Chapter 2:1787

Connor awoke, and immediately wished he hadn't. His head throbbed and the room swam. Everything felt too hot and too cold all at once and there was a terrible taste on his tongue. There were people talking around him and hands holding him down. Connor thrashed, trying to break free, but the hands held firm. Someone forced his mouth open and a foul-tasting brew was poured down his throat. The world grew dark and the Assassin knew more.

The second time Connor awoke, he could think. "I was poisoned," he said, his voice horse.

"Yes, you were," Dobby said as she limped over. "Had us pretty worried, but you pulled through."

Connor frowned. "What happened?"

Dobby sighed. "Tried to take out Logan. It didn't go over very well." She hesitated briefly. "He was burning villages when I left, forcing the inhabitants out in the snow. Said if he couldn't stop the war, he was going to do his best to ensure the tribes couldn't fight one."

Connor shut his eyes, allowing himself a moment of grief. "I see."

"Jacob's here too," Dobby said. "Hamilton hurt him pretty bad. Bastard got away without a scratch, too."

So Hamilton was a Templar. "Gist?" Connor asked.

"Escaped." Atasá:ta entered the room, trembling with rage. "I marked him, but he convinced the Oyata'ge'ronoñ to protect him. I did not wish to kill them, so it took some time to extricate myself. When I did, he was already gone." The Kanien'kehá:ka Assassin scowled. "He was one of those who killed my father. I had hoped to achieve my vengeance, but it has been stolen from me again."

That was right, Connor recalled. Atasá:ta's father had been an Assassin of the Colonial Brotherhood. The Templars had killed him near the end of the Purge. "I did not know Nathanial was among those," Connor apologized.

"Nor I," Atasá:ta said, "until I saw him again."

Connor nodded. "Let the others know I am awake," he said. "I need to know what has happened." Atasá:ta inclined his head, leaving the room. Connor returned his attention to Dobby. "You said Jacob was injured?"

Dobby scowled. "Hamilton shot him in the leg. Duncan got him out, but the wound was infected. For awhile we thought we might have to amputate, but it's been clearing up. The doctor thinks he'll recover now."

Connor hoped so. Jacob had a family to care for. As do I, the Assassin thought. Matters were not as they had been; he could no longer risk himself as he once had. He would have to try to be more careful. "Hamilton is another Templar."

"And a Hunter," Dobby confirmed. "Assuming we're right about the Templars with Hidden Blades."

Another Hunter. There were far too many of those for Connor's liking. Just how many had Cormac trained? "Have we learned any more about them?"

"Not really," Jamie said as he entered the room, Clipper, Atasá:ta, and Fillian following behind. "I've made a list of all the ones we know, but there are almost certainly more."

"They're Assassin trained," Dobby said, taking up the thread, "and use Hidden Blades. The ones we've seen have worn their rings on the left hand, like Cormac does."

"We think it's what identifies them," Jamie continued. "Conlan wears his on his right, so it seems not every Cormac is a Hunter."

"And not every Hunter is a Cormac," Clipper concluded. "Logan could have been an anomaly, but Logan and Hamilton…" His voice trailed off as Connor frowned.

"The other Brotherhoods have been informed?"

Clipper nodded. "Faulkner sent word." There was that, at least.

"Is there anything else?" Connor asked, shifting his position slightly. He hated being bedridden.

"We think that madman – Coyote Man, some call him – may be one of the Hunters," Atasá:ta said. "But he has not been seen for some time."

"Shay has very specific ideas of what it is to be a Templar," Connor said thoughtfully. "He has killed those he believed to be false or overly violent before. Given what we know of Coyote Man, it would not surprise me if he met such a fate." He sighed again, turning to their youngest member. "I see you've returned, Fillian."

The boy smiled sheepishly. "I killed Middleton?"

"Very good." Connor smiled at the boy, who blushed.

"He also warned his sister," Clipper snapped, glaring at Fillian.

The young Assassin glared back. "She's my sister! And I didn't warn her – I told her she should leave the Templars."

