Recap: Ezio and his two companions travel north through Italy, seeking to pick up the trail of the White Liberator. Earlier, Ezio had spilled the beans about the Apple of Eden and his superhuman abilities to Lauro and Pedro, and revealed his secondary objective: discovering the location of the ancient Reliquary.
~10~ Milano
Stepping into the boundaries of Milan was akin to crossing a language barrier. As a result of the war, the city had fallen to the control of France, as had the other territories of Northern Italy. Spanish tongues made way for French, with Italian spoken by the commoner. Fortunately, Ezio had learned the foreign language as a young man and he talked his way into the city with little issue.
"You speak French?" Lauro asked.
"There were a couple of French girls in Florence," said Ezio with a knowing smile.
Weeks on the road had left the Assassin trio bone weary and thirsty for something other than leather-infused water. They'd run out of coffee some time ago and were craving some decent food. Even half-decent food would suffice at that moment.
"I know a place," said Ezio. "Good food and drink. Special prices for the likes of us."
"They can accommodate the horses, I trust?" said Pedro, wiping his brow. Like many of the days previous, the afternoon was sweltering. "I know yours is tired from carrying that old bag of bones you call a body."
Ezio shot him a dangerous glare, but the disciple only smiled cheekily in return. He wouldn't have dared utter the insult even two weeks ago, but the bonding that inevitably came with cross-country travel had made away with many formalities and rank barriers.
"Why do we get discounts?" said Lauro, struggling to keep up with his mentor. The streets were getting crowded and the three of them mounted their horses to save room. They weren't the only riders, and could take the risk.
"The owner's undying gratitude. Of course, we pay full price if possible anyway. The gesture is appreciated, but there is no call to take advantage of it."
"What happened?" asked Pedro.
"A gang was extorting money from several establishments in this district. I helped the local Assassins...dissuade them from the lifestyle." He looked Pedro in the eye. "It pays to aid the common man. Even so simple a task as helping him move his goods down the street can earn you a place to hide, a bed at night, important information..."
The inn Ezio had spoken of sat in the shadow of the Saint Mary near Saint Satyrus, a younger Catholic Church. At the square the trio dismounted and walked their horses towards the multi-levelled establishment, which looked well kept and clean. But any lice-infested joint would have sufficed as long as it had beds not made out of dirt and tree roots.
"There are stables just there," said Ezio, pointing. And he wordlessly passed his reins to Pedro.
The disciple pursed his lips and took them, grabbing the same from Lauro. It was said Ezio Auditore always got his revenge, even for petty insults.
"Don't drink the taproom dry before I get there," he mumbled before walking off, leading the weary, sweaty horses away.
Once inside, Lauro sat himself at a table, sighing with relief. Ezio booked rooms, then prodded the young Assassin non-too-gently in the ribs.
"Your horse worked harder than you. Let's go."
"But..." Lauro gazed imploringly up at him, but Ezio was not to be dissuaded. At first he would make it seem that he was having Pedro take care of all three of the animals, but as the trio had bonded with each other on their long journey, so too had they warmed to their horses. It was something that had sneaked up on them.
Lauro sighed again, this time with disappointment, and stood. But Ezio knew it was for show. The buckskin, which the others called Nipper, was a pain at times but he was Lauro's companion all the same.
Pedro knew it, too, and so was taking his time looking after Fool, leaving Nipper and Ezio's bay tied to separate posts next to the gelding's, with buckets of water to slake their thirsts. The eastern wall of the stables was an open arcade, allowing the slight breeze to cool their brows, and there was a well nearby.
Pedro nodded to his companions before turning back to his horse, brushing off weeks of dirt and mud with a coarse brush.
As Ezio neared, Achilles didn't raise his head from the bucket, chugging down the water with gusto. Ezio touched his neck to let him know what he was doing and moved to the left side of the animal. The girth was already loosened, and it only took a few moments for Ezio to remove the saddle and blanket from the bay's back. The short dark hairs were even darker from sweat, and heat radiated off his body like a furnace.
"If people complained as much as you do, the world would be a much quieter place," Ezio murmured. Achilles responded by biting the edge of the bucket, annoyed at the lack of water.
"Alright, I'll get you some more. Let go. Let go." Ezio tugged the bucket away. The beast whinnied and tossed his head, stamping impatiently.
Make it snappy! he seemed to say.
