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In the otherworldly black and blurred gray of his second sight, Leonardo's form glowed gold.
Ezio blinked. The afternoon sunlight rushed back in. His vision filled with color and brightness. The colors blocked out the awful gold—that shade that he was so used to seeing only in glimpses and flashes from a panicking, running target through a confused crowd.
This time, the change hurt. It twinged at something deep within his head, like the pull of mending thread through a wound. He squinted against the pain. His eyes were dry from staring. They throbbed with every beat of his heart.
On the bench, Leonardo shifted. He tilted his head as if something in the valley below had caught his attention.
Ezio froze. He went so still that he could feel his pulse in his belly and palms. But then the quiet scritch-scritch of Leonardo's quill started up again. Ezio exhaled slowly, and forced his stance to relax.
He had no idea how long he'd been standing here. The shadows of the trees had slowly wandered over him, like curious, exploring fingers. A few stable hands had given him wary glances as they walked past on their errands. He must've made an odd sight, standing still as a statue in full battle regalia in the small, tree-lined enclosure at the edge of the rocky hillside.
From here, he could see Leonardo's chalk drawing on the wooden bench. The smudged white lines formed a hand. The index finger pointed cheekily towards where Ezio had sat countless times before.
Though only a careless doodle by Leonardo's standards, it was still a work of art. The hand looked ready to come to life and start gesturing. It seemed to beckon him.
For the umpteenth time, Ezio took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He reached for the detached calm that usually came so easily to him, struggling to center himself so he could think about this.
The missive sat in the leather pouch at his belt. The small piece of paper was frayed at the edges from being unfolded and refolded too many times. The slight weight of the pouch was so familiar to him that he hardly ever noticed it, and yet today it seemed to burn a patch of heat onto his hip.
His fingers itched with the need to take the paper out and peruse it again. But he had already reread it so often that every word was etched into his memory.
Trusted sources report that the painter Leonardo da Vinci has become a traitor to our cause. Take care of the problem.
Unsigned, because Niccolò Machiavelli had his hands so full with helping Ezio train the novices that he'd delegated menial tasks, such as writing assassination contracts, to his scribes.
Ezio pressed the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. His headache flared outward into his temples. When he opened his eyes again, the sunlit afternoon vanished once more into the hazy darkness of his sixth sense.
The trees, usually a welcoming canopy over the little hill, looked skeletal in the darkness. The sky had bled out to a shapeless, muted gray. The late summer air was warm enough to dampen Ezio's neck with sweat, but this world looked caught in the bleak middle of winter, the sun a pale, faded coin in the sky.
And Leonardo was still golden. The color seared an afterimage into his eyes the longer he stared in his numb, unreasoning daze.
It had been supposed to be just another day. He'd sparred with four of his older apprentices in the morning. The lingering delight over their progress buoyed his mood all the way to a pigeon coop.
He'd intended to spend the afternoon going after whichever Borgia officer or corrupt merchant Machiavelli deemed a threat, and then perhaps make some time in the evening to help the newer novices with their training.
The words on the piece of paper, in slanted, unfamiliar handwriting, hadn't made sense to him at first. He'd had to read them multiple times to grasp their meaning.
And even then, his first reaction had been baffled confusion rather than betrayal, because that— that was not possible.
There was no way the Borgia were pressuring Leonardo to build for them again. Because Leonardo would have told him. They'd been meeting at the same little hill for months, they had walked through the quiet valley and discussed Leonardo's commissions, how Claudia and Maria were doing, and the Borgia.
Leonardo had never said anything about his employers. He wasn't being pulled into the wrong side of this covert war again. Ezio would have known.
But the words were in Niccolò's style, curt and to the point. Ezio could almost see him dictate them. In between his lessons, he must've passed by their their hideout's sunlit library and instructed a scribe to write the contract.
Niccolò might not have known Leonardo personally. And yet, he had an inkling about their long, shared history. He might not have known either of them when they'd first met, with Ezio nothing more than the self-assured, cheerful second son of the Auditore family.
