Chapter Text
“Punctuality! Moderately excellent, Mister Cormac.” Haytham looked the former Assassin over. At least he’s on time and can follow instructions… I suppose that’s a point to his credit. he thought, looking the man over.
Like Haytham, Cormac was dressed as a sailor, as he’d been told; a shabby, wide brimmed hat drawn down over his face completing the scruffy look. In this attire, they wouldn’t attract any attention at the docks.
“Sir?” Cormac stopped, regarding Haytham intensely for a moment as though evaluating whether this was a bad omen. …A realistic possibility in his situation.
Haytham just raised an eyebrow. “If I wanted you dead…” he simply commented.
The former Assassin just gave a strange nodding shrug.
“Yes, Mister Cormac?”
“You’re the Grand Master. And… well, here.”
“Yes. Shall we?” Haytham gestured down the dark street towards the end of the docks. “The rest of the party should be slowly gathering; I’m sure it’ll be interesting. The goods were delivered a few hours ago, but we’ll probably have company soon, if not already, so stay sharp.”
They started walking, a warehouse at the far edge of the mostly deserted docks taking shape out of the darkness.
“You are going to actually… be here? Help in doing something useful?” Cormac asked, mystified. “But I was told there was likely to be fighting.”
“I’m hoping they’ll surrender, obviously...” Haytham commented dryly and gave a little sigh of annoyance. “Of course I’ll fight. What sort of leadership are you used to?”
The former Assassin opened his mouth to reply but Haytham quickly cut him off: “Don’t answer that, please. I’m certain I can guess.”
They walked on a while in silence, but before reaching the warehouse Haytham gestured for them to stop. He glanced around. The docks were never quite deserted. But although ships were being loaded and unloaded at all hours, this end of the docks were quiet, the warehouses much farther between and the few rooftops were empty.
Haytham sat down on a stack of crates, leaning back comfortably. When Cormac hesitated, Haytham just nodded at a crate next to him. Cormac took a seat, obviously trying to hide the questions boiling under the surface, though a small frown of uncertainty betrayed him.
He’s wondering what he’s doing here, of course. Well, let’s see if he’s brave or stupid enough to demand information.
“Sir, I’ll assume this has to do with the Assassins?” he finally asked.
“Quite. And what would be your thoughts on that matter?” So… brave or stupid enough!
“Every one of them will recognise me.”
“Potentially me, too. That’s why we stay clear for the first chapter of the action.”
“What happens in chapter two, Sir?”
“Let’s focus on the prologue, for a spell.” Haytham corrected. “Perhaps you can tell me. The Assassins have ordered a large shipment of weapons, the quality kind from England. We planted the opportunity and they took the bait. Now they are going to pick up and pay for their wares, cleverly smuggled onto these fair Colonial shores to avoid the toll authorities. How will they proceed?”
“Depends.” Cormac said, his eyes scanning the rooftops and access points. “How many crates are we talking about?”
“Thirty-five. A fairly hefty haul.”
“They’ll need transportation, then. The goods must be for use in the city or they’d have the mooncusser anchor up elsewhere. So they’ll need several carts for transport, maybe three, if not more. Most likely they’ll hire civilians and pay for their silence, but keep them out of sight until they know if the deal curdles. They’ll send a few people in to do the trading, and have some lurking on the nearby roofs.” He nodded at the nearest warehouse, a good deal out of gunshot range. “For monitoring, warning of hostile movements, and picking off stragglers. Maybe some on foot there and there.” He nodded down the dirty, unpaved streets leading down the harbour and into the outskirts of the city.
“Very well, so how would you proceed from here?” Haytham asked, quietly crossing ‘Not a complete lackwit’ and ‘Capable of basic situation analysis’ off his mental checklist.
“Depends again, Sir.” Cormac stared frowningly at the warehouse at the end of the docks as though he could see through the walls if he concentrated hard enough. “Which assets are available? You mentioned a party earlier. That’s more than two people, traditionally.”
“Six men in that warehouse.” Haytham nodded at the lonely structure down the docks, “Us here. Five standing by at the first crossing of the north road into the city. They’ll react at the first sound of trouble.”
