Chapter 24: Putting On A Show
The amulet spun lazily, glistening within fragments of morning light, and performing a soft waltz in the space above Kira's desk, where it hung, suspended, from her fingers. It was the same amulet Haytham had given her, almost half a year ago now, when a confrontation between the two had evolved into something seemingly unattainable: a moment of genuine cordiality.
Two further months had passed since this cordiality had been cemented in the form of Kira's temporary alliance with the man, and he had spent an evening regaling her of his search for the Precursor temple. One piece of knowledge he had imparted- rather begrudgingly- revolved around the object she now studied.
It was a fake.
The revelation had transpired upon William Johnson discovering a new way to interpret Miller's journal, which had him conclude that the author had not been promoting a search for the second amulet, but instead, cautioning against it. Whilst the origins of this imitation remained undetermined, the motive for its creation was unmistakably clear: to protect the true artefact, and mislead whichever parties sought to misuse it.
"It is worthless, then?" Kira had asked on the night Haytham related this, vaguely amused that the Templar had been deceived.
"Not entirely. I was unaware of its lack of significance when I made a gift of it to you, so it remains a fairly credible token of my good faith."
"So… yes. Worthless."
She recalled Haytham being rather amused by that.
The woman was roused from the memory by a distant knock sounding from the door of the manor. She threaded the amulet back over her head, tucking it beneath the neckline of her dress, whilst listening for the inevitable sound of stirrings downstairs. Achilles and Connor were in the basement, last she had checked. Her mentor had set out to train Connor in the latest of weapons he had acquired- a rope dart.
Once she was satisfied the door was being answered, Kira stood, drifting over to the window so that she might learn the identity of their guest. She was struck at once by brisk winter air as she lifted it open, and, folding her arms against the sill and leaning forwards, she was afforded a view of the scene playing out below.
Kanen'tó:kon had come to call. He was speaking earnestly to Connor, who appeared to be growing more agitated with every word. From her position, Kira was unable to determine what exactly was being said to distress her friend. Already, she felt impatience gnawing at her.
"Sale? This is theft!"
Connor's declaration reached her clearly; it had been practically shouted.
The two men then turned towards the house, their attention seized by Achilles, she could safely assume. The narrative continued outside the limits of her eyeline- still painfully out of earshot- as she was condemned to remain ever further in the dark about what was occurring. Her resolve finally broke as she watched Kanen'tó:kon hand Connor a hatchet, which he preceded to bury in the nearest column of the house.
"Connor!" she called, garnering the focus of the small party below. "Greetings, Kanen'tó:kon-" she offered a curt wave to the young man before addressing her friend once more "What has happened?"
Connor took a few steps towards her. "We have word on Johnson. I am headed to Boston- Sam Adams will assist me in putting an end to his corruption."
"How might I aid you?"
"I will send for you if needed."
The opportunity to protest was never provided, for Connor had already turned on his heels and began to stride purposefully away, with Kanen'tó:kon at his side.
Achilles now stepped into Kira's view, examining the damaged column of the house with a scowl. He looked up at her, gesturing at the hatchet with an air of bewilderment, and she shrugged exaggeratedly in response. As amusing as the sight was, she couldn't escape the feeling of dread that had formed at the pit of her stomach. Long-feared consequences were finally threatening to surface.
…
The clamour of a defiant crowd was far from Kira's mind as she hovered anxiously by the edge of the ship, a crate of tea in hand. This felt wrong- felt as though she were betraying a part of her very identity.
"Is there nothing else we can do with it? Keep it, perhaps?"
She had turned to speak to Sam Adams, who had drawn up alongside her, and was in the process of hurling yet another crate of the precious cargo into the ocean.
"That wouldn't make for such a grand statement," he laughed, already moving to fetch more.
"Kira!" Connor's voice called from behind her, an implied order to the tone.
With a roll of her eyes, Kira tipped the crate over the railing, and watched, dejectedly, as it sunk into the murky depths of the harbour.
Night had fallen over Boston. The Sons of Liberty engaged in their latest act of rebellion against the British, and the Assassins had lent their support, driven by their need to undermine the wealth and influence of William Johnson. This was hardly the first time the brotherhood's ambitions had forayed into the world of politics, though as she regarded the enthusiasm of the revolutionaries around her, Kira was struck by how vastly different this felt.
