A/N: Fixed a typo. Letter said "Bring Fédérés to France" rather than "Bring Fédérés to Paris." Dammit, people, you're supposed to tell me about stuff like this.

A satisfying click. The lock was picked. Arno entered eagerly and closed the door and locked it again, relieved to finally be in a place where no one would ask questions.

The harbor master's office smelled like sweat and coffee: Stress. In front of him was the desk, with a waste basket beside it. To his left was the bed, a simple thing, with a fire place on the left wall. To his right was an armchair facing towards the desk at a fourty-five degree angle, a window, and a coat wrack.

Dorian approached the desk. On it lay a thick tome, for recording keeping no doubt, a porcelain cup with a brown ring at its base and a half eaten loaf of bread on a plate. The desk had a drawer. He opened it. There were numerous charts, lists, nothing that seemed incriminating. He looked in the waste basket, where there was a torn envelope and crumpled pieces of paper. He took the paper and uncrumpled it. Upon the wrinkled paper were the words:

Andre,

It seems we may be need to start bringing in even more equipment by sea. Servan informed me three of his agents who were helping moving equipment out of the Temple fortress were slain.

He also says the other Templars might be onto his new allegiance. He's not sure if they had something to do with his agents' deaths, but he would like to keep a low profile for now.

Eventually Servan will issue the order to bring the Fédérés to Paris, but until then, we both have these burdens on our shoulders. I understand this has not been the kindest welcome into the ranks of the Illuminati, but believe me, I feel your pain. It's not been an easy transition for anyone.

May the Father of Understanding Guide You

-GM

The Illuminati, mentioned by name. Perfect, just the permission he needed for the kill.

Arno put the letter in his satchel. He had what he needed to take to Denis.

Now he had to find a place to hide and wait for his mark's return. The armchair behind him seemed liked a good place. He tucked himself behind it.

As he waited, he reflected:

He was killing many Illuminati. Certainly his uncle back in Orleans would think he was doing good work. Surely if the Assassins had to choose a side in this fight, they would choose as he did.

How long would this fight go on, though? How long would he spend with these Templars? He had been in their company for about six months now. His fellows back in New Orleans almost certainly thought he was dead. He had not made any effort to inform them otherwise.

Arno's father and mother had passed when he was a teenager. He had no siblings. His Uncle Augustin was his only family sanctuary he had left in that sanctuary, by blood, anyway. Should he make an effort to return, even before his work here was done, out of duty to them?

Maybe he could bring news of the fault line between the Templars and Illuminati, organize a truce that might save lives.

But what if the Assassins no longer recognized him as one of their own? What if they distrusted him, after so much time with the enemy? They would be wise to do so. He had felt himself change.

These questions were all horrible burdens.

Footsteps. He heard someone approaching. The person stopped at the door: The harbor master, no doubt: Andre-Thomas Boze. The unseen adversary fished for his key. He used it.

He entered with a creak of the hinges. Now the Assassin and his target were in the same room. Andre closed and locked the door again, then headed for his desk chair, and plopped down hard. The climax of his assignment was about to come. Dorian's blood grew hot.

Arno quietly and gently unholstered his pistol, and then slowly made his way out from behind the chair. The young, brown-haired man took notice of him. His weary eyes widened, and he slowly put his hands in the air, gulping hard. Arno slowly approached.

The lanky young man spoke first, voice meek and hushed. "So, Assassin, or Templar?" The question pierced Arno deeply, his mark hitting a vulnerability he had no knowledge of.

"A bit of both, you could say."

"So a traitor to your order, now employed to hunt us? I know the feeling. I didn't join the Illuminati cause lightly. Rolly was like a father to me."

Anger was bubbling inside Arno, but he knew the offense was unintentional. He tried his best to keep his cool.

"I'm not a traitor to my order. It's a...complex arrangement."

"Hmph," Andre said, swallowing hard and now glistening with sweat. "Matters not now."

"If only you'd give up that vile artifact, none of this violence would be necessary."

"The Piece of Eden? Don't you...don't you ever think bigger than that!? Think about the damage you leave behind!? France is sure to be invaded. The Fédérés can save us, save France and the progress we've made! Yet you kill us, one by one, making France more vulnerable in the process!"

"I read that little letter in your trash bin," Arno said, nodding towards it. "You plan not to use these Fédérés to defend France, but to bring them to Paris to do your bidding. You're just waiting on the order from Servan."

"It's...it's never that simple."

Enough talk. Dorian was close now and he unleashed his left arm blade and punched hard into Andre's throat. The young man grabbed the wound with a shocked express. Arno caught him by the armpits as he began to fall and slowed his descent, lowering him gently to the floor as his life faded in terrible final moments.

"No," the Assassin said. "It's not."

He laid him down upon the wooden planks. As his body lay still, and blood spreading on the wooden floor, Arno respectfully shut his eyes.