet into the hollow.

Nothing happened.I looked at Ziio. Then from her to the am-

ulet, where its former glow was beginning tofade, almost as though mirroring my own de-flating expectations. My lips moved, trying tofind words. “No . . .”

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I removed the amulet then tried it again,but still nothing.

“You seem disappointed,” she said at myside.

“I thought I held the key,” I said, and wasdismayed to hear the tone in my own voice,the defeat and disappointment. “That itwould open something here . . .”

She shrugged. “This room is all there is.”“I expected . . .”What had I expected?“. . . more.“These images, what do they mean?” I

asked, recovering myself.Ziio went to the wall to gaze at them. One

in particular seemed to catch her eye. It wasa god or a goddess wearing an ancient, in-tricate headdress.

“It tells the story of Iottsitíson,” she saidintently, “who came into our world andshaped it, that life might come. Hers was ahard journey, fraught with loss and great

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peril. But she believed in the potential of herchildren and what they might achieve.Though she is long gone from the physicalworld, her eyes still watch over us. Her earsstill hear our words. Her hands still guide us.Her love still gives us strength.”

“You’ve showed me a great kindness,Ziio. Thank you.”

When she looked back at me, her facewas soft.

“I am sorry you did not find what youseek.”

I took her hand. “I should go,” I said, notwanting to go at all, and in the end shestopped me: she leaned forward and kissedme.

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13 JULY 1755

“Master Kenway, did you find it, then?”They were the first words Charles Lee

said to me when I entered our room at theGreen Dragon Tavern. My men were all as-sembled, and they looked at me with expect-ant eyes, then faces that dropped when Ishook my head no.

“It was not the right place,” I confirmed.“I fear the temple was nothing more than apainted cave. Still, it contained precursor im-ages and script, which means we are close.We must redouble our efforts, expand ourOrder and establish a permanent base here,”I continued. “Though the site eludes us, I amconfident we will find it.”

“Truth!” said John Pitcairn.“Hear, hear!” chimed Benjamin Church.

“Furthermore, I believe it is time we wel-comed Charles into the fold. He has provenhimself a loyal disciple—and served unerr-ingly since the day he came to us. You shouldbe able to share in our knowledge and reapall the benefits such a gift implies, Charles.Are any opposed?”

The men stayed silent, casting approvinglooks at Charles.

“Very well.” I went on: “Charles, come,stand.” As he approached me I said, “Do youswear to uphold the principles of our Orderand all of that for which we stand?”

“I do.”“Never to share secrets nor divulge the

true nature of our work?”“I do.”“And to do so from now until

death—whatever the cost?”“I do.”The men stood. “Then we welcome you

into our fold, brother. Together we will usher

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in the dawn of a new world, one defined bypurpose and order. Give me your hand.”

I took the ring I’d removed from Brad-dock’s finger and pushed it on to Charles’s.

I looked at him. “You are a Templarnow.”

And at that he grinned. “May the father ofunderstanding guide us,” I said, and the menjoined me. Our team was complete.

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1 AUGUST 1755

Do I love her?That question I find difficult to answer.

All I knew was that I enjoyed being with herand came to treasure the time we spenttogether.

She was . . . different. There wassomething about her I had never experiencedin another woman. That “spirit” I spoke ofbefore, it seemed to come through in herevery word and gesture. I’d find myself look-ing at her, fascinated by the light thatseemed permanently to burn in her eyes andwondering, always wondering, what was go-ing on inside? What was she thinking?

I thought she loved me. I should say, Ithink she loves me, but she’s like me. There’sso much of herself she keeps hidden. And,like me, I think she knows that love cannot

progress, that we cannot live out our lives to-gether, either in this forest or in England,that there are too many barriers between usand our lives together: her tribe, for a start.She has no desire to leave her life behind.She sees her place as with her people, pro-tecting her land—land they feel is underthreat from people like me.

And I, too, have a responsibility to mypeople. The tenets of my Order, are they inline with the ideals of her tribe? I’m not surethat they are. Asked to choose between Ziioand the ideals I have been brought up to be-lieve, which would I choose?

These are the thoughts that have plaguedme over the last few weeks, even as I haveluxuriated in with these sweet, stolen hourswith Ziio. I have wondered what to do.

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4 AUGUST 1755

My decision has been made for me because,this morning, we had a visitor.

We were at camp, about five miles fromLexington, where we hadn’t seen any-one—not another human being—for severalweeks. I heard him, of course, before I sawhim. Or, rather, I should say that I heard thedisturbance he caused: a fluttering in the dis-tance as the birds left the trees. No Mohawkwould have caused them to behave in such away, I knew, which meant it was another: acolonial, a patriot, a British soldier; perhapseven a French scout, a long way out of hisway.

Ziio had left the camp almost an hour agoto hunt. Still, I knew her well enough toknow that she would have seen the disturbed

birds; she, too, would be reaching for hermusket.

I shimmied quickly up the lookout treeand scanned the area around us. There, inthe distance—there he was, a lone rider trot-ting slowly through the forest. His musketwas slung across his shoulder. He wore acocked hat and a dark buttoned-up coat; nomilitary uniform. Reining his horse, hestopped and I saw him reach into a knap-sack, retrieve a spyglass and put it to his eye.I watched as he angled the spyglass upwards,above the canopy of trees.

Why upwards? Clever boy. He was look-ing for the tell-tale wisps of smoke, greyagainst the bright, blue, early-morning sky. Iglanced down at our campfire, saw thesmoke that curled its way up to the heavensthen looked back at the rider, watching as hemoved his spyglass around the skyline, al-most as if . . .

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Yes. Almost as if he had divided thesearch area into a grid and was movingmethodically across it square by square, ex-actly the same way that . . .

I did. Or one of my pupils did.I allowed myself to relax slightly. It was

one of my men—probably Charles, judgingby his build and clothes. I watched as he sawthe wisps of smoke from the fire, replacedhis spyglass in his knapsack and began trot-ting towards the camp. Now he was near, Isaw that it was Charles, and I let myselfdown the tree and into camp, wonderingabout Ziio.

Back at ground level I looked around, andsaw the camp through Charles’s eyes: thecampfire, the two tin plates, a canvas strungbetween trees, under which were the skinsthat Ziio and I covered ourselves with forwarmth at night. I flipped the canvas downso that the skins were obscured then knelt bythe fire and collected the tin plates. A few

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moments later, his horse came into theclearing.

“Hello, Charles,” I said, without lookingat him.

“You knew it was me?”“I saw you are using your training: I was

very impressed.”“I was trained by the best,” he said. And I

heard the smile in his voice, looked up at lastto see him gazing down at me.

“We’ve missed you, Master Kenway,” hesaid.

I nodded. “And I you.”His eyebrows lifted. “Really? You know

where we are.”I pushed a stick into the fire and watched

the tip of it glow. “I wanted to know that youare able to operate in my absence.”

He pursed his lips and nodded. “I thinkyou know we can. What’s the real reason foryour absence, Haytham?”

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I looked up sharply from the fire. “Whatmight it be, Charles?”

“Perhaps you are enjoying life here withyour Indian woman, suspended between twoworlds, responsible to neither. It must benice to take such a holiday . . .”

“Careful, Charles,” I warned. Suddenlyaware that he looked down on me, I stood tomeet his eye, to be on more equal terms.“Perhaps instead of concerning yourself withmy activities, you should concentrate onyour own. Tell me, how are matters inBoston?”

“We have been taking care of those mat-ters you would have us attend to. Concerningthe land.”

I nodded, thinking of Ziio, wondering ifthere was another way.

“Anything else?” I asked.“We continue to look for signs of the pre-

cursor site . . .” he said, and raised his chin.“I see . . .”

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“William plans to lead an expedition tothe chamber.”

I started. “Nobody has asked me aboutthis.”

“You haven’t been there to ask,” saidCharles. “William thought . . . Well, if wewant to find the site, then that’s the bestplace to start.”

“We will enrage the natives if we beginsetting up camp in their lands.”

Charles gave me a look as though I hadtaken leave of my senses. Of course. Whatdid we, the Templars, care about upsetting afew natives?

“I’ve been thinking about the site,” I saidquickly. “Somehow it seems less importantnow . . .” I looked off into the distance.

“Something else you plan to neglect?” heasked impertinently.

“I’m warning you . . .” I said, and flexedmy fingers.

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He cast a look around the camp. “Whereis she anyway? Your Indian . . . lover?”

“Nowhere you need concern yourselfwith, Charles, and I would thank you to re-move that tone from your voice when youspeak of her in the future, else I might findmyself compelled to remove it forcibly.”

His eyes were cold when he looked at me.“A letter has arrived,” he said, reaching intohis knapsack and dropping it so that itlanded at my feet. I glanced down to see myname on the front of the envelope, and re-cognized the handwriting immediately. Theletter came from Holden, and my heartquickened just to see it: a link with my oldlife, my other life in England and my preoc-cupations there: finding my father’s killers.

I did or said nothing to betray my emo-tions on seeing the letter, adding, “Is theremore?”

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“Yes,” said Charles, “some good news.General Braddock has succumbed to his in-juries. He is dead at last.”

“When was this?”“He died soon after he was injured but

the news has only just reached us.”I nodded. “Then that bit of business is at

an end,” I said.“Excellent,” said Charles. “Then I shall

return, shall I? Tell the men that you are en-joying life here in the wilds? We can onlyhope that you grace us with your presencesometime in the future.”

I thought of the letter from Holden. “Per-haps sooner than you think, Charles. I have afeeling I may soon be called away on a busi-ness. You have proven yourself more thancapable of dealing with matters.” I gave hima thin, mirthless smile. “Perhaps you willcontinue to do so.”

Charles pulled on the reins of his horse.“As you wish, Master Kenway. I will tell the

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men to expect you. In the meantime, pleasegive your woman our regards.”

And, with that, he was gone. I crouched alittle longer by the fire, the forest silentaround me then said, “You can come outnow, Ziio, he’s gone,” and she dropped downfrom a tree, came striding into the clearing,her face like thunder.

I stood to meet her. The necklace she al-ways wore glinted in the morning sun andher eyes flashed angrily.

“He was alive,” she said. “You lied to me.”I swallowed. “But, Ziio, I . . .”“You told me he was dead,” she said, her

voice rising. “You told me he was dead sothat I would show you the temple.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I did do that, and forthat I’m sorry.”

“And what’s this about land?” she inter-rupted. “What was that man saying aboutthis land? Are you trying to take it, is thatit?”

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“No,” I said.“Liar!” she cried.“Wait. I can explain . . .”But she had already drawn her sword. “I

should kill you for what you’ve done.”“You’ve every right to your anger, to curse

my name and wish me gone. But the truth isnot what you believe it to be,” I started.

“Leave!” she said. “Leave this place andnever return. For, if you do, I will tear outyour heart with my own two hands and feedit to the wolves.”

“Only listen to me, I—”“Swear it,” she shouted.I hung my head. “As you wish.”“Then we are finished,” she said, then

turned and left me to pack my things and re-turn to Boston.

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17 SEPTEMBER 1757 (TWO YEARS

LATER)

i

As the sun set, painting Damascus a goldenbrown colour, I walked with my friend andcompanion Jim Holden in the shadow of thewalls of Qasr al-Azm.

And I thought about the four words thathad brought me here.

“I have found her.”They were the only words on the letter,

but they told me everything I needed toknow and were enough to transport me fromAmerica to England, where, before anythingelse could happen, I’d met with Reginald atWhite’s to fill him in on events in Boston. Heknew much of what had happened, of course,from letters, but, even so I’d expected him to

show an interest in the work of the Order,particularly where it concerned his old friendEdward Braddock.

I was wrong. All he cared about was theprecursor site, and when I told him I hadnew details regarding the location of thetemple and that they were to be found withinthe Ottoman Empire, he sighed and gave abeatific smile, like a laudanum addict sa-vouring his syrup.

Moments later, he was asking, “Where isthe book?” with a fidgety sound in his voice.

“William Johnson has made a copy,” Isaid, and reached to my bag in order to re-turn the original, which I slid across the tabletowards him. It was wrapped in cloth, tiedwith twine, and he looked at me gratefullybefore reaching to untie the bow and flipopen the covering to gaze upon his belovedtome: the aged brown leather cover, thestamp of the Assassin on its front.

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“Are they conducting a thorough searchof the chamber?” he asked as he wrapped upthe book, retied the bow then slipped it awaycovetously. “I should very much like to seethis chamber for myself.”

“Indeed,” I lied. “The men are to establisha camp there but face daily attacks from thenatives. It would be very hazardous for you,Reginald. You are Grand Master of the Brit-ish Rite. Your time is best spent here.”

“I see,” he nodded. “I see.”I watched him carefully. For him to have

insisted on visiting the chamber would havebeen an admission of neglect of his GrandMaster duties, and, obsessed as he was, Re-ginald wasn’t ready to do that yet.

“And the amulet?” he said.“I have it,” I replied.We talked some more, but there was little

warmth and, when we parted, I left wonder-ing what lay in his heart and what lay inmine. I had begun to think of myself not so

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much as a Templar but a man with Assassinroots and Templar beliefs, whose heart hadbriefly been lost to a Mohawk woman. A manwith a unique perspective, in other words.

Accordingly, I had been less preoccupiedwith finding the temple and using its con-tents to establish Templar supremacy, andmore with bringing together the two discip-lines, Assassin and Templar. I’d reflected onhow my father’s teachings had often dove-tailed with those of Reginald, and I’d begunseeing the similarities between the two fac-tions rather than the differences.

But first—first there was the unfinishedbusiness that had occupied my mind for somany years. Was it finding my father’s killersor finding Jenny that was more importantnow? Either way, I wanted freedom from thislong, dark shadow that had loomed over mefor so long.

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ii

And so it was that with those words—“I havefound her”—Holden began another odyssey,one that took us into the heart of the Otto-man Empire, where, for years, he and I hadtracked Jenny.

She was alive—that was his discovery.Alive and in the hands of slavers. As theworld fought the Seven Years War, we cameclose to discovering her exact location, butthe slavers had moved on before we wereable to start out after them. After that, wespent several months trying to find her thendiscovered she’d been passed to the Ottomancourt as a concubine at Topkapı Palace andmade our way there. Again we were too late;she’d been moved to Damascus, and to thegreat palace built by the Ottoman governorin charge, As’ad Pasha al-Azm.

And so we came to Damascus, where Iwore the outfit of a wealthy tradesman, a

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kaftan and a turban, as well as voluminoussalwar trousers, feeling not a little self-con-scious, truth be told, while beside me Holdenwore simple robes. As we made our waythrough the gates of the city and into its nar-row, winding streets towards the palace, wenoticed more guards than usual, and Holden,having done his homework, filled me in aswe ambled slowly in the dust and heat.

“The governor’s nervous, sir,” he ex-plained. “Reckons the Grand Vizier RaghibPasha in Istanbul has it in for him.”

“I see. And is he right? Does the grandvizier have it in for him?”

“The grand vizier called him the ‘peasantson of a peasant.’”

“Sounds like he has got it in for himthen.”

Holden chuckled. “That’s right. So thegovernor fears being deposed and, as a res-ult, he’s increased security all over the city,and especially at the palace. You see all these

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people?” He indicated a clamour of citizensnot far away, hurrying across our path.

“Yes.”“Off to an execution. A palace spy, appar-

ently. As’ad Pasha al-Azm is seeing themeverywhere.”

In a small square thronged with peoplewe watched a man beheaded. He died withdignity, and the crowd roared its approval ashis severed head rolled to the blood-blackened boards of the scaffold. Above thesquare the governor’s platform was empty.He was staying at the palace, according togossip, and didn’t dare show his face.

When it was over, Holden and I turnedand strolled away, heading towards thepalace, where we paced the walls, noting thefour sentries at the main gate and the otherspositioned by arched side gates.

“What’s it like inside?” I asked.“Two main wings: the haramlik and the

salamlik. In the salamlik is where you got

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your halls, reception areas and entertain-ment courtyards, but the haramlik, that’swhere we’ll find Miss Jenny.”

“If she’s in there.”“Oh, she’s in there, sir.”“You’re sure?”“As God is my witness.”“Why was she moved from Topkapı

Palace? Do you know?”He looked at me and pulled an awkward

face. “Well, her age, sir. She would have beenhighly prized at first, of course, when shewas younger; it’s against Islamic law to im-prison other Muslims, see, so the majority ofthe concubines are Christians—caught in theBalkans, most of them—and if Miss Jennywas as comely as you say, well, then I’m sureshe’d have been quite a catch. Trouble is, it’snot like there’s a shortage of them, and MissKenway—well, she’s in her mid-forties, sir.Been a long time since she had concubineduties; she’s little more than a servant. I

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suppose you might say that she’s been de-moted, sir.”

I thought about that, finding it difficult tobelieve that the Jenny I’d onceknown—beautiful, imperious Jenny—hadsuch lowly standing. Somehow I’d imaginedher perfectly preserved and cutting a com-manding figure at the Ottoman court, per-haps having already risen to the position ofQueen Mother. Instead, here she was inDamascus, at the home of an unpopular gov-ernor who was himself about to be deposed.What did they do to the servants and concu-bines of a deposed governor? I wondered.Possibly, they met the same fate as the poorsoul we’d seen beheaded earlier.

“What about the guards inside?” I asked.“I didn’t think they allowed men in theharem.”

He shook his head. “All the guards in theharem are eunuchs. The operation to make

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them eunuchs—bloody hell, sir, you don’twant to know about it.”

“But you’re going to tell me anyway?”“Well, yeah, don’t see why I should have

to carry that burden all by myself. They hackthe poor bleeder’s genitals off then bury thebloke in sand up to his neck for ten days.Only ten percent of the poor buggers evensurvive the process, and those guys are thetoughest of the tough.”

“Right,” I said.“One other thing: the haramlik, where

the concubines live, the baths are in there.”“The baths are in there?”“Yes.”“And why are you telling me that?”He stopped. He looked from left to right,

squinting in the sun. Satisfied the coast wasclear, he stooped, grasped an iron ring Ihadn’t even seen, so well was it covered bythe sand below our feet, and yanked it

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upwards, opening a trapdoor and revealingstone steps descending into the dark.

“Quick, sir”—he grinned—“before a sen-try comes round.”

iii

Once at the bottom of the steps, we tookstock of our surroundings. It was dark, al-most too dark to see, but from the left of uscame the trickle of a stream, while aheadstretched what looked like a walkway usedeither for deliveries or maintenance of therunning-water channels; probably a mixtureof both.

We said nothing. Holden delved into aleather knapsack to extract a taper and atinderbox. He lit the taper then placed it intohis mouth and pulled a short torch from theknapsack, which he lit and held above hishead, casting a soft orange glow all around

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us. Sure enough, to our left was an aqueduct,while the uneven path dissolved intoblackness.

“It’ll take us right under the palace, andunderneath the baths,” said Holden in awhisper. “If I’m right, we’ll come up into aroom with a freshwater pool, right beneaththe main baths.”

Impressed, I said, “You kept this quiet.”“I like to have the odd trick up my sleeve,

sir.” He beamed. “I’ll lead the way, shall I?”And with that he moved off, lapsing into

silence as we made our way along the path-way. When the torches had burned out, wedropped them and lit two new ones from thetaper in Holden’s mouth then walked somemore. At last the area ahead of us widenedout into a shimmering chamber, where thefirst thing we saw was a pool, its walls linedwith marble tiles, the water so clear that itseemed to glow in the meagre light offered

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by an open trapdoor at the top of somenearby steps.

The second thing we saw was a eunuch,who knelt with his back to us, filling anearthenware jug from the pool. He wore atall white kalpak on his head, and flowingrobes. Holden looked at me with his finger tohis lips then began to creep forward, a dag-ger already in his fist, but I stopped him witha hand on his shoulder. We wanted the eu-nuch’s clothes, and that meant avoidingbloodstains. This was a man who served theconcubines at an Ottoman palace, not a com-mon redcoat in Boston, and I had the feelingthat blood on his clothing wouldn’t be so eas-ily explained away. So I inched past Holdenon the walkway, unconsciously flexing myfingers and in my mind locating the carotidartery on the eunuch, coming closer as hefinished filling the jug and straightened toleave.

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But then my sandal scuffed the pathway.The noise was tiny but nevertheless soundedlike a volcano erupting in the enclosed space,and the eunuch flinched.

I froze and inwardly cursed my sandals ashis head tilted to look up to the trapdoor,trying to locate the source of the noise. Whenhe saw nothing, he seemed to go very still, asthough he’d realized that, if the sound hadn’tcome from above, then it must have comefrom . . .

He span round.There’d been something about his

clothes, his bearing, the way he knelt to fillhis jug: none of it had prepared me for thespeed of his reaction. Nor the skill. For as heswivelled he crouched, and from the cornerof my eye I saw the jug in his fist whip up to-wards me, so fast it would have knocked medown if I hadn’t shown a turn of equal speedand ducked.

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I had evaded him, but only just. As Iscuttled back to avoid another blow from thejug, his eyes flitted over my shoulder and sawHolden. Next, he turned to cast a quick lookat the stone steps, his only exit. He was as-sessing his options: run or stand and fight.And he settled on stand and fight.

Which made him, just as Holden hadsaid, one—very—tough eunuch.

He took a few steps back, reached be-neath his robes and produced a sword, sim-ultaneously punching the earthenware jugagainst the wall to give himself a secondweapon. Then, sword in one hand, jagged jugin another, he advanced.

