AC3 Novelization

by Mirror and Image

[Complete] Desmond has at last reached the precursor site, and now he must dig through the memories of Ratonhnhake:ton to find the key to open the door. What lies beyond, only Juno can say. Rated for period language.

2. Charter Members

Part Two: Charter Members

The next morning William explained that, while his home and most of his research was at his home in Johnstown, he did bring along his assistant. Charles made a noise of disgust deep in his throat, and together the two left William to go over the few documents he had brought and to find his wayward help. Said assistant was engaging in public drunkenness – in the middle of the morning – in an establishment several blocks away, with a woman on his lap and his face in her...

Haytham cleared his throat.

"Thomas Hickey?"

A man of black hair and brown eyes, looked up from his work, licking his lip unwholesomely. "Who's askin'?" he asked with a thick cockney drawl.

"Haytham Kenway."

"Is that s'pposed to mean somefin'?" Thomas asked, turning to bury his head again, but the girl pushed him away, embarrassed, and quickly disappeared.

Charles, of course, could not bear to see the Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite insulted. "Show some respect, boy." The words were ironic, given that Charles was clearly younger than Thomas. Haytham moved to intervene.

"Peace, Charles." He turned to the drunkard. "William Johnson sent us in the hopes you might... expedite our search."

"Don't need no expiditin'," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair and hooking a leg up to the table. "Don't need none of your fancy London-speak, neither."

"Nevertheless, your presence is required. You may call on your lady friend at a later date."

Thomas sneered, deliberately grabbing his drink and downing it slowly. Charles growled in disapproval again, but Haytham grabbed the boy's shoulder, intent on preventing a further breakdown in communications. Eventually, Thomas finished and staggered to his feet, swaying for several seconds before straightening and looking remarkably sober. "So's you know, I fink you're a right tosser-"

"Now see here...!"

"-But me man Johnson's all right. He pays me. If'n 'e sent you 'ere, 'aytham, then we'd best be goin'."

"As you wish," Haytham replied cordially. He could easily tell why this man would be a boon, if his underworld connections were as good as the short biography on his list indicated, then his playing at being drunk was the first sign of the man's competence. One wondered how he had been assigned the upright and diligent William Johnson, but perhaps dear Reginald had already known that when he had assembled his list.

Outside they began their travel back to the Green Dragon, meandering through the crowds of colonists and Indians and slaves and horses and wagons and stalls and other minutia of city life. Haytham was still admiring how the people put up with one another, and moreover all worked so diligently. It seemed as though idolatry was a sin in the New World, and he would have to ask William, the closest thing to a colonist they currently had, on why that was. It was because he was studying the people that he noticed one person in a blue coat approaching, tricorn had pulled absurdly low. Menace was radiating off of him, and Haytham realized what was happening.

The gun was pulled out from somewhere, but Haytham was already ahead of him, advancing to him instead of visa-versa. Reaching out then tripping him before the firearm was fully drawn and shoving his palm in the man's face, quickening his descent and extending his hidden blade, holding it to the man's throat. Two others tried their luck on the field of battle, but Charles was a soldier and Thomas apparently a brute, both killed their targets. Haytham let the defeat linger for a moment before starting his interrogation.

"Your kind has no need for instigation. Who put you up to this?"

The mercenary was pale, gulping for air even while he tried to pull his neck away from the hidden blade. "Never seen a person. It's always been dead drops and letters. But they always pay, so we do the jobs."

Haytham carefully added menace to his voice. "Well those days are done. Tell your masters I said as much."

"Wh... Who should I say you are?"

Haytham stood, his face cold and unfeeling. "You don't. They'll know."

The mercenary got up and ran, clutching his throat as if to see it was still there.

"Oi! 'Aytham!" Thomas summoned, completely irreverent of the challenge the new grandmaster had just delivered to them. "This one's got some shot on 'im. Ya might want to be grabbin' it."

"Are you mad?" Charles demanded, indignant. "Can't you see we're in the middle of something?"

"Why you always got ta go an' be a spoil sport? Prissy git."

Charles made a distinct noise of disgust as Thomas moved to loot the second body. Haytham only recognized the violence. "A shame the pair had to die."

"Aye," Thomas said in a blaze voice. "Terrible tragedy that. Back to the Green Dragon, then. I need a drink."

"Have you no decency?" Charles demanded.

"Nevah needed it," Thomas replied, completely unrepentant.

Regardless, all three were watchful on their return trip, and Haytham saw with some modicum of pride that both had good eyes. When they returned to the Green Dragon and entered, they moved to Haytham's spacious room and Charles once more took guard, closing it once the others had entered.

"Oi, Mister Johnson," Thomas said immediately. "You're gonna need to double my pay after all dis if you're expectin' me to keep at your side."

William looked up from the notes he was taking. "I beg your pardon?"

"We were beset by some very old enemies," Haytham replied, taking a seat while Thomas dragged over a chair. "They were defeated and a warning of further interference was of course delivered, but it has now been proven that this venture will not be without some dangers."

"An' I ain't paid enough for dis," Thomas added, crossing his arms and hooking an ankle over his knee.

"Well," Haytham said brightly, "In that case, as grandmaster of this Colonial Rite, I'll more than double your salary, seeing as how your services would prove most valuable to our cause."

Thomas openly blinked, his drunkard persona and blithe irreverence at last swept away. "Ya mean it?" he asked, truly surprised.

"Of course. I am a man of my word."

"Well then, we'd bettah get started. What is it you be needin'?"

And Haytham brought him up to speed, explaining the core values of their order, the goals they had in the New World, and the eventual expedition that they would arrange.

"And how goes it with you, William?" Haytham asked. "Have you made any progress on that curious key of ours?"

"It is most definitely Kanien'kehá:ka in origin, which surprises me given where you found it. The dragon here is clearly a depiction of an oniare, that's a water spirit in Hausenodaunee legend that lurks in the Great Lakes far to the west of here. It's a menace that capsizes canoes and eats people, killing them with his poisonous breath. It's curious that it's eating its own tail here, I don't know the significance of that yet. Now, Onyare'kowa are defended against by invoking their thunder god, Hinon; that might be what this is in reference to, but what we really need to do is head to my home in Fort Johnson and look at my research. Most of my journals are there; and once we better understand what this ring represents, then we can start asking the Kanien'kehá:ka about their sacred sites that deal with the story this little key is telling us."

"And where is your Fort Johnson?"

"Just over the border in New York; I'd say about four or five days travel, depending on the roads."

"So perhaps two weeks total, to collect it and bring it here," Haytham said, rubbing his chin. "That would give Charles enough time to find the other members of our party, and me time to familiarize myself with the more inner workings of the city. And give our friend Thomas here time to put his ear to the ground, now that he knows what we're looking for."

"Agreed. I can arrange a carriage and leave this afternoon."

"Excellent," Haytham said, "I wish you luck on your sojourn. The sooner you leave the better, before word reaches them just who our numbers and objectives are. That will be a secondary assignment for you, Thomas."

"Wot?" the man asked, not paying attention.

"To learn how those 'letters and dead drops' that were mentioned are articulated. Our enemy has had hundreds of years to establish his presence here, and now that we know of one arm they possess, it's time to cut it off."

Thomas grinned. "I like the way you fink, 'aytham. 'specially when you're payin'."

And so it was arranged. William rode off in a carriage by three in the afternoon, and Thomas had disappeared to parts unknown to begin his own work. Charles could not hide his jealousy that a man so ill-be-gotten was given assignments and knowledge that he was not, and it made his search for Benjamin Church and John Pitcairn all the more diligent. Haytham allowed it for now; if the jealousy made him work harder, then all the better.

Haytham spent his time beginning basic organizing of his new Rite. Research aside, William Johnson was quite obviously the money man of this little project, his skill at trade and land investment had made him wealthy in a very short amount of time. There was also his connection to the Indians, a critical point that Haytham had yet to fully understand in order to take advantage of. He had learned that William had an Indian name – a common occurrence as European names were just as difficult to the savages as their language was to Europeans. Warraghiyagey, William had made Haytham write that name down over and over and over before he left so that the new grandmaster could remember the trader's alias. If anything went badly, William would send a Mohawk, most likely a man named Hendrick Theyanoguin, to say that Warraghiyagey was in trouble. The Mohawk apparently had last year gone to New York's self-named city and demanded that William be named Indian agent again after his earlier resignation. Haytham did not get all the details, but he understood the political capital he had as well as money and influence over the Indians.

Thomas Hickey was clearly the man of the underworld. In the span of three days he learned how letters were dropped off and under his own initiative set soldiers to level one or two buildings to completely cut off them. He more than earned his pay, and by the end of the first week he had also begun planting the seeds necessary to bring funny stories to the Green Dragon to share for a cup of anything from ale to brandy to wine. He had more innate information of the dark belly of Boston – of any city, really – than any man Haytham had ever met.

Charles was of course beside himself in hearing such words of praise for a man who drank and cussed and was an unrepentant louse.

Charles.