Which was all the warning Gillian needed, Connor thought irritably. "What exactly did you tell her?"

The boy flushed. "I told her she was too good to be a Templar. And… And I knew she killed our parents," he said in a sudden rush, "and I knew why, too."

"She killed your parents?!" Dobby demanded, horrified. "And you forgave her?"

Fillian looked down guiltily. "When we had the truce… I snuck to New York and asked Mistress Cormac." He'd done what? "I figured out what Gillian'd done and I wanted to know why."

"What did Mistress Cormac tell you?" Connor asked warily. He trusted Shay's wife even less than her husband. The beautiful face hid a sharp and cunning mind.

"She said our mother did bad things to Gillian," Fillian said quietly. "I'd forgot, but when she said that I remembered. It wasn't just Gilly – it was me too. And Gilly caught her, so she took a knife and made her stop. But then Athair came and he saw and… Gilly still had the knife. I think she panicked; I don't think she meant to kill him." Connor looked at the other Assassins, all as horrified as he.

"What parent...?" Dobby muttered.

"I couldn't just leave her to die!" Fillian shouted, his eyes full of tears. "Not after I knew. Not after…" Jamie held him, as the boy sniffled. "She did it for me," he whispered. "She did it for me."

"She did," Connor affirmed softly. "And you saved her?"

Fillian shook his head, still pressed against Jamie's chest. "No, I… I told her the Templars were going down. And she was too good to go down with them." He sniffled again. "She said she could defend herself fine, but she'd let me go 'cause I warned her. So I left."

Connor sighed. "I cannot say I do not understand. What happened to you and your sister was terrible, and what she did to save you…" He could not imagine the choice the young girl had had to make, and a part of his heart went out to the Templar woman. "You have done nothing wrong," he continued, "for you have not yet pledged to the Creed. But once you do," he forced his voice to harden, "you cannot act as you have. Can you accept that?"

Fillian swallowed. "I know," he admitted. "I realized, after. And I won't do it again. I don't know if I could ever kill her, though."

Connor looked thoughtfully at the boy. Fillian had grown, and grown into himself, in the years since he had been a Boston street thief. "I can accept that," Connor said at last. "Can you accept the possibility of her death at our hands?"

"Yes." Fillian's eyes were wet, but his voice was firm.

"Then you are an Assassin," Connor stated. There had been a ceremony once, he knew. Achilles had spoken of it and Cormac had written of the same. Connor had not needed one, and neither had his pupils. There would be no robes or Hidden Blades given out, not unless Fillian requested them. "Go, and find a place for yourself in the dorms."

After a moment, when Fillian had gone, Connor asked, "is there any word from the Aquila?"

"The Morrigan's vanished," Clipper reported. "So have the other Templar ships, except the Éire."

Connor frowned. The Éire was a Man o' War, the largest and most powerful of Cormac's small fleet. "Why does she remain?"

Clipper shrugged. "Faulkner thinks she's waiting for something – or someone. The Aquila can't attack though – Cormac's little ones are on board."

Connor's frown deepened. "Faulkner is certain?"

Jamie nodded, looking irritated. "He says they have at least one on deck every nice day. The Templars know we won't attack as long as they're there, so…" He scowled.

"He's using the Creed against us," Atasá:ta said angrily, "and his own children as shields. What if we were willing to attack innocents?"

"His children would be elsewhere," Connor answered, utterly certain of it. "He knows there is no risk in keeping them aboard; he would not do so otherwise." Shay Cormac, Connor thought irritably, is far too good at subverting the Creed for his own ends. Not so surprising, considering the Templar had once been sworn to it.

"He's going to have another," Clipper noted, "or so Faulkner claims."

"Again?" Dobby demanded. "Doesn't he have enough children already?"

"He trains them all to kill us," Atasá:ta said with some annoyance. "Perhaps he is trying to breed an army?"

