Recap: From a small village somewhere east of Turin, Will was put on the trail of a likely lead to the whereabouts of the Liberator and he sets out on his own.

After breaking into a cellar containing priceless artwork and loot, Lauro and Pedro were caught by Spanish smugglers and only Lauro escaped.

~13~ In for a Penny

If he was lucky, Tug would look like a tired old pony plodding home after a hard day's work.

Will dragged his feet through the dust, trying to look tired himself, as he followed the road sidling up to the long drive that led to a villa large enough to be a castle in England. Without his Ranger cloak, he felt he had the right to gawk, for he was naught but a humble farmer with his faithful pony with dreams of living in a place like that.

Sandstone walls blazed amber in the descending sun, punctuated by dark-framed windows and parapets. A portico supported by four marble pillars cast the entryway in shadow, but Will knew the front door must be grand indeed. From the front, he could see at least twenty windows, spread between three floors, and could only imagine the size and number of rooms within.

The garden spread across every inch of the property, which was embraced by a wall over twice Will's height, and the driveway was guarded by an even taller gate.

He'd seen that gate close, right behind his quarry, whom Alyss had sicced Will on after overhearing his conversation with the landlord in the village. The Ranger did not know what she'd heard, but it must have been interesting for her to send Will after him.

And he did follow, for hours, away from the village, across miles of farm- and woodland, to this very gate.

He paused, pretending to be admiring the villa but really concerned with discovering where his quarry had gone. He spotted him a moment later, emerging from the stables a hundred metres from the main building. Will knew it was him, even from so far away, from the red flash on the underside of his travel cloak.

The man, tall with wavy dark hair, bypassed the villa, heading for what looked like a small chapel on the western end of the estate. By the time he disappeared inside, Will had determined it was safe to step up to the gate. If there were guards, they weren't here now.

Why did you want me to follow this man, Alyss?

He raised his eyes, following the outline of the gate. The iron bars were vertical and tipped with barbs, with few horizontal bars to hold them together. He wasn't climbing it like that. He turned his focus to the walls. Flawless, without so much as a chip to set his foot on. Whoever lived here took great care to dissuade any climbers.

Then Will's eye caught an imprint in one of the stones forming the edge of the wall, near the gate. A cross with four equal arms. The mark of the Templars.

He unconsciously reached for the pendant in his pocket. Philippe Dumont, the man who helped Will and his friends escape Lyon and then protected them from Assassins in the Alps, had given him the pendant as some kind of peace token. Or, perhaps, it was a reminder, a reminder of who could protect the Ranger Corps of England, or crush it.

Will took Tug's reins and kept walking, following the road, thoughts troubled. Assassins had reportedly broken into Crowley's office and attacked him, demanding an artifact he had given to Halt. This was according to Templar Philippe, who had all the reasons in the world to blame the Assassin Brotherhood for the attack. If he wanted the Corps to side with the Templars, this would be the way to do it. Who knows how many Rangers were fed this story, how many believed it, if it even happened at all.

These thoughts nagged Will now only because he was considering whether he should march through those gates like a Templar friend, or use that tree over there to climb over the wall and sneak over to the chapel in his Ranger cloak; there were enough bushes and trees to provide ample cover...

The road was curving away from the villa grounds. Will followed it, keeping his head hanging and feet dragging even though he was sure no one was watching him. Once back in the woods, he led Tug off the road and donned his Ranger cloak.

He trusted Philippe little more than he did the Assassins, and before he affiliated himself with anyone, he was going to find out more about them.

The tree he spotted earlier looked ancient, with a massive trunk that immediately split into branches too thick for him to wrap his arms around. One such branch had aimed straight for the wall before arching up and over it, just asking to be used to trespass. Suddenly unsure, Will remained tucked in a shelter of foliage, wrapped in his cloak. The wall had been flawless in its protection until this point. Besides the threat of a grappling hook, he saw no other way in. And he still saw no guards patrolling.

It could be a trap. But for whom? Surely not Will or his companions. Right?

Will stood there for over an hour, not moving, until the sun had sunk and a cool breeze began nosing through his cloak, seeking his skin. He thought of his companions, if they remained in the village or made camp in the woods, wondering what was taking him so long...

Suddenly he was at the base of the tree, and then he was shinnying up along the branch, pausing at regular intervals to watch and listen. Besides a servant lighting distant lampposts near the villa entrance, he saw no signs of life. Now over the walkway atop the wall, Will slid his legs off, holding on with his hands for a few seconds, as though giving himself a last chance to bail. He let go.

His feet touched stone with a soft tap, and he remained in a crouch, expecting a holler or a "Gotcha!" But nothing. He looked around. If he climbed on the crenellations, he would just be able to grab the branch again and escape.

