Chapter Text
“…But yes, it’s generating the expected profit. And the breweries and moneylenders’ books are well balanced in our favour. …Oh, by the way, I haven’t received a report from the Herradine yet, not to mention the cargo, though I’m told she arrived in port yesterday.” George Monro frowned slightly, emptying his brandy-glass. “Also… Frankly I’m surprised you haven’t replaced her captain ages ago.”
“And why is that?” Haytham calmly folded up the maps and stacked the ledgers on the table between them before pouring them both a fresh drink.
“As far as I know, Captain Peters is a complete disgrace.”
“Yes… His personal antics are somewhat pervasive. But he’s a smuggler of absolutely no renown. Which speaks to his credit.” Haytham almost smiled, Monro noticed.
“Since the Herradine has landed,” Haytham continued, “may I propose you treat yourself to a personal visit with Captain Disgrace? I’m certain it will be as memorable for you as it was for me.” he commented, rising to his feet, giving a questioning nod towards the fireplace. Monro rose as well, and they took a seat in the comfortable chairs by the fire, the official business of the Order concluded for the month.
Monro leaned back, stretching his feet towards the warmth. “What would I gain by this?” he asked, bemusement in his voice. It was a fairly rare occurrence seeing the Grand Master almost smile; a fact for which he felt sorry for the man. Their cooperation had lasted little over a year now, and Monro felt the younger man was carrying too many burdens too willingly. Not that he thought him incapable of doing so. And he had tremendous respect for his willingness to get his hands dirty and ability to plan, manage and execute policies. But it was obvious there was room for little else than strategy in his life.
“Well, when I met with Captain Peters he was wearing a hat.” Haytham said, offhandedly.
“A …hat?”
“Yes. As it turned out when he got up, he was not bare-chested, as I had assumed him, unforgivable in itself, but in fact wearing nothing but his hat.” Haytham gave an actual laugh at the sight of the horrified disbelief in Monro’s face. “Yes, I did consider shooting him then and there, but he had just come through for the Order with a massive shipment of banned goods, so I decided to stay the execution.”
“Rather generous. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the sort of man to appreciate such naturally occurring humour.”
“I make exceptions on occasion. His crew is remarkably disciplined, though, and seems to simply accept his odd behaviour. Also, honesty is very important to Captain Peters.” Haytham smiled. “He ordered his first mate to explain to me how honest smuggling works.”
Monro shook his head in disbelief. “Honest smuggling?”
“Yes. When they come to a harbour and need to declare their cargo, Peters has the whole crew come to the toll-booth hours before it opens and ceremoniously swear that everything they swear for the rest of the day will be a lie. The whole crew can then solemnly attest to whatever false cargo manifest Peters decides to tout.”
“I… believe perjury is rather illegal.” Monro laughed.
“But in this case, not quite dishonest. If nothing else, Peters is a study in interesting leadership.”
“Interesting doesn’t seem to cover it.” Monro ran his fingers through his short grey hair. He regarded Haytham for a while. “But since you make exceptions and stay executions on occasion…”
“Yes? With a preface like that, this should be good.”
Monro took a sip of his brandy. “I assume, of course, that you are familiar with the reports on the known assassins. Those we have identified.”
Haytham raised an eyebrow. “That goes without saying. Or so I thought. Where is this leading?”
“Shay Cormac.” Monro simply stated.
“Believed to have been, if not solely responsible, then part of the crew that murdered Washington, Smith and Wardrop for the artefacts they held and hasn’t been spotted since Wardrop’s demise. Of Irish descent, obviously. One of Davenport’s lapdogs. Sailor, from the reports we’ve received. Probably laying low somewhere and we’ll be lucky to get our hands on him until he resurfaces. What about him?” Haytham asked.
“I happen to know where he is.”
“Well, excellent… End him. One less problem in the world.”
“Not quite as easy as that.”
“What a surprise.” Haytham said dryly. “So?”
“The man apparently had a falling out with the assassins and is currently recovering from a bullet wound at some friends of mine. I believe he can become an asset of the Order.”
