A/N:
So, we are about 10 days out from Revelations. *squeeeeee!* ahem! sorry about that. I will do my damndest to get 35 posted before then, but it all depends on how distracted I get. 'Cause that never happens. Oh no. Heh.
Again, thanks to the reviewers: disciple 65, Assassin's Creed superfan, flyingcrispi, ecnal, and serebranka. I swear, I am trying to post more quickly for you guys! Also, thanks to Shamazaki for beta-ing and sharing good ideas.
Stay tuned for more Russian history and oo-rah for ubisoft and a new AC release once a year!
The muted roar of the crowd was like the low key hum of a beehive from back in the dimly lit access corridors of Moscow's indoor coliseum. Before her, the blue eyes of her young would-be lover lit up with a sort of greedy fervor before he leaned down to brush his lips clumsily along her jaw.
She had to stifle a burst of nervous laughter, feeling guilty for being… well, bored, while the man tried to seduce her.
Dio, but the men in her life had ruined her for men her own age hadn't they? This foppish young nobleman, while in possession of admirable enthusiasm, seriously lacked in sheer presence.
Poor guy, it wasn't his fault; but that sure as hell didn't mean she was going to enjoy it.
In comparison, Ezio, in the prime of his life, was without peer with his confident possession of all her senses, no matter where the two of them were. Even in the damned sewers! Dino's overwhelming masculinity and Tullio's subtle ferocity made this man seem like a child. Even crazy Markku, with the alarming intensity of his intelligence, was more seductive than this drunken fumbler; those women in Napoli had been more than enough proof of that.
She sighed and tilted her head back; exposing the vulnerable line of her neck, and his hands came up to grasp her shoulders in a surprisingly crushing grip. She abruptly realized that this physicality was a power women could easily wield over men. For some reason, she had always thought of women being the seduced rather than the seducee (was she making up words now?) in a physical relationship.
Which, in retrospect, was really stupid of her when she thought of how the courtesans made their living. But even then she had always sort of assumed that the girls did not have a say in what happened during the… er, transaction.
But then again, there were reasons that customers had their favorites.
And of course in her own defense, the men she currently associated with wouldn't respond to such tactics.
Or would they?
Would she fall prey to seduction if things were the other way around? She realized that she had absolutely no experience in these kinds of subtle emotional maneuverings and resolved to watch out in the future. Seduction wasn't a power she wanted to become proficient in wielding, but it was nice to know it was an option. And at that thought, she became aware of hands that had begun wandering rather alarmingly during her musings.
Mortified that she had gotten distracted by her mental babbling during something so intimate, she gently extricated herself from his embrace.
"I'm sorry," she said, trying to inject just the right amount of rueful embarrassment into her voice, "But my nerves are somewhat shaken."
For a moment, as he looked down at her, something in his eyes darkened and her heart began to pound cautiously. Crucial moments in a contrived encounter like this could become dangerous if she had misread her mark's personality…
And then he smiled, a little patronizingly, but she was too relieved to care. What she needed to now was to slip a little bit of Dino's sedative into his drink to make the back hall encounter even more amnesic. He tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow and led her back through the corridors into the main room. Alessa was acutely uncomfortable with the continued proximity to the strange man and struggled to maintain a disaffected façade. How did the courtesans do it? She abruptly felt a surge of empathy with Claudia's girls and at the same time felt guilty about being relieved she wasn't required to do more with this man.
The drone of the big crowd assaulted her ears in earnest as they came out of the back halls and the high ceiling of the open room abruptly yawned above them. He led her back to his seat, where his friends were cavorting with a couple of women that looked and acted like Claudia's courtesans – not entirely surprising given the relatively young age of the men and the level of drunkenness that was well apparent. Her boy was grinning for all he was worth as he led her back to his seating area to take a seat amongst the exuberant group.
Blondie was greeted with leering enthusiasm by the men and one of the girls slopped a measure of wine into a glass for her as Alessa took a seat next to him. And then everyone forgot about her as the match in the ring began; they all rushed to wall and began screaming at their favored fighters as the blows started to land.
Alessa was astonished as she surveyed her surroundings. From what she could glean from individual crowd members' frenzied conversations, she had only been gone long enough to miss a single fight. Dio, it seemed like hours had passed. But no, the match directly preceding Dino's was just starting.
She pushed her way in between two of the more inebriated men and they moved away docilely, near to the stage of passing out.
She hesitated, hoping that they weren't pukers.
Blue eyes followed her before he stepped forward and leaned his elbows on the stone wall beside her. Despite the weak chin, the periwinkle eyes were vivid with intelligence, even if they were readily glazed with drink. The rest of his narrow facial features, while not to her preference, were well proportioned. He wasn't hideous; in fact, she idly speculated that a short beard might give his face an almost regal cast.
"So you must be Donna Alessandra?" he asked – rather politely considering how they had gotten acquainted.
"I am," she replied. She gestured to the men in the ring. "My fighter will be in the next bout."
"Yes! We have heard amazing things about him. I myself have bet against him."
"Against?" she asked playfully, hiding her mental aha! when one of his friends thrust a full glass of wine into his hand. She palmed one of the tiny vials secreted in her right vambrace.
He smiled and lowered his voice meaningfully,
"Well I have heard that his skill is over-exaggerated. No offense, dorogaya."
Alessa grinned,
"Really?" she purred, leaning closer to him and lowering her voice conspiratorially as she slipped a couple drops of the elixir into his drink, "Well then, would you care to place another wager on the outcome?"
"Only if I get to choose the stakes," he replied with a slight leer.
Alessa made a show of considering,
"Then let's hear what you have to offer, my lord," she was deliberately generous with the title, figuring that a little flattery never hurt.
"If your fighter takes the bout, I give you your choice of an item from my personal treasury. If he does not, then you will have dinner with me… where we won't have the inconvenience of being interrupted." He leaned down with a playful glint in his eyes, "And as much as I hate to quibble over precedence, it's Highness, not Lord."
It took her a moment to translate in her head, but then she felt her eyes widen before she could control her surprise and he laughed, outwardly pleased that she recognized him. Her mind reeled as she put together the features, his age, and his obvious wealth.