“Seems a fair setup. The towners can intercept those coming from the harbour-side. If they recognise them…”
“Recognise them? I thought that was what the hoods were for.” Haytham noted sarcastically.
Something that would perhaps have been a sharp reply seemed just about to leave the former Assassin’s lips, but then he just shook his head and lowered his gaze. “Perhaps you’re right, Sir.”
“Yes.” Haytham shot him a sharp look. “But back to the main issue; how would you proceed? Do we leave everyone where they are or would you have thoughts on optimising the setup?”
“They’ll expect a handful of crewmembers to be present, so the warehouse is fine. I suppose the towners could stay as they are.” he commented evenly.
“Could stay?”
“…I think I’d take one from of the towners and one from the warehouse and place them where we are now, so there’s a lookout on the ground. And-“ he shrugged, though a look of something that might be frustration or annoyance crossed his features. He sighed. “The rest of the plan wouldn’t be to your liking, Sir. Besides, I don’t know what you’re capable of, so you’d be difficult to place.”
Haytham carefully kept a smile from his face. “In an ideal world, where you assumed I was as capable as I needed to be, what would be the plan?”
“I’d be on that roof and take care of their lookout.” He nodded to a warehouse at the dock’s edge. “You’d be on that one,” he indicated another good position on a rooftop further down, “doing the same.”
Am I testing you or is it the other way around… Haytham thought, privately amused.
When their eyes met in the gloom, it almost seemed like Cormac was holding back a smile. “…Told you, you wouldn’t like it, Sir.” he commented.
“The way I see it,” Haytham began “you are a traitor.”
Cormac didn’t look away. “I know. And I am.” he simply confirmed tonelessly.
“But you’re not a stupid traitor, so I’ll assume you know that you’ll be shot like a lame horse the second I believe you false.”
The former Assassin looked at him for a while. “So… You’re agreeing? To the setup?” He asked with a puzzled frown. “You’ll let me out of your sight?”
“Yes. You’ve been largely out of my sight for 31 years; a few more minutes will not make a difference, Mister Cormac.” He got to his feet, gesturing towards the city. “I’ll let the ‘towners’, as you termed them, know to move a lookout to the harbour and take one of the men from the warehouse with him.”
They began walking back the way they came.
Cormac stayed quiet.
“So, tell me. What’s it like under the hood? I’ve always wondered.” Haytham asked conversationally as they walked.
“What’s it like…” Cormac said. He shook his head glumly, put his hands in his coat-pockets and drew his shoulders up. “Like a nice shield of purpose you don’t question.” he finally said, quietly, almost as though speaking to himself.
“Mhh. …Seems genuine.” Haytham commented, keeping his voice neutral. “But I’d play my cards in exactly the same way if I were in your…” he looked down, “…remarkably grubby and ill-fitting shoes.”
The former Assassin gave him a weary look and nodded. “I’ve no doubt, Sir.” He stopped at the corner where the docks met the north road into the city and stared at his shoes for a moment. “Don’t think I’m not surprised at even being here. With you, of all people. A few months ago, this would be a dream of righteous violence come true.”
“But now?”
“I’m not sure how to make sense of things anymore. But I’ll take any guidance I can get.”
“Commendable, Mister Cormac.” Haytham said. “I’m sure it will be interesting to see how you react to the guidance I can offer.”
o-0-o
It was truly impressive how fast otherwise well-planned manoeuvres turned to shit. Haytham ducked, feeling the warmth of the dead body on the rooftop next to him as a shot whistled past, knocking his hat askew. He quietly corrected it and, staying low, flipped the dead man over to reach the pistol strapped to the corpse’s lower back. He looked to the other roof carefully, but it was obvious the attacker had lost interest in him.
Cormac was there.
From across the street the details were blurry in the dark, but the movement was furious enough to be visible. Haytham weighed the gun in his hand as he looked at the fight. He’d risk hitting Cormac. His fingers quietly itched to take the shot anyway. He wondered if that was because of the bet with Monro. Unfortunately, Mister Cormac was killed during a minor operation. What a shame. No, it wouldn’t do. Haytham trusted that no matter how carefully he kept his expression blank, Monro would instantly see through it.