“Yes... George. …Have you lost your mind?” Haytham enquired, bluntly serious. “I’d offer to help search for it, but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to begin.”
“Very kind of you, Grand Master.” Monro said, studying the look of genuine mystification on Haytham’s face. “But I don’t believe so.”
“Then go there immediately and put an end to the man’s suffering.”
“No.” Monro simply stated and calmly reached for his tobacco pouch and began stuffing his pipe.
“No?”
Monro ignored the note of disbelief in the Grand Master’s voice. “As I said, I believe he can become an asset. And I’m not about to murder a bedridden man, assassin or otherwise.”
“Commendably noble! Then tell me where he is and I will do it for you. I can’t believe you have not taken proper action. He murdered three of our brothers!”
“And now he is perhaps ready for a change in perspective.” Monro stated matter-of-factly.
“I’d like to know whatever he knows, but there are other ways of extracting information than nursing the man back to health.”
“He was shot by his old allies. He is ready to share his knowledge of his own volition. And he can become valuable if-“
“Can and if are poor substitutes for will.” Haytham’s voice rose in volume with this statement and the brandy glass he’d been holding was deposited on the side table with more force than was necessary. “We are not setting up a kennel for estranged assassins!”
“Hardly what I’m advocating.” Monro responded, annoyance making him frown. “But I’m frankly surprised you can’t see the wisdom in taking a chance with someone who won’t even be receiving anything from us, until he proves his worth. Have you grown a tad complacent, perhaps?”
“For not trusting an assassin? You must be joking! He is most likely a spy!”
“Planting a spy with a bullet seems a wee bit extreme, even for them.” Monro said severely, pointing his pipe sharply at the Grand Master.
“And still I wouldn’t put it past them!” Haytham snapped.
Annoyance blossoming slowly into frustrated anger, Monro felt his voice coloured by a touch of his Scottish accent, which only fuelled his frustration further. “The man isn’t lying about this. I know this with great certainty, and if you’d only hear me ou-“
“I’m really not going to discuss this anymo-“
“He believes himself responsible for the destruction of Lisbon and thousands of civilian casualties.” Monro interrupted heatedly. “If that’s not sufficient motivation to-“
“Oh… I see. Well, poor man, in that case. Let’s hold his hands and be friends.” Haytham said with searing sarcasm. “He is lying and you’re senseless to believe otherwise.”
“He told me in a raging fever on the verge of death. Nobody lies in such a state!“ Monro almost shouted, and when he saw Haytham about to interrupt, he raised his voice: “No! He was not faking his fever! You might not credit my sanity at the moment, but at least acknowledge that I’ve seen more than my share of dying men, and this one was halfway to his grave!”
“So get the information from him and-“
“He blames the assassins and fears they’ll destroy the earth if left unchecked. Quite literally! And if you won’t accept an opportunity like this when it’s practically dancing hat-clad-naked in front of you then you’re the mad dog in this company!”
“You’re protecting an assassin, you insane son of a whore. Would you stop it this instant! What the Hell kind of madness is this!” Haytham shouted, incredulous.
Monro angrily threw his clay pipe in the fireplace. “No, I’m protecting a possible asset, and I’d think you of all people should be capable of appreciating that one might not end up on the same side of the fence, as one was born to.”
“I of all people? What exactly is that supposed to mean!”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Grand Master Kenway.”
Haytham’s hands clenched, his earlier disbelief evidently evaporated by his anger. “So that’s what it boils down to, is it! The trump card that’s supposed to sell me this gangly, lackwit scheme of yours.”
“I wasn’t born in the bloody colonies; I know exactly what kind history you carry with you. And in light of that, you should be able to appreciate that loyalty is bred by the circumstances you find yourself in, not by blood or past. And-“
“No. No more.” Haytham angrily stabbed a finger at the colonel: “You do as I bloody well tell you, haggis-mongering madman! I can’t believe you’re even conside-”
Monro slapped the Grand Master’s hand out of the way. “I’m not dancing to your tune if I believe your judgement is compromised by blind, idiotic prejudice. If I let you have your way, the Order will lose a chance for information that-“
“You command soldiers.” Haytham yelled, exasperated. “What do you usually do with gross insubordination?”
