Part Twelve: Death of a Pazzi

That night he was on the roofs of San Gimignano, looking out over the piazza in front of the Assunta and the Comunale, watching the parishioners leave in spits and spurts after the New Year's midnight mass. He paced about, anxious, his eagle-like vision scanning the crowds impatiently. After a year and a half, he would at last sink his blade into Jacopo de' Pazzi, killing the last of the conspirators. The thought of it, the bloodlust, made him unable to be still. All he could think about was the kill, the last enemy of the Medici, the last enemy of Florence, the last enemy between him and Rodrigo Borgia, the Spaniard. He pulled out the letter and reread it in the moonlight, taking in the words, the meeting.

If he could stay his blade long enough to follow Jacopo, he'd lead Ezio to his Templar brothers. He'd have more names for his list...

At last, he recognized the favored blue-grey of Jacopo de' Pazzi in the fitful moonlight, the old man in the middle of a massive crowd, walking with purpose but no hurry across the square, around the well and down one of the main streets. Ezio spied a hay cart below him, and with a running leap recklessly dived three stories down into its sweet scent before pulling himself out. He weaved about the crowds like an expert, changing his posture from scholar to mercenary to husband to banker, sticking to thick crowds to keep himself invisible.

Jacopo stopped by a well, standing perfectly still.

What was going on here? Were they late? Ezio didn't know how many people Jacopo was planning to meet. Did he spot Ezio? No, he hadn't seen him, this much Ezio knew. He was too good to be caught by a banker, however cautious, who knew nothing of how to be invisible in a crowd. Energy kept Ezio moving, flitting from bench to crowd to crate, keeping himself invisible but unable to be still as the wait dragged on. He wanted this over with.

He was an assassin, he had been training for three years, he knew how to tail a target and not be seen. He just didn't want to wait for it. Why was he waiting?

Ten minutes later Ezio got his answer when a city guard appeared, talking briefly with Jacopo before the two set off. Relieved and perturbed at the same time, Ezio spied a few crates stacked against a wall, and he ran to them, climbing up them to a lantern post to a crossbeam to a roof, the height making him feel better against Jacopo's guard's eyes. He carefully balanced across a rope spanning two buildings, eyes still on Jacopo as he turned down a small alley, pausing for a moment to watch a small troupe of prostitutes as they danced for attention before moving on. The delay chaffed, but Ezio easily kept pace, weary of loose tiles and mindful of his steps as he heard thunder in the distance. The last thing he needed was yet more winter rain.

"What are you and the others planning, Jacopo?" Ezio muttered to himself, watching the man and his guard walk past a church and down a series of steps to a lower tier of the city. "Your letter mentioned Venezia... are there Templars there as well?"

How many were on Ezio's list of men to kill? How much blood would he be forced to wade through before he and his family would be safe? Would just this be enough, to know that Tuscany was safe for his family, or would he have to go through all of it? The impatient Florentine was tired of it, wanting to just get it all over with.

He saw the city gate approaching, and Ezio suspected where Jacopo was going now. He leapt across the narrow alley, slipping on the wet tiles and forcing himself to wait until his startled heart fell back under control. He waited until Jacopo was through the gates before hopping over to the weak wall that he had assailed, oh, over a year ago when Mario tested him on the assault of Vieri de' Pazzi's occupation of the city.

Some ten minutes later he could spy Jacopo in a shaft of moonlight, his eagle eyes giving the distinctive hint of gold. To the west were the ruins, the old Roman amphitheatre. Just as he thought. Ezio darted down the walls of the city, reaching a tower and circling his way around it via some old crossbeams that barely held his weight and landing with a tight roll back on the city wall. He dashed down it, one eye still on his target, before he spied a cart full of raked up leaves. Not as soft as hay, but it would do. Anxious to get to the ground, Ezio took a breath and dove down, looking forward to killing the bastard and getting more names on his list.

The jump was a touch too high, and the leaves didn't brace his fall as hay would. Ezio's tried to compensate, and instead landed wrong, feeling his leg twist terribly. He nearly shouted out a curse but swallowed it in his throat, wincing and breathing hard as he waited for the pain to subside to an angry throb.

Damn it all to hell! Now his agility was compromised. He would have to be extra careful.

His mind a flood of curses, he waited, watching Jacopo and his guard pass, entering the amphitheatre.

Hauling himself out of the leaf cart, his leg protested fiercely when he put his weight on it, and even in his pain he could see the telltale hints of red he had come to associate with guards of hostile intent.

This was going to be... difficult.

But he was an assassin. Like his father. He would prevail. He would. Then he and his family would be free.

Taking a deep breath, he limped further south, keeping low to the ground as he watched the guards' movements. He couldn't just hop over their heads; his leg wouldn't take it, but he knew of an old arch that had not weathered away, and, waiting until one pair of guards passed, limped over it.

Down the slope on the stage were many men, some guards, some not, and Ezio realized this was more than just an underling. He saw the black hood, and he realized he had seen the figure before, at the meeting with Vieri de' Pazzi and the plan of their conspiracy. Rodrigo Borgia, the man who had ordered his family's deaths... Adrenaline filled Ezio as he gingerly made his way to the ground, angling up to a column to hide behind.

Just how many men were responsible for his father's death...?

Ezio settled in and strained his ears, making out the conversation because of the theatre acoustics.

"I am sorry, Maestro," Jacopo was saying to the man in the black hood. Another man, dressed in finery, paced about. "I did all I could, but the Assassin proved too strong."