But Niccolò's eyes were sharp, his wit even sharper. Ezio had no doubt that he'd seen how much Ezio treasured the painter's friendship, how the depths of his feeling grew even now, helplessly, how it filled and swelled up with warmth at each of their covert meetings. It couldn't have taken him long to see the ferocious protectiveness that crested in Ezio every time he so much as thought his old friend threatened.
No matter how 'trusted' the source—with this, Machiavelli would've been careful. He would not have let this assassination contract see the light of day if he hadn't been absolutely certain.
And yet the contract was there. The words and the slanted handwriting were engraved upon his memory. All afternoon, his thoughts had had nowhere to go but the same maddening circles.
Blacks and grays shifted back into the soft, gilded colors of the summer day. Ezio barely bit back a groan at the change. The inside of his head felt raw and sore, like whetstones were scraping at the bone.
That should probably have worried him more, Ezio thought, vaguely. He had never switched to his second sight so often in a single day. There was no telling what havoc the frequent changes were wreaking in his skull.
His first instinct, when it had dawned on him that the contract was real, had been to take to the roofs and run back to the hideout to confront Niccolò about what in the maledetto inferno his sources had told him.
But he had followed his second inclination instead, and gone to find Leonardo. Because Ezio knew all to well how it went with high-priority contracts like this—those that required no reconnaissance, just swift elimination.
If it had not been finished within a small time window, Machiavelli would assume that Ezio was either busy or out of town. And he would pass the job on to the most skilled of his young students.
And no matter what, Ezio could not let Leonardo amble through the streets of Roma only to be stabbed quite literally in the back by one of his allies. The recruits, always eager to please and full of respect for the man who helped train them, would have trusted Niccolò's judgement. They would've asked no questions. They would have finished the contract swiftly and regaled their brothers and sisters with the tale in the evening.
The mere thought had made Ezio dizzy and sick, like the very ground was tilting beneath his feet. He could not, would not let that happen. He had run to find Leonardo, changing horses across the river, leaving his poor gelding panting and foamy with sweat.
When he'd approached their bench, Ezio had been struck still and silent by the inexplicable gold in his second sight. And he had stood there like a fool for far too long. He'd delved into his sixth sense again and again, like one might kick an aged window that was stuck.
Ezio shook his head. The day was passing. He had to do something, he couldn't just stay here until night fell and Leonardo abandoned his sketching. He took a slow, deep breath, and finally moved.
Leonardo did not look up at Ezio's approach until he had rounded the bench. A small, unoccupied corner of his mind lamented the painter's absentmindedness. What if it had been some street thug sneaking up to him? It seemed that they'd have to have another talk about the difficult times and Rome's ravaged streets.
The sun was warm on Ezio's back. It cast his form on Leonardo's sketchbook as a jagged, distorted shadow. Of course, it was only then that his presence was noticed.
It ached a little to see Leonardo's face light up. His ever-ready, familiar smile tugged at something rusty but sharp in Ezio's chest.
"Ezio!" Leonardo exclaimed, surprised and pleased. He squinted against the sunlight, brought up a hand to shade his eyes. His skin was ruddy from the sun. "How did you— I wasn't expecting you!"
Dread welled in him, a sudden, squirming wash of cold. Ezio smiled wanly back, simply because here and now, there was nothing else he could do. He could not change his mind now and run madly all the way back to their hideout, find Machiavelli, and shake him until his informant's name fell out.
By now, he should have spoken. A greeting, a teasing remark about Leonardo's obliviousness to his surroundings, anything. Words congealed in his throat. But they felt ashen and unwieldy, and Ezio couldn't bring himself to voice them as though nothing was amiss.
Instead, he sat down. Not as close as he would have liked, of course, never that close. He left a courteous amount of space between them. His coattails flapped over Leonardo's chalk drawing.
With only the wooden bench guarding his blind spot, his back prickled uncomfortably. They were alone in their little meadow. But the wind still carried the sound of leather shoes and horse hooves from the winding, sandy roads through the fields. It set Ezio's teeth on edge, ran tension through him like a pulled string.