The walkway was too narrow. Only one ofus could face him at any one time, and I wasthe nearer. The time to worry about blood onrobes was over, and I released my blade,stepping back a little myself and taking astance ready to meet him. Implacably, he ad-vanced, all the time holding my gaze. There

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was something fearsome about him,something I couldn’t put my finger on atfirst, but then I realized what it was: he didsomething no opponent had ever done: asmy old nursemaid Edith would have said, hegave me the creeps. It was knowing whathe’d been through, the procedure to makehim a eunuch. Living through that, nothingheld any fear for him, least of all me, aclumsy oaf who couldn’t even sneak up onhim successfully.

He knew it, too. He knew he gave me thecreeps and he used it. It was all there in hiseyes, which didn’t register an emotion as thesword in his right hand slashed towards me.I was forced to block with the blade and onlyjust twisted to avoid the following move,which came from his left as he tried and al-most succeeded in shoving the broken jug in-to my face.

He gave me no time to rest, perhaps real-izing that the only way to beat both me and

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Holden was to keep driving us back along thenarrow walkway. Again the sword flashed,this time underarm, and again I defendedwith the blade, grimacing with pain as I usedmy forearm to stop a secondary strike fromthe jug then replying with an offensive moveof my own, jogging slightly to my right anddriving my blade towards his sternum. Heused the jug as a shield, and my bladesmashed into it, sprinkling earthenware tothe stone beneath us, splish-splashing intothe pool. My blade was going to needsharpening after this.

If I got out of this.And damn the man. He was the first eu-

nuch we’d met and already we were strug-gling. I motioned Holden to stand back andkeep from under my feet as I retreated, try-ing to give myself some space and reorganizemyself internally at the same time.

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The eunuch was beating me—not justwith skill, but because I feared him. And fearis what a warrior fears most.

I crouched low, brought the blades tobear and met his eye. For a moment westood motionless, engaged in a silent but fe-rocious battle of will. A battle I won. Some-how his hold over me broke, and all it tookwas a flicker of his eyes to tell me that heknew it, too, that the psychological victorywas no longer his.

I stepped forward, blade flashing, andnow it was his turn to edge back, defendingwell and steadily but no longer with the up-per hand. At one point, he even grunted, hislips pulled back from his teeth, and I saw thebeginnings of a sweat glow dully on his fore-head. My blade moved quickly. And now thatI had him retreating, I began to think afreshabout keeping his robes free of blood. Thebattle had turned; it was mine now, and hewas swinging wildly with his sword, his

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attacks becoming more disorganized until Isaw my chance, dropped almost to my kneesand thrust upwards with the blade, punchingup into his jaw.

His body spasmed and his arms stretchedout as though crucified. His sword dropped,and when his lips stretched wide in a silentscream I saw the silver of my impaling bladeinside his mouth. Then his body dropped.

I’d driven him all the way back to the footof the steps and the hatch was open. Any mo-ment now, another eunuch would be along towonder where the jug of water had got to.Sure enough, I heard footsteps from aboveus and a shadow passed across the hatch. Iducked back, grabbed at the ankles of thedead man and dragged him with me, snatch-ing off his hat and jamming it on my ownhead.

The next thing I saw was the bare feet of aeunuch as he descended the steps and angledhis head to peer down into the pool chamber.

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The sight of me in the white hat was enoughto disorientate him for one precious second,and I lunged, grabbed his robes in my fistsand yanked him down the steps towards me,slamming my forehead into the bridge of hisnose before he could scream. The bonescrunched and broke, and I held his head upto stop blood leaking to his robes as his eyesrolled up and he slouched, dazed, against thewall. In moments he’d recover his senses andshout for help, and I couldn’t allow that. So Irammed the flat of my hand hard into hismashed nose, driving splinters of brokenbone into his brain and killing him instantly.

Seconds later I’d scampered up the stepsand, very carefully, very gently, closed thehatch, giving us at least a few moments ofconcealment before reinforcements arrived.Somewhere, presumably, a concubine wasexpecting a jug of water to be delivered.

We said nothing, just slipped into the eu-nuchs’ robes and pulled on our kalpaks. How

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glad I was to get rid of those blasted sandals.And then we looked at one another. Holdenhad spots of blood on the front of his gown,from where I had smashed the nose of therobe’s previous wearer. I scratched at it witha nail but, instead of it flaking off as I’dhoped, it was still wet and smeared a little. Inthe end, using a complicated series of painedfacial expressions and furious nods, we de-cided by mutual consent to leave the blood-stain and risk it. Next, I carefully opened thehatch and let myself out into the room above,which was empty. It was a dark, cool room,tiled in marble that seemed luminescent,thanks to a pool that covered most of thefloor space, its surface smooth, silent yetsomehow alive.

With the coast clear I turned and mo-tioned to Holden, who followed me throughthe hatch into the room. We stood there for amoment or so taking in our surroundings,giving each other cautiously triumphant

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looks before moving to the door, opening itand letting ourselves out into the courtyardbeyond.

iv

Not knowing what lay on the other side, I’dbeen flexing my fingers, ready to release myblade at a moment’s notice, while Holdenhad no doubt been set to reach for his sword,both of us poised to fight should we begreeted by a squad of snarling eunuchs, ahuddle of howling concubines.

Instead what we saw was a scene straightout of heaven, an afterlife filled with peaceand serenity and beautiful women. It was alarge courtyard paved in black-and-whitestone, with a trickling fountain at its centreand a surround of ornate columned porticosshaded by overhanging vines and trees. Arestful place, devoted to beauty, serenity,

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tranquillity and thought. The trickle andburble of the fountain was the only sound,despite all the people there. Concubines inflowing white silk either sat on stonebenches, meditative or doing needlework, orcrossed the courtyard, bare feet padding si-lently on the stone, impossibly proud anderect, nodding courteously to one another asthey passed; while among them moved ser-vant girls, dressed similarly but easy to spotbecause they were younger or older, or not asbeautiful as the women they served.

There was an equal number of men, mostof whom stood around the edges of thecourtyard, watchful and waiting to be calledforward to serve: the eunuchs. None lookedour way, I was relieved to see; the rulesaround eye contact were as elaborate as themosaics. And as two unfamiliar-looking eu-nuchs trying to negotiate our way around astrange place, that suited us down to theground.

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We stayed by the door of the baths, whichwas partly obscured by the columns andvines of the portico, and I unconsciously ad-opted the same pose as the otherguards—back straight, my hands held to-gether in front of me—as my gaze swept thecourtyard in search of Jenny.

And there she was. I didn’t recognize herat first; my eyes almost went past her. Butwhen I looked again, to where a concubinesat relaxing with her back to the fountain,having her feet massaged by her serving-wo-man, I realized that the serving-woman wasmy sister.

Time had taken its toll on those looks,and though there was still a glimmer of thebeauty she’d once been, her dark hair wasflecked with grey, her face was drawn andlined and her skin had sagged a little, reveal-ing dark hollows beneath her eyes: tiredeyes. What an irony it was that I should re-cognize the look on the face of the girl she

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tended to: the vain and disdainful way shegazed down her nose. I’d grown up seeing iton my sister’s face. Not that I took any pleas-ure in the irony, but I couldn’t ignore it.

As I stared, Jenny looked across thecourtyard at me. For a second her eyebrowsfurrowed in confusion, and I wondered if,after all these years, she’d recognize me. Butno. I was too far away. I was disguised as aeunuch. The jug—it had been meant for her.And maybe she was wondering why two eu-nuchs had walked into the baths and two dif-ferent ones had walked out.

Still wearing a confused expression, shestood, genuflected to the concubine sheserved then began to move over, weavingthrough silken-clothed concubines as shecrossed the courtyard towards us. I slippedbehind Holden just as she ducked her headto avoid the vines dangling from the porticoand was standing a foot or so away from us.

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She said nothing, of course—talking wasforbidden—but then again she didn’t need to.Lurking behind Holden’s right shoulder, Irisked a look at her face and watched as hereyes slid from him to the bath-chamber door,her meaning clear to see: where is my wa-ter? On her face, as she exerted what littleauthority she had, I could see a reminder ofthe girl Jenny had been, a ghost of thehaughtiness that had once been so familiarto me.

Meanwhile, Holden, reacting to the furi-ous gaze he received from Jenny, bowed hishead and was about to turn towards the bathchamber. I prayed he’d had the same flash ofinspiration as I, and that he had realized, ifhe could somehow lure Jenny inside, thenwe could make our escape with hardly aruffle caused. Sure enough, he was spreadinghis hands to indicate there’d been a problem,then gesturing at the door to the bath cham-ber, as though to say he needed assistance.

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But Jenny, far from being prepared to offerit, had instead noticed something aboutHolden’s attire and, rather than accompany-ing him into the bath house, stopped himwith an upraised finger, which she firstcrooked at him and then turned to indicatesomething on his chest. A bloodstain.

Her eyes widened and again I looked, thistime to see her eyes move from the blood-stain on Holden’s robes to his face, and whatshe saw there was the face of an imposter.

Her mouth dropped open. She took a stepback then another until she bumped into oneof the columns and the impact jogged her outof her sudden, shocked daze and, as sheopened her mouth, about to break the sacredrule and call for help, I slipped from behindHolden’s shoulder, hissing, “Jenny, it’s me.It’s Haytham.”

As I said it I glanced nervously out intothe courtyard, where everyone continued asbefore, oblivious to what was happening

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beneath the portico, and then I looked backto see Jenny staring at me, her eyes growingwider, already misting up with tears as theyears fell away and she recognized me.

“Haytham,” she whispered, “you’ve comefor me.”

“Yes, Jenny, yes,” I replied in a hush, feel-ing a strange mix of emotions, at least one ofwhich was guilt.

“I knew you’d come,” she said. “I knewyou’d come.”

Her voice was rising, and I began toworry, casting another panicky look out intothe courtyard. Then she reached forward andgrasped my two hands in both of hers andbrushed past Holden to look imploringly intomy eyes. “Tell me he’s dead. Tell me youkilled him.”

Torn between wanting her to keep quietand wanting to know what she meant, Ihissed, “Who? Tell you who’s dead?”

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“Birch,” she spat, and this time her voicewas too loud. Past her shoulder I saw a con-cubine. Gliding towards us beneath the por-tico, perhaps on her way to the bath cham-ber, she’d seemed lost in thought, but at thesound of a voice she looked up, and her ex-pression of calm serenity was replaced byone of panic—and she leaned out into thecourtyard and called the one word we had allbeen fearing.

“Guards!”

v

The first guard to come rushing over didn’trealize I was armed, and I’d engaged theblade and plunged it into his abdomen be-fore he even knew what was happening. Hiseyes went wide and he grunted flecks ofblood into my face. With a yell of effort, Iwrenched my arm round and pulled him

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with me, ramming his still-writhing corpseinto a second man who came rushing to-wards us, and sent them both tumbling backto the black-and-white tiles of the courtyard.More arrived, and the fight was on. From thecorner of my eye I saw the flash of a bladeand turned just in time to avoid its being em-bedded into my neck. Twisting, I grabbed theassailant’s sword arm, broke it and slid myblade up into his skull. I went into a crouch,pivoted and kicked to take away the legs of afourth man then scrambled to my feet,stamped on his face and heard his skullcrunch.

Not far away, Holden had felled three ofthe eunuchs, but by now the guards had themeasure of us and were approaching withmore caution, assembling for combat even aswe took cover behind the columns and threwworried glances at each other, each wonder-ing if we could make it back to the trapdoorbefore we were overrun.

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Clever boys. Two of them moved forwardtogether. I stood side by side with Holdenand we fought back, even as another pair ofguards moved in from our right. For a mo-ment it was touch and go, as we stood back-to-back and battled the guards out of theportico until they withdrew, ready to launchtheir next attack, inching closer all the time,crowding in.

Behind us, Jenny stood by the door to thebath chamber. “Haytham!” she called, a noteof panic in her voice. “We’ve got to go.”

What would they do to her if she werecaptured now? I wondered. What would herpunishment be? I dreaded to think.

“You two go, sir,” urged Holden over hisshoulder.

“No way,” I called back.Again came an attack and again we

fought. A eunuch fell dying with a groan.Even in death, even with sword steel in theirgut, these men didn’t scream. Over the

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shoulders of the ones in front of us I sawmore of them pouring into the courtyard.They were like cockroaches. For every onewe killed there were two to take his place.

“Go, sir!” insisted Holden. “I’ll keep themback then follow you.”

“Don’t be a fool, Holden,” I barked, un-able to keep the scoffing sound out of myvoice. “There’s no holding them back. They’llcut you down.”

“I’ve been in tighter spots than this one,sir,” grunted Holden, his sword arm workingas he exchanged blows. But I could hear thefalse bravado in his voice.

“Then you won’t mind if I stay,” I said, atthe same time fending off one of the eu-nuch’s sword strikes and parrying, not withmy blade but with a punch to the face thatsent him pinwheeling back.

“Go!” he shrieked.“We die. We both die,” I replied.

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But Holden had decided that the time forcourtesy was over. “Listen, mate, either youtwo make it out of here or none of us do.What’s it going to be?”

At the same time, Jenny was pulling onmy hand, the door to the bath chamber open,and more men arriving from our left. Butstill I hesitated. Until, at last, with a shake ofhis head, Holden whipped round, yelled,“You’ll have to excuse me sir,” and before Icould react had shoved me backwardsthrough the door and slammed it shut.

There was a moment of shocked silencein the bath chamber as I sprawled on thefloor and tried to absorb what had happened.From the other side of the door I heard thesounds of battle—a strange, quiet, mutedbattle it was, too—and a thudding at thedoor. Next there was a shout—a shout thatbelonged to Holden, and I pulled myself tomy feet, about to haul the door open and

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rush back out, when Jenny grasped hold ofmy arm.

“You can’t help him now, Haytham,” shesaid softly, just as there came another yellfrom the courtyard, Holden shouting, “Youbastards, you bloody prickless bastards.”

I cast one last look back at the door thenpulled the bar across to lock it as Jennydragged me over to the hatch in the floor.

“Is that the best you can do, you bas-tards?” I heard from above us as we took thesteps, Holden’s voice growing fainter now.“Come on, you dickless wonders, let’s seehow you fare against one of His Majesty’smen . . .”

The last thing we heard as we ran backalong the walkway was the sound of ascream.

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21 SEPTEMBER 1757

i

I had hoped never to take pleasure in killing,but, for the Coptic priest who stood guardclose to the Abou Gerbe monastery onMount Ghebel Eter, I made an exception. Ihave to admit I enjoyed killing him.

He crumpled to the dirt at the base of afence that surrounded a small enclosure, hischest heaving and his last breaths coming injagged bursts as he died. Overhead, a buz-zard cawed, and I glanced to where thearches and spires of the sandstone monas-tery loomed on the horizon. Saw the warmglow of life at the window.

The dying guard gurgled at my feet, andfor a second it occurred to me to finish himquickly—but then again, why show him

mercy? However slowly he died and howevermuch pain he felt while it happened, it wasnothing—nothing—compared to the agonyinflicted on those poor souls who hadsuffered within the enclosure.

And one in particular, who was sufferingin there now.

I had learnt in the market in Damascusthat Holden had not been killed, as I hadthought, but captured and transported toEgypt and to the Coptic monastery at AbouGerbe, where they turned men into eunuchs.So that is where I came, praying I would notbe too late but, in my heart of hearts, know-ing I would be. And I was.

Looking at the fence, I could tell it wouldbe sunk deep into the ground to preventpredatory night-time animals digging be-neath it. Within the enclosure was the placewhere they buried the eunuchs up to theirnecks in sand and kept them there for tendays. They didn’t want hyenas gnawing away

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at the faces of the buried men during thattime. Absolutely not. No, if those men died,they were to die of slow exposure to the sunor of the wounds inflicted upon them duringthe castration procedure.

With the guard dead behind me, I creptinto the enclosure. It was dark, just the lightof the moon to guide me, but I could see thatthe sand around was bloodstained. Howmany men, I wondered, had suffered here,mutilated then buried up to their necks?From not far away came a low groan, and Isquinted, seeing an irregular shape on theground at the centre of the enclosure, and Iknew straight away that it belonged to Priv-ate James Holden.

“Holden,” I whispered, and a second laterwas crouching to where his head protrudedfrom the sand, gasping at what I saw. Thenight was cool, but the days were hot, tortu-ously so, and the sun had burned him sobadly it was as though the very flesh had

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been seared away from his face. His lips andeyelids were crusted and bleeding, his skinred and peeling. I had a leather flask of waterat the ready, uncorked it and held it to hislips.

“Holden?” I repeated.He stirred. His eyes flickered open and

focused on me, milky and full of pain butwith recognition, and very slowly the ghostof a smile appeared on his cracked and petri-fied lips.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone and hewas convulsing. Whether he was trying towrench himself out of the sand or struck by afit I wasn’t sure, but his head thrashed fromside to side, his mouth yawned open, and Ileaned forward, taking his face in both of myhands to stop him hurting himself.

“Holden,” I said, keeping my voice down.“Holden, stop. Please . . .”

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“Get me out of here, sir,” he rasped, andhis eyes gleamed wet in the moonlight. “Getme out.”

“Holden . . .”“Get me out of here,” he pleaded. “Get me

out of here, sir, please, sir, now, sir . . .”Again his head began jerking painfully

left to right. Again I reached out to steadyhim, needing to stop him before he becamehysterical. How long did I have before theyposted a new guard? I offered the flask to hislips and let him sip more water then pulled ashovel I had brought from my back andbegan scooping blood-soaked sand fromaround his head, talking to him at the sametime as I exposed his bare shoulders andchest.

“I’m so sorry, Holden, I’m so sorry. Ishould never have left you.”

“I told you to, sir,” he managed. “I gaveyou a push, remember . . .”

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As I dug down, the sand was even moreblack with blood. “Oh God, what have theydone to you?”

But I already knew and, anyway, I had myproof moments later, when I reached hiswaist to find it swathed in bandages—alsothick and black and crusted with blood.

“Be careful down there, sir, please,” hesaid, very, very quietly, and I could see thathe was wincing, biting back the pain. Whichin the end was too much for him, and he lostconsciousness, a blessing that allowed me touncover him and take him from that ac-cursed place and to our two horses, whichwere tethered to trees at the bottom of thehill.

ii

I made Holden comfortable then stood andlooked up the hill towards the monastery. I

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checked the mechanism of my blade,strapped a sword to my waist, primed twopistols and pushed them into my belt, thenprimed two muskets. Next I lit a taper andtorch and, taking the muskets, made my wayback up the hill, where I lit a second andthird torch. I chased the horses out thentossed the first torch into the stables, the haygoing up with a satisfying whoomph; thesecond torch I threw into the vestibule of thechapel, and when both that and the stableswere nicely ablaze I jogged across to thedormitory, lighting two more torches on theway, smashing rear windows and tossing thetorches inside. And then I returned to thefront door, where I’d leaned the musketsagainst a tree. And I waited.

Not for long. In moments, the first priestappeared. I shot him down, tossed the firstmusket aside, picked up the second and usedit on the second priest. More began to pourout, and I emptied the pistols then dashed

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up to the doorway and began attacking withmy blade and sword. Bodies fell aroundme—ten, eleven or more—as the buildingburned, until I was slick with priest blood,my hands covered in it, trails of it runningfrom my face. I let the wounded scream inagony as the remaining priests insidecowered—not wanting to burn, too terrifiedto run out and face death. Some chanced it,of course, and came charging out wieldingswords, only to be cut down. Others I heardburning. Maybe some escaped, but I wasn’tin the mood to be thorough. I made sure thatmost of them died; I heard the screams andsmelled the burning flesh of those who hidinside, and then I stepped over the bodies ofthe dead and dying and left, as the monas-tery burned behind me.

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25 SEPTEMBER 1757

We were in a cottage, at a table, with the re-mains of a meal and single candle betweenus. Not far away, Holden slept, feverish, andevery now and then I’d get up to change therag on his forehead for a cooler one. We’dneed to let the fever run its course and onlythen, when he was better, continue ourjourney.

“Father was an Assassin,” Jenny said as Isat down. It was the first time we’d spokenabout such matters since the rescue. We’dbeen too preoccupied with looking afterHolden, escaping Egypt and finding sheltereach night.

“I know,” I said.“You know?”

“Yes. I found out. I’ve realized that’s whatyou meant all those years ago. Do you re-member? You used to call me ‘Squirt’ . . .”

She pursed her lips and shifteduncomfortably.

“. . . and what you said about me beingthe male heir. How I’d find out sooner orlater what lay in store for me?”

“I remember . . .”“Well, it turned out to be later rather than

sooner that I discovered what lay in store forme.”

“But if you knew, then why does Birchlive?”

“Why would he be dead?”“He’s a Templar.”“As am I.”She reared back, fury clouding her face.

“You—you’re a Templar! But that goesagainst everything Father ever . . .”

“Yes,” I said equably. “Yes, I am a Tem-plar, and no, it doesn’t go against everything

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our father believed. Since learning of his af-filiations I’ve come to see many similaritiesbetween the two factions. I’ve begun to won-der if, given my roots and my current posi-tion within the Order, I’m not perfectlyplaced to somehow unite Assassin andTemplar . . .”

I stopped. She was slightly drunk, I real-ized; there was something sloppy about herfeatures all of a sudden, and she made a dis-gusted noise. “And what about him? Myformer fiancé, owner of my heart, the dash-ing and charming Reginald Birch? What ofhim, pray tell?”

“Reginald is my mentor, my GrandMaster. It was he who looked after me in theyears after the attack.”

Her face twisted into the nastiest, mostbitter sneer I had ever seen. “Well, weren’tyou the lucky one? While you were beingmentored, I was being looked after, too—byTurkish slavers.”

