My name is Armande de Seville, and I am not a good man.
I was born into the fold of the Assassin order, and from my childhood began to learn a love for the feeling of life slipping away between my fingers. To appreciate the delicate movement of blood from a wound, and the departure of a soul from the eyes of the dead, like fall leaves scattering in the wind and coming to rest on the autumn ground. This was my existence. I was taught to kill, but no one had to teach me to like it.
When I was a young man, my kills had become excessive, to the point of murder. For an order of Assassins to accuse one of murder is quite a monumental occaison; I was honored. However, my showmanship earned me a sentence of execution. Yet, here I am, alive. When they came for me, I left. On my way out, I sent so many of their number, so many men and women I had grown into adulthood with, to the grave that they stopped coming after me. After I had been gone over a year, I was informed my sentence had been lightened to exile. For the rest of my life.
Their pompous gall enraged me. I hated what the Assassins had become; raised on stories of Altair, Ezio Auditore and the like, I despised the weak, reticent breed our kind had become. One day, I hated it so much, I found myself planning an end for my own people.
To that end, I committed yet more unspeakable, unforgiveable crimes. I lived for almost fifteen years in my own company, needing and wanting no one to bind me down. My misadventures led me across the sea, to a country who hasn't even cut teeth yet, their birth is so new. And here, I spent nearly another decade, seeing what I could see, doing what I wanted. I find that in my age, bloodlust is less vivid than it used to be. My hatred for the Assassins, while eternal, doesn't enrage me as it once did. Perhaps age has brought wisdom. Temperance.
And perhaps you should still think twice before leaving your house alone in the night.
"You 'ave a visitor, Master Armande."
He looked up at the maid, Beth, who showed no shyness or embarassment at finding him in the bath. Armande sunk his head under the water, ignoring her.
She was still there when he surfaced, and he sighed. The woman had been his maid for four years, since his purchase of this townhouse in the lively streets of Boston, and in that time she had grown an unhealthy disregard for his antics. She planted her hands on her round, matronly hips and scowled.
"You 'eard me," she insisted. "Should I 'ave 'im wait in the parlor?"
Armande growled to himself. "Very well, Beth. Who is it?"
"I don' recognize 'im. Not from around here, I'd say. I'll 'ave him wait." And with that, she bustled out, leaving clean towels and snapping the door primly shut behind herself.
Fuming, Armande finished his bath and stepped out to stand by the fire. He had never replaced his employees, never had a need, but occasionally the prospect of making Beth disappear floated about his mind as a vague possibility. He knew he'd never do it; she was too much what he needed, as was the housekeeper and the groundsman. They lived here with him, and kept the place in working order while he was away. And he was often away.
Armande looked over at his wardrobe irritably. He had intended to go straight to bed; this evening had seen his return from a rather harrowing travel to the south, and his forty-something-year-old bones needed a bath and a bed to recover fully. One completed; he dragged on a pair of breeches, not bothering to don any other garments. The other would have to wait until this unannounced visit was seen to.
His house was quiet in the winter night. The new year had passed uneventfully, another year gone, and now spring approached. It was still cold out; to combat this, Beth and Harold, the housekeeper, fed great fires in the hearth and every fireplace in the house. It kept the chill at bay.
The double doors leading into his parlor were open, and warm firelight spilled out. Armande stalked through, expecting anything except what he saw. It was late for social visits, but the local authorities occaisionally stopped by to check in; they suspected much of him. They could prove nothing. Some servant girl or dock worker probably turned up missing, and the police had come to casually discuss the situation with him, see if he would slip up this time. That was likely it. But in his house he would find no weary-eyed police waiting, futiley, to wrest a confession from him.
He stopped dead in his tracks the moment his eyes made sense of the figure shrouded within the fire-shadows.
It was a man, indeed; familiar chest armor, spalders, greaves... the one-of-a-kind design of the vambrace on his arm and the tooled pattern along the sheath of his scimitar. The hood, pullled to his nose, it was all as much a well-known part of Armande as his own skin. But what truly told Armande the identity of his visitor was the distant, faded presence the man emanated, as if he were the shadows come to life or the incarnation of an anonymous crowd.
