They were now crossing the shimmering Seine River, the crowd becoming quite audible. During the ride, Denis had provided little more in conversation than some grumblings about the royals. Denis had always disliked her, now she suspected he was starting to dislike Timothee and many other Templars as well. Indeed, it was a strange reversal things had taken. The royals were almost under Templar protection.
The carriage wheels touched the ground of Les Invalides district. This is district is where the violence had all started two summers ago, with the raid on the veteran's hospital, where they had obtained their fire arms. It was the day she had first spilled blood for the Templars and the peasants of France. In fact, it was the first time she had spilled blood at all.
Now Élise was beginning to see the crowd that had formed. Angry people: men, women, rich, middle class, poor, young and old. All had gathered for the deposition of the king, who had celebrated with them on this field one year ago. The site was a stark contrast from the evening of merriment she remembered with Arno.
"You think the king was being sincere?" she had asked Arno as they had headed to the feast.
"Not in the slightest," he had responded. She had laughed at the time. It hardly seemed funny now.
But she was about to reunite with her most poignant memory of all: Jean Sylvain Bailly. Now the mayor of Paris, he was the pivot on which her life had turned.
"We swear never to separate, and to meet whenever the circumstances might require until we have established a sound and just constitution."
"The arbitrary categorization, that gives some men's opinions the worth of fifty, and another man's opinion the worth of ten million..."
"The king claims a divine authority, but was it not the hands of men-"
The carriage stopped briefly as they were near the front of the field. A wall of soldiers stood between the crowd and a large building. The military college, if memory served.
They passed through the wall of soldiers, then stopped again.
She saw him: Jean Sylvain Bailly. He struck her like lightening. He wore a different coat, red, not black like the one who had worn at that fateful day, but that same face: long, thin...
"Élise, let's go. Out of the carriage," Denis said brusquely.
Mechanically, she exited. She and Denis approached. Bailly meant a lot to Paris right now, he meant ever more to her.
The duo stopped about fifteen feet away, and waited for him to finish his conversation with the officer. She realized officer was Lafayette, who turned to walk in the opposite direction. This was some serious business.
When he did, he noticed Élise first. They made eye contact.
"Élise, my dear! I'm glad you were sent here on friendly terms than before!" She chuckled, although the words hit somewhere tender. She did not want to be reminded of her past. "And Denis, a pleasure as always!"
He gestured to the crowd. "As you can see, a frightening thing is brewing here in the Champ de Mars! These people are petitioning for the deposition of King Louis. Although I'm inclined to agree with them, the Third Estate has made its decision, and I worry our..." he looked around and then leaned in and spoke in a lower voice "...friends from Bavaria may take advantage volatile situation."
"There's little doubt," Denis said darkly.
The mayor leaned back out and resumed his cultured posture, adjusting his cravat before continuing. "One of my men claim to have spotted two suspicious persons peaking out of one of the storm drains. I would rather not spare any soldiers to look into it. That's where you come in, Élise. Perhaps they were just looking to get a better view of the ladies' ankles, but we can't take that chance."
"So you want me to head into the sewers?"
"Oui...I know it's an unpleasant bit of business but..."
"D'accord, where's the nearest entrance?" She had soldiered through much worse.
"On the street adjacent," he said, pointing. "Between the hat shop and quincaillerie. The entrance resembles a cellar door. Here is the key."
He fished through his pocket and handed it to her.
"Thank you, Monsieur, I shall investigate," she said with a small bow, then began heading her way.
"And what about me?" Denis said from a growing distance.
"You, Denis? You bl-"
The commotion and distance quickly made them inaudible. It was incredible how much Paris had changed. A couple of years ago, the king had seemed untouchable. Now thousands were out in the streets calling from his overthrow. Of course, she could feel the specter of the angry foreigners, monarchs and cardinals, looming over the crowd.
She made it to the end of the wall of soldiers. "Excusez-moi" she said. The men gave her curious looks but parted without questions.
The same man the Assassins had trusted her to kill was now trusting her to kill. She thought back to her father and sister in Normandy. By now they surely knew of her betrayal, Arno had referred her as "the traitor from Normandy" back at the cemetery. So much had happened between then and now, she felt like she had neglected to give this proper reflection.
Those were heavy thoughts she had to shake off for now.
A group of pigeons took off at her approach. The adjacent street was eerily empty. They must have been drawn to the nearby protest, or perhaps they were afraid to go out with so few guards on patrol.
She found the door, approached, and used the bronzed-colored key.
The way down was gothic and foreboding: dark brick, a lone lantern hanging on the wall, a bucket and some broken wooden planks laying unattended. She went down the first half of the stairs, then turned and, beginning to smell the odor, went down the second.