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I felt as if she could see right through me,as though she could see exactly what my pri-orities had been all these years, and Idropped my eyes then looked across the cot-tage to where Holden lay. A room full of myfailings.

“I’m sorry,” I said. As if to them both.“I’m truly sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was one of the lucky ones.They kept me pure for selling to the Ottomancourt, and after that I was looked after atTopkapı Palace.” She looked away. “It couldhave been worse. I was used to it, after all.”

“What?”“I expect you idolized Father, did you,

Haytham? Probably still do. Your sun andmoon? ‘My father my king’? Not me: I hatedhim. All his talk of freedom—spiritual andintellectual freedom—didn’t extend to me,his own daughter. There was no weaponstraining for me, remember? No ‘Think differ-ently’ for Jenny. There was just ‘Be a good

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girl and get married to Reginald Birch.’ Whata great match that would be. I dare say I wastreated better by the sultan than I wouldhave been by him. I once told you that ourlives were mapped out for us, remember?Well, in one sense I was wrong, of course,because I don’t think either of us could havepredicted how it would all turn out, but inanother sense? In another sense, I couldn’thave been more right, Haytham, because youwere born to kill, and kill is what you havedone, and I was born to serve men, and servemen is what I have done. My days of servingmen are over, though. What about you?”

Finished, she hoisted the beaker of wineto her lips and glugged. I wondered what aw-ful memories the drink helped suppress.

“It was your friends the Templars who at-tacked our home,” she said when her beakerwas dry. “I’m sure of it.”

“You saw no rings, though.”

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“No, but so what? What does that mean?They took them off, of course.”

“No. They weren’t Templars, Jenny. I’verun into them since. They were men for hire.Mercenaries.”

Yes, mercenaries, I thought. Mercenarieswho worked for Edward Braddock, whowas close to Reginald . . .

I leaned forward. “I was told that Fatherhad something—something that theywanted. Do you know what it was?”

“Oh yes. They had it in the carriage thatnight.”

“Well?”“It was a book.”Again I felt a frozen, numb feeling. “What

sort of book?”“Brown, leather-bound, bearing the seal

of the Assassins.”I nodded. “Do you think you’d recognize

it if you were to see it again?”She shrugged. “Probably,” she said.

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I looked across to where Holden lay,sweat glistening on his torso, “When thefever has broken, we’ll leave.”

“To go where?”“To France.”

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8 OCTOBER 1757

i

Though it was cold, the sun was shining thismorning, a day best described as “sun-dappled,” with bright light pouring throughthe canopy of trees to paint the forest floor apatchwork of gold.

We rode in a column of three, me in thelead. Behind me was Jenny, who had longsince discarded her servant-girl clothes andwore a robe that hung down the flank of hersteed. A large, dark hood was pulled up overher head, and her face seemed to loom fromwithin it as though she were staring from theinside of a cave: serious, intense and framedby grey-flecked hair that fell across hershoulders.

Behind Jenny came Holden, who, likeme, wore a buttoned-up frock coat, scarf andcocked hat, only he sagged forward a little inhis saddle, his complexion pale, sallowand . . . haunted.

He had said little since recovering fromhis fever. There had been moments—tinyglimpses of the old Holden: a fleeting smile,a flash of his London wisdom—but they werefleeting, and he would soon return to beingclosed off. During our passage across theMediterranean he had kept himself to him-self, sitting alone, brooding. In France wehad donned disguises, bought horses and be-gun the trek to the chateau, and he had rid-den in silence. He looked pale and, havingseen him walk, I thought he was still in pain.Even in the saddle I’d occasionally see himwincing, especially over uneven ground. Icould hardly bear to think of the hurt he wasenduring—physical and mental.

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An hour away from the chateau, westopped and I strapped my sword to mywaist, primed a pistol and put it into my belt.Holden did the same, and I asked him, “Areyou sure you’re all right to fight, Holden?”

He shot me a reproachful look, and I no-ticed the bags and dark rings beneath hiseyes. “Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s mycock and balls they took off me, not mygumption.”

“I’m sorry, Holden, I didn’t mean to sug-gest anything. I’ve had my answer and that’sgood enough for me.”

“Do you think there will be fighting, sir?”he said, and again I saw him wince as hereached to bring his sword close at hand.

“I don’t know, Holden, I really don’t.”As we came close to the chateau I saw the

first of the patrols. The guard stood in frontof my horse and regarded me from beneaththe wide brim of his hat: the same man, I

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realized, who had been here the last time Ivisited nearly four years ago.

“That you, Master Kenway?” he said.“Indeed it is, and I have two compan-

ions,” I replied.I watched him very carefully as his stare

went from me to Jenny then to Holden and,though he tried to hide it, his eyes told me allI needed to know.

He went to put his fingers to his mouth,but I had leapt from my horse, grabbed hishead and ejected my blade through his eyeand into his brain and sliced open his throatbefore he could make another sound.

ii

I knelt with one hand on the sentry’s chest asthe blood oozed fast and thickly from thewide-open gash at his throat, like a second,grinning mouth, and looked back over my

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shoulder to where Jenny regarded me with afrown and Holden sat upright in his saddle,his sword drawn.

“Do you mind telling us what that was allabout?” asked Jenny.

“He was about to whistle,” I replied, scan-ning the forest around us. “He didn’t whistlelast time.”

“So? Perhaps they changed the entryprocedure.”

I shook my head. “No. They know we’recoming. They’re expecting us. The whistlewould have warned the others. We wouldn’thave made it across the lawn before they cutus down.”

“How do you know?” she said.“I don’t know,” I snapped. Beneath my

hand the guard’s chest rose and fell one lasttime. I looked down to see his eyes swiveland his body give one last spasm before hedied. “I suspect,” I continued, wiping mybloody hands on the ground and standing

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up. “I’ve spent years suspecting, ignoring theobvious. The book you saw in the carriagethat night—Reginald has it with him. He’llhave it in that house if I’m not very muchmistaken. It was he who organized the raidon our house. He who is responsible forFather’s death.”

“Oh, you know that now, do you?” shesneered.

“I’d refused to believe it before. But now,yes, I know. Things have begun to makesense to me. Like, one afternoon, when I wasa child, I met Reginald by the plate room. I’dwager he was looking for the book then. Thereason he was close to the family, Jenny—thereason he asked for your hand in mar-riage—was because he wanted the book.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “Itried warning you on the night that he wasthe traitor.”

“I know,” I said, then thought for a mo-ment. “Did Father know he was a Templar?”

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“Not at first, but I found out, and I toldFather.”

“That’s when they argued,” I said, under-standing now.

“Did they argue?”“I heard them one day. And, afterwards,

Father employed the guards—Assassins, nodoubt. Reginald told me he was warningFather . . .”

“More lies, Haytham . . .”I looked up at her, trembling slightly. Yes.

More lies. Everything I knew—my entirechildhood, all of it built on a foundation ofthem.

“He was using Digweed,” I said. “It wasDigweed who told him where the book wasstored . . .”

I winced at a sudden memory.“What is it?” she said.“The day at the plate room, Reginald was

asking me where my sword was kept. I toldhim a secret hiding place.”

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“Was it in the billiards room?”I nodded.“They went straight there, didn’t they?”

she said.I nodded. “They knew it wasn’t in the

plate room, because Digweed told them ithad been moved, which is why they wentstraight to the games room.”

“But they weren’t Templars?” she said.“I beg your pardon.”“In Syria, you told me the men who at-

tacked us weren’t Templars,” she said with amocking tone. “They couldn’t be your be-loved Templars.”

I shook my head. “No, they weren’t. I toldyou, I’ve encountered them since, and theywere Braddock’s men. Reginald must haveplanned to school me in the Order . . .” Ithought again, and something occurred tome: “. . . because of the family inheritance,probably. Using Templar men would havebeen too much of a risk. I might have found

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out. I might have arrived here sooner. I al-most got to Digweed. I almost had them inthe Black Forest but then . . .” I rememberedback to the cabin in the Black Forest. “Regin-ald killed Digweed. That’s why they were onestep ahead of us—and they still are.” I poin-ted in the direction of the chateau.

“So what do we do, sir?” asked Holden.“We do what they did the night they at-

tacked us at Queen Anne’s Square. We waituntil nightfall. And then we go in there, andwe kill people.”

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9 OCTOBER 1757

i

That date above says 9 October, which Iscribbled there, rather optimistically, at theend of the previous entry, intending that thisshould be a contemporaneous account of ourattempt to breach the chateau. In fact, I’mwriting this several months later and, to de-tail what happened that night, I have to castmy mind back . . .

ii

How many would there be? Six, on the lastoccasion I came. Would Reginald havestrengthened the force in the meantime,

knowing I might come? I thought so.Doubled it.

Make it twelve, then, plus John Harrison,if he was still in residence. And, of course,Reginald. He was fifty-two, and his skillswould have faded but, even so: I knew neverto underestimate him.

So we waited, and hoped they’d do whatthey eventually did, which was to send out asearch party for the missing patrol, three ofthem, who came bearing torches and drawnswords, marching across the dark lawn withtorchlight dancing on grim faces.

We watched as they materialized fromthe gloom and melted away into the trees. Atthe gates they began calling the guard’s namethen hurried along the outside of the lowperimeter towards where the patrol was sup-posed to be.

His body was where I’d left it, and in thetrees nearby Holden, Jenny and I took upposition. Jenny stayed back, armed with a

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knife but out of the action; Holden and Iwere further forward, where we both climbedtrees—Holden with some difficulty—to watchand wait, steeling ourselves as the searchparty came across the body.

“He’s dead, sir.”The party leader craned over the body.

“Some hours ago.”I gave a bird call, a signal to Jenny, who

did what we’d agreed. Her scream for helpwas launched from deep within the forestand pierced the night.

With a nervous nod, the party leader ledhis men into the trees, and they thunderedtowards us, to where we perched, waiting forthem. I looked through the trees to see theshape of Holden a few yards away andwondered if he was well enough, and I hopedto dear God he was, because in the next mo-ment the patrol was running into the treesbelow us and I launched myself from thebranch.

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I took out the leader first, ejecting myblade so it went through his eye and into hisbrain, killing him instantly. From mycrouching position I sliced up and back andopened the stomach of the second man, whodropped to his knees with his insides glisten-ing through a gaping hole in his tunic thenfell facedown to the soft forest floor. Lookingover, I saw the third man drop off the pointof Holden’s sword, and Holden look over,even in the dark the triumph written all overhis face.

“Good screaming,” I said to Jenny, mo-ments later.

“Pleased to be of assistance.” Shefrowned. “But listen, Haytham, I’m not stay-ing in the shadows when we get there.” Sheraised the knife. “I want to deal with Birchmyself. He took my life away from me. Anymercy he showed by not having me killed Ishall repay by leaving him his cock and . . .”

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She stopped and looked over at Holden,who knelt nearby and looked away.

“I’m . . .” she began.“That’s all right, Miss,” said Holden. He

raised his head and, with a look I’d neverseen on his face before, said, “But you makesure you do take his cock and balls beforeyou finish him. You make that bastardsuffer.”

iii

We made our way around the perimeter backto the gate, where a lone sentry looked agit-ated, perhaps wondering where the searchparty had got to; perhaps sensing somethingwas wrong, his soldier’s instinct at work.

But whatever instinct he had wasn’tenough to keep him alive, and moments laterwe were ducking through the wicket gate andkeeping low to make our way across the

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lawn. We stopped and knelt by a fountain,holding our breaths at the sound of fourmore men who came from the front door ofthe chateau, boots drumming on the paving,calling names. A search party sent to find thefirst search party. The chateau was on fullalert now. So much for a quiet entry. At leastwe’d reduced their numbers by . . .

Eight. On my signal, Holden and I burstfrom behind the cover of the fountain baseand were upon them, cutting all three downbefore they even had a chance to draw theirswords. We’d been seen. From the chateauthere came a shout, and in the next instantthere was the sharp report of musket fire andballs smacked into the fountain behind us.We ran for it. Towards the front door, whereanother guard saw us coming and, as Ithundered up the short steps towards him,tried to escape through it.

He was too slow. I rammed my bladethrough the closing door and into the side of

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his face, using my forward momentum toshove open the door and burst through,rolling into the entrance hall as he fell awaywith blood sluicing from his shattered jaw.From the landing above came the crack ofmusket fire, but the gunman had aimed toohigh and the ball smacked harmlessly intowood. In an instant I was on my feet andcharging towards the stairway, bounding uptowards the landing, where the sniper aban-doned his musket with a yell of frustration,pulled his sword from its sheath and came tomeet me.

There was terror in his eyes; my bloodwas up. I felt more animal than man, work-ing on pure instinct, as though I had levit-ated from my own body and was watchingmyself fight. In moments I had opened thegunman and toppled him over the banisterto the entrance hall below, where anotherguard had arrived, just in time to meetHolden as he burst through the front door

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with Jenny behind him. I leapt from thelanding with a shout, landing softly on thebody of the man I’d just thrown over and for-cing the new arrival to swing about and pro-tect his rear. It was all the opportunityHolden needed to run him through.

With a nod I turned and ran back up thestairs, in time see a figure appear on thelanding, and I ducked at the crack of gunfireas a ball slapped into the stone wall behindme. It was John Harrison and I was uponhim before he had a chance to draw his dag-ger, snatching a fistful of his nightclothesand forcing him to his knees, drawing backmy blade arm to strike.

“Did you know?” I snarled. “Did you helptake my father and corrupt my life?”

He dropped his head in assent and Iplunged the blade into the back of his neck,severing the vertebrae, killing him instantly.

I drew my sword. At Reginald’s door, Ihalted, throwing a look up and down the

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landing, then leaned back and was about tokick it open when I realized it was alreadyajar. Crouching, I pushed it, and it swung in-wards with a creaking sound.

Reginald stood, dressed, at the centre ofhis chamber. Just like him, always such astickler for etiquette—he had dressed to meethis killers. Suddenly there was a shadow onthe wall, cast by a figure hidden behind thedoor and, rather than wait for the trap to besprung, I rammed the sword through thewood, heard a scream of pain from the otherside then stepped through and let the doorswing closed with the body of the final guardpinned to it, staring at the sword through hischest with wide, disbelieving eyes as his feetscrabbled on the wooden floor.

“Haytham,” said Reginald coolly.

iv

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“Was he the last of the guards?” I asked,shoulders heaving as I caught my breath. Be-hind me, the feet of the dying man stillscuffed the wood, and I could hear Jennyand Holden on the other side of the door,struggling to open it with his writhing bodyin the way. At last, with a final cough, hedied, his body dropped from the blade, andHolden and Jenny burst in.

“Yes.” Reginald nodded. “Just me now.”“Monica and Lucio—are they safe?”“In their quarters, yes, along the hall.”“Holden, would you do me a favour?” I

asked over my shoulder. “Would you go andsee that Monica and Lucio are unharmed?Their condition may well help determinehow much pain we put Mr. Birch through.”

Holden pulled the body of the guard awayfrom the door, said, “Yes, sir,” and left, shut-ting the door behind him, with a certain fi-nality about the way he did it that wasn’t loston Reginald.

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Reginald smiled. A long, slow, sad smile.“I did what I did for the good of the Order,Haytham. For the good of all humanity.”

“At the expense of my father’s life. Youdestroyed our family. Did you think I’d nev-er find out?”

He shook his head sadly. “My dear boy,as Grand Master, you have to make difficultdecisions. Did I not teach you that? I pro-moted you to Grand Master of the ColonialRite, knowing that you, too, would have tomake similar decisions and having faith inyour ability to make them, Haytham. De-cisions made in the pursuit of a greater good.In pursuit of ideals you share, remember?You ask, did I think you’d ever find out? Andof course the answer is yes. You are resource-ful and tenacious. I trained you to be thatway. I had to consider the possibility that,one day, you’d learn the truth, but I hopedthat when that day arrived you’d take a morephilosophical view.” His smile was strained.

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“Given the body count, I’m to assume disap-pointment in that regard, am I?”

I gave a dry laugh. “Indeed, Reginald.Indeed you are. What you did is a corruptionof everything I believe, and do you knowwhy? You did it not with the application ofour ideals but with deceit. How can we in-spire belief when what we have in our heartis lies?”

He shook his head disgustedly. “Oh, comeon, that’s naïve rubbish. I’d have expected itof you as a young adept, but now? During awar, you do what you can to secure victory.It’s what you do with that victory thatcounts.”

“No. We must practise what we preach.Otherwise, our words are hollow.”

“There speaks the Assassin in you,” hesaid, his eyebrows arched.

I shrugged. “I’m not ashamed of myroots. I’ve had years to reconcile my Assassin

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blood with my Templar beliefs, and I havedone so.”

I could hear Jenny breathing by my side,wet, ragged breaths that even now werequickening.

“Ah, so this is it,” scoffed Reginald, “Youconsider yourself a mediator, do you?”

I said nothing.“And you think you can change things?”

he asked with a curled lip.But the next person to speak was Jenny.

“No, Reginald,” she said. “Killing you is totake revenge for what you have done to us.”

He turned his attention to her, acknow-ledging her presence for the first time. “Andhow are you, Jenny?” he asked her, raisinghis chin slightly then adding, disingenuously,“Time has not withered you, I see.”

She was making a low, growling soundnow. From the corner of my eye I saw thehand holding the knife come forward threat-eningly. So did he.

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“And your life as a concubine,” he wenton, “was it a rewarding time for you? Ishould imagine you got to see so much of theworld, so many different people and variedcultures . . .”

He was trying to goad her, and it worked.With a howl of rage born of years of subjuga-tion she lunged at him as though to slashhim with the knife.

“No, Jenny . . . !” I shouted, but too late,because of course he was ready for her. Shewas doing exactly what he’d hoped she’d doand, as she came within striking distance, hesnatched out his own dagger—it must havebeen tucked into the back of his belt—andavoided her knife swipe with ease. Then shewas howling in pain and indignation as hesnatched and twisted her wrist, her knifedropped to the wood and his arm lockedaround her neck with his blade held to herthroat.

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Over her shoulder, he looked at me, andhis eyes twinkled. I was on the balls of myfeet, ready to spring forward, but he pushedthe blade to her throat and she whimpered,both of her arms at his forearm trying to dis-lodge his grip.

“Uh-uh,” he warned, and already he wasedging around, keeping the knife to herthroat, pulling her back towards the door,the expression on his face changing, though,from triumph to irritation, as she began tostruggle.

“Keep still,” he told her through grittedteeth.

“Do as he says, Jenny,” I urged, but shewas thrashing in his grip, perspiration-soaked hair plastered to her face, as thoughshe were so revolted by being held by himthat she would rather be cut than spend an-other second in such close proximity. Andcut she was, blood flowing down her neck.

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“Will you hold still, woman!” he snapped,beginning to lose his composure. “For thelove of God, do you want to die here?”

“Better that and my brother put you todeath than allow you to escape,” she hissed,and continued to strain against him. I sawher eyes flick to the floor. Not far away fromwhere they struggled was the body of theguard, and I realized what she was doing asecond before it happened: Reginaldstumbled against an outstretched leg of thecorpse and lost his footing. Just a little. Butenough. Enough so that when Jenny, with ayell of effort, thrust backwards, he trippedover the corpse and lost his balance, thump-ing heavily against the door—where mysword was still stuck fast through the wood.

His mouth opened in a silent shout ofshock and pain. He still held Jenny, but hisgrip relaxed and she dropped forward, leav-ing Reginald pinned to the door and lookingfrom me to his chest where the point of the

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sword protruded from it. When he pulled apained face there was blood on his teeth.And then, slowly, he slid from the sword andjoined the first guard on the floor, his handsat the hole in his chest, blood soaking hisclothes and already beginning to pool on thefloor.

Turning his head slightly, he was able tolook up at me. “I tried to do what was right,Haytham,” he said. His eyebrows knitted to-gether. “Surely you can understand that?”

I looked down upon him and I grieved,but not for him—for the childhood he’dtaken from me.

“No,” I told him, and, as the light faded inhis eyes, I hoped he would take my dispas-sion with him to the other side.

“Bastard!” screamed Jenny from behindme. She had pulled herself to her hands andknees, where she snarled like an animal,“Count yourself lucky I didn’t take yourballs,” but I don’t think Reginald heard her.

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Those words would have to remain in thecorporeal world. He was dead.

v

From outside there was a noise, and Istepped over the body and pulled the dooropen, ready to meet more guards if need be.Instead I was greeted by the sight of Monicaand Lucio passing by on the landing, bothclutching bundles and being ushered to-wards the stairs by Holden. They had thepale, gaunt faces of the long-incarcerated,and when they looked over the rail to the en-trance hall beneath, the sight of the bodiesmade Monica gasp and clutch her hand toher mouth in shock.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not quite sure what Iwas apologizing for. For surprising them?For the bodies? For the fact that they hadbeen held hostage for four years?

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Lucio shot me a look of pure hatred thenlooked away.

“We don’t want your apologies, thankyou, sir,” replied Monica in broken English.“We thank you for setting us free at last.”

“If you wait for us, we’ll be leaving in themorning,” I said. “If that’s all right with you,Holden?”

“Yes, sir.”“I think we would rather set off as soon as

we have gathered together what supplies weneed to return home,” replied Monica.

“Please wait,” I said, and could hear thefatigue in my voice. “Monica. Lucio. Pleasewait, and we shall all travel together in themorning, to ensure you have safe passage.”

“No, thank you, sir.” They had reachedthe bottom of the stairs, and Monica turnedher face to look up at me. “I think you havedone quite enough. We know where thestables are. If we could help ourselves to sup-plies from the kitchen and then horses . . .”