Ezio sighed before turning around. He found Pedro watching him curiously.
"Do they ever talk back?" he asked. Then he grinned.
"Yes, you are very funny, Pedro, there truly is no end to your wit," said Ezio blandly. Then he jumped at a loud bang!
"Dammit! Cut that out, you animal!"
Ezio turned towards the other horse and rider. Nipper's head was high but his ears were forward. A few spatters of water clumped the dirt where the bucket should be, the bucket now rolling away down the street. It appeared that the playful stallion had decided to nip and throw it in his demand for more water.
Pedro chuckled as Lauro stomped off to retrieve it and fill it at the well. Then he grabbed the drained pail at Fool's feet and held it out to Ezio. "Do you mind?"
The grand master raised an eyebrow. "Sorry. My hands are full."
"With what?!"
Ezio quickly spotted another bucket and snagged it. "My horse needs a cool-down."
Pedro scoffed and took his bucket himself, missing his teacher's smirk.
With two full buckets, Ezio returned to Achilles, who stretched his neck to reach the water as quickly as possible. He drank so quickly water sloshed around and spilled over the sides. Ezio stood clear and poured the second bucket over the stallion's back. Achilles rumbled, shoulder muscles trembling. A hoof clopped against the ground.
Three more times Ezio doused him, using a wadded cloth to dampen the horse's neck and face, before he was satisfied the horse had cooled sufficiently. Only then did he see to cleaning out rocks in his hooves, brushing him down, combing his mane and tail and checking for any insectile passengers. He put him in a stall with food and more water, then closed the gate. Now he could enjoy some relaxation of his own.
Achilles, mouth full of hay, raised his head to regard him with one large brown eye.
"Good boy," said Ezio before turning away.
"What's his name?"
Ezio looked to Pedro. "What?"
"What's his name?" Pedro nodded to the bay.
"He doesn't have one."
"Of course he doesn't." The disciple smiled and followed Lauro towards the inn, where there was fresh food and drinks ready.
Ezio had drilled into his charges not to get so much as tipsy. At least, not at the same time. I'm not going to babysit you both, he'd told them, and he meant it. They were in a strange land with unfamiliar people, and having been to the city only once before, Ezio was hardly a familiar face himself. The Assassin branch here would know him by name and reputation, the latter having the potential of being fantastically embellished or catastrophically demonized.
The burden of fame, he thought grumpily.
Lauro and Pedro seemed to have accepted the boundaries, however. They contented themselves with a single share of wine each to have with cheese and bread—something none of them had enjoyed for weeks—before gorging themselves on fresh fruit. Ezio followed suit, although he ate little, the stress of travel having shrunk his stomach to the size of a key lime. He couldn't understand how Pedro could be shovelling back so much.
"If we have to make a quick getaway, you'll get cramps."
"Aw, relax, Ezio! More grapes?"
The food certainly did the disciple good. His face was lit and his demeanour friendly, traits that had dwindled the longer they were on the road. By nightfall he had eaten twice as much as Lauro and probably would have kept going had a yawn not split his face.
Ezio raised an eyebrow. "Thank you for that exceptional view of your molars, but I believe it's time for some beauty sleep."
Pedro stretched lazily. "If I was anymore beautiful, I'd have the face of an angel."
"If angels look like the back ends of donkeys, then yes, I agree."
Lauro was half slouched with his elbow on the table, eyes closed, one side of his face stretched from resting in his hand. A smile tugged the other side of his face. "Ah ha, Pedro looks like the back end of a donkey, haha!"
Pedro frowned, then snagged Lauro's tankard and took a whiff. "You said this was apple juice!"
Lauro's half-smile turned into a half-grin. "There's juice in it."
Pedro sighed roughly and grabbed his fellow apprentice by the shoulders. "Come on, dove. Bed."
"Noooooo."
Ezio watched with mild amusement as Lauro's floppy struggles ended with him being carried away over Pedro's shoulders. At least both of them hadn't sneaked extra drinks.
Once they were out of sight, Ezio leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He, too, would have gone to bed, but it would seem his contact was long in the coming. She was sent for the moment the landlord saw Ezio enter the taproom, but that was hours ago. He would have gone to seek her out himself, but again his unfamiliarity with the city was a hindrance. He was just going to have to be patient.
He waited for another half an hour, then had to go to use the privy. When he returned to the taproom, there was a woman sitting at his table.