Then she was at the bottom. The infamous Parisian sewers. They were taller than she had expected, ovular in shape though nearly flat at the base. The sewer water itself was only a small stream at the moment, about a foot wide and perhaps an inch and half deep. That was a pleasant surprise, slightly better than she had predicted. It would be easy enough to keep her feet on either side of the stream, which provided both and sanitary and auditory advantage. The sewers were not as straight as she expected, there was a shallow curve only about twenty yards ahead.
She proceeded forwards, and saw a rat scurry into a small break in the bricks. She realized she had forgot to ask Jean where the mysterious voyers had been seen. She was not going to go back, though. She strained her hearing from any noise that might give away an enemy presence.
If the Illumanti wanted to be a spark, certainly the crowd above certainly represented a big pile of gun powder. She was not very interested in the fate of the King: dethroned or not, she knew his power would wane to insignificance in a few years time. She was more worried about the effect violence and lawlessness would have on the city. Blood invited in sharks. Violence and instability were the perfect ingredients for an Illuminati power grab. Or a foreign intervention.
She began her way around the bend and came to a T-junction. Going left would take her further from the Champ de Mars. Going right would bring her closer. She decided she would head right.
She stopped as she heard voices echoing around the turn.
"I can't believe it," one said, voice deep and raspy. "I came all the way from Dijon, only to end up hiding in a sewer. This is my time in the majestic Paris."
"Hiding in a sewer is an honorable way of life, mon amie! Just ask Monsieur Marat!" a second joked, voice spry.
"Marat le rat," a third cut in, this one sounding closest. "You think it's true what Raymond said? Brother Spartacus wants to make him of Head of the Assembly?"
"Not likely. Maxy's his real darling," the joker responded. "Besides, what would Raymond know? He was pulling your leg."
"You have a problem with Marat, Alain?" the one from Dijon asked, sounding genuinely curious.
"The man's a blood thirsty fou. Have you ever read L'Ami du Peuple? He can't go a week without saying we need to put someone's head on a pi-"
"Gah!" she cried as she felt something had crawled all the way up her boots to her clothed thigh. She reflexively shook but realized she had made a very unbecoming mistake.
"Qu'est-ce que c'était que ça!?" the nearest one said. She could hear him pick up a rifle, then the other two did the same.
"You investigate, we'll stay here and guard the area!" the man from Dijon said.
"Me, investigate!? Why the bloody hell should I investigate! You come with me!"
"Fine, we'll take spearhead formation. You're still going to be the tip though."
"Merde, so be it. Allons-y!"
That was clumsy of her. But despite her mistake, she knew having them all approaching close together in an explicit formation was the best way to turn the odds in her favor. Maybe the only real cost of her outburst was not being able to hear their full conversation. She primed herself, readying her muscles to channel her precious training and send these men to the abyss. She kept herself as silent as possible, breaths shallow and heart racing. Her ears were sensitive, hearing the details of every step they took, and her every muscle was ready to launch.
The tip of the spearhead came into view. With the grace of an eagle, she revealed herself and rolled between her targets in a fluid choreography. She stabbed and sliced and two guns fired in vain, shattering nearby brick. Her ears rang, but they all clutched their wounds and fell, each touched by her blades. It was over. Assassin techniques passed down for centuries once again made short work of common men.
She waited for her hearing to return. The poor Illuminati agents found an inglorious end, blood mixing with sewer water. Her boots were wet too now, unfortunately. She would give them a good washing when she got back to the chateau. But she had stamped out a spark which could have started a fire. That was a tremendous triumph.
When the ringing in her ears ceased, she stepped over their bodies, heading to the room they had occupied.
The room was a four way intersection, each corner elevated above the stream, three quadrants each contained a barrel upon which she assumed a man had sat. The fourth and final corner bore a makeshift table: two barrels with a wood plank. She approached to look at the items upon it.
There was a pistol, unlit candles, a few coins, and a map which looked fresh and new. The map seemed to be one of the Champ de Mars.
Whatever their plan, she was very proud of putting a stop to it. But might there be others hiding in the sewers?
It was wiser to inform Jean Sylvain Bailly about what she had found. If there were others, she might not be as lucky dealing with them.
She turned back the way she had come.
She did not bother to avoid dirtying her boots anymore, the sewage had already splashed up to her ankles, and any thoughts of disgust were overridden by her pride. Jean Sylvain Bailly would no longer just know her as the woman with the moral fiber to spare his life when he spoke reason, but also as the agent who put down an Illuminati plot in its infancy.
It was ironic that the dank, rat infested sewers hid such important men.
Above, she could hear the boisterous crowd. Hundreds of those people might have died today if not for her.
Returning to the steps back to the world above, she gladly parted from the musty underworld. She had important news to deliver to the man whose life she had spared years ago. Her role here had surely not disappointed.
Yet as she made it to the top, she heard the thunder of guns, and dozens of panicked screams.