"What a surprise," Armande murmured, gaze locked on his visitor. They were alone; no one lurked in the shadows. It was not an ambush. Then what? Why would an Assassin have come to pay him a visit? The man moved, and the illusion of stillness was broken. He walked fluidly toward the center of the room. Armande moved forward to meet him; his unarmed state made him wary, as did his completely unarmored, barely clothed chest and vitals. But this was his house; he wouldn't back down so easily.
The Assassin reached up and pulled his hood down. It was a young man. Well... younger than Armande. His sandy blonde hair was shaggy from travel and although Armande was quite certain they had never met, he looked eerily familiar.
"Do you know me?" the Assassin asked.
Armande shook his head, not sure.
"Not surprising. My name is Leverett."
"Leverett?" Aramnde asked, frowning. "Well, haven't you grown. You weren't yet ten years old when I left the Assassins. All grown up and running errands."
Leverett didn't seem daunted. He raised an eyebrow. "Oui, it has been some time. I'm surprised you recognized me at all, with those old eyes of yours."
"Speaking of old," Armande sniped, "where is Gerard? Usually they send him to mediate to me, you'd think he was my Goddamned keeper." Armande paced toward the fireplace, drawn to its warmth.
Something in Leverett's expression twitched and softened. "Gerard is dead, Armande. He died almost four years ago."
Armande's mouth opened, then shut, at a loss. He swallowed and looked towards the fire, thinking.
What was this tightness in his chest? He swallowed again, finding his throat scratchy. Gerard had been a friend to him when he had done nothing to deserve one, standing by him since they were children. He remembered the last time he had seen him. It had been nearly nine years.
"I'm sorry," Leverett offered.
"No need," Armande replied shortly. He walked around the back of the divan situated beside the fire and settled his weight on it; he motioned for Leverett to take a seat across the coffee table on the lounge. His guest did so, silently. Armande stared into the fire for a while longer, thinking, then looked up again.
"So to what do I owe this honor?" he asked.
"Armande de Seville, the Brotherhood-"
"Beth! Harold! Thomas! Get about your own business and stop that damn eavesdropping!" Armande snapped.
A controlled flurry sounded outside the open doors, and Harold stepped in cordially.
"Apologies, sir," the old housekeeper muttered abashedly. He closed the parlor doors, closing Armande and Leverett in alone.
Leverett chuckled. "I was wondering if you were going to call them out."
"I was wondering if you were going to require me to say things that might jeapordize my secrecy," Armande returned lightly. "If we are to be discussing the Brotherhood, I suppose we will be covering topics that are better left unheard. In French, then? To my knowledge, none of them speak it well."
Leverett tipped his head in agreement.
"Qu'est-ce donc?" Armande repeated. "What has the Brotherhood come to accuse me of?"
"I've come to offer you your status back," Leverett replied. "If you choose, you are to be welcomed back into the Assassin order, in a rank afforded you by your skill and experience. Master Assassin."
Armande stilled; he watched Leverett carefully, scanning his every expression for some clue or hint of a lie or trap. There was none, but Armande was not convinced.
"What madness is this?" he murmured, almost to himself. Louder, he continued, "I've been in exile for almost twenty-five years. Damned if I go back now. I'm quite at home here in the States."
"I can see that," Leverett agreed.
"Tell me, though, why do they want me back now? What do they want from me?"
Leverett exhaled, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I won't lie to you. The stories they tell of you... you have become a legend of the Assassins. It is your legacy that keeps our enemies awake at night, clutching their daggers under their pillows."
"True, but you have yet to explain."
"France is not well," Leverett finally admitted. "In 1774, Louis XVI took throne; as you know, the Assassins sought out an agreement with him, in hopes of staving off Templar grip of France."
"As I know," Armande agreed.
"But for all the hopes we had for him, the most recent Louis has proven less than effective. The country starves, the people die of hunger and overwork. The nobles run rampant, doing as they please; all along, Louis and that empty-headed harpy Marie-Antionette ignore their country's turmoil."
