Assassin's Creed: Allegiance
Chapter 3
The cab rumbled along the busy street passing by beggars, merchants and MPs alike. They all looked the same to Archie, just irritating people who clamber in the back of his cab drunk in the middle of the night rambling on like possessed people about "that dirty whore" or "I had so many dreams", after 20 years of that he had just gotten sick of it all. The terrible monotony of petty public servitude had hardened him beyond caring about his 'passengers' problems. His life had been totally without purpose.
That was until the assassin's found him.
He smiled fondly as he recounted his first interaction with the infamous killers. He found that with age time didn't seem as vast as it once was in his youth. He remembered the incident like it had happened yesterday, even though it was over 3 years ago.
He had finished up for the night; he had parked his cab beside the rank and started the short 20 minute walk home. It was a cold night, he could still recall the moment when his hands had turned an ugly purple colour and he had to shove them abruptly into his coat pocket. His breath was coming out in slow, almost mechanical streams. Every time he took a breath it filled his lungs with ice cold air which quickly started to burn the inside of his nose.
He heard footsteps behind him. He quickened his pace without looking back. The footsteps got closer.
Suddenly a pair of strong hands grabbed both of his arms and restrained them both behind him, when he struggled his assailant gave his hands a painful twist and he cried out in agony.
He heard a cruel laugh and a second person walked out in front of him. He had red hair, shabby clothes and looked like he had just crawled out of a sewage system. The fact that he swayed side to side like a confused crab made it seem like he was very drunk.
"Well what do we have here?" He breathed out. His unfocused eyes and toxic breath added to Archie's theory of his attackers being severely inebriated.
His attacker had previously had a massive, almost comical, grin on his face but after seeing Archie's generic look his smile disappeared. He brought his fist back and slugged Archie hard in the jaw.
Archie blinked slowly and spat out blood (and probably a tooth as well). He probed his mouth with his tongue. Aye, that's a tooth gone now. He thought to himself. The sour metallic taste in his mouth had overpowered the burning sensation in his nose.
His reaction prompted a laugh from his oppressors. The red haired one then pulled out a butcher's knife from his coat. The blade reflected the orange-yellow light from the gas lamps at the side of the road.
This is it. Archie thought. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable thrust of the blade into his chest or stomach. He stood there, defenceless, imagining all the creative ways in which he could be killed with that knife. It wouldn't be over quickly; in his attacker's inebriated state he would be sloppy with the blade, which meant only prolonged agony.
Nothing of the sort followed. He had heard the red haired man with the knife laugh giddily like a child with a toy but that had now been replaced with a soft, gurgling sound.
He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the sight before him. The man's whole body was twitching wildly like a man possessed. His eyes were rolled up into the back of his head and bloody poured from his mouth. The strangest sight of all was that he could swear he saw a small, metal point protruding through the front of his neck...
The knife finally dropped and there was a disturbing squelching sound as the weapon was removed from the red haired man's neck. He dropped down instantly. He was dead before his head hit the ground.
His killer stood behind the body. He was dressed completely in black, near invisible in the night, and had a hood pulled over his eyes, only his emotionless mouth showed that he had a face at all. His right arm was bent at the elbow so that his forearm was above his head. There seemed to be a sort of blade coming out of the bottom of his wrist, which was now stained in blood. His legs were spread apart and his blade was held parallel to the ground but in line with his head. Some kind of fighting stance Archie assumed.
He could hear the frantic; fear fuelled breathing of the man who had him restrained. He couldn't blame him; Archie was just as terrified of this stranger as he was.
Without warning the stranger clenched his fist and the blade flew like a bullet, narrowly missing Archie's ear. The grip on his arms loosened and the man collapsed onto his back, the blade lodged in his eyeball.
Archie was shivering, not just from the cold but from fear. Two people had just died…no… two people had just been murdered right before his eyes and for all he knew he could be next.
He froze in terror as the murderer strode towards him. He walked right past him, crouched down and retrieved his blade from the other man's eye socket. He clicked the blade back into the device on his wrist. Silence followed, neither saying a word. Finally the stranger pulled his hood down and spoke;
"You know every street in London do you not?" The stranger asked flatly.
"We-we-well a-aye I suppose I do." Archie bumbled out; he was caught off guard by the sudden question. It was a relief to know that he wasn't next on the hit list though.
"How would you like to be something more than just a simple cab driver?"