For a moment, Leonardo just looked at him, a silent, narrow-eyed, contemplative gaze. The haze of inspiration cleared visibly. He always seemed to go somewhere else when he sketched, a peaceful and driven place that Ezio could not know. But now it was fading to Leonardo's habitual sharp focus.
Leonardo touched his wrist, the back of his bracer. It was impossible to feel through the metal and leather. But Leonardo could have touched him through layers and layers of armor and a phantom impression of his fingers would still have sunk right through to Ezio's skin.
"Ezio," Leonardo said, softly, with controlled alarm. Worry sharpened the tiny lines around his eyes. "What happened? Are the recruits—?"
Leonardo's fingers left a dark smudge on the shimmering carved metal. For the first time, Ezio noticed that the little thing in his palm wasn't a quill, but a piece of charcoal. His fingers were stained black.
He should have found something to say to that. He should have started asking some careful questions about Leonardo's recent employers. He had to find out where anyone might have gotten the ludicrous idea that Leonardo had betrayed the Assassins.
In the end, he just shook his head. The recruits were fine. They were most likely going about their business as on any other day, oblivious to their maestro's turmoil. Those who'd been part of the Order for longer were en route to their daily missions. The younger ones would be training with Machiavelli's mercenaries at the hideout...
The mercenaries.
The thought of them echoed like the clang of a bell, discordant and jarring. Ezio stared out at the grazing sheep and the windswept clouds in the Roman sky and cursed himself in every way he knew.
How had he not thought of this?
Maybe Machiavelli had thought this contract important enough to enlist additional help to get it done. Perhaps he'd assumed that the recruits would question him, unwilling to believe the terrible words about their mentore's old friend.
And so Machiavelli would have turned to his mercenaries instead—who, while they were certainly loyal to Ezio as well, answered first and foremost to Machiavelli himself.
Ezio stared numbly at the sunlit fields with their swaying grass. It was as though someone had pulled a smothering blanket around his head, dulling his senses and his mind.
He could not think about this. He couldn't take a step back and let the battle-ready calm wash over him. If only his head were clearer... He should've been making plans to guide Leonardo out of the city, intercept any mercenaries, find Machiavelli...
For just a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut. He opened them again to a dark world of faded color.
Ezio had always wondered whether his eyes looked different when he blinked the color out of his sight. But Leonardo didn't seem to notice that Ezio now looked at the world in black and white.
His features looked strange in gold, familiar but different, his eyes and hair brighter. Ezio stared at him. He willed the gold to bleed back into the familiar blue. But it remained, gleaming so brightly that he had to narrow his eyes against the glare.
The colors came rushing back. Brown wood grain returned to the bench, the embroidered blue to Leonardo's light tunic.
Something twinged deep in Ezio's head, like a rusty screw being twisted out of gnarled wood. He winced sharply and pressed his knuckles to his temple.
"—Ezio, Ezio," Leonardo was saying, his voice finally filtering through.
He was gripping Ezio's arm and shaking him lightly. Ezio hadn't even noticed how close he was leaning, urgent concern in his eyes. "What's wrong? Talk to me, tell me how I can help. Is it Maria? Did something happen to Claudia?"
"Leonardo," Ezio said, finally. His throat was parched, and his voice came out raspy and rough. "Have you— have you found employment lately?"
Leonardo blinked, thoroughly derailed. "Employment?" he repeated. He shooed the question away with an impatient wave. "Never mind my financial problems, Ezio—are you injured?"
His grip around Ezio's shoulder twitched, like he wanted to reach into his hood to feel for sore bumps on his head. "Do you need me to find a dottore for you? Did a mission go badly?"
"Leonardo, please, this is important." Ezio pressed his thumb more firmly to the burrowing pain in his temple. He willed himself to focus.
The treetops rustled in the warm summer wind. A steady breeze carried the faint sounds of chatter and the clunk of horses' hooves from the road. But to his strained senses, every sound brought a sinister echo, the precursor of a band of mercenaries bursting out of the undergrowth, blades raised and ready.
He thrummed with tension. Leonardo's gentle touch felt like a hot coal on his arm. He longed to get up and fight something, run his sword and hidden blade through any who would do Leonardo harm, and whisk him away to safety...