"A revolution is coming," Armande finished for him.
"Yes," Leverett conceded. "You know this; you've seen it, here. America's war was over before you arrived, but still, you have lived a decade with its people. You know this world, you know the signs.
"They want you to come back, and stop it. If Louis is overthrown, our hold on France could be lost in the undertow. Things have grown desperate over the past couple years; the people have made known their grievances. You should see them, Armande, walking through... it feels like walking through a den of rabid animals. You feel eyes on you, as if they might attack at the drop of a hat.
"You are the best," Leverett stated plainly. "The situation is incredibly, nerve-wrackingly delicate. We dare not send in more than one of two of our number, and none of us know revolution as you have come to know it. If you accept, you are to travel to Paris, observe. And wait."
"Wait for what?" Armande scoffed. "Wait for them to drag Louis out of his castle to the gallows?"
"Wait for something," Leverett answered, quietly exasperated. "Wait for the next Boston tea party, watch for the next John Adams. You know what precedes the storm, and you can recognize the catalyst before it acts. If you can stop the revolution, this dangerous time of tension might pass, and give us a chance to talk sense into Louis XVI."
Armande smothered laughter. "That is your first mistake. He will not change."
"He must, because if he does not, he may find himself dead in his carriage," Leverett snapped.
A slow smile crept over Armande's face. "How it does my heart good to hear your bloodlust. Tell me, where have you been the past few years? Jerusalem? India? Egypt?"
"Egypt," Leverett agreed.
"Ah, so I thought. You have spent little time amongst our 'bretheren' in France." Armande sobered.
Go back? The thought was enticing, if only to laugh at the weak fools and pathetic swine the Brotherhood must have devolved into by now.
"Have you a place to stay tonight?" Armande asked suddenly.
"There is an inn down the way," Leverett shrugged.
"The Sleeping Seagull?"
"Oui."
"Pas, pas," Armande waved the thought away. "You will stay here. I'll have Beth make up a room."
Leverett seemed to hesitate. "Trusting, are we?"
Armande stood, "Practical, more like," he replied in English. "You know little of the world into which you have stepped. You barely speak English, for God's sake. And if you stay here, then I know you will survive the night, to hear my answer in the morning."
When Armande first came to America, he had spent over a half a year scouring the mountains beyond the populated cities, where the native savages roamed. It had been long and difficult; Armande had never spent so long in the wilderness. The woods and mountains had become his companions; they were steadfast and trustworthy in a way humans were not. Perhaps he could have spent another year and a half, alone, far from his prey and his life as an Assassin.
Until one day. Until the day he found the vault.
The description was exact. It was as if centuries hadn't shifted the landscape. He had scaled the mountain, sweating under the summer sun, until he found the lock. Upon opening it, he had entered the foyer, seen the symbols, followed the corridor. It had all been so simple.
All except the ghost... whatever presence had tailed Armande some distance down the tunnel, and disappeared before the end.
The bizarre chamber of moving stone and glass.
He had climbed the walls, row by row. Until he reached the platform, and was raised into the ceiling.
Into the chamber, smooth, black glass, shot through like veins with glowing white threads. It had nearly convinced Armande he was mad; then the pedestal, the stand on which the mysterious treasure of the Assassin order was stored for an indefinite eternity.
Empty.
Armande sat on his bed for hours into the night, mouth resting on his hands, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the wall, thinking. It was the reason he had come to this country, so far from his homeland. Find whatever fabled object rested in the vault. And use it. Cause destruction for his brother Assassins, create panic and turmoil on a level that even he could not achieve alone. Destroy them forever. Then start over...
But the vault had been empty.
The fire had burnt down to glimmering coals by the time Armande settled himself under the quilts to sleep. Go back? Back to France? Back to the very people he had spent decades despising?
They wanted to make him a Master Assassin. That would mean fully inducting him into the order, and with that full inclusion came full access to secrets. Even Armande wasn't certain of all he didn't know.
Moreover, if he went back, would the answers to the thousand questions he hounded be within reach? The origin of the chamber of black glass? The secret itself? And the vault... could he figure out why? Why the vault was so torturously empty?