"I'm not killing anyone!" Archie spat out immediately.
The stranger laughed loudly, "No of course not, I mean simply as…how do I put it? You would be my eyes and ears in the city? Yes…I like the sound of that."
"As a spy you mean? But who would I be spying on and why?"
The stranger smiled warmly, "That my friend is a long story but I'll be willing to tell it," he held out his hand, "If you agree to work for us."
Archie shook his new acquaintance's hand, ever conscious of the blood-stained blade that was hiding up there.
Richard was the assassin from 3 years ago. The one who had saved Archie's life and the one he owed a debt to. He had explained the basic facts of the assassin's war with their Templar enemies. His job was to carry on with life as normal but report any possible Templar activity to the assassins. A simple enough job but much more exciting than just a cab driver, he was now part of something much bigger than himself.
Carter was sitting with his walking stick across his lap and his chin resting on his closed fist, looking out of the window at the city he had left behind.
Richard was hunched over with his hands clasped together and looking at the floor. Dreading secretly what Crawford wants him to do next.
Arthur sat opposite them both, his hands drumming his open hands on his kneecaps and glancing at both assassins opposite him, desperate to break the tension. He hated silence. Not the best trait for a 'silent' killer but he was one of the best shots in the order and in recent times the order wasn't going to turn down skilled recruits, no matter how annoying they may be.
The cab went over a bump in the road which brought them all to attention with a start. Good thing too, they had arrived at the base of the London branch of the assassin order.
Archie knocked on the roof of the cab, "Welcome to the Tower Of London, now; get your arses out before I charge you for the trip!"
Crossing the drawbridge above the oyster-filled moat which surrounded the massive fortress brought back many memories for Richard.
The glimpses of his training and initiation into the order came flooding back like a roaring tide. He could remember how terrified he was one night when he was practicing his free-running on the green tower when he slipped and his foot hit one of the bricks and it fell onto the ground with a heavy thump right beside a beefeater guard. Richard was too scared to breath, all the guard had to do was look up and he would be done for. The whole Tower was under Templar control so if he was caught then nothing could be done for him.
The beefeater had simply picked up the brick, turned it around in his palms and dropped it again with disinterest; he probably thought a raven had knocked it off or something. There were a lot of ravens here. They took residence in a tower that was frankly unimaginably named 'Ravens' Tower'. There was an interesting prophesy that if the ravens were to ever migrate from the tower the monarchy would fall.
"We should be so lucky." Richard mumbled to himself.
"What?"
Richard recoiled slightly and found Carter staring at him dubiously. The sight of his former master reminded him of the sullen, solitary man who watched him train with his arms folded and expression set in stone. He had never known if he had approved or disapproved of his progress until the day he had been accepted into the order. His master had worn an expression which was the closest thing to pride that Richard had ever seen on him.
Arthur walked out in front, his hood over his head just like the others, glancing side to side nervously. By all rights they shouldn't be here. This was enemy territory but at the same time this was the perfect hiding place. It was highly doubtful that the Templars would search for their enemies in their most heavily defended stronghold in Britain. Although their security wasn't as formidable as they claimed. The beefeaters were unobservant imbeciles who just stood there (granted with large pikes) doing nothing. Proof of the issue was the fact that one of the frequently practiced qualifying trails for assassins was sneaking into the waterloo barracks, making it all the way to the jewel room and back out without receiving a complimentary pike in the gizzard from the guards. There have been few failures; whether that was due to the trainee's remarkable skills or the beefeater's gross incompetence is still an argued point among the higher ranked assassins.
They approached the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. This has only been the meeting place of the assassins for 12 years. They had been betrayed by one of their brothers and their previous base had caught fire by "accident". They had come here and restored the chapel from its depraved state (the rumour was that Carter was in charge of the restoration project) and it still looks brand new even after 12 years.
They walked right into the chapel, one of the reasons for the chapel being the choice of their main base was that with their hooded appearance they looked like clergymen and so blended in perfectly with the silent men setting up the alter for Sunday service kneeling at the front of the chapel with their hands clasped in prayer.
Arthur led them to the two person confession booth and stepped inside and closed the door. It was completely dark save for the light coming from the small patterned holes in the door.
"What is it that troubles you my son?" Spoke a deep voice from the other booth.