But he had to stay still for just a moment longer. He had to know why in the world Machiavelli's spies thought that Leonardo would ever betray them. He asked, again, "Were you commissioned lately?"
Leonardo frowned. But something in Ezio's face must have convinced him that the matter of his finances was important right now.
"Yes, but only by lesser noblemen," he said—a bit halting, reluctant to turn his focus away from his concern for his friend. The side of his mouth quirked in a tentative, rueful smile. "I cannot say that my records are entirely free of Borgia sympathizers. Beggars can't be choosers, as they say. But they only wanted portraits. I've been working on a few Tuscan landscape studies for a traveling baron. Why do you ask?"
"There's been a mistake," Ezio replied absently. He scanned the valley and the clusters of travelers below. "And I don't know if I can set it right. Leonardo, where are you staying?"
Leonardo's touch lifted from his arm, leaving the spot strangely cool. There was a rustle of paper as he stuffed his sketchbook into the small satchel he'd brought.
He was tense now, too, picking up on Ezio's overwrought vigilance. "I have found lodging at a nearby farm," he said. "I think it belongs to the thieves' guild. Ezio, what—"
None of the travelers stood out to Ezio. They all seemed to be moving languidly, enjoying the slow-paced summer day. But he was too far away... One more time, he plunged his vision into colorless darkness. Leonardo's golden form glowed at the edge of his vision. In the fields below, there were only mottled grays.
"We will go there," Ezio said. He blinked the color back. Pain speared into his skull, and he had to grit his teeth for a moment. "You will pack a few essentials. I have to get you out of Roma."
"What?"
When Leonardo gripped his shoulder again, it was more decisive than comforting. He pulled Ezio around to look at him.
The utter confusion in his eyes was almost gratifying to see. A small part of Ezio unclenched again at the sight. Leonardo had no idea what was going on. The Borgia hadn't forced more war-mongering on him.
"Ezio, you aren't making any sense," Leonardo said, with forced calm. "I can't just leave, I have commissions, I— you are here, why would you send me away?"
A bit of warmth kindled in Ezio's chest. He almost wanted to laugh. Of course Leonardo was not just nodding along and docilely following to pack up his things. He forced a deep breath into his chest. Calm, he thought. He had to be calm and determined. It would not do to send Leonardo into a spinning panic right alongside himself.
"I know it's inconvenient," Ezio said. He glanced down into the valley again. "But there's no time for explanations right now, I need to see you safe first. You must trust me on this."
Over the fields, the still summer air lay undisturbed, the lawns a glistening juicy green. The fields were dotted with grazing sheep. A few of the woolly animals had come closer to their little ledge, chewing contemplatively as they flicked their floppy ears to dislodge flies.
It was a treacherously peaceful image—of the kind that Ezio himself had burst into, and destroyed with murder more times than he could count.
"But I don't... oh," Leonardo cut himself off. He'd followed Ezio's line of sight, and was staring at something in the valley "Ezio, isn't that—?"
Ezio narrowed his eyes against the sunlight. And now he saw it too, a cloud of dust on the winding dirt road. Travelers darted out of its way, and Ezio recognized the whirling hooves of a horse, a rider bent low and clinging desperately to its neck.
For a moment, the very world seemed to slow. His heart gave a terrible wrench. Then it pounded rapidly, propelling him into motion.
He was up and off the bench before he knew he'd moved. The hidden blade was reassuringly cool against his wrist. The rider was coming towards them, there was no doubt about it. Ezio could hear the horse's approach, the dry thunder of hooves on the sun-scorched road.
Next to him, Leonardo flinched at the scrape of metal on metal as the hidden blade slid out of its sheath. He looked startled. He gathered his bag close and scooted forward on the bench, ready to run.
The rider cantered up the winding trail to the farms on top of their little hill. With inexpert yanks on the reins, the horse was steered through a copse of scraggly trees.
The horse... Ezio squinted against the sunlight. There was something familiar about the horse. Even through the dust, it looked like one of the more docile, light brown mares from the stables at the hideout. And the rider—
The rider wore a white robe, cowled, the fabric bright in the sun.