The spring and summer had passed while Armande and Leverett were at sea. The ocean had been a kind and gentle presence, rarely storming, often calm. Progress back to Europe had been swift, and although the long voyage threatened to infect Armande with an unhealthy mood of cabin fever, everyone on board survived to see the day when far off on the flat blue horizon a line of earth appeared with the rising sun.
And with it, heavy storm clouds began to drift in from the east.
France. Something writhed in Armande's gut, a nervous excitement that he couldn't pinpoint the cause of.
Before he left, Armande had given Harold detailed instructions of what was to be done while he was away, how the house was to be kept, and what was to be done if he never returned.
Harold had paled, his creased face crumpling slightly in concern. "It will be done, sir. But... do try to return."
What was the possibility that Armande would never see America again? He had grown fond of it; the populace of the former colonies, they lived, actually lived, not just existed in sluggish servitude to a distant King or a distant God. The newness of their world was such that for the first time in his life, Armande didn't hate the human crowd that he secreted himself within. Not superior in intelligence or manners, perhaps, not any form of ideal, but better than what he had left behind. What he now returned to.
It was almost a week before the ship docked, the land drifting, teasingly out of reach but growing slowly closer everyday.
They made port in La Rochelle. Armande had not been here for years even before he left France; what a different city it had become.
It was as if the world had become a monotone. Gray, dirty citizens moved about gray, dirty buildings through gray, dirty streets. Perhaps it had never been lively, per se, but this was not what Armande had dragged out of memory of this place. And of the people's eyes, Leverett had not lied. There was a tight, straining air of restlessness, dark and gray as the streets it swept through. As if everyone merely waited the signal to claw out of their peasant disguises and... and what? Armande couldn't say. There was an anger here, not indignation, just fury. No righteous denial of injustice. Just a palpable thirst for blood.
Armande's hand struggled to rest constantly on the hilt of his bastard sword. He was no lightweight, had fought his share of unfair numbers. But he didn't like this at all.
"When do we leave?" he asked.
"The ship from the order isn't here," Leverett answered. "Fichu..."
"Then let's find a place to stay," Armande growled. "We... we have to get off these streets."
Leverett nodded. He and Armande wandered up the main avenue from the docks, avoiding eye contact. Everywhere, sunken, dull eyes traced over their tailored armor, finely crafter weapons, and well-cared for clothes. Armande's spine could have been made of steel; his every muscle was tense with whatever miasma haunted these people.
A racket shattered Armande and Leverett's steady heartbeats and echoed at their backs. No sooner had they turned to look when a carriage barreled past, sending peasants scattering out of its path. Back on the cobbled street in its wake, one small peasant had not been fast enough. The child's battered body was sprawled, bloody, where it had fallen. A man looked on with horror in his eyes; Armande assumed it was the child's father.
Instead of scooping up his dead son, the man took off in full tilt after the carriage. A feral scream of a madman ripped through the air after him as he chased down the carriage, throwing rocks, fruit, anything he could pick up on the go at the receding vehicle.
"Oh, no," Leverett muttered. "He mustn't do that- someone needs to stop him."
"Why?" Armande asked with a digusted click of his tongue. "His child has just been slain. Does he not have the right to seek justice?"
"No," Leverett shook his head as he spoke. "No, no, not again..."
The carriage had stopped not far up the street. And then there were guards.
They snatched up the dead child's father, and though he struggled and cursed and screamed his emaciated limbs were no match for those of the better-fed soldiers. As a pompous shrieking nobleman descended from the carriage among a mob of city guardsmen that had appeared, they began to drag the peasant, still fighting like a wildman, down the silent street.
"Where are they taking him?" Armande asked, already knowing. The two Assassins retreated into the shadows of an alley close by, watching the disruption unfold.
"The gallows," Leverett replied darkly.
"Why?" Armande's gut twisted, blood pounded through his head like a migraine. He followed the line of Leverett's glare; the nobleman whose carriage had murdered the child strutted after the rabble.