"Succeeding, you mean," Jamie said wryly. Connor chuckled. Shay did have a ridiculous number of children. The Assassin still had not met them all.

The momentary levity faded quickly. "Has William arrived?"

"He's on the Aquila," Jamie said. "Faulkner plans to bring him here as soon as you give the word."

"He has it," Connor said, then: "Have any of you seen the Hunter woman?"

Clipper shook his head. "I caught a glimpse when she had Cormac's double loaded into a carriage. I haven't seen her since." He frowned, asking, "where did he find someone who looks just like him?"

"It's his son," Connor said, "George Monro. My father trained him to take Cormac's place when needed." He sighed. "So, you have not found the woman."

"Why do you want her found so much?" Dobby asked.

"The woman warned me," Connor answered. "I would like to know why."

Jamie's eyes narrowed. "What benefit could Cormac have from that?"

"She said he did not know," Connor replied.

"She might be lying," Atasá:ta noted.

It was possible, but… "I do not think she was," Connor admitted. "I can see no way her warning benefited her father." He sighed again. "Perhaps it was gratitude, as she claimed." He shook his head. "Is there any word from Stephane?"

"In Virginia," Dobby reported. "He says we might want to recruit Patrick Henry. Apparently, the man lives and breathes liberty."

"He also thinks another man, Mason, may be an ally," Jamie said. "And he's reached out to Madison, who has been receptive, as well as Randolph. Washington he intends to leave to you, as you already know him."

Connor nodded. It was good news. "Joe?"

"He is on a personal mission," Atasá:ta said, "or so he claimed when I gave him your orders."

Connor frowned. Joe had done this before, disappearing for months at a time on 'personal missions'. He never bothered to explain what those entailed, though Connor could guess. Joe protected women and children; his 'personal missions' tended to end with many evil men – and some women – dead. If he was on one of those, the Assassins wouldn't hear from him for some time. Connor appreciated what the man did, but his timing was terrible. "And Duncan?"

"Infiltrated the rebels," Clipper revealed. "He says they're planning something big."

"It seems I've awoken just in time," Connor said dryly, but his next words were firm. "We must put an end to this Templar rebellion before May." If they did not, the frightened delegates would be easily led by the Templars into creating a worse government than the non-existent one the Nation currently had.

Bowdoin, Connor discovered, had had an epiphany during the Assassin's convalescence. "If Congress cannot fund an army," the Governor had explained, "and Massachusetts cannot either, then we merchants will do so ourselves." The duty of arranging the matter had fallen on General Benjamin Lincoln.

Lincoln had served with distinction during the Revolutionary War. Connor had not met him then, but the General struck him as a calm man with a fierce spirit. Lincoln walked straight and true, despite his limp. "Mentor Connor. I have heard much of you from my comrades. It is good to meet the man at last."

Connor took Lincoln's proffered hand. "As am I, General Lincoln. What is your plan?"

The General smiled. "To the point, I see. Very good. Several wealthy men of my acquaintance will be meeting at a club tonight. You have dealt directly with these 'Shaysites'; you can impress upon them the risk the rebels pose. I will follow you by suggesting to them the importance of their becoming loaners of part of their property if they wish to secure the remainder."

Connor nodded. It was a good plan. "When do we leave?"

"Now." Lincoln led the way outside, where a fine carriage waited. Connor climbed in quickly, offering the General a hand. He waved it off. "I'm perfectly capable. I fought many a battle on this ankle and will fight more, or so it seems. A carriage is nothing."

"I apologize," Connor said. General Lincoln had a right to his pride; he had fought at Savannah, Charleston and Yorktown, all after receiving his injury at Fort Edward.

Lincoln chuckled. "Forgotten, but do not forget."

"I will not," Connor agreed, as the carriage began moving.

It was different, visiting the wealthier areas of Boston. For much of Connor's time here it had been the province of the British and the Templars. Now the Templars drove the common folk and the Assassin rubbed shoulders with the elite. Cormac had reversed their traditional roles, and Connor was wary of the change. We are still being made to play by your game, he thought bitterly.