Stairs nearby took him down onto the grass, and it was with silent ease he closed the distance between himself and the chapel, which was lit from within. The windows were stained glass; there was no spying that way. The roof was sound and there seemed to be only one door. So, Will opened it.

After all the sneaking around, it seemed absurd to go strolling into the chapel like a boy going to service. But he did, even lowering his hood in respect and wiping his boots on the mat before seating himself at a pew. There were few of those, enough to sit a couple dozen faithful. Candle stands on either side of the entrance and around the altar banished the shadows to between the pews, but the thought of someone lying in wait there was silly to Will, so he worried not about it. Instead he focused on the man kneeling before the altar, head bowed in prayer. Not that he believed him to be actually praying.

His bow, strung, lay across his lap, loose in his hand. He had no intention of using it, not on this holy ground, but he was in the wolf's den and he wasn't much for religion anyway. The wolf knew this.

"You come alone."

Will remained as impassive as the stained glass figures he couldn't see in the windows. And he held his tongue.

"We've been expecting you. Monsieur Philippe will be most pleased you have chosen this path."

"What path?" Will said at last. The man stood, cape flowing like liquid midnight down his back, to his riding boots, and turned around. The belly of that cape was blood red, even in the meagre light. His overcoat—called a cioppa, Will later found out—was black and trimmed with scarlet, a Templar cross emblazoned over his heart. A sheathed stiletto graced his side. His hair was neat and there seemed to be little to no dust on him. He did not look like the weary traveller he'd followed from the village.

The man had a rugged handsomeness Will found irritating, although he wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was the wiry moustache or arched eyebrows that were so prominent on his face. His smile looked forced and his accent was so thick, it was difficult to understand him.

"Have you come for absolution?"

"I have come to figure out what I'm dealing with," said Will.

"Do you have it?"

"What?" asked Will, though he knew he knew exactly what. The Templar wanted Halt's puzzle box.

The smile disappeared, chin lowered, and the man made a beckoning gesture with his hand.

The door to the chapel opened. Will sprung to his feet as two large men entered, making straight for him.

"Do not struggle, signore, and they will not be forced to harm you. They must search you."

But Will stepped back to keep the distance, arrow already set to bow. "You can try."

The brutes paused, eyeing the weapon warily. If they charged, only one of them would survive. Will noticed the pistols in their belts, and knew the scene would have been different had they come in here with those drawn. The one on the right – an ugly man with pox scars and a missing ear – reached for his gun.

"Guy, do not touch that weapon in this holy place," croaked the voice of a third newcomer. It was so old it made Will's own throat feel dry. He glared at Guy, pronounced Gee, who curled his lip but lowered his hand and stepped to the side.

The speaker came forth, hunched like an old gargoyle, wearing sweeping robes stitched with more Templar crosses.

"For heaven's sake, this man is not an Assassin; he will listen to reason. Stefano, please."

The sound of a sheathing blade made Will's back stiffen. He never heard it being drawn behind him.

"If I'm to forget your trespass, you must forgive my accomplices, mio figlio," said the old man. He could have been a bishop, his robes were so fine. His hair was wispy and white, like down feathers. "They are from the north, and are not used to our way of...handling things."

Will's senses were still afire, and he did not retract arrow from bow, although he kept the weapon lowered, knowing he could raise it in a heartbeat. "And you are?"

"You, young man, may call me Marcello. By what name may I call you?"

"What do you want with me?"

"Oh." Marcello ducked his head like a sheepish dog. There were so many wrinkles on the man's face, his expressions were quite animated, every emotion evident. "We have upset our English brother. We must make amends. Segui, we shall go inside, drink, eat." He beckoned.

Will wanted to refuse. But then, all of this would be for not. He shifted his weight to the other foot.

"If you do not wish to talk, fratello, you may leave the way you came," the old Templar added, turning to go out. "Otherwise, allow me to give you the hospitality you so deserve, and slake your curiosity of the Truth."

"What truth?"

The man cackled and shuffled on, disappearing into the night.

Will looked at Guy and his fellow gorilla, then back at Stefano, whose hand remained on the hilt of his stiletto. None of them gave him any clues as to what his next move should be.

"To the villa, then?" he said.

~ Ʌ ~

Pedro woke to a crushed skull. At least, it felt crushed. It throbbed and pounded and hammered, every heartbeat like a kick from a horse. It made him ill, but he could not vomit. If he vomited, he would choke on his own sick; the gag was tight between his teeth, chafing the sides of his mouth. It was saturated with spit and snot.

