Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (13 page)

“You were not at Monteriggioni.” It was Ezio’s turn to pause, after an angry silence. “Do we
really
know what goes on with our enemies? Do we at least have an underground network here to work with?”

“Hardly. Most of our mercenaries, like Fabio, are tied up in battle with Cesare’s forces. And the French still back him.”

Ezio remembered the French general at Monteriggioni—Octavien.

“What have we got?” he asked.

“One solid source. We have girls working at a brothel. High-class joint, frequented by cardinals and other important Roman citizens; but there’s a snag. The madam we have in place is lazy and seems rather to enjoy parties for their own sake than to further our cause by gathering information.”

“What about the city’s thieves?” asked Ezio, thinking about the adroit robber who’d almost cost him his purse.

“Well,
sì
; but they refuse to talk to us.”

“Why?”

Machiavelli shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Ezio rose. “You’d better tell me how to get out of here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To make some friends!”

“May I ask what friends?”

“I think for the moment you had better leave that to me.”

It was nightfall again by the time Ezio had found the headquarters of the Roman Thieves’ Guild. Another long day lay behind him, a day of asking questions discreetly in taverns, getting suspicious looks and misleading answers, until, finally, word must have got around that it was all right to let him know the secret location, and a ragamuffin of a boy had led him into a run-down district through a maze of alleys and left him at a door, only to disappear immediately the way he had come.

It wasn’t much to look at: a large but broken-down-looking inn, whose sign, showing a fox, either asleep or dead, hung awry; whose windows were shrouded with tattered blinds; and whose woodwork was in need of repainting. This was the same Sleeping Fox Inn that he and Mario visited a week ago.

Unusually for an inn, its door was shut fast. Ezio hammered on it. In vain.

Then he was surprised by a voice coming from behind him, speaking softly. Ezio spun around. It wasn’t like him to allow himself to be approached noiselessly from behind like that. He must ensure that it didn’t happen again.

Fortunately, the voice was friendly, if guarded.

“Ezio!”

The man who’d spoken stepped forward from the shelter of a tree. Ezio recognized him immediately. It was his old ally Gilberto—La Volpe, the Fox—who had led the thieves in Florence in alliance with the Assassins some time previously.

“La Volpe! What are you doing here?”

Gilberto grinned as they embraced. “Why am I not in Florence, do you mean? Well, that’s simply answered. The thieves’ leader here died, and they elected me. I felt like a change of air, and my old assistant, Corradin, was ready to take over back home. Besides”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—”just at the moment, Rome presents me with a little bit more of a…challenge, shall we say?”

“Seems a good enough reason to me. Shall we go in?”

“Of course.” La Volpe knocked at the door himself—obviously a coded knock, for the door swung open almost immediately, to reveal a spacious courtyard, with tables and benches laid out, just as you’d expect at an inn—but all still very dingy. A handful of people, men and women, bustled about, in and out of doors that led from the courtyard into the inn itself, built around it.

“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” said La Volpe, ushering him to a seat and calling for wine.

“Frankly—”

“It suits our purposes. And I have plans. But what brings you here?” La Volpe held up a hand. “Wait! Don’t tell me. I think I know the answer.”

“You usually do.”

“You want to put my thieves to work as spies for you.”

“Exactly!” Ezio said, leaning forward eagerly. “Will you join me?”

La Volpe raised his beaker in a silent toast, and drank a little of the wine that had been brought, before replying, flatly: “No.”

Ezio was taken aback. “What? Why not?”

“Because that would only play into Niccolò Machiavelli’s hands. No, thank you. That man is a traitor to our Brotherhood.”

This came as a little less of a surprise, though Ezio was very far from convinced of the truth of it. He said: “That’s a very serious allegation, coming from a thief. What proof do you have?”

La Volpe looked sour. “He was an ambassador to the papal court, you know—and he traveled as a personal guest of Cesare himself.”

“He did those things on our behalf!”

“Did he? I also happen to know he abandoned you just before the attack on Monteriggioni.”

Ezio made a gesture of disgust. “Pure coincidence! Look, Gilberto, Machiavelli may not please all tastes, but he
is
an Assassin,
not
a traitor.”

La Volpe looked at him with a set face. “I am not convinced.”