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“Of course. Of course. Do you have . . . doyou have anything to defend yourselves with,should you run into bandits?” I boundedquickly down the stairs and reached to take asword from one of the dead guards. I handedit to Lucio, offering him the handle.

“Lucio, take this,” I said. “You’ll need it toprotect your mother as you make your wayhome.”

He grasped the sword, looked up at me,and I thought I saw a softening in his eyes.

Then he plunged it into me.

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27 JANUARY 1758

Death. There had been so much of it, andwould be more to come.

Years ago, when I had killed the fixer inthe Black Forest, it was my mistake to stabhim in the kidney and quicken his demise.When Lucio thrust his sword into me in theentrance hall of the chateau, he had quite bychance missed any of my vital organs. Hisblow was struck with ferocity. As with Jenny,his was an action born of years of pent-upanger and vengeful dreams. And, as I myselfwas a man who had spent my entire life seek-ing revenge, I could hardly blame him for it.But he didn’t kill me, obviously, for I’m writ-ing this.

It was enough to cause me serious injury,though, and for the rest of the year I had lainin bed at the chateau. I had stood on a

precipice over death’s great infinity, driftingin and out of consciousness, wounded, infec-ted and feverish but wearily fighting on,some weak and flickering flame of spiritwithin me refusing to be doused.

The roles were reversed, and this time itwas Holden’s turn to tend to me. Whenever Irecovered consciousness and awoke fromthrashing in sweat-soaked sheets, he wouldbe there, smoothing out the linen, applyingfresh cold flannels to my burning brow,soothing me.

“It’s all right, sir, it’s all right. Just you re-lax. You’re over the worst now.”

Was I? Was I over the worst?One day—how long into my fever I’ve no

idea—I woke up and, gripping Holden’s up-per arm, pulled myself into a sitting position,staring intensely into his eyes to ask, “Lucio.Monica. Where are they?”

I’d had this image—an image of a furious,vengeful Holden cutting them both down.

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“Last thing you said before you blackedout was to spare them, sir,” he said, with alook that suggested he wasn’t happy about it,“so spare them’s what I did. We sent them ontheir way with horses and supplies.”

“Good, good . . .” I wheezed, and felt thedark rising to claim me again. “You can’tblame . . .”

“Cowardly is what it was,” he was sayingruefully as I lost consciousness again. “Noother word for it, sir. Cowardly. Now just youclose your eyes, get your rest . . .”

I saw Jenny, too, and even in my feverish,injured state couldn’t help but notice thechange in her. It was as though she hadachieved an inner peace. Once or twice I wasaware of her sitting by the side of my bed,and heard her talking about life at QueenAnne’s Square, how she planned to returnand, as she put it, “take care of business.”

I dreaded to think. Even half-conscious Ifound it in my heart to pity the poor souls in

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charge of the Kenways’ affairs when my sis-ter Jenny returned to the fold.

On a table by the side of my bed lay Re-ginald’s Templar ring, but I didn’t put it on,pick it up, even touch it. For now, at least, Ifelt neither Templar nor Assassin, andwanted nothing to do with either Order.

And then, some three months after Luciohad stabbed me, I climbed out of bed.

Taking a deep breath, with Holden grip-ping my left forearm in both of his hands, Iswept my feet out from underneath thesheets, put them to the cold wooden floorand felt my nightclothes slide down to myknees as I stood upright for the first time inwhat felt like a lifetime. Straight away, I felt atwinge of pain from the wound at my sideand put my hand there.

“It was badly infected, sir,” explainedHolden. “We had to cut away some of therotted skin.”

I grimaced.

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“Where do you want to go, sir?” askedHolden, after we’d walked slowly from thebed to the doorway. It made me feel like aninvalid, but I was happy for the moment tobe treated like one. My strength would soonreturn. And then I would be . . .

Back to my old self? I wondered . . .“I think I want to look out of the window,

Holden, please,” I said, and he agreed, lead-ing me over to it so that I could gaze out overthe grounds where I’d spent so much of mychildhood. As I stood there, I realized that,for most of my adult life, when I’d thought of“home,” I’d pictured myself staring out of awindow, either over the gardens of QueenAnne’s Square or the grounds of the chateau.I’d called both of them home and still did,and now—now that I knew the full truthabout Father and Reginald—they’d come toacquire an even greater significance, a dual-ity almost: two halves of my boyhood, twoparts of the man I became.

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“That’s enough, thank you, Holden,” Isaid, and let him lead me back to the bed. Iclimbed in, suddenly feeling . . . I hate to ad-mit it, but “frail,” after my long journey allthe way to the window and back again.

Even so, my recovery was almost com-plete and the thought was enough to bring asmile to my face as Holden busied himselfcollecting a beaker of water and a used flan-nel, on his face a strange, grim, unreadableexpression.

“It’s good to see you back on your feet,sir,” he said, when he realized I was lookingat him.

“I’ve got you to thank, Holden,” I said.“And Miss Jenny, sir,” he reminded me.“Indeed.”“We were both worried about you for a

while, sir. It was touch and go.”“Quite something it would have been, to

have lived through wars, Assassins and

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murderous eunuchs, only to die at the handsof a slip of a boy.” I chuckled.

He nodded and laughed drily. “Quite so,sir,” he agreed. “A bitter irony indeed.”

“Well, I live to fight another day,” I said,“and soon, maybe in a week or so, we shalltake our leave, travel back to the Americasand there continue my work.”

He looked at me, nodded. “As you wish,sir,” he said. “Will that be all for the time be-ing, sir?”

“Yes—yes, of course. Sorry, Holden, to besuch a bother these past few months.”

“My only wish has been to see you recov-er, sir,” he said, and left.

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28 JANUARY 1758

The first thing I heard this morning was ascream. Jenny’s scream. She had walked intothe kitchen and found Holden hanging froma clothes dryer.

I knew even before she rushed into myroom—I knew what had happened. He’d lefta note but he hadn’t needed to. He had killedhimself because of what the Coptic priestshad done to him. It was as simple as that,and no surprise, not really.

I knew from the death of my father that astate of stupefaction is a good index of thegrieving to come. The more paralyzed, dazedand numb one feels, the longer and more in-tense the period of mourning.

PART IV

1774, SIXTEEN YEARSLATER

12 JANUARY 1774

i

Writing this at the end of an eventful even-ing, there is but one question on my mind. Isit possible that . . .

That I have a son?The answer is I don’t know for sure, but

there are clues and perhaps most persist-ently, a feeling—a feeling that constantlynags at me, tugging on the hem of my coatlike an insistent beggar.

It’s not the only weight I carry, of course.There are days I feel bent double withmemory, with doubt, regret and grief. Dayswhen it feels as if the ghosts won’t leave mealone.

After we buried Holden I departed for theAmericas, and Jenny returned to live in

England, back at Queen Anne’s Square,where she has stayed in glorious spinster-hood ever since. No doubt she’s been thesubject of endless gossip and speculationabout the years she spent away, and nodoubt that suits her down to the ground. Wecorrespond, but though I’d like to say ourshared experiences had brought us together,the bald fact of the matter is they hadn’t. Wecorresponded because we shared the Kenwayname and felt we should stay in touch. Jennyno longer insulted me, so in that sense I sup-pose our relationship had improved, but ourletters were weary and perfunctory. We weretwo people who had experienced enough suf-fering and loss to last a dozen lifetimes.What could we possibly discuss in a letter?Nothing. So nothing was what we discussed.

In the meantime—I had been right—I hadmourned for Holden. I never knew a greaterman than him, and I never will. For him,though, the strength and character he had in

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abundance just wasn’t enough. His manhoodhad been taken from him. He couldn’t livewith that, wasn’t prepared to, and so he hadwaited until I was recovered then taken hisown life.

I grieved for him and probably alwayswill, and I grieved for Reginald’s betrayal,too—for the relationship we once had and forthe lies and treachery on which my life wasbased. And I grieved for the man I had been.The pain in my side had never quite goneaway—every now and then it wouldspasm—and despite the fact that I hadn’t giv-en my body permission to grow older, it wasdetermined to do so anyway. Small, wiryhairs had sprouted from my ears and nose.All of a sudden I wasn’t as lithe as I oncewas. Though my standing within the Orderwas grander than ever, physically I was notthe man I once was. On my return to theAmericas I’d found a homestead in Virginiaon which to grow tobacco and wheat, and I’d

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ride around the estate, aware of my powersslowly waning as the years passed. Climbingon and off my horse was harder than it hadbeen before. And I don’t mean hard, justharder, because I was still stronger andfaster and more agile than a man half my ageand there wasn’t a worker on my estate whocould best me physically. But even so . . . Iwasn’t as fast, as strong, or as nimble as Ihad been once. Age had not forgotten toclaim me.

In ’73, Charles returned to the Americas,too, and became a neighbour, a fellow Vir-ginian estate owner, a mere half-day’s rideaway, and we had corresponded, agreeingthat we needed to meet to talk Templar busi-ness and plan to further the interests of theColonial Rite. Mainly we discussed the devel-oping mood of rebellion, the seeds of revolu-tion floating on the breeze and how best tocapitalize on the mood, because our colonialswere growing more and more tired of new

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rules being enforced by the British parlia-ment: the Stamp Act; the Revenue Act; theIndemnity Act; the Commissioners of Cus-toms Act. They were being squeezed for taxesand resented the fact that there was nobodyto represent their views, to register theirdiscontent.

A certain George Washington was amongthe discontents. That young officer who oncerode with Braddock had resigned his com-mission and accepted land bounty for help-ing the British during the French and IndianWar. But his sympathies had shifted in theintervening years. The bright-eyed officerwhom I had admired for having a compas-sionate outlook—more than his commanderat least—was now one of the loudest voices inthe anti-British movement. No doubt thiswas because the interests of His Majesty’sgovernment conflicted with his own businessambitions; he’d made representations at theVirginia Assembly to try to introduce

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legislation banning the import of goods fromGreat Britain. The fact that it was a doomedlegislation only added to the growing senseof national discontent.

The Tea Party, when it happened inDecember ’73—just last month, in fact—wasthe culmination of years—no, decades—ofdissatisfaction. By turning the harbour intothe world’s biggest cup of tea, the colonistswere telling Great Britain and the world thatthey were no longer prepared to live underan unjust system. A full-scale uprising wassurely just a matter of months away. So, withthe same amount of enthusiasm as I tendedmy crops, or wrote to Jenny, or climbed outof bed each morning—in other words, verylittle—I decided it was time for the Order tomake preparations for the coming revolu-tion, and I called a meeting.

ii

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We assembled, all of us together for the firsttime in over fifteen years, the men of the Co-lonial Rite with whom I had shared so manyadventures twenty years ago.

We were gathered beneath the low beamsof a deserted tavern called the Restless Ghoston the outskirts of Boston. It hadn’t beendeserted when we’d arrived, but Thomas hadseen to it that we soon had the place toourselves, literally chasing out the few drink-ers who were huddled over the woodentables. Those of us who usually wore a uni-form were wearing civilian clothes, withbuttoned-up coats and hats pulled down overour eyes, and we sat around a table withtankards close at hand: me, Charles Lee,Benjamin Church, Thomas Hickey, WilliamJohnson and John Pitcairn.

And it was here that I first learnt aboutthe boy.

Benjamin addressed the subject first. Hewas our man inside Boston’s Sons of Liberty,

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a group of patriots, anti-British colonistswho had helped organize the Boston TeaParty, and two years ago, in Martha’s Vine-yard, he’d had an encounter.

“A native boy,” he said. “Not someone I’dever seen before . . .”

“Not someone you remember seeing be-fore, Benjamin,” I corrected.

He pulled a face. “Not someone I remem-ber seeing before, then,” he amended. “A boywho strode up to me and, bold as brass, de-manded to know where Charles was.”

I turned to Charles. “He’s asking for you,then. Do you know who it is?”

“No.” But there was something shiftyabout the way he said it.

“I’ll try again, Charles. Do you have a sus-picion who this boy might be?”

He leaned back in his seat and lookedaway, across the tavern. “I don’t think so,” hesaid.

“But you’re not sure?”

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“There was a boy at . . .”An uncomfortable silence seemed to des-

cend on the table. The men either reachedfor their tankards or hunched their shouldersor found something to study in the firenearby. None would meet my eye.

“How about somebody tells me what’s go-ing on?” I asked.

These men—not one of them was a tenthof the man Holden had been. I was sick ofthem, I realized, heartily sick of them. Andmy feelings were about to intensify.

It was Charles—Charles who was the firstto look across the table, hold my gaze and tellme, “Your Mohawk woman.”

“What about her?”“I’m sorry, Haytham,” he said. “Really I

am.”“She’s dead?”“Yes.”Of course, I thought. So much death.

“When? How?”

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“It was during the war. In ’60. Fourteenyears ago now. Her village was attacked andburned.”

I felt my mouth tighten.“It was Washington,” he said quickly,

glancing at me. “George Washington and hismen. They burned the village and your . . .she died with it.”

“You were there?”He coloured. “Yes, we’d hoped to speak to

the village elders about the precursor site.There was nothing I could do, though,Haytham, I can assure you. Washington andhis men were all over the place. They had alust for blood on them that day.”

“And there was a boy?” I asked him.His eyes flicked away. “Yes, there was a

boy—young, about five.”About five, I thought. I had a vision of

Ziio, of the face I’d once loved, when I wascapable of doing such a thing, and felt a dullbackwash of grief for her and loathing for

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Washington, who had obviously learnt athing or two from serving with General Brad-dock—lessons in brutality and ruthlessness. Ithought of the last time she and I had beentogether, and I pictured her in our small en-campment, gazing out into the trees with afaraway look in her eyes and, almost uncon-sciously, her hands going to her belly.

But no. I cast the idea aside. Too fanciful.Too far-fetched.

“He threatened me, this boy,” Charleswas saying.

In different circumstances, I might havesmiled at the image of Charles, all six foot ofhim, being threatened by a five-year-old nat-ive boy—if I hadn’t been trying to absorb thedeath of Ziio, that was—and I took a deep butalmost imperceptible breath, feeling the airin my chest, and dismissed the image of her.

“I wasn’t the only one of us there,” saidCharles defensively, and I looked around thetable enquiringly.

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“Go on, then. Who else?”William, Thomas, and Benjamin all nod-

ded, their eyes fixed on the dark, knottedwood of the tabletop.

“It can’t have been him,” said Williamcrossly. “Can’t have been the same kid,surely.”

“Come on, ’Aytham, what are thechances?” chimed Thomas Hickey.

“And you didn’t recognize him atMartha’s Vineyard?” I asked Benjamin now.

He shook his head, shrugged. “It was justa kid, an Indian kid. They all look the same,don’t they?”

“And what were you doing there, inMartha’s Vineyard?”

His voice was testy. “Having a break.”Or making plans to line your pockets, I

thought, and said, “Really?”He pursed his lips. “If things go as we

think, and the rebels organize themselves in-to an army, then I’m in line to be made chief

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physician, Master Kenway,” he said, “one ofthe most senior positions in the army. I thinkthat, rather than questioning why I was inMartha’s Vineyard that day, you might havesome words of congratulation for me.”

He cast around the table for support andwas greeted with hesitant nods from Thomasand William, both of them giving me a side-ways look at the same time.

I conceded. “And I have completely for-gotten my manners, Benjamin. Indeed it willbe a great boost for the Order the day youachieve that rank.”

Charles cleared his throat loudly. “Whilewe also hope that if such an army is formed,our very own Charles will be appointed itscommander in chief.”

I didn’t see exactly, as the light in the tav-ern was so low, but I could sense Charlesredden. “We do more than merely hope,” heprotested. “I am the obvious candidate. My

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military experience far outstrips that of Ge-orge Washington.”

“Yes, but you are English, Charles.” Isighed.

“Born in England,” he spluttered, “but acolonial in my heart.”

“What’s in your heart may not beenough,” I said.

“We shall see,” he returned indignantly.We would, indeed, I thought wearily,

then turned my attention to William, whohad been reserved so far, although, as theone who would have been most affected bythe events of the Tea Party, it was obviouswhy.

“And what of your assignment, William?How go the plans to purchase the nativeland?”

We all knew, of course, but it had to besaid, and it had to be said by William, wheth-er he liked it or not. “The Confederacy hasgiven the deal its blessing . . .” he started.

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“But . . . ?”He took a deep breath. “You know, of

course, Master Kenway, of our plans to raisefunds . . .”

“Tea leaves?”“And you know, of course, all about the

Boston Tea Party?”I held up my hands. “The repercussions

have been felt worldwide. First the StampAct, now this. Our colonists are revolting, arethey not?”

William shot me a reproachful look. “I’mglad it’s a situation that amuses you, MasterKenway.”

I shrugged. “The beauty of our approachis that we have all the angles covered. Herearound the table we have representatives ofthe colonials”—I pointed at Benjamin—“ofthe British Army”—I indicated John—“and ofcourse our very own man for hire, ThomasHickey. On the outside, your affiliationscould not be more different. What you have

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in your heart are the ideals of the Order. So,you’ll have to excuse me, William, if I remainin good humour despite your setback. It’sonly because I believe that it is just a setback,a minor one at that.”

“Well, I hope you’re right, Master Ken-way, because the fact of the matter is thatthat avenue of raising funds is now closed tous.”

“Because of the rebels’ actions . . .”“Exactly. And there’s another thing . . .”“What?” I asked, sensing all eyes on me.“The boy was there. He was one of the

ringleaders. He threw crates of tea into theharbour. We all saw him. Me, John,Charles . . .”

“The same boy?”“Almost certainly,” said William, “his

necklace was exactly as Benjamin describedit.”

“Necklace?” I said. “What sort of neck-lace?” And I kept my face impassive, tried

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not to swallow even, as Benjamin went on todescribe Ziio’s necklace.

It didn’t mean anything, I told myself,when they’d finished. Ziio was dead, so ofcourse the necklace would have been passedon—if it was even the same one.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Isighed, looking at their faces.

As one, they nodded, but it was Charleswho spoke. “When Benjamin encounteredhim at Martha’s Vineyard, he was a normal-looking kid. During the Tea Party, he wasn’ta normal-looking kid any more. He wore therobes, Haytham,” said Charles.

“The robes?”“Of an Assassin.”

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27 JUNE 1776 (TWO YEARS LATER)

i

It was this time last year that I was provedright and Charles wrong, when GeorgeWashington was indeed appointed the com-mander in chief of the newly formed Contin-ental Army and Charles made major-general.

And while I was far from pleased to hearthe news, Charles was incandescent, andhadn’t stopped fuming since. He was fond ofsaying that George Washington wasn’t fit tocommand a sergeant’s guard. Which, ofcourse, as is often the case, was neither truenor an outright falsehood. While on the onehand Washington displayed elements ofnaïveté in his leadership, on the other he hadsecured some notable victories, most import-antly the liberation of Boston in March. He

also had the confidence and trust of hispeople. There was no doubt about it, he hadsome good qualities.

But he wasn’t a Templar, and we wantedthe revolution led by one of our own. Notonly did we plan to be in control of the win-ning side, but we thought we had morechance of winning with Charles in charge.And so, we hatched a plot to kill Washington.As simple as that. A plot that would be pro-ceeding nicely but for one thing: this youngAssassin. This Assassin—who may or maynot be my son—who continued to be a thornin our side.

ii

First was William. Dead. Killed last year,shortly before the Revolutionary War began.After the Tea Party, William began to brokera deal to buy Indian land. There was much

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resistance, however, not least among theIroquois Confederation, who met with Willi-am at his home estate. The negotiations hadbegun well, by all accounts, but, as is the wayof things, something was said and thingstook a turn for the worse.

“Brothers, please,” William had pleaded,“I am confident we will find a solution.”

But the Iroquois were not listening. Theland was theirs, they argued. They closedtheir ears to the logic offered by William,which was that, if the land passed into Tem-plar hands, then we could keep it from theclutches of whichever force emerged victori-ous from the forthcoming conflict.

Dissent bubbled through the members ofthe native confederation. Doubt lurkedamong them. Some argued that they couldnever contend with the might of the Britishor colonial armies themselves; others feltthat entering into a deal with William offeredno better solution. They had forgotten how

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the Templars freed their people from Silas’sslavery two decades before; instead they re-membered the expeditions William had or-ganized into the forest to try to locate theprecursor site; the excavations at the cham-ber we had found. Those outrages were freshin their minds, impossible to overlook.

“Peace, peace,” argued William. “Have Inot always been an advocate? Have I not al-ways sought to protect you from harm?”

“If you wish to protect us, then give usarms. Muskets and horses that we might de-fend ourselves,” argued a Confederationmember in response.

“War is not the answer,” pressed William.“We remember you moved the borders.

Even today your men dig up the land—show-ing no regard for those who live upon it.Your words are honeyed, but false. We arenot here to negotiate. Nor to sell. We arehere to tell you and yours to leave theselands.”

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Regrettably, William resorted to force tomake his point, and a native was shot, withthe threat of more deaths to come unless theConfederation signed the contract.

The men said no, to their credit; they re-fused to be bowed by William’s show offorce. What a bitter vindication it must havebeen as their men began to fall with musketballs in their skulls.

And then the boy appeared. I had Willi-am’s man describe him to me in detail, andwhat he said matched exactly what Benjaminhad said about the encounter in Martha’sVineyard, and what Charles, William andJohn had seen at Boston Harbour. He worethe same necklace, the same Assassin’srobes. It was the same boy.

“This boy, what did he say to William?” Iasked the soldier who stood before me.

“He said he planned to ensure an end toMaster Johnson’s schemes, stop him claim-ing these lands for the Templars.”