He heard the sounds of fighting from the street and shots fired from the docks and wondered vaguely where the Hell everything had gone wrong, but that was a problem he’d have to investigate later. If Cormac was to blame for the operation souring, he was a bigger nitwit than he seemed to be. It would be a very small-scale exchange to endanger his carefully tailored cover for.
On the opposite roof, the hooded man went down, and the knife in Cormac’s hand acquainted itself with the fallen Assassin’s chest in such a show of determined violence that Haytham couldn’t for the life of him imagine it was staged. If it was, they should be performing at the Theatre Royal, not on shabby Colonial rooftops in the dark.
The dead Assassin slid off the roof and landed in a bone-crushing pile in the street. Unsurprisingly, he stayed still.
Not a show, then. I suppose this gives him points for sincerity. Or perseverance. He might be making this sacrifice to gain access to more important information.
“Monro might still be stuck with the paperwork…” he commented under his breath, wishing he still believed it, and watched as Cormac nimbly made his way down from the roof, just a shadow in the dark.
With a frown on his face, Haytham followed.
‘Might’ was really the operative term. Staying in the shadows, he saw Cormac sprint towards the fight in the streets that was now spilling out into the docks. Absurdly, Haytham noticed, it seemed a group of drunk sailors that had absolutely nothing to do with either party, had joined the fight. He rolled his eyes as he approached, and saw a hooded figure fall to Mister Cormac’s blade, caught in the back with neither honour nor mercy.
Haytham couldn’t keep a smile from his lips. There was potential here, he admitted reluctantly to himself before joining the fray.
o-0-o
Cormac was a fast sprinter. It was to be expected, of course, he’d been hunted by the Temple on more than one occasion. Now he was hunting an Assassin. Haytham pushed himself to speed up, quickly going over the layout of this part of the city in his mind to figure out if there’d be some way to take a shortcut and get ahead of them. He’d risk going in another direction than the last surviving Assassin from the fight chose, however. So, he followed. Four streets and a thoroughfare later, the Assassin finally veered off course, turning down a narrow alley, probably to find purchase to get to higher ground.
Haytham grinned to himself while he ran. Finally.
As he followed on the rooftops, with no bothersome walls in the way, it was easier to get ahead. He wasn’t unseen. The fleeing Assassin even sent a bullet in his direction, but as Cormac closed in, the Assassin was obviously not concentrating on his aim.
Haytham concentrated, however. He was long since out of bullets, but the throwing-knife found its mark in the fleeing man’s lower leg, hurling him cursing to the rooftop. Cormac overtook him in moments and Haytham watched, rather impressed, as the hunted Assassin pulled the knife from his calf and defended himself with it with more vigour than he had any right to possess at this point.
I should have brought a flask of brandy for this… Haytham leaned comfortably against a tall chimney, rather enjoying watching the moonlit show on the rooftop opposite.
The Assassin was bleeding from the knife wound enough that his pants glued to his leg, but he was obviously a skilled combatant. Probably trained in classical fencing, Haytham guessed, with a decent amount of dirty tricks thrown into the honourable mix. Lots of feinting; fine legwork, in spite of the fresh wound.
Cormac was obviously of the barroom brawl school of thought. His moves were never elegant or flashy, had no real subterfuge. But he was fast and precise in his strikes and clearly learned his opponent’s tactics quickly enough to avoid the killing blows, although he still took more than one slash from the knife.
As Haytham watched, he realised he’d perhaps been wrong. Cormac wasn’t just a brute in his approach – he could dodge, he had time, opportunity, and celerity enough. But he didn’t dodge. The slashes he received from Haytham’s knife in the Assassin’s hand could almost all have been avoided.
