Chapter 13: The Celebratory Ball Part 2

"Damn it!" Kira exclaimed with a quiet breath, desperate to scream the words- to hurl herself at the closed door- but refusing to give Haytham the pleasure.

The sound of his retreating footsteps faded from the other side, and with each, her freshly-cut confidence surged. It was almost dizzying; for all the fear the Templar's looming presence imposed, the effect was all but butchered by his absence. He was gone. He had left her, and the Assassin would make him pay for the mistake. This little slip of her plan could be used to her advantage: if nothing else, she was more driven than ever to see her task through.

Before, Fletcher's death had been a job- a necessary undertaking for the Assassins' cause- and nothing more. Now it was personal. Now, she would take down the man with perhaps the sharpest weapon of her extensive arsenal:

Spite.

First, however, she needed a way out of this godforsaken room.

Pushing away gnawing thoughts of what Achilles would think of her should she fail, Kira began to study her surroundings. She paced the room slowly, thoughtfully, with the quiet anticipation of a cat stalking its prey. It was Haytham's room, presumably; he had possessed the key, and it was not unreasonable to suspect he was staying as a guest throughout the course of Fletcher's celebrations. Kira smiled to herself, enjoying the notion that her target felt safe with Haytham nearby. Enjoying the fact that such a notion was irrevocably, disastrously naive.

The room seemed divided into two halves: a sitting room and a bedroom, the latter of which she now crossed into. At the centre of this stood a grand canopy bed, draped with extravagant silk covers that matched the sitting room furniture's upholstery. She ran a curious hand across the covers as she walked. They were smooth. Inviting.

She paused for a moment, then flopped backwards onto the bed with a soft huff.

There was time, her mind murmured, as she stared up at the ceiling. She moved a hand to her forehead, massaging it gently with her fingertips as she attempted to gather her wits. She sought an idea to pursue: something tangible, a string she could grasp with both hands and tug and turn into some intricate tapestry, some masterpiece of thought.

There was nothing, and her hand dropped back to her side- eyes following the vague direction of it. A door stood across from her; slightly ajar. From what she could see of what lay inside, it was a dressing room of sorts. She sighed again, uninspired by the revelation.

Her eyes continued to move, surveying the limited amount she could see from her horizontal position, and finding little to provoke her interest. Unamused, she propped herself up on her elbows, blowing a stray tendril of hair from her face.

Then she saw the window.

She was at it a second later, toying with the latch that held it shut. It was stuck: the mechanism was broken, and remained impervious to her increasingly fevered efforts to pry it open. She jostled it a few more times, regardless, before straightening with a growl in her throat and a curse on her breath. She was in the middle of punishing it with a particularly stern glare when something struck her.

The latch was worn. Visibly rusted. Fragile.

Perfect.

Kira crossed to the opposite side of the room, turning on the window as though she were facing down an old enemy. The glass of it looked thick: decorated with a criss-cross pattern of lead. She prepared to run at it- if the latch gave way, she would have to catch the window before it opened far enough to strike the building, making noise she could not afford to make.

That wouldn't necessarily be called for, however; the window could always shatter and save her the trouble.

Content that there was only one way to find out, Kira lurched into action, turning her shoulder to the window as she dashed towards it, bracing for impact. There was a loud crack as she struck it, the latch breaking with less resistance than she had expected, and leaving the window to spring open with all her weight behind it.

It took a lifetime of practiced balance to not fall into the open space so suddenly before her.

Instinctively, her hand shot out to seize the window before it could swing away from her, and she clung to it for purchase, using it to keep herself from falling further forwards. Her breath caught in her throat as she glanced downwards, precariously suspended above a fatal drop. She was on the second-floor of the mansion; it was a long, long way down to the ground below.

With a sharp, strained grunt of effort, she pulled herself back into the room and slumped to the floor with relief. Her shoulder was already wracked with pain: a dull ache that only worsened as she rubbed it experimentally. Her head fell back against the wall with a groan.

She closed her eyes, savouring the tentative feeling of cold air creeping into the room. It moved about her, prickling her skin and washing her over with calmness. Progress: a quiet rush that filled her senses, welcoming and real, though there was no time to dwell on it. She winced as she raised herself to her feet, reluctantly.