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“Did William respond?”“Indeed he did, sir, he told his killer that

the Templars had tried to claim the land inorder to protect the Indians. He told the boythat neither King George nor the colonistscared enough to protect the interests of theIroquois.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not an especially con-vincing argument, given that he was in theprocess of slaughtering the natives when theboy struck.”

The soldier bowed his head. “Possiblynot, sir.”

iii

If I was a little too philosophical when itcame to William’s death, well, there were ex-tenuating factors. William, though diligent inhis work and dedicated, was never the mostgood-humoured of people and, by meeting a

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situation that called for diplomacy withforce, he’d made a pig’s ear of the negoti-ations. Though it pains me to say it, he’dbeen the architect of his own downfall, andI’m afraid I’ve never been one for toleratingincompetence: not as a young man, when Isuppose it was something I’d inherited fromReginald; and now, having passed my fiftiethbirthday, even less so. William had been abloody fool and paid for it with his life.Equally, the project to secure the native land,while important to us, was no longer ourmain priority; it hadn’t been since the out-break of war. Our main task now was to as-sume control of the army and, fair meanshaving failed, we were resorting to foul—byassassinating Washington.

However, that plan was dealt a blowwhen the Assassin next targeted John, ourBritish army officer, striking at him becauseof John’s work weeding out the rebels.Again, though it was irritating to lose such a

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valuable man, it might not have affected ourplans but for the fact that in John’s pocketwas a letter—unfortunately, one that detailedplans to kill Washington, naming our veryThomas Hickey as the man elected to do thedeed. In short order, the youthful Assassinwas making haste to New York, with Thomasnext on his list.

Thomas was counterfeiting money there,helping to raise funds as well as preparingfor the assassination of Washington. Charleswas already there with the ContinentalArmy, so I slipped into the city myself andtook lodgings. And no sooner had I arrivedthan I was given the news: the boy hadreached Thomas, only for the pair of them tobe arrested and both of them tossed inBridewell Prison.

“There can be no further mistakes, Tho-mas, am I understood?” I told him when Ivisited him, shivering in the cold and revol-ted by the smell, clamour and noise of the

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jail, when, suddenly, in the cell next door, Isaw him: the Assassin.

And knew. He had his mother’s eyes, thesame proud set of his chin, but his mouthand nose were Kenway. He was the image ofher, and of me. Without a doubt, he was myson.

iv

“It’s him,” said Charles, as we left the prisontogether. I gave a start, but he didn’t notice:New York was freezing, our breath hung inclouds, and he was far too preoccupied withkeeping warm.

“It’s who?”“The boy.”I knew exactly what he meant of course.“What the hell are you talking about,

Charles?” I said crossly, and blew into myhands.

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“Do you remember me telling you about aboy I encountered back in ’60, when Wash-ington’s men attacked the Indian village?”

“Yes, I remember. And this is our Assas-sin, is it? The same one as at Boston Har-bour? The same one who killed William andJohn? That’s the boy who’s in there now?”

“It would seem so, Haytham, yes.”I rounded on him.“Do you see what this means, Charles?

We have created that Assassin. In him burnsa hatred of all Templars. He saw you the dayhis village burned, yes?”

“Yes—yes, I’ve already told you . . .”“I expect he saw your ring, too. I expect

he wore the imprint of your ring on his ownskin for some weeks after your encounter.Am I right, Charles?”

“Your concern for the child is touching,Haytham. You always were a great supporterof the natives . . .”

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The words froze on his lips because, inthe next instant, I’d bunched some of hiscape in my fist and thrust him against thestone wall of the prison. I towered over him,and my eyes burned into his.

“My concern is for the Order,” I said. “Myonly concern is for the Order. And, correctme if I’m wrong, Charles, but the Order doesnot preach the senseless slaughter of natives,the burning of their villages. That, I seem torecall, was noticeably absent from my teach-ings. Do you know why? Because it’s the kindof behaviour that creates—how would youdescribe it?—‘ill will’ among those we mighthope to win over to our way of thinking. Itsends neutrals scuttling to the side of our en-emies. Just as it has here. Men are dead andour plans under threat because of your beha-viour sixteen years ago.”

“Not my behaviour—Washington is—”I let him go, took a step back and clasped

my hands behind me. “Washington will pay

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for what he has done. We will see to that. Heis brutal, that is clear, and not fit to lead.”

“I agree, Haytham, and I’ve already takena step to ensure that there are no more inter-ruptions, to kill two birds with one stone, asit were.”

I looked sharply at him. “Go on.”“The native boy is to be hanged for plot-

ting to kill George Washington and for themurder of the prison warden. Washingtonwill be there, of course—I plan to make sureof it—and we can use the opportunity to killhim. Thomas, of course, is more than happyto take on the task. It only falls to you, asGrand Master of the Colonial Rite, to givethe mission your blessing.”

“It’s short notice,” I said, and could hearthe doubt in my own voice. But why? Whydid I even care any more who lived or died?

Charles spread his hands. “It is short no-tice, but sometimes the best plans are.”

“Indeed,” I agreed. “Indeed.”

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“Well?”I thought. With one word, I would ratify

the execution of my own child. What mannerof monster could do such a thing?

“Do it,” I said.“Very well,” he replied, with a sudden,

chest-puffed satisfaction. “Then we won’twaste a single moment more. We shall putthe word out across New York tonight thattomorrow a traitor to the revolution meetshis end.”

v

It is too late for me to feel paternal now.Whatever inside me that might once havebeen capable of nurturing my child had longsince been corrupted or burned away. Yearsof betrayal and slaughter have seen to that.

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28 JUNE 1776

i

This morning I woke up in my lodgings witha start, sitting upright in bed and lookingaround the unfamiliar room. Outside thewindow, the streets of New York were stir-ring. Did I imagine it, or was there a chargein the air, an excited edge to the chatter thatrose to my window? And, if there was, did ithave anything to do with the fact that todaythere was an execution in town? Today theywould hang . . .

Connor, that’s his name. That’s the nameZiio gave him. I wondered how differentthings might have been, had we brought himinto this world together.

Would Connor still be his name?

Would he still have chosen the path of theAssassin?

And if the answer to that question was,No, he wouldn’t have chosen the path of anAssassin because his father was a Templar,then what did that make me but an abomina-tion, an accident, a mongrel? A man with di-vided loyalties.

But a man who had decided he could notallow his son to die. Not today.

I dressed, not in my normal clothes but ina dark robe with a hood that I pulled up overmy head, then hurried for the stables, foundmy horse and urged her onwards to the exe-cution square, over muddy streets packedhard, startled city folk scuttling out of myway and shaking their fists at me or staringwide-eyed from beneath the brims of theirhats. I thundered on, towards where thecrowds became thicker as onlookers con-gregated for the hanging to come.

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And, as I rode, I wondered what I was do-ing and realized I didn’t know. All I knewwas how I felt, which was as though I hadbeen asleep but suddenly was awake.

ii

There, on a platform, the gallows awaited itsnext victim, while a decent-sized crowd wasanticipating the day’s entertainment. Aroundthe sides of the square were horses and carts,on to which families clambered for a betterview: craven-looking men, short women withpinched, worried faces, and grubby children.Sight-seers sat in the square while othersmilled around: women in groups who stoodand gossiped, men swigging ale or wine fromleather flasks. All of them here to see my sonexecuted.

At one side, a cart flanked by soldiers ar-rived and I caught a glimpse of Connor

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inside, before out jumped a grinning ThomasHickey, who then yanked him from the cart,too, taunting him at the same time, “Didn’tthink I’d miss your farewell party, did you? Ihear Washington himself will be in attend-ance. Hope nothing bad happens to him . . .”

Connor, with his hands bound in front ofhim, shot a look of hatred at Thomas and,once again, I marvelled at how much of hismother was to be found in those features.But, along with defiance, and bravery, todaythere was also . . . fear.

“You said there’d be a trial,” he snapped,as Thomas manhandled him.

“Traitors don’t get trials, I’m afraid. Leeand Haytham sorted that out. It’s straight tothe gallows for you.”

I went cold. Connor was about to go tohis death thinking I had signed his deathwarrant.

“I will not die today,” said Connor, proud.“The same cannot be said for you.” But he

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was saying it over his shoulder as the guardswho had helped escort the cart into thesquare used pikestaffs to jab him towards thegallows. The noise swelled as the partingcrowd reached to try to grab him, punchhim, knock him to the ground. I saw a manwith hate in his eyes about to throw a punchand was close enough to snatch the punch asit was thrown, twist the man’s arm painfullyup his back, then throw him to the ground.With blazing eyes he looked up at me, butthe sight of me glaring at him from withinmy hood stopped him, and he picked himselfup and in the next moment was swept awayby the seething, unruly crowd.

Meanwhile, Connor had been shoved fur-ther along the gauntlet of vengeful abuse,and I was too far away to stop another manwho suddenly lunged forward and grabbedhim—but near enough to see the man’s facebeneath his hood; near enough to read hislips.

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“You are not alone. Only give a cry whenyou need it . . .”

It was Achilles, a known Assassin.He was here—here to save Connor, who

was replying, “Forget about me—you need tostop Hickey. He’s—”

But then he was dragged away, and I fin-ished the sentence in my head: . . . planningto kill George Washington.

Talk of the devil. The commander in chiefhad arrived with a small guard. As Connorwas pulled on to the platform and an execu-tioner fastened a noose around his neck, thecrowd’s attention went to the opposite end ofthe square, where Washington was being ledto a raised platform at the back, which, evennow, was being frantically cleared of crowdsby the guards. Charles, as major-general, waswith him, too, and it gave me an opportunityto compare the two: Charles, a good dealtaller than Washington, though with a cer-tain aloofness compared to Washington’s

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easy charm. Looking at them together, I sawat once why the Continental Congress hadchosen Washington over him. Charles lookedso British.

Then Charles had left Washington andwith a couple of guards made his way acrossthe square, swatting the crowd out of his wayas he came, and then was ascending thesteps to the gallows, where he addressed thecrowd, which pushed forward. I found my-self pressed between bodies, smelling ale andsweat, using my elbows to try to find spacewithin the herd.

“Brothers, sisters, fellow patriots,” beganCharles, and an impatient hush descendedover the crowd. “Several days ago we learntof a scheme so vile, so dastardly that even re-peating it now disturbs my being. The manbefore you plotted to murder our much be-loved general.”

The crowd gasped.

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“Indeed,” roared Charles, warming to histheme. “What darkness or madness movedhim, none can say. And he himself offers nodefence. Shows no remorse. And though wehave begged and pleaded for him to sharewhat he knows, he maintains a deadlysilence.”

At this, the executioner stepped forwardand thrust a Hessian sack over Connor’shead.

“If the man will not explain himself—if hewill not confess and atone—what other op-tion is there but this? He sought to send usinto the arms of the enemy. Thus we arecompelled by justice to send him from thisworld. May God have mercy on his soul.”

And now he was finished, and I lookedaround, trying to spot more of Achilles’smen. If it was a rescue mission, then nowwas the time, surely? But where were they?What the hell were they planning?

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A bowman. They had to be using a bow-man. It wasn’t ideal: an arrow wouldn’t severthe rope completely, the best the rescuerscould hope for was that it would part thefibre enough for Connor’s weight to snap it.But it was the most accurate. It could be de-ployed from . . .

Far away. I swung about to check thebuildings behind me. Sure enough, at thespot I would have chosen was a bowman,standing at a tall casement window. As Iwatched, he drew back the bowstring andsquinted along the line of the arrow. Then,just as the trapdoor snapped open and Con-nor’s body dropped, he fired.

The arrow streaked above us, though Iwas the only one aware of it, and I whippedmy gaze over to the platform in time to see itslice the rope and weaken it—of course—butnot enough to cut it.

I risked being seen and discovered, but Idid what I did anyway, on impulse, on

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instinct. I snatched my dagger from withinmy robes, and I threw it, watched as it sailedthrough the air and thanked God as it slicedinto the rope and finished the job.

As Connor’s writhing and—thankGod—still very much alive body droppedthrough the trapdoor, a gasp went up aroundme. For a moment I found myself with aboutan arm’s width of space all around as thecrowd recoiled from me in shock. At thesame time I caught sight of Achilles duckingdown into the gallows pit where Connor’sbody had fallen. Then I was fighting to es-cape as the shocked lull was replaced by avengeful roar, kicks and punches were aimedmy way and guards began shouldering theirway through the throng towards me. I en-gaged the blade and cut one or two of thesight-seers—enough to draw blood and giveother attackers pause for thought. More tim-id now, they at last made space around me. Idashed out of the square and back to my

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horse, the catcalls of the angry crowd ringingin my ears.

iii

“He got to Thomas before he could reachWashington,” said Charles despondentlylater, as we sat in the shadows of the RestlessGhost Tavern to talk about the events of theday. He was agitated and constantly lookingover his shoulder. He looked like I felt, and Ialmost envied him the freedom to expresshis feelings. Me, I had to keep my turmoilhidden. And what turmoil it was: I’d savedthe life of my son but effectively sabotagedthe work of my own Order—an operationthat I myself had decreed. I was a traitor. Ihad betrayed my people.

“What happened?” I asked.Connor had reached Thomas and before

he killed him was demanding answers. Why

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had William tried to buy his people’s land?Why were we trying to murder Washington?

I nodded. Took a sip of my ale. “Whatwas Thomas’s reply?”

“He said that that what Connor soughthe’d never find.”

Charles looked at me, his eyes wide andweary.

“What now, Haytham? What now?”

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7 JANUARY 1778 (TWO YEARS

LATER)

i

Charles had begun by resenting Washington,and the fact that our assassination attempthad failed only increased his anger. He tookit as a personal affront that Washington hadsurvived—how dare he?—so never quite for-gave him for it. Shortly afterwards, New Yorkhad fallen to the British, and Washington,who was almost captured, was held to blame,not least by Charles, who was singularly un-impressed by Washington’s subsequent forayacross the Delaware River, despite the factthat his victory at the Battle of Trenton hadrenewed confidence in the revolution. ForCharles, it was more grist to the mill thatWashington went on to lose the Battle of

Brandywine and thus Philadelphia. Wash-ington’s attack on the British at Germantownhad been a catastrophe. And now there wasValley Forge.

After winning the Battle of White Marsh,Washington had taken his troops to what hehoped was a safer location for the new year.Valley Forge, in Pennsylvania, was the highground he chose: twelve thousand Contin-entals, so badly equipped and fatigued thatthe shoeless men left a trail of bloody foot-prints when they marched to make camp andprepare for the coming winter.

They were a shambles. Food and clothingwas in woefully short supply, while horsesstarved to death or died on their feet.Typhoid, jaundice, dysentery and pneumoniaran unchecked throughout the camp andkilled thousands. Morale and discipline wereso low as to be virtually non-existent.

Still, though, despite the loss of New Yorkand Philadelphia and the long, slow, freezing

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death of his army at Valley Forge, Washing-ton had his guardian angel: Connor. AndConnor, with the certainty of youth, believedin Washington. No words of mine could pos-sibly persuade him otherwise, that much wasfor certain; nothing I could have said wouldconvince him that Washington was in fact re-sponsible for the death of his mother. In hismind, it was Templars who were respons-ible—and who can blame him for coming tothat conclusion? After all, he saw Charlesthere that day. And not just Charles, but Wil-liam, Thomas and Benjamin.

Ah, Benjamin. My other problem. He hadthese past years been something of a dis-grace to the Order, to put it mildly. After at-tempting to sell information to the British,he had been hauled before a court of inquiryin ’75, headed by who else but George Wash-ington. By now Benjamin was, just as he’dpredicted all those years ago, the chief physi-cian and director general of the medical

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service of the Continental Army. He was con-victed of “communicating with the enemy”and imprisoned, and, to all intents and pur-poses, he had remained so until earlier thisyear, when he had been released—andpromptly gone missing.

Whether he had recanted the ideals of theOrder, just as Braddock had done all thoseyears ago, I didn’t know. What I did knowwas that he was likely to be the one behindthe theft of supplies bound for Valley Forge,which of course was making matters worsefor the poor souls camped there; that he hadforsaken the goals of the Order in favour ofpersonal gain; and that he needed to bestopped—a task I’d taken upon myself, start-ing in the vicinity of Valley Forge and ridingthrough the freezing, snow-covered Phil-adelphia wilds until I came to the churchwhere Benjamin had made camp.

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ii

A church to find a Church. But abandoned.Not just by its erstwhile congregation but byBenjamin’s men. Days ago, they’d been here,but now—nothing. No supplies, no men, justthe remains of fires, already cold, and irregu-lar patches of mud and snowless groundwhere tents had been pitched. I tethered myhorse at the back of the church then steppedinside, where it was just as bone-freezing,numbing cold as it was outside. Along theaisle were the remains of more fires and bythe door was a pile of wood, which, on closerinspection, I realized was church pews thathad been chopped up. Reverence is the firstvictim of the cold. The remaining pews werein two rows either side of the church, facingan imposing but long-disused pulpit, anddust floated and danced in broad shafts oflight projected through grimy windows highup in imposing stone walls. Scattered around

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a rough stone floor were various upturnedcrates and the remains of packaging, and fora few moments I paced around, occasionallystooping to overturn a crate in the hope thatI might find some clue as to where Benjaminhad got to.

Then, a noise—footsteps from thedoor—and I froze before darting behind thepulpit just as the huge oak doors creakedslowly and ominously open, and a figureentered: a figure who could have been tra-cing my exact steps, for the way he seemed topace around the church floor just as I haddone, upturning and investigating crates andeven cursing under his breath, just as I had.

It was Connor.I peered from the shadows behind the

pulpit. He wore his Assassin’s robes and anintense look, and I watched him for a mo-ment. It was as though I were watching my-self—a younger version of myself, as an As-sassin, the path I should have taken, the path

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I was being groomed to take, and would havedone, had it not been for the treachery of Re-ginald Birch. Watching him—Connor—I felta fierce mixture of emotions; among themregret, bitterness, even envy.

I moved closer. Let’s see how good an As-sassin he really is.

Or, to put it another way, let’s see if I stillhad it.

iii

I did.“Father,” he said, when I had him down

and the blade to his throat.“Connor,” I said sardonically. “Any last

words?”“Wait.”“A poor choice.”He struggled, and his eyes blazed. “Come

to check up on Church, have you? Make sure

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he’s stolen enough for your Britishbrothers?”

“Benjamin Church is no brother of mine.”I tutted. “No more than the redcoats or theiridiot king. I expected naïveté. But this . . .The Templars do not fight for the Crown. Weseek the same as you, boy. Freedom. Justice.Independence.”

“But . . .”“But what?” I asked.“Johnson. Pitcairn. Hickey. They tried to

steal land. To sack towns. To murder GeorgeWashington.”

I sighed. “Johnson sought to own theland that we might keep it safe. Pitcairnaimed to encourage diplomacy—which youcocked up thoroughly enough to start a god-damned war. And Hickey? George Washing-ton is a wretched leader. He’s lost nearlyevery battle in which he’s taken part. Theman’s wracked by uncertainty and insecur-ity. Take one look at Valley Forge and you

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know my words are true. We’d all be betteroff without him.”

What I was saying had an effect on him, Icould tell. “Look—much as I’d love to sparwith you, Benjamin Church’s mouth is as bigas his ego. You clearly want the supplies he’sstolen; I want him punished. Our interestsare aligned.”

“What do you propose?” he said warily.What did I propose? I thought. I saw his

eyes go to the amulet at my throat and minein turn went to the necklace he wore. Nodoubt his mother told him about the amulet;no doubt he would want to take it from me.On the other hand, the emblems we worearound our necks were both reminders ofher.

“A truce,” I said. “Perhaps—perhapssome time together will do us good. You aremy son, after all, and might still be savedfrom your ignorance.”

There was a pause.

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“Or I can kill you now, if you’d prefer?” Ilaughed.

“Do you know where Church has gone?”he asked.

“Afraid not. I’d hoped to ambush himwhen he or one of his men returned here.But it seems I was too late. They’ve come andcleared the place out.”

“I may be able to track him,” he said, withan oddly proud note in his voice.

I stood back and watched as he gave mean ostentatious demonstration of Achilles’straining, pointing to marks on the churchfloor where the crates had been dragged.

“The cargo was heavy,” he said. “It wasprobably loaded on to a wagon for trans-port . . . There were rations inside thecrates—medical supplies and clothing aswell.”

Outside the church, Connor gestured tosome churned-up snow. “There was a wagonhere . . . slowly weighed down as they loaded

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it with the supplies. Snow’s obscured thetracks, but enough remains that we can stillfollow. Come on . . .”

I collected my horse, joined him and to-gether we rode out, Connor indicating theline of the tracks as I tried to keep my admir-ation from showing. Not for the first time Ifound myself struck by the similarities in ourknowledge, and noted him doing just as Iwould have done in the same situation. Somefifteen miles out of the camp he twisted inthe saddle and shot me a triumphant look, atthe same time as he indicated the trail upahead. There was a broken-down cart, itsdriver trying to repair the wheel and mutter-ing as we approached: “Just my luck . . . Go-ing to freeze to death if I don’t get thisfixed . . .”

Surprised, he looked up at our arrival,and his eyes widened in fear. Not far awaywas his musket, but too far to reach. In-stantly, I knew—just as Connor haughtily

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demanded, “Are you Benjamin Church’sman?”—that he was going to make a run forit, and, sure enough, he did. Wild-eyed, hescrambled to his feet and took off into thetrees, wading into the snow with a pro-nounced, trudging run, as ungainly as awounded elephant.

