Post by R.J.D ((Thasiloron)) on Apr 5, 2013 21:28:04 GMT -5
Prologue
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... In short, the period was so like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."
~Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities[/i]
College Louis-le Grand, Paris, France
July 1775
It was decided that the new King and his Queen would visit the College Louis-le-Grand. Visits such as these were common after coronations; but they would not linger, for they had more entertaining things to do. They would be met, with their retinue, at the main gate, they would descend from their carriage, and then the school's brightest pupil would read them a thankful speech. When the day finally arrived, the weather was not agreeable.
An hour and a half before the guests were expected, the students and staff assembled at the gate. Officials trotted in on horseback, pushing them back and rearranging them, rather forcefully. Scarce drops of rain became a steady drizzle. Then came the attendants, bodyguards, and persons-in-waiting; when they were done positioning themselves, everyone was cold and wet. Few could recall the last coronation, so they had had little idea that it would take so long. The students huddled in miserable groups, and shifted on their legs, waiting. If they stepped out of line, the officials jumped forward and shoved him back, fiddling with rapiers and bayonets.
Finally, the royal carriage drew up into the lot. People now stood on their toes and craned their necks above the waves of students, and the younger ones began to jump up and down for a sight of their new monarchs. The principal approached and bowed. He began to say a few words he had prepared, in the direction of the royal conveyance.
The Queen bobbed out her heavily powdered head and bobbed it in again. The King waved dismissively, and muttered something to a man in livery, who conveyed it, sneering, down a line of officials. All was made clear; they would not descend. The address would be read to Their Majesties as they sat snug in the coach.
The principal's head was whirling. He should have had carpets, or canopies, perhaps some temporary pavilion erected, maybe bedecked with green boughs, and with the royal arms on display, or Their Majesties' entwined monograms forged from flowers. His expression grew wild, repentant, remote. Luckily, his attendant remembered to give the nod to the scholarship boy.
The boy began, his voice projecting better after the first few nervous phrases. The attendant relaxed; he had written it, coached the boy. It sounded well – his harsh provincial accent was masked well by the Latin.
The Queen shivered. She then stifled a yawn. The King turned, attentive. The coachman gathered the reigns, and the whole ponderous entourage stirred and creaked forward. They were leaving – the welcome unacknowledged, the address not half-read.
The scholarship boy did not seem to notice nor care what was happening. Maximilien de Robespierre just went on orating, his face set and pale, looking straight ahead into the distance.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Davenport Homestead, Massachusetts, United States of America
August 31, 1784
The sun was setting in the west when a coach appeared on the road from the south. It was headed for the Davenport Homestead, where Connor Kenway waited expectantly, his hands folded behind his back. The birds had begun to quiet, giving way to an orchestra of crickets and frogs as dusk approached.
The veil of autumn had fallen across the land, painting the hills and vales with auburns, ambers, and mahoganies. The leaves had begun to fall throughout the Homestead. The carriage raced past them all, on towards the high hill of the Davenports.
When the coach pulled up to the steps leading up to the front porch, the driver jumped off his seat and pulled the door open relevantly, as if handling a sacred relic. Within were Lafayette and Stephane Chapheau.
The Marquis wore a blue military coat with brass buttons, and a pure white cravat. Cream gloves adorned his hands, and he wore his favorite wig.
He exited the coach with a natural grace, as if he had been born in one. He stepped primly onto the ground and embraced the Assassin firmly, saying, "Connor, mon ami, it has been too long! Please, tell this cretin of yours to calm down!"
Stephane Chapheau exited the coach rather more jarringly, still unused to the rolling of the wheels. "This madman will get me killed, Kenway! I cannot count how many times this thing has bumped on the way here!"
The chef wore his usual navy blue doublet over a cream shirt. A shining meat cleaver hung from his leather belt, as did a few pistols. His hair was covered by a washcloth. He had also, apparently, decided to forgo his apron.
Connor simply chuckled. "You must forgive me, Stephane. We have yet to properly pave the road up here." He walked down the steps and knelt down to Stephane, offering him his hand. Chapheau grasped it and Connor pulled him up, with a grunt. "Please, come in."
Lafayette nodded. "This is a beautiful building, Connor. Did you build it yourself?"
The Assassin halted before the threshold, then shook his head. "No. It was a gift… From a friend." He continued inside, followed by the two Frenchmen.
"What, and the curtains too? My, he must have been very well off…" Stephane shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a rack near the entrance.
"Achilles had some assistance with the maintenance of this place, at the onset. Come, have a seat." They had entered the living room. Connor crossed over to the hearth and prodded the dying embers several times, before plodding more firewood into the ashes.
Lafayette smiled as he sat down in a velvet seat by the fire. "This is a very beautiful estate, Connor. Why, it rivals even Mount Vernon!"
Connor's smile shrunk at that. "You were there last month to visit the General, correct?"
"Oui, that was a warm visit. Georges sends his regards."
Stephane noticed Connor's tense stance, and knew where the Assassin would like to shove Washington's regards. "How is his estate? I have never been there."
"Ah, it's beautifully situated, high above the Potomac. Of course, it is a, ah, plantation estate…" Lafayette's face began to match Connor's in his distaste for the Commander-in-Chief.
"Well, I'm glad to say I saw not a single shackle on the way up here, Kenway!" Stephane had also dropped into an armchair. "We've had far too much of that sort of thing, really."
"… I am sure he has his reasons for owning slaves in Virginia. But I digress. What brings you both up north, my friends?" Connor was leaning on the mantle above the hearth, the fire casting deep shadows on his robes.
"Ah, as to that… I shall not be staying in America long, Connor, so I figured I might as well make good on my promise. I would like you to accompany us back to France."
Connor blinked, then turned to face the Marquis. In Valley Forge, the general had spoken of his desire to transform the heart of France, in the manner of the colonies. "Us?"
"Oui, I am going as well." Stephane cleared his throat, and began shifting rather suspiciously. "I am Québécois, yes, but I do have some family in the homeland. I figure now's a good a time as any to visit."
