Heh. Hi.

So...as you might have guessed, my inspiration and interest in writing have completely withered up. I want to finish this story, but...damn, it'll be tough. Can't promise that I will complete it, but I will put the effort in to do so. Maybe.

You might want to read the recaps of the previous chapters. It's been nearly a year.

Recap: Will and his companions are following the trail of the White Liberator (stupid name) south through the Alps, towards Italy. They notice they are being tracked by Assassins who think the Rangers responsible for the death of one of their brethren in Lyon. Halt leads the others on while Will stays behind to tail the Assassins, to discover their intentions.


~9~ A Change of Plans

The fog came in the night, opaque and cold and dreary, rolling between the mountains like a wave through rocks. Clinging long into the morning, it left nothing untouched; moisture beaded every stone, stem and leaf, and the horse and rider too.

"Sorry about this, Tug," Will muttered, huddled in his cloak, hands under his armpits. The shaggy little horse sneezed in response, grey coat darkened and mane curled by the damp. He was tense – Will could feel his tight little body. He was unsettled by the thickness of the fog, restricting vision to mere feet, and muffling sounds and smells. It was his job to keep his human safe, and all of his senses were reduced to a small bubble.

If I had my way, we'd stop until it cleared, he seemed to say.

Stop. Proceed. It was a difficult decision to make. For the past few days, he'd easily been able to keep a safe distance from the three French Assassins, who were tailing Will's companions, who were in turn following the White Liberator. But now, with this fog, it was all he could do to not fall behind or onto the Assassins' laps.

"But the Liberator would continue. So Halt will, and the Assassins," Will muttered.

Are you telling me or yourself? Tug asked.

Not knowing the Assassins' intentions, nor if there were more groups clambering about the Alps, Will dared not attack. He had already endangered the Ranger Corps by being in the wrong place at the wrong time in Lyon. What Will did know was that the three he now tailed believed the green-clad Englishmen had something to do with an Assassin's death. Their leader thought the Liberator – the real killer – a myth, and he was looking for blood. Will could not give them or their brethren any reason to turn hostile on the Rangers of England.

At least not without the Templars there to provide protection.

Tug's hoof caught a loose stone and he nickered in surprise, jostling Will as he regained his balance. Will patted his shoulder, weary of the gently sloping path before them. It had been days since he last saw another face, the closest thing being the grey hoods of the Assassins, from a hundred metres away, before the infernal fog rolled in.

"Easy."

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Will withheld a groan. The lumpy stretches of grass and dirt made way for smooth rolls of stone. Not only did that make travelling noisier, but it made tracking more difficult.

"Hold up, there, bud." Will dismounted, rooting through his saddlebags for the linen socks used for muffling hooves. As he searched, he strained his ears for anything other than Tug's breathing.

There was something...

Shick. Click. Clack.

Will's head whipped around. It had come from the right and up. A rock breaking loose and tumbling down an unseen cliff and echoing over and over. Will had had no idea he had walked right into a ravine.

Tug whinnied, high and soft.

"What? Now you smell someone?"

The horse gave him a withering glare, but settled as Will stroked his nose.

"Let's get out of here."

Before he could so much as mount, he felt a deep rumble through his feet. Tug's eyes widened but he did not flee, training defying instinct. Will felt the same urge, especially when the sounds of screaming horses and men were quickly overpowered by the thunderous roar of a collapsing cliff face.

"Landslide!" Will jumped into the saddle and wheeled Tug around, urging him back the way they'd come. The fog swirled and blasted on ahead of them, displaced by the tonnes of stone, and tripling their range of vision. It was how Will managed to stop Tug before they mowed down the man who had appeared from nowhere.

Will cursed himself for not stringing his bow that morning. An unstrung bow is a stick, Halt had drilled into his head during his apprenticeship. But he had his throwing knife, which, although had lower range, still had great accuracy. He drew it.

"Stay your hand."

Will froze, recognizing the voice. "You!"

