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Ezio knew he was going to miss. He knew that with certainty when he felt his shoulder give and staggered, gasping. His sword dropped from his hand as he clutched at the arrow half buried in his shoulder. He watched it all happen in slow motion, in utter disbelief. He'd not known the archers were anywhere near. Had had no inkling that there were archers at all. He gritted his teeth, fingers slick with blood, as he glared at the soldiers who moved closer weaving their weapons back and forth in menacing arcs.

The Assassin fought like a feral beast, winded or not, injured or not. He was a handful and that was no mistake. Estefano Reggio swore as his men died around him. The bastard was covered in blood and knives head to foot, seemingly pulling the shiny sleek blades out of thin air. If he'd not known better Estefano would have said the Assassin employed magic. But how magical was a man who stumbled and bled and gasped with every stroke? He was mortal. And this day of Christmas he would die.

Ezio heaved, straining to push the heavily armed man aside as his shoulder screamed at him. The arrow hampered his movement, tearing more tissue when he used the arm. His whole body shook, with fatigue and the shock finally setting in. He knew he'd lose this little struggle too. He simply was too tired. He had not the strength.

But he had to try. He could not just give up. Altair would not have. Neither would Giovanni. The anger that the thought of his father brought to the surface warmed him, flooding power back into a tired frame for a short time. He'd better use that little while to his advantage.

He gave under the push from the heavy man, falling backwards and rolling despite the protesting shoulder. His foot came up into the solar plexus of the suddenly plunging man, unbalanced by his enemy's sudden move. Ezio heard the dull whoosh of air leaving the man's lungs and quick as a snake reached up to stick the hidden blade on his injured arm into the man's gut, holding in a scream. The man's momentum carried him past the prone Assassin but jarred the arrow's end, sending a new wave of pain shooting through him. For a moment he blacked out and then was on his feet, the short blade slashing through flesh, leather and even metal at times. He was past all care, all memory, all needs but one: to kill. To take lives that threatened his existence, that would take his without hesitation. Killing felt good. Killing spoke of life: he was still alive and only when he could see nothing else would he be defeated. They'd have to cut him to pieces to stop him.

Estefano gauged the Assassin in a temporary lull in the fighting as everyone recovered their breath. Half dead or not, cut up or not, the young bastard was a handful and no question about it. Estefano admitted now that he'd underestimated him: one man though the Assassin was, he fought like an army, every angle covered, every contingency planned for. And those blades on his arms… Like the stingers of a scorpion. Poisoned as like as not. A dangerous quarry indeed. The Florentine government had not told him that when they'd hired his band to hunt this one down. There were many things they'd not told him. Things he'd found out on his own. He'd probably better demand a higher price when he got back with the Assassin's head. But then, he could simply bring him in alive. Let them deal with the man: he was simply a bounty hunter – half his men were dead already and that did not look too good for his prospects. Cutting his losses sounded rather good. Dumping a living, albeit wounded, enemy on those incompetent enough to kill a man's family and forget to include him in the list sounded like a good idea. He'd take less money perhaps but his band would be intact. He wanted some answers. He'd had enough of fighting for one week.

He needed time to consider. For that he needed to stop the Assassin. He turned slightly and gave the signal.

Ezio never heard the net drop or the men who dropped down the wall behind him on ropes to entangle him. He fought savagely, desperately, knowing this was the one fight he'd lose. They'd take him, take his life, but he'd made them pay well at least.

"Basta, Assassin! I don't want to kill you."

At first Ezio did not hear the words. And did not believe them when they were repeated in an urgent voice. He snarled like a wild beast in a cage as he cut the net. The two men tripped him and took him down to the ground, one's knee in the middle of his back, the other sitting on his legs. Ezio bucked, growling.

"I said," the voice repeated lower now as Ezio heard the sound of approaching footsteps. "I need you alive, Assassin."

Ezio breathed heavily, aware now of every cut and slash and most of all of the arrow, broken now but driven all that much deeper, almost to the bone. He did not speak. This situation was too unfamiliar. Usually the Templars' hirelings did not want to talk but to kill him as quickly as possible.

"And why would a stronzo like you want to do that?" he grated. His head was grabbed from behind and forced up as a hiss of a curse echoed off the inside of the cavernous cathedral. The additional pain from his scalp did not bother him at all.