"Well, it sounds like no matter what the outcome, I come out the winner… Prince Vasiliy," she said a bit dazedly as she dropped a hasty curtsy.
He beamed, obviously pleased that she finally was aware of his status. Alessa came to the conclusion that she had hit the information mother lode. From what she had learned from Khiril, Prince Vasiliy was the second son of Ivan III, the Grand Prince of Moscow. When Vasiliy's older brother and heir to the throne, Ivan IV, died unexpectedly in 1490, Vasiliy's now 17 year old nephew, Ivan IV's son, was titled Crown Prince.
However, the court was rife with conspirators and tension as supporters of the two princes fought about who should truly be the heir – Dmitriy as Ivan's natural grandson or Vasiliy, Ivan's son by his second wife.
She idly wondered about the idiosyncrasies of royal inheritances of power. If the dead Ivan IV had survived to inherit the crown, there would have been no question about Dmitriy's right to the throne of Russia. Similarly, if Ivan IV had died before having children, then Vasiliy would have ascended to the position with little quarrel.
So who really deserved to rule after the Grand Prince's death?
Alessa had the suspicion that it was less about who deserved it and more about who wanted it. Fucking Borgia family was evidence of that. She felt her teeth grind and hastily smoothed her expression before she was caught glowering, focusing instead on the matter at hand.
Vasiliy's popularity at court had risen over the past year and he had just been granted control of the Duchies of Novgorod and Pskov. As such, he was ruler of hundreds of miles of coastline at the northernmost reach of his father's realm that gave easy access to the Baltic Sea; a convenient way to profit from the regions' rich material resources.
Not that the regions' standing armies were of any import.
All this and yet it was still very likely that he could succeed his father to the throne as well.
Vasiliy, the man she had naively mistaken for a minor noble she could safely use to further her own ends, was a very important man.
Okay, so that was an understatement.
Fuck.
Well, maybe she could salvage the situation…?
She buried her face in her hands and then proceeded to massage her forehead worriedly as she watched him sip his wine. She was well aware that if anyone discovered that she had drugged the potential heir to the Russian throne, her cover persona would no longer be useful and she might make the Assassin presence in the city known to Ivan himself. As this was a crucial part of their primary goal – making sure that the Brotherhood remained unseen – she could not fail.
Not to mention that any unfortunate side effects could be attributed to poisoners of Crown Prince Dmitriy's supporters. The court would be thrown into an uproar and a crown might change hands to less auspicious individuals.
Again, nothing but a good, old-fashioned "Ah fuck," could articulate sufficient eloquence to illustrate the gravity of the situation.
Grimly, she smiled with a vague sort of dazedness at the man beside her as he pounded his fist on the stone wall before him, cheering raucously for his fighter. The brawl was winding down; both contestants had burned through their stamina and were utilizing a clinch just to keep themselves upright. Every so often one would get a burst of energy and brandish a couple of sloppy blows at the other's ribcage.
The crowd was alternating between disapproving boos and random shouts of encouragement. Vasiliy, beside her, began screaming, red-faced, at his favorite – a short, stocky fighter with a cauliflower ear. Alessa approved; the man's build gave the impression of endless hours of training. She surmised that he was more likely to outlast the other.
In the end, his brawn won out as he gathered himself and, with a great effort, executed the ugliest hip toss she had ever seen. He followed the other fighter to the ground and the hapless victim made an ugly blurt of pain that she heard over the crowd's roar. She could relate; that sudden impact that made a person lose their breath was terrifying to the point that it sometimes made one wonder if death was at hand. When he struggled, arms and legs pin-wheeling ineffectively, desperate to regain the breath that had undoubtedly been knocked out of him, the fighter on top rammed an elbow mercilessly into the man's upper abdomen, causing the man on the ground to redouble his struggles.
Alessa jumped at the unexpected malevolence of the move, and, as the crowd went berserk around her, sat in stoic amazement as Big Shoulders knocked out his unfortunate opponent with a vicious punch. The loser went limp, his ineffectual struggles ceasing with a suddenness that was reminiscent of death. And even unconscious, his chest hitched in a disturbing rhythm in an effort to draw a full breath.
Vasiliy howled with glee as his fighter struggled to his feet. The sudden burst of malevolent energy was lost in true exhaustion as he wobbled on his feet, a beatific smile on his lumpy and bleeding face.
Forcing her hands away from her mouth, Alessa took a calming breath; she wasn't sure how she felt about the whole thing. It was very interesting and exhilarating to see the men display their martial skill, stripped of any weapon or armor that could give them any advantage. But she supposed that the Roman in her shied away from delighting in the senseless violence – a millennium and a half separated her from a bloody history of gladiators and indifferent brutality. The shadow of the Coliseum still hovered over her native city, literally; a glorious and grim reminder of something mankind apparently had not learned from.
As she watched the unconscious loser being dragged out of the circle, she wondered what was in it for him. His jaw was likely broken, not to mention a few ribs. And if he hadn't incurred any sort of other internal injury, he was damn lucky. Why he would subject himself to…
Ah, of course – the pay.
Khiril had constantly spoken of the obscene amounts of money that passed hands in the gambling associated with these fights. Good fighters that won consistently were nearly as rich as the noblemen who sponsored them. Dmitriy had hinted at the same. And Alessa confirmed this when she took an incredulous peek at one of the gambling stubs that passed through the hands of the prince and his friends as they heckled each other good-naturedly.
The next bout was announced and Alessa felt her heart rate spike as Dino was called out.
For a moment, she almost didn't recognize the man with the shaven head that ambled casually out onto the hard-packed dirt of the center circle. The constant, dull thrum of the crowd hushed momentarily as people craned to see the new fighter as he halted in the center of the ring.
Dino was outwardly relaxed, hands loose at his sides. He rotated his neck once, his arms shifted as he hitched his shoulders in a familiar gesture, like when he was unconsciously adjusting his armor. And then he was still, waiting with stoic apathy. He wore the gray, mottled trousers of his recruit garb. His feet and chest were bare in keeping with the rules of the fight; he wore no armor, carried no weapon save his hands.
