The city had changed a lot since they had arrived. A paper called L'Ami du people was circulating, calling for radical violence, the fleur-de-lys flag had been replaced with a sturdier looking red-white-and-blue tricolor banner, and the nobles had lost control of the courts. Though famine was fading, revolutionary spirit was as fiery as ever. Even neighboring Belgium had been inspired according to the news.

"Are you sure we shouldn't just give up on Mirabeau? We've been at this half a year," Arno said. They stood in Le Marais on a crisp autumn noon.

"He's got the king's ear. No one's a more worthy - That's him, Pisspot! The courier!"

The man they had been waiting for. Orange coat and tricorn hat, face gruff from a few days without shaving.

"Alright, then." He lifted his hood and parted from his superior.

While trying to keep a low profile, he put as much power into his stride as possible without breaking into a run, to catch up.

Dorian tried to look closely at the man's attire. Where he had pockets would mean everything. Not just for Arno, but it also would determine whether the man himself could keep his life. If Arno could nab the letter without the courier noticing, the courier would live. His coat did have pockets facing backwards, which was a good sign, but he likely had pockets inside his coat as well. Arno had intercepted a couple of letters in Orléans. With luck, this would be more like the first time.

They had tried many things to get at Mirabeau. His full title was Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, Comte de Mirabeau, but the locals usually knew him as Mirabeau. He was a well-liked man, and a very skilled orator, in a city filled with hate mongers and fanatics. Arno preferred to kill the sparsely loved, but the people's affections gave Honoré Gabriel all the more soft-power. He was also a war veteran who wrote erotic poetry, for whatever that was worth; At least that is what Arno had heard from a drunk at the Deux Rios tavern.

A horse drawn carriage sped past them, its passengers obviously in a hurry, wooden wheels clacking against the street.

The Assassin was now almost certain the Square Du Temple was the courier's destination.

Arno nearly crashed into an aproned smith perpendicular to him. He said an apology but did not break his stride or his focus

Going after Mirabeau for all these years had led to the quad's share of misadventures. Joseph had tried to talk to Bellec about pursuing other targets on Uncle Augustin's list: Étienne Clavière, Jacques Roux, Maximilien Robespierre, but Bellec had a persistence about him. Bellec was a very different man from Arno's last master.

And then the Assassin and his target were walking along the outer wall surrounding the large, gothic looking fortress at the Square Du Temple: an old Templar fort according to Bellec. Ahead Arno could see some soldiers guarding one of the entry points. Was that who the courier would collect the messages from? The Assassin decided to sit down on the nearest bench, placing himself between a woman in a forest green dress and a burly man with a shaved head.

He was not close enough to hear the conversation, thanks in part of the bustle of the streets, but he knew that was not the important part. He could see his orange-coated messenger talking to the soldiers. They summoned an officer, who handed the courier a sealed letter.

The man put in the letter inside his coat. Arno's heart sunk. This made his job much harder. But at least he did not button his coat. It could have been a lot worse.

But the Assassin got up, it was his duty to rise to this challenge and danger. He began following again.

Most likely his prey's destination was Mirabeau's manor. Arno was also fairly certain he knew what path the messenger would take. There would be no secluded part of the journey, unfortunately. Dorian's decision of when to strike would be largely a gamble, and dependent almost entirely on the number of guards and witnesses.

Three guards were on his horizon right now, and quite a few civilians: not a good time.

As he looked at the man whose life he would end, Arno wondered how much he knew. Was he just a hired hand? An errand boy? Or did he know of the Assassin-Templar War?

What of the fortress? How many modern Templars worked there? It would be extremely ironic if the Square Du Temple did not seat any Templars, and certainly poetic if it did: like a man sitting in disguise at his own funeral.

The whole country was former home of the Templars, in fact. The Assassins were born all the why in far off Syria, an sect of Mohammedans. How things had changed since then.

Then there no guards in sight, and just a few civilians ahead of him ahead of him: rich and frilly like so many others in the district. He even saw a vinegarden in an alley to climb. Arno shoved aside his humanity and began the iconic, dirty part of his work.

He tapped the poor messenger on the shoulder. The messenger turned.

"Ouias?"

In a choreographed algorithm, Arno grabbed the letter baring side of the man's coat and punched him in the stomach with his hidden blade, then grabbed the letter just before the poor sod fell to the ground.

The witnesses ahead looked on with shock, an expression Arno was very familiar with. The Assassin bolted towards the nearest alley.

He began scaling his way up the white wooden planks. "He went that way!" someone from behind called to the guards. "Down the alley!"

He made it to the top, the world of slants and shingles, a world any Assassin was familiar with.

He sat himself down behind a protruding window to be as invisible was possible to anyone who might be on the rooftops. His heart still pounded, but he believed he made a clean escape. He could still hear the commotion below. The gullible guards passed his point of ascension, running down the subsequent ally. Almost a millennium since its inception, the Assassin Order still made the authorities look a fool.

More morbidly, he could hear two of his witnesses trying to provide amateur medical aid to his victim. The courier might live, or might die, but death was more utilitarian since he had seen Arno's face.

A cool autumn breeze blew past him.

Getting back down was another task. He would have to wait a long time for the excitement he had caused to blow over, or rather dissipate into the greater city. He decided read the letter as he waited. His first mentor had disapproved of such behavior, enthused with the idea of guarding secrets, but Pierre Bellec spoke the value of gaining an impromptu advantage through intelligence. Arno would take it was an excuse to sate his curiosity. He opened the sealed envelope, pulling out the message intended for his mortal enemy:

I don't know what these fools were thinking, appointing G as the new Grand Master. His orders have to cross an ocean before they are received here. T seems to think it has something to do with putting him out of reach of W's people, to avoid him meeting the same fate as F. Stupid justification, given it was a betrayal by Frenchmen amongst the most loyal of our own ranks which killed Grand Master F to begin with.

But what's done is done. I'll continue to campaign for your appointment as President of the Assembly. Without our toy, it's going to be more difficult than normal, obviously. We'll have to win over minds the old fashion way.

We have foreign enemies to contend to as well. Rumors are abound about secret meetings between the monarchs of Europe, oriented to erase what we have accomplished, and that King Louis may even be inviting foreign intervention. Your diplomatic skills would be more valuable than ever in dissuading the king from such actions.

May the Father of Understanding guide you.

-PC

The Templars were smart enough to censor some of their language. It did not expose any of Mirabeau's vulnerabilities, but it was definitely important content. Bellec would be interested.