"Clearly," the man in the black hood said, Spanish vowels obvious. Borgia's voice triggered the scene at the gallows again, his most painful memory reliving itself over and over in his mind. Blood started to pound in Ezio's ears, and it was a struggle to keep listening. "Else the others would be here with you. To say nothing of that fact that Firenze remains in Medici hands..."

"It's Francesco's fault!" Jacopo sniveled. "His impatience made him reckless! I tried to be the voice of reason..."

"More like the voice of cowardice," said the man who was pacing, the distinct Venetian accent lilting his voice.

"You're one to talk, Signor Barbarigo," Jacopo said, "Had you sent us quality weapons instead of this garbage you Venetians call arm-"

"Enough!" Borgia growled, stepping forward menacingly. "We put our faith in your family and you repay us with inaction and incompetence? Then when asked to account for your failures, you make excuses and insult us? How do you expect me to respond?" Borgia stepped forward again, his round face briefly visible in torchlight. Ezio ducked behind the column, confident he was invisible but not wanting to be seen just in case.

"... I don't know..." Jacopo said weakly, worn down and defeated.

"It's alright," Borgia said in a softer, welcoming voice, a hand reaching up to pat Jacopo's shoulder. "I do..." His other hand held a knife, and with a swift thrust in plunged into Jacopo's unprotected chest, causing a startled squawk from the banker.

"No... please... don't..." he pleaded. He turned away from Borgia, stepping weakly away, blood darkening his robes, and he staggered to the Venetian, Barbarigo.

"Please don't what?" Barbarigo asked, cruelly delighted at the display. He pushed Jacopo to the ground, blood spurting from the wound.

Pazzi struggled to his knees, trying to back away. "I can... fix this," he rasped, the acoustics of the amphitheatre making his voice ghostly as it carried to Ezio's ears. "Only... spare me..." The young Florentine poured more of his focus onto the stage.

Borgia looked down on him, blood dripping from his dagger.

"No." The cardinal drew his sword and with a skilled thrust stabbed Jacopo de' Pazzi in the neck. The old man gave a bloody cry of surprise before his body slacked to the ground, blood pooling in the intermittent moonlight. "What a mess..." he muttered.

Ezio had seen enough. He knew to go to Venice now, to track down Barbarigo. There was nothing he could do for Jacopo, and with his wounded leg he was in no shape for a confrontation. He gathered up his strength to go, but he saw out of the corner of his eye the Spaniard step forward, to the center stage.

"So sorry to have claimed your prize, Assassin!"

Merda shitshitshitshitshit Jesus fucking Christ I'm fucking screwed now shit!

Two guards clamped down on Ezio's shoulders, startling him and began dragging him down the slope, heedless of his injured leg. The two had taken the young Florentine completely by surprise, so focused he had been on the meeting he had paid no heed to his surroundings, and arrogant beginner mistake.

Ezio tried to hide his limp, not wanting to show weakness in front of the Borgia, his greatest enemy, but knew he was doing a poor job of it. Damn it, damn it. Merda, he should have waited for Mario to arrive with back up. He had been arrogant and stupid to think that he was good enough for this only after a paltry three years training. He still had so much to learn and now he was gong to die just like his father because he didn't pay attention and he would never hear his mother's voice again or argue with Claudia he was dead, dead, dead!

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't expect you to follow?" the Spaniard said, smug and domineering. "That I didn't plan for it? We've been at this a lot longer than you."

A fool.

Ezio was a fool and he only had himself to blame.

Fear as great as that rainy day at the gallows filled his chest, and as he stared at the Spaniard all he saw in response was a cold, unfeeling gaze.

"Kill him."

Rodrigo and Barbarigo departed, leaving Ezio to the guards: Two holding him, two fully armored brutes, and four others. His best option would be to run as fast as his injured leg would carry him. Even that had poor odds, but Ezio had little choice. He pulled against his two guards, getting ready.

"I know you're only doing as you're told," he said, his voice confident even if he was not, "so if you release me, I will spare your lives."

"Ha!" the guard to his left said, amused by the last-ditch attempt at bravado. "Listen to this-Agh!" Ezio extended his hidden blade, deep into the guard's neck and killing him instantly, yanking the arm free and stabbing his other shocked captor, in the abdomen just under the ribs.

Then he turned and bolted.

His speed was pathetic, utterly pathetic, he barely made it up the slope when two of the guards were upon him, and he ducked under one swing and then a second, slicing his hidden blades through two different legs and trying to dart forward. But the heavily armored brutes had caught up, and one swung an enormous axe at Ezio. His body reacted instinctively, ducking to the side, but as soon as weight was put on his leg it all fell apart, and the axe gave a glancing blow to his bracer, the leather doing nothing to stop the heavy instrument from breaking his arm, and he fell to the ground. A metal encased boot struck his head, and consciousness left him.

"...I've found him! ..."

"...Get him out of here! Estachio, Ulderico, cover our rear! ..."

"...Bartolomeo, not that way! ..."

"...I'll avenge your nephew! Volpe, with me..."

"...Did anybody see where the Venetian went? ..."

"...This way, this way, to the horses!"

And then,

"Hang on, nipote, you'll be home soon enough..."

Ezio groaned, his head pounding. He tried to lift an arm up to rub the hateful body part, only to discover that it was not the only part of his body that hated him. Pain exploded up his arm, causing him to gasp and jolt, which then made his leg shout its protests, and Ezio eventually decided that being awake was decidedly not worth it.

Some time later, he tried again to wake up, bits of memories flitting through his head; mostly of his father and brothers swinging from the gallows and the overpowering feeling that he was a God-be-damned idiot but not quite remembering why. His eyes fluttered open and blinked several times, he thought he saw Claudia looking over him, and Mario as well, but nothing completely made sense and he drifted off again.

