Free Assassin's Creed: Forsaken by Oliver Bowden Page A

my skill at death, became apparent, and Reginald was quick to see its benefits. The first to die—not my first “kill,” of course; my first assassination, I should say—was a greedy merchant in Liverpool. My second was an Austrian prince.
    After the killing of the merchant, two years ago, I returned to London, only to find that building work was continuing at Queen Anne’s Square, and Mother . . . Mother was too tired to see me that day, and would be the following day as well. “Is she too tired to answer my letters, too?” I asked Mrs. Davy, who apologized and averted her gaze. Afterwards I rode to Herefordshire, hoping to locate Digweed’s family, to no avail. The traitor in our household was never to be found, it seemed—or
is
never to be found, I should say.
    But then, the fire of vengeance in my gut burns less fiercely these days, perhaps simply because I’ve grown; perhaps because of what Reginald has taught me about control of oneself, mastery of one’s own emotions.
    Even so, dim it may be, but it continues to burn within me.
    iii
    The
hostale
owner’s wife has just been to visit, throwing a quick look down the steps before she closed the door behind her. A messenger arrived while I was out, she said, and handed his missive to me with a lascivious look that I might have been tempted to act upon if I hadn’t had other things on my mind. The events of last night, for example.
    So instead I ushered her out of my room and sat down to decypher the message. It told me that as soon as I was finished in Altea, I was to travel not home, to France, but to Prague, where I would meet Reginald in the cellar rooms of the house in Celetna Lane, the Templar headquarters. He has an urgent matter to discuss with me.
    In the meantime, I have my cheese. Tonight, the traitor meets his end.

11 J UNE 1747
    It is done. The kill, I mean. And though it was not without its complications, the execution was clean insofar as he is dead and I remain undetected, and for that I can allow myself to take a measure of satisfaction in having completed my task.
    His name was Juan Vedomir, and supposedly his job was to protect our interests in Altea. That he had used the opportunity to build an empire of his own was tolerated; the information we had was that he controlled the port and market with a benign hand, and certainly on the evidence of earlier that day he seemed to enjoy some support, even if the constant presence of his guards proved that wasn’t always the case.
    Was he
too
benign, though? Reginald thought so, had investigated, and eventually found that Vedomir’s abandonment of Templar ideologies was so complete as to amount to treachery. We are intolerant of traitors in the Order. I was despatched to Altea. I watched him. And, last night, I took my cheese and left my
hostale
for the last time, making my way along cobbled streets to his villa.
    “Yes?” said the guard who opened his door.
    “I have cheese,” I said.
    “I can smell it from here,” he replied.
    “I hope to convince Señor Vedomir to allow me to trade at the bazaar.”
    His nose wrinkled some more. “Señor Vedomir is in the business of attracting patrons to the market, not driving them away.”
    “Perhaps those with a more refined palate might disagree, señor?”
    The guard squinted. “Your accent. Where are you from?”
    He was the first to question my Spanish citizenship. “Originally from the Republic of Genoa,” I said, smiling, “where cheese is one of our finest exports.”
    “Your cheese will have to go a long way to beat Varela’s cheese.”
    I continued to smile. “I am confident that it does. I am confident that Señor Vedomir will think so.”
    He looked doubtful but stood aside and let me into a wide entrance hall, which, though the night was warm, was cool, almost cold, as well as being sparse, with just two chairs and a table, on which were some cards. I glanced at them. A game of piquet, I was pleased to see, because piquet’s a