There was a fairly shallow, yet gnarled slice snaking from the centre of Ezio's lower back up to just underneath his right shoulder blade. The cut was uneven, and it slithered all across his lower back horizontally until it shot upward and inward just before reaching his side. It was not a wound received with dignity, nor bravery, nor valor; no, it was a wound of sheer carelessness. Ezio had been scouting around atop the Basilica di San Marco on word of some thieves finding the entrance to the tomb of Amunet. The Basilica was never particularly inviting, both in the density of guards and in the difficulty of navigating the roof. Where some sections were long, flat, and easy, the next corner would present iron gates five metres high. As it were, Ezio was spotted perching in the shadow of one of the many statues of angels decorating the peak of the Basilica's tall entrance. He was only mildly concerned, if that, when he caught the guards' cries of accusation. Though the dusk covered him adequately, the guards had arrows, and the search could be resumed another time. The assassin leapt from the angel's feet, and angled his own against the needlessly steep roof so that he would slide down. He would push off the incline just before its end, grab one prong of the ornate metal crucifix, use the force to swing himself around and down to a lower roof section of the Basilica, then leap into the cart of hay memorized earlier in the day.
But the crucifix was too ornate: below the primary prongs of the crucifix there were several smaller sets more, and when Ezio swung himself around the fixture, one of the metal barbs cleaved into his lower back. He jolted from the blunt pain, and ended the swing with more of a startled drop than a graceful leap. The barb was still at his back when he dropped, causing it to rip up and under Ezio' belt and the greater part of his cuirass. The force of the drop had broken the barb off and lodged it inside the armour. It was a shameful thing, really, at his level of experience, so Ezio disallowed himself to even pretend it hurt.
Prideful or not, the pain was overwhelming. His balance hampered by the wrenching of the barb in every movement, Ezio's footfalls were anything but stealthy. He stumbled, trying to shift his weight in some direction that might lessen the carving of the barb, and as luck would have it he stumbled onto the sloped portion of the lower roof section he landed on. He cursed and waved his arms frantically in a pitiful attempt to regain balance, and in doing so sent massive bolts of pain into his back. The world tilted, for a moment, and Ezio could not recall the seconds between standing and falling. He tumbled down the roof tiles and dropped in a heavy, metallic slump onto the flat section of roof below. This was the lowest of the layered rooftops of the Basilica, outermost of the building's perimeter—another fall would greet the assassin with cobblestone.
The guard who spotted him previously had no trouble tracking the sounds. He peered over from atop the tier Ezio fell from, and shouted his comrades to arms. The archers drew their bows. By some assassin's instinct Ezio's body reacted before he could properly hear. He sprang up from his small, bloody splat on the roof and dashed to the edge at an angle that just might be close enough to the haystack for a successful landing. Ezio did not hesitate. He put every effort into speed, only hoping to achieve enough momentum to carry him to safety. He leapt forward, and flew with arms outstretched for what seemed an inhuman distance, before beginning his descent—directly into the soft pile of hay. He truly did use every facet of the jump to ensure he landed where targeted, and as such left no thought for a proper landing. The Leap of Faith was malformed from the start, warped to maximize distance. The momentum drove the ending flip too harshly, and while Ezio landed in the cushion of hay, he landed directly on his left foot.
The cart churned and the board stricken by Ezio's foot collapsed on impact. Passers-by startled at the booming crack and creak of the cart, but fortunately went about their ways without choosing to alert the guard. Beneath the haystack, though, there were a thousand icy needles of pain rendering Ezio frozen and inert, hands clasping his left knee to the point that he absently thought he might snap the limb right off then and there. He could hear himself shrieking—even loud enough to drown out the intense ringing in his ears—yet in truth he made not a sound. He clenched his teeth with all the strength in his jaw and neck, knowing that in his current state, to alert the guard would be his end. Instead he began to draw his leg up slowly, ever so slowly, up and out of the new hole in the cart. He laid it in front of him, the lifeless thing it seemed, and screwed his eyes closed. There was blinding pain everywhere, coursing through his veins and contorting every muscle. Ezio tried to focus on his breathing. He didn't realize he'd been holding it.
The daylight was fading fast, and it was becoming more difficult to see inside the hay. Once he remembered how to exhale, Ezio squinted at his knee. It was too dark to see blood, but the silhouette looked normal- straight, nothing shooting out or bent grotesquely. The few spots of dim sunlight showed the area to be clean. He felt no wetness around the area, yet the limb still felt as though it had been crushed flat. He was almost grateful for the injury; he couldn't imagine what it would have felt like had he landed on his back as usual, and the pain in his leg proved a worthy distraction from the prior injury. He hadn't even heard the archers on top of the Basilica di San Marco call for a search below. He hadn't heard the seekers approach the cart.
Just as Ezio leaned in closer to inspect his knee, one of the seekers' long spears gashed into his right shoulder. The metal spaulder was hit first, preventing the stab from impaling him full-force, but nevertheless the spear slid off the spaulder and sank into the flesh underneath. Immediately Ezio arched his spine forward and released a chilling cry. The spearman almost toppled over in fright. In his surprise he tried to rip his spear out quickly, but the spear stuck, merely yanking the Auditore back with it. The multiplicity of gore accumulated in the last few minutes must have welled up inside Ezio, because be it from an unlocked survival state or some incomprehensible stage of pain, he reached up to his shoulder with lightning speed and tore the spear free.
The next thing he knew he was on top of the offending seeker, crouching over his broken, bloody form and pulling both hidden blades out from under the man's jaw. There were screams, calls, insults—Ezio glanced up to the others in the group of guards for only a moment, then dashed off like a mustang having just snapped its restraints.
