He ducked just as a throwing knife buried itself in the wall where his head had been. Then the Assassin charged. His shoulder caught Cudgel in the side and sent him falling down the stairs, but Cudgel caught the banister and flipped himself over it, landing easily on the ground floor a dozen feet below.
Three others appeared in the doorway of the library, no doubt drawn by the commotion: Eliza, the Grand Master’s servant, another woman in a fine dress, and a huge bloke who carried himself like a copper. Javier knew them to be Grace, Natalya, and David.
But Cudgel didn’t. He also didn’t know where the Grand Master was, but this house had been compromised, and he had to get the relic to safety above all else.
He bolted for the open front door, the sound of throwing knives striking the floor behind him. One pierced his upper arm, near his shoulder, as he fled outside. He grimaced as he pulled it out and dropped the blade in his run down the street. He wasn’t sure if he could climb with the injury, but he made the attempt, and, in spite of the pain, he reached the rooftops, aglow with nearby fires and adrift with smoke and ash.
He didn’t wait to see if he was being pursued. Until he knew more, and with his damaged arm, this was not a combat situation. He thought his best chance to evade the Assassin and his allies would be the chaos of the mob up near the burning orphanage, so he raced northward.
At Thirty-Ninth Street, he did manage a backward glance, and saw the shadow of the Assassin flying toward him, gaining ground and closing the distance. It was possible Cudgel wouldn’t outrun him before he reached the mob.
He dropped to street level at Fortieth and dove into the ruins of the Crystal Palace. A fire had destroyed it almost five years earlier, but with the sun now below the horizon, the heavy cloud cover had brought on an early darkness, and the Palace offered Cudgel ample places to hide.
He scudded forward, dodging through the decaying metal skeleton, its skin of glass still clinging to its bones in places, reflecting broken images back at him. The glittering structure had stood over a hundred feet, and some of its ribs still reached for that height. Cudgel passed under several towering statues of Greek and Roman warriors, and nymphs and queens that remained in the wreck, charred, broken, and forgotten.
Once he had gone deep enough into the ruins, he turned to look back, scanning his surroundings for any movement. He saw no sign of the Assassin, but that meant nothing.
Cudgel took up a protected position behind a pile of twisted metal beams and unshouldered his rifle. He had no time for smoke grenades, and went for the sleep darts he had used earlier, then loaded the weapon and waited, cursing himself for letting the Assassin live.
The roar of the city’s devastation was somewhat muted here, and Cudgel closed his eyes, listening again for the sound of the Assassin. A flapping sound to his right set his rifle into motion, but he realized before he pulled the trigger it was a bat.
As he was bringing the barrel back into a forward position, he detected a slight rustle behind him, and before he could react, felt a gloved hand grab his chin, yanking his head back, and then a pressure at his throat from the Assassin’s hidden blade.
But Cudgel’s hide armor did its job, giving him just the fraction of a moment he needed to deflect the blow, and then the fight went hand to hand.
Cudgel dropped the rifle and instantly had two knives out, slashing and stabbing in a desperate assault, but the Assassin pivoted to defense and blocked his attacks. The pain in Cudgel’s shoulder blazed, and he knew the disadvantage would prove lethal in sustained direct combat. He rolled away and sprinted off into the ruins, but he heard the Assassin chasing after him.
He decided to attempt a feinted stumble, gripping his knuckleduster, and went down into a crouch. The Assassin caught up to him quickly, and as soon as he came within reach, Cudgel spun around, bringing an uppercut almost from the ground. His knuckleduster caught the Assassin in the jaw, hopefully breaking it or shattering his teeth.
The blow launched the Assassin backward into the air, but Cudgel didn’t wait for him to land before running again. He’d bounded several yards when a second throwing knife caught him hard in the back, and he stumbled forward, sliding into the ground of charcoal and glass.
The blade was too high for him to pull out, lodged between his ribs, and his breathing already hurt, so the knife had likely punctured the top of his lung. He could no longer fight, or run.
Cudgel went for the one remaining weapon he had available. He didn’t know what power the relic had, and he hadn’t even thought to try it until now, leaving that to the Grand Master. But in his desperation, he reached for it and brought it out from his pocket as the Assassin drew near.
The relic felt warm in his hand. He gripped the dagger tightly, and forced himself to his feet, stiff and wincing the whole way.
“Do you even know what you hold?” the Assassin asked him.
“It’s a Precursor relic,” Cudgel said. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“I think you’re a mindless tool,” the Assassin said. “But you must be a useful one.”
“I would rather be a useful tool for peace than an agent of chaos.”
The Assassin threw his arms wide. “Look around you! You think this isn’t chaos?”
“This is the refiner’s fire,” Cudgel said, reaffirming his grip on the dagger. “This is necessary to rid the city of those who would hold back its progress.” He coughed, and blood came up into his mouth. “These riots will be over in a matter of days, and at the end they will have cleared away all our opposition. The Order will bring about the fullness of its purpose for this nation at last. You are the fool for resisting it. For not seeing it.” As Cudgel spoke, he felt a pulsing sensation, a kind of energy radiating up his arm from his hand. From the relic.
