The Novice

Annetta told no one when she joined the Assassin's Order. She went home and gathered some things together, left early in the morning when there was no one else awake. She took two dresses, wore a third, and left all the jewels behind. She did not bother to leave a note. Her encounter with the mysterious Ezio Auditore had ended with his giving her an address to find should she want to join his Brotherhood, and a request-order that she keep quiet about what she was going to do. There was a threat latent in the words: do not try to report any of this to the Borgia. You will not be rewarded. You will not be safe.

If there was one thing Annetta was used to—if there was one thing she would be given a lot of in the months to come—it was request-orders, expectations wrapped up in polite gauze. So she did not tell her father why she was leaving or where she was going. She was not sure if she knew herself why she was so intent on joining Ezio's strange Brotherhood…she knew nothing about it, nor the man who led it. There were no clear answers.

But it was another way to fulfill her obligations. It was another way to have a purpose and a point. (And still she could not just be.)

The address she'd been given was on a small island in a crowded part of the city. A massive building, ringed with storefronts and stands, stood before a small courtyard. Annetta wandered a bit, finding doorways into shops but not into the building itself. For a second, overheating in a heavy dress, she wondered if she'd been given a false address—but from the moment she'd stepped off the bridge and onto the island, she'd felt eyes painted to her back. This was not the wrong address. This was a test.

So she found a bench in the shade and sat. And waited. And after what seemed like three days but was really only half an hour, a man in white—not Ezio Auditore—drifted by. He did not look at her, but she rose to her feet and followed him anyway. The doorway he went towards seemed materialized out of nothingness; certainly she had passed this part of the building a dozen times already, but she'd never noticed a small crevice, in which someone had inserted a door.

The man held the door open and waited. Annetta was nervous as she passed, but from a distance. She caught herself thinking, right now I am afraid, as if the emotion was a separate part of her, kept within bounds.

"Good job," the man whispered, shutting the heavy door behind the two of them. "You noticed me but you didn't react. Good instincts." They stood at the top of a stone staircase, a steep one in a small chamber that opened up at the bottom. "Welcome to the Brotherhood. You're one of the few woman I've seen be so brave."

Annetta thought, still in that distant way, that she might be offended. "Have you seen a lot of women, then?" she asked with her dagger-smile.

The man laughed. "Your pardon. That sounded better in my head." He offered a hand. "I'm Tullio. You are…?"

"Are you in charge?" She eyed him, ignoring the hand.

"No—but Ezio always sends out one of us first, to test the new recruit. Last time he picked me I slipped and fell in the damn river."

Annetta nodded. "When do I meet Ezio, then?"

"Now." And Tullio pointed to the bottom of the stairs, and the grand room beyond.

-i-

The difficult thing about being an assassin was not the amount of violence it required. It was adjusting to life as part of a whole. Annetta had been raised on distance and careful seclusion. Her life had been a list of proper vs. improper, of marriage chances and the important of names. Joining the Brotherhood was the reverse image of that already-vanished world.

She wasn't the only recruit, for one. There were several other people in the stone hideout; every time she turned a corner there was some hidden passageway and some robed figure awaiting introduction. She wasn't even the only female member: the title of first woman recruit went to Desideria Donati, a sour-faced woman with black hair who had joined after witnessing the murder of a close friend. Despite their similarities in sex, the two women mostly avoided each other: Desideria had a deep-set distrust of the upper classes, and neither woman had ever been good at small talk.

Besides Desideria there was of course Tullio, who was in his late thirties and couldn't go three minutes without cracking a bad joke. He smiled easily, though, and was unconditionally friendly; he bragged ceaselessly about his accomplishments, was always trying to show off the skills his former army career had left him, but also never took offense when told to shut up.

There was Bastiano Pulci, stern and humorless. He generally kept himself apart from the younger recruits, being older even than their master, but he was doggedly loyal and never complained about being sent on missions with novice assassins still weak around the edges. He'd also been Ezio's first recruit into the newborn Brotherhood, and there was a certain honor in that.

There were Nino and Saverino, friends from a distant province who were almost blood brothers in their ability to finish each other's sentences. They were usually sent on missions together, and when in the hideout they were never seen apart.