Connor could understand that. Even during his apprentice days, he had visited his village at Kanatahséton many times. Still… "I can't just leave. These people, they need me-"
Lafayette stood over and crossed over to Connor. Clasping his shoulder, he told him, "You have done wonderfully here, my friend. But I think they will be able to survive a few years without you. Have some faith in your community, Connor."
The Assassin was hesitant. "You expect me to drop everything and just go gallivanting halfway across th-"
"We have come here in advance, Connor." Lafayette strode back behind his armchair and clasped the back of it with both hands. "We will be staying in America for a year or two. Afterwards, you are free to join us or no."
"What can you tell me about France?"
Lafayette sighed and looked downwards, his lips pursing. "The King's intervention here in America has hit the national budget rather hard. The Third Estate – the common-folk – they have no say in their governance, and are on a daily hunt for food. Paris is starving, and the Bourbons are well fed in Versailles, without a care in the world."
"It is said that the people yearn for accountability from the Royal family. It is said that the Church is slowly strangling the lifeblood of the poor." Stephane crossed his arms defensively. "So long as I am able, I would gladly help my blood in France. But they will need more than just us, Connor. We need you, too."
"And how would you describe the Bourbons? Are they of ill-intent?" Connor's quick glance at Stephane belied his actual question: Are they Templars?
Lafayette immediately answered, "No, goodness no, but they are… well, out of touch, to say the least…"
"They're touched, to say the most…." Grumbled Stephane by the fire.
"The King, God save him, reigned too early – he was nineteen, and had inherited much debt from his grandfather. He's a hesitant man; he hopes that by refusing to make decisions, he can avoid making mistakes. The Queen, now… she is a foreigner, and cares little for her new people. She's a Hapsburg, from Austria, and has little qualms about spending French money-"
"Which no longer exists, technically," Chapheau cut in.
"Yes, well… Add in her ostentatious gambling and rather outlandish fashions, and you have a quagmire of debt. She's even been branded – rather rudely, perhaps - with the title of 'Madame Deficit,'" Lafayette concluded.
"Our first task is to see France's debts paid, and obligations fulfilled." Stephane leaned forward, grasping the arms of his chair tightly. "The nature of government will have an easier transition during the resulting surplus."
Connor asked, "And why do you need me for this?"
"You have a certain talent for these things, mon ami! You are a gifted leader, a remarkable captain and an inspiration to your men. At least come for a short visit. Paris is the most beautiful city in the world! Versailles, Notre Dame, the Bastille - I would be honored to show you the heart of France."
"… Alright, I'll go. Just allow me to settle my affairs beforehand. You are welcome to stay the night, if you wish."
"I thank you for your hospitality, Connor, but we've already rented rooms in that little inn close to the Frontier. 'The Mile's End', I think it's called?"
"Yes. Please give Oliver and Corrine my regards. And… be careful on the ride back."
Stephane was already slumping in his armchair, groaning.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quai D'orsay, Paris, France
October 1784
Lafayette's barge sliced through the murky waters of the River Seine, pushing out waves from its prow. With a clashing bell, it pulled up to the roadside dock of Paris. Gulls cried out and danced above the surface, seeking their morning meal, and fishwives stood beside pavilions containing their wares, advertising their low prices at the gulls' expense.
Connor walked down to the gangplank and walked onto the boardwalk. Stephane, joined him without complaint, having a surprisingly easier time on the ship then a coach. "Waves, you can expect," he had said. "It's those damned roads of yours, Connor! You can never anticipate the rocks on those things!"
From the tops of buildings, a blue and red bicolor flag rippled in the wind, just beneath the white on gold fleur-de-lis of the Bourbon monarchy.
"The blue is for Saint Martin, and the red, Saint Denis." Lafayette practically bounced onto the boardwalk, beaming. "Those are the colors of Paris, my friend, just beneath those of our lawful King."
Connor decided not to ask who those saints were just yet. He had noted an island in the center of the Seine, just upriver; several buildings towered over the natural foliage of the island. He pointed. "What place is that, Lafayette?"
"Ah… The Île de la Cité. You are gazing upon an old palace, Connor. On its eastern end, however, dwells Our Lady of Paris, Notre Dame! She is an inspiring sight, my friend. It towers above all the city, and its great bells call the faithful to prayer daily."
"I would like to see it for myself… Stephane, would you like to join me?"
"Oui, it should be an inspiring sight. Do you know how to get there, Marquis?"
Lafayette nodded. "Certainly. You can reach it by crossing the Pont Neuf on its western banks. When you are done, come to my lodgings nearby. Au revoir, mes amis!"
As the dockworkers continued to unload Lafayette's luggage, Connor and Stephane walked up to the Quai D'orsay. A small palace stood to their right. "The Palais Bourbon, I think," Stephane said. "I do not think it reflects the city's nature."
"Likely not, no," Connor said brusquely. "Come, the isle is just ahead." They walked quickly down the street, slinking past both fishwives (one of whom was brandished a rather bloody cleaver) and beggars (of which there were many, and without cleavers.) The passed beneath the Old Wall of the city, beneath a rounded arch filled with the stink of sewage and copulation.
"This is a very large city, Stephane…" He noticed some of the closer beggars giving him queer looks askance. "Why are they acting like that?"
"No offense, Connor, but, ah, there aren't… many of your tribe left, correct? They've just never seen an Indian before, that's all."
The Seine was a mighty river, all things considered. The Hudson River of New York easily dwarfed its span… and yet, the Seine somehow had a power over the city. It had been its center for two millennia, and had been the backbone of the Kingdom of France for half that time. It appeared that while there were many fish to sell by its banks, they were not of particularly good quality, at least caught locally. The population had long ago caught the larger fish in the Seine, and all that was left were some rather sorry guppies. That was not to say the fishwives had no noteworthy catches – such things often came from downriver, in the English Channel.
They were now at the Pont Neuf. The New Bridge of Paris was actually the oldest (without any houses lining it, that is.) The bridge was composed of two separate spans that crossed the Seine. In the middle it was connected to the Île de la Cité. Along the bridge itself, the Assassins encountered a small congregation of people drawn by various stands and street performers. Women in garish dress prowled the railing seeking customers, and carriages blasted their way through what few pedestrians loitered on the road. By the entrance to the Île stood a lonely gallows, their ropes swinging in the wind.