Suddenly, with a wave of confused relief, Ezio recognized Ghita Gargani, one of his younger recruits.
By the time she reached them, Ezio had straightened up, less looming and protective. He still stood ready to shield Leonardo, the painter peering around his shoulder with a thoroughly confused expression.
In her haste to get to them, Ghita all but fell off her horse. Her foot got tangled in the stirrup. She tumbled into the soft grass with a yelp. Then she was on her feet again, and stumbled towards them. Her urgent gaze darted and found Ezio.
"Mentore," she gasped. She pressed a shaking hand to the stitch in her side. "Pigeon... intercepted..."
"Catch your breath," Ezio interrupted her. Ghita's whole face was an alarming shade of blotchy red. "It's alright. You are here now, and we will hear your message. Rest for a moment."
Ghita nodded weakly. She let herself slump over and panted for air.
The wind had torn her hood from her head. Her fair hair was tangled hopelessly. The horse was panting, too, though more quietly, its exhaustion not running as deep. Sweat streaked its brown flanks, but its great head was already down and nosing at the juicy grass.
Ezio took in Ghita's rumpled robes, the horse's snorting breaths. Before Ghita had joined the Assassins, she had never so much as sat on a horse. She was still not a good rider. It was mildly startling to realize she had most likely ridden here directly from the Isola Tiberina.
A rustle came from behind him. Ezio flinched, but it was only Leonardo rummaging around in his bag. He produced a small waterskin for Ezio's novice.
Ghita drank deeply. Her heaving breaths slowed. Once she handed the water back to Leonardo with a nod of thanks, her eyes were clearer. She drew herself up a bit, and looked less frantic. She looked at Ezio and he nodded at her to speak.
"Mentore, there's a problem," Ghita said. She was still out of breath. But now her gaze was steadier. Just the sight of her teacher had calmed her. "La Volpe sent his thieves to tell Ser Niccolò. A Borgia captain found out about the pigeon coops, and they intercepted a few of our birds. They sent them back with false assassination contracts. We're going through all of them now at the hideout, and more than half were orders to kill Ser Leonardo, I mean, Messer— da Vinci."
She flushed a deeper red as she stumbled over Leonardo's name. Embarrassed, she inclined her head respectfully at him. Leonardo dismissed her with an absent-minded wave, unoffended. His sharp blue gaze traveled back and forth between them. His confusion cleared into sudden understanding.
The relief sneaked up on Ezio, and broke upon him in a slow, relentless wave. A Borgia captain... The missive wasn't real. The contract that was burning a hole into his pouch had not been written by Machiavelli's scribes.
For just a moment, Ezio closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His headache flared, but he figured his grimace could be seen as annoyance at their enemies' newest scheme. His stomach lurched a little with the suddenness of his relief.
He could feel Leonardo's gaze on his back, steady and unassuming, almost like a physical touch. Ezio rubbed his hand down his face. His callused palm rasped over his beard. "Machiavelli sent you?" he asked Ghita, more for something to say than out of curiosity, struggling to regain his composure.
"No, maestro," Ghita said, a trifle uncertainly. "I came on my own. I overheard one of the thieves telling him about the pigeons, and I know you went to the coops after training today, so I thought..."
She trailed off. Her eyes sought out his for a moment before she dropped her gaze again. Perhaps she thought she'd be admonished for leaving on her own, for tiring out a horse from their stables on her errand.
Ezio put a firm hand on her shoulder. He waited until she raised her head again. "That was very well done, Ghita," he said.
He paused. How could he tell her what she had just done, how she had just saved his day from disintegrating into an utter nightmare? Ezio surveyed her young face. He wanted her to know his gratitude.
But he was also her teacher, someone she looked to for steadfast guidance. So in the end, he simply said, "You've taken a great concern off my mind."
"Oh, I— thank you, maestro," Ghita blurted out.
She ducked her head to hide her flushed face, startled at the unexpected praise. Then she stood a little taller, and her slim frame suddenly seemed to fill out her robes much more snugly, her shoulders squaring.
