his eyes. A look that he
passed first to the parents and then to the boy.
‘He lacks the killer instinct. The boy can
kill and no doubt will, but he lacks something we have, you and I, or perhaps he has something
we lack.’
Arbaaz tilted his chin, colour rising. ‘Are
you saying my boy’s a coward?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Arbaaz,’
huffed an exasperated Ethan. ‘No, of course I’m bloody not. It’s a matter of
disposition. If you put this boy in the field, he will either fail or …’
‘I won’t,’ said Jayadeep
suddenly, surprising even himself, anticipating a scolding, maybe even a more painful punishment
for this sudden unwarranted and uninvited outburst.
Instead his father looked proudly at him,
reaching overto squeeze his shoulder in a gesture that made
Jayadeep’s heart swell with pride.
Ethan ignored him. He had turned his attention to
Pyara. ‘There is no shame in this,’ he told her, and he could see the softness in
her eyes, the secret hope that maybe just maybe her family might at long last be free of
bloodshed. ‘He can serve the Brotherhood in other ways. What a mentor he will be. A master
tactician. A policymaker. A great leader. And somebody has to be these things. Jayadeep can be
these things. Just not …
never
… a warrior.’
Arbaaz could contain himself no longer. Pyara,
calm and resolute, accustomed to the sight of her husband in full flight, remained implacable as
he exploded with rage. ‘Jayadeep, my son,
will
be a great warrior, Frye. He will
be a master Assassin, a mentor of the Indian Brotherhood …’
‘He can still …’
‘Not unless he has proven himself in
combat. As a warrior. As an Assassin.’
Ethan shook his head. ‘He is not ready and,
Arbaaz, I’m sorry if it breaks your heart but in my opinion he never will be.’
‘Ah,’ said Arbaaz, rising and
shepherding Jayadeep. Pyara surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye as she too stood, loyal,
despite her torn emotions. ‘There we have it, Ethan. It is just your opinion. What do you
think, Jay, shall we prove our English friend wrong?’
And Jayadeep, the boy who would one day be TheGhost, was not even ten years old but who so desperately wanted to please
Arbaaz because his father was his king, said, ‘Yes, Father.’
11
Text of a letter from Ethan Frye to Arbaaz Mir,
decoded from the original:
Dear Arbaaz,
Six years have passed since I left India to return home here to England. Six years since we
last spoke, my old friend. And far, far too long.
In the meantime I have learnt to mourn the loss of my beloved wife, Cecily, and do so in a
manner of which she would have approved, which is to say that I have set aside my former
resentment in order to build a relationship with our two children, Evie and Jacob. I regret
that I ever considered them responsible for my loss; I have done my best to make reparations
for the lost years of their childhood.
It was the years spent with your extraordinary son, Jayadeep, that galvanized me, and for
that I am eternally grateful to you both. Jayadeep set me on a path of enlightenment that made
me re-evaluate my thinking. I’m sorry to say, Arbaaz, that it has only strengthened my
resolve regarding the matter that drove a wedge between us all those years ago, and now
prompts me to make contact once again.
I should explain. As Assassins we are instilled with a certain philosophy. Unlike the
Templars who divide the world’s inhabitantsinto shepherds and
sheep, we see millions of bright spots: intelligent, feeling beings, each with their own
potential and capable of working within a greater whole.
Or so we like to think. These days I wonder. Do we always put this philosophy into
practice? When we train our young Assassins we put swords into their hands when they have only
just learnt to walk. We teach values passed down the generations, sculpting the child into a
creature of preconception and discrimination and, above all, in our particular case, a
killer.
What we
passed first to the parents and then to the boy.
‘He lacks the killer instinct. The boy can
kill and no doubt will, but he lacks something we have, you and I, or perhaps he has something
we lack.’
Arbaaz tilted his chin, colour rising. ‘Are
you saying my boy’s a coward?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Arbaaz,’
huffed an exasperated Ethan. ‘No, of course I’m bloody not. It’s a matter of
disposition. If you put this boy in the field, he will either fail or …’
‘I won’t,’ said Jayadeep
suddenly, surprising even himself, anticipating a scolding, maybe even a more painful punishment
for this sudden unwarranted and uninvited outburst.
Instead his father looked proudly at him,
reaching overto squeeze his shoulder in a gesture that made
Jayadeep’s heart swell with pride.
Ethan ignored him. He had turned his attention to
Pyara. ‘There is no shame in this,’ he told her, and he could see the softness in
her eyes, the secret hope that maybe just maybe her family might at long last be free of
bloodshed. ‘He can serve the Brotherhood in other ways. What a mentor he will be. A master
tactician. A policymaker. A great leader. And somebody has to be these things. Jayadeep can be
these things. Just not …
never
… a warrior.’
Arbaaz could contain himself no longer. Pyara,
calm and resolute, accustomed to the sight of her husband in full flight, remained implacable as
he exploded with rage. ‘Jayadeep, my son,
will
be a great warrior, Frye. He will
be a master Assassin, a mentor of the Indian Brotherhood …’
‘He can still …’
‘Not unless he has proven himself in
combat. As a warrior. As an Assassin.’
Ethan shook his head. ‘He is not ready and,
Arbaaz, I’m sorry if it breaks your heart but in my opinion he never will be.’
‘Ah,’ said Arbaaz, rising and
shepherding Jayadeep. Pyara surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye as she too stood, loyal,
despite her torn emotions. ‘There we have it, Ethan. It is just your opinion. What do you
think, Jay, shall we prove our English friend wrong?’
And Jayadeep, the boy who would one day be TheGhost, was not even ten years old but who so desperately wanted to please
Arbaaz because his father was his king, said, ‘Yes, Father.’
11
Text of a letter from Ethan Frye to Arbaaz Mir,
decoded from the original:
Dear Arbaaz,
Six years have passed since I left India to return home here to England. Six years since we
last spoke, my old friend. And far, far too long.
In the meantime I have learnt to mourn the loss of my beloved wife, Cecily, and do so in a
manner of which she would have approved, which is to say that I have set aside my former
resentment in order to build a relationship with our two children, Evie and Jacob. I regret
that I ever considered them responsible for my loss; I have done my best to make reparations
for the lost years of their childhood.
It was the years spent with your extraordinary son, Jayadeep, that galvanized me, and for
that I am eternally grateful to you both. Jayadeep set me on a path of enlightenment that made
me re-evaluate my thinking. I’m sorry to say, Arbaaz, that it has only strengthened my
resolve regarding the matter that drove a wedge between us all those years ago, and now
prompts me to make contact once again.
I should explain. As Assassins we are instilled with a certain philosophy. Unlike the
Templars who divide the world’s inhabitantsinto shepherds and
sheep, we see millions of bright spots: intelligent, feeling beings, each with their own
potential and capable of working within a greater whole.
Or so we like to think. These days I wonder. Do we always put this philosophy into
practice? When we train our young Assassins we put swords into their hands when they have only
just learnt to walk. We teach values passed down the generations, sculpting the child into a
creature of preconception and discrimination and, above all, in our particular case, a
killer.
What we
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