Assassin's Creed: Underworld (31 page)

Crawford Starrick was preparing for a party. A
very important party. One for which he had great plans.

A servant bustled and fussed around him, fixing
his dinner jacket and waistcoat, flicking dust from the shoulders, adjusting his tie.

Starrick, meanwhile, admired himself in the
mirror, listening to the sound of his own voice as he opined, ‘Order has bred disorder.
The sea rises to flood the pubs and extinguish the street lamps. Our city will die. Twopenny has
failed, Lucy has failed, Brudenell, Elliotson, Attaway. All have gone into the night. It is up
to me now. The Assassins have brought nature’s fury into our homes. Men have become
monsters, barrelling towards us, teeth out. Our civilization must survive this
onslaught.’

His servant had finished his work. Crawford
Starrick turned to go. ‘To prevent the return of the dark ages,’ he said, ‘I
will start anew. London must be reborn.’

They were arguing again: Evie and Jacob. Watching
them, Henry found his feelings conflicted. On the one hand, he hated to see the twins at each
other’s throats, and yet on the other, he could feel himself falling in love with Evie
Frye and wanted her all to himself.

Selfish, yes. But there it was. Hardly worth
denying. He wanted Evie Frye to himself and if she was at loggerheads with her brother, well,
then that day would arrive even more quickly.

Meanwhile, the argument raged on.

‘Starrick is making his move,’ Evie
was saying. ‘The Piece of Eden is somewhere inside Buckingham Palace.’

‘Let him have it,’ Jacob retorted.

He was still full of arrogance, noted Henry. In
many ways he had every right to be; so much of what he’d done had been so very successful.
His latest triumph involved the assassination of Maxwell Roth. Henry could remember a time when
he had leafed through documents full of Templar names given to him by Ethan. Thanks to Jacob,
most, if not all, were out of action or incapacitated. Quite some feat.

And yet Evie, who was so fixated on finding the
Shroud, couldn’t see past the devastation he had caused.

‘I have seen your handiwork across the
city,’ she was
telling her brother now. ‘You “suffer the
penalty of too much haste, which is too little speed”.’

He rounded on her. ‘Don’t you quote
Father at me.’

‘That’s Plato,’ she corrected
him witheringly. ‘I am dreadfully sorry this doesn’t involve anything you can
destroy. Father was right. He never approved of your methods.’

‘Evie, Father is dead …’

And now it was time for Henry to step in.
‘Enough! I have just received word from my spies. At the palace ball tonight, Starrick
plans to steal the Piece of Eden, then eliminate the heads of church and state.’

Which changed things.

Evie and Jacob looked at one another and knew
that thanks to what was Starrick’s last throw of the dice, a final, desperate attempt to
win back what the twins had so far cost him, he had unwittingly synchronized her obsession with
the Shroud and his need to wrest control via more traditional means.

What passed between them was that knowledge. A
begrudging knowledge. But a knowledge all the same.

‘Once more, for old times’
sake?’ said Jacob with one raised eyebrow, and for a moment she remembered what it was
they had between them and she mourned its passing. Who could ever have known that carrying out
their father’s wishes would end up tearing them apart?

‘And then we’re finished,’ she
told him with a hard heart.

‘Agreed with pleasure,’ he said,
adding, ‘So what’s the plan?’

The plan involved utilizing a relationship formed
with Benjamin and Mary Anne Disraeli in order to steal
invitations to the
party – from none other than the Gladstones.

Evie set about arranging another meeting with
Singh while Jacob was tasked with stealing the invitations – a job for which he was
ideally suited. Being able to lift the invitation from a besotted Catherine Gladstone, Jacob
also set about stealing the Gladstones’ carriage. The fact that the invitation stated that
‘swords must be left at the door’ they decided was a matter best left to Frederick
Abberline, who promised to smuggle the weapons they needed inside the palace grounds. It
involved Jacob having to steal a uniform. Meanwhile, Evie met with Duleep Singh, who told her
the plans had been removed to the queen’s personal papers in the White Drawing room.

Now she knew where the documents were kept. And
thanks to Jacob they had a carriage. They had the means of smuggling weapons into the palace.
They had invitations.

The game was afoot.

Prior to setting out, Evie studied the available
plans of the palace: the eastern frontage where they would enter; the west wing, where the
terrace for the ball would soon host dancing; and then inside, the five floors and over seven
hundred rooms.