"A few months in charge and you have become a tyrant," she quipped, as she returned to the centre of the boat's deck, accepting a crate that Connor held out to her.
The young man regarded her with a stern expression, though it softened slightly at the sight of her warmer one. "We are finally striking back at the Templars, and shaping a new nation in the process. You should be happy."
"A nation that wastes good tea like this is not one I care to be a part of," she pouted back, though her lips soon stretched into a smile. "You are right, however. Nothing can quite compete with the feeling of disrupting a Templar's plans."
Connor beamed back in response, though this was cut short by a cry of alarm.
"Regulars!" called Paul Revere, earning everyone's full attention. The atmosphere shifted; danger loomed, all of a sudden- imminent, terrible, and stiflingly real.
Kira felt the weight of what she was holding be lifted, and she turned back to Connor, frowning as he took back the crate from her.
"Take care of them," he commanded, nodding towards the emerging Redcoats.
She grinned, relieved. "With absolute pleasure."
In no time at all, she had thrown herself into the thick of what combat had sparked from the soldiers' arrival. The scene was messy and violent- the British, roused into a frenzy by the sight of revolt, and the Patriots, incentivised by something far bigger than themselves. The fighting was driven by something more than just a will to survive, and it reflected in the spirit of both sides.
Despite this, the onslaught of attackers had soon thinned. Kira twisted a rifle from the hands of the nearest soldier, knocking him to the ground with a sharp shove of her shoulder, and plunging the bayonet into his chest. Withdrawing and raising the weapon, she spied another target- a Redcoat lifting his sword to strike at one of the revolutionaries- and she dispatched him with a swift shot. Near to her, Connor's latest recruit straightened from a fresh kill, clutching a bloodied cleaver at his side.
The last of the Regulars had fallen, and Kira seized on the opportunity to approach the man. "Kira Lawrence," she greeted, offering him her hand. "We haven't been formally introduced."
"Stephane Chapheau," he returned in a thick French accent, accepting her gesture. With a grumble of discontent, he turned to spit on the soldier he had just slain. "Scoundrel."
Whatever his motives were for volunteering his aid to the Assassins, Kira didn't doubt they were sincere. It was obvious that she'd missed a story, and she made a mental note to ask Connor about it when they were free of this chaos.
Still, she was content with Stephane's allegiance for now, and the pair returned in silence to the ship, where the last of the cargo was being thrown overboard.
"We've done it!" Sam was declaring enthusiastically, as the remaining members of the group gathered to disembark the vessel.
The air had changed again; it was no longer damp with uncertainty, but charged by the invigorating relief of success. Kira triumphantly sought Connor's gaze, hoping the victory would have lifted his spirits, but he was distracted- his eyes fixed unwaveringly on something in the distance. Concerned, the woman followed his line of sight.
Her heart dropped. Across an expanse of the harbour stood Johnson, with Pitcairn and Lee at his side.
"Connor! We saved the last one for you."
Stephane's voice spared her from the nauseating sense of foreboding that was threatening to claim her, and she watched Connor take the last crate of tea from his companion. The young Assassin took a few commanding steps forward, brandishing the object above his head, to the thrill of the crowd that had gathered, and the chagrin of the Templars who watched helplessly on. With a subtle smirk, he dropped the crate from the side of the pier- the action speaking a thousand words.
Connor had issued his warning.
Visibly dissatisfied, the three Templars began to move away, and Kira felt a pang of anxiousness as she watched them. "Do we go after them?" she asked her friend tentatively, a hand falling in anticipation to the hilt of one of her daggers.
"No," Connor spoke confidently. "There is no need to. We have accomplished what we set out to do, Johnson can do no more harm for now."
Kira flexed her idle fingers in relief as they fell from her weapon, though for everything that swept through her, it was pride that struck her hardest of all. Too often the individuals she encountered would descend into violence when it was not called for. From Haytham's ruthlessly efficient methods to even the bitterness Achilles had nurtured across his lifetime; both, it seemed, had lost faith in humanity. They were united, in so much as they had ceased to believe people would evolve if ever provided the opportunity to.