Towering above the Pont Neuf was yet another palace with a vast, three-sided cour d'honneur. A tall, black gate blocked off the palace from the rest of the city, its railings enameled with bronze and gold, shimmering in the daylight. "How many of those things does the King need?"
"Ah, I think that is the Palais de Justice, Connor… It's where Parlement holds its meetings."
Lafayette had mentioned the Parlement de Paris only briefly on the voyage to France. "Their only concern is to preserve our noble privileges. They won't even let us increase our own taxes! Not only several yards away the city starves, and yet they frequently voice their concerns about the effect higher taxation will have on the Second Estate! At this rate, a revolution is a forgone conclusion."
Crossing the island proved a little more tricky. Within the Palais de Justice, a tall palace flanked by thick, spherical towers with high conical roofs. The building itself was guarded by an inordinate amount of the City Watch. They gave the Assassins a wary eye, then dismissed them when they continued down the street. At Connor's prodding, Stephane reluctantly gave him the name of the building. "La Conciergerie. It was abandoned in favor of the Louvre on the Right Bank, and now is more of a prison than a palace. The oubliettes are its most prominent features." From what precious little Connor knew of the French language, the term 'forgotten places' did not evoke a benevolent feeling.
A coach passed through the sea of beggary and whoredom, a golden carriage accompanied by silver bayonets and affixed with the coat of arms of some important House or another. Many of the commoners gave the carriage a rueful glare as it trundled through the streets. Some even hissed and made hateful (and rather crude) hand gestures at the departing vehicle.
Finally, they had reached Notre Dame de Paris. It was a Gothic Cathedral looming above the city of Paris, its pointed arches reaching for the heavens, supported by flying buttresses. Two grand bell-towers supported the arches, connected by the church itself.
Engraved into the westwork of the cathedral were thousands upon thousands of stone figures, saints, kings, emperors, and warriors, all giving homage to the three figures carved before its stained glass window in the center of the westwork – the Holy Trinity.
To Connor, it appeared rather… flat from the front. It had a stained glass window, yes, but such things were only noteworthy from the interior. There was no grand opening, either, just six small wooden doors, paired in groups of two each.
The stone was carved more elaborately – one portal depicted the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, one in the center the Last Judgment in Heaven, one more St-Anne, the Mother of the Virgin. Guards in white jackets and cockades stood beside the portals, bayonets gleaming in he rising sun.
Connor glanced at them but briefly, then walked around to the southern façade. The church was smaller here, and he immediately clambered up on of the buttresses. Stephane followed him to the roof of the church, then to the west again, to the southern bell-tower. It seemed to tower over the church itself, putting the rest to shame. Nonetheless, Connor began to climb.
On the way up, the barkeep said, "The cathedral's treasury is said to hold the greatest relics in all of Christendom. A fragment of the True Cross, a Holy Nail – even the Crown of Thorns, if you can believe it! Think it was bought from a Byzantine Emperor… Or maybe it was Venetians…"
"I am sure they are all great instruments of power for this place." Connor himself had lost a lot of his respect for relics. The one given to him by the Clan Mother Oiá:ner, the Crystal Ball of the Kanien'kehá:ka had disintegrated within his very hands. He had a feeling that the ones within Notre Dame were just as impotent.
They pushed themselves into the southern bell-tower, and before them stood a great bourdon bell, larger than any of the others. On its side was inscribed the name Emmanuel.
Stephane smiled. "Well, I'm sure that makes some pretty music, but why did we-Connor?"
The Assassin was gazing across the city from a plank jutting into the air. He noted even more palaces on the Right Bank of the River Seine – the closest one was the Louvre, the one with the grand courtyard, most likely, and along that road the Tuileries, with its bountiful gardens and lush canopies, and over there-
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
A pair of approaching footsteps stomped their way up the stairs behind him, lurching him out of his survey. Signaling to Stephane, he leaped from Notre Dame, right into a well placed tree halfway to the ground. The barkeep followed after, crashing into limbs and leaves.
As they dropped to the ground, the bells of Notre Dame began to sound. It was a harmonious, even heavenly sound, that it almost brought Connor to his knees. Stephane, however, merely shrugged and said, "Noon. Lafayette's likely done unloading. Let's see if we can find him, eh?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hôtel de La Fayette, Paris, France
October 1784
On the rue de Bourbon stood the Hôtel de La Fayette on the Île Saint-Louis, just to the east of the Île de la Cité and Notre Dame. The hôtel itself was crowded by workers from the docks, carrying luggage up from the River Seine, several of them calling out bawdy jokes about the others' mothers. Lafayette's own guardsmen assisted, as did the marquis himself.
"Ah, Connor! Stephane!" Lafayette plopped a heavy crate of books by the door of his Paris residence. "Did you enjoy Our Lady of Paris? No, not like that, Stephane! Honestly, I wonder why I brought you in the first place."
"Notre Dame was… magnificent, Lafayette. You heard the bells?"
"Of course, everyone hears them! Even in the dead of night! Well, I suppose if you're a paid bell-ringer, you had best get to ringing. But never mind! Come, mes amis, I've some visitors that I want you to meet!"
Lafayette led them past the threshold of his apartments and into a gilded hallway. Renaissance paintings gazed down at them as they made their way beneath glittering chandeliers and finely crafted floor-moldings. They eventually stopped before a door flanked by two headless Greco-Roman statues, both male, engaged in some ancient sport or labor.
He led them into a parlor filled with clothed tables and emblazoned chairs stuffed with cushioning. As they continued towards the back of the room, a loud voice began to carry over the din of conversation.
"… So I said to him, 'Monsieur, I do not wish to associate with you; you cut women into little pieces!'"
Two men sat at a table in the corner. One was rather plump, with a sharp nose and eyes to match, his long, scraggly brown hair checkered with gray and hidden by a fur cap worn by the frontiersmen back in the colonies. His bright eyes were guarded by a pair of bifocal glasses, a trademark invention of the man before them. Benjamin Franklin received Lafayette and Connor with a knowing smile and a nod.