He’s reluctant to make the kill. They know each other? Probably. No, damn it! The idiot’s ignoring every opening. …This is ridiculous! Haytham felt his enjoyment of the show sour with annoyance. The Assassin, slowly weakening, bared his side a few seconds too long, which should have been his end, but still the fight continued. Haytham rolled his eyes. Just get it over with, damn it! It looks like you’re sparring for the fun of it!
Finally, finally, Cormac moved in and ended it. His blade slid up under the Assassin’s ribs and stayed there as he gently eased the dying man to the flat rooftop. Cormac had his back turned, robbing the Grand Master of his view, and he was unsure what he was seeing when the former Assassin lifted his hand to wipe his cheek.
I swear, if the Irish moggie is shedding tears over a dead Assassin, Monro can take his dingboy of a plan and shove it!
Cormac stood up slowly and turned around. A few jumps and shimmies brought Haytham to the side of the dead man.
He stared sharply at Cormac through narrowed eyes. There was blood on his face, he saw. A smear of it, but no cut to explain it. He looked down. A corresponding smear was there at the back of Cormac’s hand.
…So it was the dying man’s bloody spit he’d wiped off his face, not tears. The sudden gratitude that felt like a warmth in Haytham’s mind was deeply surprising to him and quickly smothered in its infancy.
“What was that!” Haytham demanded coldly.
“What, Sir?”
“The performance I just witnessed!”
Cormac shrugged, hiding a grimace of pain from a wound making the shabby clothes stick to his shoulder. “Got the job done, Sir?”
“You haven't got a stealthy bone in your body, do you? I thought that was what being in the hood-brigade was all about. Or is it simply your shoes, mismatched, noticeably, that are drawing your attention away from any kind of footwork?”
“I've barely been on my feet for a fortnight, respectfully, Sir, and footwear’s not been a priori-“
“- and tie your damned hair back, it kept getting in your eyes when you fought, it's like watching a murderous twelve year old girl.” Haytham barked angrily.
“I...”
“And who taught you to parry with your face! You fight as though you have a bloody death wish.”
Cormac opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. He closed it again with a thunderstruck expression.
“If you wish to leave this world, I'd be more than happy to assist you, but if you are going to be any kind of use to the Order, I need you capable of planning farther than your next chance for a slit throat! And back at the fight in the street, before this bastard,” Haytham kicked the corpse at his feet, “ran off; you froze! I had to use my last bullet on some damned white-clad fool about to stab you silly.” he snapped viciously.
Cormac just stared at him, the stunned expression firmly in place, eyes oddly unseeing, as though he was recounting the events in his mind.
“Well?” Haytham demanded. “Has all reason escaped you? Answer me!”
Cormac finally appeared to see him; he blinked, confused, shook his head. “When that scaffolding around the townhouse tumbled down,” he said, voice slow, “it threw me back to Lisbon, Sir. With all the screaming people I murdered.”
Fine, I accept the damned Lisbon-hogwash! But if all I have to do to distract him is make a few wooden boards fall to the ground, he’ll be about as useful as a pair of tits on a fish! Haytham thought bitterly as he searched Cormac’s features for some sort of sign of how damaged he was.
Cormac finally focused on Haytham. “I won’t freeze up again, Sir, you have my word. I can’t stop the Assassins alone and if you decide to put me out of my misery, or the Templars won’t take this seriously, thousands and thousands more will die. I can’t allow that, I’m hoping you can’t either. …But you– Did you shoot…” he mused as an afterthought.
“I did save your life, yes, and please trust me on this: I question my decision!”
Cormac bent down and ignoring his own weapon, he wrested the throwing knife from the dead Assassin’s hand. He wiped it on his sleeve and gave it handle first to Haytham: “Point taken, Sir.” He gave a small nod when Haytham took the knife.
“I certainly hope so. If I see you fall victim to the Lisbon-malady again, I will be aiming at you, not your attacker.”
Cormac drew a deep breath. “That’s fair warning. But…”
“Yes, Mister Cormac?”
“…You forgot to tell me not to slouch and to close my mouth when I chew, Sir.” he added softly, voice and features unreadable, his gaze on Haytham alert.
