Assassin's Creed: Allegiance

Chapter 4

A thick shroud of fog snaked around the poor district of Whitechapel like a great serpent. It ensnared buildings, cabs and drunken pedestrians alike. The orange lights from the gas lampposts on the streets appeared to dance in mid-air as their dark metal bodies were obscured by the smokescreen that resided there.

Joseph Lawende was at home in his quint little house, it wasn't much but it was one of the few homes in the district which wasn't part of a multiple tenement flat. He smiled to himself at the thought of this; it gave him a sense of wealth above the rest of his fellow men in this particular district, even though he knew that the higher classes would sooner spit on him than admit he was in any way wealthy.

He collapsed into his green coloured armchair with a powerful exhale. It had been a hard day in the factory but it was now over. He had run ragged today chasing after his bosses asking for the orders sheets, his arms ached from helping to take in the deliveries of heavy industrial machinery as the recent flu had left them severely understaffed. He couldn't help it; he was a 'pencil pusher' as the large, burley men on the factory floor referred to him as, not used to hard labour as they were.

He had several miniature gas lamps installed on the walls of his living room which bathed the room in a warm tangerine glow. He had a copy of 'The times' in his hand and was flicking through the pages trying to find something interesting. He stopped suddenly when he stumbled across a story which sent a chill racing down his spine;

Ripper sends out warning to police informant

As many of our loyal readers with remember we mentioned before that during the murder of Miss Catherine Eddowes the perpetrator was caught in the act by a passer-by. The man of course bravely went to the police with a description in an attempt to aid them in the capture of this malicious creature but this may have been an unwise decision on his part. Below is a transcript of a letter which is believed to be from the Ripper himself. God help the poor soul of whom the letter refers to.

You thought your-self very clever I reckon when you informed the police. But you made a mistake if you thought I didn't see you. Now I know that you know me and I see your little game, and I mean to finish you and send your ears to your wife if you show this to the police or help them I will finish you. It is no use in you trying to get out of my way. Because I will have you when you don't expect it and I keep my word that you will soon see me as I rip you up.

Yours truly, Jack the Ripper.

P.S. You see I know your address

The room suddenly became deathly cold. The pervious warmth that the fireplace in the room gave out had no effect on Joseph's body now. His breathing came in rapid bursts. He was afraid…no…terrified. He was just threatened by a serial killer, in front of the whole country!

He was there that night; he had seen the unholy monster hold that woman, oh that poor, poor woman, by the throat with one hand while brandishing a large knife in the other. Then the killer then turned to face him…

What else could he do? What else would anyone else in his position had done? He ran. He had never run so fast in his life but he had escaped almost certain death.

At least that's what he had thought at the time.

The sound of shattering glass and a shrieking alley cat outside nearly caused Joseph to have a heart attack. He sat clutching his chest while smiling hysterically.

"What kind of stupor have I worked myself into? It was probably just a hoax…yes…a hoax by some sick lunatic…nothing to be scared of." He almost believed it.

He rose from his chair and looked outside his window to inspect the sound. Nothing was outside but the thick fog. He turned as he thought he heard the sounds of footsteps behind him.

He turned to face a dark cloaked figure that moved at lightning fast speed. He grabbed Joseph's shoulder, pulled him forwards and drove a long blade right into his throat. Joseph tried to scream but no sound came out as his throat was clogged with blood which also leaked out in a small stream from his mouth with a sick choking sound. His eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp.

The killer retried his blade and the body dropped to the floor. The figure regarded it with little interest. This was not the first kill and it would not be the last. Oh no far from it…

The killer inspected the blood-stained blade which took Joseph's life. He turned it around in his hands, fascinated.

Ah I just remembered; he has a wife. He thought to himself.

A wide, cruel smile spread across the murderer's face as he made the first cut on the left ear.

The two assassins approached "The Ten Bells" pub, probably the hundredth pub that they had searched so far. Their task was a simple one, to find and interview George Lusk and determine whether or not he was a suitable ally or troublesome nuisance. However the problem seemed to be finding him in the first place. Whitechapel is a big place, a man cannot be easily found, especially considering they didn't even know what he looked like. All that the manager of his firm could divulge to them was that he was a man of medium height in his late forties with a bushy moustache below his small nose.

Yes, he certainly narrowed the possibilities with that description.

All they really know about the vigilante committee which Lusk led was that they met in a pub, but considering the committee members keep to themselves when their involvement is questioned; nobody in the order knew which.