At that point in their conversation, a thief—Ezio, recognizing him as the one who had cut his purse, glared at him—scuttled up and whispered in La Volpe’s ear. La Volpe stood as the thief scuttled off. Ezio, sensing trouble, stood, too.

“I apologize for Benito’s behavior the other day,” said La Volpe. “He did not then know who you were. But he did see you riding with Machiavelli.”

“To hell with Benito. What’s going on?”

“Ah. Benito brought news. Machiavelli is meeting someone in Trastevere very soon. I’m going to check out what’s going on. Care to accompany me?”

“Lead on.”

“We’ll use one of the old routes—the rooftops. It’s a bit tougher here than it was in Florence. Do you think you’re up to it?”

“Just lead on!”

It was hard going. The roofs of Rome were spaced farther apart than in Florence, and many were crumbling, making it harder to gain footing. More than once, Ezio sent a loose tile crashing to the ground. But there were few people about in the streets, and they moved so fast that by the time any Borgia guards could react, they were already out of sight of them. At last they reached a market square, its stalls closed up except for one or two brightly lit wine booths, where a number of people were gathered. Ezio and La Volpe paused on a roof overlooking it, concealing themselves behind chimney stacks, and watched.

Soon afterward, Machiavelli himself walked into the square, first glancing around carefully. Ezio watched keenly as another man, wearing the Borgia crest on his cloak, approached Machiavelli and discreetly handed him what looked like a note before walking on, barely breaking his stride. Machiavelli similarly moved on, out of the square.

“What do you make of that?” La Volpe asked Ezio.

“I’ll follow Machiavelli; you follow the other guy,” snapped Ezio tersely.

But at that moment a brawl broke out at one of the wine booths. They heard angry cries and saw the flash of weapons.

“Oh,
merda!
That’s some of my men. They’ve picked a fight with a Borgia guard!” cried La Volpe.

Ezio glimpsed Machiavelli’s retreating back as he fled down a street that led toward the Tiber, then he was gone. Too late to follow him now. He turned his attention back to the brawl. The Borgia guard lay prostrate on the ground. Most of the thieves had scattered, scrambling up the walls to the rooftops and safety, but one of them, a young man, scarcely more than a boy, lay groaning on the ground, his arm spurting blood from a flesh wound.

“Help! Help! My son has been injured!” an anguished voice rang out.

“I recognize that voice,” said La Volpe with a grimace. “It’s Trimalchio.” He looked keenly at the wounded thief. “And that’s Claudio—his younger son!”

Meanwhile, Borgia guards armed with guns had appeared on the parapets of two roofs, on either side of the far wall of the market, and were taking aim.

“They’re going to shoot him!” Ezio said urgently.

“Quickly then! I’ll take the group to the left; you take the one to the right!”

There were three guards on each side. Moving as unobtrusively as shadows but as swiftly as panthers, Ezio and La Volpe swept around the connecting sides of the square. Ezio saw his three gunmen raise their weapons and take aim at the fallen boy. He sprinted along the spine of the roof—his feet seemingly barely touching the tiles—and with one huge leap sprang toward the three gunmen. His jump had sufficient height that he was able to crumple the middle gunman with the heel of his foot—connecting with the nape of the man’s neck. In one movement, Ezio landed on his feet, crouched to absorb the impact of the landing, and then straightened his knees, arms outstretched on either side of him. The two remaining gunmen fell at that instant—a dagger piercing one man’s right eye from the side, the blade pushing deep into his skull. The other gunman was felled by the needlelike point of Ezio’s hidden-blade—it had punctured his ear, dark viscous liquid trickling down his neck. Ezio looked up to see that La Volpe had also felled his opponents with similar efficiency. After this minute of silent slaughter, all the guards with firearms were dead. But there was a fresh danger, as a platoon of halberdiers charged into the square—weapons lowered and rushing toward the unfortunate Claudio. The people in the wine booths shrank back.

“Claudio! Get out!” La Volpe yelled.

“I can’t! Too much…pain…”

“Hang on!” Ezio, who was fractionally closer to where the boy lay, shouted. “I’m coming!”

He leapt down from the rooftops, breaking his fall on the canvas roof of one of the market stalls, and was soon by the boy’s side. Quickly, he checked the wound. It looked more serious than it was.

“Get up!” he ordered.

“I can’t!” Claudio was clearly in a state of panic. “They’re going to kill me!”

