Assassin's Creed: Underworld (27 page)

Later, Henry took them to his shop. In the years
since his mother had unveiled it, nothing had changed. Business in curios wasn’t exactly
booming but that didn’t matter; selling knick-knacks wasn’t his primary objective
and his other business of assembling research into the artefacts and monitoring Templar
activities through a growing coterie of informants was flourishing. George Westhouse had been
right, Henry used the same innate talents that had endeared him to the tunnel dwellers to court
the poor and dispossessed of Whitechapel. He had cultivated them almost unknowingly: a little
protection, one or two moneylenders taught a lesson, a pimp shown the error of his ways, a
violent father who needed reminding of his responsibilities. He had managed it using threat and
insinuation. His combat skills falling into disuse suited him fine; he never was a warrior. His
gang was unlike others that roamed the East End – like Jacob wished his
‘Rooks’ would be – that were built on hierarchical principles of power and
violence. His ran along far more benign principles. Their leader had earned their respect, and
also their love.

‘Over the years I have established a number
of connections across the city,’ was all he said now.

‘Splendid!’ replied Evie.
‘We’ll need focused aid –’

‘Focused aid?’
scoffed Jacob. ‘No, what we need to do is take over Starrick’s gangs to cripple his
control.’

‘You’re not aiming high
enough,’ said Evie exasperatedly. ‘Starrick has influence in every branch of
society. We need to match him.’

‘I see what you’re saying, Evie. We
need the Rooks.’

She shook her head, repeating an oft-stated
maxim. ‘You’re not starting a gang called the Rooks. We need to locate the Piece of
Eden.’

‘No. We need to reclaim London from
Starrick. Just tell me my targets …’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not time for that
yet.’

‘I didn’t come here to hunt down
curios.’

‘“First understand the dance, only
then become the dancer”,’ she said, quoting something said to them many times over
the years.

‘Oh? So you’re taking over where
Father left off?’

‘Someone has to.’

‘Well, Freddie, it’s nice to see
you.’

Abberline sat in the front room of Mr and Mrs
Aubrey Shaw’s Stepney rooms and remembered a time when he was given the warmest of
welcomes by Mrs Shaw and her two children, when he had fervently wished he had better news to
impart.

Now was the same. Except this time …

‘Would you like a cup of tea,
Freddie?’

Without waiting for an answer, Mrs Shaw departed,
leaving the two men together.

‘Well,’ repeated Aubrey,
‘it’s good to see you, Freddie. Sergeant Frederick Abberline, as I live and breathe.
Fresh-faced Freddie finally came of age, eh? I always knew you’d do it, mate. Of all of us
you were always the dead cert to do well in the force.’

Aubrey now ran a butcher shop in Stepney Green.
Abberline had swiftly discovered it was good to have a butcher friend. Especially when it came
to cultivating contacts, because it was true: Abberline had done well in the force. A man named
Ethan Frye had introduced him to another man, Henry Green, whom Abberline had recognized as the
Indian lad from the dig. About that, he was sworn to secrecy but only too happy to maintain the
confidence. After all, Ethan Frye had saved his life. He and
Henry had gone
up against Cavanagh and co. As far as Abberline was concerned, that put them firmly on his
team.

And it was funny, because Abberline had never got
to the bottom of what happened at the Metropolitan dig. The ‘powerful object’, that
Ethan had told him about, well, Abberline had imagined some kind of weapon, something that set
off an explosion. To what end, he had no idea. But Cavanagh had died, his three lieutenants were
dead too, and as for the other one, the clerk? Well, he had turned out to be working for a third
party, and that was when it had got complicated; when it came down to what Ethan described as
age-old enemies: men who move among us plotting to wrest control of man’s destiny.

And that was plenty for Abberline. That had been
enough to convince him to stop asking questions, because somehow a fervently held belief of his
own – that there are forces beyond our control manipulating us from on high – had
dovetailed with one of Aubrey’s fervently held beliefs: that sometimes there are no
answers.