There was only one she was interested in, though.
The White Drawing Room, and it was to there that she would go as soon as she was able. Go to the
White Drawing Room, steal the blueprints, locate the vault, find the Shroud.

She and Jacob sat in the Gladstones’
carriage, with the couple’s invitations clutched tight as they joined a procession of
carriages making their way towards the palace at the western end of The Mall. Did Evie imagine
it, or was there a certain excitement in the air? After all, the queen had mostly shunned public
appearances since the death of the Prince Consort, Albert. She had been the subject of some
lampoonery as a result. However, it was reputed that she was to be making an appearance at her
own ball tonight.

As they reached the main entrance, Evie saw
immediately that the queen’s appearance was unlikely to be the night’s only talking
point. Their coach passed Mr and Mrs Gladstone arguing with palace guards who wore bearskin hats
and carried rifles with bayonets attached. Mr and Mrs
Gladstone in full
flight were not to be trifled with, but then again neither were the Queen’s Guard, and the
two parties seemed to have reached an impasse. Evie slipped down a little in her carriage seat
as they passed, thankfully unnoticed by the Gladstones, still occupied in alternately
threatening and pleading with the Queen’s Guard.

Out of sight now, their carriage clattered on
cobbles through the columns of the entranceway and into the front courtyard of the palace. At
the top of the queue immaculately attired footmen were either shouting angry orders at coach
drivers, or opening carriage doors so that the distinguished personages within might step out
and make their way into the main reception hall. In there, they would ascend the Grand Staircase
and make their way either to the ballroom or the terrace. The party was already in full
swing.

Meanwhile, as they sat in their carriage and
awaited their turn to be decanted into high society, Evie and Jacob exchanged glances. An
admission of nerves.
Good luck. Take care.
It was all in the look they shared.

‘I shall go to find the Piece of
Eden,’ she told him.

He pursed his lips. ‘As you wish. I am off
to meet Freddie.’

And then the door to their carriage was opened
and they looked out upon bowing blank-faced footmen and then to the steps that led to the open
doors of the palace, again flanked by footmen, a steady stream of immaculate guests making their
way inside.

Well, at least they looked the part. Jacob in a
formal suit for the occasion, Evie in satin trimmed with lace, a bodice, satin slippers, skirts
and wire ruches. She felt trussed
up. A turkey ready for Christmas dinner.
Still, she blended in, that was for certain; except where most of the female guests wore
diamond-encrusted necklaces, Evie had the vault key hanging on a chain at her throat. She had
been through an awful lot to secure that key. She wasn’t about to let it out of her
sight.

Just as they stepped down from the carriage they
heard a cry some distance away. ‘That’s my carriage!’ The plaintive indignant
shout of the Prime Minister-to-be, Gladstone, a shout that thankfully went unacknowledged.

Now they split up. Jacob slipped off to meet
Abberline, secure weapons, then somehow prevent Starrick’s plot to slaughter high society,
while Evie had a White Drawing Room to find. Like other guests, she made her way to the Grand
Staircase, deliberately joining crowds and keeping a low profile as she was carried along in a
tide of silks and suits and polite conversation and hushed gossip. She smiled and nodded if
spoken to, playing the part of a young debutante to perfection.

Leaving the stream of guests for a corridor to
her left, she heard a well-meaning voice from behind her say, ‘My dear, the ballroom is
this way,’ but pretended not to hear, creeping away, silently treading the luxurious
Axminster in her satin slippers as she made her way deeper into the palace.

She moved silently, like a wraith, every sense
alert for guards so she would hear them before they saw her. Sure enough, she picked up the
sound of approaching footsteps and a murmur of voices, so let herself into an office. It was
sparsely furnished, closed shutters letting in the
only light, and she
stayed by the door, open a crack in order to let the guards pass.

As they did she peeped through the crack and got
a good look at them. They wore the uniform of the Queen’s Guard but there was something
about them. Something less ordered, less smart.

Imposters
.

Of course. Starrick had infiltrated the guard,
posting his own men inside and outside the palace. How else could they hope to pull off what was
basically to be a massacre? She swallowed, hoping that at this very moment, Jacob would be
learning the same from Abberline.

She let herself out of the office and back on to
the Axminster carpet, hurrying along the corridor. She found her way to the White Drawing Room
and let herself in. There she hunted for the plans she needed, keeping one ear on anything
happening outside.