The third time he woke up it was the dead of night, rain pounding and causing a low consistent hiss that reminded him of his headache. He couldn't roll over and shove a pillow over his head, his arm and leg were shouting at him to stay still, and he groaned, the rain hissing in his ears for time indeterminate. His father was looking over him at the foot of his bed, and that didn't make him feel better, because there was a supreme look of disappointment.

At last, however, it was morning, and when Ezio risked opening his eyes he found his uncle asleep in a chair, several letters balanced precariously on his lap and, Ezio suspected, several more on the floor. He felt more lucid than he had in... er, a while. He was confused at why he was in a bed, and when he tried to trace back how he had gotten here, it all came back in a rush.

Antonio Maffei and Wei Yu's tomb in Torre Grossa, finding the letter and scrambling to get ready for that night, tailing Jacopo and the overpowering sense of impatience, that stupid leap into a pile of leaves, and the meeting with the Spaniard and the Venetian - Barbarigo, he had a name now - and his capture and near death. Someone had kicked him and... what? It was hazy after that. He assessed himself and saw that both his right arm and left leg had been braced and bandaged, meaning they were broken. God, what an idiot. He cursed.

The noise made Mario startle awake, the rest of the parchment on his lap sliding forgotten to the floor, and he all but jumped to his feet, leaning over.

"Ezio," he said quickly. "Nipote, do you recognize me?"

The young Florentine frowned, confused at the question. "Of course I do, Uncle," he said.

"Thanks be to God," the older man breathed, sighing in relief. "You thought I was your father before."

"I did?"

"Never mind that," he said, sweeping it aside with a gesture, "The important thing is you're home and safe and on the road to recovery. The courier you hired to give us word what had happened with Maffei was very quick, when we learned about the meeting I suspected it would be with Borgia, there were many rumors he had left Roma, and we were all saddled and ready within the hour. We came just in time, it seems, because we saw you trying to run from at least six guards, and more were pouring out of that damn Roman theatre. What happened?"

Ezio winced, looking away. "I was a fool," he said softly, kicking himself over what had happened. Shifting his weight slightly in the soft cushions of the bed, he reported everything he saw and heard since arriving in San Gimignano, from Torre Grossa and the assassin tomb to every detail of tailing Jacopo de' Pazzi to the Roman ruins and how Borgia had coldly killed him for failure.

"I'm sorry, Uncle," Ezio said finally, finishing his recitation. "I was too impatient, I wasn't thinking about how dangerous it was to infiltrate a meeting like that, let alone injured."

Mario nodded, looking at Ezio's leg with his half-blind gaze. "Patience comes to all of us, Ezio," he said slowly, rubbing his chin. "Though I doubt many learn it with the flair that you do, but this lesson will follow you for the rest of your life, and in that respect, it was not a total loss. Also, we now know the name of the Venetian: Barbarigo. I can send a man to Venice to start looking into it, most of his mercenaries are there as well, trying to help... but I'll explain that later. The most important thing is that you'll mend." And he smiled, adding, "And you can learn more about patience as you sit in bed for the foreseeable future, and then work your body back up to proper condition, and then go through my teaching you how to take a leap of faith."

"A what?"

"A leap of faith," Mario said, crouching down to collect all the papers that had fallen to the floor. "You climb so well I thought you already knew about it, but any idiot who thought half-rotten leaves has the same consistency of hay obviously doesn't know about an assassin's greatest means of escape. We'll fix that as soon as you're back on your feet."

Standing, Mario looked down to Ezio for a long moment, just smiling. "It's good to have you back," he said, and he turned and left.

True to Mario's predictions, Ezio learned quite a bit about patience as he sat in bed. The price of his immobility was the inability to escape - such as when Claudia learned he was awake and spent two hours giving him a piece of her mind. He longed for the days she would collapse into tears and he would shrug it off telling her it was fine, but saying that proved to be a decidedly bad idea, as she slapped his hard across the face and stormed out of the room, cursing worse than Federico. She was not the only one to take their turn telling him he was a fool, Ulderico and Alfeo both tag teamed him on his terrible tactics and worse treatment of his injuries, and he couldn't make them go away the way he did Claudia. There was also Annetta, slip of a girl though she was, to inform him that his mother had silently cried all night when she overheard people talking about what happened to him, and he quickly tried to feign sleep to get away from all the lectures. That method failed miserably, however, when Claudia loudly proclaimed to everyone that he was faking it, and then tickling him to prove the point.

He wished terrible things on her at that point.

Sleep was an almost impossible feat; Ezio was one who tossed and turned at night and being forced to lie still was torture. Every twitch and motion was agony, and he couldn't sleep on his stomach or his side. For several days he was as sour as a mule from fatigue.

Eventually, however, he figured out how to sleep, and with the still-insensitive hands of Alfeo he began his recovery.

It was March when he heard bustle throughout the house. He was still confined to his room if no longer to his bed, and he gingerly grabbed a crutch to awkwardly hobble to the door and ask what was happening.

Annetta, the first he had grabbed, was flushed with anticipation. "Il Magnifico," she said, breathless, "He's coming here!"

That left Ezio agape, and it was several hours before someone thought to come visit him - Mario - and he quickly grilled his unsuspecting Uncle on just what had been happening for the last three months. Mario laughed in his gruff and good-natured way, teasing Ezio that his information-gathering skills were weak if he didn't know what was going on in his own villa, and Ezio groused terribly before Mario explained.