Glancing out of the window, she had already established that dropping to the ground below was out of the question. She eyed the fall warily before turning her frustrations elsewhere: to the exterior wall beneath the window. There, she could identify at a glance several viable handholds and footholds- all of which would be easy enough to descend were she not dressed in an evening gown. As amusing as it was to think of simply abandoning the garment, she would still have to look vaguely presentable in order to return to the ball with any semblance of subtlety.

The window was rapidly losing its status as a potential exit.

Kira glanced around. There would be another way out; there had to be.

Another half hour found Kira sprawled upon one of the plush seats of the sitting room, dejected, discouraged, and thoroughly out of options. Her most recent stab at escape had proved as frustratingly fruitless as the window: she had tested the lock of the door, and realised it would be relatively easy to pick, with the right amount of skill- which she had- and the right kind of equipment- which she did not. Whilst setting out without the equipment had been a lapse in her judgement, being locked in a room by her least favourite Templar had never exactly been part of her plan.

Her gaze fell once more upon the dressing room door, and her reflections of Haytham inspired a sudden thought. He was staying here as a guest, right? That would mean-

She was up, suddenly: rushing over to the room before the logic could even run its course. The door was thrown open in excitement, and she set upon the chest of drawers within, having to staunch a cry of delight at what she discovered there.

She was presented with a collection of her captor's clothes. God she had been a fool not to think of it sooner. Within moments she had found a shirt, breeches, and overcoat that she could feasibly fashion into a workable disguise, and she began to undress enthusiastically before a nearby mirror. She caught a glimpse of her reflection as she outfitted herself in the new clothes, rewarding herself with a smile as the disguise took shape.

It had been one thing to enjoy the fantasy of disrupting Haytham's plans; this becoming reality was an even greater thrill.

Happy that she had made the most of what she had, Kira regarded her reflection once more, raising an eyebrow in scrutiny as she turned a little, testing the outfit on her figure. The clothes were too big, but by tucking the shirt into the breeches, she had ensured that the poor fit was as unobvious as possible.

She then stooped to remove her now conspicuous damask shoes, trading them for the smallest pair of boots she could find; she had still needed to layer several pairs of socks in order to keep her feet from slipping from them. It was more than a matter of comfort: the climb down from the window would be dangerous should she make a mistake, and the last thing she needed was to lose a shoe in the process.

The Assassin's disguise now almost complete, she glanced at the mirror fatefully. Tresses of her dark hair jostled around her shoulders at the movement, betraying the illusion she would have to rely on to carry her safely through the ball. In denial of a looming truth, she gathered it in one hand, bunching it behind her head- seeking a way to conceal its overtly feminine style. Her hand dropped a moment later, a sigh slipping from her lips as her hair fell upon her back once more.

Reluctantly, she reached for a small knife she had set aside: one that had been smuggled into the ball for far more nefarious purposes. She should have used it on Haytham, she pondered, as she gathered her hair again and raised the knife to it resentfully. It would have been the end of her, surely, but she liked to think she could have drawn a fair amount of the man's blood before inevitably meeting her demise.

And it would have spared her the pain of her next action:

With a few, swift movements, she had cut her hair to sit just above her shoulders. She watched dejectedly as the last of what she'd severed fell to the floor, then turned again to the mirror with a frown.

That would take some getting used to.

A final search of a nearby dressing-box produced a thin, scarlet ribbon, which Kira used to pull her hair into a short ponytail. She then made use of the pitcher and washbasin that had been set aside, washing away the subtle makeup she had applied to her face earlier in the evening. The reflection she was constantly referring to now revealed a far plainer version of herself than she had started with, and she could only hope it would be an effective disguise.

Something was missing, though.

Looking back around the room, Kira's attention settled on the chest of drawers, and more precisely, on what sat upon it: Haytham's signature tricorn. Chuckling to herself, she snatched the hat up, fixing it upon her head with a grin. There was a chance someone could recognise it, but it was a risk she was willing to take.

She had made enough sacrifices for one evening, and she would allow herself this private little act of revenge.

Kira held her breath as she passed between two guards, stepping into the ballroom once more. The escape from Haytham's room had been simple enough, but the next part of her plan was unpredictable: it relied wholly on how well her disguise would be received.

