The Golden City, page 17
part #1 of Assassin's Creed Series
The door opened, and the woman strode back into the room. She took in the scene with a brisk glance, but if she was surprised to see Hytham lying prone on the floor, still tied to his chair, she didn’t show it.
Instead she looked at Arman. “Are they broken?” she asked, indicating his fingers.
He glared at her. “I don’t think so, but–”
“Then if you’re not going to be useful, go and guard the door,” she said, cutting him off.
He drew himself up, his gaze darkening, but before he could speak, she took a single step toward him. That was all. Her expression never changed, but he wilted before it. He jerked his head in a nod and left the room, slamming the door behind him in a last show of temper.
When they were alone, she looked down at him impassively. “You would have been better off answering a few of his questions before trying something like this,” she said. “You might have caused us to lower our guards and given you an opening to escape.” She tilted her head. “But you’re too angry for that, aren’t you?” She went down on one knee so they were closer to eye level. “This is personal to you, isn’t it?” She spoke half to herself. “That’s the missing piece we failed to consider here.”
Hytham’s gut clenched. All his training, and he hadn’t realized it was possible to give away so much vital information without ever speaking a word. Yet he felt that was exactly what he’d done, and the shame of it unfurled inside him like a poison flower.
The woman stood up, brushing dirt off the cloak she wore. She came around behind him and grabbed the back of his chair, hauling him upright with less effort than he would have expected for her slender frame. “Isaac will be very happy with how you’ve cooperated so far,” she said.
A red film of rage descended over Hytham. As soon as he was upright, he shoved backward with all his strength. But his injured knee betrayed him, and there was little force behind the movement. The woman caught the back of his chair with one hand and wrapped the other around his throat, yanking his head back so he was looking up at her.
“You’re just making it worse,” she whispered, running her fingernail down his stubbled cheek. “You’re giving us everything we need. Your masters didn’t train you very well. They never prepared you for this, did they?” The false sympathy in her voice burned inside him, but this time he couldn’t fight back. She was slowly squeezing his windpipe. Dark spots grew in his peripheral vision, but all Hytham could do was squirm and thrash in his chair.
“Rest for now,” the woman’s voice whispered in his ear as his consciousness faded. “It’s going to be a lot harder after this.”
Chapter Nineteen
The next time he woke he was on his feet. Well, that was being generous. In fact, he was hanging from his arms, which were tied so far above his head he was nearly on his toes, and he’d obviously been unconscious in that position for some time, because the burning pain of cramping muscles was what woke him.
Wrenched arms, wounded knee, gash on the hand, ribs still on fire. He catalogued the hurts in his mind as he struggled to see his surroundings, but it was pitch black again, the darkness and silence absolute. That darkness clawed at the edges of his mind, unsettling him, but his more pressing problem was that he was so thirsty it felt like his throat was coated in flame.
He wondered how long it had been this time, how long he’d slept while the world went on without him outside this moldy hole in the ground. Of all the ways Hytham thought he might end this mission, he had not expected it to be beneath the earth, so far from the light.
But you should have expected it, Hytham chided himself, his thoughts fraying and scattering as he tried to put more weight on his feet to take the pressure off his arms and shoulders. His life belonged to the shadows. He worked in the dark to serve the light. This was precisely the kind of death he was trained to expect, and he wasn’t afraid to face it.
Yet he’d also stood in the olive grove of the golden city, sparring with a Master Assassin. In those moments he’d been young and powerful, feeling the taste of immortality. This was a harder death to accept than the greater glory of dying with a sword in his hand and allies at his back.
Basim would agree. Hytham felt sure of it.
The door opened, spilling golden light into the room. It reminded Hytham of the sunrise on the harbor, the fractured light dancing on the waves and casting the city in its finest aspect for the glory of the artists.
He blinked, and the dark-haired woman was standing in front of him, haloed by the light. She was speaking to him, but he was having trouble understanding her. Then she was holding something to his mouth, and Hytham’s body recognized it as water and was drinking, gulping it down before his mind could catch up to what was happening, but even when it did, he found he couldn’t stop. Eventually, she pulled the cup away from his lips and threw the rest of the water in his face. The cold slap made him suck in a breath, and suddenly the world sharpened around him.
“Are you back with us now?” the woman asked. “I’d hoped we didn’t push you too far. We need you to be able to speak.”
He didn’t speak, just watched her warily as she took the cup away and left. When she returned, she brought a single chair and placed it in the middle of the room. While she did this, Hytham took the opportunity to study his surroundings again. He was in the same room as before. That was no surprise. It smelled the same, after all. His hands were tied to a beam above his head. Pulling on the ropes made the beam creak and groan, but it felt secure. Hytham didn’t think he would be able to break it, not in his current condition.
The woman came back to stand in front of him, just out of reach of his legs. “Isaac is here,” she said. “He wants to speak to you.”
The leader of the Order of the Ancients in Constantinople, come to speak with him. If Hytham hadn’t already been certain they meant to kill him, he had no more doubts now. Even Basim had been having a difficult time obtaining information about the Order’s leader, the man in charge of taking control of the city. Isaac had hidden himself too well, but now Hytham was going to meet him.