Ah, the boy had promise. He was a skilled combatant of course, with his military training; he was diligent and hard working. Whether he knew it or not he evoked the "pioneer spirit" he fondly admired in the Colonists. His admiration for Haytham was complete and unwavering, and Haytham privately admitted he liked the consistent stroking of his ego, but he also understood the dangers of a swelled head blinding one to surprises, and so he schooled his praise of Charles and made the man work hard, pushing him away when necessary to give his ego a chance to settle and prevent growing too healthy. What the boy really needed was a test of character, and Haytham was uncertain how to achieve it. But that could wait for now; Braddock would not arrive for several months yet, and Haytham spent his time wisely.

Twelve days later William arrived with his research in the last muggy days of July. The oppressive heat was only tolerable with the sea air sweeping in from the east, but any relief it afforded was compounded with even more moisture, and everyone was damp with sweat.

After taking the afternoon to settle in and wash off the travel dust, the three men once again moved to meet in Haytham's room, their default meeting place. Charles had been out and about, looking for Benjamin Church. His face was eager and excited as always, trailing after Haytham like a puppy dog and trying to get a word in.

"Evening, gentlemen."

Thomas belched in reply.

"Charming," Charles muttered, clenching his jaw.

"Oh, peace, Charles," Haytham said, keeping his voice even and cheerful. "He'll grow on you."

And, just because he knew it irked the boy to no end, Thomas put on his drunken persona. "Oi, Catherine ya fussock!" he called through the open door. "Git back here! Daddy needs a drink!"

Charles growled, Haytham ignored them both, instead looking to William. "How fares the search?" he asked. "Did your research at home bear any fruits?"

William shook his head, his faint Irish accent slightly thicker. "Maths and maps are not cutting it I'm afraid. While I know of many of their groves and caves, I simply do not know all of them. And, since I have yet to be reinstated as Indian Agent for New York, I'm limited in what I can do in an official capacity."

"What of your local contacts?" Haytham asked.

"We'll need to earn their trust before they'll share what they know. They've learned over the course of many years and many wars that no white man honors land agreements, and land once thought safe is captured by settlers. Asking them to reveal the location of a sacred glen would be impossible unless they trust us as individuals."

Thomas, still playing the drunk, looked up and unhooked his legs, leaving them spread wide open. "I've an idea on how we might be effectin' that. There's a man who's taken to enslavin' natives. Rescue 'em and they'll owe us."

Haytham smiled at the simple but brilliant strategy. Charles pursed his lips and tried not to show his jealousy. "Do you know where they're being held?"

"'Fraid not."

And the boy could simply contain himself not longer. "Benjamin Church will," he said quickly. "He's a finder and a fixer. He's also on your list. I've just found his house, he's finishing his training for being a surgeon, some school named Harvard something or other."

That deserved a reward. Haytham smiled and put extra cheer in his voice. "And there I was, wondering whom I might solicit next. Well done."

Charles beamed, and the two set off the next morning after securing horses and mounting. The home was in central Boston, still about the brick roads, atop a hill and clearly rich enough to have a surrounding plot of land, it was of grey stone and in a style that seemed common in the city; five windows above, four below with a door in the center, the chimney off to one side and two miniscule little dormers peaking up from the roof. Charles had been there as early as dawn reconnoitering in the August heat, and now well into midmorning they hoped to have an audience with the new doctor and invite him to the fold.

Haytham knocked politely and the pair waited for a response. After almost a minute of silence Haytham tried again, eyes glancing past the white picket fence of the property to the broken barrel they had seen approaching the residence. When there still came no reply, Haytham tried the door. It was locked.

That meant he was at his practice, or perhaps at this school Harvard, wherever it was, or out for supplies or any other manner of mundane activities. Effectively, they were now forced to wait in this oppressive heat for an indeterminable amount of time.

"Wonderful," he muttered, stepping out to the lawn for a moment and clasping his hands behind his back. Charles saw his disappointment and frowned. For several minutes the pair waited before the dark haired Charles, in a fit of insanity, lifted his leg and kicked at the door once, twice, until it gave way to his force and he burst into the house.

Haytham was gobsmacked.

"Charles?" he asked, uncertain what to expect.

All he got was a polite, "Sir?" as the boy brushed off invisible dust from his coat and straightened out his clean-cut look.

For several moments Haytham was utterly speechless, uncertain whether to reprimand the boy for indiscretion or praise him for his initiative or comment on the fuss of others seeing the display of violence. He took a breath to say any number of thoughts running through his head, but in the end the boy got results, and means were hardly a point of question in their line of work. He said nothing, instead slipping inside.

Tables were overturned and papers were scattered everywhere; the hearth had several broken bricks from the impact of something, most likely the crafted metal candelabra that lay nearby. Blood was sprinkled about the floor in tiny drops, and Haytham quickly assessed the clear signs of a struggle, reading the scene.

"Seems like we're not the only ones looking for Mister Church," he said softly, hands still clasped behind his back.

"Dammit," Charles cursed, the first time Haytham had ever heard it. "He could be anywhere. What do we do?"

Haytham gave the boy a brief but frosty look. "We find him," he said, walking over the a portrait that must have been of the man in question and extracted his hidden blade Jesus that's not how you use that thing is this guy a freakin' idiot? "Come, I'll show you how." Done cutting out the face of the portrait, he tossed the bit of canvas to Charles and they headed out. Neighbors were their first stop, and some of the women were more than happy to gossip.

"You could have seen it! They were surely drunk, carrying on like that. And during the day, no less!"

"Such scandalous behavior from one who aims to be a surgeon? Not likely if he keeps up such carousing..."

"A truly shameful display. Benjamin's parents would be mortified. They stumbled off to the northeast - no doubt in search of a tavern or some other place of ill repute..."

"There, you see," Haytham said. "Gossip goes a long way; we now know that whoever took Benjamin passed him off as drunk and headed northeast. Now we head in that direction. Start questioning those on the street with that portrait; take the time to listen. With luck, one of those people knows what became of Benjamin. I'll see if I can follow the scent of that story."

The pair split up, Charles a bit dubious but Haytham letting him learn this lesson on his own as he moved confidently from one crowed to the next, either asking after or planting the seed of the story of a man being harried off by others. More than a few were quick to perk at the story, only by then it had changed, but the theme was still the same.

"... I asked if I could help and they waved me away. Insisted it was all under control."

"They never said what happened. Only that it was a trifling matter and he'd be returned home soon. There was some blood, though... So I wonder if it wasn't more serious than they let on."

"They took him towards the hilltop. Perhaps there's a doctor at the fort."

The fort. Excellent. There were two forts in Boston, and only one northeast of here. Charles' connection to the army would easily get them in and after that it would be a simple matter of finding and tracking the blood. An hour later he learned from a pair of red coated soldiers that there were a few extortionists on the compound, and that one had gotten their hands on a man named Church. That was the last bit of evidence he needed. That was hardly a stellar endorsement of the trials Benjamin seemed to be going through. He found Charles showing the portrait to a haggard old woman who was less than pleased at the harassment. The boy, it seemed, was aware of his surroundings for a fight but not necessarily for information. Time with Thomas would cure that, and Haytham rather smiled at the idea of forcing those two to work together.

The new grandmaster explained what he had learned with no small amount of private glee, enjoying the look of marvel and wonder on the boy's face.

"See, Charles?" he said, rubbing in the point. "We'll have Church in no time, just as I said we would."

Charles was in awe. "If I might ask, sir, where did you learn to do all this?"

"It is a requirement when you are raised in the manner that I was," Haytham explained. "Perception is fundamental to the Order. It transforms the senses when one understands the nuances of perception. And we begin to know the world in a different way. You understand it at least in part from your military training; you can see men as fighters or brawlers or cowards. That, in many ways, is the easy part. The next is to see who has what you need, how to ask questions and how to manipulate answers out of people. Part of it is knowing who to ask – Benjamin is clearly a man of influential standing, asking a poor woman would get you very little. Asking housewives happy to gossip or fops happy to discuss scandal is more productive. Listening to soldiers has its own benefits as well. A man's mind is his most important weapon, and with so few who actually use them that men like us are at an advantage."

Haytham's apprentice was drinking in all the information, nodding and marveling and learning. It was a lesson he would take to heart, Haytham hoped. If he did then there was great promise for him in the Order.

They arrived at the fort and Charles was recognized in his uniform and easily breezed through. Haytham made a few indirect inquiries to where interrogation was done, Charles watching the display intently. One of the warehouses was given as a possible location. Confident that they had arrived at their destination, Haytham picked the lock and the two entered, moving slowly and silently. Two soldiers were inside watching the show while an officer and another ranker loomed over a bloodied man that matched the portrait exactly. Benjamin.

The officer paced back and forth, calm, detached, and almost bored. "Why must you always make these things so difficult, Benjamin? Merely provide me with recompense and all shall be forgiven."

Said man, face splattered with blood, leveled a hateful glare. "I'll not pay for protection I don't need!" he hissed.

A sigh. "Clearly, you do require protection, else we wouldn't be here."

Benjamin spat a mouthful of blood in retort.

The officer didn't even react, simply said, "How very gauche." He turned to the private looming over Benjamin. Calmly, he asked, "Now, what shall we do about our guest?"