Her brother in arms looked singularly exotic compared to the previous combatants; apparently Khiril's recommendation of a shaven pate wasn't a common preference among the current set of fighters. Dino's shorn scalp and wiry frame contrasted sharply with what she had seen so far.
The previous fighters were noticeably more muscled, looking like well fed wolfhounds; deadly, but well cared for and tame. Dino, on the other hand, appeared raw, primal; the feral lone wolf that was every wolfhound's prize.
He looked perplexed for instant when he noted that she wasn't in her original seat, but then he spotted her. She gave him a barely perceptible dip of her chin to indicate that her mission had been a success and his dark eyes brightened with proud merriment just before he gave her a salacious wink.
"Is he your lover?" a voice near her ear asked casually, a slight slur marring his Russian.
Alessa turned to stare at Vasiliy for a second, once again delayed in her reaction as she translated in her head. She took a sip of her wine to cover the silence - and then she nearly snorted it through her nose in laughter.
"Dio, no!" she finally gasped as she recovered, "I mean, nyet, eta nye pravda!"
"Then you allow such familiarity with those that owe you fealty?" he asked. Her eyes narrowed at him as she tried to process the Russian and the tone, ready to tell him in no uncertain terms where he could shove his arrogance. But then she stopped bristling and gazed at him speculatively. He truly wasn't being mean, not like Khiril anyway. Khiril was a fucking jerk. No, Vasiliy's open, guileless face was full of curiosity - and not a small amount of inbred arrogance that he probably couldn't help anyway.
And on that note, she'd better be nice to the guy – he was a prince, after all, and she needed to stay in his good graces if she wanted to use him in the future.
"Not generally, no," she finally explained, "But his family has served mine for generations. I grew up with him. He is like a brother to me."
Liar...
Well, at least the last part was true.
They were distracted when Dino's opponent entered and the crowd's roar became deafening. Alessa's hands clenched nervously in the first instant she beheld the so-called 'Hammer.'
The crowd began chanting: molotok, molotok!
Guy was a bare finger's breadth shorter than Dino, but he was massively muscled. His shoulders were huge. His biceps flexed with the barest effort, swelling impressively. Jesu, the guy's arms were as big around as one of her legs. His neck was so big that it looked like his head just squatted there right on top of his shoulders.
She snickered to herself; this was like evaluating horses.
As she watched Dino's opponent move into place, she breathed a sigh of relief and then grinned. Guy might be big, but he didn't have good balance or flexibility with all of that mass.
There was no signal to start the fight; the men simply waited as the crowd's roared drew to a fevered pitch. Slowly, they began circling each other, hands loose at their sides, balancing lightly on the balls of their feet.
Alessa thought her ears would burst when they suddenly rushed at each other, each reaching out almost casually to swing at the other in passing, and the fight was begun in earnest.
Dino darted in; she had always thought of him as the slowest of the Assassins, but compared to the lumbering behemoth in the circle with him, he was like a striking cobra. He lashed out with a short, vicious kick, his shin cracking along the side of his opponent's right knee. The man staggered slightly, but didn't miss, and Dino took a hard punch that glanced off his brow. It didn't seem to faze him, but the skin had split over his eye and blood began to seep along the ridge of his brow and then down around his eye.
The crowd howled at the first sign of blood. Dino ignored the injury. He feinted right and then lashed out another low kick to his opponent's right knee, then spun out of reach as Molotok attempted a second punch.
The man was limping slightly, just enough to be noticeable. His right knee was already swelling; an impressive feat as it bulged larger than the corded muscles roping his thighs. She could tell he was already getting frustrated as he attempted to engage his Roman opponent and she silently applauded Dino for his patience. Any other man might be tempted by the weakness Molotok exhibited by limping.
She could see Dino's plan as he darted in once again, this time to stomp his heel over the bridge of his opponent's left foot. A second heel stomp broke the man's smallest two toes; the digits left sticking out at an impossible angle.
And then disaster.
She suspected that Dino, who loved a good out and out punch-fest, itched to pummel the man in a more satisfactory manner. He nimbly dodged a heavy haymaker and landed a blow to Molotok's upper abdomen. It was when Dino came up to go for the face that he got caught.
It was easy to forget that a slow opponent could exhibit bursts of speed when one least expected it, and one of the ham-sized hands reached out and snagged Dino's punch out of mid-air. It was the work of a second to jerk Dino off-balance and for Molotok to follow him to the ground.
She could only sit there, helpless, and watch Dino's huge opponent calmly pin the Assassin – using mostly his sheer mass to restrain him – and began systematically working his ribs out with his right fist, the left arm braced on the ground for support. Her knuckles to her teeth, she watched as Dino moved minutely underneath the behemoth, unable to land more than a glancing blow. After a second, those familiar, healing hands scrabbling about. Seeking weakness.
The crowd was on its feet, roaring, as Molotok continued to honor his namesake. He didn't try for a head blow – the shift required would give Dino an opening to escape. Instead, he continued at Dino's ribcage, the heavy thunks of fist thudding against what suddenly appeared to be frighteningly delicate bones.
"Your fighter is done now," Vasiliy informed her confidently, not taking his eyes off the fight, "Molotok, he always wins the fight when he gets a pin." Indeed, she could see that gamblers were already exchanging money and tickets with each other. Vasiliy glanced at her, eyes full of pity and a hint of the dark greed of lust.
Alessa resisted the urge to slap him. Instead, she focused the energy of her roiling emotions towards her brother, stuck beneath the powerful grappler. She silently urged him to victory, feeling her lips peel back from her teeth in her fervor.
It was utterly terrifying to watch. On the battlefield, a solid blow to the ribs could cause the flat bones to splinter and pierce a lung. Not many survived such an injury. Trying to avoid that thought, she watched in stricken fascination as one of Dino's legs crept out from under his aggressor, impossibly supple, the heel digging into his attacker's hip, toes flexing almost comically in an attempt to grab for purchase.
Another two or three rib blows. Dino's skin was turning an ugly darkened red from the continual onslaught. Jesu, it looked like a slab of raw meat. She watched his chest heave once and hitch as if the pain was finally affecting him.