Carter sighed bitterly. For all he knew this was another wasted journey. It didn't help that suspicion had soaked deep into the core of Whitechapel right now; trusting your fellow man in recent times seemed ill-advised. Even if he did in fact find his man, would he admit to it; for all Lusk knew the man inquiring could be Jack the Ripper himself. How did he know that he hadn't already found George Lusk in one his many interviews but he simply denied his true identity?

They both stood beneath the sign labelled "The ten bells" hanging from two thin chains on a horizontal pole which swung slightly in the midday breeze.

"You know the plan right?" Carter nodded to Richard.

"Yeah, I know." Richard exhaled glumly. He was clearly sick of their monotonous man-hunt as well.

The long ago established 'plan' was that Carter would go inside to search for their man while Richard waited outside. This was a preferable arrangement because if two figures started interviewing then they would not only look too much like the police but it also means that if the worst should happen, and the target runs for it, Richard will be right outside ready to tackle him if necessary.

"I still don't understand why I'm always the one on guard duty." Richard huffed.

"I'm better at interviewing; you're too nice about it."

"At least nobody has run from me mid-interview. Richard muttered.

"No," Carter admitted, "They just tell you to piss off."

Richard couldn't deny that. He could say what he wanted about Carter but his master knew how to get things done, and he realised that, to a complete stranger, he looked absolutely terrifying. That made him better for the task at hand, it didn't however, mean that Richard had to be happy about it.

He leant against the wall with his arms crossed while Carter opened the creaky wooden door and entered.

Carter taking a step inside the bar had the same effect as a priest rising in church. Silence and inevitable attention, all eyes were on him. Well-dressed men smoking pipes ceased mid-puff and observed their visitor. The elderly men playing bridge in the corner on a small wooden table merely glanced up; concerned with little else but the cards lay out on the table. The bartender simply eyed him with obvious disinterest, this wasn't the only strange man to walk into his pub and he won't be the last. Only one man did not turn around, he wore a bowler hat and had a pint of bitter beside him.

Carter approached the bar and sat beside the punter at the bar. The man fitted the specifications exactly. He seemed to be the correct age but the bags around his eyes confirmed that sleep had seemed to elude him for a night or two at least. His moustache was as bushy as rumoured, with some strands of grey in them. He wore a simple bowler hat upon his head which was slightly elevated by curly dark-brown hair that escaped from under it.

"George Lusk, I presume?" Carter said flatly in the man's direction.

The man, Lusk, gave Carter a wide eyed glance before rising suddenly; escape clearly on his mind.

With his right arm hidden by his body Carter grabbed George's shoulder with his left hand, stopping him from rising any further.

"Sit," As he spoke he flicked his wrist and his hidden blade emerged from the wrist of his right hand for emphasis, unseen by the onlookers behind him, "Down."

George swallowed hard and complied; the blade retracted with another simple wrist flick. The two men sat in an awkward silence for a minute or two; the white, fizzling froth atop the pint glass was already beginning to dissolve.

"Are you here to kill me?" Lusk sounded like he couldn't care less about the response; almost like he anticipated he would perish by the stranger's hand the minute he walked into the pub.

Carter shrugged. "If I had, then your neck wouldn't still be in one piece right now."

George narrowed his eyes. "Then what do you want from me, assassin?

Carter recoiled slightly, eyes widened. How? How is it possible that this man even knows that the order exists; let alone be able to recognise one of its members?

Lusk smiled slightly at Carter's reaction. "Don't worry yourself, my order knows much about yours including the frequent use of that contraption on your wrist." He nodded at Carter's right hand.

"Your order," Carter raised his right hand slightly; ready to flick if necessary, "what order would that be?"

"Not the one you're thinking of I assure you," George said seriously, "The Templars' cause is in no way akin to our own"

"What order?" Carter demanded a little too loudly.

George rolled down the sleeve of his shirt. Tattooed on his right wrist, below his palm, was a builder's square and a compass adjacent to one another.

Carter sighed with relief. So, this man was a Freemason. That was good; the Freemasons were decent men with (normally) good intentions. Their order focuses on the idea of helping others in the community and encourages their members to lead honest lives. They don't discriminate between races, anyone can join them, they don't even have a leader as their order's laws dictate that no one man can possibly speak for them all.

George rolled his sleeve back up. "So, you know who I am and I know who you are. Now I'll ask again, what do you want from me?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

"Jack the ripper?"

"That's the one."

Even the mention of the infamous title seemed to make the temperature of the room drop a few degrees. Carter thought it was his imagination but he had the slightest feeling that he was being watched. He tried to dismiss it; but he knew better than to ignore his instincts. He would have to make this quick.