So Frederick Abberline had accepted that there
were things he couldn’t change, but pledged to fight for the things he could change, and
gave thanks for being able to tell the difference between the two. Meanwhile, Henry Green, it
emerged, had built up a community of loyal informants in Whitechapel. Abberline joined his gang,
sometimes the beneficiary of information, sometimes able to pass information on.

In other words the situation was what you’d
call
mutually beneficial
. And for the first time since the mess at the Metropolitan,
the newly minted Sergeant Abberline had
thought he was making progress.
Doing a bit of good in this world.

Why, he’d even met a woman, Martha, fallen
in love and got married … And there, unfortunately, his run of good fortune had come to an
end.

‘Freddie, is something wrong?’ Aubrey
was saying. The smile on his lips had died at the sight of his friend’s forlorn features.
‘This is just a social visit, is it? You’ve not got anything to tell me? You and
Martha? You haven’t had a fall-out, have you?’

Freddie wrung his hands between his knees. He had
become adept at disguise. His penetration of Whitechapel sometimes depended on his ability to
move in the streets unrecognized, unnoticed, unremarked. There were occasions when it had proved
invaluable to Henry’s gang. He wished for a disguise now, so that he wouldn’t feel
so very exposed.

‘No, Aubs, and I can’t tell you how
much I wish that we had just fallen out, because then my dear Martha would be alive right
now.’

‘Oh, Freddie,’ said Mrs Shaw from the
door. She hurried in, placed the tray of tea things on the table then came over to Abberline
where she knelt and took his hand. ‘We are so very sorry, aren’t we,
Aubrey?’

Aubrey had stood, painfully. ‘Oh my, and
the two of you only married a matter of months.’

Abberline cleared his throat. ‘She was
claimed by tuberculosis.’

‘That’s a great shame, Freddie. Me
and Aubrey always thought you went perfect together.’

‘We did, Mrs Shaw, we
did.’

For some time they sat, and then, not quite
knowing what else to do, Mrs Shaw served the tea and then the three of them sat in silence for a
little longer, the two Shaws helping Frederick Abberline to grieve.

‘What now, Freddie?’ said Aubrey.

Abberline placed his cup and saucer on the
tabletop. Only the tea leaves knew what the future held in store for him.

‘Time will tell, Aubrey,’ he said.
‘Time will tell.’

Weeks passed. The twins made their mark in London.
Despite Evie’s protestations, Jacob had set up his gang, the Rooks, and established them
as a force in the city. Meanwhile, they had liberated the urchins, Jacob had assassinated the
gang leader Rexford Kaylock, the twins had found a train hideout and they had secured the trust
of Frederick Abberline, who had promised to turn a blind eye to their activities.

And while Jacob’s attention was focused on
building the reputation of his gang, Evie had thrown herself into investigating the Piece of
Eden.

‘Ah, another exciting night home for Evie
Frye,’ he had said, spying her with letters, maps and assorted other documents. Perhaps he
hadn’t spotted the fact that she was also strapping on her gauntlet at the time.

‘Just on my way out, actually,’ she
said, with more than a hint of pride in her voice. ‘I found the Piece of Eden.’

As usual, it was lost on Jacob, who rolled his
eyes. ‘What’s this one going to do? Heal the sick? Deflect bullets? Control the
populace?’

‘They are dangerous objects, Jacob.
Especially in Templar hands.’

‘You sound exactly like Father.’

‘If only.’

Now she drew her brother’s attention to an
image of
Lucy Thorne that lay on the table. More and more often lately Evie
had found her gaze going to it, remembering the intimidating woman she had seen in the shipping
yard. ‘Lucy Thorne is expecting a shipment tonight. She is Starrick’s expert in the
occult. I am nearly certain she is receiving the Piece of Eden Sir David Brewster
mentioned.’

Jacob sniffed action. ‘Sounds like fun.
Mind if I join you?’

‘Promise you will stick to the
mission?’

‘I swear.’

A short while later they were at the docks,
where they flattened themselves to the roof of a warehouse overlooking the main docking area in
order to watch boxes being unloaded below them.