Then one of Dino's arms slipped under his attacker's left arm, crept insidiously around to the front of the shoulder, and buried his fingers in the heavy flesh over the man's clavicle. She winced in imagined pain as Dino's long fingers locked into place.
Meanwhile, she finally caught the idea of what Dino was trying to do as his opposite leg made a couple of attempts to hitch over the other man's right arm. The one that was doing it's best to imitate a battering ram.
The men beside her were shouting and jumping in place every so often as the drama before them unfolded. She felt herself get jostled a couple times as a few of the more drunken ones lost their balance in their enthusiasm. She unconsciously pushed one away, watching in fascination as the left arm of Dino's opponent slowly began to turn red, then dark purple.
It was over suddenly. She could barely piece together the sequence of events as Dino capitulated on a miniscule weakness. Distracted by the arm caught up in Dino's pressure lock, his opponent made an attempt to dislodge the offending grip. In the instant his grip shifted, Dino's left leg was up and over his opponent's right shoulder. Dino's hands simultaneously slid down his opponent's left arm to his wrist and then Dino locked his left foot behind his right knee, successfully trapping his opponent's neck and left arm between his thighs.
Dino's opponent thrashed uselessly in the chokehold, his face slowly turning a deep beet red. Alessa saw Dino's thigh muscles tense and it didn't take long for the highly touted Molotok to lose consciousness. Dino kept the man in the choke-hold for a few more seconds as she whooped into the din surrounding her. Finally, massively unaffected by the cheers around him, he untangled himself from his conquest and stood. His left ribcage was an ugly red color, and a deep, blue-black bruising was already spreading. Blood from the cut above his eyes was smeared all over his face and drying in the stubble at his hairline.
His gaze passed over the crowd and found hers. They shared a moment of fierce pride from across the distance before Dino turned away, heading for the restricted area where the fighters prepared for their matches. As Dino passed through one of the exits, she made out Khiril's silhouette deep in the shadows, where he had been leaning against the wall to watch the fight. Satisfied that Dino would be taken care of for the time being, she met Vasiliy's stricken gaze. The prince looked like he had been pole-axed.
Alessa slumped against the stone wall than ran the circumference of the sparring circle, in a wash of relief, heart pounding. Vasiliy began bemoaning his losses in good-natured despair, directing increasingly slurred curses at the unconscious Molotok and all of that man's lax, useless muscular glory.
The prince was weaving at the knees and Alessa watched him closely, vaguely concerned that the sedative was going to be too strong for him. She wondered how long it had actually been affecting him, since she had been distracted for the duration of the fight. He stumbled into the man next to him, swatting blearily at nothing in the air before him.
"Too much to drink, eh?" one of his courtiers asked him helpfully, amid a myriad of guffaws and manly shoulder slaps.
Oh yeah. Way too much. She coughed discreetly to suppress her urge to gloat. She sure as hell hoped no one had noticed that he hadn't had more than the single glass of wine.
"You!"
Alessa jumped as Vasiliy pointed at her. He took a couple of unsteady steps towards her and clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder,
"You sure you don't want to have dinner with me?"
"I seem to recall that you are the one that lost the bet," she purred, relieved that he hadn't noticed anything amiss about his condition, "But I might be persuaded if you fulfill your end of the bargain."
"Greedy," he tsked. His gaze abruptly went to something behind her and she resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. He blinked rapidly and then rubbed his eyes before focusing back on her.
"No more greedy than you, Prince Vasiliy," she retorted, kind of enjoying herself.
"Kharasho; I will be in touch then, malyutka," he slurred, releasing her and staggering backwards into the group of his peers. He was swallowed up by the little group and she watched them go, mildly concerned for his safety. The hallucinogen was just starting to work…
Oh. Personal guards. Of course he'd have them hanging around somewhere. She idly watched a couple of efficient-looking men in matching surcoats discreetly tail the departing party before taking a seat to wait for some of the crowd to leave.
One of the courtesans sat beside her with the air of one just taking a break from work; Alessa heard the girl beside her give a faint sigh of relief.
"Long evening?" Alessa asked drily.
"And not yet over," the woman agreed, giving her a mild leer.
Alessa nodded and gazed at the woman speculatively. Could she use these Russian courtesans as Ezio used Claudia's? First she had to know if there were any she could trust.
And she knew just the bait to dangle.
"My fighter just finished his bout," Alessa drawled offhandedly,
"Ah, yes, the Roman," the women's jaded eyes softened minutely and Alessa struck.
"I am sure that he is interested in female company other than my own," she said, pretending not to notice the interest the other made no effort to hide, "You wouldn't happen to know a discreet, quality establishment where he might find such a thing?" She gave the courtesan a slow wink. The girl, for she couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen, shrugged gracefully.
"I might know a place," she eventually offered.
Alessa inclined her chin respectfully,
"I thought you might. Is it near here?"
"Outside the Kremlin. Many of the fighters go to Anastasia's. A sty. And full of sows, if you ask me. I think your fighter would be more than welcome at The Rose in Bloom. Ask for the Madame and tell her that Talya sent you."
"La Rosa in Fiore," Alessa translated. She grinned, "I think it sounds perfect."
The coincidence of the name aside, this was interesting. The girl was obviously well versed in innuendo and Alessa wondered idly if there really was more to her. Of course, courtesans hired by the prince himself were more than likely as experienced in intrigue as the court itself. If not more so.
Alessa gave the girl a pleasant, but detached nod and returned to her empty seating area. The little attendant appeared at once, and she startled a bit; maybe they were assigned to each section? If so, he had had an easy night of it, as she had been gone thieving and inhabiting the prince's section since her arrival.
"Can I get you anything, devushka?" he asked solicitously.
"I need my cloak," she replied, "And if you would take my words to Dino Demasi: please inform him that I am returning to my inn. I am tired."
He bowed, a quick bob of a movement,
"And your winnings?" he prompted, his voice hesitant and somewhat embarrassed at her lack of knowledge of the proceedings, "How do you wish to collect them?"
"Uh," she replied, taken aback, not sure how to answer, "There's a lot?"