“I evaluate on a case by case basis and take action accordingly. Might I suggest you do that before I have to accuse you of being a complete sapscull with no vision!”
“Unbelievable!” Haytham stated, some of the anger receding. “I’m not going to use the Order’s resources on playing nursemaid to some greasy Irish mongrel!”
“I’m not asking you to!” Monro looked at the pipe, blackened by the fire, and gave an annoyed sigh. “I will initiate the contact. I only informed you as a courtesy. Not for permission. Because, as we both know, you have to rely on trusted people’s sound initiative, or you’d be a one-man-rite.”
Haytham gave an involuntary laugh and shook his head. “Sound initiative…” he commented, suddenly calm. “Are you threatening your resignation, George?”
“Certainly not. Don’t be absurd!” he stated categorically. He gestured vaguely at the broken pipe in the fireplace. “…I’m only threatening your patience, it seems.”
They sat in silence for a while, both staring frowningly into the fire as the anger between them began to dissipate.
“…How did you find this trustworthy marvel of ex-assassindom, then?” the Grand Master finally sighed.
“A fairly long series of random coincidences.”
“Do regale me.”
“He was found on the shores of Whale Cove, north of Boston, by a couple of fishermen. They believed he was dead, but fortunately they were good Christians and had him carted off to have a decent burial. Much to their horror, he started spitting blood on the way to town. The townsfolk were afraid of him, but at some point he ended up in the care of a woman who happened to be the widowed sister-in-law of a trusted informer of mine. This fellow chanced to be visiting and overhear some of the things Cormac shouted in his fever and reported to me immediately. Cocksucking precursor shite and Go to Hell, Achilles were two of the main themes, apparently. I had him transported to safety as soon as he could be moved.”
“…Providential, I’m sure.” Haytham noted, then paused. “…George.” he finally said.
“…Haytham?”
“When this is over, you’ll give me a full apology and be uniquely responsible for mopping this mess up. And do the paperwork of the Order for six months, no matter where your military duties might take you.” The hint of a smirk was lurking at the corner of the Grand Master’s mouth.
Monro laughed. “Actually… When this is over, you’ll be thanking me for my sound judgement and making a full apology in genuine Scottish whisky; none of this fashionably sub-par brandy-hogwash.” Monro nodded at his glass on the side table. “And you’ll be taking Cormac under your, indisputably capable, wing.”
“Deal!”
They shook hands on it.
Haytham got up and regarded Monro. “Well, that was stimulating. But I should probably be heading home before you have a change of heart and poison the next drink.”
“That’s probably for the best, Grand Master. I doubt if anyone is ready to take over your duties.” Monro got to his feet and followed Haytham out in the hall. The servants had long since gone to bed, so he handed Haytham his coat and hat.
The Grand Master hesitated at the door. “Take over my duties…” he mused. “I should probably choose a successor. Soon. You never know.”
“You should. Lee, in my opinion.” Monro said seriously.
“Not you?”
“No.”
“No?” Haytham gave a short laugh. “That seems to be tonight’s theme.”
“I’m too old.” Monro smiled and held Haytham’s gaze calmly. “And truth be told, I’d make changes to the direction the Order is going. Small ones, granted. But still changes. Lee would be absurdly loyal to your memory. He’s a better choice.”
Haytham frowned, frozen in place for a moment, his hand on the door handle. “Am I really that far from your vision of what the Order should be?” he finally asked.
“Do you have any doubt that I would let you know if you were?” Monro responded.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Haytham’s mouth: “Good night, Master Monro. I’ll reserve the right to keep an eye on your dealings with this Cormac character.”
“Good night, Grand Master. I expect nothing less.”
Monro smiled to himself as he closed the door.