"I sent a letter to Lorenzo when you first took injury to let him know. I know the esteem you hold him in because he knew your father. He wanted to come over right away, but I told him to give you time to heal, I doubted you wanted him to see you confined to bed."

Ezio flushed, embarrassed to admit that.

"Spring is coming, the rains are ebbing, and Lorenzo decided to arrange one of his humanist meetings here instead of Villa Careggi, to 'stabilize relations with friends in Siena' is the cover, but I think it's obvious he wants to see how you're doing."

"But... I'm just..."

Mario laughed, patting his nephew on the shoulder. "I've never seen such a combination of under- and over-valuing one's self," he said, grinning. "You think yourself an assassin even thought you're only just past a novice, and yet you can't understand why the Templars view you as a devil and the benefactor of Firenze would make time to check up on you. We'll have to work on that."

By the end of the week Ezio had managed (with no little help from Claudia and Annetta) to dress himself appropriately and get himself settled to the drawing room; and even managed to be standing when Lorenzo de' Medici, in all his magnificence, came sweeping into the room with his entourage. The man blinked at seeing Ezio, his gaze narrow as he took in the splints still on his arm, the crutches by his chair. Then he ripped his eyes away and looked to Mario.

"Maestro Auditore," he said formally, "It has been much too long since we've met in person."

"The honor is mine, Magnificence," Mario replied with a flourished bow that was at odds with his rough and tumble nature. "Were that we could meet under other circumstances."

"Agreed," Lorenzo said, once more glancing at Ezio. "It's been a long ride, I must admit. I'll see that my people are taken care of, and then we can talk."

"Of course."

For most of the weekend, Ezio didn't see Lorenzo, and that surprised him. He and Claudia both were, in fact, largely ignored as all the humanists entered discussions and heated debates, talking politics and ancient times and literature and art. Lorenzo himself was almost constantly in a locked meeting with Mario, and neither sibling could understand it. It wasn't until the weekend was over when there was a knock on Ezio's door, and he bid the guest enter while he struggled to stand up.

"Ezio," Lorenzo said, alone accept for an assistant. "It's good to see you well."

"Il Magnifico," Ezio balked, hastily pushing himself into a bow and regretting the sudden motion for his arm.

"Please do not push yourself," Lorenzo said gently, taking Ezio's shoulder and sitting him back down. "Your uncle has explained what you have been through, and I must apologize."

Ezio blinked, startled. "But... The Pazzi are dead. Every one of them."

"Yes," Lorenzo said, his face distant and hard as he, too, took a seat. "When I saw Giuliano murdered, right before my eyes, I was possessed of such rage that I had never known before. All I could think of was seeing Francesco and all the other Pazzi destroyed for what they had done. Even when I asked Giovanni for help in... certain matters, there was always a certain detachment over the work. I must admit, I've never before believed I could desire the death of others so badly."

The young Florentine looked down, thinking of his own family and the rage that had possessed him, the rage that still drove him, most recently to an impatient brush with death. "Nor I..." he murmured, the gallows strong in his mind.

Lorenzo sensed the mood, and reached out to touch the young man's hand. "Ezio," he said in a heavy, meaningful voice, "thank you for the role you've played in keeping this dream of mine alive a little longer."

Ezio looked at the benefactor, and nodded his head in lieu of a bow. "It is my honor."

"What will you do now, my boy?"

Ezio glanced at his splinted arm and bandaged leg and gave the patron an ironic look. Lorenzo laughed, and Ezio gave a more serious answer. "There are still others I must hunt, Signore. They're already digging their claws into the heart of Venezia."

"No, beautiful Venezia..." Lorenzo sighed, leaning back in his chair and for a moment looking very tired. He straightened, however, and gave Ezio a reassuring look. "Then that is where your journey must take you, Ezio. But before you leave us... I have something for you. A gift."

Lorenzo signaled the assistant, the man coming forward and handing something over to the patron. Standing, Lorenzo unfolded the rich embroidered velvet to reveal a half cape much like the one Ezio wore when out in the field. Instead of a plain color, however, it was an expensive red and gold, displaying the Medici crest.

"This cape identifies you as a friend of the Medici," Lorenzo explained. "As long as you wear it, the city guards will be... more tolerant of your actions. But be warned," he added, "it will not grant you immunity from the law, nor should it."

Ezio nodded, reaching up and taking the cape, admiring its expense and detail, the crest and stitching.

"I continue to be honored by you, Signore," he said softly, uncertain what else he could say.

Lorenzo nodded, gesturing for the assistant to leave. He turned himself, but paused at the door, looking back. "You father honored me, my boy, over and over with his loyalty and honor. I am ashamed that I can do little else than I already have. I can, however, give you some advice. I don't know which way you intend to go to Venezia, through Bologna or Forli, but if you choose to go by sea, be very careful when you are in Forli."

"... Why?"

"Because Sixtus' 'nephew', Girolamo Riario, is lord there. He is the only conspirator that I cannot see die because of his connection to the Pope. His connections are... dubious, at best; and it is possible he is an enemy of yours, from what your uncle Mario tells me."

Another name on Ezio's list, only one he had just been forbidden to kill. The bastard son of a Pope was above even Ezio's abilities, and now he understood why Lorenzo and Mario had been in such heated conference over the weekend. The two were no doubt debating how or if Girolamo Riario, lord of Forli, would be seen to, and it had been decided to leave him alone. Ezio chaffed at the barrier, but understood the politics behind it - even if he didn't like it. Chewing on the information slowly, he finally nodded his head.