And there was their leader. There was Ezio Auditore.

He was the one who chose all the assassin novices, spotting them with a careful eye as he traveled Rome. He was not concerned with a person's background or fighting history, but with their dedication to the cause. Annetta asked around, keeping tallies in her head, and realized that all of the recruits had been rescued by him in some shape or form. They all bore him gratitude, and a sense that there were debts to be paid.

Ezio was a strange and enigmatic person, hard to understand on more than a surface level. It was obvious from his expensive armor and the way he carried himself that he was noble-born; Annetta carried herself in much the same way, and could see the traces of nobility in the stiffness of his shoulders. He was always grinning and making sardonic comments and strutting about the streets with a self-important air; he flirted with every woman he met, married or not, in a sort of desultory way. He flirted with her for a bit, but she brushed him off, being more interested in the hideout library than in romance: books were simpler, and more useful. Ezio didn't seem particularly upset, didn't hold it against her—he didn't seem bothered by much at all, really.

But Annetta could never shake off the feeling he'd given her, that day she'd been Found…such a sad, lonely feeling. Why was it that such a handsome, dashing figure had never actually settled down? What was he even doing an assassin? What was he fighting for, and where had his challenge begun?

The Brotherhood certainly didn't seem to lack for money—within a week of her arrival she was gifted a set of robes, and a sword, and even a small pistol. The hideout itself was spacious, filled with stonework and artwork and an entire room dedicated to Ezio's weapons. There were side rooms for the recruits to share, two to a large space (Annetta and Desideria shared, grudgingly). It was unspoken law that novices lived in the hideout; upon joining the Brotherhood became their world in its entirety, and whatever they'd left behind had to be pushed aside.

Only their leader did not live there. Ezio was forever running in and out, caught up in larger missions and other fights. No one was sure where he considered 'home' to be…his accent, though slight, suggested that he had not been born in Rome. Occasionally his mother and sister would visit the hideout, richly dressed and clearly high-class. And yet Annetta had been told they co-ran a brothel. There was a lot about this new life that did not make sense.

When Ezio was around, he oversaw their training. For months Annetta was taught sword fighting by Bastiano, who was kind enough in his gruff way not to mention her lack of experience with anything sharper than a fencing rapier. Often she would be deposited on some rooftop and told to make it back to the hideout within a set timeframe, and without alerting any guards. Sometimes she ran alongside other assassins, to learn teamwork: she began to tolerate Tullio, who filled potentially-awkward silences with off-color humor and never blamed her for stumbling and slowing them down. Also once he fell off a roof and into a hay cart, and didn't seem to mind when reserved Annetta broke out into reams of laughter as hay drizzled from his hair.

And to fly across the city—to leap the gaps between buildings—to feel the rush as guards shouted and gave chase—to know that there were others behind, to salvage you if you fell—to find a purpose and to succeed-!

As the assassins rose in rank (for there were ranks to denote skill level, and the recruits were constantly changing in title) they were sent out on missions of their own. In groups, at first, then alone, and then in groups once more: the high-ranking brothers guided the new ones. And not just in Rome. Missions, Annetta learned, could be anywhere; there was more than just the Borgia digging their nails into the city's skin. Nino and Saverino were gone for months to Moscow. Faraway lands and faraway people…nothing Annetta had ever assumed she would know…

And she trained, and rose in the ranks, and went on missions. She was close to the other recruits—closer than she had ever been to her actual family, in fact—but still she was methodical in her movements and still she avoided small talk and idle days. Her newfound brothers accepted this quirk. Even loudmouth Tullio. Time went by in a flurry of training. New recruits joined, older recruits were sent to other cities to start branches of their own. Annetta was sent on a mission to Venice and for the first time was required to kill.

It was not hard.

A thrown smoke bomb and the feel of bone cracked between her fingers. Blood streaming down her hands and in the end it was just so much colored water, gummy but lacking significance. She rose to her Expectations, she'd been told to remove a spy and so she had. To the Brotherhood was given complete loyalty: there was a debt to be paid, and she never fled from what was required. Annetta Barbieri was no coward.