"I don't know," Leverett growled. "I really, truly do not."
The noise of the struggle was the only sound; dozens of eyes watched in savage silence. Armande tore his disbelieving gaze from the execution. The people of La Rochelle had lost any semblance of humanity. They stared in animal fixation, as if there was nothing else. Perhaps there was not. Not certain he wanted to know, Armande shifted his eyes into those of the Eagle.
Veins of red laced like ribbons through the dying auras of the mass.
"Let's just find a damn room." Armande spun on his heel and walked away, away, down the alley but not fast enough to escape the sound of a bloody tide rising.
Leverett returned to his room at the inn later that night after sitting with Armande for some hours in the tavern below. It was a mostly empty place, and silent. Even in a bar, it was as if all were watching an invisible clock. Waiting.
Silence answered him now; as he walked across the dark room, ears sharp for the sounds of an unlucky intruder or an ambitious thief attempting to rob him. There were none; stillness as thick and peaceful as the city was tense coated the shadows as Leverett struck a flint to the candle he had been required to purchase from the innkeeper.
"Have you read this?"
Leverett's heart made a break for his rib cage and nearly made it out. Glaring, he turned to see Armande comfortably stretched out on his bed, a worn old book in one hand and the other arm folded behind his head. He didn't look at Leverett, busy perusing the page he held the volume open to.
"You have your own room!" Leverett snapped. "Read what?"
"This," Armande flipped the book closed and held it out for Leverett to take, which, after a moment's irritable hesitation, he did.
"Le Contrat Sociale," Leverett read, as if that alone would satisfy his unwelcome guest. He looked again. The Social Contract, by Jean-Jacque Rousseau. Leverett flipped it open and skimmed a few pages, growing more interested.
"If you're looking for France's John Adams or Boston Tea Party, likewise you had best keep your eye open for their Thomas Paine, as well," Armande flipped his legs over the side of the bed and rested his elbows on them. "A revolution is nothing without its ideals. It is lucky that most of the populace cannot read; if the ideas of men like this Rousseau were more widespread in the Third Estate, stopping whatever is coming next would be out of the question."
"Do we take him out?" Leverett asked, closing the book with a practical snap. Armande grinned, predatory as a wolf.
"I do appreciate your love of the kill, Leverett," he chuckled.
Leverett's face flattened, impassive. "Not love, just respect. I understand that killing him may be necessary. Is it?"
Armande shook his head as he stood. "No. The book is aleady out, already in the hands of people like the poor clerk I liberated it from. No need to track down someone who has already put in the damage that they might."
Armande plucked Le Contrat Sociale from Leverett's hand and sat back on the bed. Leverett exhaled, annoyed.
"Why sneak into my room to tell me this? Why not just tell me downstairs, or if you needed privacy, why not just ask for it?"
Armande snickered as he opened the book again and continued to skim. "Why, I wanted to test you, of course. By the way, you failed."
Leverett leveled a glare that went unnoticed. He sat beside Armande on the bed, inching as far from him as possible without tumbling over the edge. If there had been a chair or desk in his room, that would have been preferable to keep some distance, but there was not; like everything in this town, the rooms of the inn were skeletally bare.
"What is it?" Leverett asked. He snorted, smirking. "Unless you were just looking for some companionship."
"Don't be silly, Leverett," Armande replied without missing a beat. "It's already been taken care of. Just feeding some cash into the economy- don't tell me you're holding out?"
There was no point in responding; Leverett tried again. "What do you want?"
Armande snapped Le Contrat Sociale shut. "I want to know the truth of what's happening here."
Leverett frowned. "What are you on about, now?"
"There's been someone following us most of the day, and I want to know who," Armande stared at Leverett, waiting, vaguely threatening with his still directness. Sensing the danger, Leverett shook his head.
"I know nothing of it. Truth be told, I didn't notice we were followed. Some Assassin I am... But I swear to you, I don't know."
Armande tapped the book in his hands thoughtfully; Leverett spoke only the truth. It was depressingly plain on his crystal-clear face. Perhaps Leverett's pretenses and ability to decieve were better than Armande could detect. It was a doubtful prospect.