Kira was guilty of the same cynicism, despite her desperate longing not to be. She tried to pinpoint when exactly her perspective had shifted: which of the many lies she had been told- or inhumane acts she had witnessed- had tainted the optimism she had coveted for so long. Whatever it had been, learning to assume the worst of a person's nature seemed to be a liability of the trade.
The Assassin made a silent oath to do better.
Looking across to Connor, she felt a surge of fresh determination. She could learn from him as much as he could from her, and she refused to allow Achilles to taint what made him arguably the best Assassin of them all:
He hadn't lost hope. Not yet, at least.
…
"Of all the things to throw into the ocean, you chose tea."
Haytham's voice was thick with disapproval, though exaggerated in a way that betrayed his seriousness.
Kira chuckled to herself, lowering the book she had been reading in order to address the comment. "It would seem liberty nowadays exacts a cruel toll. Still…" her eyes moved back to the book. "Such is my devotion to my cause."
The pair were seated at a table in the Golden Oak Inn, having met to discuss their now-shared research into the Precursors. It had often proved difficult for them to find a time to convene, particularly as the situation in the colonies had escalated, resulting in more demanding work for both. Still, they had managed the feat a select few times, and now- the evening following the theatrics at Boston harbour- was one such occasion.
Kira had been relieved; she was keen to do away with whatever awkwardness would stem from Haytham confronting her about what had happened. Surprisingly, however, when he had broached the subject, it was done out of curiosity, rather than resentment. He had been interested to hear her version of events, as opposed to the considerably more jaundiced accounts of his companions.
Having come to the end of her story, Kira could not decide if she was impressed or unsettled by Haytham's lack of reaction. She set her book aside with a soft sigh, finding herself unable to concentrate on it for any length of time.
"I must say, it is unnerving how well you are taking all of this," she spoke finally.
He frowned, though his eyes refused to leave the book he was reading. It was one Kira had retrieved from Achilles' personal library, chartering the history of the Assassins' pursuits into the Precursors- a considerable gap in Haytham's knowledge. "How would you have me react?"
"In any other way than this. It is…" she struggled to grasp a word. "Infuriating."
His gaze met hers fleetingly, in assessment, before returning to its other commitment. "You did not truly believe you had caused me any great personal loss, did you? Your actions have proven a mild inconvenience, at most."
Kira's eyes narrowed at the comment, and she crossed her arms, dissatisfied. "I utterly despise you sometimes."
Haytham smiled, turning a page. "I know."
With a huff, the Assassin reached for her drink, taking in a few bitter mouthfuls as she observed the other patrons of the inn. There was a sudden need to distract herself; she was sure that if she spent any more time watching Haytham read what appeared to be the most engrossing book in all of Boston, she would lose her temper with him.
Across the room, two young men were engaged in a game of fanorona, their temperaments becoming increasingly more heated with every turn that was taken. Kira could not make out the positions of the stones on the board, nor track the moves each man was making, but she found a narrative with which to occupy herself in watching their ongoing reactions.
"What would you have done if Connor had decided to go after William?"
Haytham's voice drew her from her observations, and she regarded him coolly, her temper calmed. He had rewarded her, finally, with his attention, and she practically withered beneath it, at a loss for how to answer his question delicately.
"You know I would not have had a choice," she confessed in a sombre tone.
The man made no response, seeming to accept her statement as he began to study his book once more. Kira was satisfied that the matter would be pressed no further, until he spoke again, breaching this confidence.
"You always have a choice."
The assertion- along with the assured tone in which it was delivered- struck a chord with the woman, and she told herself to pay no heed of it- to push it to the back of her mind. After a few moments of inner struggle, her will gave out, and she was unable to convince herself to do so any further.
"No," she declared, the force of the word reclaiming Haytham's gaze. "No, you do not get to pass judgement on my actions, nor lecture me on the freedom I have to betray the authority of my brotherhood. You have no right- not when you have devoted your entire life to being some Templar lapdog."
If she had looked for a reaction to her words, she would have seen Haytham's resolve falter, for a moment, in a way that she had never seen before.
She didn't.