(She never thought about her dead fiancé, but if she had, she would have compared the color of his blood to the colors of the blood she was learning to shed. She would have felt some sort of pride, knowing she was avenging the destiny she'd lost.)

She collected her own scars, satisfied with their permanence. Other novices reacted differently to their first kills, poor Tullio was pale and silent for a week, but Annetta took mental notes on how a body twitched in its death throws and resolved next time to do cleaner work. She trained. She learned stealth and suspicion and how to aim a crossbow without looking. She was meticulous and systematic. In her free time she read, working her way from one side of the bookshelf to the other. There were times when she forgot she was any different than her fellow assassins: her goal of marriage were put aside, and it was always something of a shock to take off her white robes and replace them with a dress.

Occasionally now she practiced with Ezio himself. He kept himself guarded, hidden under layers of costume and assumed role. Annetta did the same. But Ezio was deadly, so skilled with a blade and with his fists that he didn't seem real, and in their fighting they learned more about each other than would ever be spoken in words. Her lost husband-to-be, taking her future to the grave along with his ruined corpse. His sense of duty. Ezio, Annetta slowly came to realize, did not want to be the master assassin that he was. He understood her need to fulfill her obligations because he was so bent under the weight of his own.

Yes, the goals of the Assassin's Brotherhood ran deeper than the Borgia. Ran deeper than Rome.

-i-

"The Templars are on the move in London."

Ezio turned to stare at the recruits gathered in a respectful bunch before him. The main room was crowded; all available assassins had been called to this meeting. Annetta, Bastiano, Desideria, Saverino and Nino. Several newer men.

"We've had spies following their movements for a while. They seek to disrupt the assassins at work there." Ezio paused here, glancing at the new men to make sure they fully understood. The Borgia, cruel as they were, could only be considered one finger on an outstretched hand. Templars, as Ezio explained personally to each recruit. By now, Annetta could recite the speech by heart:

There were assassins and there were Templars. Since the start of history Templars had sought to control the world, and assassins had sought to prevent this slavery from taking hold. Once both groups had worked out in the open—Ezio always mentioned Altair, a master assassin from heathen lands who had supposedly been the best in the Order—but times and fancies had long since changed. For too long the assassins had been forced to work underground, meeting in secret to watch as their enemies grew more organized and bolder.

It had been Ezio's idea to bring the Order back aboveground. It had been his idea to start new hideouts: he called them bureaus and ensured they were well-supplied. He was tapping into the anger of Rome, unleashing it upon its own origins. A smart move: even Annetta felt chills down her spine when she sent Borgia men running. Ezio had given her power…or else pulled it from where it had lain dormant all her life.

"Most of you will go to London to deal with this threat. Take back whatever documents the Templars might have stolen." The master looked at his recruits. "Annetta, Bastiano, you'll stay behind, with the new men." He indicated the new men in question, and then—

There was the sound of booted footsteps on stone, and Tullio appeared at the foot of the stairs, soaking wet but still grinning. With him was a stranger, tall and muscular, with callused hands. He was wearing a hood, one that covered both his hair and the lower half of his face, so that only his eyes were visible.

Those eyes…Annetta caught herself staring. They were friendly eyes, despite the looming bulk of their owner. And they were strong. And maybe a bit uneasy, somewhere down below.

Ezio nodded. "Good. This is the other novice you'll train while everyone else is gone. Panfilo. He was a mercenary once, so he shouldn't need much work."

Annetta kept staring. Panfilo was glancing around the hideout, curious. He nodded at his new brothers, but did not lower the mask or greet them. Ezio was unruffled.

"Bet I could teach him some tricks," Tullio bragged. "Let me stay behind and I'll get all these novices into shape."

Ezio quirked an eyebrow. (He really was handsome, Annetta thought, but he really wasn't interesting: he was his mysteries, and should she figure them out all his allure would vanish.) "Did you fall into the river again?" he wanted to know.

The rest of the assassins snickered; Panfilo's eyes looked like they were laughing too. (His eyes were too soft for such a large, guarded man. What face was he hiding behind his mask?)

Tullio groaned, but kept grinning. "I was trying to keep this one from seeing me too soon. Bastard's got good instincts, and he's stubborn too. Kept looking for me, all suspicious. I had to dive for cover at one point and the goddamn river was all I had."