Unbelievably stabbable fellow! Haytham thought, and a sudden, reluctant smile nudging at his lips was forcefully suppressed. “I haven't seen you eat yet.” he commented calmly, “…But do stand up straight.”
“I’ll endeavour to do that, Sir.” Cormac said, the ghost of a carefully controlled grin hiding in the corner of his mouth.
o-0-o
The warehouse at the end of the docks seemed like just another place where cargo was in the process of being prepared. Haytham noticed how Cormac’s eyes swept the rooftop and dark surroundings, just as his own had. They approached quietly in the dark but Haytham’s hand on the hilt of his sword relaxed when he recognised the guard by the door. He was quietly gratified when the man gave Cormac a sharp, suspicious look before letting them in with a nod in the Grand Master’s direction.
Finally, this ridiculously bungled mission seemed to have found its right footing. The cargo was safe and several people were breaking crates open and checking inventory lists at one end of the warehouse. At the other… Haytham almost gave a laugh at his sudden fortune.
Two prisoners were sitting on the floor by the far wall, bound, gagged and closely guarded. Four dead men lay in a pile on the floor close by, in various stages of disrepair.
The man that had been in charge of the warehouse-group approached, giving a respectful nod. “The money for the cargo was delivered. These two survived, Sir. You want me to shoot them?” he nodded at the prisoners.
“Good God, man; not at all.” Haytham smiled. “Fine work, but we have reinforcements tonight.” He turned to look at Cormac standing behind him. The former assassin was a bit paler than he had seemed earlier, but it might just be the wounds bothering him, Haytham mused. Their eyes met, and there was an empty lack of surprise in Cormac’s gaze.
“Come. Greet the guests. I suppose you must have questions about the effect your departure had. Perhaps they’ll give you news about old friends?” Haytham gestured for Cormac to take the lead.
They walked to stand in front of the two men – or rather, a man and a young novice. Probably a fledgling on his first mission. When the two saw Cormac they evidently recognised him, staring at him in confused horror. The older Assassin was the first to gather his wits. He strained furiously against the ropes binding him and struggled to let an angry string of obvious profanities escape in spite of the gag.
“You know them, I take it.” Haytham stated.
Cormac turned, eyes downcast. “I know them.” he said calmly.
“Can they tell me something you cannot?”
“If you want a lecture on the ills of kings, Eamon here is your man.” Cormac gestured wearily at the assassin who was still struggling and spewing curses behind the gag. “Other than that, I don’t think so. Maybe Davenport’s put more trust in him after my departure.”
“And the boy?”
“…William, I think. Not sure, Sir, I didn’t train him. He’s a novice. He knows nothing.”
“Well, if Davenport did gather his wits …I use that term loosely in this case… and committed himself to a new course of action after your departure, I suppose we would both benefit from that knowledge. Perhaps you could ask them politely? You’d likely have more luck than I would.”
“Sir, may I have a word with you?” Cormac asked calmly, as though he’d been waiting for an opening.
“Naturally.” Haytham nodded and led them away out of earshot, probably as aware of the curious stares of the workers as Cormac was. If you can’t handle this, I really will slit your throat – Monro and the bet be damned. “So, let’s hear it. Is there a problem?”
“I’m a murderer. I’m not a torturer.” the former assassin stated evenly. “If that’s the price, I won’t pay it. I can shoot a bullet in a helpless man if needs be, but nothing further than that.”
Insubordination already? No wonder Monro champions him on instinct; they’re practically made for each other like Aristophanes’ twins! …Or is it simply a sense of honour? I never knew these types had any. Haytham frowned. “Interesting show of principle, Mister Cormac. But I don’t believe I asked you to torture anyone? You’re also hardly mine to command yet, are you.”
Cormac looked over his shoulder at the prisoners before turning to give Haytham an uncertain stare for a while. “Sir?”
“We both know they aren’t important if Davenport threw them at a ‘go fetch’-mission. I recommended that you ask politely. If polite to an Assassin– pardon me; former Assassin, suggests torture, no wonder we aren’t communicating well.” Haytham said, and was treated to a long, evaluating stare. “Naturally, I expect you to end them. Unless of course you want Davenport to know you’re alive?” he added conversationally. “I suppose you could let them run if you chose to. I’ll make no complains.”