He leaned forward, carefully not to touch her, and shielding his mouth he murmured a figure into her ear that nearly made her swoon. He correctly read her astonished expression as his obsequious manner subsided just a bit,
"I can recommend a good banker, Donna Alessandra," he replied, his attempt at mimicking her name and title in an Italian accent almost perfect, "And we can transfer the money into an account for you."
She nodded slowly, eying him speculatively.
"Spasiba, gospadin. What is your name so that I may ask for your assistance at our next fight?"
He flushed with pleasure,
"Pavel, my lady. And I am honored by your offer, but I will not be at the next fight as we attendants come from the retinue of a single boyar that sponsors each event. Tonight, my lord, Nikolai Zakharyin-Yuriev has that honor." He indicated a badge on the left sleeve of his austere black overcoat; a yellow, eight-pointed star centered on a black field.
"I see," Alessa replied, disappointed. The guy seemed pleasant and eager to help. She wondered idly if he could be bribed away from this Nikolai. "Your Lord is quite fortunate to have you for his valet."
"Thank you, my lady! My Lord sits just across the way," he said, discreetly indicating a section containing two dark-haired men, alike enough in features and far enough apart in age to give the appearance of a father-son relationship. She made a mental note of the older man's face and the sudden thought struck her that he looked familiar…
Meh.
All these Russians looked alike. Even with the startling variety of hair and eye colors, the Slavic facial features seemed to be a universal here in Moscow, whether one was noble or common – the slightly tip-tilted eyes, high cheekbones, and broad foreheads. This man was no exception. He wore a short beard that clung becomingly to his jaw and cheeks.
Pavel in the meantime had produced a vial of ink and a quill, and was busily scribbling. He blew carefully on the ink to dry it and then presented the parchment to her with a flourish,
"My lord banks here, Donna, and this family is most worthy to take care of your money."
"Spasiba bolshaya," she said, still unable to process the idea of the money she and Dino now controlled due to his win. Boy, was he going to gloat. She folded it carefully and tucked it away.
"I will go get your coat, Donna, although I suggest that you await your fighter to escort you to your lodgings. Moskva, she can be dangerous at night."
"Indeed," Alessa murmured without a hint of irony, watching him as he hurried away. She would almost welcome a chance to give her body something to vent itself on; all this polite chitchat and attempts to maneuver the social waters were giving her a headache.
She abruptly missed Ezio; with him, there was none of this figuring things out and planning where to strike. Now she had to do it herself and hope she had read each situation correctly.
Pain in the ass.
And inconvenience was the only reason she missed him, dammit. She didn't miss the calm, confidence of his presence or the way she felt in that first instant when his arms when around her, enveloping her in his masculine scent and…
Bah! Cazzo tutto! It'd be nice to stumble upon a good fight on the way back to the inn. And maybe indulge in a nice, juicy swear-fest. In Italian. The Russian system of cursing was way too complicated.
There were still a good amount of drunken revelers left as Pavel returned with her cloak and she pulled the luxurious bulk of the white fur over her gown. Deftly side-stepping inebriated men staggering out into the night and random, two-man brawls, she ascended the stone stairs and out into the night air.
It was frigid, the air fairly crackled with cold. She wondered when the ground would be covered in snow and what that would be like. In Roma, the winters would get cold and sometimes she would wake in the morning to find a dusting of the white powder covering everything. But it would usually be melted by the time the sun reached it's zenith.
She couldn't imagine how there could ever be more than that.
The soft soles of her genteel leather boots padded softly on the cobblestones as she crossed the main square towards the Cathedral of the Annunciation. The Grand Prince and his family worshiped in the newly built church.
It was too dark to see the three golden domes that she had caught only glimpses of from outside the walls during the day, so she passed over the porch and entered through a bronze door. On the inside, the door's intricate fretwork was picked out in gold foil. She left the heavy warmth of her fur hood up; women weren't allowed to go bare-headed into these Orthodox churches.
Curious, and interested in the artwork displayed, she slowly made her way down the nave towards the main altar.
The opulence and elegance of the artwork commanded all of her attention, so that she became almost drunk with visual excess. Thousands of candles flickered in the darkness, tiny points of light dispelling the night and replacing it with glimpses of the golden icons. The candlelight imbued saints and angels with heavenly light, bringing them to life in colorful brilliance at the various altars.
The ceiling and it's artistry was lost in darkness, the multitude of ritual candles unable to penetrate the shadows at that height. The darkened interior appeared cavern-like, but the open space above her echoed with the softest sound. The contrast of the visual and auditory impressions created a curious sensation of being a tiny figure in considerable space, but not quite lost or insignificant in the larger scheme of things.
Which was somewhat comforting.
She snorted to herself; finding consolation in a church – go figure.
Her steps were nearly silent on the floor and only the luxurious rustling of her furs against the silk and wool of her gown aurally demarcated her passage. She moved to each gentle pool of light, viewing the icons that were displayed at each altar, each one surrounded by the burning candles representing people's prayers.
Hopes and wishes lighting up the darkness…
…Damn, someone was melodramatic tonight.
Just before she reached the iconostasis, she was drawn to a veritable forest of candles that burned before a single icon, which depicted the Virgin Mary in a Byzantine style she was familiar with. The icon was obviously very old, a stark contrast to many of the new relics and icons in the recently renovated cathedral. But age did not diminish the impact of the Virgin's soulful eyes that stared out at the viewer. The arms of the Christ-child reached up to lovingly touch his Holy Mother's face.
It was a scene repeated ad infinitum in every Catholic and Orthodox church in Europe. But somehow, this one seemed different; radiating with that profound, exquisite, yet oddly agonizing phenomenon that was unconditional love. She felt the urge to drop to her knees and was surprised to find herself kneeling before the piece. She crossed herself reflexively, something she hadn't done since… since…
Abruptly the tiny flames of the candles wavered, a hundred individual lights blurring into the golden background of the icon, the colors and light coalescing to obscure the mournful gaze of the La Madonna. She felt her fists clench as an all too familiar, ineffectual rage that came out of nowhere to engulf her in a vise-like grip.
For the troubled eyes of the Madonna in the icon had reflected all too well her own grief and love for her lost family. For her child that would never be born.
She wondered if it was a sin to empathize with the Holy Mother's loss.