There was some friendly jeering from the rest of them. Ezio just snickered, which was a taunt in itself. Annetta thought about it and allowed herself a quick chuckle. Panfilo moved to join the group, his movements all polish and ease despite his size. He came to stand near her, and she looked him up and down.

"We'll begin practice on the rooftops tomorrow," she told him in lieu of an introduction. "If you were a mercenary then you shouldn't have a problem." He nodded. "Bastiano will test both our skills with the blade." Another nod. For someone who didn't talk it wasn't hard to keep the conversation going: there was a stillness to the new man that suggested the silence was a natural part of his being. Better an intelligent silence than a meaningless chatter.

Tullio came swaggering up to them, arms outstretched. Annetta dodged his grasp. "You smell like a sewer," she told him.

"It's the damn Tiber," he protested. "The Borgia use it as a dumping ground for their shit and their dead."

"So maybe you shouldn't swim in it so often?"

"Give me something else to do, signora." He grinned.

"Practice your free running," she suggested. "Then you won't fall in the river so often and come back here smelling like Borgia waste."

Tullio staggered back, mock-grief on his face. "So cruel! No heart at all!"

Annetta shrugged. She'd only been telling the truth.

-i-

They trained together for three weeks, Annetta and Panfilo, and not once did she hear his voice. Not once did she need to. It was obvious that the new novice had been well-trained as an mercenary, for he fought well and learned hard. He could practice for hours at a time, ignoring exhaustion and sore muscles; Annetta found her own stamina increasing in her efforts to train him well. There was some tenderness in his wrists, which he informed her in gestures had been twice-broken, but he fought through the pain. Annetta, who looked down on using frailty as an excuse, was impressed.

They parried with fists or weapon long into the night, night after night. There were so many new skills to master: hidden blades, pistols, the proper use of smoke bombs and poison. With every increase in rank came either a better-made sword or a stronger piece of armor—Ezio only gave out equipment as the assassins proved they deserved it—and thus more training, to get used to the different feel. Afterwards they would return to the hideout, where there was always some sort of controlled chaos underway. Especially when Tullio was around.

Annetta still spent much of her free time both reading and ignoring her master's occasional attempts at flirting. In the background there would usually be novices running around, sparring or arguing or researching missions. Sometimes word would reach them that Ezio required their assistance elsewhere in the city and a couple would take off, always in pairs. There were moments of monotony and moments of levity: Tullio, escaping soldiers during a mission, dove into a haystack to wait only to hear Ezio curse as he ran by, followed by what sounded like half the Roman army. The novice jumped out to help, stabbing a nearby guard through the back of the throat with his hidden blade. Ezio was grateful, considering it pretty much had been half the Roman army after him—but he was also a bit confused as to what Tullio had been doing in the haystack to begin with.

"He thinks I'm some stalker, some crazy idiota," Tullio groaned in the retelling of the story. He retold said story a dozen times, to a dozen different assassins, but with that cheerful grin that made it impossible for anyone to get too annoyed.

(And it was pretty funny how Ezio tried to avoid Tullio these days.)

It was Tullio who, inspired by Panfilo's mercenary background, dragged a bunch of his fellow recruits into the massive hall used for ceremonies and Ezio's private meetings with outside forces. There he cajoled until enough people agreed to bet on his fighting whoever. He fought Desideria and lost, fought Nino and won, fought Bastiano and almost got his face crushed in. Annetta sat with one eye on the mayhem and one eye on her book. Panfilo stood nearby, back to the wall; his default position was to stand in the background and watch without joining in, but no one cared because he seemed so perfectly content to do so (though, here and now, Annetta thought she saw a flicker of homesickness in his too-soft eyes).

Finally Nino took Tullio's spot in the ring, and the assassin came wandering by with an eye already starting to purple. "Bastard Bastiano," he swore. "I'll get him next time. Throw him in the river, see if he sinks." He nudged Panfilo. "Bet you the next mission with Desideria that he can't swim a stroke."

Panfilo bobbed his head, agreeably. It wasn't that he refused to ever speak—if you forced him, if you cornered him into an answer that couldn't be given with a head shake or hard stare, he would respond. Softly, as if to hide the full stretch of his voice, but still…he would talk, if he had to.