“Yes, Sir. …As you say.” Cormac stated hesitantly.
“Excellent. Glad we got that settled. I’m certain you can borrow a pistol or two from Nathaniel over there.” He indicated the man who’d led the warehouse-group who was keeping an eye on their interaction. Cormac simply gave a weary nod and set off in Nathaniel’s direction.
Haytham took a seat on a crate near the two prisoners, watching the spectacle serenely.
Cormac stood before them, unmoving, with a borrowed gun in his hand. Both prisoners were obviously trying to comment rudely on the situation from behind the gags. The full-fledged Assassin was furious. The novice was hiding his terror of the inevitable under his disgust.
If he chooses petty compassion over long-term strategy, I’ll personally murder all three of them!
The pistol was raised quickly, trigger pulled, the young man slumped to the side, extinguished.
Ah, all two of them, then…
Blood pumped in sticky gushes from the hole in the young man’s forehead for a few moments; then it slowed to an oozing trickle that reached Cormac’s shoes. He didn’t move in the stunned silence.
The Assassin still living seemed to fight to get a grip on himself and wresting his shocked gaze away from the corpse next to him turned a narrow-eyed, hateful stare on his former brother.
Cormac turned where he stood, handed the spent weapon to Nathaniel and took the fresh pistol he was offered. He put the weapon in his belt and took a few steps closer to remove the gag from the bound man.
“I’ll let you hiss your curses, Eamon. That seems to be required.” he said softly.
The man just stared at him. He knew he was doomed, but any fear was smothered by anger and hatred.
“He was just a novice. You knew he was no threat. He knew nothing!” he finally said, voice taut.
“He knew I survived.” Cormac said.
“I didn’t think you could be a bigger traitor, you thieving, backstabbing little turd. How long have you been a Templar? A Templar!” he spat. “Treacherous damned paddy-whack! After everything Achilles did for you!”
“What did he do for me?” Cormac asked tonelessly.
“You can’t even show gratitude for what the Order provided? You are a sick dog, Shay! You should be put down! I hope to God–”
“You don’t even believe in God.“
“Fuck you, traitor! I hope to God, so he can boot you to the lowest Hell for all eternity.”
Cormac was quiet for a while and Haytham could only guess at his expression. Then he shrugged. “I’m here because I know that’s where I’m headed. I murdered thousands, Eamon. Thousands.” he said, voice empty of expression. “Innocents all. And Achilles was behind it. I have to prevent it from happening again. I tried to make him understand. He wouldn’t even hear me.”
“You’re insane. If you want to prevent innocents dying, use that bullet on him.” Eamon nodded in Haytham’s direction. “He’s the murderer! Without him, the Templars are headless.”
Haytham nodded politely at the prisoner: “Kind of you to say.”
Cormac looked over his shoulder and their eyes met. Haytham shrugged slightly. “I don’t think there’s much to be learned either. At your leisure.” He gestured vaguely at the bound man and got to his feet, purposefully turning his back and walking off. He caught Nathaniel’s gaze briefly and the man nodded almost imperceptibly and angled his stance quietly so Haytham could see the weapon in his hand. Should Cormac decide to follow the Assassin’s advice, he’d be shot on the spot.
“I’m sorry, Eamon. But I don’t have a choice.” Cormac's voice sounded tired, frustrated.
“You’re Kenway’s dog! Just another Templar piece of shit!”
“No. But I hope to be. I don’t know how else to prevent further destruction.”
“Go to Hell, Templar!” was the sneered reply.
The shot rang out.
So, not squeamish. Has a fair understanding of strategy. Actually believes he’s responsible for innocent lives being ended in droves. Willing to kill to prove his point. I can turn my back to him without fear. …Damn you, Monro.
Haytham quietly walked to the crates being opened to look at the wares the Assassins had paid for under false pretences. He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile and picked a bottle from a crate. The printed label on the bottle said ‘Battlehill Whisky Distillery’.