Alessa angrily swept a finger under her eyes. No one was there, but she still made sure her hood was indeed obscuring her face while she struggled to control herself.
Seriously. The artwork was making her all emotional.
What was next? Tullio magically appearing with a musical rendition of loss and despair?
While she silently fought off that annoying runny nose that came with tears, a small figure swathed in a voluminous robe of unidentifiable color appeared out of nowhere and knelt beside her. Glad for the distraction, Alessa surmised that it was one of the altar boys for the cathedral and nodded equivocally. The robe's sleeves fell back as the figure crossed himself and clasped surprisingly narrow, delicate hands together as he bowed his head. Alessa took a furtive closer look from her peripheral vision; the gesture had been decidedly feminine…
The folds of the hood shifted advantageously as the figure turned its head to face her and Alessa was rewarded with a glimpse of a cat-like green eye, mischievous and naïve all at once. The girl was watching her, so Alessa gave her a polite nod and made to leave.
"Don't go," came a childlike soprano from within the dark folds of the hood.
"Uh?" Alessa replied, already rising in a half crouch. She slowly lowered her knees back to the stone.
"I like to come see her," the girl chirped, her hand going out with expressive youthful grace to indicate the glowing icon before them, "She's been here for over a hundred years! Even princes and generals cannot resist her."
"Oh," Alessa said with a little more confidence. She glanced around and replied sotto voce, "Ah… it's my first time seeing her."
"Isn't she beautiful?" the girl breathed. A tiny pointed chin peeped out of the hood as she raised her face to the icon, adoration evident in her pose, "I hope that I love my babies like that someday."
Alessa made yet another sound of surprise.
"Because she cares, you see?" the girl chattered on, "I mean, most of these stuffy old saints are portrayed acting so indifferent that I don't know how anyone can find comfort in their spiritual significance."
Okay.
"Maybe this artist was just more skilled than others," Alessa replied with gentle sarcasm. The girl turned her face fully towards her then, and Alessa caught her first full glimpse of the girl's face.
Narrow, dainty features still soft with childhood were over-powered by a pair of startling eyes. They were huge, luminous – and different colors. One was the vivid green she had already seen, the other an ethereal blue. The effect was breathtaking, especially given that her pupils were constricted within the shadows of her hood. A pale curl of hair had escaped from the confines of the hood and unfurled like a crescent of sunlight against the dark cloak.
The girl beamed.
"No, I don't think so; because there are many skilled artists out there that depict the Mother of God as dour or emotionless. They all like that obsequious little expression of bored detachment. Which I don't understand at all. And the artists depict those emotions well enough."
Her little face scrunched up to demonstrate, with comic effect; Alessa had to restrain a burst of genuine laughter that would grate against the little bubble of tranquility she had going on with the kid, who prattled right along with innocent intensity,
"Vladimirskaya is the only icon I have seen where the Holy Mother shows such love for her baby."
Staying abreast of her chatter was like trying to pin down a beam of sunlight flitting through wind tossed leaves; elusive, frustrating, and yet surprisingly compulsory.
Alessa was still nodding in bewildered agreement as she processed the rapid Russian the girl spoke. And no sooner had she gazed at the icon to confirm the girl's final statement did she realize that she had been asked her name.
"Alessandra," she murmured, just barely remembering to maintain her "noblewoman" persona.
"Oh, I like that. I'm Irina. My name is not as fun as yours, but you're not from here. Maybe Ispaniya? Italiya? We get a lot of Ital'yantsi' here to build for the Grand Prince."
"Italia," Alessa confirmed.
"Oh! How exciting," Irina turned her body to finally face her fully. The glowing icon gazed down at them benevolently. "Say something in your language. Please!"
Alessa rattled off a line from one of Petrarch's love poems. Irina grinned and clasped her hands in ingenuous delight.
"What does it mean?"
" 'I freeze and burn, love is bitter and sweet, my sighs are tempests and my tears are floods, I am in ecstasy and agony, I am possessed by memories of her and I am in exile from myself .' He is very dramatic," Alessa opined, "He cannot make up his mind on whether love is excruciating or wonderful."
"I think that true love must be painful in order to deserve the designation," the girl said gravely, her expression abruptly very adult in it's solemnity. They sat in silence for awhile, Alessa contemplating with wistful melancholy on a ten year old's take on love.
"Wait! I know who you are!"
"Uh, you do?" Alessa stammered, caught off guard by yet another change of topic.
"You brought a fighter. Can I meet him?"
"Uh, yes. Wait, what? How do you know?"
The girl rolled her mismatched eyes,
"People don't pay attention to me because they think I'm a child. So I hear things."
Alessa tilted her head to the side …
"And just how old are you?"
"Thirteen, almost fourteen. In two months." Adolescent pride knew no bounds.
"Uh huh," Alessa said thoughtfully, hiding her surprise. "Where do you hear these things?" she asked with just as much personal curiosity as an official need to know. That statement on Italian artisans, maybe she knew something of Solari… The girl gave her a knowing look, appearing cunning beyond her years. It was vaguely unsettling; like Markku when he got that manic focus.
"My mother is a nun at the Starodevichiy convent. A lot of the ladies of the court go there for prayer." She leaned forward, cat-like eyes gleaming as she whispered conspiratorially, "They do nothing but gossip the whole time!"
"Your mother is a nun?"
"I was the product of a rape," Irina explained, her tone utterly matter-of-fact. "That's why I have weird eyes," she continued as Alessa struggled not to physically recoil from the blunt statement, "Because I'm cursed. But my mother decided to keep me and love me despite of that. I think that's why I love Vladimirskaya so much, reminds me of her."
"I see," Alessa said faintly, not quite knowing which topic to invite elaboration on. Who the fuck was calling the kid weird? She'd like to stab the maldito bastardo right up under his chin. Of course, if the girl lived in a convent, it was probably a woman – or women – who said those horrible things. Who blames a child for the sin of a parent?
But like the big chicken shit that she was, she focused on something easy. "Do you really want to meet my fighter?"
Irina's eyes shone as she leaned forward to grip Alessa's forearm, unable to contain her delight.
"Really?"