Ezio hid his smile; he did not want her to feel belittled. He glanced at the horse, which was grazing peacefully now. The sweat along its flanks looked dried, he decided. "Ghita, do you feel up to more riding?"
"Certainly," Ghita said. Her blush was fading. She was recovering from her flustered excitement. She even tried a shy smile back, and gestured at the hose. "Andria here is very patient. She has put up with me all afternoon, she will probably tolerate me for a little longer."
"Good." Ezio thought for a moment. "Ride to La Volpe Addormentata, tell the thieves that their message has been received, and that no one will be taking any of the contracts that were sent out today."
"Yes, maestro!" Ghita almost looked about to salute for a moment. Her eyes were bright with excitement
It was just an errand, nothing dangerous. But Ghita was young, and she hadn't been part of the Order for long. Even messenger duty, assigned by il mentore himself, must have felt like a new, thrilling mantle of responsibility around her slim shoulders.
With all the enthusiasm of a proud youth, Ghita didn't waste any time. She bowed to Ezio. Her tangled hair fell forward over her shoulders. Solemnly, Ezio bowed back. Ghita clambered back up into the saddle. The horse held patiently still, not at all bothered by the clumsy human climbing up its flank.
Then they were off in another cloud of dust, this one smaller and quicker to dispense. He could see Ghita gripping the saddle tightly, but just before they reached the sharp bend in the road, Ghita straightened her back and let go of the saddle horn.
She would ride at a moderate speed. Then, perhaps, La Volpe would send back more thieves to help them weed out the false contracts. Ezio estimated that he had about an hour until he had to be back at the hideout to acknowledge what had happened.
The bench creaked under the sudden weight as he sat down heavily. He hunched over to dig his thumbs into the ache in his temples. He had clearly overused his second sight, and the headache would probably stay with him for the rest of the day, persistent and burrowing...
Leonardo was not in danger. They wouldn't be waylaid by well-meaning mercenaries who wanted to spare him the agony of having to murder his best friend. Leonardo would not have to leave the city. The contract wasn't real.
Fabric rustled when Leonardo sat down next to him. He hesitated a moment, then put his hand on Ezio's back. He rubbed gently, just under the crossbow, and Ezio allowed himself to relax into his friend's touch.
Leonardo said, "You thought you had been sent to kill me."
Ezio nodded wearily. The tension was leaving him in a slow, wrenching rush. Despite the warm day, coldness prickled at the back of his neck, a knot pulling tight in his stomach. He couldn't make himself look up and meet Leonardo's eyes.
"You were golden," he said, numbly. "I do not understand."
"Golden? Oh. Your sixth sense. Hmm." Leonardo tapped his chin. Ezio wasn't looking at him, but the gesture was so familiar that he knew it even without seeing it.
And there was that scientific curiosity, an eager undercurrent in Leonardo's voice."Perhaps I became a target because you believed the contract was real?"
"But it wasn't." Ezio abandoned his aching head as a lost cause, and dropped his hands into his lap. Leonardo did him the courtesy of looking out at the fields, unfocused and thoughtful. "I should've realized that, my— my sixth sense shouldn't have been fooled as I was."
"I don't think it's quite that simple," Leonardo objected carefully.
Ezio finally looked at him. He couldn't help a small smile at what he saw. Leonardo was trying so very hard to keep a lid on his excitement, but it leaked through anyway. His second sight was something that Leonardo had always found fascinating.
Leonardo gave him a brief, cautious glance, and turned back to him when he found Ezio meeting his gaze. Privately, Ezio was a little amused—and somewhat touched—that Leonardo tried to give him some privacy to reassemble his composure.
But now his eyes were fierce, inquisitive, alight with a sharp focus. It felt a bit like standing in a too-bright room. The feeling was welcomed in its familiarity. Trust Leonardo to forget the Borgia captain's attempt on his life, shake it off like a minor annoyance, and seize the chance to investigate Ezio's sight with both hands.
"Look at it this way, Ezio," Leonardo said. His hand had never left Ezio's back, a warm, grounding weight. "Your sixth sense is never wrong about people's intentions, but such allegiances are usually deep-set and very slow to change. But the gold that marks your targets, that is much more arbitrary, is it not? Wouldn't you agree that with targets, your second sight can only know what you believe, and what Niccolò Machiavelli tells you?"