The man in question was obviously the muscle of this extortion enterprise. His cockney drawl was not charming like Thomas, but rather dark and menacing, the picture of a low-class brute his accent always suggested. "Maybe I take 'is hands. Put an end to 'is surgerin'," the brute said coldly. "Maybe I take 'is tongue. Put an end to 'is wagglin'." The brute glanced to somewhere far more delicate. "Or maybe I take 'is cock. Put an end to 'is fuckin' us!" Haytham didn't have a clear view but he knew a knife was being waved around as Benjamin's head darted back and forth away from the weapon. Even in the dim light sweat could be seen mixing in with the blood, breathing became short and ragged.

"So many options," the officer said, bored. "I can't possibly decide." He looked to his thug. "Take all three."

The private grabbed at Benjamin's neck, causing sheer panic to finally explode from the surgeon. "Now hold a moment!" he shouted, desperate. "Perhaps I was hasty in refusing you earlier..."

"I'm so very sorry, Benjamin," the officer said slowly, still dead calm, "but that door has closed."

"Be reasonable, Silas!" Benjamin shouted, voice breaking in fear.

A cold look. "I rather think I was. But you took advantage of my generosity. I won't be made a fool a second time." He paused for effect. Haytham admitted a grudging technical respect in how the man manipulated a situation. He used the same resume of tools that Haytham used, and to great advantage. He would make a great source of muscle if he wasn't about to kill a man Haytham needed. The officer turned to the brute. "I fear I lack the constitution to be witness to such barbarism," he said slowly. "Come find me when you're finished, Cutter."

Anger replaced panic. "You'll regret this, Silas! Do you hear me? I'll have your head!"

"No," he replied. "I rather think you won't."

A quick slicing sound coupled with an agonized grunt followed, the officer walking away.

A glance at Charles showed that he was not yet in position, and so Haytham let the officer Silas go for now. He would either be acquired or terminated later; at the moment it made little difference. The two perfunctory guards glanced at each other and smiled at the cruelty that was about to entertain them.

"Just a quick little swipe and no more ears! How's that sound, Mister Church?"

Bravado answered through the panic: "At least I'll be spared more of your inane prattle."

Charles nodded, at last where he needed to be, and as one the two silently stalked the two audience members, Haytham extracting his killing blade and grabbing his targets mouth before stabbing him below the ribcage god his form is fucking TERRIBLE as Charles took a knife and sliced his target's throat. Two steps later and the thug was in range and Haytham stabbed him as well, a surprised gurgle escaping his lips. Haytham missed the point he wanted, and stabbed a second time to garner a swift death. Benjamin was breathing so heavily his voice cracked, giddy giggles escaping as the haze of fear evaporated in the face of his saviors.

"Who... Who are you?" he asked as Charles cut him free. His hands instinctively rubbed his wrists now that they were loose.

Where that officer, Silas, was cold and bored, Haytham made sure he was polite and restrained. "Haytham Kenway," he said by way of introduction, "at your service."

"I... I don't understand..." Benjamin said, looking between the two men. With a better view Haytham saw that a vicious slice had been made on the sensitive membrane of his nose, covering the lower half of his face with blood and giving a liquid quality to his breathing. "Why are you here?"

"Walk with me, Mister Church, and all will be explained." Haytham pulled out his handkerchief, mentally wincing at the loss of it, and turned it over to let the man clean up at least marginally. Charles talked their way out of the compound and they moved swiftly to the Green Dragon. Charles was dispatched by Benjamin to retrieve his medical kit from his home, and in the span of two hours he was performing his own surgery, staring in a mirror after heating his own needle on a candle. The process was brutal, and Haytham observed with burgeoning respect as the doctor applied his craft to his own personage. His biography on Reginald's list had been the smallest, only saying that he was a student and well connected. What would he bring to the table? Influence? Political assurance? The man was in no mood to talk at first; his trial had of course been exhausting, and Haytham left the man to his own devices for a few days to collect himself and checked on his charter members of the Colonial Rite.

Charles had also, along with finding Benjamin, had learned that John Pitcairn was not actually in the colonies, but rather due to arrive much later with the contingent of Edward Braddock.

That name brought some very dark memories, and Haytham sought out Thomas to distract himself.

"Any news?" he asked in the basement of the Green Tavern, Thomas' normal haunt when he was not working on something.

"Whispers of things, nothin' solid at the moment. I know you're looking for word of something out the ordinary, dealin' with temples and ancient times and whatnot. But so far, can't say my boys have heard much."

Haytham pressed. "No trinkets or artifacts being moved through your... shadow market?"

"Nothin' new," Thomas replied after a long pull from his mug. "Couple ill-gotten weapons - some jewelry likely lifted from a living fing. But you said to look for talk of glows and hums and look out for strange sights, right? An' I ain't heard nothin' 'bout that."

No distraction, it seemed. Well, "Keep at it."

Thomas offered a lewd but true smile, lifting his mug in toast. "Oh I will – you've done me a great service mister, and I fully intend to repay my debt, thricefold, if it pleases."

The gratitude was unexpected, especially from a man as irreverent and sullied in character. Haytham could only say, "Thank you, Thomas."

Thomas belched in reply. "Place to sleep and meal to eat is thanks enough. Don't you worry, I'll get you sorted soon."

It was a week later when the fever of excitement at last left Benjamin, and he was well enough to seek Haytham out after a sojourn into the city.

"Johnson's told me what you intend," he said simply. "I must confess I'm not sure I'm obliged to believe all of it, but given that you've saved my life I'm required to aid you. As it happens, the man who held me is the same one that you seek. His name is Silas Thatcher."

Charles, with Haytham at the moment, blinked. "That fancy lad is our slaver?"

The surgeon snorted. "Don't let his velvet tongue deceive you. A crueler and more vicious creature, I've never known.

Haytham nodded, not about to question probabilities; in point of fact it didn't take much to fancy the man an Indian slaver as well as an extortionist. British pay was laughable, after all. "What can you tell me of his operation?"

"Rumor is he hosts at least a hundred men, more than half of whom are Redcoats." Benjamin replied. He touched his nose, still healing from the stitches. "I tend to believe the rumors, I must confess. Still, he is involved in slaving, extortion, some prostitution of a kind – though what kind I know little of – and has been known to do murder if the price is right. That man Cutter was in charge of extortion, and he has a similar lieutenant for his other rackets as well. The man is a scoundrel and a devil."

"And he operates through the military, the soldiers? All this for some slaves and other small scale racketeering?"

"Hardly," Benjamin replied, snorting. "The man's a commander in the King's Troop, in charge of the Southgate Fort. It's where he runs his racket and collects his money. Rumor has it he has a mansion somewhere and a plantation-worth of slaves doing his bidding. And not just the spades either: the redskins, the spics, anyone he can capture. The slaves he sells all over the world."

Haytham nodded as the three of them moved to sit at their designated table on the second story landing. "We need to find a way inside without abusing Charles' connections; not after his recent heroics in regards to you. Hmmm... Let me think on it."

The silence hung for a time as Charles took his customary post at the top of the stairs to ensure privacy. William and Thomas eventually joined them and they began to sup. With their latest member now up and about, Haytham thought it prudent to perform further inquiries. "So," he said magnanimously, "a question for you: why medicine?"

Benjamin made a face, the fresh stitches on his nose making it ugly. "I'm supposed to tell you I care for my fellow man right? That I chose this path because it allows me to accomplish a greater good?"

The grandmaster cocked his head to one side. "Are these things not true?"

The surgeon shrugged. "Perhaps. But that's not what guided me. No, for me it was a less abstract thing: I like money."

Interesting. "There are other paths to fortune," Haytham countered, hoping to draw out a more lengthy explanation.

"Aye, but what better ware to peddle than life? Nothing else is as precious, nor so desperately craved. And no price is too great for the man or woman who fears an abrupt and permanent end."

Haytham pursed his lips. "Your words are cruel, Benjamin."

"But true as well," the doctor replied, unrepentant.

"You took an oath to help people, did you not? The Hippocratic Oath?"

Benjamin shrugged, adjusting his powdered wig. "I abide by the oath, aye, which makes no mention of price. I merely require compensation – fair compensation – for my services."

"And if they lack the required funds?"

"Then there are others who will serve them. Does a baker grant free bread to a beggar? Does the tailor offer a dress to the woman who cannot afford to pay? No: why should I?"

"You said it yourself, nothing is more precious than life," Haytham said slowly, disapproving what he was hearing.

"Indeed: all the more reason one should ensure one has the means to preserve it."

"You are a blackguard," William said.

"Nah; 'e's a realist," Thomas countered. "Man after me own 'eart 'e is. Best way ta make money is ta peddle in goods as people need, not want."

"That is profoundly deep for you, Hickey," William replied.

Haytham considered. Thomas, scoundrel though he was, was at least charming, and loyal to the money that Haytham paid him. There was general gratitude there, and Haytham was assured that it would remain so long as the pay was adequate. Benjamin, it seemed, was a man of similar nature, and they had already garnered his gratitude by saving his life. Most likely he would remain loyal as well. His callous perspective on human life was troubling, but then did not people of his own Order have such an understanding? Haytham personally loathed unnecessary death, but the Order itself understood human life was... as it always was. A Rite's goals could, from a certain point of view, be deemed in peddling life just as Benjamin had just expressed. Then perhaps there was a similarity in vision if one merely colored the lens appropriately. Nodding, Haytham raised his glass to Benjamin.