"Yes, really," Alessa confirmed. "I think the two of you would get along quite well," she added drily. The girls' heads tilted synchronously towards the main entrance in response to the sound of the doors opening and closing. Familiar footsteps and the distinctive clink of heavy armor punctuated the tranquil silence of the empty cathedral.
Alessa looked at Irina, who had shrunk back into her hood, appearing like magic to turn into a featureless, unassuming child in a dark cloak. She smiled at the girl, whose eyes gleamed from within the shadows of her hood as she sidled away from her towards a dim corner of the alcove.
"In fact, I think you'll get to meet him sooner than I thought."
Dino Demasi
Dammit, his fucking ribs were killing him. Every inhalation was torture, even with the bindings supporting his chest under his armor. He was royally pissed; he didn't like to be in pain. And then Alessa had ditched him to go play in the church, when he was ready to go to bed.
So now he had to go collect her before she got herself into even more trouble. He had heard that the little shit had gone ahead and found some snuggle time with the prince – the fucking Prince – in her efforts to create an alibi for her break-in. Khiril had had an apoplexy, which had been sort of funny to watch until one actually considered the implications of her frolicking about with the royal.
And then he had been nearly as pissed as his trainer.
The danger she had inadvertently gotten herself into took his breath away… oh no wait, those were his ribs twingeing again. But still, she should have known better. And, broken ribs or not, church or not, he was going to shake some sense into her until her teeth rattled when he found her.
He sensed a presence near the main altar and discovered her before one of the icon altars. He spared an appreciative glance for the icon itself and then focused in on her as she stood calmly before him.
"Are you insane?" he harangued her in Italian.
"I assume that that's a rhetorical question, ciccino. Because Markku isn't here," she replied.
"Don't be a smartass," he growled as he loomed over her. She was annoyingly unaffected, raising an amused eyebrow as he continued, "What were you thinking tonight?"
She chuckled, a little nervously, knowing exactly what he was referring to,
"I didn't know who he was when I took him back. But it's alright, I drugged him, so he won't remember much."
"You drugged him?"
Her stare could have shriveled the stoutest warrior's heart.
"What else would you have suggested? I was gone for exactly the amount of time that the break-in occurred. He was drunk, not stupid." Her voice was low and dangerous.
Dino stared at her for a moment, not quite sure how to answer. He was distracted suddenly by a small figure that had sidled closer to her, half behind her. Alessa seemed to come to the same realization at the same time.
She murmured something to the figure in her halting Russian. Dino was impressed; she was improving rapidly. She had the accent down, but she still spoke in the cadence of their native language; she hadn't yet picked up the significant pauses and inflections of the Russian language. He couldn't say the same for himself; he still had a hell of a time just rolling all those interminably long words off his tongue. He was getting better at understanding, but speaking was a nightmare for him.
He couldn't quite make out what Alessa said to the kid – it had to be a kid – but whatever she did say caused a transformation in posture. The hood fell back to reveal an elfin-featured female with mis-matched eyes that seemed too big for her face.
"Hi," he drawled.
"I didn't know he'd be so big," the little girl breathed.
Dino grinned.
"That's what all the ladies say, pretty girl," he replied in Italian.
Alessa swatted him.
"Non essere un maiale."
"Sorry," he said, not meaning it. She caught his tone and gave him a withering look. He beamed innocently at her, and then focused on the little girl as Alessa told him about her request.
"You want to watch my next fight?" he asked, stumbling hopelessly through his Russian. To see her response was like watching a flower opening towards the sun. He found himself grinning back.
"Jesu, Dino," Alessa muttered to him, "You want her to watch you get killed?"
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." He turned his attention to the little girl, switching to Russian, "Kak tebya zavut, tesorina?"
She blinked up at him, suddenly shy.
"Irina."
"Nice to meet you," he said, "Tell you what, we'll sneak you in to the next fight, and I'll beat the hell out of one of those guys just for you."
He made a face; God, his Russian was horrific. Irina seemed to agree because she giggled before she nodded. Alessa looked like she really wanted to call him some bad names and was red-faced with the effort not to. Ah well, kid was out in the middle of the night with no discernible adult – he was sure she'd seen some things. A good old-fashioned ass kicking wouldn't bother her.
Alessa's gaze turned knowing when his breath hitched in involuntarily as one of his ribs twinged. She leaned down to murmur to the child, who nodded vigorously before suddenly disappearing into the shadows.
"You sure she'll be okay?" Dino asked, relieved to be back into Italian as he squinted in the shadows, looking for movement.
"She doesn't have far to go, she lives here within the Kremlin," Alessa replied, her tone even in contrast to the slight concern that wrinkled her forehead.
He grunted as they stood and walked out into the cold, their elbows bumping. The nighttime chill settled over him with an almost physical weightiness.
"Cute kid. Where'd you find her?"
"She found me, it was the damndest thing. She wouldn't shut up, either. I hope she doesn't babble like that to every stranger she meets. Are you really going to let her watch you fight?"
"Why not?"
She laughed at him,
"Wait until you have kids, ciccino, I'll be sure to expose them to all sorts of depravity and let you deal with the consequences."
He made a noncommittal sound and they fell in step, descending into companionable silence.
It was quite late; it could easily be classified as very early. The city was utterly silent, something he was not used to. Roma bustled at all hours and it took him a minute to figure that it was the cold that caused it. Every sane creature was hunkered down somewhere warm… or less cold, anyway. Nothing stirred in the frigid darkness.
The quiet, instead of being peaceful, was actually rather unnerving. His armor, designed as it was to be more silent than regular plate armor, still creaked slightly at leather straps and clinked quietly – subtle noises that wouldn't be heard under normal circumstances.
Dark and cold, just like he imagined hell would be.
At least in that moment…
He was lost in his morbid thoughts, distracted by fatigue and pain and cold, when Alessa suddenly halted. She swept her hood back from her head and glanced about, her dark eyes narrowed with alertness.
A sudden shot rang out, echoing weirdly in the cold air and Dino felt a new burst of pain bloom at his right shoulder. He blinked… and was surprised to find himself on the ground with his fight injuries clamoring for his attention.