"Tsk, tsk," the lightly armed man above him shook his head. "You really do think you're special. A noble once, a noble always." He squatted, smelling of old drink and polishing oil – an uncomfortable combination at any time. "Your head is worth much to those back in Firenze. But then you know that already. I've seen the papers you've ripped off walls and posts bearing your likeness. O yes," he laughed lightly at the angry snarl from the prone man, then signalled to the man holding him to let him go. Ezio's head dropped down as the man continued, "I know about you, Ezio Auditore, noble and Assassin. A fascinating subject of study you've proven to be. Father involved in high treason, executed for it – but really not that responsible. Simply a scapegoat. And you, his son, swore to avenge him. And for the past few years you've been hunting down those who had tried to cover up their mistakes by piling them on your father. They did not reckon on you, the younger hot headed son. Impressive."

The hold on Ezio relaxed and he was hauled up, not too roughly. He hissed at the fresh pain in his shoulder. That by far was his greatest concern – right after the amazement at how much this man knew about him. Bounty hunter he might be but was no fool.

"Who are you? You, who seems to know me as well as my friends do," he challenged, holding his head high. He did not move, the net covered him too well. It was better to remain still for now.

"Ah," the man turned from his pacing to look at the deep hood of the Assassin. "That is a good question." Smiling slightly, hands behind his back, he approached the Assassin, looking deeply into his eyes, studying him. Ezio bore the scrutiny easily. He was used to being stared at. "Another good question is what will happen now. As you can see you're still alive. My orders were to kill you. But along the way I started to wonder. About why I and my band were needed to hunt down a young man. I was not given a proper enough reason for the task. I accepted it only because the money was good and only because the contract was a fairly open one. The fools in the higher echelons of the Florentine government underestimate you. A dangerous thing in itself as I have lost half my men. I should probably kill you for that alone."

Ezio sneered at him, his lip curling. "Go right ahead," he said in a deadly quiet tone. "They won't pay you more for bringing me back alive. They'd make an example out of you as well. They'll kill you. Because they fear me and anyone associated with me however briefly. Run now," he leaned forward against his bonds and the men holding his arms back. "Run while I am still too injured to come after you."

A dead silence fell as the two men stared one another down. Ezio breathed through his nostrils, every muscle poised and taut, every heartbeat cracking his ribs. The other man never batted an eyelid. He was good, Ezio decided. Admirable. He had backbone.

Finally the man smiled and laughed, not an unpleasant sound.
"O, the fire of youth. For that alone I am inclined to let you live. I propose a deal to you. You'll have time to think it over as we go to our camp in Verona." He waited for assent before going on. "You have skill, Assassin. Great skill. But you can't hope to fight all these men on your own. You need allies. We, bounty hunters, go anywhere and everywhere. We can be invaluable for gathering the information you need. But for that, I would need to know more about these men you fight against. And our fee would not be unreasonable."

Ezio just stared at him for some time. He was too stunned at this offer to say anything for a while. Then felt the hold on him slacken at the man's signal. He would have fallen if not for his stiff pride holding his knees together.

"You ask much, you offer much more. Alliance, services of yourself and your men. But if there is to be trust between us, then begin by telling me more of yourself. Your name for one. You know me and mine. This cannot be a one sided bargain."

The man conceded his point with a curt nod.

"I agree." He extended his hand to grip the wet one of the Assassin who shook back with all the force he could muster. "I am Estefano Reggio, the bounty hunter, formerly in the employ of the Republic of Firenze. Currently between contracts."
The man had an easy way about him and a sense of humour that Ezio, weary and cut up as he was, could not deny. It was infectious. He felt a return smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Good enough," he said slowly, blinking as his body realised that danger was past now and so could rest. He swayed and felt the hold on him renewed but this time a supporting one instead of a death like grip. "For now."

"I love it when they have spirit, don't you?" Estefano said to no one in particular, rubbing his hands. "Get me a stretcher. And get that arrow out of him. He's our employer now. Or as good as."

Ezio could not help but shake his head. The man just never gave up. He always had a last word or two to say, seemingly. His own last words died as the net was taken off him and his knees at last buckled under him as he spiralled into the safe darkness of oblivion.