Assassin's Creed: Forsaken by Oliver Bowden Page B

tethering our horses outside the store and walking in, only for the sole customer to take a look at us and decide to stock up on provisions another time. Reginald and I exchanged a confused look, then I cast an eye over the store. Tall, wooden shelves lined three sides, stocked with jars and packets tied up with twine, while at the back was a high counter behind which stood the storekeeper, wearing an apron, a wide moustache and a smile that had faded like an exhausted candle on getting a good look at us.
    To my left was a set of steps used to reach the high shelves. On them sat a boy, about ten years old, the storekeeper’s son, by the look of him. He almost lost his footing in his haste to scuttle off the steps and stand in the middle of the floor with his hands by his side, awaiting his orders.
    “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said the shopkeeper in German. “You look like you have been riding a long time. You need some supplies to continue your journey?” He indicated an urn on the counter before him. “You need some refreshments perhaps? A drink?”
    Next he was waving a hand at the boy. “Christophe, have you forgotten your manners? Take the gentlemen’s coats . . .”
    There were three stools in front of the counter and the shopkeeper waved a hand at them, saying, “Please, please, take a seat.”
    I glanced again at Reginald, saw he was about to move forward to accept the storekeeper’s offer of hospitality, and stopped him.
    “No, thank you,” I said to the shopkeeper. “My friend and I don’t intend to stay.” From the corner of my eye I saw Reginald’s shoulders sag, but he said nothing. “All we need from you is information,” I added.
    A cautious look fell across the shopkeeper’s face like a dark curtain. “Yes?” he said warily.
    “We need to find a man. His name is Digweed. Jack Digweed. Are you acquainted with him?”
    He shook his head.
    “You don’t know him at all?” I pressed.
    Again the shake of the head.
    “Haytham . . .” said Reginald, as though he could read my mind from the tone of my voice.
    I ignored him. “Are you quite sure about that?” I insisted.
    “Yes, sir,” said the shopkeeper. His moustache quivered nervously. He swallowed.
    I felt my jaw tighten; then, before anybody had a chance to react, I’d drawn my sword and with my outstretched arm tucked the blade beneath Christophe’s chin. The boy gasped, raised himself on his tiptoes, and his eyes darted as the blade pressed into his throat. I hadn’t taken my eyes off the shopkeeper.
    “Haytham . . .” said Reginald again.
    “Let me handle this, please, Reginald,” I said, and addressed the storekeeper: “Digweed’s letters are sent care of this address,” I said. “Let me ask you again. Where is he?”
    “Sir,” pleaded the shopkeeper. His eyes darted from me to Christophe, who was making a series of low noises as though he were finding it difficult to swallow. “Please don’t hurt my son.”
    His pleas fell on deaf ears.
    “Where is he?” I repeated.
    “Sir,” pleaded the owner. His hands implored. “I cannot say.”
    With a tiny flick of the wrist I increased the pressure of my blade on Christophe’s throat and was rewarded with a whimper. From the corner of my eye I saw the boy rise even higher on his tiptoes and felt, but did not see, Reginald’s discomfort to the other side of me. All the time, my eyes never left those of the shopkeeper.
    “Please sir, please sir,” he said quickly, those imploring hands waving in the air as though he were trying to juggle an invisible glass, “I can’t say. I was warned not to.”
    “Ah-ha,” I said. “Who? Who warned you? Was it him? Was it Digweed?”
    “No, sir,” insisted the shopkeeper. “I haven’t seen Master Digweed for some weeks. This was . . . someone else, but I can’t tell you—I can’t tell you who. These men, they were serious.”
    “But I think we know that I, too, am serious,” I said with a smile, “and