It was just that no one wanted to force him. As he settled into life in the hideout, the other recruits became used to his silent answers and his chatty eyes. When he did talk, it was never without wearing an oddly pained look, and protecting each other from unnecessary suffering was a tenant of the Brotherhood.

Tullio turned to head back to the ring. "Bet you the next three missions with Desideria I win this next fight!" he called over his shoulder.

(Annetta considered the matter and decidedly—a bit icily—that Desideria was tolerably pretty. Probably. Not that she was worth placing bets over…she snored in her sleep.)

-i-

Annetta had been part of the Brotherhood for a year and five months. She stood on top of a building not far from the hideout and waited. She knew patience well, knew dedication even better. The square far below her was thronged with people: it was a busy market day, and, as always, there was an overabundance of Borgia guards to scan the crowds. The sun was hot against the back of her neck, but her white robes fit her perfectly and caught every casual breeze. Her eyes seemed a lighter shade of blue than usual, held under the fractured light.

Panfilo stood by her and waited. He knew patience just as well.

The two assassins were not speaking, did not speak, but they'd been carrying a conversation for the two hours they'd been on the assignment. The sun is making your hair lighter than usual, Panfilo's eyes noticed. Tullio is going to come up with some bad joke about blondes if you're not careful.

Tullio? Annetta's eyes registered their exasperation. He mistakes being loud for being clever.

Panfilo nodded, short and sharp, but then shrugged his shoulders. He is friendly, though, the shrug said. And fun.

He is himself, and Annetta's expression would not grant anything more than that.

At first, Annetta had answered his not-statements with words aloud, but she'd learned how to wield silence for herself in the year that had passed. There were times when she wondered how he'd learned, whether it was forced or preferred, but that was one question he'd never answer, with words or otherwise.

(Another question he wouldn't hear: what do you look like underneath your mask?)

Ezio saw how well they worked together and paired them up quite often. Annetta was methodical and intelligent; Panfilo a quick learner and fast. Other assassins came and went, to Lisbon and Constantinople and Calicut, but they were given Rome to secure. They supported their master when he needed their help, and they trained in the hideout with sword and spear, and they stood on rooftops in wait.

And Panfilo almost never spoke, and when he did he whispered so that there was no way to tell anything at all about his voice. He never took his mask off; he alone of the recruits had his own room.

"There." Annetta pointed, using her voice but only just. "See him? He's in the square."

Panfilo looked. Their target, some rich nobleman who donated generously to Cesare's personal coffers, always stopped at this market but was taking his time today. The former mercenary shook his head: too many guards. If we assassinate him here it'll start a bloodbath.

Annetta pursed her lips. She'd learned through word of mouth that her father had fled the city and his vanished daughter months ago, and the knowledge made her feel more detached than ever about killing her targets.

If it is our duty, it must be done.

Panfilo shook his head again. You worry too much about duty and obligation. Fight because you want to save Rome.

"He's moving," she almost snapped. "He'll pass under that archway in a second. I'll leap down from there, cut through his skull. You can keep his guards off until I'm finished."

Panfilo's face was as hidden as ever behind his robes of deep red-brown (dark as rust), but Annetta imagined his face more often than she liked, and she imagined a frown upon it now.

"They're soldiers," she argued, "They're Borgia. They chose their lives."

They're the city guard, not Borgia. They don't know the first thing about who they're protecting. They're mercenaries on a shorter leash.

Annetta moved forward, towards the arch a few rooftops down. Panfilo touched her arm, pointed past the square. Their nobleman was headed towards a set of stone steps. But she brushed him off, out of the mindset necessary to read his eyes. This was the mission. She had already deduced the steps. Now all that was left was to follow them: was to walk the correct path because it led to the correct outcome and the outcome was all that mattered—

Panfilo took off running.

"Hey-…" Annetta ran after him, but gave up on the next rooftop. He was faster than her by far: she'd never catch him if he didn't want to be caught. As she watched, Panfilo swung down from a balcony ledge to street level and somehow vanished into the crowd despite his size and garb. He always did this—he moved with a cat's grace, with the smoothness of a person half his size.