The man sitting beside Franklin was unknown to Connor. He was a large man, and a large head to match, with a pockmarked face, as if he had had a bad outbreak of acne in his younger years. His nose and lips were thick and heavy, and he bore more than a few moles on his cheeks. However, he carried himself with an air of charisma, as if assured of his positions, whatever they may be.
Lafayette took the Assassin by the shoulder and directed him to the table. "You remember Benjamin Franklin, Connor?"
"Yes, he helped sign the Declaration of Independence."
Franklin scoffed. "Not quite as large a signature as Hancock's, but it sufficed for the King. Now, Connor, this is my colleague-"
"The Comte de Mirabeau, if you please, although I am known as Honoré to my mother." Mirabeau leaned forward in his gilded poofy chair and grabbed hold of Connor's hand, shaking it firmly. Connor immediately noticed that his left ring finger was branded with a sigil. Connor's eyes darted up to meet the Count's, but he only winked.
"I am serving as America's ambassador to His Majesty the King of France and Navarre." Franklin rattled out the title from memory and took off his fur hat in respect to the absentee monarch.
"And as his personal jester, if that hat is any consideration," jibbed Mirabeau with a loud chortle.
"Nonsense! The ladies think it gives me a 'rustic frontier genius'!"
"The genius is that you look so much like a rat, King George could never have found you!"
"I will not stand a second more of this! Connor, help an old man, would you?" Connor diligently bent down beside Franklin, who grasped the Assassin's arm. "Thank you. Now, where - ah!" He leaned for a walking cane that he had laid into the corner earlier.
Lafayette grew worried at his friend's trials. "Are you sure you do not wish to stay the night, monsieur? With your gout-"
"Yes, I do have a bad foot, thank you for reminding me, good marquis!" Franklin declared loudly, now leaning on his cane. "Insults and insults! Why, a man could expect better courtesy in Boston!"
"I am sorry you have to compare us to that city, monsieur! At least it was not Sodom, I suppose…" Mirabeau mused to himself, still reflecting on his internment with the Marquis de Sade.
"Good, direct your jests at yourself, if you will! Connor, let's talk, shall we? Catch up on old times and all that." Franklin limped for the door and out into the street, Connor close behind him.
The Assassin was rather confused. "You are not truly insulted, are you?"
"Ha! Those were some kind words back there! You've never dabbled in politics, have you, Connor?"
"I'm afraid not."
"You should be grateful! Lousy bunch of ingrates, that's all politicians are. I pray you remain ignorant of them from now until the end of time. You are from the Mohawk tribe, correct?"
The Assassin stiffened. "That is a slur given to us by another tribe - it means 'Flesh-Eater'. It may surprise you colonists, but we are not cannibals. We are the Kanien'kehá:ka, the People of the Flint."
"Oh, of course not! The Iroquois Confederacy is a great source of inspiration for myself and others in Philadelphia. Its ideals of representative government and personal freedoms will undoubtedly be a part of a new constitution."
The stopped on the road to the Île de la Cité, carriages and candle-makers alike going to and fro the isle. They navigated towards the railing, so Franklin could lean on that for relief as well. "I am glad we have been of some assistance in this regard, but-"
"Your tribe went west, did it not?" Franklin sighed and gazed at the setting sun in the west. "Our little spat with Britain tore the Confederacy apart, I fear… Is that what brought you here, Connor?"
"Partially." Connor leaned on the rail, his forearms holding his weight. "I am also here at Lafayette's invitation, as you can tell. He wants to help 'transform France.' How he means for me to help, I can't say."
"Ah, don't underestimate yourself, Connor. Sometimes it takes the audience to finish the play. But, ah… Try not to alienate Mirabeau either. Their interests are aligned, but they're leaders, not followers."
"I will keep that in mind."
"So Connor, you've not wed yet? I'd think you would want to get hitched before your time comes, when you're just an old sack of bones like me!" Franklin chuckled a little at his self deprecation.
A blush was summoned onto Connor's cheeks. "… Well, I have not had much time to consider… I have been engaged in other pursuits… Wedding is not among them, right now."
"Well, you're a young lad, you've got your whole life ahead of you! Fruit is better when ripened, after all. If I may offer some advice in that regard, Connor… an older mistress is vastly preferable to a young one. They hold better conversation, cannot be easily impregnated, and they exercise greater prudence in conducting an affair."
The blush deepened. "I will… keep that in mind. France is… known for that sort of thing, yes?"
Franklin nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "Quite, quite. But you may want to let loose, Connor. You Kenways have always been a rather wound up bunch."
That caught Connor's attention. "You know the Kenways?"
"One Haytham Kenway, and only briefly. He had just arrived in Boston, during the Seven Years War, I think… I helped me gather some pages for my Almanac, if I recall… I still need to complete that blasted thing…"
The Assassin shifted against the rail. "How did… he strike you?"
"Oh, he was a polite chap, to be sure. He was still possessed of virtue – he certainly wasn't from Boston, I can tell you that much! I'm still not too sure why he came to the colonies… Was he a close relative of yours?"
He shook his head. "No… we were never close."
"Well, that is a pity… Family's all you've got in this world, Connor, and the only thing you can be sure of… Besides death and taxes, of course."
When Connor returned to the Hotel de Lafayette, he found the comte de Mirabeau waiting for him in the parlor. "So, come back, have you? How was your little chat with our inventive friend? Was it about those ladies of his again? No, never mind, it's not too important. Come, walk with me."
The assassin blinked as Mirabeau grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into an enclave by the wall. His pockmarked face was even more scarred up close, but Mirabeau certainly held no bashfulness about it. "Tell me, Connor, what do you know of our Order?"
The comte's branded ring finger compelled Connor to reply. "Only what Achilles told me before he… passed on."
"Passed on? What, the gravy? He's dead, boy, no need to evade the point." Mirabeau grasped his other arm. "What are our words?"
"I… we never went over the old-"
"The words of our order are sacrosanct! 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.' What is the Creed?
"I-"
'"Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent. Hide in plain sight. Never compromise the Brotherhood.'" Mirabeau released Connor. "Davenport may have trained you martially, but you are ignorant of our morals and code of ethics. Still want to be an Assassin, boy? We'll have to bring you up to speed, then."