Surviving the guards' customary glance over of her, she could only hope the rest of the evening would run without interference. As she moved discreetly to a point where she could survey the rest of the room, she thought about what would happen if she was caught: the scalding disappointment of Achilles' voice, admonishing her for letting Fletcher escape with his life. Then another voice intruded: Haytham's.

Disobey me, and I'll kill you myself.

She fought a sudden chill, the memory spurring her hand to brush unconsciously against her cheek. Stopping to look about for Fletcher, she reminded herself of all she had to lose: her pride, her life. She could not afford to lose her patience.

Fletcher was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Haytham. Erring on the side of caution, she decided to mingle with the guests around her, testing her disguise whilst enquiring as to where the man of honour had disappeared to. Several untroubled conversations later, she had established confidence in her new identity, and had found someone at last who could point her in the direction of her target.

"It is most urgent that I speak with him," she pressed of Fletcher, sensing she was losing the gentleman she now faced.

The guest was in no way suspicious of her, nor keen to guard the information he possessed. Instead he was distracted by the rest of the party- clearly drunk- and Kira had to wave a hand before his face in order to recapture his attention.

"Urgent, you say?" He swayed on his feet.

"His life may be at stake."

This inspired some genuine interest; the man's eyes brightened. "He went that way," he beamed, clearly excited to be of use as he gestured towards a door at the edge of the room.

With a murmur of thanks, Kira followed the direction of his swaying hand. Another pair of guards were stationed by the door in question, and the Assassin formulated a swift plan to be rid of them as she slipped between masses of guests. Then she corrected herself: if Fletcher was indeed inside, there was a chance Haytham would be too. There was certainly no sign of him elsewhere.

The guards were not to be discarded, then; they would have their uses.

"Excuse me," she announced as she approached them, "but I must speak with Master Kenway at once."

She made to move past them with a confidence she hoped would be convincing, and was halted as one intercepted her. "He is busy. Anything you have to say, you can say here. Now."

The man was regarding her sceptically, and looking between the guards' uniforms and her own, plainer clothes, she could hardly fault his mistrust.

"Master Kenway bid me disguise myself as one of the guests," she explained, assuaging what she imagined were his fears, "and whilst touring the gardens, I saw an Assassin- I am sure of it."

"A woman?" The second guard addressed her curiously. "She has been dealt with, I assure you."

Kira shook her head. "It was no woman. It was a man- young, native-looking. He wore the robes of-"

The first guard- presumably the authority of the pair- was gone before she could finish the sentence, disappearing through the door with the urgency her lie intended to inspire. It was little wonder that she had quashed the man's suspicions: uniform or not, no unassuming guest of the ball would be telling tales of Assassins.

The door burst open once more, but Kira had been ready; she had shifted aside, turning away from it as Haytham came barrelling through so as not to draw attention to herself. Thankfully, her tale had him suitably distracted.

"Go to my room, ensure that our unwilling guest is still appropriately indisposed," he issued to the guard that had fetched him, who now trailed obediently at his heels. He turned to address the other, who remained stationed at the door. "Not a soul is to enter this room whilst I am gone, am I clear?"

It was apparently very clear, for Haytham departed seconds later alongside the first guard, who in setting off to find her would soon be very disappointed. Conscious that she was newly short on time, Kira turned back to the door, and her final obstacle.

The last guard was looking to where Haytham had hurried off, wearing an undeniable expression of worry. He looked young. Nervous- as though a sudden noise or movement alone would invariably prove too much for him.

"You should go with him," she spoke, and as anticipated: startling the man.

"What?" The way he turned on her suggested he had largely forgotten she was there.

"Master Kenway," she explained, tipping her head in the Templar's vague direction. "He may need assistance."

The guard was torn. "He told me to-"

"I will stay and guard the door," she smiled reassuringly, with an irresistible confidence; a confidence that assumed control, and promised that all would be well, on the provision that it went unchallenged.

The guard nodded, seduced, and followed after his leader with a fleeting word of thanks. Kira would have called it 'too easy' had she not been through Hell to reach such a point in the first place. Now, moving to slide through the unguarded door, her evening of improvisations was reforming back to her initial plan.

Benjamin Fletcher was sat at a desk, preoccupied with a journal, and mercifully, alone. He looked up at the sound of the Assassin's entrance, regarding her with a muted interest as she closed the door behind her.

"Can I help you?" he offered dispassionately, gaze already dropping back to his writing. There was no suspicion in his voice; there had been no commotion, and Kira had entered the room straightforwardly enough to remove any cause for concern.