Lorenzo smiled.

"May fortune favor your blade, Ezio Auditore," he said.

"Thank you, Il Magnifico."

Two weeks later Alfeo took the splints off of Ezio's arm, and for the first time in nearly four months he could move freely. Sort of. The convalescence had left him in poor shape indeed, and he worked with Ulderico in the training ring, building his muscles back up into shape, unlearning the favor he had given his unwounded limbs, relearning the balance and the fluidity of fighting to survive. Mario, too, took several months off from his travels around Italy to teach Ezio how to climb - another skill he needed to relearn, and made all the more difficult now that the Auditore villa had been stripped of its dead and overgrown vines and the façade repaired and repainted. Ezio was left with only windows and overhangs, and his arms hated him bitterly for the work out.

Ezio also, now that he could move about, pulled out the feathers he had found and limped his way over to Maria's room, his mother still praying at her bed. His injuries had triggered a relapse in her, she had not left her room since his return, and Ezio hoped to nullify the damage he had done as he gave her several more eagle feathers.

Mario watched from the doorway. "I've seen you bringing Maria feathers," he said slowly. "I appreciate what you're trying to do for her, but you have to face the facts: It's not working."

Ezio turned, glaring at his uncle, but the older man continued. "Maybe you should be focused on more important things. Santino has made a new weapon for you at the smithy; you can pick it up whenever you want." After a long pause, Ezio refusing to respond, looking away, Mario sighed. "I'm sorry, Ezio."

It was true, in a way. Maria was not doing better, and there were no signs of recovery from her. Ezio could not deny the thought that he should, perhaps, leave her to her demons but... but... he had failed his father, and Petruccio and Federico, and he couldn't bring himself to fail his mother and leave her to her fate as well. The entire thought process depressed him.

But, then he could climb to the top of the villa, the view was spectacular, and he sometimes spent many hours there just looking out over the small city, watching the people or reading Altair's Codex - as he had done almost non-stop during his recovery.

"Over time, any sentence uttered long and loud enough becomes fixed. Becomes a truth. Provided, of course, you can outlast the dissent and silence your opponents. But should you succeed – and remove all challengers – then what remains is, by default, now true.

"Is it truth in some objective sense? No. But how does one ever achieve an objective point of view? The answer is you don't. It is literally, physically impossible. There are too many variables. Too many fields and formulae to consider. We can try, of course. We can inch closer and closer to a revelation. But we'll never reach it. Not ever...

"And so I have realized, that so long as The Templars exist, they will attempt to bend reality to their will. They recognize there is no such thing as an absolute truth – or if there is – we are hopelessly under-equipped to recognize it. And so in its place, they seek to create their own explanation. It is the guiding principle of their so-named 'New World Order:' To reshape existence in their own image. It is not about artifacts. Not about men. These are merely tools. It's about concepts. Clever of them. For how does one wage war against a concept?

"It is the perfect weapon. It lacks a physical form yet can alter the world around us in numerous, often violent ways. You cannot kill a creed. Even if you kill all of its adherents, destroy all of its writings – these are a reprieve at best. Some one, some day, will rediscover it. Reinvent it. I believe that even we, the Assassins, have simply re-discovered an Order that predates the Old Man himself..."

Truth as a subjective, imperfect utility; Ezio had been bothered by it before when he read the words, but now he understood it. He had believed it true that he was ready to face that clandestine meeting between Borgia and Jacopo de' Pazzi, and his subjectivity had blinded him. He understood now, in some imperfect way, that there were hundreds of thousands of truth, and that all of them were correct. He would have to learn to listen harder, pay attention better. He would have to acclimate himself to the truths of others, to understand what they saw and how they saw it.

It was with that in mind that he followed Mario up to the roof of the villa, looking out over the recovering city. The lawn was a bright green around the villa, and Claudia had seen that flags be hung from the flagpoles - not the Auditore crest, but the Assassin symbol, resplendent in black, red, and white.

"Do you see the hay cart below you?" Mario asked, crossing his arms.

"Yes, Uncle."

"Good. Jump into it."

"... What?"

"Jump into it. Go on."

"But Uncle..."

"Are we too high up? Perhaps," Mario said, shrugging. "But when you know what you are looking for, and when you know how to take a fall, then height becomes only a function of how much hay is below you."

"... What?"

"Oh, nipote," Mario said, laughing. "You know how to climb, you know how to leap, but you have no faith. I watched you last year, wound up tighter than a wagon spring, and you leap two, sometimes three stories down to the ground with nothing beneath you. What were you thinking about then?"

"..."

"Exactly. There is no thinking involved in a leap of faith. Not the first one; all that is required, is faith."

And, without thought, he shoved Ezio off the roof.

"Uncleeeeee!" He landed awkwardly into the hay, head over heals and nearly breaking his leg again. He came out spitting up hay, feeling like an overfed horse, and stumbled out of the cart, sputtering and coughing.

He looked up to shout vitriol, but all curses died in his mouth as he watched his forty-six year old uncle leap off the roof, arms spread like an eagle, hanging almost suspended in the air, before flipping through the pull of gravity and landing in the cart, hopping out immediately after.

"What...? How...?"

"That, Ezio, is a leap of faith," he explained. "An assassin knows how to land, and can tell at a glance whether there is enough hay or leaves or flowers or something else to cushion the blow - there are different calculations for that, but I'll explain the finer details later. An assassin can leap from as high as four stories and land without injury, and while others are forced to climb down in order to pursue, or break off convinced the assassin has killed himself, the assassin is free to run off to anonymity. Each leap cheats death, Ezio, and it requires faith: in one's abilities, in one's body, and in one's mind."