It was the Templar from Lyon, who had given Will a map of a secret tunnel beneath Lyon's walls, allowing him and his friends to escape the city. He should have known he would cross paths with him again, that the man had not done it out of the goodness of his heart.

The Templar bowed his head, sandy hair falling over his eyes. "We were pleased to see you made it out of the city, monsieur. I trust you found the passage beneath the theatre of Fourvière with no trouble?"

Will chanced a glance behind him. The fog was still too thick to see further down the ravine, but it was now silent. No doubt the landslide blocked his way forward.

"How did you find me? What are you doing here?" he demanded of the Frenchman, who, as before, appeared unarmed. He was dressed for travel but seemed too tidy and clean.

"We followed you," said the Templar. "As for what we're doing, is it not obvious?"

Will remained stolid despite his hood. One good deed did not put this man into his ring of trusted friends.

"...Those Assassins were hunting your companions, Ranger. If you should know anything about people such as they, it is that you never give them a chance to strike first."

Again Will looked over his shoulder, a pit spawning in his gut. Those screams... "That landslide. You caused it. You killed them."

"Would you rather it had been your fellow Englishmen? It was only a matter of time before the Assassins made their move."

"But why?"

The Templar stared, then beckoned him. "We must talk, monsieur."

Will remained on Tug, whose ears were swivelling back and forth. He could feel the horse rumble deep in his chest, and Will patted his shoulder to let him know he understood. More Templars were wandering about in the fog around them.

"If we wanted you dead, Ranger, you would be already."

"If you'd tried, you would have been dead before you could realize your mistake."

A ghost of a smile appeared on the man's lips. He turned his gaze upward, and Will's eyes automatically flicked up. A golden hue was burning through the fog.

"At last," said the Templar. "Light. Well, monsieur, if you do not wish to listen, we shall allow you to continue on your way. But, s'il vous plaît, join us for a cup of café. I swear on my mother's grave, no harm will come to you."

Coffee? Will couldn't help but straighten. Feeling like he was stepping among sleeping wolves, he nodded.

"Very good. Suis moi, Ranger."

The Templars had struck camp further up the mountain, reached via a path barely wide enough for a horse. By the time they arrived, most of the fog had melted, large blankets of it floating away with the mountains' breath. Simple- but finely-dressed servants were preparing breakfast for the returning Templars, whose numbers hovered around a dozen. If Will hadn't known who they were, he would have thought them a royal delegation or escort.

After caring for Tug, Will followed the sandy-haired Templar, who had introduced himself as Philippe Dumont, to one of the two fires that had been lit. Without commands the servants came forward and gave him a change of jacket before offering small cups filled with dark brew. He accepted one, then gestured for Will to do the same. Although inwardly disappointed at the portion, Will was grateful all the same, and smiled warmly at the servant in thanks. The man merely nodded slightly before moving away.

"Sugar?" Philippe held up a tiny glass bowl with a lid shaped like a rose. Will blinked. Sugar was a luxury, saved for the richest and most important individuals. Theoretically, Rangers have the ranking to be eligible for such a treat, but tended to decline it anyway.

"Or perhaps honey?" Philippe continued, seeing Will's hesitation. That, at least, was more familiar.

"Please." Will accepted a jar and spoon, scooping an amount proportional to the small cup of coffee.

"Now. Let us talk business."

Business? Will remained stolid, hands wrapped around the cup.

"We know you have undertaken a dangerous task, one that has both astounded and impressed us."

"We?"

"The Templar Order. Of course you've heard of us."

Will nodded. "But I must admit I don't know much of who you are."

"Hopefully by the end of our little discussion, you will know a little more, and trust us as well."

Will braced himself. As soon as one mentioned trust, the other must be weary. Philippe didn't seem to notice.

"The so-called Libérateur Blanc. A dog loosened by the Assassins to prey on Templars, killing anyone who gets in his way." The man sipped coffee daintily. He seemed too out of place out on this rocky plateau, as though this was his first day as a field man. "We want him caught just as much as you do."

"So the men he killed, they were Templars?" said Will. That had been a question he'd held about the Liberator.