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... In short, the period was so like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."
~Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities[/i]
College Louis-le Grand, Paris, France
July 1775
It was decided that the new King and his Queen would visit the College Louis-le-Grand. Visits such as these were common after coronations; but they would not linger, for they had more entertaining things to do. They would be met, with their retinue, at the main gate, they would descend from their carriage, and then the school's brightest pupil would read them a thankful speech. When the day finally arrived, the weather was not agreeable.
An hour and a half before the guests were expected, the students and staff assembled at the gate. Officials trotted in on horseback, pushing them back and rearranging them, rather forcefully. Scarce drops of rain became a steady drizzle. Then came the attendants, bodyguards, and persons-in-waiting; when they were done positioning themselves, everyone was cold and wet. Few could recall the last coronation, so they had had little idea that it would take so long. The students huddled in miserable groups, and shifted on their legs, waiting. If they stepped out of line, the officials jumped forward and shoved him back, fiddling with rapiers and bayonets.
Finally, the royal carriage drew up into the lot. People now stood on their toes and craned their necks above the waves of students, and the younger ones began to jump up and down for a sight of their new monarchs. The principal approached and bowed. He began to say a few words he had prepared, in the direction of the royal conveyance.
The Queen bobbed out her heavily powdered head and bobbed it in again. The King waved dismissively, and muttered something to a man in livery, who conveyed it, sneering, down a line of officials. All was made clear; they would not descend. The address would be read to Their Majesties as they sat snug in the coach.
The principal's head was whirling. He should have had carpets, or canopies, perhaps some temporary pavilion erected, maybe bedecked with green boughs, and with the royal arms on display, or Their Majesties' entwined monograms forged from flowers. His expression grew wild, repentant, remote. Luckily, his attendant remembered to give the nod to the scholarship boy.
The boy began, his voice projecting better after the first few nervous phrases. The attendant relaxed; he had written it, coached the boy. It sounded well – his harsh provincial accent was masked well by the Latin.
The Queen shivered. She then stifled a yawn. The King turned, attentive. The coachman gathered the reigns, and the whole ponderous entourage stirred and creaked forward. They were leaving – the welcome unacknowledged, the address not half-read.
The scholarship boy did not seem to notice nor care what was happening. Maximilien de Robespierre just went on orating, his face set and pale, looking straight ahead into the distance.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Davenport Homestead, Massachusetts, United States of America
August 31, 1784
The sun was setting in the west when a coach appeared on the road from the south. It was headed for the Davenport Homestead, where Connor Kenway waited expectantly, his hands folded behind his back. The birds had begun to quiet, giving way to an orchestra of crickets and frogs as dusk approached.
The veil of autumn had fallen across the land, painting the hills and vales with auburns, ambers, and mahoganies. The leaves had begun to fall throughout the Homestead. The carriage raced past them all, on towards the high hill of the Davenports.
When the coach pulled up to the steps leading up to the front porch, the driver jumped off his seat and pulled the door open relevantly, as if handling a sacred relic. Within were Lafayette and Stephane Chapheau.
The Marquis wore a blue military coat with brass buttons, and a pure white cravat. Cream gloves adorned his hands, and he wore his favorite wig.
He exited the coach with a natural grace, as if he had been born in one. He stepped primly onto the ground and embraced the Assassin firmly, saying, "Connor, mon ami, it has been too long! Please, tell this cretin of yours to calm down!"
Stephane Chapheau exited the coach rather more jarringly, still unused to the rolling of the wheels. "This madman will get me killed, Kenway! I cannot count how many times this thing has bumped on the way here!"
The chef wore his usual navy blue doublet over a cream shirt. A shining meat cleaver hung from his leather belt, as did a few pistols. His hair was covered by a washcloth. He had also, apparently, decided to forgo his apron.
Connor simply chuckled. "You must forgive me, Stephane. We have yet to properly pave the road up here." He walked down the steps and knelt down to Stephane, offering him his hand. Chapheau grasped it and Connor pulled him up, with a grunt. "Please, come in."
Lafayette nodded. "This is a beautiful building, Connor. Did you build it yourself?"
The Assassin halted before the threshold, then shook his head. "No. It was a gift… From a friend." He continued inside, followed by the two Frenchmen.
"What, and the curtains too? My, he must have been very well off…" Stephane shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a rack near the entrance.
"Achilles had some assistance with the maintenance of this place, at the onset. Come, have a seat." They had entered the living room. Connor crossed over to the hearth and prodded the dying embers several times, before plodding more firewood into the ashes.
Lafayette smiled as he sat down in a velvet seat by the fire. "This is a very beautiful estate, Connor. Why, it rivals even Mount Vernon!"
Connor's smile shrunk at that. "You were there last month to visit the General, correct?"
"Oui, that was a warm visit. Georges sends his regards."
Stephane noticed Connor's tense stance, and knew where the Assassin would like to shove Washington's regards. "How is his estate? I have never been there."
"Ah, it's beautifully situated, high above the Potomac. Of course, it is a, ah, plantation estate…" Lafayette's face began to match Connor's in his distaste for the Commander-in-Chief.
"Well, I'm glad to say I saw not a single shackle on the way up here, Kenway!" Stephane had also dropped into an armchair. "We've had far too much of that sort of thing, really."
"… I am sure he has his reasons for owning slaves in Virginia. But I digress. What brings you both up north, my friends?" Connor was leaning on the mantle above the hearth, the fire casting deep shadows on his robes.
"Ah, as to that… I shall not be staying in America long, Connor, so I figured I might as well make good on my promise. I would like you to accompany us back to France."
Connor blinked, then turned to face the Marquis. In Valley Forge, the general had spoken of his desire to transform the heart of France, in the manner of the colonies. "Us?"
"Oui, I am going as well." Stephane cleared his throat, and began shifting rather suspiciously. "I am Québécois, yes, but I do have some family in the homeland. I figure now's a good a time as any to visit."
Connor could understand that. Even during his apprentice days, he had visited his village at Kanatahséton many times. Still… "I can't just leave. These people, they need me-"
Lafayette stood over and crossed over to Connor. Clasping his shoulder, he told him, "You have done wonderfully here, my friend. But I think they will be able to survive a few years without you. Have some faith in your community, Connor."