Probably because keeping it down is an uphill battle. …At least they’re honest, he mused to himself and eased the wax seal loose with a knife to pull the stopper and sniff the liquor. It nearly brought tears to his eyes with the strength of the fumes. He firmly put the stopper back. You’d better be satisfied with this, you bloody Highland barbarian… he thought to himself, keeping a laugh from surfacing.
“Sir, what else do you require of me?”
Haytham turned. Cormac was there, under Nathaniel’s watchful gaze. Haytham held out the whisky bottle for Cormac to take. It was a heartbeat before he reacted. Then he tentatively reached for it and looked at the opened crates, all sporting carefully packed bottles.
Cormac’s brow furrowed. “I thought you said the Assassins had ordered weapons, Sir?”
Haytham gave it a thought. “I believe I said we planted the opportunity and they took the bait…”
“So, there weren’t any weapons? But this…” he held out the bottle. “It’s banned goods to the Crown. Worth a small fortune here.”
“Drink it with reverence, in that case. I happen to owe Colonel Monro a small debt, and this will do. …I’m hoping the Governor will feel the same when I meet with him tomorrow.” Haytham added as an afterthought. “They were clearly surprised to see you among the living.” he said, turning his attention on the former Assassin.
“Yes, Sir.” Cormac agreed softly; a wealth of conflicting emotions hiding under the surface.
“So since somehow your immortality has escaped them, they likely haven’t taken measures against that possibility. And after your work tonight, your secret is safe.”
“Seems so.”
Their eyes met for a moment before the hand not holding a whisky bottle went to pull a hood that wasn’t there, up. Cormac stopped the motion halfway and his hand fell to his side. “Sorry, Sir.” he just mumbled and looked away, shaking his head. Mostly at himself, it seemed.
“…Old habits. But the sooner you stop thinking like a common murderer, the better.”
“As you say, Sir.” Cormac looked up, exhaustion and a hint of self-loathing apparent in his eyes.
“Excellent. Just one more question before you go.”
Cormac nodded. “What do you need?”
“The corpses. What do we do with them?” Haytham gestured at the dead prisoners and the pile of dead Assassins beside them.
Cormac put the whisky bottle in the pocket of his shabby coat and slowly turned to stare at the dead men for a while. Just when Haytham was sure there’d be no reply, he turned back: “Do you want to know so you can give them a proper funeral, or do you want me to say what I think you want to hear, Sir?” he asked, neutral voice betrayed by the lost look in his eyes.
“I could always send them rotting on a cart back to Davenport. But do tell me what I want to hear.” Haytham said, inwardly laughing.
Cormac looked at the floor for a moment. “You have the Governor’s ear?”
“DeLancey and Pownall both.”
“Then you’d want to hear me say to leave them in the market place, posed as though they were fighting your people. Put a faked letter incriminating both Davenport and whoever the governor wants removed, in a pocket. Have your people report to have ‘happened upon them’ in the midst of a crime in the early hours. Then the governor can sweeten his own tea at your graceful intervention and be motivated to curb Davenport’s activities in one.”
Haytham couldn’t keep a short laugh back. He reached for another bottle of whisky and handed it to the former Assassin. “Decently inventive, Mister Cormac!” he stated. “With a few minor changes, it’ll be Gospel truth come dawn.”
Cormac nodded and pocketed the extra bottle. “Yes, Sir.” he said, the lost expression still haunting his features.
“Meet me tomorrow at noon at the Green Dragon Tavern. Since the Assassins don’t know you still live, they’ve not taken measures to protect their hideouts and contacts here and in Boston. You’ll give me every detail as you know them and help plan the best assault on their network.”
Cormac just nodded in agreement. ”I will.” He turned and strode away, head bent.
“Mister Cormac.” Haytham called.
He stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder.
“It will get easier from here.” Haytham said. “I’m not in favour of Assassins murdering civilians either.”
Cormac looked down for a while. Then he just nodded. “Good night, Sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Haytham watched him leave. Then he looked at the corpses at the end of the warehouse and couldn’t help but smile.