They would not let him live after seeing the man’s face.
The woman seemed to be waiting for him to answer. Hytham gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Let’s get it over with, then,” he said. His voice still sounded strange. Hoarse and pained.
The woman went to the door, glancing back at him. “Goodbye, Hytham,” she said. “You fought well. I was… impressed.”
Then she was gone. Hytham waited, but it was several minutes still before he heard footsteps approaching. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting of the man who entered the room, but he was not prepared to recognize him. The familiarity was brief but sure. He had met this man before, but where?
There was nothing terribly remarkable about him. He was tall and reed slender, a bit broader through the shoulders, his arms well muscled and darkened by the sun. His head was clean-shaven, his eyes the pewter stillness of the sea on a cloudy day.
His identity hit Hytham with the taste of figs and honey, as clear on his tongue as if he’d just washed them down with cool water.
“It’s a fine day to sit idle and watch the people pass by.”
The server at the wine bar. The man who’d brought them water. He’d sought them out from the first. He could have poisoned their drinks, and they never would have known it. But no, that would have accomplished nothing in the grand scheme of things. The Hidden Ones would have simply sent someone else to Constantinople, and this way, Isaac had the chance to know who he was up against. He had wanted to meet his enemies and take their measure. Their conversation, the chase and battle on the rooftop and in the alley, had been exactly that.
A way to take Basim’s measure, Hytham corrected, reminding himself that it was his superior the Order wanted. They were presumably interested in him for the same reasons the Hidden Ones were. Reasons Hytham had yet to learn.
Perhaps silence was not what was called for here then. Perhaps Hytham needed to dredge up the strength to play the game, though he might be hopelessly outmatched.
“Hello again,” Hytham said, glancing down at Isaac’s empty hands. “No water? No figs and honey this time?”
The man smiled, pleased to be recognized. “No wine either, I’m afraid.” He sank into the chair with the grace of a dancer, but he reminded Hytham of a snake at rest, sinuously coiled but always prepared to strike. “You’re not looking as fresh as you were that day, newly arrived to the city with ambitions to overthrow an emperor.”
“You’re mistaken,” Hytham said. “Ensuring the line of succession is an honorable goal, is it not?”
Isaac lifted his shoulders. “Assuming the correct bloodline endures, of course.”
“Why should it not,” Hytham countered, “when the emperor himself declared Leo his successor? What greater proof of blood than that the father claims his son and names him to be the next emperor?”
“Is that you talking,” Isaac said, still smiling, “or are these your superior’s words?”
“We’re of a mind on this,” Hytham said, “but if you’d like to speak of Basim, all you had to do was say so.”
“So, you’re going to cooperate with us?” Isaac leaned back in his chair. “Somehow I had my doubts after speaking to Arman. He indicated that you’d been less than forthcoming about your activities in the city.”
Hytham might have shrugged, but the gesture would have looked ridiculous on a bound man. “Maybe I was waiting to speak to you.”
“I’m flattered,” Isaac said. “To what do I owe that honor?”
Hytham considered how far he wanted to take this. He was a dead man after all. He could afford to take a few risks. “Maybe I wanted to discuss a bargain with you.”
Now Isaac looked even more intrigued. “Well, now, that depends on what we’re bargaining for and if you understand the stakes.”
“Leo’s life,” Hytham said. “No more and no less.” He knew he didn’t have to work to show this man what that meant to him. Basim had already seen it written all over him. So had the woman who’d spoken to him earlier.
“I see we were right about that part,” Isaac said, his expression unreadable. “I have to admit, I would have rejected this line of conversation entirely had that not been the case. But it isn’t often these things become so personal that one of your kind is willing to betray his comrades.”
“Those being the stakes you discussed,” Hytham said calmly, “can I ask another question out of my own curiosity?”
Isaac laughed. “For your sheer brazenness and the fact that you bruised two of Arman’s fingers with your knees, I should say no, and yet I’m too fascinated by these developments to do so.” He spread his hands in invitation.
Tread carefully, Hytham told himself. Not too eager. “Why are you so interested in Basim?”
It was not the only question crowding his tongue. Why do you and the Hidden Ones both want him watched so closely? If he is such a powerful threat, why does no one check him? Why does it feel as if you are afraid of him?
Hytham had felt many things in regards to Basim. Respect, brotherhood, a burgeoning friendship – but he had never felt fear. Why did he feel unique in this, and was he just being naïve?
He waited for Isaac’s answer. The candlelight carved deep shadows in the man’s face. He watched Hytham with a calculating expression. “They haven’t told you what he’s seeking, have they?” Isaac asked. “You don’t really know him, do you?”
Hytham’s stomach clenched, but he forced himself not to react. This was another form of provocation, meant to alienate him from the people he trusted.
But an insidious voice inside his head whispered, are you trusting the right people?
His knee was throbbing, his arms had gone numb, and he needed more water. He had thought that his torturers would use more brute force to try to break him. Burn him, scar him, take his eyes and fingers. He’d dreamed of all those horrors. The truth was much worse. Break a person down slowly, make them question everything they’ve ever believed in, and wait for them to give you exactly what you want.