The Assassin had stalled in his approach. He appeared confused, as if he might actually be listening to Cudgel. Whatever power the dagger possessed, it seemed to have exerted its influence.
But Javier knew what was happening. He had experienced it before, in the memories of Chimalpopoca. This was what the Piece of Eden did.
Cudgel seized the moment of distraction and pulled out one of his knives. Then he flipped its blade between his fingers and hurled it at the Assassin.
The knife plunged deep into his stomach. The Assassin frowned at it, as if stunned, and Javier wondered if it was Owen or the Assassin looking out. Then his knees buckled and he went down on his back.
Cudgel let out a sigh, but the pain in his lung made him regret it. He didn’t know if the knife in his back would prove fatal, but he had to somehow get the relic to the Grand Master before he died.
He was a Cormac, and he would serve the Order until the end.
Eliza stood on the ledge, six stories above the alleyway, her chest heaving with her frantic breathing, her heartbeat a distant locomotive in her ears. Grace had retreated to the farthest corner of the farthest room within the palace of her mind. She had never done well with heights, and this memory, simulated or not, terrified her.
Varius stood on the opposite side of the alley, having just leapt across the divide. “You can do it,” he said. “You’ve jumped wider gaps already today.”
“But never from so high!” Eliza replied. She may have successfully made other jumps, but she hadn’t worried those falls would kill her.
“Eliza, listen to me. You’re afraid, and you believe your fear is telling you that you can’t do it. But that is a lie. Your fear tells you nothing. You tell yourself you can’t do it, to escape your fear.”
“How is that supposed to help me?” Eliza said, grateful the day was at least free of wind, or else she would never have gone near the edge.
“Embrace your fear,” Varius said. “Draw it into your arms and dance with it—”
“Dance with it?” She found it hard to lift her eyes from the chasm. “What do you mean, dance with it?”
“Fear is the cold flame. It can fuel you. You can use it to achieve feats you haven’t imagined
possible, if you ignore the lies you tell yourself and embrace your fear.”
“How?”
“Let it burn through you. Feel it in every part of you, every muscle, every sinew, every bone. Extend that awareness to the world around you. The same vision that allowed you to read that message will tell you if you can make this jump.”
Eliza closed her eyes.
“Feel it,” Varius said. “And jump.”
Eliza did what he asked. She focused on the icy fire raging through her body, from the center of her chest to the extremities of her arms and legs. She felt the power and strength it gave her, which she had never noticed before. She ignored the lie telling her she couldn’t do it, and when she opened her eyes, and looked at the gap, she knew she could, with absolute certainty.
And she did, sailing easily across the chasm.
“There, you see?” Varius said. “You were born to this.”
“You keep saying that. What does that even mean?”
Varius looked hard at her. “I’ve been considering you since we met this morning. Testing you. And now I know you were born to be an Assassin.”
“Oh, really?” Eliza resisted the urge to laugh. “Speaking of which, what did Mr. Tweed mean by calling you that, exactly? Do you kill people?”
“I bring them peace.”
Now Eliza did laugh.
“You find that amusing?”
“I mean no disrespect, but bring them peace?”
“It is the truth. My purposes are solemn and sanctified.”
“Sanctified? By what sort of priest?”
“By no priest,” he said. “By the free will of mankind.”
“And how do you know I was born to this?”
“Your sight, for example. It is called Eagle Vision, and it is often inherited. I received mine from my father. We’re a Brotherhood, and we have a Creed we live by. We stand against tyranny and those that would enslave and oppress others.”
“And you stand against Mr. Tweed?”
“Boss Tweed is what we call a Templar. His Order seeks peace by force, at the expense of free will. Our two factions are at war, and have been for all of history. They now seek to take control of this nation.”
“And you think I’m an Assassin? Like you?”
“No, I think you have Assassin blood in you. To be an Assassin, you would have to first be trained and then swear loyalty to the Brotherhood and the Creed.”
He seemed to be suggesting that was a possibility for her. But Eliza shook her head. “I’m just a maid. I’m not—”
“The Brotherhood does not judge your occupation, your status in society, or the color of your skin. All people are equal under the Creed. But we can save this discussion for another time. For now, there are more pressing matters.”
Eliza didn’t know what to make of what he was telling her. The sensible part of her rejected it. Even if it were all true, and she could see that Varius was being sincere, she thought it would be wrong to want any part of it. And yet, she did. This Assassin was suggesting a life beyond that of a servant. A life fighting for freedom. A life that made a difference.
“But you’re doing extraordinarily well,” Varius said.
A warm glow of elation and pride replaced the cold flame of her fear. “Thank you,” she said.
“And trousers suit you,” he added with a wink.
Eliza had balked at first to wearing men’s clothing, but she was hardly the first woman to don a pair of pants. She’d even heard of some women disguising themselves as men to go off and fight the Rebels. Now that she’d been wearing them for much of the day, she had to admit they were practical, even if they made the heat of the day more unbearable.
“The afternoon has almost passed,” Eliza said. “I think we should start heading toward Mr. Tweed’s house, if we want to get there ahead of Cudgel.”