Philippe nodded. "His targets were. Everyone else had been unfortunate bystanders, but his intended prey was made clear by the crosses the Liberator carved into their flesh."

Will frowned. The latest kill, a member of the House of Savoy in Chambéry, was found with crosses carved into his corpse. His manservant – what was his name? Dorian. Olivier Dorian – was found dead as well. Dead but unmarked. One of the "unfortunate bystanders."

"We have tried to stop him, but it is like catching smoke with our bare hands," Philippe continued. "It was as though only the Assassins' best trained him before releasing him."

Will frowned, not to be misguided. "You don't know if he's an Assassin."

"If not one of them, then what is he? He dresses as they do, uses their weapons, and he hunts Templars, some of whom had retired from the order. Not only that, but he has evaded us time and time again. England, France, Greece, Italy – it is as though he knows where we will be before we do. The Assassins must be protecting him, letting him do the work their 'creed' would otherwise prevent them from doing."

"But I thought the Assassins were after him as well," said Will. "In Lyon, a member was killed trying to take him down."

"Every group has their freelancers and extremists," said Philippe. "I would say that unfortunate young man did not agree with his superiors in allowing the Liberator to work as a loose cannon."

Will downed the last of his coffee, and was pleased when the servant rushed to refill his cup. "Merci," he said, and this time the servant smiled lightly before retreating.

The Ranger considered his words carefully as he added honey to his drink. "No disrespect intended, Philippe, but we are not tracking the Liberator for you or anyone other than Lady Justice. The King's Rangers are not an order driven by philosophy nor are we pawns to those who are. We answer to no one but England."

Philippe bowed his head. "Therein lies our problem. And the next tidbit of news I know you'll find particularly disturbing." He snapped his fingers, and a servant came forward with a scroll small enough to be carried by a pigeon. Philippe took it and waved the servant away.

"Neutral grounds or not, the Templars have been keeping an eye on your corps. Not interfering, not interacting. Just watching. Before you get angry," he added as Will opened his mouth, "know that something has come of it. We received this when passing through Chambéry." He passed Will the scroll, and the Ranger set his cup down to unravel and read it. The more he read, the paler he got.

"Crowley," he muttered.

"Attacked in his own office but a couple weeks ago. As you can see, witnesses claimed to have seen men in white robes climbing out the windows that very night, leaving in a hurry."

"But why?" Despite the message saying Crowley had survived and was now under careful guard by order of King Henry (Bet he's loving that, Will thought dryly), his guts churned at the thought of the jovial commandant being harmed in such a way.

"We don't know for sure," said Philippe gravely. "But we think the Assassins were looking for something in the commandant's possession. Something that was his possession no longer."

Will met his eye, steeled. "You know what it is."

"We believe we know what it looks like. A silver cube, made up of smaller cubes." Philippe imitated the size with his hands. "And we do know that, if Commandant Crowley had an inkling of an idea of what it was, he would have cast it into the sea years ago."

Will looked at the scroll again. The incident was dated not long after he, Halt and the others had set off from Northampton. And suddenly his mind was brought back to their brief stay in Lyon, when Will had barged into Halt's room, to find the old Ranger hiding a silver cube-like artifact in his bags. A curious trinket, one he'd hadn't given much thought to after their escape from Lyon and beginning their trek through the Alps.

"...Do you know what I speak of?" asked Philippe.

Being an iron mask, Will lied easily. "No."

"But your superior, he must know of it."

"So what if he did?"

"I'm not threatening you, Will Treaty," said Philippe. "You or your company. Did we not just take measures to protect them?"

"Then what is it that you want?" Will demanded. "With all of this talk, you have yet to mention that."

Philippe's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The Ranger Corps has been balancing on a dangerous line for decades. You claim to work for your king, oui, but it was only a matter of time before two much older groups decided you must either join, or die."

He'd said he wasn't threatening the Rangers, but right now, Will was feeling threatened. "We mean neither of you any harm, unless you threaten the crown or the subjects of England."