"Well, one can certainly be reassured that you will be paid more than adequately for your services, as our friend Thomas can bear witness to. One can assume, then, that over time your nebulous belief in our ambitions will settle to something firmer. In the meantime, I have need of your knowledge of Silas Thatcher and your connections to the upper echelon of Boston if we are to secure ourselves a permanent holding here. To a future of possibilities."

" 'ere 'ere," Thomas said, William and Benjamin all raising their glasses.

Humble beginnings, but one rife with promise, Haytham decided.

He looked forward to seeing how his plans unfolded.

---

Figuring out a plan to get into Thatcher's compound was simple. Ancient Greece bore many inspirations, and one was abundantly useful for such a situation. The problem was manpower. While Charles, young and enthusiastic, was a strong hand with sword and rifle, and Thomas was also a good shot and brawler, neither William nor Benjamin were the best with a blade. With William more often in books and trade and Benjamin sewing wounds instead of making them, he'd need one more strong and trained arm for what Haytham had in mind.

Which meant he had to wait for Lieutenant John Pitcairn. His military training would be most useful. There was no telling what condition the savages would be in once they infiltrated the compound, so Haytham knew he'd have to trust his own men. William headed west, back to his fort, to start making contact with the tribes again and getting more information. Haytham told him to start practicing sword work and marksmanship when he had the chance for self-defense if nothing else. William agreed, with the caveat of when he had the time.

Charles was still in the army, and he eagerly spent every moment of his free time under Haytham's wing. While Haytham soaked up the hero-worship, Charles was best trained by sending him off with Thomas to see the underworld connections that might be unpleasant, but necessary for an Order such as theirs. Charles never complained, though his expression was always contemptuously disgusted when he needed to head out with the scoundrel.

Haytham spent his time dragging Benjamin from his practice in order to teach him firearms and basics of sword work. To say that Benjamin was less than enthused was something of an understatement.

"Really?" the surgeon often growled sourly. "I already know all the damage these precious pistols do, I've sewn up enough wounds and cut off enough limbs to understand."

"But you need to be able to use them if you face danger like your dear Silas again," Haytham explained with strained patience.

"Fine, fine."

When not being annoyed by Benjamin, Haytham spent the majority of his time, particularly as winter started to settle in, getting familiar with the town and taking care of the contacts of them whenever Thomas or Charles found them. By Christmas, Haytham was certain that they had virtually no more contacts left in Boston, which he took great pleasure in. It was time to start hunting them instead.

Reports of the War, started earlier that year, were everywhere in the news around town, and William sent a frustrated letter to Haytham on how the meeting he'd had in Albany between the British Governor Clinton and the Kanien'kehá:ka had gone abysmally. The Mohawk had rightfully insisted that the British abide by their obligation to block the French and their expansionist tendencies. Clinton was less than interested and the Mohawk Chief said that the Covenant Chain had been broken. This was bad, as it meant that the Iroquois would no longer stay friendly with the British.

The letter was shortly followed by William himself, seeking to spend a moment with Haytham for clarification on things best not put to paper. They were pouring over the journal that detailed Those Who Came Before on New Year's when Haytham finally stood up in frustration, almost knocking his chair back.

"This business with Silas confuses me!" he growled, pacing over to the fire to stare into its depths. "If Britain stands any chance of pushing back the French, she must ally with the natives, hold to her promises, not enslave them!"

William sat back with a heavy sigh and rubbed his face. "Silas is loyal only to his purse," he said, his soft brogue thick with exhaustion. "That his actions harm the Crown," he shrugged, "is irrelevant. So long as there are buyers for his product, he'll continue to procure it." William reached over for his glass of malt. "Damned slavery. I wish England never took it up. It's been properly dead for centuries in civilized countries."

Haytham nodded, still staring at the fire. "All the more reason to stop Silas. He's interfering with our plans and that can't be tolerated."

"I spend long days in congress with the locals," William took another sip of his malt, "attempting to convince them we're the ones they should trust; that the French are merely using them as tools to be abandoned once they've won."

Haytham's lips thinned. "Your words must lose their strength when held against the reality of Silas's actions."

William gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "I've tried to explain he does not represent us, but he wears the red coat; he commands a fort; I must appear to them either a liar or a fool... likely both. Their communities are tighter knit than ours. Each of them is an ambassador for their people, where we all do whatever the hell we want." William shook his head. "Cultural differences remain the largest difficulty. Duplicity such as Silas isn't helping." He stared at his glass a moment, before downing the rest of it.

Haytham let out an internal sigh. Stiff upper lip. "Take heart, brother," he said, turning with a warm smile. "When we deliver them Silas's head, they will know your words are true."

William gave a wan smile. "Indeed."

Winter was cold, and anyone who was new to the colonies from England was shocked at the cold and snow. Where a British winter was almost predominantly rain, it was a surprise to see snow not only fall, but stick around and stay. It wouldn't just brush away with a broom, but required shovels and sleighs to navigate around. Haytham, however, didn't bat an eye at it. Compared to the Alps, this wasn't all that impressive.

Word arrived that Braddock and his men were arriving in Boston at the beginning of February, so Haytham pulled out an old red uniform of his that he hadn't worn in years and hoped to never have to wear again. It still fit, and a few extra layers underneath helped to keep him warm. It seemed almost appropriate that going off to collect John Pitcairn from Edward Braddock required the uniform he'd last worn when he'd seen dear old Edward. The dark memory thinned his frowning lips, but he put it aside.

Charles was also dressed in full uniform and they headed to the pier every day to check ships for British soldiers.

It was at the end of the first week in February when Braddock finally arrived in a massive man-o-war.

Typical.

But Haytham let none of his roiling feelings of meeting Edward again show. He stayed straight and firm, the picture of a perfect officer, Charles trailing after him. They boarded and found Edward screaming at the very person they were coming to recruit.

"Pitcairn, you fool!" Braddock yelled, all soldiers on deck at attention and forced to watch the upbraiding. "Your acts are treacherous. Give me one good reason I shouldn't kill you right now," spittle flew from Braddock's mouth as he got right into John's face. John remained steadfast, though his eyes tightened in tension. "Did you really think I'd let you just walk away?"

"Sir," the lieutenant replied, his Scottish accent thick, "if you'd allow me to explain..."

"Explain why you're deserting after making the voyage over here? Oh by all means. I should like very much to hear this."

John's lips thinned. "I have not deserted, sir. I am here under Commander Amherst's orders, delivered by mouth to me right before we left."

Braddock scowled and scoffed. "Show me a letter bearing his seal and you might be spared the gallows."

Haytham shook his head, remembering Edward's love of the gallows all too well.

John was sweating in the cold, but remained firm. "I have no such thing... The nature of my work, sir... it's..."

Haytham finally pushed through the last of the soldiers. "It's the sort of thing best not put to paper," he interjected. "As you should know very well, Edward."

Shock dropped Braddock's jaw before a hideous scowl twisted his face. "Haytham," he growled.

"General Braddock," Haytham greeted but did not salute.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Edward growled, glaring with pure hatred. "Wolves often travel in packs. You're here to steal my meat?"

Meat. How apropos given Edward's treatment of his own men. "Master Pitcairn won't be with you for but a few weeks. I shall return him to his proper post once my needs for him have finished and it will be well before you finally get orders."

Braddock's nostrils flared in indignation. "The Devil's work no doubt," he hissed, stomping right into Haytham's personal space, completely ignoring how his men were still watching. "It's bad enough my superiors insisted I give you Lee. Even sent him here ahead of me even though he's to be under my command. But you'll not get one more of my men."

"Edward," Haytham said coolly, "listen to reason."

"I'm done with a coward like you," Braddock hissed back.

And to think, I used to call him "brother"... Haytham held in a sigh.

"Let us go," Haytham replied, "and John Pitcairn with us. And we will bother you no more."

"I will not have my authority challenged!" Braddock shouted.

"Nor I," Haytham replied quietly, back still straight, hands folded calmly behind his back.

"I will not-" Braddock got no further as Haytham, in front of everyone on deck, kicked out his leg, tripped Braddock to the deck, and then put his sword to the General's throat.

"I stay my hand today because you were once my brother," Haytham made sure to pitch his voice to the soldiers around them. "And a better man than this. But should our paths ever cross again, all debts will be forgotten."

In one swift and elegant move, Haytham's sword was once more in its sheathe. "You're free now, John. Come along."

"Traitor!" Edward growled as he got up. "Go on then! Join them on their fool's errand! And when you find yourself lying broken and dying at the bottom of-"

Haytham ignored the ranting and raving and took his two men off the ship.

Three blocks later, John let out a long sigh of relief. "Well that was certainly a bit more interesting than I expected," he understated. "What is it you require of me?"

"I'll explain everything one we have privacy."

It took the rest of the day to explain everything, including their progress, and the laborious task of trying to recount the lessons that William had attempted to hammer in to him. Haytham hoped he at least got the basics across, even if pronunciations were haphazard at best. Hickey joined them, drunk and seeking a quiet place to toddle off. Charles, as always, stood guard outside. Late into the night, they finally sat back.

