altair-creed

They’d been lucky. Very lucky. They’d changed trains, coaches, even doubled back from time to time, to throw off their pursuers. They’d gotten a glimpse of the four German agents in Wurzburg, just as the train had pulled out of the station. Watson was fairly certain they’d been seen. The Secret Field Police would most likely board the next train which meant of course they’d have to get off somewhere in the middle of the way, fool them. However, the Germans didn’t board the next train: they hired a carriage, used the back roads, arrived at Frankfurt after changing several coaches and settled in to wait. Only too late did they comprehend that the quartet of criminals had never been in Frankfurt but gone around, to Fulda, whence they’d set out on foot covering most distance at night, sometimes hitching rides. By the time the Germans managed to get to Fulda the quartet was no longer there: they’d moved on, direction unknown. But was it? It was apparent to the Secret Field Police that

"Arno Victor Dorian," une voix douce l'appelait, un figure se matérialise des ombres d'une taverne pas loin de l'abbaye de St Denis. "Je pense que tu as besoin d'un ami." Un petit homme, le capuchon des Assassins sur les épaules, s'invite à s'asseoir dans l'autre chaise à la table sur qui il y avait trois bouteilles de vin, un plat de viande et du pain, la tête d'un Assassin dans les derniers étages d'ivrognerie, d'une intoxication naît de sa deuil. Élise est morte. Il n'a eu personne dans sa vie maintenant. Il était seul, une âme sans refuge, un homme perdu dans l'océan de vie et des sentiments qui le bouleversaient. Quel était le point de sa vie ce jour? Il n'y en a pas un. "Un ami?" L'Assassin lève la tête, les lèvres faisant un grimace d'amertume. "Qui est-il, cet ami?" Un trace de sarcasme teint les mots de cette question vraiment impolie. "Ce n'est pas un mystère," l'autre dit, en signalant au maître une commande pour boire et manger. "Un humble soldat, à ta disposition." Le ton

Il était là cette nuit-là. Un homme dans l'ombre. Un homme sans nom, sans visage. Un homme qui a tué Monsieur De La Serre. Un homme au visage cicatrisé par la variole. Un homme qui a un titre, néanmoins. Le titre du Roi des Mendiants - le Roi des Thunes. Il l'avait cherché depuis longtemps, depuis le jour où il a tué Sivert dans la cathédrale de Nôtre Dame. Le jour où il a vu les derniers moments de la vie de Sivert. Le Roi des Thunes ne croit pas qu'il a été traqué si facilement. Il a pensé qu'il était bien protégé par ces hommes de rue, mais… il s'est trompé. L'Assassin a pénétré dans ces chambres souterraines, il a "terminé" les gardes un par un: sa lame cachée prenait vie après l'autre, le compte de corps dans les passages illuminés par plusieurs torches se montait de minute à minute, sans relâche. Enfin l'Assassin, se tenant dans l'ombre, a regardé sa cible. Son visage caché sous le capuchon de la Confrérie des Assassins ne sourit pas comme autrefois dans sa “jeunesse". La

'Mr Frye,' the sharply-dressed man addressed his associate sitting across the large polished table in his office. 'Are you familiar with Mr Sherlock Holmes?' 'Should I be?' was the immediate and insolent response, the kind that grated on the other's nerves, of the carelessly sprawled young man in an open wide-shouldered grey coat, top hat hanging on the gilded pommel of his cane sword: how had he ever been allowed to bring THAT in? 'Just answer the question,' tiredly growled the older interlocutor, squeezing and tapping his pen on the paper of notes he had in front of him. 'Do you or do you not?' ‘Since you’re asking the question, I would assume you know that I know him, yes.’ That brazen curve of the mouth again: the royal spymaster truly had to contain himself just then, in order to avoid knocking it off the cheeky gang boss’s face. ‘What has this to do with me?’ ‘He’s gone missing.’ Fleming wasn’t happy in admitting that one of his occasional spies had disappeared. Holmes was too

‘How are you supposed to kill them with all these Bobbies?’ The sharp-featured young man exhaled in obvious annoyance, watching the passing procession filled with politicians and an honour guard of the best of the thin blue line of the law. Next to him an older woman jumped, startled by his sudden exhalation: had he said 'kill'? Ignoring her, he began making his way through the thick crowd. Sir Crawford Starrick merited full state funeral honours, it seemed. Jacob Frye for one couldn't think of a reason why. The Templar Grand Master had been one cold bastard, bottling up his emotions, putting the stuff upper lip out to the world. A state funeral for the dead Templar chief was Her Majesty's bright idea. To show the Templars that they had no leader anymore, to quash any rumours to the contrary, to prevent impostors from taking over. A political decision, one that made sense. He’d have done the same if it’d been any other gang boss: show the body in an open casket to ensure that no one