Carter threw open the door of Arthurs booth and leant over the startled man, "What troubles me is that I have been dragged halfway across the country, I haven't eaten or slept in nearly a day and you're here pissing around with codes when you clearly know who we are!" He snapped.
Richard shared a wide-eyed look with Arthur, although the later looked more scared, while Carter stared at the covered up holes in the wall.
They heard a noise that was close to a growl from the other side, "Carter, you haven't changed at all have you?"
"If I had then I wouldn't be here."
"Good point." At this there came a clicking sound from the other booth and the back of Arthur's booth slid into the ground revealing a staircase leading downwards. The three assassins hurried into the passageway; the booth wall slid back into its original place 3 seconds later.
When the dark trip down the stone steps ended they entered a large well gas-lit room with portraits on the walls of past leaders of the order, bookshelves which put even Carter's extensive collection to shame. There was also a large cabinet which took up most of a wall that was closed but all in the room knew it contained every kind exotic weapon from vials of African black cobra venom to Chinese-constructed crossbows.
At the far end resided a large oak table with many chairs around it; of which only one had someone sitting down.
He was dressed in a black hooded robe similar to the other assassins but the seated man's robes had red patterns on his own robes, the masterful work of a talented embroider from the Middle East.
He had a worn, leathery face with a well-trimmed snow white beard and piercing, blue, hawk-like eyes which seemed to stab through your very soul. What knowledge and secrets were hidden behind those somehow inhuman eyes? Carter had wondered on so many occasions before and that was exactly what he was thinking now more than ever.
The man in the chair was the leader of the assassin's order. Crawford. Whether that was his real name or an alias is a mystery to all except him and he seems to prefer it that way.
Crawford rose from the ornate chair slowly; his eyes fixed on his three visitors, his gaze primarily on Carter. He started to walk towards him and the other did the same until they stopped about a meter away from one another. They stood staring at each other fearsomely, willing the other to back down.
"Carter."
"Crawford."
"You look tired."
"You look like shit too, master" Carter replied flatly.
Crawford smiled thinly, "I see you're still an arrogant little shit."
"Nice to see you're still a senile, old windbag as well." Cater gave a sarcastic smile in return.
Richard leaned towards Arthur, "You think we should leave the loving couple in private?" He sniggered.
"Shut up Dick!" Both Crawford and Carter snapped in unison while amazingly keeping the staring contest going.
Richard's face flushed in embarrassment while Arthur was turned away with his hand over his mouth to try and make the fact that he was laughing hysterically less obvious.
Crawford broke away first and started walking back to the table. He sat down and gestured for the others to do the same. They did so without complaint. They sat in a tense silence for a few dragging seconds.
Richard shattered it, "So what're we going to do about Jack the Ripper?"
Crawford shrugged, "Well I suppose that is the only question that matters right now. Do you have any ideas, Carter?"
All eyes were on Carter now.
Carter shrugged, "Slit the sick bastard's throat." He said simply.
Crawford rolled his eyes, "You think so? Personally I was thinking of giving him a medal."
"Ok stop it both of you," Richard glared at the two men; both were equally surprised at the tone of authority in his voice.
"Ok," Crawford leant back and intertwined his fingers (a habit eerily similar to Carter's), "What do you suggest, Richard?"
"Well...um," He cleared his throat quickly," We really shouldn't be discussing about what to do with the Ripper but rather how to find him in the first place."
No one objected. He continued.
"So to do that I think we first need to assess how the killer is getting around the city. I highly doubt that he's simply walking the streets as a solitary man in black skulking around would look too suspicious, especially now that people are on the alert."
"How do you think he's getting around then?" Carter asked with his head balanced on top of his closed fist.
"I personally think that he's using the sewage system. I mean provided that he knows his way around he could theoretically go anywhere in the city unseen."
Crawford tilted his head to the side, "A plausible theory." He admitted.
"What about the smell?" Arthur chimed in.
All eyes turned on him and he recoiled slightly, unused to the attention, "Well would there be a smell lingering around the scene of the crime? You know, considering where he came from?"
"I doubt it would be noticed to be honest." Richard replied.
"Why do you say that?"
"Have you been to the poorer areas of Whitechapel recently? They don't exactly smell like rose baths."
"You're forgetting about footprints." Carter cut in. He was still in the same relaxed position as before. When he saw his former apprentice's questioning look he elaborated.