He was outmatched here, but he pushed on into deeper waters. He had no other choice. “I don’t know Basim at all,” Hytham said, “and I don’t know whether I can trust him.”
Isaac nodded, as if he understood that all too well. “A bargain could be made for the boy’s life,” he mused. “He must never take the throne, of course, but it is possible he could live in exile, visited by his mother. A new identity perhaps, with the rest of the world – and his father – thinking him dead.” He looked at Hytham with a cold, flat expression. “This will be contingent on how cooperative and informative you are in the next few hours.”
There it was, handed to him like a contract from the devil himself. Everything that Hytham wanted – a chance to save Leo, to get him away from the nest of vipers and the knives in the dark. He could be a normal boy, one who would grow up without a grand destiny, but perhaps he would still have a chance at happiness and prosperity.
Wasn’t that what every father should want for his son?
Hytham closed his eyes.
It would be so easy.
He had gone too far in all this, and only now did he see the depth and breadth of his mistakes. Basim had been right all along about him. His affection for Leo had clouded his judgment and endangered their mission. Basim had seen Hytham more clearly than Hytham had seen himself, and yet Basim had let him proceed anyway.
Maybe this was just another lesson.
This time, he would learn it.
The chair creaked, and Hytham opened his eyes to see Isaac on his feet. He approached Hytham, being careful not to get too close. An expression of disappointment lingered around his eyes. “I see,” he said. “You’ve made your decision, haven’t you? A shame, really. I thought it was a tantalizing enough bargain that you’d accept. You were tempted, though, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was tempted,” Hytham said. He would carry that shame for the short time he had left to live.
Isaac nodded, and with a sudden, graceful movement, he closed the distance between them, aiming a kick at Hytham’s injured knee.
Hytham dodged, hurling his body at Isaac, but the restraints held him back. The room spun as he fought to catch his breath. He’d been expecting to die, hoped they might make it quick because they knew he couldn’t be bought.
Again, he was naïve. Isaac would keep trying to get his information. He didn’t much care whether Hytham bargained for it or broke for it.
So Hytham dredged up a strength he knew couldn’t last and fought.
Flexing his arms, he lifted both feet from the ground and swung forward, catching Isaac in the chest before the man could get out of the way. Isaac staggered back, tripping over the chair and slamming into the opposite wall. He caught himself before he fell, and his gaze lit on Hytham with a kind of wild glee.
“Oh, this will be interesting,” Isaac said, and lunged for him again.
Hytham tried to move, but he was slow, and he didn’t see the knife in Isaac’s hand until it had sliced open the skin beneath his left eye. Hytham brought his good knee up into Isaac’s stomach, but the man had already pulled back out of reach.
Blood dripped down Hytham’s face. Had Isaac been aiming to gouge his eye out? The fleeting thought passed through his mind, but Hytham was focused purely on survival now, an animal instinct to last as long as he could, to do as much damage as he could before he fell, so that those who came after him would find their task fighting the Order of the Ancients just a little easier.
A loud crash came from somewhere above them. Both Hytham and Isaac froze. There were shouts. Then screams.
Isaac cursed and drew a second knife from his boot.
“We’ll see each other again,” he promised Hytham, and left the room, shutting the door so that Hytham was back in the dark.
Chapter Twenty
Hytham’s heart still pounded with the aftermath of battle, but a different, shaky excitement gave renewed energy to his body. Was it possible he was being rescued?
He wasn’t going to wait around to find out if he was wrong. He couldn’t bear to be the animal trapped in the dark anymore. Whatever fight was happening upstairs, he had to take advantage of the distraction it offered.
He yanked on the rope that held him. It was tied to one of the beams that formed the foundation of the building above, old but strong. He wouldn’t be able to break it, but he would free himself even if he had to gnaw off his own hand.
He twisted his wrists, trying to take advantage of any flaw or looseness in the knots. The muscles in his arms burned with fatigue, and he felt clumsy and weak. He worked at the ropes until his skin was raw and bleeding, but he could feel he was making progress.
Above him, there were more shouts, footsteps pounding the floorboards, but none of it was clear enough for Hytham to make out who was speaking or how many of them there were. Then he realized the footsteps were coming downstairs.
Someone was coming for him.
Was it Isaac?
No. Hytham wrenched his arms, wrists slick with sweat and blood. He would not meet Isaac again when he was helpless. He would not.
With that thought and a red fury driving him, he tore free of the ropes. He was shocked when it happened, his full weight coming down on his feet. His injured knee screamed in protest and his legs gave out as the door to his prison opened.
Hytham staggered, and he would have hit the floor, but arms caught him and held him up. He recognized the soft chuckle in his ear, and his relief was so profound it clogged his throat.
“It’s good to see you weren’t sitting idle down here, my friend,” Basim said, “but you’ve made quite a mess of yourself.”
“I did my best to make a mess of them as well,” Hytham managed as Basim pulled him upright and helped him lean against the wall. “How did you find me?”
“With difficulty,” Basim said. He had a hand on Hytham’s arm to steady him, and was swiftly assessing his injuries. “Can you walk? Fight?”