"How dared you go without our leave?" Hissed a large woman from atop the gallery marked with the symbols of the secret society she was part of. Her square jaw made her look more like a man than the insolent youth, with his sister by his side, who appeared to not be repentant one bit. "I didn't realise that we needed permission to do our job," was his grated reply, upper lip curling in what could only be described as contempt. Next to him, his sister winced. If Jacob had hoped to avoid harsh punishment, he'd failed with that repartee. "I apologise," she stepped in, trying to diffuse the situation: the four faces above them were either apoplectic or so stony cold that she was concerned for their owners' health. "The opportunity to rid London and its people from Templar oppression was-" "silence!" The woman slammed her hand down on the balcony. Behind her in the shadows George Westhouse winced. He felt old, weary. Not so much physically as emotionally. These two… he'd trained them, he'd

'Oh shut up!' muttered the annoyed young man before quickly slashing the throat of the skinny old man with the most ridiculous name of Cardigan. Apparently the Earl was a big fan of this new style of fashion. The young man, personally, not so much. Still less did he like tiresome old windbags who thought themselves above the law. 'Knave! Villain!' the 'victor' of Balaklava choked through pulsing blood and open voice box. 'You… you've…' 'Yes, I have,' the cold eyed killer mocked his victim, on one knee beside him, careful not to get blood on himself, his best robes in teal colour. They'd served him well: getting inside the Houses of Parliament had been easier than expected. A touch of arrogance. A confident step. A firm down your nose attitude. And he was in, just like that, the 'sleeping' copper notwithstanding. He'd wake up eventually, in that closet. Who'd think the hallowed halls of government had something as commonplace as closets? 'Are you finished yet?' he asked wearily, biting

'Pearl Attaway led me to you, not Starrick!' 'Then they're working together again… Family always stay together in the end…' 'What d'you mean, they're family?!' Sitting on a fence, far enough away from the dockside warehouse, Jacob Frye contemplated the consequences of his actions. His mistake. What a damn mistake! He'd killed the wrong man. The wrong target. He'd killed "an innocent". A snort. Innocent?! Right!! What a capital cosmic joke this was! Millner had been no innocent. He'd been a hard businessman, Attaway's rival in the omnibus trade. Starricks puppet. More like a dupe, a scapegoat, really. Had Miss Attaway and Starrick set the man up? Probably. Most likely. Templars liked games like this. Games of intrigue, lies, death. 'Sod it.' Irritated, he jumped down, kicked the wooden fence with the toe of his boot, spat into the dirt. What was done was done. He couldn't bring the man back from the dead. Death by blade to the throat was guaranteed. He'd never seen anyone walk away

Olga whistled in appreciation as her much younger boss sauntered in from his "dressing room", freshly polished boots and oiled leather of his overcoat speaking to a rather meticulous preparation, something the young brash gang chief wasn't particularly noted for. 'Nice get-up, boss,' she complimented him with a nod and a wry twist of her lips. 'All tucked in.' He snorted, blushing slightly, miffed. Why did she always feel the need to drop innuendos like this one when he was least expecting it or when the situation didn't call for it? 'If you must know,' he snapped, grabbing his new cane sword, a fancy and flashy piece of work with an orange dragon's head for the heavy pommel. 'I'm off to a wedding.' 'Oh?' Olga straightened up, curious. 'Anyone I know?' 'Peaches,' he replied, a fairly incongruous response to anyone not in the know. 'Ah,' the older woman grinned, rubbing her hands. 'The one's ran our kiddos out of Hackney when they were "poaching" in his territory.' 'The very one.' He

‘That’s a lotta beer,’ she remarked in a tone filled with admiration for the amount of liquid cargo being transported down below, so far five wide wagons loaded with fifteen barrels each - at least - of the amber and gold coloured hopped barley water that was the preferred drink of choice for the numerous patrons of the multiplicity of pubs in Hackney and Whitechapel. They were rolling down the two-way road at a sedate pace given the weight of their freight: didn’t want the beer gases to explode prematurely, of course. Having the amber and gold money spilled all along the road wouldn’t please their boss, the owner of the brewery in Hackney who was the reason that she and her chief were crouched on the steeply slanted roof - she actually had to hold on to the cold chimney so she’d not roll off like a ball. ‘And it’s all rotten,’ he groused, staring at the man in the lead cart, the brewer’s loyal flunkey Roberts. He’d hired some local toughs it seemed: the seat beside him and the other