The Assassin was hesitant. "You expect me to drop everything and just go gallivanting halfway across th-"
"We have come here in advance, Connor." Lafayette strode back behind his armchair and clasped the back of it with both hands. "We will be staying in America for a year or two. Afterwards, you are free to join us or no."
"What can you tell me about France?"
Lafayette sighed and looked downwards, his lips pursing. "The King's intervention here in America has hit the national budget rather hard. The Third Estate – the common-folk – they have no say in their governance, and are on a daily hunt for food. Paris is starving, and the Bourbons are well fed in Versailles, without a care in the world."
"It is said that the people yearn for accountability from the Royal family. It is said that the Church is slowly strangling the lifeblood of the poor." Stephane crossed his arms defensively. "So long as I am able, I would gladly help my blood in France. But they will need more than just us, Connor. We need you, too."
"And how would you describe the Bourbons? Are they of ill-intent?" Connor's quick glance at Stephane belied his actual question: Are they Templars?
Lafayette immediately answered, "No, goodness no, but they are… well, out of touch, to say the least…"
"They're touched, to say the most…." Grumbled Stephane by the fire.
"The King, God save him, reigned too early – he was nineteen, and had inherited much debt from his grandfather. He's a hesitant man; he hopes that by refusing to make decisions, he can avoid making mistakes. The Queen, now… she is a foreigner, and cares little for her new people. She's a Hapsburg, from Austria, and has little qualms about spending French money-"
"Which no longer exists, technically," Chapheau cut in.
"Yes, well… Add in her ostentatious gambling and rather outlandish fashions, and you have a quagmire of debt. She's even been branded – rather rudely, perhaps - with the title of 'Madame Deficit,'" Lafayette concluded.
"Our first task is to see France's debts paid, and obligations fulfilled." Stephane leaned forward, grasping the arms of his chair tightly. "The nature of government will have an easier transition during the resulting surplus."
Connor asked, "And why do you need me for this?"
"You have a certain talent for these things, mon ami! You are a gifted leader, a remarkable captain and an inspiration to your men. At least come for a short visit. Paris is the most beautiful city in the world! Versailles, Notre Dame, the Bastille - I would be honored to show you the heart of France."
"… Alright, I'll go. Just allow me to settle my affairs beforehand. You are welcome to stay the night, if you wish."
"I thank you for your hospitality, Connor, but we've already rented rooms in that little inn close to the Frontier. 'The Mile's End', I think it's called?"
"Yes. Please give Oliver and Corrine my regards. And… be careful on the ride back."
Stephane was already slumping in his armchair, groaning.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quai D'orsay, Paris, France
October 1784
Lafayette's barge sliced through the murky waters of the River Seine, pushing out waves from its prow. With a clashing bell, it pulled up to the roadside dock of Paris. Gulls cried out and danced above the surface, seeking their morning meal, and fishwives stood beside pavilions containing their wares, advertising their low prices at the gulls' expense.
Connor walked down to the gangplank and walked onto the boardwalk. Stephane, joined him without complaint, having a surprisingly easier time on the ship then a coach. "Waves, you can expect," he had said. "It's those damned roads of yours, Connor! You can never anticipate the rocks on those things!"
From the tops of buildings, a blue and red bicolor flag rippled in the wind, just beneath the white on gold fleur-de-lis of the Bourbon monarchy.
"The blue is for Saint Martin, and the red, Saint Denis." Lafayette practically bounced onto the boardwalk, beaming. "Those are the colors of Paris, my friend, just beneath those of our lawful King."
Connor decided not to ask who those saints were just yet. He had noted an island in the center of the Seine, just upriver; several buildings towered over the natural foliage of the island. He pointed. "What place is that, Lafayette?"
"Ah… The Île de la Cité. You are gazing upon an old palace, Connor. On its eastern end, however, dwells Our Lady of Paris, Notre Dame! She is an inspiring sight, my friend. It towers above all the city, and its great bells call the faithful to prayer daily."
"I would like to see it for myself… Stephane, would you like to join me?"
"Oui, it should be an inspiring sight. Do you know how to get there, Marquis?"
Lafayette nodded. "Certainly. You can reach it by crossing the Pont Neuf on its western banks. When you are done, come to my lodgings nearby. Au revoir, mes amis!"
As the dockworkers continued to unload Lafayette's luggage, Connor and Stephane walked up to the Quai D'orsay. A small palace stood to their right. "The Palais Bourbon, I think," Stephane said. "I do not think it reflects the city's nature."
"Likely not, no," Connor said brusquely. "Come, the isle is just ahead." They walked quickly down the street, slinking past both fishwives (one of whom was brandished a rather bloody cleaver) and beggars (of which there were many, and without cleavers.) The passed beneath the Old Wall of the city, beneath a rounded arch filled with the stink of sewage and copulation.
"This is a very large city, Stephane…" He noticed some of the closer beggars giving him queer looks askance. "Why are they acting like that?"
"No offense, Connor, but, ah, there aren't… many of your tribe left, correct? They've just never seen an Indian before, that's all."
The Seine was a mighty river, all things considered. The Hudson River of New York easily dwarfed its span… and yet, the Seine somehow had a power over the city. It had been its center for two millennia, and had been the backbone of the Kingdom of France for half that time. It appeared that while there were many fish to sell by its banks, they were not of particularly good quality, at least caught locally. The population had long ago caught the larger fish in the Seine, and all that was left were some rather sorry guppies. That was not to say the fishwives had no noteworthy catches – such things often came from downriver, in the English Channel.
They were now at the Pont Neuf. The New Bridge of Paris was actually the oldest (without any houses lining it, that is.) The bridge was composed of two separate spans that crossed the Seine. In the middle it was connected to the Île de la Cité. Along the bridge itself, the Assassins encountered a small congregation of people drawn by various stands and street performers. Women in garish dress prowled the railing seeking customers, and carriages blasted their way through what few pedestrians loitered on the road. By the entrance to the Île stood a lonely gallows, their ropes swinging in the wind.