“Well played,” I smiled, and Connorflashed me an angry look then leapt from hissaddle and dived into the tree line to chasethe cart driver. I let him go then sighed andclimbed down from my horse, checked myblade and listened to the commotion fromthe forest as Connor caught the man; then Istrode into the forest to join them.

“It was not wise to run,” Connor was say-ing. He’d pinned the driver against a tree.

“W–what do you want?” the wretchmanaged.

“Where is Benjamin Church?”

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“I don’t know. We was riding for a campjust north of here. It’s where we normallyunload the cargo. Maybe you’ll find him th–”

His eyes darted to me, as if looking forsupport, so I drew my pistol, and shot him.

“Enough of that,” I said. “Best be on ourway then.”

“You did not have to kill him,” said Con-nor, wiping the man’s blood from his face.

“We know where the camp is,” I told him.“He’d served his purpose.”

As we returned to our horses, I wonderedhow I appeared to him. What was I trying toteach him? Did I want him as brittle andworn as I was? Was I trying to show himwhere the path led?

Lost in thought, we rode towards the siteof the camp, and as soon as we saw the tell-tale wafting smoke above the tips of thetrees, we dismounted, tethered our horsesand continued on foot, passing stealthily andsilently through the trees. We stayed in the

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trees, crawling on our bellies and using myspyglass to squint through trunks and barebranches at distant men, who made theirway around the camp and clustered aroundfires trying to keep warm. Connor left, tomake his way into the camp, while I mademyself comfortable, out of sight.

Or at least I thought so—I thought I wasout of sight—until I felt the tickle of a musketat my neck and the words “Well, well, well,what have we here?”

Cursing, I was dragged to my feet. Therewere three of them, all looking pleased withthemselves to have caught me—as well theyshould, because I wasn’t easily sneaked upon. Ten years ago, I would have heard themand crept noiselessly away. Ten years beforethat, I would have heard them coming, hid-den then taken them all out.

Two held muskets on me while one ofthem came forward, licking his lipsnervously. Making a noise as if impressed, he

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unfastened my hidden blade then took mysword, dagger and pistol. And only when Iwas unarmed did he dare relax, grinning toreveal a tiny skyline of blackened and rottingteeth. I did have one hidden weapon, ofcourse: Connor. But where the hell had hegot to?

Rotting Teeth stepped forward. ThankGod he was so bad at hiding his intentionsthat I was able to twist away from the kneehe drove into my groin, just enough to avoidserious hurt but make him think otherwise,and I yelped in pretend pain and dropped tothe frozen ground, where I stayed for thetime being, looking more dazed than I feltand playing for time.

“Must be a Yank spy,” said one of the oth-er men. He leaned on his musket to bendand look at me.

“No. He’s something else,” said the firstone, and he, too, bent to me, as I pulled my-self to my hands and knees. “Something

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special. Isn’t that right . . . Haytham?Church told me all about you,” said theforeman.

“Then you should know better than this,”I said.

“You ain’t really in any position to bemakin’ threats,” snarled Rotting Teeth.

“Not yet,” I said, calmly.“Really?” said Rotting Teeth. “How ’bout

we prove otherwise? You ever had a musketbutt in your teeth?

“No, but it looks like you can tell me howit feels.”

“You what? You tryin’ to be funny?”My eyes travelled up—up to the branches

of a tree behind them, where I saw Connorcrouched, his hidden blade extended and afinger to his lips. He would be an expert inthe trees, of course, taught no doubt by hismother. She’d tutored me in the finer pointsof climbing, too. Nobody could movethrough the trees like her.

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I looked up at Rotting Teeth, knowing hehad mere seconds’ life to live. It took thesting out of his boot as it connected with myjaw, and I was lifted and sent flying back-wards, landing in a heap in a small thicket.

Perhaps now would be a good time, Con-nor, I thought. Through eyesight glazed withpain I was rewarded by seeing Connor dropfrom his perch, his blade hand shoot forwardthen its blood-flecked silver steel appearfrom within the mouth of the first lucklessguard. The other two were dead by the time Ipulled myself to my feet.

“New York,” said Connor.“What about it?”“That’s where Benjamin is to be found.”“Then that’s where we need to be.”

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26 JANUARY 1778

i

New York had changed since I last visited, tosay the least: it had burned. The great fire ofSeptember ’76 had started in the FightingCocks Tavern, destroyed over five hundredhomes and left around a quarter of the cityburnt-out and uninhabitable. The Britishhad put the city under martial law as a result.People’s homes had been seized and given toBritish Army officers; the churches had beenconverted into prisons, barracks or infirmar-ies; and it was as though the very spirit of thecity had somehow been dimmed. Now it wasthe Union Flag that hung limply from flag-poles at the summit of orange brick build-ings, and where, before, the city had an en-ergy and bustle about it—life beneath its

canopies and porticos and behind its win-dows—now those same canopies were dirtyand tattered, the windows blackened withsoot. Life went on, but the townsfolk barelyraised their eyes from the street. Now, theirshoulders were drooping, their movementsdispirited.

In such a climate, finding Benjamin’swhereabouts had not been difficult. He wasin an abandoned brewery on the waterfront,it turned out.

“We should be done with this by sunrise,”I rather rashly predicted.

“Good,” replied Connor. “I would like tohave those supplies returned as soon aspossible.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep youfrom your lost cause. Come on then, followme.”

To the roofs we went and, moments later,we were looking out over the New York

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skyline, momentarily awed by the sight of it,in all its war-torn, tattered glory.

“Tell me something,” Connor said aftersome moments. “You could have killed mewhen we first met—what stayed your hand?”

I could have let you die at the gallows, Ithought. I could have had Thomas kill you inBridewell Prison. What stayed my hand onthose two occasions also? What was the an-swer? Was I getting old? Sentimental? Per-haps I was nostalgic for a life I never reallyhad.

None of this I especially cared to sharewith Connor, however, and, eventually, aftera pause, I dismissed his question with: “Curi-osity. Any other questions?”

“What is it the Templars seek?”“Order,” I said. “Purpose. Direction. No

more than that. It’s your lot that means toconfound us with all that nonsense talk offreedom. Once upon a time, the Assassins

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professed a more sensible goal—that ofpeace.”

“Freedom is peace,” he insisted.“No. It is an invitation to chaos. Only look

at this little revolution your friends havestarted. I have stood before the ContinentalCongress. Listened to them stamp and shout.All in the name of liberty. But it’s just anoise.”

“And this is why you favour Charles Lee?”“He understands the needs of this would-

be nation far better than the jobbernowlswho profess to represent it.”

“It seems to me your tongue has tastedsour grapes,” he said. “The people madetheir choice—and it was Washington.”

There it was again. I almost envied him,how he looked at the world in such an un-equivocal way. His was a world free of doubt,it seemed. When he eventually learnt thetruth about Washington, which, if my plansucceeded, would be soon, his world—and

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not just his world but his entire view ofit—would be shattered. If I envied him hiscertainty now, I didn’t envy him that.

“The people chose nothing.” I sighed. “Itwas done by a group of privileged cowardsseeking only to enrich themselves. They con-vened in private and made a decision thatwould benefit them. They may have dressedit up with pretty words, but that doesn’tmake it true. The only difference, Con-nor—the only difference between me andthose you aid—is that I do not feignaffection.”

He looked at me. Not long ago, I had saidto myself that my words would never haveany effect on him, yet here I was trying any-way. And maybe I was wrong—maybe what Isaid was getting through.

ii

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At the brewery, it became apparent that weneeded a disguise for Connor, his Assassin’srobes being a little on the conspicuous side.Procuring one gave him a chance to show offagain, and once more I was stingy with mypraise. When we were both suitably attiredwe made our way towards the compound,the red brick walls towering above us, thedark windows staring implacably upon us.Through the gates I could see the barrels andcarts of the brewery business, as well as menwalking to and fro. Benjamin had replacedmost of the Templar men with mercenariesof his own; it was history repeating itself, Ithought, my mind going back to EdwardBraddock. I only hoped Benjamin wouldn’tbe as tough to kill as Braddock. Somehow, Idoubted it. I had little faith in the calibre ofmy enemy these days.

I had little faith in anything these days.“Hold, strangers!” A guard stepped out of

the shadows, disturbing the fog that swirled

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around our ankles. “You tread on privateproperty. What business have you here?”

I tipped the brim of my hat to show himmy face. “The Father of Understandingguides us,” I said, and the man seemed to re-lax, though he looked warily at Connor.“You, I recognize,” he said, “but not thesavage.”

“He’s my son,” I said, and it was . . . odd,hearing the sentiment upon my own lips.

The guard, meanwhile, was studyingConnor carefully then, with a sidewaysglance, said to me, “Tasted of the forest’sfruits, did you?”

I let him live. For now. Just smiledinstead.

“Off you go, then,” he said, and we strodethrough the arched gate and into the maincompound of the Smith & Company Brew-ery. There we quickly ducked into a coveredsection, with a series of doors leading intowarehouses and office space. Straight away I

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set to picking the lock of the first door wecame to as Connor kept watch, talking at thesame time.

“It must be strange to you, discoveringmy existence as you have,” he said.

“I’m actually curious to know what yourmother said about me,” I replied, workingthe pick-lock. “I often wondered what lifemight have been like, had she and I stayedtogether.” Acting on an instinct, I asked him,“How is she, by the way?”

“Dead,” he said. “She was murdered.”By Washington, I thought, but said noth-

ing, except, “I’m sorry to hear that.”“Really? It was done by your men.”By now I’d opened the door but instead of

going through I closed it and turned to faceConnor. “What?”

“I was just a child when they came look-ing for the elders. I knew they were danger-ous even then, so I stayed silent. Charles Leebeat me unconscious for it.”

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So I had been right. Charles had indeedleft the physical as well as the metaphoricalimprint of his Templar ring on Connor.

It was not hard to let the horror show onmy face, although I pretended to be shockedas he continued, “When I woke, I found myvillage in flames. Your men were gone bythen, as well as any hope for my mother’ssurvival.”

Now—now was an opportunity to try toconvince him of the truth.

“Impossible,” I said. “I gave no such or-der. Spoke of the opposite, in fact—I toldthem to give up the search for the precursorsite. We were to focus on more practicalpursuits . . .”

Connor looked dubious but shrugged. “Itdoesn’t matter. It’s long done now.”

Oh, but it did, it did matter.“But you’ve grown up all your life believ-

ing me—your own father—responsible forthis atrocity. I had no hand in it.”

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“Maybe you speak true. Maybe not. Howam I ever to know?”

iii

Silently, we let ourselves into the warehouse,where stacked barrels seemed to crowd outany light and not far away stood a figure withhis back to us, the only sound the softscratching he made as he wrote in a ledgerhe held. I recognized him at once, of course,and drew a long breath before calling out tohim.

“Benjamin Church,” I announced, “youstand accused of betraying the TemplarOrder and abandoning our principles in pur-suit of personal gain. In consideration ofyour crimes, I hereby sentence you to death.”

Benjamin turned. Only it wasn’t Ben-jamin. It was a decoy—who suddenly cried,“Now, now!” at which the room was full of

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men who rushed from hiding places, holdingpistols and swords on us.

“You’re too late,” crowed the decoy.“Church and the cargo are long gone. AndI’m afraid you won’t be in any condition tofollow.”

We stood, the men assembled before us,and thanked God for Achilles and his train-ing, because we were both thinking the samethings. We were thinking: when facing su-perior strength, wrest from them the elementof surprise. We were thinking: turn defenceinto attack.

So that’s what we did. We attacked. Witha quick glance at one another we each re-leased our blades, each sprung forward, eachembedded them into the nearest guard,whose screams echoed around the brickwalls of the warehouse. I kicked out and sentone of their gunmen skidding back andsmashing his head against a crate, then was

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upon him, my knees on his chest, driving theblade through his face and into his brain.

I twisted in time to see Connor whirl,keeping low and slicing his blade handaround at the same time, opening the stom-achs of two luckless guards, who bothdropped, clutching at their gaping stomachs,both dead men who didn’t know it yet. Amusket went off, and I heard the air sing,knowing the ball had just missed me butmaking the sniper pay for it with his life.Two men came towards me, swinging wildly,and as I took them both down I thanked ourlucky stars that Benjamin had used mercen-aries rather than Templar men, whowouldn’t have been so swiftly overcome.

As it was, the fight was short and brutal,until just the decoy was left and Connor waslooming over him as he trembled like afrightened child on the brickwork floor nowslick with blood.

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I finished a dying man then strode over tohear Connor demand, “Where’s Church?”

“I’ll tell you,” wailed the decoy, “anythingyou want. Only promise that you’ll let melive.”

Connor looked at me and, whether or notwe agreed, he helped him to his feet. With anervous glance from one to the other of us,the decoy continued, “He left yesterday forMartinique. Took passage on a trading sloopcalled the Welcome. Loaded half its holdwith the supplies he stole from the patriots.That’s all I know. I swear.”

Standing behind him, I thrust my bladeinto his spinal cord and he stared in blankamazement at the bloodstained tip as it pro-truded from his chest.

“You promised . . .” he said.“And he kept his word,” I said coldly, and

looked at Connor, almost daring him to con-tradict me. “Let’s go,” I added, just as a trioof riflemen rushed on to the balcony above

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us with a clatter of boots on wood, tuckedtheir rifle musket butts into their shouldersand opened fire. But not at us, at barrelsnearby, which, too late, I realized were full ofgunpowder.

I just had time to heave Connor behindsome beer kegs as the first of the barrelswent up, followed by the ones around it, eachexploding with a deafening thunderclap thatseemed to bend the air and stop time—ablast so fierce that, when I opened my eyesand took my hands away from my ears, Ifound I was almost surprised the warehousewas still standing around us. Every man inthe place had either hurled himself to theground or been thrown there by the force ofthe explosion. But the guards were pickingthemselves up, reaching for their musketsand, still deafened, shouting at each other asthey squinted through the dust for us.Flames were licking up the barrels; cratescatching fire. Not far away, a guard came

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running on to the warehouse floor, hisclothes and hair ablaze, screamed as his facemelted then sank to his knees and died face-down to the stone. The greedy fire foundsome nearby crate stuffing, which went up inan instant. All around us, an inferno.

Musket balls began zipping around us.We felled two swordsmen on our way to thesteps leading up to the gantry then hackedour way through a squad of four riflemen.The fire was rising quickly—even the guardswere beginning to escape now—so we ran tothe next level, climbing up and up, until atlast we’d reached the attic of the brewerywarehouse.

Our assailants were behind us, but notthe flames. Looking out of a window, wecould see water below us, and I cast aroundfor an exit. Connor grabbed me and swungme towards the window, smashing the two ofus through the glass so that we dropped to

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the water before I’d even had a chance toprotest.

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7 MARCH 1778

i

There was no way I was going to let Ben-jamin get away. Not having had to put upwith life on the Aquila for almost a month,trapped with Connor’s friend and ship’s cap-tain Robert Faulkner, among others, chasingBenjamin’s schooner, which had stayed justout of our reach, dodging cannon attacks,catching tantalizing glimpses of him on thedeck of his ship, his taunting face . . . No waywas I going to let him get away. Especially aswe came so close in waters close to the Gulfof Mexico, the Aquila at last racing up along-side his schooner.

Which was why I snatched the ship’swheel from Connor, wrenched it hard star-board and with a lurch sent the ship

speeding towards the schooner. Nobody hadexpected that to happen. Not the crew of hisship. Not the men on the Aquila, not Connoror Robert—only me; and I’m not sure I knewuntil I did it, when any crew member whowasn’t hanging on to something was thrownviolently to the side and the prow of theAquila crunched into the schooner’s portside at an angle, breaching and splinteringthe hull. Perhaps it was rash of me. Perhaps Iwould owe Connor—and certainlyFaulkner—an apology for the damage doneto their ship.

But I couldn’t let him get away.

ii

For a moment there was a stunned silence,just the sound of ship debris slapping againstthe ocean around, and the groan and creek ofbattered, distressed timber. The sails

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fluttered in a gentle breeze above us, butneither ship moved, as though both were im-mobilized by the shock of the impact.

And then, just as suddenly, a cry went upas the crew from both ships recovered theirsenses. I was ahead of Connor and hadalready dashed to the prow of the Aquila,swinging to the deck of Benjamin’s schooner,where I hit the wood with extended bladeand killed the first crew member who raiseda weapon towards me, stabbing him andswinging his writhing body overboard.

Spotting the hatch, I ran to it, hauled outa sailor trying to escape and punched theblade into his chest before taking the steps.With a final look at the devastation I’dcaused, as the two huge ships locked togeth-er and began slowly to turn in the ocean, Islammed the hatch closed behind me.

From above came the thunder of feet ondeck, the muted screams and gun blasts ofbattle and the thud of bodies hitting the

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wood. Below the deck, there was a strange,damp, almost eerie silence. But, from furtheralong, I realized, came the slosh and dripthat told me the schooner was taking on wa-ter. I grabbed a wooden strut as it suddenlylisted and, somewhere, the drip of water be-came a constant flow. How long would it re-main afloat? I wondered.

Meantime, I saw what Connor wouldsoon discover: that the supplies we’d spentso long in pursuit of were non-existent—oron this ship anyway.

Just as I was absorbing this, I heard anoise and twisted to see Benjamin Churchholding a pistol on me two-handed, squint-ing along its sights.

“Hello, Haytham,” he snarled, and pulledthe trigger.

He was good. I knew that. It was why hepulled the trigger right away, to put me downwhile he still had the element of surprise;and why he didn’t aim directly for me but at

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a spot slightly to my right, because I’m aright-sided fighter and would naturally diveto my strongest side.

But of course I knew that because I’dtrained him. And his shot smacked harm-lessly into the hull when I dived, not to theright but to the left, rolled then came to myfeet, pounced and was upon him before hecould draw his sword. With a fistful of hisshirt in my hand I snatched his pistol andtossed it away.

“We had a dream, Benjamin,” I snarledinto his face, “a dream you sought to destroy.And for that, my fallen friend, you will bemade to pay.”

I kneed him in the groin. When hedoubled over, gasping with pain, I drove myfist into his abdomen then followed it upwith a punch to the jaw that was hardenough to send two bloodied teeth skitteringalong the floor.

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I let him drop, and he fell to where thewood was already wet, his face splashing intoa wash of incoming seawater. Again the shiplurched but, for the moment, I didn’t care.When Benjamin tried to get to his hands andknees I lashed out with my boot, kickingwhatever breath he had left out of him. NextI grabbed a length of rope and hauled him tohis feet, shoved him against a barrel thenwound it around him, securing him fast. Hishead dropped forward, trails of blood, spitand snot spooling slowly to the wood below.I stood back, took hold of his hair thenlooked into his eyes, drove a fist into his faceand heard the crunch of his breaking nosethen stood back, shaking the blood from myknuckles.

“Enough!” cried Connor from behind me,and I turned to see him staring at me, andthen at Benjamin, with a disgusted look onhis face.

“We came here for a reason . . .” he said.

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I shook my head. “Different reasons, itseems.”

But Connor pushed past me and wadedthrough water, now ankle deep, to Benjamin,who regarded him with defiance in hisbruised and bloodshot eyes.

“Where are the supplies you stole?” Con-nor demanded.

Benjamin spat. “Go to hell.” And then, in-credibly, began to sing: “Rule Britannia.”

I stepped forward. “Shut your mouth,Church.”

Not that it stopped him. He continuedsinging.

“Connor,” I said, “get what you need fromhim and let’s be done with this.”

And at last Connor stepped forward, hisblade engaged, and held it to Benjamin’sthroat.

“I ask again,” said Connor. “Where isyour cargo?”

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Benjamin looked at him and blinked. Fora moment I thought his next move would beto insult or spit at Connor, but instead hebegan to speak. “On the island yonder, wait-ing to be transported. But you’ve no right toit. It isn’t yours.”

“No, not mine,” said Connor. “Those sup-plies are meant for men and women who be-lieve in something bigger than themselves,who fight and die that one day they may livefree from tyranny such as yours.”

Benjamin smiled sadly. “Are these thesame men and women who fight with mus-kets forged from British steel? Who bindtheir wounds with bandages sown by Britishhands? How convenient for them that we dothe work. They reap the rewards.”

“You spin a story to excuse your crimes.As though you’re the innocent one and theythe thieves,” argued Connor.

“It’s all a matter of perspective. There isno single path through life that is right and

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fair and does no harm. Do you truly think theCrown has no cause? No right to feel be-trayed? You should know better than this,dedicated as you are to fighting Tem-plars—who themselves see their work as just.Think on that the next time you insist thatyour work alone befits the greater good. Yourenemy would beg to differ—and would not bewithout cause.”

“Your words may have been sincere,”whispered Connor, “but it does not makethem true.”

And he finished him.“You did well,” I said as Benjamin’s chin

dropped to his chest and his blood splashedto the water that continued to rise. “Hispassing is a boon for us both. Come on. Isuppose you’ll want my help retrievingeverything from the island . . .”

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16 JUNE 1778

i

It had been months since I’d last seen him,yet I cannot deny I thought of him often.When I did, I thought, What hope is there forus? Me, a Templar—a Templar forged in thecrucible of treachery, but a Templar never-theless—and him an Assassin, created by thebutchery of the Templars.

Once upon a time, many years ago, I’ddreamed of one day uniting Assassin andTemplar, but I was a younger and moreidealistic man then. The world had yet toshow me its true face. And its true face wasunforgiving, cruel and pitiless, barbaric andbrutal. There was no place in it for dreams.