"Look I like what you're doing here I really do, but I've seen this kind of thing before. An unorganised mob will cause havoc despite how pure their intentions are. Trust me."

"So do you expect me to let this murderer roam free?" George snarled.

"On the contrary, I suggest we work together. The assassins are trying to catch this killer as well but our forces are spread out too thin across the country. You have many men involved in your committee, we could help you be more effective and teach you our methods of tracking and, if necessary, apprehension."

George considered this. His facial expression confirmed that he seemed to like this idea. He rubbed his moustache thoughtfully.

"I must admit I'm intrigued by your offer, I certainly need the help," he tilted his head to the side, "but how do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't, but you don't really have much of a choice do you?" Carter held out his hand.

George snorted in response. "I suppose I don't." He shook Carter's outstretched hand.

"Well, I'd better be off," Carter glanced behind him and reached into his robe and pulled out a dusty grey wig and started to put it on, "where and when do you and your committee meet?"

George raised his eyebrows at the sight of the assassin trying to pull the wig over his head. "Umm…well… every Friday at 7 but…," Carter brought out a pair of wire rimmed spectacles and tried them on, "Ok what the hell are you doing?"

Carter, who now looked like an old man, looked at him with a generic stare. "I'm going for a walk, of course."

George burst out laughing. This man, who he's leaving the fate of his committee and, possibly, the whole of Whitechapel, was dressing up to gallivant as an old man for god knows what purpose.

Carter hunched over and started walking with a limp, using his stick a lot more frequently now, ignoring the startled looks of the other punters. He opened the doors and, with the sunlight magnified through his spectacles which made him squint slightly, and stepped outside.

"Yes," he muttered under his breath, "just a nice, uneventful, walk in the sun."

Since joining the assassin's order at a very young age Richard had grown accustomed to strange things. His training taught him to be ready for anything and to adapt to a variety of dangerous situations or risk meeting a potentially horrifying end.

He was not however, prepared for a hunched-back OAP throwing open the door of the pub and starting to drag him away by his elbow.

"What the…let me go you scraggy old piece of…" The old man smacked Richard across the head. He knew immediately after that it was Carter in disguise; only his master hit him like that.

"Master, why are you dressed like a homeless person?"

"Do you want me to slap you again, Dick?" Carter replied gruffly.

"Master," Richard grabbed Carter's arm which caused his spectacle shielded eyes to glare at him, Richard gave him a serious look in return, "What's going on?"

Carter suddenly grabbed Richard's collar and yanked his head down to his hunched level and they both continued to walk at a rather painful, knee-buckling pace.

"Listen to me," He started in harsh, quick whispers into Richard's ear, "We're being followed. We have been since we left the tower, I wasn't sure of it until I entered the bar, one of the men was opposite the tower when we left and his expression when he saw me gave him away."

Richard nodded, "Templar agents?"

Carter glanced in both directions before answering," I'm almost certain of it," he licked his lips quickly, "Look, Richard, for the next few minutes I need you to do exactly as I tell you immediately and without argument, do you understand?" His grip on his apprentices' collar tightened.

Richard could only nod in response. He knew this was serious; they had enough problems without the Templars on their backs.

Carter released Richard from his grip and continued walking like the old man whom he was impersonating. He still hadn't answered why he wore the disguise if his pursuer already knew what he looked like.

They turned a corner and a lump formed in Richard's throat. There was a horse-drawn police carriage which had two officers walking alongside it. They approached the two men.

The older of the two officers addressed Carter, "Hello there sir could I ask you some questions about the recent violence in the area?" He was a red faced man who obviously smoked because he practically heaved out every syllable of speech.

Carter smiled a wide, senile looking smile and started muttering to himself, or at least that's what the officer saw, Richard knew him well enough to know he was mouthing a command to him.

"When I act, run immediately."

Carter's smile disappeared and after a quick nod to Richard he slid his hand up his walking stick and suddenly stood up straight.

Richard bolted and Carter used the time granted by the officer's surprise and brought around the stick in a lightning quick arc and smacked the officer in the jaw.

Chaos erupted at the sickening crunch and the officer's moans of agony as he collapsed in a writhing heap while clutching his bloody jaw. People all around started milling around and yelling, Richard was already long gone, exactly as Carter had instructed him to do so.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain in the back of his neck and he slumped to his knees with a grunt. Before he lost consciousness he felt the cold metal of handcuffs digging into his wrists and being hauled towards the carriage which at the point was just a blur of blacks and browns.