Prelude: 1783
It was a small thing the letter, but it weighed heavy in his hands.
The man sighed, turning to his younger companion. "Haytham ought to have picked you."
"You have seniority," came the quick reply. "Besides, I have work to finish here."
"The fishing rights." The older man's mouth twitched upward in a quick grin.
"Among others," the younger frowned, pensive. "We need the treaty, but it must give us what we need."
"I know," the elder agreed. Then, "Is Pinckney still active?"
"He was in '79. I haven't heard much; intentionally, I suspect."
The older of the two nodded. "Very likely. Haytham scattered us before the Assassin could."
They stood in silence for a moment, mourning old friends and comrades lost. At last the elder sighed, knelt before the fire and fed the pages to the flames.
"I suppose I'd best be headed home then," he said when the last sheet had turned to ash.
The younger bent his head gravely. "May the Father of Understanding grant you success in your endeavors, Grandmaster."
The elder smiled sadly at his younger colleague. "And to you in yours, Commissioner Jay," he said as he headed to the rainswept streets.
The man walked the cobbled Parisian streets, head bowed. The letter had weighed heavy, but the title was heavier still.