"It doesn't matter. The Assassins nearly murdered your commandant. They were hunting you through these blasted mountains, waiting for the moment to strike. They blame you for the death of one of their own. They are tired of waiting, and have made the choice for you."

Will swallowed. "I did not kill that Assassin. The Liberator did."

"I know. But they don't. It does not fit what they want to believe, so they don't believe it." Philippe leaned forward. "I'm not asking you to join our ranks, Will. But if you want your brethren safe, to not be hunted to extinction, I only ask that you earn our favour, and ultimately our protection."

Will downed the last of the coffee, scalding his throat. He briefly wished it had been something stronger.

"For curiosity's sake, what kind of favour are you asking us of?"

"Simple. Continue to hunt the Liberator. He knows Templars but Rangers are an isolated group, unique to England. Perhaps you will be able to succeed where we have failed time and time again. In addition..." He paused, but he already had Will's full attention. "We want what your commandant had already passed on to your superior."

"But I don't know what that—"

"Find out, then!" Philippe barked. He quickly calmed. "Trust me when I say, that is not a stone you want to turn, jeune homme."

Clink-clink-clink. Clink-clink-clink. Clink-clink-clink. Will strummed his fingers on the glass cup. A needlessly weighty item.

"You aren't going any further," he deduced. Looking around the camp, at the clean clothes and ridiculous luxuries.

Philippe shook his head. "No. We have not yet attained permission to enter Italy. Our order has certain boundaries, you understand. But know that the Templars will continue to watch over you whenever possible. With those three Assassins dead, you should be in the clear for a while longer."

Unless they are watching the Liberator as you so boldly claimed, Will thought, but remained stolid.

"Thank you for the coffee," he said, and stood.

"You will not stay for breakfast?"

"I must press on. My companions will need to be informed of the...latest developments."

Philippe nodded. "Very well. Consider what I have told you. I have contacts in Turin who can discuss the platform of our order in great detail if you're interested, and if Commandant Crowley accepts our offer in England, it will be easier for you to assimilate when you return home."

Will bristled inwardly but smiled. "Of course."

"One more thing." Philippe stood as well, a full head taller than the Ranger. "Another warning. Italy is restless. That makes it easy for more unsavoury characters to move about anonymously."

"I can handle unsavoury," said Will.

"Oui, but what about dangerous?" He looked grim. "The Italian Brotherhood is not so subtle as that of France. They are led by the most malignant, dishonourable man I have ever had the misfortune of reading about. He ignited chaos in the streets of Florence in order to steal a trinket invaluable to our Order. He murdered the doge of Venice and his successor because he could. He made two attempts on Pope Alexander's life, and managed the second time last year." Philippe scowled. "He aims high. It only seems right that those Assassins, those vermin, would elect them as their Mentor."

Will, listening attentively, subconsciously filed the use of 'vermin' in the back of his mind. "What is his name?" he said.

Philippe's lip curled. "Ezio. Ezio Auditore da Firenze."


Once the short Ranger and his silly little pony vanished into the ravine below, Philippe summoned Guy Roberts, his second-in-command. A hideous man to begin with, smallpox scars pockmarked his face, and one ear had been sliced off when he was a child. Whereas Philippe's whole family was in the order, the Templars had scooped Guy off the streets, recognizing his ruthless cunning and ambition to please. He served as both a body guard as well as an advisor to Philippe, but he also made a good hitman in a pinch.

"I don't think our woodland fairy has quite aligned himself with us yet," said Philippe, relishing the feel of his native language on his tongue once more. He looked to Guy. "He will need help."

Guy nodded, and Philippe knew he understood on every level. According to their agents in the south, the Liberator's actions had finally drawn the rat from its hole; Ezio Auditore had left Rome. Although they did not know where he was now, it was safe to assume he was coming north, presumably alone. Alone or not, he was a force to be reckoned with, a perfect adversary for the English Rangers.

When a child knows not how to swim, throw him in the deep end, Philippe thought with a smile.