He moved, and his shoulders screamed. His wrists were bound to his ankles, his face and chest pressed down against wood. He only wore a linen shirt and trousers, which were soiled by his lack of control while unconscious. A more embarrassing situation he'd never been in.

Even though it hurt, Pedro rolled onto his side and raised his head. Light seeped through the boards of what appeared to be some kind of crate. He was moving. The steady clop of hooves and squeak of wheels told him he was on a wagon.

Oh, Saint Mary...

The arts of escape were some of the first skills one mastered once in the brotherhood. Pedro needed fifteen minutes.

Bastards knew what they were doing, he thought balefully as the knots finally came loose. If he'd regained consciousness earlier, it would have been done sooner – his hands were dead fish at the ends of his wrists.

He left the tangle of bindings around one ankle, knowing he could pretend to be bound again once the feeling returned to his limbs, and pulled the gag from his mouth. He took a full breath and used his shirt to wipe the slimy concoction of saliva and mucus from his face. There was nothing he could do about the urine in his pants.

Disgusting.

It took several minutes more before he felt confident enough to be able to fight or flee once the chance arose. And just in time. The wagon rumbled to a stop. Pedro listened. Sniffed. Woodland all around, at least one other wagon and several horses. He peered through a gap in the crate. Canvas blocked his view, but the weave was just loose enough for him to make out shapes beyond. Tall horses, not pack or draft animals, meant to outrun pursuers or overcome prey. He heard Spanish and Italian, sensed tension and restlessness. Pedro wondered if any of these men had been in that cellar with the hoard, and if one of them was responsible for his headache.

Lauro.

He had no idea what became of him. The last thing he remembered was running for the stairs on his friend's heels. The thrice-damned hood had prevented him from seeing the club until it was too late. He could only hope his brother made it out, and got help.

Something thudded against the crate. Pedro quickly pulled up the gag, rolled onto his side and wormed his ankle and hands back into the knot. He wound it tight and hid the slack before rolling more onto his back. If he tried to run now, he would be shot like a dog.

But whoever was rummaging through the wagon left his crate alone. Didn't so much as check on him. They either thought him still unconscious or there was no way for him to get out. He looked up. Only darkness. Something solid was on top of his prison. After the rummager went away, he freed himself from the bonds again and pressed the flat of his feet up against the lid. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't so much as budge it.

Well this is a tight fix.

He was no stranger to these situations. Because of his...preferred company, he'd been chased out of more than one city, and sometimes he'd been caught. But he always got away without harming a soul. Those people simply didn't understand. These bastards, however...

If they were Templars, it wouldn't surprise him. More likely, they were paid by Templars. He and Lauro had been sent on many a mission to disrupt heists, and more often than not, they captured hired thieves, ones that easily broke under interrogation and led the Assassins to their employers.

Pedro peered out between the boards again, seeking a captain of this rabble. But the canvas cover was too hindering, the sky too dark. Faces were blurred, clothes obscured. He could only watch shapes move about, dismounting horses and setting up camp.

"What a slop of a job you've done."

Pedro tilted his head at the sound of a woman's voice. She spoke with authority, her words suggesting she was not on the level of this charming band. An employer, perhaps?

"We salvaged the goods, we got out, and no one was the wiser. Is that not enough?" drawled a male voice. Pedro recognized that Spanish accent from the cellar.

"I don't take kindly being lied to, señor Dominique. Your company was caught, your objective compromised. I have ears everywhere – I know not only did Assassins discover you, one escaped your grasp."

"...I would think about hiring new informants if I were you, señorita. We caught that Assassin just before he flitted off."

Pedro's stomach lurched.

"Is that so?" The woman walked her horse into view. Pedro could see the silhouette of her head against the deepening sky. "I know there were two."

"Sí, one we caught. The other lies in a ditch, stripped and beaten until his own mother would not recognize him. He will be no threat to anyone."

"I see..."

She said something else, but Pedro's mind was like a young stallion, kicking and wheeling until he curbed its head and brought it back under control. Lauro wasn't dead. He was too fast. The Spaniard was lying. There was no loyalty here.

"I have his robes as proof, if you'd like to—"

"That won't be necessary," said the woman. "This Assassin you caught. At the bottom of the river, I trust?"

"No. I kept him safe for you. A...peace offering, if you will. A pricey one, mind."

"Ha! You were given more than enough to acquire the goods we asked for. And no soul can be bought. Not even that of an Assassin."

"He's my prisoner," Dominique growled.

"He's a misguided fool. Blind to the truth. A dog that pisses in the house should not be put down, but beaten and shown the right way of things."

"You mean to turn him into a Templar?" The Spaniard scoffed. "I can see now why they call you the Carver!"