"For you to continue to serve them," she pressed, "after everything they have done. What of your father? I have read of what they did to him, and you must, by now, know of it too. Yet still you share tables with the very men who orchestrated it- reward them, even, with your loyalty. So don't-" she concluded, with a bitter snarl- "don't you dare tell me that I have a choice."
The silence that followed the command was somehow deafening.
The heat that had risen in the moment began to ebb, and Kira felt a numbness seep through her. There then came the subsequent sting of regret- hardly unfamiliar, though freshly unbearable. She had turned from Haytham, chasing the thoughts that had gotten away from her, and as she looked back up at him, it was as though she were waking from a dream. She had control again. She hated that she had ever lost it in the first place.
Haytham was quiet- undeniably wounded, though not a fraction of it showed.
Kira did not need a visual indication to know she had hurt him.
"Mr Kenway, I'm-"
"I did seek retribution for what happened to my father."
"What?" The question came as no more than a strangled whisper.
"Reginald Birch," Haytham expanded. "He was my mentor, and the person responsible for my father's death."
Kira knew of the man; he had been Grand Master of the British Rite. He had died sometime in the years she had spent in Europe- she remembered hearing news of it. "You killed him?"
"No." Haytham had relaxed a little. He was unaccustomed to sharing the details of his life, but he found some relief in doing so now. "My sister did, as a matter of fact. With my aid, however."
This was an inordinate amount of new information. An instinct told Kira she was fortunate to be deemed worthy of it, she only regretted she had achieved it by lashing out at the man. This moment was something to be appreciated, and though she would not risk tainting it by probing any further, she felt compelled to seek a morsel more of clarification.
"Templars do not kill in the service of emotions," she stated, knowingly. She was well-versed in Templar ideals; to pose any significant threat to your enemy, you must know what you are fighting.
Haytham flashed a gentle smile. "Not traditionally, no."
The tension that had formed between them had dissipated, leaving a familiar comfort in its wake. The Templar- content that he had defended himself adequately- returned to his research, leaving the Assassin to deliberate all that had been said. She reached for the book she had set down, leafing distractedly through the contents, and attempting to find where she had left off. Heavens knew she was still unable to concentrate on it, but at least, it provided her with the appearance of having moved on from the conversation.
Something still nagged at her, though.
"I am sorry for what I said," she admitted quietly.
Haytham raised a brow, peering up at her with something akin to amusement. "Yes, well," he lilted, "you can make it up to me by finding this godforsaken temple."
It was forgiveness, in a sense- communicated through a language they were both fluent in.
"That is easier said than done," Kira chuckled lightly, though there was still some nervousness to the sound. "What had we been discussing, anyway?"
"I believe I had just pointed out the futility of the charade you threw last night, and you had confessed you would murder a dear friend of mine."
Kira sighed, exasperated. "Why does Johnson even care to own the Kanien'kehá:ka land?"
"To protect it."
She scoffed. "You cannot honestly expect me to believe that."
Haytham was distracted; he had found a passage worthy of interest in his book, and began to scrawl down the contents on a separate set of notes. "Why must you assume that all my associates are villains? If Johnson does not claim the land, rest assured, someone else will."
"Who would want to?"
He hesitated as he reached to dip his pen in a pot of ink. "Washington, for one."
Kira frowned, tilting her head back from the awkward angle it had found as she'd tried to read whatever it was Haytham was recording. "I am sure Washington has better things to do than concern himself with the native's land," she countered. "Besides, even if he did, I would trust he had better intentions for it than Johnson."
This surprised Haytham, though, with some thought, he supposed it shouldn't have. Washington was remarkably effective at conveying a certain image of himself, and it was one that had won the hearts and faith of many colonials. Still, he had hoped Kira would know better than buy into this drivel. "Oh, of course," he agreed- too enthusiastic to be sincere. "Heaven forbid you think critically of the Patriot hero."
Kira wasn't impressed by this display of sarcasm, but at this point knew better than to let it get under her skin. Haytham's eyes had moved to study something past her, but they panned back to her now in a silent challenge.
She rose to it, naturally. "He is twice the man Johnson is, or any other of those you favour."
A second passed.
"Well," a voice came from behind her, "we cannot all be George Washington."
Kira froze.