But Annetta, after a year, had assassin's eyes, and she picked his form out of the crowd. She saw him slip past the unaware and unconcerned until he was right behind the nobleman's guards. Then—somehow—he slipped in between the guards and their charge, pushing his shoulder into the man just as he neared the top of the stairs…

He was gone before the guards could react, before they could remember how slippery the worn stone was. The nobleman slipped and fell, an ungainly mass, to land in a heap at the bottom. There were, no doubt, some snickers from the civilians and maybe even from some of the guards. The snickers died when the nobleman did not rouse himself from his awkward pose.

It was doubtful he'd hurt himself too hardly in the fall, there weren't that many stairs. Panfilo knew this, and it explained the bloody circle slowly gathering on the nobleman's back. Annetta considered the spectacle from where she stood…Panfilo had learned to use the hidden blade quite well.

She waited with her arms folded. Cries of alarm echoed up from the road. Ten minutes or so went past, and then she saw a hand reach up to grab the edge of the roof. Panfilo pulled himself back up and stared at her, eyes grinning.

"Clever," she allowed. "But that wasn't the plan."

A shrug: it was improvising. Annetta rolled her eyes. Maybe she laughed a little, too.

-i-

The Order's newest recruit was a short man with messy hair and clumsy hands. Ermanno Erba was dutiful and good-natured and eager to help—he just had no talent for the job. A penniless poet by trade, he was as likely to drop the sword as swing it, as likely to stab a civilian in the back as a Borgia guard. But he meant well, and his hapless shrug after every lost throwing knife or scratched piece of armor was what saved him from quick eviction.

It did not, however, save him from Tullio. The loudmouth wasted no time in coming up with endless jokes for which Ermanno was the butt. It seemed that Tullio started every conversation with, "Did you see what that bumbling novice did last night?"—especially if the bumbling novice in question was standing within hearing range.

In no time at all, Tullio and Ermanno were the closest of friends.

(Tullio liked having someone who would listen to him at all times; Ermanno liked having someone to listen to. Plus the latter was incredibly easy to boss around.)

So it all led up to the current situation: Annetta stood with Tullio, watching Ermanno train with Ezio in the great hall. The master assassin was exasperated, to say the least. Tullio was shouting encouragement wrapped in insults.

"No," Ezio said for the hundredth time, "Don't come charging at me with your arms held like that. You're leaving every organ you've got wide open for the kill. See?" He demonstrated with a quick jab of his blade that came within inches of Ermanno's stomach. "You're a fighter, not a lover. Keep your legs closed before someone jabs you with his sword."

"Ay, he won't get the metaphor," sighed Tullio. "He's more accustomed to swordplay than sex." Ermanno tried again, hesitantly. "With more force. Find some passion! Pretend Master Ezio is a lovely lady with no gown!"

Annetta stepped neatly on his foot. "Careful," she said, "because the lovely lady still has a sword."

Tullio, after a moment, groaned.

Panfilo came in just then, and Annetta went to his side out of sheer habit. They watched in their silence as Ermanno dropped his sword a third time.

"He's checking it for quality," Tullio cried. "He's no assassin, he's the apprentice for the blacksmith next door! Who let him in?"

Ezio said, "You should stop leaving the door open. This place is meant to be secret."

At the word secret, Panfilo tapped Annetta on her shoulder. She glanced back at him and saw the question in his gaze. She saw hesitation there as well, and…something else she still couldn't read…

And without a pause she turned her back on the rest of them and followed him from the room.

-i-

His room was dark, sparsely furnished, cold. It was as quiet as its owner. Annetta stood waiting for—for her orders, really. Because her life was caged in orders. She stood waiting to be told her obligations to the other man. But Panfilo could tell her nothing. He came up to her in the dark room, his big hands skirting her shoulder blades, and she felt the strength of him, and the weight.

"What are you asking of me?" she managed, struggling to stay separated from the emotion of it all. She expected one of his rare whispered answers: surely this was more than could be said in a glance. Annetta waited for her orders. She was ready for them, she thought.

Panfilo took her face in his hands and kissed her, mask and all. She was left to choose as she saw fit: there were no obligations in the rough cloth against her lips.