"Say your theory's true about him moving around in the sewage system, if that were so then his feet would be soaked from his sub-terrain travels. That would leave very noticeable footprints at the scenes of the murders. Since the newspapers say nothing about there being any footprints and no evidence of them being cleaned away, we must assume that there were none. This disproves your theory I'm afraid."
"O…oh I see…" Richard's eyes feel to the table and he started shifting uncomfortably with embarrassment.
"Don't be so harsh on the boy Carter, at least he's thinking." Crawford urged.
Carter grunted guiltily, "I have a theory of my own." He pointed upwards with his index finger.
Crawford understood immediately. "You think he's using the rooftops?"
Carter nodded grimly.
Crawford leant forward," I don't like what you're implying." He shook his head as he said this.
Carter leant forwards on one elbow, "Can you look me in the eye and say that the thought hasn't occurred to you as well?"
Crawford's shot down towards the table and back up so fast that Carter wasn't one hundred per cent sure that he had done it. This was interesting; Crawford shared the same doubts as he did.
Arthur butted in, "Have any of you considered that this may be a Templar plot?"
"I have," Carter was still balancing on his elbow but he had the forearm raised, "But I seriously doubt that it's them."
"Oh I see so you would gladly incriminate your own brothers before our worst enemies?" Crawford had his teeth bared in anger. This was one of the few times where he looked like he would really lose his temper.
Carter splayed both arms, "I hate the Templars as much as you do I assure you, all I am saying is that this isn't their style at all. Yes, they will of course kill in cold blood for their own ends but that would be a person of importance or a potential threat to them such as a politician who is clearly against them or even so far as a member of the monarchy but random prostitutes? I fail to see the logic."
"The man has a point." Arthur nodded in agreement. He and Richard both looked on to Crawford, who had calmed down and whose eyes were darting from left to right, clearly considering Carter's theory.
"Okay," He clapped his hands together and kept them clasped, "We'll stop theorising for now and start investigating. Arthur?" He nodded to the young assassin. "I want you to organise patrol sentries on the rooftops of Whitechapel, mainly in the poorer areas, in case Carter's theory of the Ripper being a free-runner turns out to be true. I don't want even a crow walking on those rooftops without me knowing about it, understood?" He stared intently.
Arthur rose and bowed with his right forearm over his chest, "Understood." He then left the room.
The room was quite now. Richard found himself slightly nervous about what would be asked of him and his former master.
"Carter, Richard," Crawford nodded at them both in succession, "I want you to find and interview George Lusk, the head of the Whitechapel vigilante committee. They have taken it upon themselves to patrol the streets at night in search of the murderer. Their intentions seem to be noble but they're essentially amateurs. I want you to speak with them, convince them to work together with us. We are very low in number as of late so we need all the help we can get."
"Very well," Carter nodded slowly, "How should I go about it then?"
"Do I have to come up with everything?" Crawford rubbed his eyes with one hand while trying his hardest to disguise a yawn with the other, "Just do what you have to do."
On that note the two assassins got up and started to leave, they ascended the stone staircase, leaving the ancient master assassin to get some long overdue rest.
Two men leant against the wall of the bar opposite the Tower of London. They were smoking tobacco that was, according to the merchant, over 17 years old and grown in a private tobacco field in the orient or something to that effect. To be honest he didn't care, he just wanted a change from the usual shit that he normally had to suck into his lungs. There wasn't much noticeable difference; years of smoking had obliterated his sense of taste long ago.
His friend gave him a nudge and gestured towards the drawbridge with his rolled up cigarette. There were two hooded men hurrying over the drawbridge and down the street, frequently checking their backs as they went.
"Well," one of the men took a long draw on his cigarette then exhaled the puff of smoke slowly, "I never thought that I'd see him again."
The other man looked perplexed, "What do you mean", he arched his neck to try and see the man that he was referring to."
"I need you to deliver a message for me. I'm sure that our brothers will be pleased with this development."
"I'm sorry but I have no idea what you're on about. The other man shook his head."
The man rolled his eyes, "Look just let our bosses know that the mercury hunter has returned; he'll know what that means."
The other man, though confused, obliged and hurried away down the street.
The man who had remained flicked his cigarette away and snuffed it out with his shoe. He walked away with a massive grin on his face. He mumbled to himself gleefully;
"Yes, I'm certain that the Templars would love to hear that Carter Jackson, the mercury hunter, has returned to London."