And yet, he came to me again, andthough he said nothing—not so far

anyway—I wondered if the idealism I’d oncehad lurked behind those eyes, and it was thatwhich brought him once more to my door inNew York, seeking answers perhaps, orwanting an end to some doubt that nagged athim.

Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps there wasan uncertainty that resided within thatyoung soul after all.

New York was still in the grip of the red-coats, squads of them out on the streets. Itwas years later, and still nobody had beenheld responsible for the fire that had plungedthe city into a grimy, soot-stained depres-sion. Parts of it were still uninhabitable.Martial law continued, the redcoats’ rule washarsh and the people more resentful thanever. As an outsider I studied the two groupsof people, the downtrodden city folk givinghateful looks to the brutal, unruly soldiers. Iwatched them with a jaundiced eye. And,

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dutifully, I continued. I worked to try to helpwin this war, end the occupation, find peace.

I was grilling one of my informants, awretch named Twitch—because of somethinghe did with his nose—when I saw Connor outof the corner of my eye. I held up a hand tostop him while I continued listening toTwitch, and wondered what he wanted. Whatbusiness did he have with the man he be-lieved had given the order to kill his mother?

“We need to know what the loyalists areplanning if we are to put an end to this,” Isaid to my man. Connor loitered, overhear-ing—not that it mattered.

“I’ve tried,” responded Twitch, as his nos-trils flared and his eyes darted to Connor,“but the soldiers themselves are told nothingnow: only to await orders from above.”

“Then keep digging. Come and find mewhen you have something worth sharing.”

Twitch nodded, slunk off, and I took adeep breath to face Connor. For a moment or

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so we regarded one another, and I lookedhim up and down, his Assassin’s robes some-how at odds with the young Indian boy be-neath, his long dark hair, those piercingeyes—Ziio’s eyes. What lay behind them? Iwondered.

Above us, a flock of birds made itselfcomfortable on the ledge of a building, caw-ing loudly. Nearby, a patrol of redcoatslounged by a cart to admire passing laundrywomen, making lewd suggestions and re-sponding to any disapproving looks and tutswith threatening gestures.

“We’re so close to victory,” I told Connor,taking his arm and leading him further downthe street, away from the redcoats. “Just afew more well-placed attacks and we can endthe civil war and be rid of the Crown.”

An almost smile at the edges of his mouthbetrayed a certain satisfaction. “What didyou intend?”

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“Nothing at the moment—since we’recompletely in the dark.”

“I thought Templars had eyes and earseverywhere,” he said, with just a hint of dryhumour. Just like his mother.

“We did. Until you started cutting themoff.”

He smiled. “Your contact said it was or-ders from above. It tells us exactly what weneed to do: track down other loyalistcommanders.”

“The soldiers answer to the Jaegers,” Isaid. “The Jaegers to the commanders, whichmeans . . . we work our way up the chain.”

I looked up. Not far away, the redcoatswere still being lewd, letting down their uni-form, the flag and King George. The Jaegerswere the link between the army commandand the troops on the ground and were sup-posed to keep the redcoats in check, stopthem from aggravating an already hostilepopulace, but they rarely showed their faces,

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only if there was real trouble on the streets.Like if someone, say, killed a redcoat. Ortwo.

From my robes I drew my pistol andpointed it across the street. I saw Connor’smouth drop open out of the corner of my eyeas I took aim at the unruly group of redcoatsnear the cart, picked one who, even now, wasmaking an obscene suggestion to a woman,who walked past with swishing skirts and herhead bowed, blushing beneath her bonnet.And pulled the trigger.

The report of my gun cracked open theday and the redcoat staggered back, a penny-sized hole between his eyes, already begin-ning to leak dark red blood as his musketdropped and he fell heavily back into a cartand lay still.

For a moment the other redcoats weretoo shocked to do anything, their headsswinging this way and that as they tried to

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locate the source of the gunshot while pullingtheir rifles from their shoulders.

I began to make my way across the street.“What are you doing?” called Connor

after me.“Kill enough, and the Jaegers will ap-

pear,” I told him. “They’ll lead us right backto those in charge”—and as one of the red-coats turned to me and went to jab with hisbayonet, I swept the blade across his front,slicing through his white crisscrossed belts,his tunic and his stomach. I laid into the nextone straight away, while another, who triedto retreat and find space to raise his weaponand fire, backed straight into Connor and inthe next instant was sliding off his blade.

The battle was over, and the street, busybefore, was suddenly empty. At the sametime I heard bells, and winked. “The Jaegersare out, just as I said they’d be.”

It was a matter of trapping one, a task Iwas happy to leave to Connor, and he didn’t

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let me down. In less than an hour we had aletter, and as groups of Jaegers and redcoatsran shouting up and down the streets, an-grily searching for the two Assassins—“As-sassins, I tell you. They used the blade of theHashashin”—who had so mercilessly cutdown one of their patrols, we took to theroofs, where we sat and read it.

“The letter’s encrypted,” said Connor.“Not to worry,” I said. “I know the

cypher. After all, it’s a Templar invention.”I read it then explained. “The British

command is in disarray. The Howe brothershave resigned and Cornwallis and Clintonhave left the city. The leadership that re-mains has called a meeting at the ruins ofTrinity Church. It’s there we should go.”

ii

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The Trinity Church was at the intersection ofWall Street and Broadway. Or, I should say,what was left of the Trinity Church was at theintersection of Wall Street and Broadway. Ithad been badly burned in the great fire ofSeptember ’76, so badly burned, in fact, thatthe British hadn’t bothered to try to convertit to use as barracks, or to imprison patriots.Instead they’d constructed a fence and usedit for occasions such as this—the meeting ofcommanders that Connor and I fully inten-ded to join as uninvited guests.

Wall Street and Broadway were bothdark. The lamplighters didn’t come here be-cause there were no lamps to light, none inworking order anyway. Like everything elsewithin about a mile’s radius of the church,they were blackened and soot-covered, theirwindows smashed. And what would they illu-minate anyway? The greyed-out, brokenwindows of the surrounding buildings?

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Empty stone-and-wooden carcasses fit onlyfor habitation by stray dogs and vermin.

Above it all towered the spire of Trinity,and it was there we headed, scaling one ofthe remaining walls of the church in order totake up position. As we climbed I realizedthat what the building reminded me of wasan enlarged version of my home at QueenAnne’s Square, how it had looked after thefire. And as we crouched in the shadowy al-coves awaiting the arrival of the redcoats, Irecalled the day I’d gone back to the housewith Reginald and how it had looked. Likethe church, its roof had been taken by fire.Like the church, it was a shell, a shadow ofits former self. Above us, the stars twinkledin the sky, and I stared at them for a momentthrough the open roof, until an elbow in myside roused me from my reverie and Connorwas indicating down to where officers andredcoats were making their way along thedeserted rubble of Wall Street towards the

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church. As they approached, two men aheadof the squad were pulling a cart and hanginglanterns in the black and brittle branches ofthe trees, lighting the way. They reached thechurch and we cast our eyes downwards asthey hung more lanterns below. They movedquickly among the truncated columns of thechurch, where weeds, moss and grass hadbegun to grow, nature claiming the ruins forherself, and placed lanterns on the font andlectern, then stood to one side as the deleg-ates strode in: three commanders and asquad of soldiers.

Next we were both straining to hear theconversation and having no luck. Instead Icounted the guards, twelve of them, but Ididn’t think it too many.

“They’re talking in circles,” I hissed toConnor. “We’ll learn nothing, watching as weare.”

“What do you propose?” he replied. “Thatwe get down there and demand answers?”

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I looked at him. Grinned. “Well, yes,” Isaid.

And in the next instant I was climbingdown until I was close enough, and jumpeddown, surprising two of the guards at therear, who died, their mouths making an Oshape.

“Ambush!” went the cry as I piled intotwo more of the redcoats. From above Iheard Connor curse as he leapt from hisperch to join me.

I was right. There weren’t too many. Theredcoats, as ever, were too reliant on mus-kets and bayonets. Effective on the battle-field, perhaps, but useless at close-quarterscombat, which was where Connor and I ex-celled. We were fighting well together bynow, almost a partnership. Before long, themoss-covered figurines of the burnt-outchurch sparkled with fresh redcoat blood,the twelve guards were dead and just thethree terrified commanders remained,

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cowering, lips moving in prayer as they pre-pared to die.

I had something else in mind—a trip toFort George, to be precise.

iii

In southernmost Manhattan was Fort Ge-orge. Over 150 years old, from the sea itpresented a vast skyline of spires,watchtowers and long barracks buildingsthat seemed to run across the entire length ofthe promontory, while inside the toweringbattlements were expanses of drill squaresurrounding the tall dormitories and admin-istrative buildings, all of it heavily defendedand fortified. A perfect place for the Tem-plars to make their base. A perfect place forus to take the three loyalist commanders.

“What are the British planning?” I askedthe first one, after lashing him to a chair in

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an interrogation room deep in the bowels ofthe North End building, where the smell ofdamp was all-pervasive and where, if youlistened carefully, you could just hear thescratching and gnawing of the rats.

“Why should I tell you?” he sneered.“Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.”His arms were bound, but he indicated

the interrogation room with his chin. “You’llkill me if I do.”

I smiled. “Many years ago I met a mannamed Cutter, an expert in torture and theadministration of pain, who was able to keephis victims alive for days on end, but in con-siderable pain, with only . . .” I flicked themechanism of the blade and it appeared,glinting cruelly in the flickering torchlight.

He looked at it. “You promise me a quickdeath if I tell you.”

“You have my word.”So he did, and I kept my word. When it

was over I strode out into the passageway

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outside, where I ignored Connor’s inquisitivelook and collected the second prisoner. Backin the cell I tied him to the chair and watchedas his eyes went to the body of the first man.

“Your friend refused to tell me what Iwanted to know,” I explained, “which is whyI slit his throat. Are you prepared to tell mewhat I want to know?”

Wide-eyed, he gulped, “Look, whatever itis, I can’t tell you—I don’t even know. Maybethe commander . . .”

“Oh, you’re not the man in charge?” I saidbreezily, and flicked my blade.

“Wait a minute . . .” he blurted, as Imoved in back of him. “There is one thing Iknow . . .”

I stopped. “Go on . . .”He told me and, when it was over, I

thanked him and drew the blade across histhroat. As he died, I realized that what I feltwas not the righteous fire of one who per-forms repellent acts in the name of a greater

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good but a sense of jaded inevitability. Manyyears ago, my father had taught me aboutmercy, about clemency. Now I slaughteredprisoners like livestock. This was how cor-rupt I had become.

“What’s going on in there?” asked Connorsuspiciously, when I returned to the passage-way where he guarded the final prisoner.

“This one is the commander. Bring himin.”

Moments later, the door to the interroga-tion room thumped shut behind us, and for amoment the only sound in the room was thatof dripping blood. Seeing the bodies dis-carded in a corner of the cell, the command-er struggled, but, with a hand to hisshoulder, I shoved him to the chair, nowslick with blood, lashed him to it, then stoodbefore him and flicked my finger to engagemy hidden blade. It made a soft snickingsound in the cell.

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The officer’s eyes went to it and then tome. He was trying to put on a brave face, butthere was no disguising the tremble of hislower lip.

“What are the British planning?” I askedhim.

Connor’s eyes were on me. The prisoner’seyes were on me. When he stayed silent Iraised the blade slightly so that it reflectedthe flickering torchlight. Again, his eyes werefixed on it, and then, he broke . . .

“To—to march from Philadelphia. Thatcity is finished. New York is the key. They’lldouble our numbers—push back the rebels.”

“When do they begin?” I asked.“Two days from now.”“June the eighteenth,” said Connor from

beside me. “I need to warn Washington.”“See?” I told the commander. “That

wasn’t very difficult now, was it?”“I told you everything. Now let me go,” he

implored, but I was again in no mood for

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clemency. I stood behind him and, as Connorwatched, opened his throat. At the boy’s hor-rified look, I said, “And the other two saidthe same. It must be true.”

When Connor looked at me, it was withdisgust. “You killed him . . . killed all ofthem. Why?”

“They would have warned the loyalists,” Ianswered simply.

“You could have held them until the fightwas done.”

“Not far away from here is WallaboutBay,” I said, “where the prison ship HMSJersey is moored, a rotting ship on whichpatriot prisoners of war are dying by thethousands, buried in shallow graves on theshores or simply tossed overboard. That washow the British treat their prisoners,Connor.”

He acknowledged the point butcountered, “Which is why we must be free oftheir tyranny.”

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“Ah, tyranny. Don’t forget that your lead-er George Washington could save these menon the prison ships, if he was so minded. Buthe does not want to exchange captured Brit-ish soldiers for captured American ones, andso the American prisoners of war are sen-tenced to rot on the prison ships of Wall-about Bay. That’s your hero George Wash-ington at work. However this revolutionends, Connor, you can guarantee that it’s themen with riches and land who will benefit.The slaves, the poor, the enlisted men—theywill still be left to rot.”

“George is different,” he said, but yes,now there was a note of doubt in his voice.

“You will see his true face soon, Connor.It will reveal itself, and when it does you canmake your decision. You can judge him.”

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17 JUNE 1778

i

Though I’d heard so much about it, I hadn’tseen Valley Forge with my own eyes, andthere, this morning, was where I foundmyself.

Things had clearly improved, that muchwas certain. The snow had gone; the sun wasout. As we walked, I saw a squad being putthrough its paces by a man with a Prussianaccent, who, if I wasn’t very much mistaken,was the famous Baron Friedrich vonSteuben, Washington’s chief of staff, whohad played his part in whipping his army in-to shape. And indeed he had. Where beforethe men had been lacking in morale and dis-cipline, suffering from disease and malnutri-tion, now the camp was full of healthy, well-

fed troops who marched with a lively clatterof weapons and flasks, a hurry and purposeto their step. Weaving among them werecamp followers who carried baskets of sup-plies and laundry, or steaming pots andkettles for the fires. Even the dogs thatchased and played at the margins of thecamp seemed to do so with a renewed energyand vigour. Here, I realized, was where inde-pendence could be born: with spirit, co-oper-ation, and fortitude.

Nevertheless, as Connor and I strodethrough the camp, what struck me was that itwas largely due to the efforts of Assassinsand Templars that the camp had improved inspirit. We had secured the supplies and pre-vented more theft, and I was told that Con-nor had had a hand in securing the safety ofvon Steuben. What had their glorious leaderWashington done, except for leading theminto that mess in the first place?

Still, though, they believed in him.

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All the more reason his mendacity shouldbe exposed. All the more reason Connorshould see his true face.

“We should be sharing what we knowwith Lee, not Washington . . .” I said irritablyas we walked.

“You seem to think I favour him,” repliedConnor. His guard was down and his blackhair shone in the sun. Here, away from thecity, it was as if his native side had bloomed.“But my enemy is a notion, not a nation. It iswrong to compel obedience—whether to theBritish Crown or the Templar cross. And Ihope in time that the loyalists will see thistoo, for they are also victims.”

I shook my head. “You oppose tyranny.Injustice. But these are symptoms, son. Theirtrue cause is human weakness. Why do youthink I keep trying to show you the error ofyour ways?”

“You have said much, yes. But you haveshown me nothing.”

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No, I thought, because you don’t listen tothe truth when it comes from my mouth, doyou? You need to hear it from the very manyou idolize. You need to hear it fromWashington.

ii

In a timber cabin we found the leader, whohad been attending to correspondence, and,passing through the guard at the entrance,we closed the door on the clamour of thecamp, banishing the drill sergeant’s orders,the constant clanking of implements fromthe kitchen, the trundle of carts.

He glanced up, smiling and nodding atConnor, feeling so utterly safe in his pres-ence he was happy for the guards to remainoutside, and giving me the benefit of a cool-er, appraising stare before holding up a handto return to his paperwork. He dipped his

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quill in his inkpot and, as we stood and pa-tiently awaited our audience, signedsomething with a flourish. He returned thequill to the pot, blotted the document, thenstood and came out from behind the desk togreet us, Connor more warmly than me.

“What brings you here?” he said, and asthe two friends embraced I found myselfclose to Washington’s desk. Keeping my eyeson the two, I edged back a little and cast myeyes to the top of the desk, looking forsomething, anything, I could use as evidencein my testimony against him.

“The British have recalled their men inPhiladelphia,” Connor was saying. “Theymarch for New York.”

Washington nodded gravely. Though theBritish had control of New York, the rebelsstill controlled sections of the city. New Yorkremained pivotal to the war, and if the Brit-ish could wrest control of it once and for all,they would gain a significant advantage.

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“Very well,” said Washington, whose ownforay across the Delaware to retake land inNew Jersey had already been one of the ma-jor turning points of the war, “I’ll moveforces to Monmouth. If we can rout them,we’ll have finally turned the tide.” As theywere speaking, I was trying to read the docu-ment Washington had just signed. I reachedto adjust it slightly with my fingertips, sothat I could see it clearly. And then, with a si-lent, triumphant cheer, I picked it up andheld it for them both to see.

“And what’s this?”Interrupted, Washington swung around

and saw what I had in my hand. “Private cor-respondence,” he bristled, and moved tosnatch it back before I pulled it away andstepped out from behind the desk.

“I’m sure it is. Would you like to knowwhat it says, Connor?”

Confusion and torn loyalties clouded hisfeatures. His mouth worked, but said

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nothing and his eyes darted from me toWashington as I continued: “It seems yourdear friend here has just ordered an attackon your village. Although ‘attack’ might beputting it mildly. Tell him, Commander.”

Indignant, Washington responded,“We’ve been receiving reports of Allied nat-ives working with the British. I’ve asked mymen to put a stop to it.”

“By burning their villages and salting theland. By calling for their extermination, ac-cording to this order.”

Now I had my chance to tell Connor thetruth. “And this is not the first time either.” Ilooked at Washington. “Not for the first timeeither. Tell him what you did fourteen yearsago.”

For a moment there was nothing but atense silence in the cabin. From outside, thecling-clang of the kitchens, the gentle rattleof carts passing in and out of the camp, thestentorian bark of the drill sergeant, the

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rhythmic crunch of marching boots. While,inside, Washington’s cheeks reddened as helooked at Connor and perhaps made someconnections in his head, and realized exactlywhat it was that he had done all of thoseyears ago. His mouth opened and closed asthough he were finding it difficult to accessthe words.

“That was another time,” he blustered atlast. Charles always liked to refer to Wash-ington as an indecisive, stuttering fool and,here, for the first time, I knew exactly whathe meant. “The Seven Years War,” saidWashington, as though that fact alone shouldexplain everything.

I glanced at Connor, who had frozen,looking for all the world as though he weremerely distracted, thinking about somethingelse rather than paying attention to what wasgoing on in the room, then reached for him.“And so now you see, my son—what becomesof this ‘great man’ under duress. He makes

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excuses. He displaces blame. He does a greatmany things, in fact—except takeresponsibility.”

The blood had drained from Washing-ton’s face. His eyes dropped, and he stared atthe floor, his guilt clear for all to see.

I looked appealingly at Connor, whobegan to breathe heavily then exploded inanger, “Enough! Who did what and whymust wait. My people must come first.”

I reached for him.“No!” He recoiled. “You and I are

finished.”“Son . . .” I started.But he rounded on me. “Do you think me

so soft that calling me son might change mymind? How long did you sit on this informa-tion? Or am I to believe you only discoveredit now? My mother’s blood may stain anoth-er’s hands, but Charles Lee is no less a mon-ster, and all he does, he does by your com-mand.” He turned to Washington, who

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reared back—afraid, all of a sudden, of Con-nor’s rage.

“A warning to you both,” snarled Connor.“Choose to come after me or oppose me, andI will kill you.”

And he was gone.

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16 SEPTEMBER 1781 (THREE YEARS

LATER)

i

At the Battle of Monmouth in ’78, Charles,despite having been ordered by Washingtonto attack the retreating British, pulled back.

What had been in his mind to do that, Icouldn’t say. Perhaps he was outnumbered,which was the reason he gave, or perhaps hehoped that, by retreating, it would reflectbadly on Washington and Congress, and hewould at last be relieved of his command.For one reason or another, not least of whichwas the fact that it didn’t really matter anymore, I never asked him.

What I do know is that Washington hadordered him to attack; instead, he had donethe opposite and the situation rapidly

became a rout. I’m told that Connor had ahand in the ensuing battle, helped the rebelsavoid defeat, while Charles, retreating, hadrun straight into Washington, words hadbeen exchanged, and Charles in particularhad used some rather choice language.

I could well imagine. I thought of theyoung man I’d first encountered all thoseyears ago in Boston Harbour, how he’d gazedup at me with such awe, yet looked down oneverybody else with disdain. Ever since hehad been passed over for commander inchief of the Continental Army, his resent-ment towards Washington had, like an openwound, festered, growing worse, not healing.Not only had he talked ill of Washington onany available occasion, denigrating every as-pect both of his personality and leadership,but he had embarked on a letter-writingcampaign, attempting to win Congress mem-bers around to his side. True, his fervour wasinspired partly by his loyalty to the Order,

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but it was also fuelled by his personal angerat having been overlooked. Charles mightwell have resigned his commission with theBritish Army and to all intents and purposesbecome an American citizen, but there was avery British sense of elitism to him and hefelt keenly that the commander-in-chief pos-ition was rightfully his. I couldn’t blame himfor bringing his personal feelings into it.Who among those Knights who had first as-sembled at the Green Dragon Tavern was in-nocent of it? Certainly not I. I’d hated Wash-ington for what he’d done at Ziio’s village,but his leadership of the revolution, thoughsometimes ruthlessly clear-eyed, had notbeen tarred by brutality, so far as I knew. Hehad chalked up his fair share of success, andnow that we were surely in the closing stagesof the war, how could he possibly be thoughtof as anything but a military hero?