"Fascinating fairy tales," John said, his tone rolling with his Scottish. "I may be too pragmatic for it, but what you want to do here, that I can get behind. If I may, though," and John asked cautiously, "I was curious about your past with Braddock. There was no denying you two clearly have a history."

Haytham stood and walked to the fire, staring into its depths. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Thomas wasn't as drunk, nor as asleep as he pretended, and Haytham simply let out a long, sorrowed sigh.

Reaching out, he put his hand on the mantle. "Edward was one of us, once upon a time," he explained softly, holding all his feelings back. "I considered him a close friend. He was brave, bold in ways few men are. But everything changed at the siege of Bergen op Zoom."

John let out a soft cuss.

Haytham let his thoughts drift back. He had finally hunted down one of Jenny's kidnappers when he'd run into Edward again. The kidnapper had died, hung by Braddock, before Haytham could learn anything, but they had started to work together against France. But at Bergen op Zoom, their fortress was lost and they'd had to escape.

"There was a skiff hidden at the port that we planned to make our escape," Haytham said quietly, eyes still watching the fire dance, hearing the cannon. Hearing the screams. "As we drew near, a young man and his family came upon us, begging for safe passage." It has been a clear duty of the privileged to aide and protect those beneath them. So Haytham had of course consented. Surely that was the obvious choice. No unnecessary deaths.

"But Edward refused." Haytham sighed. "The young man called him craven... so Edward killed him and all the rest... even the children."

Both John and Thomas cursed, though Thomas a bit more brutally.

"To this day I do not know why." He had seen that Edward was a harsh commander, with the highest standards expected of all his men at all times. But Haytham had suddenly looked back at it. The hangings of anyone who was out of line, and Haytham couldn't help but wonder if the wrongdoing truly deserved the rope. Had Edward always been like that, or was Haytham only now understanding something about his friend that he hadn't before?

"Either way, things were never the same after that." Haytham turned away from the fire, looking back to his recruits. "We campaigned together a few more times, but each outing was more disturbing than the last. He killed and killed; enemy or ally, civilian or soldier, guilty or innocent, it mattered not." Haytham shook his head sadly, squinting at the memories. "If he perceived one to be an obstacle, they died. That was it. He maintained violence was a more efficient solution: it became his mantra."

Haytham looked to the side. "And it broke my heart."

"I had no idea," John said softly, looking down to the table.

"He hides it well," Haytham replied, waving away the ignorance. "And he intimidates into silence any who might discover him. Those who persist have the tendency to find... misfortune and rope."

"We should stop him." John's face was twisted in the memory of that morning, most likely, and what he had barely escaped.

Haytham rubbed his forehead. "I suppose you're right, but I maintain a foolish hope he might yet be saved and brought back round to reason."

John raised an eyebrow and Thomas visibly rolled his eyes.

"I know, I know, it's a silly thing, to believe one so drenched in death might suddenly change." He shook his head. "Much like our enemy will never change, I doubt Edward will, but I still... hope."

John looked aside and sighed. "I'm sorry to have brought this up. It was not my intent to sour you."

Haytham realized he'd expressed a bit too much. So he smiled, putting away the memories. "Nonsense! We are brothers now. There should be no secrets between us."

Haytham brought Charles into their meeting the next morning; his spacious room now crowded with two soldiers, a surgeon, a scoundrel, a trader, and himself. The six of them petered around until they found room to sit or stand comfortably, and Haytham laid out his plan.

"Gentlemen," he said expansively. "I believe I've found the solution to our problem. Or rather, Odysseus has."

Thomas looked up. "Ody-ooh? 'E a new guy?"

Charles was quick to correct the man he couldn't stand. "The Greek hero, you lobcock."

"Allow me to explain," the colonial grandmaster countered. "We enter Silas' fort under the pretense of kinship. We overtake one of their slave caravans coming in to Southgate for inspection and use it just as Odysseus's Trojan horse. Once inside we spring our trap: free the captives, and kill the slaver."

Thomas gave a low, black laugh. "Dodgy, dodgy," he drawled. "I like it."

"Then let us begin," Haytham replied. "First we need to find ourselves a convoy... Thomas?"

"Next one's comin' in tomorrow," the thief drunkard replied, "One after that's next week. 'ow fast you fink you need?"

"Tomorrow would be preferable," Haytham admitted, "But that will be a testament to how quickly we can prepare. We can't take the entire caravan, but we if we can delay one of the wagons we can overtake it with the skills that we have here. We'll need uniforms for Benjamin and William; once we possess the slaves, we simply ride the wagon into the fort. William will act as interpreter, explaining our goals and our desires of an alliance. Thomas and I will free the savages-"

"Natives," William corrected. "For the love of God never let them hear you say that."

"Thomas and I will free the natives," Haytham responded, "since we've the best skills in that area. Charles and John, will keep the soldiers from questioning too much by sharing old war stories and complaining about the weather and the pay. Benjamin, since you have the most personal investment in Silas' removal, you will serve as lookout. When you see Silas, let me know and I will clear a path for you. The honor of the kill is yours."

"Much obliged," Benjamin replied, darkly nodding in black anticipation.

"So then, our primary objectives in preparation are uniforms and armaments."

"I can get wot we need for guns," Thomas replied. "Got a guy 'ho owes me a favor. Get some right nice rifles I can."

"I can get us a few uniforms at the barracks," Charles said.

"Without Edward seeing you?" Haytham asked dubiously.

"Of course," the lad said brightly.

"... Very well," Haytham said. "We'll regroup at dawn to make the necessary preparations. Thomas, I want you sober for this."

"Don't tell me that fancy fussock over there's rubbin' off on you."

"Only a fussock in his own right would say that."

---

The next morning fortune decided to favor them, and it was snowing. Benjamin, the native Bostonian, openly laughed at any complaints as they changed into their uniforms. Thomas had reconnoitered the route of the caravan, there were only two wagons, and with a few well-placed barrels and one overturned cart assembled by Charles and Haytham the second cart slowly fell behind. A thick cloak hiding the red uniform underneath, Haytham and John stepped out into the middle of the road and lifted their muskets.

"What the hell is this?" one of the men on the wagon demanded, awe-struck at the brazen audacity he was witnessing. "Do you have any idea what we're doing?"

Charles, always one for a flare of drama, said, "Yes."

Both opened fire. The woman forced to sit between the men stiffened but otherwise did not react to the murder they had just committed. The falling snow muted the crack of the powder, and at this close range the poor aim of the firearms was negligible as the two men fell. Behind the wagon, the four escorts were similarly dispatched by John and Thomas, each armed with two pistols. The bodies were dumped into the barrels that had blocked the path and soon they were in formation.

William kept to the side of the wagon – iron bars giving the frame the look of a massive cage – and talked quickly to the men and women inside in their peculiar, guttural tongue. Haytham took the reins, seated next to the woman as the others fanned out to their positions.

Now that he was up close, he saw that the woman was dressed in the primitive leathers and animal skins of her people. Her black hair was positively the blackest he had ever seen, parted perfectly down the middle of her head and pulled into braids long enough to fall past her breasts. Her red skin – Haytham suddenly realized why they were called redskins – was flawless, but her features were severe and angular. Her gaze looked at nothing, staring ahead for a thousand miles. Her neck was adorned with a necklace of some kind – perhaps bone? - and the collar, if that was the right word, was adorned with a curious beaded emblem, an imperfect green circle. She sat with her legs wide apart, decidedly unladylike. Her skin-dress ended indecently at her knees, leather wrappings covering her legs in a modicum of modesty. Everything about her was foreign, even ugly. Haytham felt a revulsion in him that he did not think was possible to fear and he spent the first several minutes of their ride trying to pinpoint where it was coming from.

At length, he finally realized that it was because she was nothing like an idealized woman; she did not sit like one, her dress was indecently short, her skin was not alabaster, her hair not coifed into some fashionable style, her features not smoothed, her body mostly shapeless because of the lost skins she was wearing. Realizing his own expectations were preventing him from seeing her as she really was, he realized he had betrayed himself. He may be special because of the Order he served, but that did not mean that people not of the Order was automatically less so. This woman may well be one of equal measure for all he knew.

He made a concentrated effort to find out.

"We're here to help you - along with those held inside Southgate Fort."

The severe woman did not even look his way. "Free me," she said simply.

Haytham shook his head. "Not until we're inside the gate. I can't chance an inspection at the gate going wrong. I'll see you safe. You have my word."

She said nothing, did not blink, simply stared out to the infinite falling snow beyond her.

Haytham glanced a William, but he was whispering to an Indian in the cage and hadn't heard their limited exchange. Sighing, he flicked the reigns and began to catch up to the other wagon. William swung up to the wagon, taking place beside her. Charles and John, the two soldiers, took position in front of the wagon with Thomas and Benjamin in back to hide their nonexistent training. A chill wind picked up, cutting through everything and making both Haytham and William shiver, but not the woman.

"You must be rather important to Silas if he kept you here instead of in the wagon," the colonial grandmaster said to the woman, determined to change his first ugly impression of her. "Do you know anything of Silas' operation? How many men we might expect? The nature of their defenses?"