"Perhaps you are right," Ezio said vaguely.
He was sure he would be more interested in this topic some time later, with a few solid nights of sleep between him and this day. It would be some time until he could think of Leonardo's golden form without a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.
Just now, he only knew that the missive was not real, and Leonardo was not in danger. That was enough.
The valley below was still quiet. The dust from Ghita's ride settled slowly in the warm air. But Ezio found his gaze still lingering on every group of travelers. Disquiet kept trickling in, as through through a cracking dam.
Only now, Ghita's news had the chance to fully sink in. A good number of the false contracts had borne Leonardo's name on them. The Borgia captain who intercepted their pigeons wanted Leonardo dead.
How had the man come to know about the painter? Perhaps he had already been on Cesare's guard when Leonardo had been building the war machines. Or perhaps he had seen him talk to the famous assassino, and drawn his own conclusions...
Ezio gritted his teeth. Would everybody who associated with him always be in danger? Had they not been careful enough?
And it would not stop here, Ezio realized, with a slow, sickening jolt. The captain would realize that his plan hadn't worked. He would try other, more direct means of removing Leonardo from the playing field.
It would start innocently enough. Leonardo would neglect their secret meeting places. Days would stretch into weeks, and Ezio would worry, but tell himself sternly to leave Leonardo to immerse himself in a new project in peace.
And then one of the novices would find him lying beaten and bloody in a dusty market square. The thieves would come upon Leonardo's body, floating pale and bloated in the river.
Or perhaps the Borgia captain would want to make it personal, with a public execution for some imagined crime. Leonardo's bright eyes would survey the jeering crowd in search of a white cowl, and perhaps Ezio would arrive just in time to see the hangman shove him off the stool, his legs twisting in a terrible parody of a dance as the noose broke his neck...
Ezio had to swallow down a bitter taste at the back of his throat. He looked at Leonardo, and felt as though he were gazing out of a long, dark tunnel, jerked out of some exhausted doze.
Leonardo stared back, quizzical, oblivious to the thoughts that chased each other through Ezio's mind. Ezio blurted out, "Leonardo, come with me to the hideout."
Leonardo's brows rose. Whatever he had expected to hear, it had not been that.
He opened his mouth, but Ezio was faster. "This is just the beginning," he insisted. "This Borgia captain won't let this go until—"
His throat closed. He could not say it, not even to convince Leonardo. His headache throbbed mightily behind his eyes. He had to convince him, he thought hazily, he had to find a way to impress upon him how dire the situation was, because he did not want this to be the last time he ever saw his old friend.
"There are more than enough rooms to serve as your workshop," Ezio interrupted. "And you wouldn't need to hide so much. The Isola Tiberina is free of guards."
Leonardo blinked at him, yet again utterly surprised. He did that sometimes, Ezio had noticed. He seemed perpetually bewildered whenever he realized the danger he was in just from sitting on this bench with him. "Ezio..."
"Airy rooms, even," Ezio said. He heard the pleading note in his own voice, but was helpless to stop it. His words seemed to fray like the edges of an old carpet. He needed to convince Leonardo to come to the hideout, but he didn't want to scare him. "With many windows, good light for painting... Leonardo, I cannot..."
What he could not do, Leonardo seemed to understand better than his pleas. A small frown of dawning understanding formed between his eyebrows. He said, "I don't want to inconvenience you or the—"
"You won't," Ezio broke in. He swallowed hard. "Please."
Leonardo studied him. He still looked bewildered, but less so. His gaze flickered across Ezio's face and it was like being studied through a spy glass, not entirely comfortable. Leonardo gave him a small smile, and squeezed his shoulder, which Ezio had not even noticed he was still holding.
"Very well," he said, with a slightly exasperated sigh. He stroked his warm, heavy hand down Ezio's back, in an absent-minded way, like his hand had just decided to try and soothe the tense hunch of his spine. "Only give me a few hours to settle things with the farmers I've been living with."