The young Florentine thought of the night he killed Uberto Alberti, running from the guards in the dark and trying to escape the Santa Croce. His deliberate fall into a haystack, after praying to his father.

A leap of faith...

After that came hours of mathematics - a subject that bored Ezio no matter how good at it he was. Fresh hay was the best one could hope for, but he learned the maximum height that one could jump for any type of material - even manure, though he hoped dearly it never came to that - he learned that birds often nestled above such carts, and on his climbing route through Monteriggioni he learned how true that was. For most of the summer, when he wasn't building strength back in his body, he was running through the city - this time not out of some desperate need to expend energy, but to use everything he had learned, diving into hay carts with more and more skill, learning how to take a fall, experimenting on how to fix his pouches to his stylized belt to keep them from opening up upon impact, dozens of new small considerations.

He realized, not for the first time, that there was so much for him to learn to be an assassin, and he wondered if he would ever stop learning.

He thought of Leonardo, always curious about the world, and decided he didn't ever want to stop learning.

After harvest the rains came, almost a year had passed since his accident and Jacopo de' Pazzi's death, and Ulderico finally, finally, decreed he was back up to conditioning. Ezio secretly suspected he was several steps above where he was, Ulderico seemed hell-bent on preventing his injury a second time, and so he set off north to Florence.

Santino, the blacksmith, had outfitted him with new helmschmied armor, leather decorated with iron detailing that made it sturdier and harder to break. It was only slightly heavier than plain leather, and Santino boasted on the increased protection it afforded him. There was also the new sword, a falchion, with better balance and stronger metal. Similarly, Doriano, the new tailor Claudia had found, gave him a new silver and red doublet, an homage to his father's outfit and the red the exact same shade as his Medici cape, and sturdy leather gloves. Alfeo checked out his medicine pack personally, and the banker Adler gave him a few extra coins for travel expenses.

Happy, he waved farewell before saddling his horse and heading north to Florence with his benefactor's cape and making good time. He spoke briefly with Paola in the city, catching up with her and seeing how she was doing, and had unexpectedly come across Volpe, the thief staring at him for a very long time before challenging him to a race. Ezio, even with the heavier armor, made a draw to the fox, and pride filled him. Lorenzo he had already seen in Monteriggioni, and did not wish to bother the patron with his arrival. That left only one other person to visit before continuing north.

And so it wasn't long before he was in San Giovanni district, avoiding his old home and its memories and instead knocking on a certain studio door.

"Leonardo? Leonardo!" he called, surprised that no one answered the door.

A man, a sculptor by the look of it, saw him knocking.

"I am sorry, Messere, but he is gone. Maestro Leonardo was commissioned by a Venetian noble to paint some portraits. He paid for the Maestro to move his entire workshop to Venezia. It's quite an opportunity!"

Ah, so good fortune had favored his friend. That was for the best. Ezio smiled at the thought, and offered his thanks before moving on.

He took his horse and rode northeast, a steady driving rain making travel difficult and slow, the back roads congealing to mud and muck from previous caravans and kicking all of it up to his horse's legs and belly. Ezio's boots also became splattered, and the travel to Venezia was, Ezio decided, going to be a pain. This was compounded with crossing the Tuscan Apennine Mountains, and the fact that he was deliberately taking back roads to avoid untoward trouble. It extended the travel by quite a factor, but Ezio was determined not to be impatient ever again. His mad dash to San Gimignano a year ago had likely alerted Borgia and the Templars of his approach, and he refused to make that mistake again.

The winter rains quickly became a freezing drizzle, making the roads slippery and dangerous, especially in the higher elevations, and Ezio was simply miserable, cold, and wishing for company.

Which was why, when he found a carriage stuck in the mud and a man muttering as he tried to fix it, Ezio thought nothing of helping the man out. He dismounted, shivering, and walked up before recognizing the blond hair and tenor voice.

"Leonardo!"

"Ezio?" Startled, the painter stood and spun around, eyes wide as he stared at the young assassin. "What luck!" he said, blushing as he looked down at the stuck wheel. "I... er, have run into a bit of trouble."

"Let me see if I can help," Ezio offered easily. He remembered the sculptor talking about Leonardo's patron in Venice, he couldn't believe they were both heading to the same location. What luck indeed! He moved around to the other side of the wheel, examining the damage.

"I know how to fix it," Leonardo said, "but lack the means to do so. If you could just lift the wagon?"

"Lift a wagon? In the mud and rain? You are so demanding, friend," Ezio said, taking a moment to assess where he could get the best leverage. Taking a breath, he balanced his weight and hoisted, feeling his boots sink easily up to his ankles in the mud as his body tensed with the weight. He could hear the soft thrum of a hammer and could feel the wheel Leonardo was fixing begin to take the weight of the carriage. The young assassin took another breath, gazing into the carriage to see Leonardo's typical mess of things, unprotected canvases, open journals and scattered quills, boxes of supplies scattered instead of neatly stacked. The largest object, however, drew his eyes as Leonardo finished with his repairs.

"What is this thing?" the twenty-one-year-old asked.

"Eh?"

"It looks like a giant bat."

"Oh, nothing, just an idea I've been working on," Leonardo said. "All fixed."

Ezio lowered the cart and breathed a sigh of relief. His arms and back were killing him.

"I could not leave it behind," Leonardo said, gesturing to the bat-like contraption in the cart.

"What is it for?"