But what was he to do? Allow the rebellion to continue unchecked? The Union to shatter? Connor had no doubt those possibilities would hurt the Templars deeply, but it would hurt the people more. He knows this. He knows us. Of course he did; Shay Cormac was a traitor, in the worst of ways. Connor had never truly viewed the man as such before. Haytham had used Hidden Blades and been trained as an Assassin; Connor had viewed the new Grandmaster in the same light, despite knowing it was not the same. He had never known Shay Cormac as anything but a Templar.

He is a traitor, Connor repeated mentally. Not like Haytham, who had carried elements of the Assassins despite never being one. I cannot defeat the Templar, Connor realized, because that is not what he is. Shay Cormac was an Assassin traitor. Only by knowing that, acknowledging it, accepting it, could Connor turn this about.

Even if he could not, the traitor would not live to see his victory.

The club was an elegant affair: settees draped in fine fabrics; men in elegant suits and powdered wigs; women with their hair high in curls, sweeping about in layered gowns. Connor felt entirely out of place and, by the looks he was receiving, the patrons knew it too. It was only by accompanying Lincoln he was given an entrance at all.

"Mr. Breck, Mr. Russel, Mr. Davis, Mr. Burell," the General greeted a handful of men. "My associate, Mentor Connor. He provided great service to General Washington during the war."

"Forgive me," Mr. Breck said, asking the question for the company, "but I've not heard of him."

Lincoln shook his head. "Connor's work was not the sort spoken of, but vital all the same. Work he continues even now," he added meaningfully.

"Oh!" Gasped Russel. A sp–" Burell stamped on the man's foot.

"It is an honor to meet you, Mentor Connor. An interesting title, if I may ask…?"

"You may," Connor replied dryly, "but I am not inclined to answer."

Mr. Davis chuckled. "He has you there, Mr. Burell." He turned to Connor. "I suppose you're here because of our troubles."

"Shay's rebels," Connor confirmed, mentally assigning ownership where it belonged. "I've seen them and they are well organized. Shays and Day have military experience," as did Cormac, "and they know how to lead men. The rebels run drills every day; I suspect they intend something more than merely shutting courts."

"You don't think they'll stop?" Breck asked hopefully.

"Not unless they are made to," Connor answered firmly.

"And that, my friends," Lincoln said as he took over, "is why we must act. Congress is helpless and the State is bankrupt. If we are to protect ourselves from Shays' and his band, we must be the ones to fund this endeavor. Bowdoin has pledged…"

Connor stepped back as the General went on, scanning the room. As he glanced over at the refreshments, a familiar face caught his eye. He froze, eyes narrowing as he activated his Eagle Vision. Amongst the many gray and white people, one woman glowed red, shifting to gold as Connor narrowed his focus. The Assassin began to move purposefully through the room, blending with the crowd when possible. The woman, the one from Springfield, turned her head, smiled and headed to the dance floor. Cursing inwardly, Connor followed. This woman, like her brothers, had Eagle Vision.

The woman had taken a partner by the time he arrived, and was twirling about the dance floor, moving gracefully through the steps of the waltz. Connor moved up, interrupting the pair. "May I cut in?" He asked gruffly. It was what he was supposed to say, if he recalled correctly.

The Hunter woman laughed gaily. "If you do not mind, Mr. Patterson? I doubt I will have another chance to try General Lincoln's mysterious guest on the floor."

Mr. Patterson chuckled. "Very well, Miss Cormac. But you must promise me another."

"I shall be certain to save you a spot on my card," the woman promised, before offering her hand to the Assassin. It was her right, he noticed, and she wore her ring on it. Not a Hunter, then? "Mentor Kenway."

"I prefer Connor," he grit out, as she led him onto the floor.

"That would be entirely too forward, Mentor Kenway," the woman chided. "We would need to be the most intimate of friends before I would dare presume such liberties."

She used a great many words where few would suffice, Connor noted irritably. "What do I call you?" He asked harshly, moving clumsily through the unfamiliar dance.