“Look. You can walk, can’t you?” The boy nodded. “Then you can also run. Pay attention. Follow me. Do exactly what I do. We’ve got to hide from the guards.”

Ezio drew the boy to his feet and made his way to the nearest wine booth. Once there, he quickly melted into the crowd of by now very nervous drinkers and was surprised to see with what aptitude Claudio was able to do the same. They eased their way through the booth to the side nearest the wall, while on the other side some of the halberdiers started to push their way in. Just in time, they made it to an alleyway leading off the square and to safety. La Volpe and Trimalchio were waiting for them.

“We guessed you’d come this way,” said La Volpe as the father hugged his son. “Get going!” he said to them. “We’ve no time to lose! Get back to headquarters fast and have Teresina dress that wound. Go!”

“And you—keep out of sight for a while,
intensi
?” Ezio added to Claudio.

“Molte grazie, Messere,”
said the departing Trimalchio, his arm around the boy, guiding him, but also admonishing him:
“Corri!”

“You’re in trouble now,” said La Volpe, once they’d reached the safety of a quiet square. “Especially after this. I’ve already seen posters up for you, after that business at the stables.”

“None for Machiavelli?”

La Volpe shook his head. “No. But it’s quite possible they didn’t get a good look at him. Not many people know how handy he is with a sword.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

La Volpe shook his head.

“What to do about the Wanted posters?”

“Don’t worry. My people are already ripping them down.”

“Glad some of them are more disciplined than to start picking fights for no reason with Borgia guards.”

“Listen, Ezio—there’s a tension in this city you haven’t yet experienced.”

“Really?” Ezio hadn’t yet told his friend about the episode with the wolfmen.

“As for the heralds, a few ducats each should be enough to shut them up,” La Volpe continued.

“Or…I could eliminate the witnesses.”

“Needn’t come to that,” said La Volpe, more lightly. “You know how to ‘disappear.’ But be very careful, Ezio. The Borgia have many other enemies than you, but none quite so irritating. They won’t rest until they have you hanging from hooks at Castel Sant’Angelo.”

“Have to catch me first.”

“Keep your guard up.”

They returned by a circuitous route to the Thieves’ Guild, where Claudio and his father had already arrived safely. Teresina was dressing the boy’s wound, but once the bleeding had been stanched, it turned out to be nothing more than a deep cut into an arm muscle, hurting like hell but doing no serious harm, and Claudio himself was already much more cheerful.

“What a night,” said La Volpe tiredly as they sat over a glass of Trebbiano and a plate of coarse salami.

“You’re telling me. I could do with a few less of them.”

“You won’t get many while the fight goes on.”

“Listen, Gilberto,” Ezio said, “I know what we saw, but I am sure you have nothing to fear from Machiavelli. You know his methods.”

La Volpe looked at him evenly. “Yes. Very devious.” He paused. “But I have you to thank for saving Claudio’s life. If you believe Machiavelli remains loyal to the Brotherhood, then I am inclined to trust your judgment.”

“So—how do I stand with your thieves? Will you help me?”

“I told you I had plans to do something about this place,” La Volpe said thoughtfully. “Now that you and I seem to be working together again, I’d like to know what you think, too.”

“Are we working together?”

La Volpe smiled. “Looks like it. But I’m still keeping an eye on your black-suited friend.”

“Well, it’ll do no harm. Just don’t do anything rash.”

La Volpe ignored that. “So tell me—what do you think we should do with this place?”

Ezio considered. “We need to make sure the Borgia stay away at all costs. Perhaps we could turn it into a proper, working inn.”

“I like that idea!”

“It’ll need a lot of work—repainting, reshingling, a new inn sign.”

“I’ve got a lot of men. Under your direction…”

“Then I will make it so.”

A month followed of respite, or at least semi-respite, for Ezio, as he busied himself with the business of renovating the thieves’ headquarters, helped by many willing hands. Between them, the thieves represented a variety of skills, since many were tradesmen who’d been put out of work because they’d refused to kowtow to the Borgia. At the end of that time, the place had been transformed. The paintwork was bright; the windows were clean and carried new blinds. The roof was no longer rickety and the fresh inn sign showed a young male dog-fox, still sleeping but certainly not dead. He looked as if, the moment he awoke, he’d be capable of raiding fifty hen coops at a stroke. The double doors gleamed on new hinges and stood open, revealing an immaculate yard.