"I bring word from Master Kenway," she returned, tone still deepened to suit her disguise. "He believes you to be in danger, and asked that I watch over you in his absence."

Fletcher issued a short tsk of disbelief, though he looked up at her again, an eyebrow raised. "The woman has escaped?"

"No, sir," she reassured with a smile. "There is another Assassin."

At this, Fletcher at last set his pen aside, leaning back in his chair as he pondered the new development. Kira felt his eyes on her as she moved to the window behind him, making a show of being on guard, whilst she in fact deliberated her means of escape. Looking down at the ground below the window, she rejoiced that it was a simple, survivable drop; a quick exit.

"Two Assassins?" Fletcher remarked, chuckling to himself as though flattered. "Ah well- there is little use in fretting. I trust Haytham will handle this one as he did the first."

Kira hummed in concession. She had both time and control, and she intended to make the most of it.

"That is a lot of faith to hold in one man," she mused, turning from her assessment of the window, her eyes shining darkly. "I regret to inform you that it is hopelessly misplaced."

Her voice had returned to its usual tone: a flair of the dramatic for her own enjoyment.

Fletcher's demeanour changed. His gaze flicked between her and the door: connecting the necessary dots. As he stiffened tellingly and looked on her with a beleaguered realisation, she rewarded his efforts with a wicked curl of her lips.

"You must be Kira Lawrence," he said simply.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," she corroborated with a cordial nod of her head.

The politician shifted in his seat as though trying to get comfortable. "Perhaps we can… come to an arrangement of some sort?"

Kira's smile faded as she stalked towards him. "I am not a Templar," she scowled, "I don't want your money."

"Still, if I were to-"

"Enough." A knife slipped from her sleeve into her hand, and she raised it to compel Fletcher's silence. "You made your choice, siding with them. I am not here to bargain."

The man froze as she neared him, eyes fixed on her blade until she was behind his chair and beyond his line of sight. When he spoke, he did not twist to face her, but instead stared ahead of himself. The gesture was as defeated as his words: "I see."

Kira did not lament his decision to meet his end with dignity; it saved her a fight, as one-sided as it would have been. Though feeling little pity for the figure now slumped before her, she had no wish to draw out his suffering.

With a sharp movement, she plunged her knife into his back.

Fletcher shuddered with a gasp, slackening in his seat as she withdrew her weapon a moment later. It had been an efficient blow, and his eyes were already glazing over as she skirted to the contents of his desk, shuffling through them: the dying man already an afterthought.

She was not looking for anything specific, but it would be foolish to not ensure there was no useful information. Her hands moved quickly, eyes darting between pages. She was short on time, and she knew better than to push her luck. She was nearing the end of her search when a low, gleeful rumble struck her ears.

"What?" she spat, glancing up at the politician.

"What Haytham said-" Fletcher coughed, though his choked laughter continued- "he was right about you."

Kira's hands clenched, incensed at the thought of that despicable man ever being right. She prowled over to the window, reaching to undo the latch as she assured herself that she had escaped- that she had outwitted him. "Haytham knows nothing of me," she asserted over her shoulder. "He was wrong."

She opened the window and was greeted by a cool rush of air. As she prepared to step over the sill to make the jump down, Fletcher's dry chuckle stilled her again.

"No," he spoke from behind her, voice slurring. "He was not."

A dying man's desperate words, and nothing more.

Sparing Fletcher one final glance, Kira climbed through the window and dropped down. Desperate words, she repeated again as she hurried silently from the mansion's grounds, trying to push aside the memory of what her victim had said; trying to quell the visceral feeling that he had not been lying. Still, the question pushed on her mind: what had Haytham been right about?

Nothing, she told herself, again and again. Nothing.

Fletcher was dead. She had won.

Hadn't she?


Author notes:

Hi, everyone. Thanks for taking the time to read my story so far. Please review, follow, or favourite my story, as I appreciate all feedback, and I'd love to hear what you think. :)

I hope really hope this chapter was worth the very, very, very, very, very long wait. It was a much longer wait than I myself even anticipated. Anyway, hopefully you enjoyed it, and I will try to get the next one done soon. That being said, I always say that, and it unintentionally never happens. I will do my best though! :D

Kittycat312