"That's why they call it two wolves and a sheep voting on what to have for dinner!"

Denis swallowed the last of his biscuit. Despite her friendly demeanor, his mother sure had a lot to say about religion and politics. "Well, we really should get going before it gets dark." He stood. "Thank you for the hospitality, mère. But I want to talk to shipmaster Roluo before he turns in."

"Do you need a place to stay for the night, dear? The three of you? I -"

"We'll talk about that later. Arno, Élise, allez, let's go! It'll be dark in a matter of minutes."

They rose. Arno was glad to get out of here. Watching Denis side-step the question of their origins twice had been profoundly uncomfortable.

"Merci pour le thé et les biscuits, madame," Arno said before heading out.

"Oui, merci," Élise said.

Back into the evening air, the streets already seemed less busy.

"Mother kept me too long," Denis said irritably. "Come on, let's go."

They proceeded in the direction of the coast. Arno was excited to see the sea. He especially wanted to know what 'waves' looked like. He had read about them as a boy, heard they could sink ships when they got big enough. His only experience with large bodies of water was the Liore river.

Nearby, a hot-blooded preacher was ranting from a soapbox. 'We must repent! Our pride has clouded our judgement! We have put too much faith in the limited human mind, arrogantly shunned the all-knowing-"

They passed, Arno tuning him out. How little those fools knew.

Dorian could hear strange cawing as they were getting close to the coastline. Seagulls? He had never heard them before, but read about them in books. He could smell the salt of the ocean water as well.

"Shipmaster Rolou should have a close record of who comes and goes from the city. He'd be our first line of knowledge about any Illuminati conspirators immigrated to the city."

"How do you know him?" Arno asked.

"Fellow in the order. Helped us ship recruit out wh -" Denis stopped. "Bon sang, why am I telling you any of this?"

Arno's spirits sank a little. Despite that their interactions felt relatively amicable today, Denis had not forgotten he was the enemy.

They turned a corner, around a café. As they approached the dock, they noticed two soldiers at its entrance.

"Hmm. Blue coats. What are they doing there?" Denis said with hostile suspicion. He did not call to the soldiers, but as the trio got closer, they turned.

"You heading for the dock? The dock has been declared a crime scene. What business do you have here?"

A crime scene? That could not be good. There was a second of silence.

"Oh mon Dieu," Denis said. "A crime scene? What the hell's happened here?"

"Roland-Georges de le Havre, murdered."

Those words hit like a musket ball.

"Rolou, murdered!? Merde!" Denis hissed. "How did this happen!?"

"Those details are classified for now. If you have no important business here, please move along."

Denis stood frozen. Dorian could feel his indignation. This turn of circumstances was an affront to him. He looked down and cursed quietly. "Merde, merde, merde!"

Then he turned to the pair. "You here that? Old Rolly, murdered."

Murdering Templars was his life, it was strange to be on the other side of it. But as far as he knew the Assassins did not have any operations-

"Were your people behind this, garçon?" Denis growled.

Arno opened his mouth to speak, but Élise beat him to it, "Monsieur, please be reasonable! Arno wasn't -"

"You're right," Denis confessed putting his hand up. He looked down and sighed. It was good to know he was quick to come to his senses.

He looked up and stepped in closer, and gestured for them to huddle closer together. They did.

"It could have been those Illuminati jackals. We need to watch our backs here."

Yet he gave Arno another nasty look. "But I'm watching you even closer, Assassin." Then he resumed his previous composure, turned, and walked a few steps back to the soldiers. "Messieurs, I have one more question for you: Have either of you heard the name 'Guy-Marcel Rodet'?"

The one who had previously been silent spoke. "Ouais. Guy-Marcel? He's the local commander of that volunteer militia. I think they're called fédérés."

"Volunteer militia?" Denis asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

"Ouais. People are getting antsy about the rest of Europe. They want a place to fight without being a twenty-five year old tax payer." Those were the requirements for the National Guard. Arno had learned that back in Orleans.

Denis was silent briefly. The seagulls chattered.

"Thank you, gentlemen."

He turned back to the pair, and got close again.

"You hear that?" he whispered. "Illuminati's making their own private army. Right here in Marseille. We need to follow up on this."