"Mr Johnson…" she practically stammered, turning reluctantly.
"Miss Lawrence," William tipped his head. "A pleasure, as always."
Leaving the Assassin to recover from his arrival, he pulled up a chair alongside his leader. "Haytham thought I might be able to assist you with your research this evening," he explained as he seated himself.
"Of course he did," Kira murmured under her breath, shooting a glare at the man in question.
Haytham had lowered his book slightly, meeting her gaze with a triumphant quirk of his lips- in case there was any doubt he had engineered this scenario for the express purpose of causing her discomfort.
With an innocent smile, she kicked his shin under the table.
He winced, before casting an expression of mock-offence back at her.
William cleared his throat, reaching for the notes that Haytham had taken of the book so far. "Have you discovered anything that might prove of use to us?" he asked as he began to sift through them.
"No," Haytham returned, regaining his focus. "Whilst the colonial Assassins' pursuit of the Precursors has been an interesting one, it varies little from our own work. There is, however, one noticeable exception…" He pointed out some lines of his notes.
"There is no mention of the temple we seek," William concluded.
"No. It would appear they have made no significant efforts to find it." Haytham turned to Kira, who had been watching the whole exchange rather dispassionately. "How does it feel," he goaded, "always being one step behind?"
She forced a grin. "Better for knowing I have not wasted years of my life on your lost cause."
Haytham chuckled. "It is our lost cause now, my dear."
The woman could only glower in response.
Both amused by this, the Templars began to discuss the contents of the book further, whilst Kira finished her drink, deciding she would need at least a few more if she was to endure the torturous prospect of the rest of the evening. Mumbling words to this effect, she rose to fetch one.
She made her way to the bar, dodging the erratic movements of some of the livelier patrons in the process. The night was still young, but the tavern had already begun its inevitable descent into bustling chaos, and the spirit of the place was high, despite the tumultuous state of the world outside. It was an escape, and if there was anything people longed for at a time like this- it was that.
Nearing and jostling for the services of the barkeep, Kira ordered a drink, and leant back against the bar as she surveyed her surroundings. There was nothing to incite concern, nor to provoke much interest, and with a sigh, she regarded the men to whom she had fatefully promised her evening. William seemed intrigued by something Haytham was pointing out in the book she'd lent them; the former had produced a new volume at this point, and the pair were avidly comparing the two.
Kira was distracted by the sound of a glass being set down beside her. She turned to briefly thank the barkeep, before taking the drink in one hand and resuming her surveillance. She took a pensive sip. And then another. She was in no hurry to return to her companions; they appeared at no great loss for her absence.
William had begun to write something down, and his companion shifted away from him, leaving him to his work. Kira watched as Haytham ran a hand through his hair, reclining slightly as he indulged in his own drink, before looking around as though he were quietly seeking something out.
His eyes met hers a moment later. His brow furrowed- head tilting in a silent question.
Kira found herself able to understand it. She smiled, giving a soft nod in response: an assurance that she was alright, despite the rather awkward position he had put her in.
He smiled back.
William had caught onto the wordless conversation, and said something to regain his friend's attention. Kira had no way of knowing what it was, but Haytham had shaken his head and laughed as though it were entertaining.
Deciding she had better rejoin them, Kira took another long sip of her drink, savouring what she imagined would be her last moment of peace for a while.
It was going to be a long night. She didn't detest the idea half as much as she wanted to.
Author's note:
So, have been working on my uni assignments for like a month (*cries*) but decided to treat myself to writing some of this fic last Friday. It ended up taking over my whole weekend, but I have zero regrets, even though my deadlines are tomorrow. Anyway I finished submitting everything today (*cries with joy*) and one proofread later, BAM! Here we are, ahead of schedule on this fic, for what I think is the first time ever? If you have faith in anything, have faith in my ability to be productive in all the wrong ways.
Thanks for all the support, and a special shout-out to Young - Eagle - 1725- your reviews are honestly amazing and bring me so much joy, I will keep writing this fic solely for you if I have to! :D Welcome to any new followers too, I appreciate all of you guys!
Hope everyone is doing ok! Have a whole summer to write more of this now, so I'll try and get the next chapter out soon!