"Well, I shouldn't really talk about it," the blond replied, wringing his hands together. But Ezio watched as the very thought of containing whatever he was thinking about seemed to explode, and in seconds Leonardo was gesturing about. "To hell with it, I can't hold it in any more! Ezio, I think I have figured out how to make a man fly!"

Ezio stared at him for a long, long time, before he chuckled and shook his head. "Come on, I'll drive."

"But I haven't even told you where I'm going?"

"Venezia, yes?"

"Why, yes! How did you know?"

"I have my ways," Ezio said, tying his horse to the carriage. He hoisted himself up to the front of the carriage, Leonardo quick to follow. "So, tell me about flight."

It was all the prompting Leonardo needed, explaining what he had been studying from bats and birds and insects, about wingspan and proportion to bodyweight, about hollow bones and how to compensate for it, wind and speed and a hundred other little small details that mostly flew right over Ezio's head; but the blonde's excited tenor drowned out the drizzle of rain, and warmed the chill of the air and made the winter weather bearable.

That night they found a hostel, and Ezio abused Adler's coin in wine to warm them, the proprietor happy to help a man of Medici, serving his best plates and utilizing his prettiest serving wenches. Ezio and Leonardo spent hours sharing stories and catching up, Leonardo talking a little bit about his studies and the things that fascinated him for the moment - flight, of course - and his work in perspective art and some of the copies he'd been commissioned to make, how his assistants were doing, how far along Vincenzo was (though this was with a slight frown that made Ezio laugh) in his apprenticeship, and anything that came to mind. Ezio, for his part, gave many stories about his travels around Tuscany, helping out with the harvests and what he had learned about vineyards and wines and describing the views from the towers of San Gimignano. He talked about Claudia and Mario and the current state of Monteriggioni, the new shops and the works on the mines and all the little banking bits of running a city. He gave a few exaggerated stories of his evening soirees, a couple of the servers eyeing him appreciatively. Leonardo was impressed to learn that Ezio had taken up painting, and he showed the painter some sketches, one a rough statue of Altair, locked away in the Sanctuary, one of the skull lock that indicated an assassin tomb, one weak portrait of his mother, Leonardo giving tips the entire way.

The pair, to be honest, got very drunk that night, talking and singing. Leonardo eventually called it a night, but Ezio stayed up for two of the waitresses, and there was a pleasant haze of flesh and sweat and thrust fast forward goddamn it why is he such a man-whore and moan and bite.

The next morning brought unrepentant headaches, but Ezio shook it off almost as quick as his uncle, once more taking the reins as Leonardo moaned into the cold, eventually sleeping on Ezio's shoulder and slowly slipping his lap as the wine slowly wore out of him. Ezio didn't mind, the extra body heat fended off the chill, and the company was welcome.

They crested the range that afternoon, stopping several times as their wagon got stuck in the slick and muddy back roads, but Ezio didn't mind and the detour seemed to energize Leonardo, finding anything and everything to distract the twenty-eight-year-old and talk about to his friend: patterns in branching of trees, the flow of weather, similarities between horses and humans, anything that seemed to strike his mind.

Eventually, Ezio asked if Leonardo had ever been to Venice.

"Venezia, such a beautiful city," the painter said, shifting his weight. "So many sources of inspiration! Ponte de Rialto, Piazza San Marco, L'Arsenale-"

Ezio straightened, realizing he had stopped hearing birds. "Shh!" he hissed.

"What's wrong?" Leonardo asked, wide-eyed.

"... We're not alone," Ezio answered, and he quickly stood in the carriage, calling on his eagle and scanning the road.

"So? Is that a bad thing?" the painter asked, looking around.

"It is if they-" An arrow twang could just barely be heard, and said arrow sprang onto the bench between the two men. Ezio needed no further prompting, flicking the reins and pushing the teamsters into a full gallop. Several horses whinnied at the sudden change in speed, and mud whipped into the air as they sped down the road.

"What's happening?" the painter was asking, frantic, "Who are they?"

"Rodrigo Borgia's men."

"Who? Why? What do they want with us?"

"I think they want us dead," Ezio hissed. "Leonardo, hide!" Another arrow zipped by, over their heads, and the painter squeaked, quickly opening up the carriage and climbing in.

The horses that ran up alongside the carriage were topped with fully armored men, not a ragtag band of thieves, and Ezio veered his teamsters hard to the left, edging the enemy horses up to the cliffs of the Apennine, forcing them to back off or be crushed. Not long after he steered right, managing to drive two horses over the cliff and down to their deaths. The loss of two men did not deter the brigands, however, and one rode up alongside the carriage, skillfully leaping off his horse and onto the wagon.

"They're trying to climb on board!" Leonardo shouted unnecessarily from inside. "Knock them off! Ezio, someone's on top!"

"I know, I know!" Ezio shouted, flicking the reins again before pulling into a sharp turn. He could feel the wagon tip almost onto just two wheels, Ezio almost instinctively leaning to one side as a counterweight. The carriage landed with a heavy thud, and when he looked behind he saw that the rider was missing from the wagon.

"Be more careful, or we won't be able to fix it next time!" Leonardo shouted, braced inside the carriage amongst his clutter, his voice slightly higher than it had any right to be.

"Tell them that, damn it!" Ezio retorted, running over a bridge before shoving his wagon into another horse, crushing him against the hillside. That made four men he'd dispatched, how many more were there? He cursed as he made another hard turn, the wagon very nearly overturning, and he heard Leonardo yelping and squawking as various things inside fell in different directions. "Get up here!" Ezio commanded. "It's too dangerous for you in there with all that junk."