Towering above the Pont Neuf was yet another palace with a vast, three-sided cour d'honneur. A tall, black gate blocked off the palace from the rest of the city, its railings enameled with bronze and gold, shimmering in the daylight. "How many of those things does the King need?"
"Ah, I think that is the Palais de Justice, Connor… It's where Parlement holds its meetings."
Lafayette had mentioned the Parlement de Paris only briefly on the voyage to France. "Their only concern is to preserve our noble privileges. They won't even let us increase our own taxes! Not only several yards away the city starves, and yet they frequently voice their concerns about the effect higher taxation will have on the Second Estate! At this rate, a revolution is a forgone conclusion."
Crossing the island proved a little more tricky. Within the Palais de Justice, a tall palace flanked by thick, spherical towers with high conical roofs. The building itself was guarded by an inordinate amount of the City Watch. They gave the Assassins a wary eye, then dismissed them when they continued down the street. At Connor's prodding, Stephane reluctantly gave him the name of the building. "La Conciergerie. It was abandoned in favor of the Louvre on the Right Bank, and now is more of a prison than a palace. The oubliettes are its most prominent features." From what precious little Connor knew of the French language, the term 'forgotten places' did not evoke a benevolent feeling.
A coach passed through the sea of beggary and whoredom, a golden carriage accompanied by silver bayonets and affixed with the coat of arms of some important House or another. Many of the commoners gave the carriage a rueful glare as it trundled through the streets. Some even hissed and made hateful (and rather crude) hand gestures at the departing vehicle.
Finally, they had reached Notre Dame de Paris. It was a Gothic Cathedral looming above the city of Paris, its pointed arches reaching for the heavens, supported by flying buttresses. Two grand bell-towers supported the arches, connected by the church itself.
Engraved into the westwork of the cathedral were thousands upon thousands of stone figures, saints, kings, emperors, and warriors, all giving homage to the three figures carved before its stained glass window in the center of the westwork – the Holy Trinity.
To Connor, it appeared rather… flat from the front. It had a stained glass window, yes, but such things were only noteworthy from the interior. There was no grand opening, either, just six small wooden doors, paired in groups of two each.
The stone was carved more elaborately – one portal depicted the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, one in the center the Last Judgment in Heaven, one more St-Anne, the Mother of the Virgin. Guards in white jackets and cockades stood beside the portals, bayonets gleaming in he rising sun.
Connor glanced at them but briefly, then walked around to the southern façade. The church was smaller here, and he immediately clambered up on of the buttresses. Stephane followed him to the roof of the church, then to the west again, to the southern bell-tower. It seemed to tower over the church itself, putting the rest to shame. Nonetheless, Connor began to climb.
On the way up, the barkeep said, "The cathedral's treasury is said to hold the greatest relics in all of Christendom. A fragment of the True Cross, a Holy Nail – even the Crown of Thorns, if you can believe it! Think it was bought from a Byzantine Emperor… Or maybe it was Venetians…"
"I am sure they are all great instruments of power for this place." Connor himself had lost a lot of his respect for relics. The one given to him by the Clan Mother Oiá:ner, the Crystal Ball of the Kanien'kehá:ka had disintegrated within his very hands. He had a feeling that the ones within Notre Dame were just as impotent.
They pushed themselves into the southern bell-tower, and before them stood a great bourdon bell, larger than any of the others. On its side was inscribed the name Emmanuel.
Stephane smiled. "Well, I'm sure that makes some pretty music, but why did we-Connor?"
The Assassin was gazing across the city from a plank jutting into the air. He noted even more palaces on the Right Bank of the River Seine – the closest one was the Louvre, the one with the grand courtyard, most likely, and along that road the Tuileries, with its bountiful gardens and lush canopies, and over there-
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
A pair of approaching footsteps stomped their way up the stairs behind him, lurching him out of his survey. Signaling to Stephane, he leaped from Notre Dame, right into a well placed tree halfway to the ground. The barkeep followed after, crashing into limbs and leaves.
As they dropped to the ground, the bells of Notre Dame began to sound. It was a harmonious, even heavenly sound, that it almost brought Connor to his knees. Stephane, however, merely shrugged and said, "Noon. Lafayette's likely done unloading. Let's see if we can find him, eh?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hôtel de La Fayette, Paris, France
October 1784
On the rue de Bourbon stood the Hôtel de La Fayette on the Île Saint-Louis, just to the east of the Île de la Cité and Notre Dame. The hôtel itself was crowded by workers from the docks, carrying luggage up from the River Seine, several of them calling out bawdy jokes about the others' mothers. Lafayette's own guardsmen assisted, as did the marquis himself.
"Ah, Connor! Stephane!" Lafayette plopped a heavy crate of books by the door of his Paris residence. "Did you enjoy Our Lady of Paris? No, not like that, Stephane! Honestly, I wonder why I brought you in the first place."
"Notre Dame was… magnificent, Lafayette. You heard the bells?"
"Of course, everyone hears them! Even in the dead of night! Well, I suppose if you're a paid bell-ringer, you had best get to ringing. But never mind! Come, mes amis, I've some visitors that I want you to meet!"
Lafayette led them past the threshold of his apartments and into a gilded hallway. Renaissance paintings gazed down at them as they made their way beneath glittering chandeliers and finely crafted floor-moldings. They eventually stopped before a door flanked by two headless Greco-Roman statues, both male, engaged in some ancient sport or labor.
He led them into a parlor filled with clothed tables and emblazoned chairs stuffed with cushioning. As they continued towards the back of the room, a loud voice began to carry over the din of conversation.
"… So I said to him, 'Monsieur, I do not wish to associate with you; you cut women into little pieces!'"
Two men sat at a table in the corner. One was rather plump, with a sharp nose and eyes to match, his long, scraggly brown hair checkered with gray and hidden by a fur cap worn by the frontiersmen back in the colonies. His bright eyes were guarded by a pair of bifocal glasses, a trademark invention of the man before them. Benjamin Franklin received Lafayette and Connor with a knowing smile and a nod.