"Miss Cormac," the woman replied, "as is proper for two strangers." She smiled archly. "Tell me Mentor Kenway: is your attempt to murder my feet payment for my father's duplicity? If so, I must say, it is most unkindly done."

"I do not dance," Connor said flatly.

"But you must learn, Mentor Kenway! How else are you to stand among the Ton?"

The what? "I do not intend to," Connor said, but before he could say more, the woman had already begun.

"So blunt! Why it is near enough to set a girl's heart aflutter, did she not know Mistress Kenway held your own! How is your wife, Mentor Kenway? You ought to have brought her." She glared mockingly at him, still speaking. "You are too unkind keeping her in that draughty village with the children! A woman must have her entertainment and diversions or she is like to go mad!"

Like you? Connor thought unkindly. Idly, he wondered how Miss Cormac had managed to dispense with breathing. "What are you doing?"

"Making conversation, Mentor Kenway, as one does in polite company." She smiled brightly, eyes wide and guileless. She was a remarkable actress, Connor acknowledged. "I see your wound has healed nicely. I do apologize for dear George; he is not usually like this, I assure you. It is only when it comes to his mother… Such a tragedy, that. I am told she was a lovely woman."

Connor blinked, startled. "She was not your mother?"

Miss Cormac laughed. "Oh, heavens, no! I'm afraid I'm as baseborn as you, Mentor Kenway. Father dallied with my mother when he was little more than a boy himself – nor was he the only one, I am ashamed to say. She was quite the bark of frailty, you know." Connor didn't, but he could guess. "It is why Father did not know of me, nor my elder brother, for some years. Grandmaster Kenway, your father, noticed the resemblance and took us in until Father returned from… oh, wherever it was Grandmaster Kenway sent him." She smiled coyly. "You'll forgive me if I forget the name; it was quite some time ago."

Connor frowned. "You… when were you born?" Connor had been born in the mid-fifties, and this woman was older than he. If her father's log was accurate, from the early 1750's on, the man had been at sea more often than not, performing missions for the Assassins. Is she of age with her mother-in-law?

"Mentor Kenway!" Miss Cormac gasped, looking scandalized. "A proper gentleman never asks a woman her age!"

Connor had had enough of this farce. "I am an Assassin, not a gentleman," he hissed through clenched teeth. He could wish they had met somewhere other than a crowded club, where he could control the situation. This forum was his opponent's arena.

Miss Cormac smiled dangerously. "Ah, but then I must be a Templar, Mentor Kenway, and could hardly engage you in intimate conversation. Now," her smile suddenly grew warm and eager, "tell me of this 'Dobby' poor Chris is dangling after. He has the most ridiculous case of calf-love I've ever seen! Personally, I hold she's a bit beneath his touch, but I am the elder sister and am inclined to think so of any woman who would make eyes at my little brothers."

Was… the Templar asking him about her brother's love life? Yes, Connor decided. She is, and I have had enough. "What are you doing here?"

"Dancing, Mentor Kenway, and engaging in civil whiskers." What? "Though it would be easier with a more competent partner." She gazed coyly at him, batting her lashes. "Why sir, what manner of havey-cavey business do you think me about?"

"These men," Connor said carefully, watching her intently, "will stop your father's rebellion."

"I should hope someone would," Miss Cormac returned happily. "If I did not know otherwise I'd think Father was on the cut when he came up with this gammon. But then, Father always was shockingly loose in the haft."

Connor was coming to the conclusion that, despite the similarities, they were speaking different languages. He was fairly certain Cormac had just been insulted, though. "I don't understand you." In more ways than one.

Miss Cormac sighed. "Well, I won't say he's made a mull of things, because he hasn't, but he's certainly cut up my peace." Her lips pursed in a childish pout. "I'm afraid I'm quite knocked up from it. So if you'll be so kind as to put an end to this mill – preferably without barking irons; I've no desire to don black, you understand–" no, Connor did not, "I would be willing to help you." That he understood. "And send you a caper merchant."