Leonardo climbed up hesitantly, looking every which way, before climbing onto the front of the wagon. "Junk?" he demanded, indignant in spite of the assault.

"Go, Leonardo," Ezio said, handing the painter the reins. "They're here for me, not you! I'll catch up with you later!"

"Wait, you can't be serious!" Leonardo shouted, watching in horror as Ezio climbed over the top of the wagon, pulling at his horse, and half hopping, half leaping onto the saddle. It was work to untie the reigns, but he managed it and gave the terrified Leonardo one last look before yanking on his reins, his horse skidding to a halt before turning around and drawing his sword, thankful to Ulderico for all his training.

He galloped full tilt to the first rider he saw - there were three total, and kept low in the saddle, keeping his body in a tight ball, before reaching and swinging his sword at the rider, the blow shaking him all the way up to his shoulder. He wheeled, seeing his opponent dive off his horse.

The other two were bearing down on him from opposite sides. Ezio's horse reared as Ezio tried to pulling him around, the mount just as scared as Leonardo had been, and one of the guards rammed his mount straight into Ezio, trying to push his horse over.

"No, you don't," Ezio growled, blocking a sword strike and then following up with a slash faster than the brigand had ever expected - not to the brigand, but to the horse. The animal screamed, backing up and giving the young assassin time to get his own mount under control. He charged the injured horse, making the animal back up and then take off in a terrified gallop, the Borgia man unable to stop it's panicked flight.

Wheeling his horse around, Ezio threw a furious look at the last man, his sword bloody and his horses nostrils flaring in the cold air.

"I'd suggest you leave before I'm forced to deal with you," Ezio offered.

A pause settled over the two combatants, both horses breathing hard, pawing at the muddy earth, shifting their weights and flicking their dirty tails. Ezio was muddy and bloody, his Medici cape soiled and spattered, his temper high, and his mind willing the other man to turn away. Leave, leave, Ezio silently commanded. Leave, or I'll be forced to kill you.

The opponent's horse reared up, and then charged at a full gallop. Sighing, Ezio followed suit, angling his sword and then swinging down at the last minute; startling the horse and making it leap away and messing up the rider's swing. Ezio pulled up and spun around in the span of about two steps, and gave a vicious slash of his sword in the man's back, bouncing off armor. Growling, he dropped his sword and pulled out a throwing knife, watching the brigand gain distance before spinning around and charging again.

"Keep very still," Ezio whispered to his horse, and he took three seconds to account for the four legs under him, before he let loose, the knife flying end over end until it embedded itself deep into the man's neck, sending his whole body flying back in shock and rolling off the horse; a foot caught in the stirrup and the body was dragged by the horse deeper into the mountains.

And then, at last, there was quiet.

Thunder on the other side of the mountains stirred Ezio from his thoughts, and with a weary sigh, he looked up to the grey skies.

"Requiescat in pace," he murmured, and he left the senseless deaths behind, pushing his horse into a light trot and disappearing into the back roads before swinging to the main highway, where several people were traveling and he blended into the crowds.

He hoped Leonardo had survived the flight and made it to Forli.

Author's Note: So much to say about this chapter.

We mentioned it before, but here is a bright and shining example of Ezio's self-destructive, obsessive tendencies. Time will eventually beat most of it out of him, but we've all done things when we were "young and stupid," and for Ezio - who does nothing halfway - has a flair for "young and stupid." But, like Mario said, he learned something from it, and so hopefully he won't be so foolish again. Right...? (knowing laughter).

Aficionado's of the game will see two distinct changes in this chapter: The first is that Ezio doesn't get the chance to finish Jacopo off. While a miracle could conceivably happen and keep the old man alive after Ezio kills everyone off in sight, there comes a time when suspension of disbelief breaks- and though we love the AC games, it does happen once or twice for us, and we try to correct it when we can. Besides, with the injuries we've just given him, he was in no shape to finish of Jacopo. And as an aside - note the people who saved him :D. Second, the final meeting with Lorenzo happens in Monteriggioni instead of Firenze. This was more self-gratification than anything strictly necessary; Ezio could have gone to Florence later in the year if we wished, but we thought it would be a nice facet of Lorenzo that he's grown to respect Ezio with the same fervor he respected Giovanni, and cared enough to deliberately visit him on home turf to show his respect. It also makes their conversation more personal, and Lorenzo, as we've said before, is a connection to Giovanni that Ezio treasures. It will make his (much, much, much) later appearance more poignant. And as an aside, Lorenzo asks whether Ezio will travel through Forli or Balogna - if you look at a map of Italy (and yes, we did that, nerds that we are), it kind of looks like (at least on paper) that going through Balogna would be faster, and it gave a great segue to talk about Girolamo Riario. More on him in later chapters.

And we finally have Ezio learn about the Leap of Faith that Altair has probably known about since he was, like, two. And he learns his first leap of faith was in Santa Croce when he prayed to his father. In our opinion, though we don't overtly say it, every leap of faith is a prayer to his father. 'Nuff said.

And oh yeah, we have Leonardo in here! Squee! Is there anything that really needs to be commented on for that? Actually yes there is; there are a few bloodthirsty reviewers out there that have been waiting patiently for mass-slaughter like the game. While we hope this satisfies, we also hope it points out that the death really is senseless. Ezio isn't just some killing machine, and there is a reason he is weary come Revelations - that sure didn't happen overnight, and there will be times when he looks at the destruction he's wrought and be bothered by it. Hope it came across okay.

Next chapter: More Misadventures of Ezio and Leonardo and the trouble they cause. A woman named Caterina. And Desmond. Enjoy!