Above him, Alessa snarled a curse and then crouched protectively above him, her eyes darting about for the shooter, while her hand scrambled at his chest, feeling for an injury. Spots of black began to appear in his vision.
"Get up," she urged, not taking her eyes off the night-shrouded rooftops.
His response was to take his first ragged inhale since the impact and she spared a glance for him as he gasped for air.
"I will drag you through the streets by your heels, get up! they're gone for now, but they might come back!" Her words were forced through gritted teeth.
Well, he supposed if that was the alternative…
He limbs flopped about like a newborn foal's as he lurched to his feet, wheezing for air. Alessa deftly tucked herself under his left arm, and man-handled him into the shadows.
"What the fuck was that?" she whispered from somewhere under his chin. The grey ruff of her hood was tickling his nose, but he couldn't spare the breath to do anything about it. So he leaned on her, heavy armor and all, as she dragged them through a narrow alley, out into the next street, and then doubled back in yet another alley a couple blocks down.
Alessa helped him to the ground in the dark and he leaned against a frozen stone wall. He watched passively as she broke into a long abandoned building whose walls were starting to buckle, and didn't resist when she helped him inside.
She bolted the door up from the inside and dragged a couple of broken timber across to block the thing for good measure. The other end of the room was partially collapsed, blocking the only other entrance into the place.
"You okay?" she finally asked as she knelt in front of him, her hands lightly going over his chest and shoulders, turning his face one way and then the other, "You're not bleeding… Oh, look.."
He looked down at the new gouge in the Romulus armor, right over his chest where the bullet had impacted.
"This is some seriously durable armor," she marveled, looking him over clinically, peeling the heavy, eagle-inscribed pauldron back to inspect the underside.
"And you seriously have the worst bedside manner ever," he replied, removing her hands from where they dug mercilessly into his chest.
She clicked her tongue at him, but left off her cursory examination for wounds,
"Who do you think it was?" she asked, pulling her hood back up over her head and settling down beside him. She set her arms out on her knees, ready to deploy both of her hidden blades in an instant. They leaned on each other, side to side, and the proximity created a little bit of warmth. His breaths started to come easier.
"I don't know," he said thoughtfully, "It could have been anyone; someone who lost a bet tonight, a random attack, or maybe Solari's murderers have somehow figured out that we're in the city."
Alessa made a considering noise,
"I don't think any random footpad off the street would be carrying a firearm, too pricey a weapon for that…" she stopped and looked abruptly startled before her brows came down over her eyes, "Unless…"
"Unless?" he prompted.
"When I was stealing the records, there was another thief. She had two pistols. She might have thought I was new competition on her turf," she spoke slowly, as if she were mulling over the idea out loud… "But I didn't get that vibe from her…"
She actually seemed disappointed.
"You can't just trust people, tesora, especially not a thief. And I know how much you like to pick up strays from the enemy." He chuckled, and then winced, pressing a hand to his ribs. She snorted contemptuously and he could actually feel her disdainful gaze on him from with the darkness of her fur hood.
"Don't patronize me," she grumbled. "And besides, she didn't jump in front of one of her own people and take a hit for me like Remo did."
"Don't get distracted," he reminded her, "So if you don't think it was this girl-thief…"
"It's not," she interrupted. "Even if she wanted to wait for me to leave the Kremlin, we are dressed as a hooded noblewoman and a heavily armored fighter; she only saw me and I was in my working clothes."
Dino grunted in acknowledgement, then admitted,
"Well, I honestly can't concentrate; think we can go back to Dmitriy's and hit the sack? Sleep on it?"
She was quiet for a moment, totally ignoring the half-hearted innuendo. Then she surprised the shit out of him when her hand came out to rest on his forearm with a surprisingly empathetic touch that calmed some of his tension.
Awww; she really did care. All it had taken was him getting shot for her to show it.
Her tone, when she spoke was brisk and businesslike, but her hand remained on his forearm, her thumb brushing over his wrist.
"If we have someone following us, I'd rather not lead them back to Dmitriy. If they report to someone in Ivan's court, then his thieves are compromised. And if it's a renegade in his ranks, we'll be easy pickings…"
She trailed off and the stood abruptly, her hand going unconsciously to a pouch at her side.
"There's an upscale inn just across the river from here. I remember it from when we were scanning viewpoints the other day. It's one of the only structures around made of stone so it'll be secure. And it's taller than the surrounding buildings so we'll have easy access to the roofs."
She grinned suddenly at him,
"Maybe it's time to put that money you made to good use."
He heaved himself to his feet and towered over her.
"Lead the way."
She halted mid-turn on her way to peek out the boarded up window. He caught a glimpse of a mocking grin and resisted the urge to reach out and pinch her before she said something mouthy.
"Wow, now I know what to do when I want you to behave yourself. I just have to shoot you in the chest."
A/N:
Italian:
cazzo tutto = fuck it all; maldito bastardo = damned bastard; Non essere un maiale = don't be a pig; tesorina = little treasure
Russian:
dorogaya = sweetheart; nyet, eta nye pravda = no, that's not true; Molotok = hammer; Kharasho = good; malyutka = little one; Spasiba, gospadin = thank you, spasiba bolshaya = thank you very much; devushka = lady;
Interesting note on the language - it contains no articles (a, the, an) and has no equivalent for the English verb "to be" (am, are, is)
Moscow:
Church of the Annunciation is about 10 years old as of this story.
Vladimirskaya or Our Lady of Vladimir icon is one of the most famous icons of the Russian Orthodox church. It sits in the Tretyakov Gallery in modern times, and kings and generals really did go before the icon to pray for victory or protection. I've seen it personally and can vouch for the emotional impact it has. It was painted in Greece in the 1100s.
The Zakharyin-Yuriev family are progenitors of Romanov dynasty: Vasiliy's III's son (Ivan IV, otherwise known as 'the terrible' and Russia's first Tsar) marries Anastasia Romanova, my fictional character, Nikolai's, great-granddaughter. However, the Romanovs wouldn't take full power of the Tsardom until 1613.
At this point in the story, Dmitriy the Grandson is Ivan III's heir, but Vasiliy is poised to take that position instead.