Ezio hesitated a beat before moving over to join her.
"I hope you didn't keep me waiting just for a mysterious entrance," he said.
The woman, dressed in simple grey robes, looked up at him with a face creased with stern lines. When she spoke, it was with a voice that had been stretched and scratched by too much pipe weed.
"Where are the wolves when the eagles fall?"
"They await the fires that will purge the earth, by the river that flows ever onward."
"And should the river cease to flow?"
"Then the eagle shall rise no more." Ezio sat at the table with Lady Arabelle, leader of the Milanese Assassin bureau and advisor to the duchess of Milan. He switched to French. "I'm not sure why we bother with such a silly exchange. It sounds like someone made it up on the spot."
"I hope you came here for a good reason, mentor," she said. "The road is long from Rome."
"If you did not think it was going to be a good reason, you would not have come yourself." Ezio gave her his best smile. "Unless it is my charm what brought you to me."
Arabelle raised her chin. "I am old enough to be your mother, Ezio Auditore. Your charms have no effect on me."
"Yet my coming here ignited your curiosity all the same." His face turned grim. "You know what my business is here."
She leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly. Black eyes glinted beneath her hood. "It has been a year since the White Liberator made a pass through here. I doubt many remember the names of those he killed."
Ezio leaned forward, as though to keep the distance between them the same. "But you do."
Her fingers thrummed on the table. "Five innocent people died that day. A father and son. A travelling minstrel. A blacksmith and his wife. He mutilated two of them with Templar crosses, yet for all of our careful investigations, we found nothing to tie them to the Templars."
"...You cannot save everyone, Arabelle."
"This is my city. I failed them."
"No. It is I who failed them." Ezio leaned back now, a crease between his eyebrows. "I should have gone after this man myself. He knocked on Rome's door to say hello, but the recruits I sent after him failed to apprehend him. One failed to return at all." The memory burned like a coal in his gut, and he gritted his teeth.
"Cesare Borgia was a much larger threat at the time," said the other Assassin. "No man can be in two places at once."
"Don't try to find excuses for me, Arabelle. Just give me the name of the witness who claimed to have seen White Liberator." It was the reason why he had come to Milan at all. The pigeon message picked up in Florence had lured Ezio here, the only whisper of hope he had for finding his prey.
"I can do that," said Arabelle. "I can also give you the exact location of where he's buried."
Despair fell upon his face. "What happened?"
"He was trampled during a riot in January. An unfortunate event."
Ezio's leather glove squeaked as he clenched his hand. He mumbled a string of curses in Italian. Arabelle switched to the same language.
"All is not lost, Ezio. A careful record was taken with the witness's statement, and includes a sketch of the Liberator's face."
Although he wasn't sure if it would do him any good, Ezio nodded. "Every clue helps. But finding him will be a chore; according to pigeon messages from all over Europe, he's been a busy man."
"Italy was where he began. Italy will be where he finishes," said Arabelle firmly. "Milan's branches reach every boarder. If—when—he comes through the Alps, we shall know."
"Unless he takes to the sea, in which case, he could end up anywhere." The frustration that constantly boiled just under control came dangerously close to exposing itself in Ezio's body language and attitude. It was a flaw that he thought he had smothered in his younger days, when he was brash and reckless and willing to charge headlong into a fight without so much as a moment's preparation.
Arabelle glanced around furtively before leaning forwards and resting her hand on his. It was bare, the bones obvious beneath tough, tanned skin, and speckled with liver spots. "When word had reached me of your promotion to grand master, I must confess I imagined Machiavelli giving a blazing torch to a child." Her head tilted slightly. "Do not look at me like that. You are young to me, and you have been given a burden few have the spirit and strength to withstand. It may not look it at first glance, but the brotherhood has prospered. Switzerland breached old grudges and has been more willing to share intelligence. Spain has supplied many recruits, where before they had kept to themselves. And rumours say Constantinople eagerly awaits your visit, should you wish to do so." Her grasp on his hand tightened. "Unity is our strength. And you aren't hot-headed enough to screw it up."
Ezio had to admit he was feeling a little awkward. She was twenty years his senior and making him feel like the foolish young man he used to be. It was time to change the subject.
He cleared his throat and withdrew his hand. "I...was informed that you have been contending with Assassin gangs milling around."