Grace was relieved and glad at that, since she still had no idea where David was, even though Monroe had said he was safe.
“You’re right,” Varius said, but a grin spread across his face with a mischievous cant to it. “Shall we race there?”
“Race there?”
“Free run, as I’ve been training you all morning.”
Eliza didn’t know if she was ready for that. “But I—”
“But nothing!” Varius said as he tore away. “We race!”
By the time Eliza recovered herself and started running after him, he had already left the building they’d been standing atop behind, and he kept his lead for some distance, leaping from roof to roof, scrambling over peaks, chimneys, and gables.
Along with her pants, Varius had bought her a pair of gloves, and she was glad for them, as the free-running he’d taught her used her hands as much as her feet, and the stone and wood of the rooftops would have torn her skin away.
They’d spent most of the day among the rough pinnacles and valleys of the Five Points and the Bowery, which were surprisingly quiet, given the rioting elsewhere, and her focus had been on not falling and breaking her neck. Now that they raced northward, she noticed the smoke rising uptown, and realized the extent to which the mob had harmed the city.
“Keep with me!” Varius shouted. He dropped down to the level of the street, and then raced up to the wall of a chapel, the Church of the Ascension, and climbed.
Eliza followed him, but she was getting tired. The muscles in her arms quivered, and a fear of falling took hold once she’d reached a lofty height. But rather than listen to the lie, she focused on the fear, embracing the cold flame coursing through her arms, and found her strength not only restored, but magnified.
She reached the top of the square bell tower, with its parapets and four smaller steeples at the corners, and went to stand beside Varius.
“Look out there,” he said. “With practice, some Assassins can extend their vision and awareness across an entire city.”
Eliza’s gaze swept the length of the island, but all she could see was smoke. “This city’s on fire,” she said. “We should do something.”
“No,” he said. “The riots will run their course, no matter what we do. I have a more important task.”
“Does it involve this dagger? The one Cudgel stole from you?”
“It does,” he said. “Even if we lose New York, that relic can win the war.”
Eliza didn’t understand that.
“Let’s move,” he said before she could ask.
They climbed back down the bell tower and the church, and resumed their journey uptown, no longer racing, but moving in step with each other. It seemed to Eliza that her whole body was changing. As she attempted and succeeded at the challenges Varius gave her, she felt as though she was tapping into something deep within her, a wellspring of familiar waters. Perhaps it was in her blood.
Grace had to admit, she felt it, too.
They reached Mr. Tweed’s house well before evening, and as they climbed the steps and approached the front door, and Eliza inserted the key into the lock, she hoped with every moment that her father would be inside.
But when she turned the key and went in, she found the house empty.
“Father?” she called. “Papa?” But she went unanswered.
Eliza turned around and locked the door behind them as a precaution against the looters.
“There’s a note,” Varius said, pointing toward the table along the west wall.
Eliza rushed over, snatched it up, and read.
Varius walked toward her. “What does it say?”
“It’s from my father,” she said. “He was here. He asks me to wait, and he’ll come back. If he doesn’t, I’m to go to the Christopher Street Ferry at six o’clock.”
“You should go,” Varius said. “Before Cudgel arrives.”
“But what if my father comes back? I want to be here.”
“It is your choice,” Varius said. “But he’s given you a plan, and it would be best to keep to it, for your safety. But when the riot is over … if you come back to the city …??
?
“Yes?”
“You have a path open before you. If you want to take it.”
“You mean being an Assassin.”
“Are you opposed to such an idea?” Varius asked.
“I’m not opposed to it,” Eliza said. “But I’m not in favor of it, either.”
“Consider it,” he said. “My task will take me out of the city for a time, but I will return soon, and I will find you if you wish. We can continue your training.”
“I will think about it,” Eliza said. “Where are you going?”
“I must take the dagger to General Grant.”
“Ulysses Grant? Why?”
“It will help him win the war.”
“But how—?”
The front door crashed open behind them, and Eliza turned as a hulking brute lumbered in. Though Grace recognized him as Sean, Eliza didn’t know him, and her first thought was of a looter. But then she noticed the stranger’s side was covered in blood, and he had someone’s arms draped around his neck.
Eliza stepped toward him. “What is the meaning of—?”
“Miss,” the man said, wheezing. “I have Abraham with me.”
“What?” Eliza said. She stepped around him, and a terrible sob burst from her when she saw that it was her father, but he was barely recognizable. Both his eyes were swollen shut, and his face was a pulpy mess of bruises. Grace had to remind herself it wasn’t David, it was their ancestor, but she still felt all of Eliza’s pain.
“Where can I set him?” the man asked.
“In the library,” Eliza said. “This way.”
She pointed the way and then followed after the man, her hand upon her father’s back, which felt cold to her touch in spite of the heat outside. Varius helped the stranger to lay her father upon one of the library’s leather sofas. Once free of the weight, the stranger stumbled, teetering like a tree about to fall, but a woman rushed up to his side to support him.
Eliza nodded toward them but turned her attention back to her father. She didn’t know where to start helping him. He needed a hospital.