She said nothing.

Twenty minutes later Haytham tried again. "I wish you'd trust us," he said softly. "William here tells me that every member of your society has the ability to act as ambassador for your people. We are much different here. Men will do as they will, damn the respect of the uniform they wear. Our people must be judged one at a time, and so when I say that we, my men and I, are here to help, we are. Though I suppose it's only natural for you to be wary..."

Still nothing.

"She may not know the language," William said.

"She does," Haytham said. "She spoke once, but does not trust me to speak again." He sighed. "So be it."

Ten minutes later they road down an increasingly narrow strip of road, water on all sides; the Boston Neck, Benjamin and the other locals had called it. At the end was Southgate, the fort defending the isthmus of Boston from the rest of the savage wilds of the colony. The two-wagon caravan stopped at the inner gate when a duty guard held up a hand.

"Hold!" the guard said.

"Evening gentlemen," said the first wagon.

"State your business."

"Delivery for Silas."

"Go on, then."

They drove into the fort. The structure was not completely closed as forts traditionally were; rather, since it was on the isthmus between Boston and the Massachusetts colony, it was open to the bodies of water on either side: Boston Harbor and the Back Bay. Fort walls instead lined the north and south of the land, blocking the city and the frontier from either side. Administration was along the north wall, as to be expected since the city was to the north beyond the neck and the thought of attack most likely stemmed from the south – the only way into the city via land. Tents filled the small hills lining up against the natural stone of the southern frontier wall, as well as crates of supplies and carts of feed. The horses were kept along the southwest wall, and southeast was a tiny pier for docking. Buildings were in the northwest corner of the fort, the upper tier of the wall turned into an entire level with an adequate view of the interior of the fort and likely the city on the other side of the neck.

Haytham immediately eyed the important features he needed. Most of the prisoners were kept to the east, near a small port and away from the main body of the men. Three other cages were there, as well as several stockades where more Indians were being held. He and Thomas had their work cut out for them. Once they stopped riding, Haytham waited until the guards of the first wagon dispersed and then discreetly pulled out his belt knife and began sawing at the ropes holding the native woman. "There, see?" he said. "I'm freeing you just as I said I would. Now if you'll allow me to explain-"

But the minute the rope broke she smoothly slid over William, off the wagon, and into the grasses, disappearing over a hill.

Thomas moved to follow, but Haytham held him back. "Let her go," he said softly.

"But she'll give us away."

"No," Haytham replied, "she won't."

John came up with his thick Scottish. "The snow's to our advantage," he said, teeth chattering, "No one will want to move about that much, and all this white makes it hard to see."

"Unless you're from Boston and know this is little more than a flurry," Benjamin rebuked. "I'll start watch."

And, slowly, Thomas and Haytham began picking locks, William speaking in that ugly language and telling them where to hide until and escape route had been secured. Thomas and Charles disappeared, but their voices could sometimes be heard through the snow; John nitpicking formation and uniform while Charles remarked on the snow and the deplorably uncivilized conditions of the New World. It took over half an hour to work all the locks in the cold; the cages were simple enough but the by the time they had reached the stockades the fine motor skills required were nearly impossible with their numb fingers. Haytham took to stuffing his hands under his armpits to try and keep them even nominally warm as he walked from one stockade to the next. The Indians were silent, recognizing the need and proving themselves smarter than Haytham initially judged them. Haytham was surprised to learn how ignorant he was acting to a people he knew nothing about. Was it the animal skins? It was no wonder indeed that William was so stringent on how the Indians were addressed.

Once their work was complete, Haytham and Thomas joined the last of the freed prisoners and went over the hill to meet up with the others. William was whispering to several of them when he saw the colonial grandmaster. "Are we done?"

"All that's left is Silas," he whispered. "I'm off to meet with Benjamin now. We'll signal from the fort walls; when that happens Charles or John will open the gates, and you will all be free." He gave a meaningful look to the severe woman from the wagon, trying to impress his words upon her. She didn't even so much as look at him. Perhaps she truly didn't know the language...

Silently, Haytham separated from the Indians and traced the perimeter of the fort. Benjamin was at the steps to the interior of the fort, looking at the administration building with black anticipation. He absently rubbed the healed scar on his nose.

"He went in ten minutes ago, shouting at everyone he wanted quiet."

Haytham nodded, eyes taking in the guards and the patrols. Fewer existed in the interior, and fewer still in the cold and the snow. Nodding, he leaned in. "I have an idea," he whispered, and the two moved up the steps and deeper into the fort as Haytham explained his plan. Soon Benjamin was relieving a guard at the door to the administrative building and Haytham breezed inside five minutes later. On the second story he found the office he wanted and stepped in. Silas was bent over his desk reading a dispatch of some kind when he looked up. Having never seen Haytham before and assuming his orders were being ignored, he put on not the bored airs of a cruel madman but the angry ire of an officer.

"An hour of quiet was all I asked!" he shouted. "Instead I'm bothered not ten minutes later by yet more madness! I expect an explanation - and it had best be good!"

"Sir, I'm sorry sir," Haytham said, putting on his own airs of a terrified private giving bad news. "It's the slaves sir, they've escaped!"

A pause.

And then, genuine outrage.

"What?" Silas shrieked, bursting to his feet with such force his chair overturned. "How?! How did this happen!? My precious merchandise set free?! It's unacceptable!" Already he was moving, grabbing a cloak against the morning snow and shoving Haytham aside to see the damage for himself. Haytham followed. "Rest assured I'll have the heads of those responsible! But first... first we clean up this mess! Seal the fort. Kill any who try to escape. I don't care if they be one of us or one of them. To approach the gate is to be made a corpse! Am I understood?"

"Perfectly, sir," Haytham said in bland tones just as they reached the door.

With all his bellowing Benjamin had more than heard the approach, and when the door opened the Bostonian was blocking the way, his face shadowed by the cloudy light outside. Haytham grabbed Silas' shoulder and spun him around before he could get a good look, and for the first time the officer truly looked at the man who had given him such terrible news, realizing Haytham was not a man of his company.

"Who are you?" he asked, suddenly wary. He reached for his sword to notice too late that his haste had prevented him from taking it.

Haytham stood tall, hands behind his back. Even in a private's uniform, he commanded authority; his voice was cultured and polite, and he decided to use irony by sounding as bored as Silas had months ago when torturing one of Haytham's men. "Name's Haytham Kenway," he said quietly. "You don't know me. But I believe the two of you are well acquainted..." He jutted his head to point to Benjamin, who was loading a gun and leveling it in the hall.

Benjamin's voice was dark, and he went straight to the point. "I made a promise to you, Silas - one I intend to keep."

He fired.

Blood spattered everywhere, even on the colonial grandmaster's uniform, but he took it all in stride, wiping at his face and shoulder. His surgeon dropped the gun, they had perhaps two minutes before someone came to investigate, and ran to the back of the building. "Here," Benjamin said, "Take my scarf; I don't mind snow showers like this and you need to hide the blood."

"Excellent. Have you practiced your English accent?"

"I've no talent for it," he replied in his best attempt, and Haytham was forced to agree. He would have to be spokesman. Taking a deep breath, the pair exploded from the back of the house, and Haytham changed the sound of his vowels, the pair looking out in apparent horror before Haytham pointed to the mess. "That way!" he shouted, drawing looks from a pair of soldiers that were approaching them. "He went that way! He's wearin' a uniform, the git!"

"What's going on?" one of the patrolmen asked.

Benjamin, to everyone's surprise – including Haytham's – threw up, pointing inside.

"The general's been murdered!" Haytham drawled, voice loud and panicked as he gauged their reactions. "The man wot's responsible just ducked inta the mess! We gotta seal it off afore he escapes!"

One of the patrolmen went inside and came out pale, also retching. "Shot in the head!" he managed.

The head of the patrol, a sergeant, immediately started to give orders. Haytham acted as though to take care of Benjamin, guiding him somewhere to sit before they simply disappeared, climbing the steps to the wall of the interior. It took some pacing to find a place they were invisible, and Haytham leaned in to his sick friend. "Is murder not in your taste?" he asked.

"Oh, hardly," Benjamin replied. "You forget I'm a doctor. I know how to make a patient gag if I need to."

Another skill. Excellent. Word had passed quickly to the main grounds of the fort, and the few soldiers out and about were running to the interior, leaving the gate utterly unattended. Haytham took off his tricorn hat and waved, and as one the rescued Indians walked and ran to their freedom. Leaning onto the wall of the fort, he watched. Now that they were all massed together as a people, Haytham decided the animal skins and curious skin tone and hair decorations were irrelevant; people were people, regardless of how foreign or unsophisticated their culture. And it was his and his Order's job to protect them.

His eyes traveled to the severe woman, and was surprised to see her look up and catch his gaze. He smiled slightly, pleased that she had seen him, and was surprised to see one corner of her mouth lift up in a smile. That one gesture made all the difference to her face, seeing her smile made Haytham see her beauty, the symmetry of her features, and a spark in her eye he was unable to see before. She was a woman, through and through, and she was grateful that she had been saved, and she knew the man who had done so.

Excellent.