The hiss of a blade leaving its scabbard, then spinning through the air. A yelp just before a solid thud. It wasn't hard for Pedro to imagine señor Dominique freezing as a knife just missed him – he had froze himself.

"Get. Him. Out." The woman turned her horse and spurred it away.

They were careful when they opened Pedro's crate. They had half a dozen rifles pointed at him, and naked blades gleamed in the campfires. They didn't take kindly to his loose bonds, and more than one boot found his gut as he was dragged to a pair of trees and tied to them, arms stretched to either side. He didn't struggle once, knowing it was fruitless, but he let them know he had steel in him. He held every gaze, didn't utter a sound when they struck him, and so they quickly came to leave him alone.

Or perhaps they left him alone because the Carver had already claimed him.

She didn't look a day over thirty. Might have been the light. Her hair was a soft brown and pulled back in a loose braid. Her brow was bowed and her nose turned up at the end, giving her the profile of a child, but her eyes were fiercely predatory. Short, what her stride lacked in distance it made up for in power.

But it wasn't until she approached him that Pedro realized why they called her the Carver. A more accurate title would be the Carved.

She knelt, setting down a bucket in her right hand, holding a torch in her left. She tugged the gag down from his mouth, letting it hang around his neck. She stared at him. He stared at her, held her gaze, even though he wanted to search her scars for the tales they each held. The torch threw them all in relief, and it was fascinating to watch them dance.

She reached into the bucket and pulled out a cloth. Pedro held still as she washed his face. Crusted spit and snot and blood were wiped away. He didn't ask why she was doing it, just sat there like a child who had come out at the bottom of a fight.

"What are you called?"

"Many things," said Pedro. "Handsome. Charming. Valiant. I've also been called Dead, Finished, and Mine, but none of those titles have made any sense."

She tilted her head. She had scars on her neck, too. "Tuscan. You are far from home."

"So are you. Venetian, is it? Has that city not sunk into the sea yet?"

The Carver set the cloth back in the bucket and held the torch so close to his face, sweat beaded his brow and his eyes watered. He could see nothing but fire.

"Had I been anyone else, I would have skinned your tongue for your insolence."

"We are both adults here. Both human beings. I treat as I expect to be treated." He tested his bonds, arms tied to either tree. "Not everyone thinks as I do, apparently."

"We are not fools, Assassin. You've already escaped your bonds once. It would be unwise to do it again." She withdrew the torch. Dark blotches obscured his vision.

"What are you doing so far from home?"

"I could ask you the same thing," said Pedro, "except I already know. Stealing is, after all, what you Templars do best."

"Is that all you perceive us to be? Thieves? I must admit my disappointment."

"I don't speak of theft of property, although you're very good at that. I speak of the theft of freedom. Of lives. You take human out of humanity—"

The flash of a knife. A prick under his chin. Pedro tilted his head back. Swallowed.

"Law, little Assassin. Law is what separates us from the animals. Separates us from beasts. You know what else separates us from beasts?" She turned the knife. A tickle slithered down Pedro's neck.

"The use of weapons comes to mind," he said softly.

With a sneer she whipped the knife away, so fast he didn't feel the cut under his jaw for several seconds.

"You will learn, Assassin. And I will teach you." She pointed the knife, stained with his blood, at a deep gouge in her cheek. "How do you think I got these?"

"Accident while shaving?" He couldn't help but flinch as she opened another cut on his face. That one was going to scar.

"They are failures. Every time I kill a man, every time I fail to show him the light, I give myself a reminder. Pain means little to me anymore."

"You know, self-mutilation isn't the way. There are places you can go, people you can talk to—not the face!"

Eyes closed and teeth bared in feigned preparation, Pedro remained stiff and still for several seconds. When he peeked with one eye, she was smiling at him. It might have been a beautiful smile once.

"Such a handsome man..." She slide the back of the blade along his eyebrow and down his cheek, a lover's caress. "You will learn, Assassin. You will learn or you will perish. That is survival in our world."

"Better to die free than live under your boot," Pedro growled. This time he didn't flinch when she cut him. She pointed to a smooth spot near the side of her neck.

"This. This is for you. Don't make me mar one of the last places unblemished by steel."

"I'd hate to be such a nuisance," he said with a mocking smile. The Carver returned it, then picked up the torch and strode away. Pedro frowned at her back.

"Um...can I get a change of pants? Please?"

No answer. Pedro looked about as best he could. There were guards all around, guards with torches that infiltrated every shadow in the camp. Their night vision would be ruined but there were enough of them that if anyone tried to attack on the sly, someone else could raise the alarm.

But he had to believe his friends would come for him. Even if he really didn't.