"I believe you." Armande sighed and opened Le Contrat Sociale again, only to re-close it moments later. "Tell me of the state of affairs here. Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette... the Austrian princess, correct? What of the clergy? Are the nobles the same? Are there any figures of note? What of the Controller-General, of finances? Is it Necker, still?"
"I-I have limited knowledge of the affairs of France," Leverett admitted. "I had been in Egypt for over two years when I was contacted to find you. I could explain in great detail the politics of the Pharaoh and the Temple of Rah, but I'm afraid I had little chance to catch up on local affairs on my way through to America."
Armande froze, book halfway to the hand he had been absently tapping it against. He resumed his mindless twitch a heartbeat later.
"Interesting." He explained no further. "And the Assassin Order? Theroigne will have been dead for years now. She was ancient when I left. Who now heads the Council?"
"Richellou," Leverett answered. "It was he who sent for me. There are a couple new faces on the Council, ones I don't recognize. I believe they are from eastern Europe."
"Peut-etre," Armande agreed. "Leverett, I had little to say on the subject on the journey over the sea. In truth I didn't really care to know. But what state is the Brotherhood in? Stronger, or weaker than when I left it?"
Leverett made a non-committal gesture, shrugging. "Who's to say? Relatively, that question could be answered a number of ways. And after all, I was only a child when you left. How can I be a good judge?"
Armande just watched him blankly.
"Weaker," Leverett confessed. "Like moonlight on the wane. Coming back from Egypt, where our order is strong, I was appalled."
Armande snorted. "As I thought," he muttered, turning back to the book.
"Well, hopefully you will soon see for yourself," Leverett replied. "With luck, the schooner will arrive tomorrow, or at least word of it will."
"Even if it does not, we must leave," Armande stated. Not suggested, just stated. "I grow curious; if a small town such as this languishes as it does, what of Marseilles? What of Paris? What's going on in bigger cities, where politics stagnate?" Armande stood impatiently, as if suddenly he would hurry out the door onto the road, onto other destinations. Alarmed, Leverett stood with him, not sure what he would do if Armande did take off.
Instead of tapping the book, Armande now took to flipping the pages, not even lookng at them, just mindlessly flipping them as if for the sake of the sound it produced.
"There is one other thing I have been wondering." Armande swallowed; it was the only indication of his unease. Suddenly, his hands on Le Contrat Sociale were still, as were his anxious feet and expression. The tension that had been building vanished suddenly, and Leverett had to admit awe at the mastery of his own presence that Armande commanded.
Especially since Leverett suspected he knew what was coming next.
"I want to know about the Touveilles girl." Armande's face showed barely a flicker of emotion, as if he were asking about the weather or the details of their budget.
If he hadn't expected this, Leverett might have lost his cool. He might have done something stupid. As it was, he reigned in his own thoughts on the subject and replied, just as calmly, "The one you raped and left to raise your child alone?"
"That's the one," Armande answered. The barest hint of warning showed through the calm face, and Leverett knew his restrained, scathing tone had not gone unnoticed. He abandoned the charade, glaring, seething, at Armande. "None of your damn business," Leverett hissed. "If there is one thing I am sure of, it is that you will see little of Dahlia during your stay. She, quite understandably, wants nothing to do with you."
"And you know this?" Armande teased, smirking at Leverett's fury. "Are you certain there is nothing she wants to say to me? No pleas to give her child legitimacy?"
Leverett was so shocked that Armande would even suggest such a thing, he just stood in open-mouthed, wordless rage for long enough that Armande grew tired of waiting and walked to the door, stifling a yawn.
"You really are a bastard," Leverett sputtered out finally.
Armande just laughed. Laughed, and shut the door behind himself. And Leverett could still hear him laughing, receding down the hall back to his own room.
Leverett struck out at the wall, wishing to relieve some of the tension in his spine and muscles that Armande had caused. He hoped the ship came tomorrow. He doubted that a road trip with Armande de Seville would progress well. Not now that Armande knew how to needle him.