In less than twenty minutes the Order was out of Southgate and regrouping at the Green Dragon. "What happens now?" Charles asked softly, seeing the reflective mood Haytham was in.

The Grandmaster of the Colonial Right gazed at the key that had started this quest. "We wait," he replied. The face of that woman filled his mind.

"Though not for very long, I suspect..."

---

Their assault on Southgate and rescuing captured Indians took place in the beginning of February. Now in the first week of March, Haytham was beginning to wonder if he had done enough in order to garner support from the people who lived in the wild. He wrote in his journal briefly, trying to organize his thoughts.

It's been several weeks now since we freed the Mohawk prisoners from captivity. I had hoped their leader might make contact, but there's been only silence. My men grow restless. They want to know what comes next, and I do not have an answer. William is back in New York, trying to arrange meetings with the Iroquiois and the Mohawk. Benjamin and Thomas have temporarily returned to their normal work; and John suggested he go back to Edward. When he suggested Charles come with him, the lad in his normal exuberance refused to leave the childhood hero he was serving under.

Charles, alone, remains active - pursuing leads, however slight. He stalks the city streets and scouts the bordering woods - hopeful that he might make contact with one of those we saved and earn praise from me. He has been in my care for eight months, and his youth is making him impatient for promotion. I have yet to find a test appropriate to give him what he wants, and for now his desperation to impress serves the Order well.

There was a woman there, that night. Of a severe cut and precious few words; it was she who helped the others to safety. If we could find her, I believe I'll have my answers. A woman, after all, will be easier to impress than whatever men lead her people. That thought alone consoles me. So I watch and wait, hopeful that my true mission might finally begin.

Putting the quill down for the moment, he leaned back in his chair and stretched, looking out his window. When did this interminable snow cease? He had seen little else since November! Now piled easily up to his knees in unchecked parts of the city, crunchy and hard, white drifts from the wind pushed the cursed things up to the waist. Wagons were replaced with sleighs and the chill never seemed to leave. This was why he hated the Alps.

Sighing, he went downstairs to see how the Douglass' were doing when, to his surprise, he saw Charles in the main floor of the tavern, dining on some kind of meat. The food had only been recently served, the plate hardly touched, and the boy's face was bright pink from the cold. Seeing his mentor Charles immediately cleaned his mouth and set aside his dishes, sitting up and pushing his chair back to meet Haytham.

"Hello, Charles," Haytham said.

"Sir, I've just come from Fort Johnson," he said by way of greeting. "William sent word that a savage woman has been spotted just outside the Fort."

"Excellent," Haytham said, happy that once again the boy had come through. He was proving to be one of the most reliable men he had on his roster.

"We'll move faster on horseback than sleigh," the boy said.

"Very well," the grandmaster replied, "We'll give you a moment to get warm, and then we'll set out."

"Sir, we can set out now-"

"No. Eat first, let the rose drain from your skin for a spell."

"As you wish, sir," Charles said, hiding his relief and moving back to his slab of meat. He all but gulped it down, and Haytham deliberately dawdled with a cup of Dutch tea – terrible compared to good earl grey – and exchanged pleasantries with the tavern owners and other customers for over an hour, waiting until his apprentice's color was better, before bidding his adieus and braving the cold to go to the stables. In the span of twenty minutes they were saddled and ready. The breath of the animals was visible in the cold, as were their own, and the chill air hurt Haytham's lungs if he breathed too deeply. Once they were out of the city proper and traveling south on the neck, approaching Southgate, Charles eyed the fort and gave a small sigh.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news, sir," he said, clearly wanting to avoid the topic but unable to withhold it.

"Oh?" Haytham prompted.

"General Braddock is insisting I return to service under him in Virginia. I've tried to beg off, to no avail. He left two weeks ago and is likely in Hampton by now. When he left he said I had until the colonial governors arrived before he would call me deserter and send after me."

That left almost no time before Charles absolutely had to leave or be court-marshaled. Haytham nodded, having expected that ever since John went back; though he had to admit the boy waiting until the last possible minute to inform him of this was not terribly professional. Still, he could understand it; there were times Haytham himself tried to avoid disappointing Reginald. In light of that, he put on a conciliatory tone. "No doubt he's still angry about losing Pitcairn," Haytham offered, before adding a small grin to soften the boy's mood, "to say nothing of the shaming we gave him. Do as he asks. In the meantime, I'll work on having you released."

Charles still winced, pulling at his hat. "I am sorry for the trouble," he said.

"Not your fault," Haytham replied. "Consider it another lesson. Given Edward's clear opinion on the matter, it will behoove you to do your best to get in his good graces. His trust in John has been irrevocably severed because of our actions, but your youth works to your advantage; he sees you most likely as an unwitting boy following orders, and that in turn gives you the lassitude to reenter his very narrow circle of trust. Do so. For all we know I may need you there."

Somewhat mollified, Charles nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Shortly afterwards they passed through Southgate and into the frontier. Charles, who had been out and about more than Haytham, explained that most of the areas hugging the coast were fairly well settled; Lexington was east Concord, Cambridge and its university that they were passing through, Arlington, etc. Farmland stretched over the hills as far as the eye could see, so reminiscent of back-country England Haytham wondered if he really was on a different continent. For the first two days he could hardly tell the difference between here and home aside from the age and lack of sophistication of the buildings.

However, the further west they went, the more wild the land became. Trees were suddenly everywhere, bare of their leaves and giving a deep, dark foreboding to the wilds of the new world. Haytham had met enough frontiersmen in the Green Dragon to know that whatever Charles thought this place was not "settled." Traders came in with the pelts of not just deer and elk, but wolves, bears, enormous mountain cats called cougars. Danger lurked everywhere in those trees, and yet men still settled here. Riding along the well-traveled roads only gave a semblance of strength, and Haytham once again marveled the strength of the people who decided to live here, with slaves and savages and animals capable of eating men in one gulp.

Smaller single dwellings – called homesteads here, scattered the entire countryside, always seeming to pop up just when Haytham though he was completely severed from the relative civilization of the city, with the traditional five-four-and-a-door style; five windows on the second story, four on the first with a door in the middle. Other homes looked like salt boxes, others were distinctly Dutch with roofs at two separate angles and dormer windows peeking out from the shingles. Stone fences were everywhere, to be expected with the rocks and boulders that seemed to be everywhere, massive touches of grey emerging from the never-ending blanket of white. The only color that existed were the evergreen trees, a species Haytham did not know the name of; everything else were varying shades of white, grey, and brown. Even the roads were white, only the ruts of sleighs managing to wear down to the frozen ground below and scrape at the earth to show what lay underneath. The wind, as Charles had mentioned, was strong and tunneled through the trees and along the narrow confines of the road, constantly ripping through Haytham's two cloaks and coat. Damnable season, winter.

By the end of the day they settled in a tiny little hovel of a hamlet. They averaged thirty miles a day, often less because of the snow, before reaching William's fort. They passed through it quickly, not bothering to call on William for the moment, and turning off the main road and into the wilds and making Haytham decidedly uncomfortable. Even in the plentiful mountains of Europe there were signs of man: lost wells, old ruins, and an unmarked grave. Here there was nothing, the hand of man was nowhere to be seen, and it presented a dual sense of the power of the forest and the insignificance of man.

Well into the hills and away from any visible signs of civilization, the pair came across signs of a camp: a fire pit still smoking, footprints in the snow, an impression of a bedroll.

"We're too late..." Charles mourned.

Haytham held his hand over the fire pit, wisps of smoke still faintly trailing into the frigid air. "The fire's only just been snuffed," he corrected. "The snow recently disturbed. She's close."

Somewhere in the distance as a long, low howl, and their horses, spooked by the sound and no doubt the creature attached to it, spooked and ran off.

"Bollocks," Charles cursed.

The Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite, however, was already thinking ahead. "Charles, go after the horses; tie mine up in that hovel, and then ride back to Boston and take the first ship south to Virginia. You have precious little time to return to Edward and still be in his good graces. Tell him I held you until the last possible minute, if that helps."

"But sir..." the boy started to protest.

Haytham pointed to the ground. "These tracks are fresh, they must be hers. At first glance it seems she took to higher ground. Out of the snow and into the trees. I'll find her, and begin working the Order's magic. I'll be fine. Go."

Charles looked utterly unable to leave Haytham to the wilds of the frontier, but he finally took a deep breath and turned, walking through the knee-deep snow to chase after the mounts. Haytham in turn began following the tracks. Whatever his concerns for the wildlife in this backwards part of the world, he knew he was a master of everything around him, and even massive creatures such as bears would hold no power over him. Reassuring himself of that, he began calling on his tracking experience and followed the trail the woman had so helpfully left. Reginald would be proud, no doubt.

It might have taken less time to track her without the snow; as it was Haytham pushed through the crunchy nuisance and every obvious noise it made. He heard another howl and pulled out his pistol to check that it was loaded. In the span of twenty minutes he came upon a clearing and saw an Indian woman crouched in the snow, working at some kind of hunting trap that Haytham knew little of. He moved slowly, trying to be silent and using the footprints the woman had already left. Inevitably, however, something snapped under his boot.

She whirled around with impressive speed, and Haytham recognized the severe features and the spark of life in those eyes. It was she.