There she is
, thought Evie excitedly.
Lucy Thorne. The occultist was dressed in her customary black. Evie wondered if she mourned the
loss of Brewster’s Piece of Eden.

Lucy Thorne’s words drifted up to them as
she took one of the men to task. ‘The contents of that box are worth more than your life
and those of your entire family,’ she snapped, one bony finger pointing at a specific
crate. ‘Do you understand?’

The man understood. He doubled the guard then
turned back to Lucy Thorne. ‘Now, Miss Thorne, there’s the matter of some papers for
Mr Starrick. If you’d just come this way …’

Reluctantly she followed him. From their vantage
point, Evie and Jacob assessed the situation.

‘Whatever it is she’s after,
it’s in that chest,’ said Evie. They
cast their eyes around the
docks, noting Templar gunmen on the rooftops. Meanwhile, the crate that was suddenly as precious
to them as it evidently was to Lucy Thorne had been loaded with others on to a flatbed
horse-drawn wagon. A guard stood holding the reins. Two other guards close by were muttering
darkly about their terrifying boss, as well as speculating what might be in the priceless crate.

Jacob slipped off his top hat and raised his
cowl, his own little ritual before action, and then, with a wink at Evie, he left to deal with
the guards on the rooftops.

She watched him go before making a move herself,
scuttling silently to the edge of the roof then dropping down to crouch by a large water
container beneath a dripping downpipe. With one eye on the men guarding the cart, she kept watch
on Jacob’s activities above. There he was, moving up on an unsuspecting sentry. His blade
rose and fell. The man fell silently, a perfect assassination, and Evie hissed a quiet
congratulation through her teeth.

It died on her lips. The second gunman had seen
his comrade fall and had brought his rifle up to his shoulder.

As Jacob dashed across the rooftop towards the
gunman, her brother moving faster than the guard could take aim and squeeze the trigger, Evie
herself scooted out from behind the water barrel. She came up behind the two men who stood at
the rear, both of whom had their backs to her. Pivoting, she unleashed a kick at the neck of the
first man.

Clever Evie. She had remembered to undo her coat
this time, and the luckless sentry was smashed forward into the cart, nose and mouth crunching a
second before he left a bloody streak on the crates as he slid to the dirt.

Evie had already swung to
her left, bringing her gauntlet hand round and punching the second guard in the side of the
head. This man had approximately half a second to live and he spent it feeling dazed and off
balance, before Evie pulled her elbow back, engaged her blade and thrust it into his temple. By
now the third sentry had made his escape, and the gunman on the rooftop lay dead. But it was too
late. The alarm had been raised, and just as she pulled herself up to the wagon and used her
blade to lever the nailed lid of the crate open Jacob had jumped from the roof of the warehouse
opposite and come sprinting across the apron towards the wagon.

‘I think it’s best we leave,’
he said, and never was a truer word spoken. The docks were in uproar. Doors of warehouses flew
open to decant men in bowler hats, snarling dogs in tweed suits, all of them bearing guns or
steel. Ever since Evie and Jacob’s activities in the city had attracted the attention of
the Templars, they’d hired the most mercenary, ruthless and bloodthirsty underlings they
could lay their hands on, and here they were, piling out, with Lucy Thorne screaming directions
at them.

Men came piling out of the meeting room, with
Lucy Thorne screaming directions at them. She had picked up her skirts and with a great and
righteous anger came barrelling out of her meeting, only to find her precious cargo was on the
move. There were twin spots of emotion at her cheeks and her voice was a screech. ‘Get
after them! Get after them!’

Evie had a brief impression of that face. A
lingering glimpse of fury to match. And the chase was on.

With Jacob at the reins
their carriage flew out of the dockyard and into the waste area that was its hinterland. On the
top of the wagon Evie hung on tight. Her cowl billowed with the onrushing wind as the horses
gained speed. She wanted to scream at Jacob to go more slowly, but out of the dockyards emerged
a second carriage, a porcupine of Templar men.