Ezio breathed out carefully. Something in him went brittle with relief, and he felt he had to move slowly lest it shattered against his ribs.
It was not the best solution. Ezio knew how Leonardo valued his independence, and he knew there'd be many a blazing row as Ezio would try to convince him to let a recruit escort him as he went about his errands in the city.
But to have Leonardo safe with him, ensconced at the Isola Tiberina... It settled something within Ezio, a cold and sleepless thing that had grabbed ahold of him when he'd first opened that blasted contract. He would clear out as many rooms as Leonardo wanted, he'd send the novices to mix his paints for him if he wished, so long as Leonardo was safe.
Leonardo had politely averted his eyes again. Ezio realized he had sagged a little on the bench, in shaky, queasy relief. But Leonardo's broad palm was still on Ezio's back, the fingers fanned out as though to steady as much of his spine as possible. Ezio allowed himself just another moment to rub at his aching temples. Then he straightened up again.
Leonardo let his hand slide away. Quite matter-of-factly, he said, "But you must let me earn my keep as well."
Ezio bristled a little. He shot Leonardo an indignant look. "If you think I will take your hard-earned money—"
"Perhaps I could tend to your recruits after training," Leonardo mused aloud. He pretended not to have heard. "I have learned much about anatomy lately. Or I could build weapons for you..."
The brief spark of offense fizzled out. Instead, a helpless, fond warmth cracked open in his chest.
Leonardo, ever-practical, not all that disturbed at the thought that a Borgia captain wanted him dead—and now putting the ever-spinning cogs of his brilliant mind to work finding a way he could aid the Assassins as they sheltered him.
Ezio couldn't stop himself. It was as though he was watching himself from afar. He saw himself move. Carefully, he took Leonardo's right hand in both of his and tugged it close, that hand that had drawn new designs for him and that sketched carelessly in the margins of Leonardo's medical notes, the hand that drew the chalk markings on Roma's benches as little friendly havens.
He brought Leonardo's hand to his lips. The tanned, veined back of it bore no charcoal smudges, and it was there that Ezio brushed the briefest, chastest of kisses.
Leonardo drew in a slow breath. Ezio released him. He felt his face heat, but met Leonardo's eyes with determination. A gesture of deep affection, he thought, affection between friends and nothing more. It could have been thus, and Leonardo did not need to know the hard thud of Ezio's heart against his ribs.
Leonardo all but gaped at him. Ezio said, "It will be enough for me to know you are safe."
There was a short pause. The breeze blew a little sharper on their hill, stirring the canopy of leaves overhead. Leonardo's eyes were clear and somehow wild, assessing, alight with something Ezio could not quite name. Hope, perhaps, though Ezio knew not for what.
Leonardo's throat worked as he swallowed. It seemed to take him a few moments to remember how to speak, and when he did, his voice shook a little. He said, "But not for me."
It was not a blow meant to hurt, Ezio knew, and it did not. Leonardo gave him an oddly shaky smile, one that steadied by degrees as the strange moment passed. "Would you have me cooped up like a maiden from a fairytale? You must promise to let me earn my keep."
"Alright," Ezio relented, readily. This was not something he wished to be stubborn about. Quieter, he said, "Thank you. For agreeing."
Of course, that chased the last of that dazed, wondering look out of Leonardo's eyes. He gave Ezio a narrow-eyed glance, likely wondering why he had been so easily won over and when he would begin to nag at Leonardo again to just sit back and relax in the safety of the hideout and not bother working.
Ezio smiled to himself. He looked out at the gilding sunlight, growing a little warmer and orange with the approaching hour of dusk. The sheep still grazed in the valley below, oblivious to all that had transpired on the hill.
Ghita was likely at La Volpe Addormentata by now. The thieves would come and seek him out for further instructions. He would have to get back to the hideout soon, confer with Machiavelli on what was to be done about that Borgia captain.
But for now, he would take just another few moments to sit with Leonardo and let the quietude of the moment dissolve the last of the wire-thin tension in him. Leonardo would not mention the minutes that passed. Neither would he comment on the silence. He would just look out at the fields with Ezio for as long as it took, and for that, Ezio was grateful.