She found them. Spreading them out on a desk, she
bit her lip with the excitement of her find. Unlike the plans of the palace she had already
studied, these included
everything
. Every room was accounted for, every corridor and
passageway marked. These were the Prince Consort’s personal plans.

And …

She caught her breath.

There was the vault.

She wished Henry were here to see this. She
savoured the thought of his reaction. In fact, she thought, she savoured the thought of spending
a lot more time with Henry Green when this was all over.

But that was for later.
Right now she could only hope Jacob was neutralizing the threat from Starrick’s men so she
could concentrate on making her way down to the vault. She went to go, then caught sight of
herself in a long mirror at one end of the drawing room, adjusted herself, smoothed her dresses,
and then, with the blueprints hidden in her cleavage, let herself out of the drawing room and on
to the corridor beyond. She made one more stop to avoid sentries along the way and then was
quickly back into the throng of guests, anonymous and invisible once again. Now for the vault
…

Just then came a voice that stopped her in her
tracks. ‘There you are.’

Damn
. It was Mary Anne Disraeli, a
friend and ally, and not someone to be easily palmed off.

‘I have someone I am simply
dying
for you to meet!’ exclaimed Mrs Disraeli and, brooking no argument, took Evie by the upper
arm, leading her through the guests, skirting the ballroom and to the terrace outside. There
stood a woman that Evie Frye recognized. Such a recognizable woman, in fact, that the young
Assassin had a moment of simply being unable to believe her own eyes.

‘Your Majesty,’ said Mary Anne
Disraeli, giving Evie a surreptitious squeeze to remind her to curtsey, ‘may I present
Miss Evie Frye.’

Her Royal Highness, wearing the dark garb that
was now her custom and an expression to match, looked upon Evie with a mixture of disinterest
and distaste, and then quite unexpectedly said, ‘You are the one responsible for Mr
Gladstone’s mishap?’

Evie blanched. The game was
up. They had been discovered. ‘Y-your Majesty, I apologize …’ she
stammered.

And yet … the queen was smiling. Apparently
Gladstone’s ‘mishap’ had left her most amused. ‘The cake is particularly
good,’ she told Evie. ‘Enjoy the ball.’

With that she turned and left, a footman
scurrying to her side. Dazed, Evie simply stood and gawped, too late realizing that she was all
of a sudden the centre of attention. She was in plain sight, and not hiding.

She moved to quickly go, but the damage was done
and a hand grasped her upper arm, and this time it wasn’t the friendly, assuring grip of
Mary Anne Disraeli, who had drifted off in search of more socializing. No, this was the firm
custodial grasp of Crawford Starrick.

‘May I have this dance … Miss
Frye?’ he said.

It was a breach in protocol that drew gasps from
those around them, but Crawford Starrick didn’t seem to care about that as he led Evie to
the middle of the terrace – just as the orchestra began to play a mazurka.

‘Mr Starrick,’ said Evie, joining him
in the dance, hoping she sounded more in command of the situation than she felt.
‘You’ve had your fun, but the game is over.’

But Starrick wasn’t listening. Eyes half
closed, he seemed transported by the music. Evie took the opportunity to study his face. With
satisfaction she noted the tiredness and anxiety written into the dark rings and wrinkles round
his eyes. The Assassins’ activities had truly taken their toll on the Templar Grand
Master. Any other leader might have considered capitulation, but not Crawford Starrick.

She wondered about his state
of mind. She wondered about a man so consumed with victory he wasn’t able to admit defeat.

‘One, two, three,’ he was saying, and
she realized that he was gesturing around them at the rooftops overlooking the crowded terraces.
Her eyes went to where he was looking. Yes. There they were. Men in the uniform of the
Queen’s Guard but evidently Templar marksmen, half a dozen or so. As she watched, they
levelled their rifles, pointing them into the courtyard below, awaiting a signal.

The massacre was about to begin.

‘Time is a wonderful thing, Miss
Frye,’ Starrick was saying. ‘It heals all wounds. We may make mistakes while
dancing, but the mazurka ends and then we begin again. The problem is that everyone forgets.
They trip on the same mistakes over and over again.’

Evie tracked her eyes from the men on the
rooftops, expecting the shooting to begin at any second. What was he waiting for?

And then he told her. ‘This dance is nearly
over. Soon the people will forget the generation on this terrace, the ruin you nearly wrought on
London. When the music ceases, Miss Frye, your time is up and mine begins once more.’

So that was the signal the men were waiting
for.

The orchestra played on.