Ezio threw down anyone in his path. Before, everything seemed congested and clouded by a thick fog of pain. Now everything was crisp and bright. Now there was no strategy. There was no stealth. There was only objective, and that meant escape, consumed by some primal drive for freedom and security. All sounds seemed to fade in and out in time with the ringing and rapid throbbing in Ezio's ears. He did not look back, nor was he running to any particular place. He simply ran, fast as he'd ever managed, and only one thing drew him from this blind trance: without warning, Ezio's left knee buckled and cracked rather audibly. He gasped sharply, the world rushed toward him, and he fell.
He saw only blackness for few seconds before his vision returned. Then the blackness started again, more slowly this time, creeping in from the periphery. He felt outside himself. He told himself to get up and run. But his arms were weak. He saw them shaking, hands planted on the ground beneath himself, lifting him gradually with much effort. The blood seemed to rush away from his head when he felt his heels against stone. He told himself to hide. Running felt impossible—his legs were shaking, too. Blankly Ezio glanced around. Things looked strikingly familiar, yet entirely foreign at the same time. He stared at a thin, nearby alleyway for almost ten seconds before realizing it as a hideout. By this time the guards had been lost far behind in the wake of their target's mad sprinting, so Ezio made his way to the shaded bench of the alley with a fairly obvious limp to his slow, heavy steps.
He reached out to the bench and let that hand guide the rest of his body onto the empty board. I need to see a dotore, Ezio thought, my pains are becoming numb... Numbness! At his recollection, he quickly tore into the satchel at his side containing small vials of pain-numbing, focus-stimulating medicine. He swallowed the contents of one vial and shifted against the wall at his back. He distantly felt the barb under his armour crawl down his back a ways, and felt a new flush of liquid stream down after it. He brought another vial to his lips. After remaining still for a while, the medicine set to work and Ezio began to think more clearly. He took account of the day's accomplishments:
He'd stayed awake the previous night evulsing information from guardsmen, nobles, and government officials on the whereabouts of the Templars of Venezia. He'd heard from Antonio's men that several of Italia's most prominent were frequenting the city, perhaps scouting in the interest of something more grievous later on. The thieves' grapevines only grew so long, however, so Ezio had spent the past two—or was it three?— nights gleaning information from sources buried deeper. The search was going well by now, and Ezio had spent the majority of the day tailing a particularly knowledgeable priestess. He'd also completed a small mission from Lorenzo sent by carrier pigeon, and aided the brothel of San Marco in choosing a trustworthy dotore.
Ezio was feeling a bit more proud and optimistic until he remembered the now-bloodstained letter inside his robes. Distracted by word of the tomb of Amunet, he'd accidentally neglected to deliver a message to the leader of a sub-group of thieves in southern Castello. And damn it all, he'd also forgotten to eavesdrop around the Frari for additional information on the Templars' intermittent appearances. Ezio sighed and hung his head. It was already late in the day, so the church might not be as populated anymore—the gossip tended to peak around high noon. Still, he could find courtesans there at all hours, undoubtedly some who had been in and out of the crowd since morning. There was still time.
Begrudgingly, he decided he would visit the Frari's courtesans first to gather what information he could, then make his way to Castello to deliver the letter. A doctor would just take too long, considering the small window he had left until nightfall when the courtesans swap out and the thieves take to the shadows to begin their work. Ezio stood briskly, and to his satisfaction did not feel broken at all. When he stepped out of the alley into a jog, though, the pain started all over again. He stumbled right in front of a group of high-class merchants and their wives, causing them all to gasp and shuffle back. They cast fearful eyes on the assassin, scrutinizing his unwieldy movements for any sign of threat. Ezio forced his grunt into a terribly awkward half-cough and wobbled out of the way, at last straightening his posture to something resembling a normal person.
"Perdonatemi," he rasped with a smile, quite convincing for the way he felt.
That seemed to do the trick, because the group soon returned pace and walked on. One of the noblemen even gave Ezio a nod of forgiveness as he passed by. More cognizant now, Ezio realized the familiarity of the area was due to its proximity to Leonardo's studio- wait. Leonardo! The studio would make the perfect place to resituate for the long night ahead. He'd only need maybe fifteen minutes to gather his bearings, staunch his worst wounds, get the accursed metal barb out of his back... But if Leonardo saw those injuries, well, that wouldn't save Ezio any time at all. What excuse was there to inconspicuously hang around for a break? Leonardo knew him better. Leonardo knew that Ezio did not go out of his way to chat without great meaning. ...But Ezio does go out of his way to deliver pieces of the codex. Even better, it would keep Leonardo busy translating, his attention away from the assassin while he fixed himself up. Ezio dug through his satchels, pouches, and other, less conventional storage places on his person, silently praying he had a spare page tucked away somewhere. He sensed the roots of despair creeping nearer when his hands turned up empty, but his face brightened immediately once he remembered the empty wine bottle under his cape- he'd started keeping the codex in bottles ever since he nearly ruined one, inadvertently, by jumping into a canal. Sure enough, the bottle was still whole, thinner than most and secured upright against his left side. Inside one scroll was contained, safe and dry. Ezio limped triumphantly a full forty paces to the studio's ornate front door.
He stared hard, for a time, at the intricately carved wood. Appearances, he remembered, and wrested his firmly resisting body into the learned shape of confidence and composure. Shoulders down, back straight (oh, the pain ignites), tension buried. Just as his knuckles would touch the wood, he remembered one last feature: hood off. He then knocked and opened the door.