The last time I’d seen Connor was threeyears ago, when he left Washington and me

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alone together. Alone. Completely alone. Andthough older and slower and in near-con-stant pain from the wound at my side, I’dhad the opportunity finally to exact revengefor what he’d done to Ziio, to “relieve him ofcommand” for good, but I’d spared him be-cause I was already beginning to wonderthen if I was wrong about him. Perhaps it istime to admit that I was. It’s a human failingto see the changes in yourself while assum-ing everybody else remains the same. Per-haps I had been guilty of that with Washing-ton. Perhaps he had changed. I wonder, wasConnor right about him?

Charles, meanwhile, was arrested for in-subordination following the incident duringwhich he swore at Washington, then broughtbefore a court-martial and finally relieved ofduty, and he sought refuge at Fort George,where he has remained ever since.

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ii

“The boy is on his way here,” said Charles.I sat at my desk in my room in the West

Tower of Fort George, in front of the windowoverlooking the ocean. Through my spyglassI’d seen ships on the horizon. Were they ontheir way here? Was Connor in one of them?Associates of his?

Turning in my seat, I waved Charles to sitdown. He seemed swamped by his clothes;his face was gaunt and drawn and his greyinghair hung over his face. He was fretful, and ifConnor was coming then, in all honesty, hehad every right to be.

“He’s my son, Charles,” I said.He nodded and looked away with pursed

lips. “I had wondered,” he said. “There is afamily resemblance. His mother is the Mo-hawk woman you absconded with, is she?”

“Oh, absconded with her, did I?”He shrugged.

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“Don’t talk to me about neglecting theOrder, Charles. You’ve done your fair share.”

There was a long silence and, when helooked back at me, his eyes had sparked tolife. “You once accused me of creating theAssassin,” he said sourly. “Does it not strikeyou as ironic—no, hypocritical—given that heis your offspring?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “I’m really not sure anymore.”

He gave a dry laugh. “You stopped caringyears ago, Haytham. I can’t remember thelast time I saw anything but weakness inyour eyes.”

“Not weakness, Charles. Doubt.”“Doubt, then,” he spat. “Doubt hardly be-

fits a Templar Grand Master, don’t youthink?”

“Perhaps,” I agreed. “Or perhaps I’velearnt that only fools and children lack it.”

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I turned to look out the window. Before,the ships had been pinpricks to the nakedeye, but now they were closer.

“Balderdash,” said Charles. “Assassintalk. Belief is a lack of doubt. That is all weask of our leaders at least: belief.”

“I remember a time you needed my spon-sorship to join us; now, you would have myposition. Would you have made a goodGrand Master, do you think?”

“Were you?”There was a long pause. “That hurt,

Charles.”He stood. “I’m leaving. I have no desire to

be here when the Assassin—yourson—launches his attack.” He looked at me.“And you should accompany me. At leastwe’ll have a head start on him.”

I shook my head. “I think not, Charles. Ithink I shall stay and make my final stand.Perhaps you’re right—perhaps I have not

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been the most effective Grand Master. Per-haps now is the time to put that right.”

“You intend to face him? To fight him?”I nodded.“What? You think you can talk him

round? Bring him to our side?”“No,” I said sadly. “I fear there is no turn-

ing Connor. Even knowing the truth aboutWashington has failed to alter his support.You’d like Connor, Charles, he has ‘belief.’”

“So what, then?”“I won’t allow him to kill you, Charles,” I

said, and reached to my neck to remove theamulet. “Take this, please. I don’t want himhaving it, should he beat me in battle. Weworked hard to take it from the Assassins;I’ve no desire to return it.”

But he snatched his hand away. “I won’ttake it.”

“You need to keep it safe.”“You’re quite capable of doing that

yourself.”

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“I’m almost an old man, Charles. Let’s erron the side of caution, shall we?”

I pressed the amulet into his hands.“I’m detailing some guards to protect

you,” he said.“As you wish.” I glanced at the window

again. “You might want to hurry, though. Ihave a feeling the time of reckoning is near.”

He nodded and went to the door, wherehe turned. “You have been a good GrandMaster, Haytham,” he said, “and I’m sorry ifyou ever thought I felt otherwise.”

I smiled. “And I’m sorry for giving youcause to.”

He opened his mouth to speak, thoughtbetter of it, then turned and left.

iii

It struck me, when the bombardment beganand I began to pray Charles had made his

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escape, that this might be my final journalentry; these words, my last. I hope that Con-nor, my own son, will read this journal, andperhaps, when he knows a little about myown journey through life, understand me,maybe even forgive me. My own path waspaved with lies, my mistrust forged fromtreachery. But my own father never lied tome and, with this journal, I preserve thatcustom.

I present the truth, Connor, that you maydo with it as you will.

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EPILOGUE

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF

CONNOR KENWAY

16 SEPTEMBER 1781

i

“Father!” I called. The bombardment wasdeafening, but I had fought my way throughit to the West Tower where his quarters wereto be found, and there in the passagewayleading to the Grand Master’s chambers, Ifound him.

“Connor,” he replied. His eyes were flinty,unreadable. He held out his arm and en-gaged his hidden blade. I did the same. Fromoutside came the thunder and crash of can-non fire, the rending of stone and thescreams of dying men. Slowly, we walked to-wards one another.

With one hand behind his back, hepresented his blade. I did the same.

“On the next cannon blast,” he said.

When it came, it seemed to shake thewalls, but neither of us cared. The battle hadbegun and the sound of our chiming steelwas piercing in the passageway, our grunts ofeffort clear and present. Everything else—thedestruction of the fort around us—was back-ground noise.

“Come now,” he taunted me, “you cannothope to match me, Connor. For all your skill,you are still but a boy—with so much yet tolearn.”

He showed me no quarter. No mercy.Whatever was in his heart and in his head,his blade flashed with its usual precision andferocity. If he was now a warrior in his au-tumn years, beset by failing powers, then Iwould have hated to have faced him when hewas in his prime. If a test is what he wantedto give me, then that is what I received.

“Give me Lee,” I demanded.But Lee was long gone. There was just

Father now, and he struck, as fast as a cobra,

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his blade coming within a hair’s breadth ofopening my cheek. Turn defence into attack,I thought, and replied with a similar turn ofspeed, spinning around and catching hisforearm, piercing it with my blade and des-troying the fastening of his.

With a roar of pain he leapt back and Icould see the worry cloud his eyes, but I lethim recover, and watched as he tore a stripfrom his robe with which to bandage thewound.

“But we have an opportunity here,” Iurged him. “Together we can break the cycle,and end this ancient war. I know it.”

I saw something in his eyes. Was it somespark of a long-abandoned desire, some un-fulfilled dream remembered?

“I know it,” I repeated.With the bloodied bandage between his

teeth, he shook his head. Was he really thatdisillusioned? Had his heart hardened thatmuch?

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He finished tying the dressing. “No. Youwant to know it. You want it to be true.” Hiswords were tinged with sadness. “Part of meonce did as well. But it is an impossibledream.”

“We are in blood, you and I,” I urged him.“Please . . .”

For a moment I thought I might have gotthrough to him.

“No, son. We are enemies. And one of usmust die.” From outside there came anothervolley of cannon fire. The torches quivered intheir brackets, the light danced on the stoneand dust particles rained from the walls.

So be it.We fought. A long, hard battle. Not one

that was always especially skilful. He came atme, with sword blade, fist and even at timeshis head. His fighting style was differentfrom mine, something more rough-formedabout it. It lacked the finesse of my own, yet

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was just as effective and, I soon learnt, justas painful.

We broke apart, both breathing hard. Hewiped the back of his hand across his mouththen crouched, flexing the fingers of his in-jured forearm. “You act as though you havesome right to judge,” he said, “To declare meand mine wrong for the world. And yeteverything I’ve shown you—all I’ve said anddone—should clearly demonstrate otherwise.But we didn’t harm your people. We didn’tsupport the Crown. We worked to see thisland united and at peace. Under our rule allwould be equal. Do the patriots promise thesame?”

“They offer freedom,” I said, watchinghim carefully, remembering somethingAchilles once taught me: that every word,every gesture, is combat.

“Freedom?” he scoffed. “I’ve toldyou—time and time again—it’s dangerous.There will never be a consensus, son, among

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those you have helped to ascend. They willdiffer in their views of what it means to befree. The peace you so desperately seek doesnot exist.”

I shook my head. “No. Together they willforge something new—better than what camebefore.”

“These men are united now by a commoncause,” he continued, sweeping his bad armaround to indicate . . . us, I suppose. The re-volution. “But when this battle is finishedthey will fall to fighting among themselvesabout how best to ensure control. In time, itwill lead to war. You’ll see.”

And then he leapt forward, striking downwith the sword, aiming not for my body butmy blade arm. I deflected, but he was quick,span and struck me backhanded with hissword hilt above the eye. My vision cloudedand I staggered back, defending wildly as hetried to press home his advantage. By sheerdumb luck I hit his injured arm, gaining a

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howl of agony and a temporary lull as weboth recovered.

Another cannon boom. More dust dis-lodged from the walls, and I felt the floorshake. Blood coursed from the wound abovemy eye, and I wiped it away with the back ofmy hand.

“The patriot leaders do not seek to con-trol,” I assured him. “There will be no mon-arch here. The people will have thepower—as they should.”

He shook his head slowly and sadly, acondescending gesture that, if it was sup-posed to appease me, had exactly the reverseeffect. “The people never have the power,” hesaid wearily, “only the illusion of it. Andhere’s the real secret: they don’t want it. Theresponsibility is too great to bear. It’s whythey’re so quick to fall in line as soon assomeone takes charge. They want to be toldwhat to do. They yearn for it. Little wonder,that, since all mankind was built to serve.”

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Again we traded blows. Both of us haddrawn blood. Looking at him, did I see anolder version of myself? Having read hisjournal, I can look back now and know ex-actly how he saw me: as the man he shouldhave been. How would things have been dif-ferent if I’d known then what I know now?

I don’t know is the answer to that ques-tion. I still don’t know.

“So because we are inclined by nature tobe controlled, who better than the Tem-plars?” I shook my head. “It is a poor offer.”

“It is truth,” exclaimed Haytham. “Prin-ciple and practice are two very differentbeasts. I see the world the way it is—not as Iwish it would be.”

I attacked and he defended, and for a fewmoments the passageway rang to the soundof clashing steel. Both of us were tired bythen; the battle no longer had the urgency ithad once had. For a moment I wondered if itmight simply peter out; if there was any way

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that the two of us would simply turn, walkaway and go in our separate directions. Butno. There had to be an end to this. I knew it.I could see in his eyes that he knew it too.This had to end here.

“No, Father . . . you have given up—andyou would have us all do the same.”

And then there was the thump and shud-der of a cannonball strike nearby and stonewas cascading from the walls. It was near. Sonear. It had to be followed by another. And itwas. All of a sudden a gaping hole was blownin the passageway.

ii

I was thrown back by the blast and landed ina painful heap, like a drunk sliding slowlydown the wall of a tavern, my head andshoulders at a strange angle to the rest of me.The corridor was full of dust and settling

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debris as the boom of the explosion slowlyebbed away into the rattle and clatter ofshifting rubble. I pulled myself painfully tomy feet and squinted through clouds of dustto see him lying like I had been, but on theother side of the hole in the wall made by thecannonball, and limped over to him. Ipaused and glanced through the hole, to begreeted by the disorientating sight of theGrand Master’s chamber with its back wallblown out, the jagged stone framing a view ofthe ocean. There were four ships on the wa-ter, all with trails of smoke rising from theircannons on deck and, as I watched, therewas a boom as another was fired.

I passed by and stooped to Father, wholooked up at me and shifted a little. His handcrept towards his sword, which was just outof his reach, and I kicked it skittering awayover the stone. Grimacing with the pain, Ileaned towards him.

“Surrender, and I will spare you,” I said.

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I felt the breeze on my skin, the passage-way suddenly flooded with natural light. Helooked so old, his face battered and bruised.Even so, he smiled, “Brave words from aman about to die.”

“You fare no better,” I replied.“Ah,” he smiled, showing bloodied teeth,

“but I am not alone . . .” and I turned to seetwo of the fort’s guards come rushing alongthe corridor, raising their muskets and stop-ping just short of us. My eyes went fromthem to my father, who was pulling himselfto his feet, holding up a restraining hand tohis men, the only thing stopping them fromkilling me.

Bracing himself against the wall, hecoughed and spat then looked up at me.“Even when your kind appears to tri-umph . . . still we rise again. Do you knowwhy?”

I shook my head.

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“It is because the Order is born of a real-ization. We require no creed. No indoctrina-tion by desperate old men. All we need isthat the world be as it is. This is why theTemplars can never be destroyed.”

And now, of course, I wonder, would hehave done it? Would he have let them killme?

But I’ll never have my answer. For sud-denly there was the crackle of gunfire andthe men span and dropped, taken out bysniper fire from the other side of the wall.And in the next moment I had rushed for-ward and, before he could react, knockedHaytham back to the stone and stood overhim once again, my blade hand pulled back.

And then, with a great rush of somethingthat might have been futility, and a soundthat I realized was my own sob, I stabbedhim in the heart.

His body jerked as it accepted my blade,then relaxed, and as I withdrew it he was

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smiling. “Don’t think I have any intention ofcaressing your cheek and saying I waswrong,” he said softly as I watched the lifeebb out of him. “I will not weep and wonderwhat might have been. I’m sure youunderstand.”

I was kneeling now, and reached to holdhim. What I felt was . . . nothing. A numb-ness. A great weariness that it had all cometo this.

“Still,” he said, as his eyelids flutteredand the blood seemed to drain from his face,“I’m proud of you in a way. You have shownconviction. Strength. Courage. These arenoble traits.”

With a sardonic smile he added, “I shouldhave killed you long ago.”

And then he died.I looked for the amulet Mother had told

me about, but it was gone. I closed Father’seyes, stood and walked away.

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2 OCTOBER 1782

At last, on a freezing night at the frontier, Ifound him in the Conestoga Inn, where Ientered to find him sitting in the shadows,his shoulders hunched forward and a bottleclose at hand. Older and unkempt, with wiry,untamed hair and no trace of the army of-ficer he had once been, but definitely him:Charles Lee.

As I approached the table he looked up atme, and at first I was taken aback by thewildness of his red-rimmed eyes. Any mad-ness was either suppressed or hidden,though, and he showed no emotion on seeingme, apart from a look that I suppose was re-lief. For over a month I had chased him.

Wordlessly, he offered me a drink fromthe bottle, and I nodded, took a sip andpassed the bottle back to him. Then we sat

together for a long time, watching the otherpatrons of the tavern, listening to their chat-ter, games and laughter which they carriedon around us.

In the end, he looked at me, and thoughhe said nothing, his eyes did it for him, andso I silently ejected my blade and, when heclosed them, slid it into him, under the rib,straight into the heart. He died without asound and I rested him on the tabletop, asthough he had simply passed out from toomuch drink. Then I reached, took the amuletfrom his neck and put it around my own.

Looking down at it, it glowed softly for amoment. I pushed it underneath my shirt,stood and left.

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15 NOVEMBER 1783

i

Holding the reins of my horse, I walkedthrough my village with a mounting sense ofdisbelief. As I’d arrived, I’d seen well-tendedfields but the village itself was deserted, thelonghouse abandoned, the cook fires cold,and the only soul in sight was a grizzledhunter—a white hunter, not a Mohawk—whosat on an upturned pail in front of a fire,roasting something that smelled good on aspit.

He looked at me carefully as I ap-proached, and his eyes went to his musket,which lay nearby, but I waved to say I meantno harm.

He nodded. “If you’re hungry, I’ve got ex-tra,” he said genially.

And it did smell good, but I had otherthings on my mind. “Do you know whathappened here? Where is everyone?”

“Gone west. Been a few weeks since theyleft. Seems some fella from New York wasgranted the land by Congress. Guess they de-cided they didn’t need approval from thosethat lived here to settle.”

“What?” I said.“Yup. Seein’ it happen more and more.

Natives pushed out by traders and rancherslookin’ to expand. Government says theydon’t take land that’s already owned, but,uh . . . Here you can see otherwise.”

“How could this happen?” I asked, turn-ing around slowly, seeing only emptinesswhere once I had seen the familiar faces ofmy people—the people I had grown up with.

“We’re on our own now,” he continued.“No jolly old English parts and labour.Which means we gotta go at it ourselves.Gotta pay for it too. Sellin’ land is quick and

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easy. And not quite so nasty as taxes. Andsince some say taxes is what started thewhole war, ain’t no rush to bring ’em back.”He gave a full, throaty laugh. “Clever men,these new leaders of ours. They know not topush it just yet. Too soon. Too . . . British.”He stared into his fire. “But it will come. Al-ways does.”

I thanked him and left him, to go to thelonghouse, thinking, as I walked: I havefailed. My people were gone—chased awayby those I thought would protect them.

As I walked, the amulet around my neckglowed, and I took it from around my neck,held it in my palm and studied it. Perhapsthere was one last thing I could do, and thatwas to save this place from them all, patriotsand Templars alike.

ii

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In a clearing in the forest I crouched and re-garded what I held in my hands: my moth-er’s necklace in one, my father’s amulet inthe other.

To myself I said, “Mother. Father. I amsorry. I have failed you both. I made a prom-ise to protect our people, Mother. I thought ifI could stop the Templars, if I could keep therevolution free from their influence, thenthose I supported would do what was right.They did, I suppose, do what wasright—what was right for them. As for you,Father, I thought I might unite us, that wewould forget the past and forge a better fu-ture. In time, I believed you could be madeto see the world as I do—to understand. Butit was just a dream. This, too, I should haveknown. Were we not meant to live in peace,then? Is that it? Are we born to argue? Tofight? So many voices—each demandingsomething else.

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“It has been hard at times, but neverharder than today. To see all I worked forperverted, discarded, forgotten. You wouldsay I have described the whole of history,Father. Are you smiling, then? Hoping Imight speak the words you longed to hear?To validate you? To say that all along youwere right? I will not. Even now, faced as Iam with the truth of your cold words, I re-fuse. Because I believe things can stillchange.

“I may never succeed. The Assassins maystruggle another thousand years in vain. Butwe will not stop.”

I began to dig.“Compromise. That’s what everyone has

insisted on. And so I have learnt it. But dif-ferently than most, I think. I realize now thatit will take time, that the road ahead is longand shrouded in darkness. It is a road thatwill not always take me where I wish to

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go—and I doubt I will live to see it end. But Iwill travel down it nonetheless.”

I dug and dug until the hole was deepenough, deeper than that which was neededto bury a body, enough for me to climb into.

“For at my side walks hope. In the face ofall that insists I turn back, I carry on: this,this is my compromise.”

I dropped the amulet into the hole andthen, as the sun began to go down, I shov-elled dirt on top of it until it was hidden andthen I turned and left.

Full of hope for the future, I returned tomy people, to the Assassins.

It was time for new blood.

Click here for more books by this author.

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LIST OF CHARACTERS

Achilles: Assassinal-Azm, As’ad Pasha: Ottoman governor,

d. 1758Amherst, Jeffrey: British commander,

1717–97Barrett, Tom: youngest son of the BarrettsThe Barretts: neighbors to the KenwaysBetty: nursemaid, assistant to EdithBirch, Reginald: senior property manager

for Edward KenwayBraddock, Edward: British soldier,

1695–1755Church, Benjamin: doctor, 1734–78Connor: AssassinCutter: torturerMiss Davy: Tessa Kenway’s lady’s maidThe Dawsons: neighbors to the Kenways

Digweed, Jack: Edward Kenway’sgentleman

Douglass, Cornelius and CatherineKerr: owners of the Green Dragon

Edith: nursemaidEmily: chambermaidFairweather, James: ship passengerMr. Fayling: tutorHarrison, John: Knight of the OrderHickey, Thomas: associate of William

Johnson’s, d. 1776Holden, Jim: soldier and Haytham’s

gentlemanJohnson, William: official, 1715–74Kaniehtí:io (also Ziio): Mohawk womanKenway, Edward: Haytham’s fatherKenway, Haytham: writer of these

journalsKenway, Jenny: Haytham’s sisterKenway, Tessa née Stephenson-

Oakley: Haytham’s motherLee, Charles: soldier, 1732–82

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Pasha, Raghib: grand vizier in IstanbulPitcairn, John: soldier, 1722–75Scott, Caroline: Jenny’s motherMrs. Searle: the Kenway’s housekeeperMr. Simpkin: estate executorSlater: Braddock’s lieutenantThatcher, Silas: slaverTwitch: informantVarela: Spanish cheesemakerVedomir, Juan: Spanish investorViolet: neighborWashington, George: soldier, later com-

mander in chief of the Continental Army,1732–99

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks toYves GuillemotStéphane BlaisJean Guesdon

Corey MayDarby McDevitt

And alsoAlain Corre

Laurent DetocSébastien Puel

Geoffroy SardinXavier Guilbert

Tommy FrançoisCecile RusseilJoshua Meyer

The Ubisoft Legal Department

Chris MarcusEtienne AllonierAnouk Bachman

Alex ClarkeHana Osman

Andrew HolmesVirginie Sergent

Clémence Deleuze

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720/723

Ace titles by Oliver Bowden

ASSASSIN’S CREED: RENAISSANCEASSASSIN’S CREED: BROTHERHOOD

ASSASSIN’S CREED: THE SECRETCRUSADE

ASSASSIN’S CREED: REVELATIONSASSASSIN’S CREED: FORSAKEN