On the board was Lucy Thorne, resembling a raven
with crinoline wings. Though she hadn’t quite lost her black composure, it had certainly
been rattled knowing she had let the precious crate out of her grasp, and she was pointing and
screaming, her exact words lost in the wind but her meaning very clear indeed: get the twins.

Now the carriages came bursting out of the docks
and careered left on to Ratcliffe Highway. Tall buildings, shops and flat-fronted tenements
lined either side of the street, windows looking impassively down on a highway packed with
wagons and dock traffic below. Ratcliffe Highway, a street notorious for its violence, was now
witnessing more of it.

The rattle of the two wagons over the cobbles was
almost deafening. Evie was terrified the wheels would come loose. Meanwhile she was desperately
trying to make sense of what she saw in the crate – a cache of documentation and a book
inscribed with the Assassin crest – as well as trying to cling on. A shot rang out and she
heard a bullet whistle past her cheek, eyes reflexively going to Jacob to check he was all
right.

And, yes, he was all right. His cowl flapped in
the wind, his arms spread wide as he handled the reins,
intermittently
yelling insults over his shoulder at their pursuers and urging the horses on.

Ahead of them pedestrians scattered, traders
flung themselves on their barrows to stop produce taking flight, coachmen steadied their horses
and shook their fists angrily, and still the carts thundered on.

Another shot. Evie flinched but saw it take a
lump out of brickwork nearby, even as they raced past. Now what came to her over the crash of
cartwheels, the screaming of terrified pedestrians and spooked horses was the increasingly
panicked urgings of Lucy Thorne. Her head whipped round and once again the two women locked
stares. Lucy Thorne seemed to simmer with hatred for the young Assassin. Whatever was in this
packing box was important to her, important to the Templars – and therefore important to
Evie.

If
she could keep hold of it.

And it was a big if. Jacob was driving as fast as
he could but their pursuers were gaining, the Templars pulling level now. Evie saw the men
hanging on, pulling pistols – and then remembered that thanks to Henry Green she now had
one of her own.

With one hand steadying herself on the crate, she
pulled the Colt from within her jacket, drew a bead on the man nearest who was aiming his own
weapon, and fired.

Evie was not as good with a gun as she was with a
blade, but was a good shot nevertheless, and her bullet would have made a new hole in the
man’s forehead were it not for the fact that his cart suddenly lurched as the wheels hit a
pothole. As it was, he clapped his hand to his
shoulder and screamed,
dropping his own pistol, only just stopping himself from being flung out of the wagon and on to
the cobbles below.

Meanwhile, the Templars’ wagon had gone
dangerously off course, the driver desperately trying to keep it from tipping over. Even Lucy
Thorne had stopped her screaming and was hanging on to the boards for dear life, her hat a thing
of the past, her hair tossed about by the wind.

The other cart tried to ram them. More shots rang
out. Next Evie saw Templar thugs preparing to jump from one wagon to the next, Lucy
Thorne’s orders becoming increasingly more threatening as she pictured the two Assassins
escaping with her documents.

‘Look.’ Jacob was pointing, and sure
enough, there in the distance, rattling along the Blackwall railway line, was the train that the
Assassins had made into their hideout.

Seeing it had given Jacob an idea. They could
make a sharp right into Rosemary Lane and then, as long as they timed it right, they would be in
the perfect position to leap from the cart on to the train. It would mean having to leave the
chest behind, but the twins, with their preternatural link, seemed to decide on that course of
action together without actually saying as much.

They reached the junction of Ratcliffe Highway
and Rosemary Lane, and Jacob wrenched the horses to the right, already beginning to get to his
feet, trying to control them at the same time as he prepared to make the jump.

They were level with the train now. Evie had no
choice but to make the jump. With a cry of frustration she grabbed the notebook adorned with the
Assassin crest –
it was all she could take with her – thrust it
into her coat and then, as her brother leapt from the wagon and into an open cargo door of the
train, she did the same.

The two of them landed heavily on the boards:
Jacob exuberant, flushed with excitement; Evie the opposite. All she had to show for the evening
was one dog-eared notebook. And for her that wasn’t good enough.