And she turned and ran.

Haytham allowed himself to curse.

"Ah, dammit! Wait! Come back!" he shouted, chasing after her as she quite literally flew across the snow, hopping up to a fallen tree and running up its neck as if it were a sidewalk rather than an increasingly narrow tightrope and hopped up to a nearby branch. What agility! What speed, to do this in snow!

Haytham gave chase, torn between looking up as she danced from one tree to the next and seeing where he was going. Once, twice, thrice he misjudged his footing and fell into the snow, covering himself in the moisture that almost immediately soaked into his wools and exacerbate the situation further. "Stop running! I only wish to talk!" She seemed to slow, letting Haytham catch up before deliberately hopping onto an evergreen branch and sending its collection of snow toppling down towards him. He cursed again.

"I am not your enemy! Please, just hear me out!"

That only made her run faster, and after fifteen minutes sprinting and falling through the snow Haytham was becoming frustrated. "Gods, woman! Only let me speak! Enough with these games!"

Ten minutes later she slowed again, and Haytham was too busy gasping for breath in this blasted cold to determine if she was doing this on purpose of if she, too, was tired running through tree branches. He had just about caught up again when she darted ahead and Haytham began to feel real anger. "You try my patience, woman!" he shouted. "Do you not understand the King's English?!"

At last she breezed down to the ground and turned, her eyes aflame. Haytham nearly ran into her, her descent was so unexpected. As it was, he put his hands to his knees and tried feebly to catch his breath.

"Are you touched in the head?" she growled.

"Me?!" he shouted, indignant. Only it came out as a coarse rasp instead. He took several gasps of air and tried again. "I'm... Hay..." His lungs were too greedy, however, and he had to struggle through his words. "My... my name is... Haytham... Kenway. I..." He grunted at himself. "I come in peace," he growled, finally straightening and putting a hand to a stitch in his side. "I come in peace," he repeated, "So for the love of God don't start running again!"

The woman stared at him through lidded eyes, perfectly still and showing no signs of moving. Haytham realized belatedly she wasn't even winded. Damn her. "What do you want?" she asked slowly, combining total suspicion with the tone of talking to an errant child.

"Well," Haytham breathed, "your name for one."

A long pause. And then,

"I am Kaniehtí:io."

Relief flooded through Haytham, happy to move his numb legs a little closer and take a straighter posture. Proper footing at least. "Pleased to meet you," he said, trying to imitate the name. "Gad... Godz-zi...?" He pursed his lips in frustration. Why was their language so impossible?

The woman took pity on him, however, and said, "Just call me Ziio."

"Diio?"

"Ziio," she corrected, drawing out the sounds slowly.

Perturbed but trying to be civil, Haytham tried again. "Ziio."

Another pause. "Now tell me why it is you're here."

Not willing to risk another breech of diplomacy over language, Haytham reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the green and gold ring that he had acquired at the opera and held it out. At once her suspicious eyes alighted with recognition and surprise. She snatched it greedily from his icy hand and held it close. "Where did you get this?" she asked softly, staring at it.

"From an old friend," he said simply, not about to explain the details involved.

Her eyes were lost in the ring, moving around to better see the markings in the grey light. "I've only seen such markings in one other place," she murmured, almost to herself.

In all of his dreams Haytham had never expected this woman would have actually been to the Grand Temple. At best he thought she would recognize the markings and send him to some chief or leader to negotiate with. What luck! "Where?" he demanded, eager for more.

Diio pursed her lips and shot him a quick glance before her eyes were again drawn to the key. "It is forbidden for me to speak of it," she said, turning her head, feathers laced in her crown blowing in the freezing air.

What little patience Haytham regained after chasing her for some twenty minutes quickly evaporated; compounded by the month spent searching for her and his desire to see the Temple himself. "I saved your people," he hissed, stepping forward. "Does this mean nothing to you?"

Diio's response quickly returned to the day on the wagon, staring ahead at nothing and standing perfectly still, wooden, and mute to the world around her. Haytham realized this was her version of contempt and saw his error. A wonderful start to relations with these people! He took a deep breath and steadied his emotions, putting them back where they were supposed to be. This was the time for diplomacy, and he forced his voice to be more conciliatory. He spread his arms in a passive gesture. "Look," he said, "I am not the enemy."

Silence once again answered him, but her stiff posture broke, and her gaze drifted to the key in her hands. She glanced at him, the spark in her eyes wiping away the severity of her features again, and her gaze told Haytham everything even before she spoke: grudging truce.

"We'll see if you speak the truth," she said simply. "Come with me."

They backtracked to William's fort, Haytham mentally grinding his teeth at more exertion in wet clothes, sore feet, and brutal cold. Said teeth were chattering, and his hands were numb all the way up his arms by the time they finally arrived. The sun was setting, putting it right around the supper hour, and Haytham admitted in a dark corner of his mind that he would kill for a hearth and a cup of proper English tea, to say nothing of a proper meal.

Diio was utterly silent through the travel; Haytham slowly deduced this was her natural state. Her eyes always looked forward, never wavering, her back perfectly straight no matter what incline or decline they were traveling. Such actions, much like the spark in her eyes, once more pulled Haytham's eyes away from her severe features. She was a woman who held dignity, self-respect. She was intelligent and she knew it, and was comfortable with it. It was so unlike any European woman, kept illiterate and stupid, leaving the clever ones like his sister Jenny bitter and indignant of their station in life. Diio was none of those things, and Haytham could admit in a small corner of his mind that he found it attractive. Perhaps that could be used to his advantage...? He would have to mull over that once they reached their destination.

Speaking of which.

"Where are we going?"

"This fort hosts soldiers who seek to drive my people from these lands," she said simply. " Red coats that were once our allies have become our enemies. They're led by a man known as the Bulldog."

Dark memories assailed Haytham. "Edward Braddock..."

Eyes flicked to him, even if her face did not change. "You know him?" Diio asked, a hint of accusation in her voice.

"He is no friend of mine," Haytham replied, not needing to hide his lack of affection for the man. "He is a major-general and head of the colonial arm of the British Army. He was sent here to fight the war against the French here."

Diio said nothing at first, happy to let the silence speak for itself, before she took a breath. "Every day more of my people are lost to men like him."

Ah. Here, then was the opportunity. Haytham could not think of a more perfect way into the hearts of the Indians, into the heart of this curious woman. "Then," he said with charm and poise, "I suggest we put a stop to it. Together."

"What do you propose?" she asked, still looking ahead.

Haytham was nonchalant. "That we kill Edward Braddock."

Her stoic expression at last broke: a tilt of the lips and raising of the eyebrows told Haytham everything he needed: she approved.

"But first we have to find him," she said. "The men here will have information."

"Ah, but I already know where he is," Haytham said, keeping the charm and hiding the smugness in his voice. Her gaze snapped to him, and he found he rather liked it when she looked at him. "He landed in Boston in the beginning of February to take his post, and now he is down in Virginia to meet with the different colonial governors and decided what to do against the French.

Diio looked at him for a long, long time. "Then that is where we will go," she said.

"Of course. In the morning."

---

Author's Notes: And we're back. Happy Fourth of July everybody! Did you enjoy the six-month wait? Our betas are still beta'ing, but they're far enough that we can now begin posting. Everybody bow and give thanks to our long-time beta Tenshi our non-American beta Marina, and our history beta Jacob. They're worked really hard to catch all of our glaring mistakes to make the fic that much better.

Though we cut away as much as we could, Haytham's arc will last about three chapters. His is not a great head to be in, but he's interesting enough that there are the occasional insights. What we like most about this chapter is that, for a brief moment, Haytham realizes what a bigot he is and tries to correct it. We didn't get into it last chapter (because those author's notes were already too long), but to our way of thinking there are two kinds of ist - the deliberate and the ignorant. To picture a deliberate ist is to picture a KKK meeting: someone who knows they hate a group of people and are happy to hate them. The far more prevalent kind of ist, however is this ignor-ist. To use modern day language, someone who uses heavily coded phrases like "thugs" or "terrorists" or even something as innocuous as "you people" are being an ist without realizing it.

It's sooooooo easy to go into the politics - to reference the recent South Carolina tragedy or President Obama's tear-jerking eulogy, but we will simply say that for centuries racism and other ist tendencies were deliberately systemized into our very law, and breaking those chains will take a long, long time. If someone is told, over and over, through media and production and news and opinions, that people are a certain way, over time that someone will believe it. We speak from personal experience in this, teaching at diverse schools and learning the hard way how ist we sometimes came across without even realizing it. Self-awareness of that level is rare, and it's a small self-gratification to have Haytham have even that one moment of transcendence. It does not last long, however, he still uses slurs to refer to Native Americans and because "Diio" is a woman he already holds her as beneath him - just because he realizes his mistake does not mean he can correct decades of thinking and centuries of habit. Such is life even to this day.

Thomas Hickey rather steals the show in this chapter. He's the only charter member who doesn't take himself too seriously, and watching him push Charles' buttons was forever entertaining. Also, character development and Eddie Braddock. More on him next chapter.

Speaking of which, Next Chapter: A historically accurate Braddock Expidition. And a certain someone named George. :P