As though sensing his discomfort, Arabelle permitted a small, tight smile. "Milling is the best word for it. They make noise, wave flags, throw money at poor people – harmless as hens. It's nothing I can't handle."
"Good." Again he cleared his throat. Maybe he needed an ale.
"Where was the last place you heard the Liberator was?"
"...France," said Ezio absentmindedly.
She nodded her head. "I am expecting a courier from the north-western cell by tomorrow. Perhaps he will bring you some news."
"Thank you."
"No need for that." She straightened in her seat. "You chose a good place to stand sentry, mentor. The order we sent out is old, but the cells all know to keep a weather eye out for the perpetrator. Even if they do not catch him, word would reach here within days." She stood and beckoned a bar maid. "This one needs another drink."
The two Assassins nodded to each other, and then Ezio was left alone with his thoughts, and a beer.
~ Ʌ ~
Many miles to the southwest, the same sun had set over a different city. But the travellers did not get a cool inn or soft beds in reward for their hard travel. All but two of their number made camp some distance away from Turin, in a forested patch between vineyards. Weeks of navigating the Alps had drained every reserve of energy they had, and so they were too tired to complain of having to stomach another dry meal and sleep on hard ground.
"They should have been back by now," Gilan muttered, glaring towards Turin.
Halt groaned and sat up. He couldn't sleep either. "There must be a curfew. No leaving or entering the city after dark. They're fine, Gilan."
Horace, who had taken first watch, finished caring for his rifle and set it aside before putting the cleaning rods away. "Say if they weren't fine. What would you do, Halt?"
"What would I do?" Halt turned to the man-at-arms. "Use your head to bash Turin's front door down, that's what I'd do."
"I can see that giving Horace a headache, but not achieving much else," said Gilan.
"It would make me feel better."
Horace sniffed and moved further away from the fire, where it was easier to view the path to the city.
Before Turin had become visible from the Alps, it had been decided that only two of their company would enter. Alyss, because of her position and fluency in both Italian and French, and Will, because even if he got to enjoy the thrill of being the rearguard, he still spoke better French than Gilan.
"So what if he risked himself by following our stalkers and was nearly crushed in a freak landslide?" Gilan had pretended to moan.
Truthfully, all three of them could stand many more weeks out in the woods without losing their minds. As long as they got enough food and found random supplies of coffee beans lying around.
Halt had made sure the latter was on Will's list, even though the young man would sooner leave his own arm behind than forget coffee beans.
"What's this?"
Halt turned his upper body towards Horace, then recoiled. "Don't touch that!"
Horace jumped and dropped the silver cube, constructed of smaller cubes, from Halt's bag. "Sorry! I thought this was my stuff."
Gilan rolled over and snatched up the cube before Halt could. "What is it?"
"I said, don't touch it." The elder Ranger made a grab at it, but Gilan stood, easily keeping it out of reach. "Give it here!"
Gilan frowned. "Just tell us what it is."
"It's none of your business, that's what it is."
"It looks like a puzzle." Gilan tossed it over Halt's head, and Horace caught it. The man-at-arms twisted a row of cubes curiously. Halt knew that each face had an image engraved into it, and the smaller cubes had to be turned to form the images. Only one face had been completed. He couldn't figure out any other side without ruining the solved one.
"Why do you have this, Halt?" asked Horace, tossing it back to Gilan.
The old Ranger fumed, refusing to play their game of monkey in the middle. "Crowley gave it to me."
"But why?"
"Do you think he has any more of an idea of what it is than you do? All he knew was that it came from somewhere other than Britain. I was hoping to find answers here."
"Why keep it a secret?" said Gilan. He tossed the cube up in the air and caught it in one hand, again and again.
"It wasn't a secret. I simply hadn't told you about it." A few well placed blows and Halt had Gilan winded on the ground. He picked up the cube and pocketed it as Gilan gasped like a landed fish.
"Now. Do we touch each others' things?" said Halt, dangerously sweet. His former apprentice shook his head. When Halt looked over his shoulder, Horace did the same, eyes wide. How easily these pups forgot what this old grey fox could do. "Good. Now rest. The moment they return, we're leaving."
Here's a question for you. Is Alyss pronounced like Alyssa without the ending A, or is it pronounced Alice? I always pronounced it the former but that's not a name I've heard anywhere else. I guess Halt isn't either but whatever...