Connor sighed, giving up on making sense of this woman's speech. "What do you want?"

"Father to stop raising the breeze, so I may return to the Ton. I've quite enough of these cits." That was not particularly helpful.

"I do not understand," Connor said again, knowing it was futile. Either the woman was playing with him, or she was genuinely incapable of talking in a comprehensible manner. He suspected the first; the Templar was having too much fun.

Miss Cormac sighed heavily. "And here I thought you were fly to the time of day. I want the rebellion ended and Father's plans here done, so I may return to Europe." The first, then. "I'm quite off the shelf, you know. Not that my chances were ever good, what with Father a cit and me his by-blow. But I've no interest in these Americans," she sniffed disdainfully, "always ready to sport their canvas and raising some kind of breeze. I may have been born among them, but your father sent me across the herring pond and had me raised in a proper manner."

"I… see…" He thought he did; Miss Cormac seemed intent on making herself incomprehensible. "You will help me."

"I won't cry rope," she warned. Connor nodded, knowing better than to ask what she meant. "But I will speak to the cits on your behalf." She smiled sweetly, as the waltz came to an end. "Now, I'm afraid I must go. The minuet will be starting soon, and I promised dear Mr. Patterson a dance." She swept away in a flurry of emerald skirts, leaving the Assassin feeling exasperated and confused.

"How," he muttered irritably, "is that English?"

"Miss Cormac?" Lincoln chuckled, as he joined Connor at the edge of the dance floor. "She was raised in the ton – England's high society. The nobility have their own way of doing things."

"She is not a noble," Connor noted.

"No, although her father is now. But she was like this even before Shay won himself a title."

Connor turned, startled. "You know her father?"

"Shay?" The General smiled. "Of course I do; he fought with me in the Southern theatre. He preferred the seas though."

Connor frowned, hiding his dismay. How many friends did Cormac have? "I think she said she would help me."

Lincoln nodded. "Robyn's been talking people into opening their purses all night. She wants to return to England, but Shay won't leave until the rebellion is settled. He has too many interests here."

More than you know, Connor thought sourly. But was Robyn Cormac working for or against them?

Dobby glowered at Connor as he entered the homestead. "Can you explain," she demanded, "why a 'Miss Cormac' has sent you a dancing master?"

Animus Notes:

Logan's Raid: After the death of Moluntha, Logan burned many Native villages in order to prevent them from being able to run an effective, and now inevitable, campaign. Whether or not he was correct in doing so is a matter of some debate.

Benjamin Lincoln: If you see a city in the South called Lincoln, it's for this guy, not an unrelated man named Abe. Lincoln fought in most of the major battles of the Revolution.

Breck, Russel, Davis, Burell: wealthy Boston merchants

Robyn Cormac: Eldest daughter of Shay Cormac, she was known as an eccentric and a frequent attendee to routs, balls, galas and other sundry affairs in Georgian and Regency England. Which meant she knew everything about everyone, of course. She never married, though recent evidence has indicated that her relationship with her abigail, Margret, may have been more intimate than was commonly known. She was born around 1750, and was older than her father's second wife. Much older than his third.

Waltz: Considered pretty sedate now, but it was the new fangled, highly risqué, import from Vienna back then. Imagine! An unrelated man and woman dancing with such physical closeness!

Mr. Patterson: Another member of Boston's elite, he fought with Lincoln's forces.

Dancing Cards: Hey, proof these DID exist in the Georgian/Regency period! Guess Heyer didn't invent that after all.

Ton: British High Society

AUthor's Note: Gillian's backstory does not make sense. People don't kill their parents randomly. I know they were trying to make her out to be a psychopath, but even psychopaths don't act without reason. She gained nothing by killing her parents... unless being out on the street was better than staying with them. She also had no reason not to kill her brother if she was just excising family members. So this is my explanation. As to whether or not her father was an intentional casualty... that's up to you.