The man sitting beside Franklin was unknown to Connor. He was a large man, and a large head to match, with a pockmarked face, as if he had had a bad outbreak of acne in his younger years. His nose and lips were thick and heavy, and he bore more than a few moles on his cheeks. However, he carried himself with an air of charisma, as if assured of his positions, whatever they may be.
Lafayette took the Assassin by the shoulder and directed him to the table. "You remember Benjamin Franklin, Connor?"
"Yes, he helped sign the Declaration of Independence."
Franklin scoffed. "Not quite as large a signature as Hancock's, but it sufficed for the King. Now, Connor, this is my colleague-"
"The Comte de Mirabeau, if you please, although I am known as Honoré to my mother." Mirabeau leaned forward in his gilded poofy chair and grabbed hold of Connor's hand, shaking it firmly. Connor immediately noticed that his left ring finger was branded with a sigil. Connor's eyes darted up to meet the Count's, but he only winked.
"I am serving as America's ambassador to His Majesty the King of France and Navarre." Franklin rattled out the title from memory and took off his fur hat in respect to the absentee monarch.
"And as his personal jester, if that hat is any consideration," jibbed Mirabeau with a loud chortle.
"Nonsense! The ladies think it gives me a 'rustic frontier genius'!"
"The genius is that you look so much like a rat, King George could never have found you!"
"I will not stand a second more of this! Connor, help an old man, would you?" Connor diligently bent down beside Franklin, who grasped the Assassin's arm. "Thank you. Now, where - ah!" He leaned for a walking cane that he had laid into the corner earlier.
Lafayette grew worried at his friend's trials. "Are you sure you do not wish to stay the night, monsieur? With your gout-"
"Yes, I do have a bad foot, thank you for reminding me, good marquis!" Franklin declared loudly, now leaning on his cane. "Insults and insults! Why, a man could expect better courtesy in Boston!"
"I am sorry you have to compare us to that city, monsieur! At least it was not Sodom, I suppose…" Mirabeau mused to himself, still reflecting on his internment with the Marquis de Sade.
"Good, direct your jests at yourself, if you will! Connor, let's talk, shall we? Catch up on old times and all that." Franklin limped for the door and out into the street, Connor close behind him.
The Assassin was rather confused. "You are not truly insulted, are you?"
"Ha! Those were some kind words back there! You've never dabbled in politics, have you, Connor?"
"I'm afraid not."
"You should be grateful! Lousy bunch of ingrates, that's all politicians are. I pray you remain ignorant of them from now until the end of time. You are from the Mohawk tribe, correct?"
The Assassin stiffened. "That is a slur given to us by another tribe - it means 'Flesh-Eater'. It may surprise you colonists, but we are not cannibals. We are the Kanien'kehá:ka, the People of the Flint."
"Oh, of course not! The Iroquois Confederacy is a great source of inspiration for myself and others in Philadelphia. Its ideals of representative government and personal freedoms will undoubtedly be a part of a new constitution."
The stopped on the road to the Île de la Cité, carriages and candle-makers alike going to and fro the isle. They navigated towards the railing, so Franklin could lean on that for relief as well. "I am glad we have been of some assistance in this regard, but-"
"Your tribe went west, did it not?" Franklin sighed and gazed at the setting sun in the west. "Our little spat with Britain tore the Confederacy apart, I fear… Is that what brought you here, Connor?"
"Partially." Connor leaned on the rail, his forearms holding his weight. "I am also here at Lafayette's invitation, as you can tell. He wants to help 'transform France.' How he means for me to help, I can't say."
"Ah, don't underestimate yourself, Connor. Sometimes it takes the audience to finish the play. But, ah… Try not to alienate Mirabeau either. Their interests are aligned, but they're leaders, not followers."
"I will keep that in mind."
"So Connor, you've not wed yet? I'd think you would want to get hitched before your time comes, when you're just an old sack of bones like me!" Franklin chuckled a little at his self deprecation.
A blush was summoned onto Connor's cheeks. "… Well, I have not had much time to consider… I have been engaged in other pursuits… Wedding is not among them, right now."
"Well, you're a young lad, you've got your whole life ahead of you! Fruit is better when ripened, after all. If I may offer some advice in that regard, Connor… an older mistress is vastly preferable to a young one. They hold better conversation, cannot be easily impregnated, and they exercise greater prudence in conducting an affair."
The blush deepened. "I will… keep that in mind. France is… known for that sort of thing, yes?"
Franklin nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "Quite, quite. But you may want to let loose, Connor. You Kenways have always been a rather wound up bunch."
That caught Connor's attention. "You know the Kenways?"
"One Haytham Kenway, and only briefly. He had just arrived in Boston, during the Seven Years War, I think… I helped me gather some pages for my Almanac, if I recall… I still need to complete that blasted thing…"
The Assassin shifted against the rail. "How did… he strike you?"
"Oh, he was a polite chap, to be sure. He was still possessed of virtue – he certainly wasn't from Boston, I can tell you that much! I'm still not too sure why he came to the colonies… Was he a close relative of yours?"
He shook his head. "No… we were never close."
"Well, that is a pity… Family's all you've got in this world, Connor, and the only thing you can be sure of… Besides death and taxes, of course."
When Connor returned to the Hotel de Lafayette, he found the comte de Mirabeau waiting for him in the parlor. "So, come back, have you? How was your little chat with our inventive friend? Was it about those ladies of his again? No, never mind, it's not too important. Come, walk with me."
The assassin blinked as Mirabeau grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into an enclave by the wall. His pockmarked face was even more scarred up close, but Mirabeau certainly held no bashfulness about it. "Tell me, Connor, what do you know of our Order?"
The comte's branded ring finger compelled Connor to reply. "Only what Achilles told me before he… passed on."
"Passed on? What, the gravy? He's dead, boy, no need to evade the point." Mirabeau grasped his other arm. "What are our words?"
"I… we never went over the old-"
"The words of our order are sacrosanct! 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.' What is the Creed?
"I-"
'"Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent. Hide in plain sight. Never compromise the Brotherhood.'" Mirabeau released Connor. "Davenport may have trained you martially, but you are ignorant of our morals and code of ethics. Still want to be an Assassin, boy? We'll have to bring you up to speed, then."
