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Serpent in White

Chapter I

A flash of grey, a pool of red, a streak of white.

I woke up with a start, covered in sweat. My hand immediately reached for the dagger on my nightstand. I knew there was no one else in the room, but gripping the weapon gave me a degree of comfort and personal safety. A very small degree. After a while I realized that I'd been holding my breath. I let it out, something between a whimper and a scream. I began crying in hard, wracking sobs. I pushed my face in my pillow so nobody would hear me.

It hadn't been as much a nightmare or a dream as it had been a memory: the memory of my father's death. One day I had seen a man in dressed white robes on the street. There was something about him that caught my eye: perhaps his posture, perhaps his 'd run among the rooftops and I would follow him.I chased him across rooftops, not really knowing why. I could barely keep up, but I persevered. After the chase that turned out to be the last I had returned home to find my father dying in his hands. That day I swore to kill the man in white. That was two years ago.

I woke up again some hours later. For some people the hour was still early, but for a long time I'd been sleeping the bare minimum to keep functioning properly. For me, sleep was rarely a welcome release. I glanced out of the window at the nearly-risen sun. I was supposed to be at a tavern at midday for a meeting. I considered several things I could do to pass the time. In the end I chose to do none of them and instead remained in my room.

I left the inn where I was staying some time before the meeting. It was the year of our Lord 1183 A.D. and I was dressed in a rough leather tunic. While my family was originally from England my father had adapted to Islamic practices soon after arriving in the Holy had done this more out of sociopolitical necessity than anything else. Father had been a practical man. He rarely spoke of any faith in the Christian God and followed all the habits the Muslims did, excluding things like praying to Allah, which wasn't allowed for infidels. My beliefs were practiced in an equally utilitarian manner, visible most in my not adhering to the Islamic women's dress nowadays even in Damascus a western woman walking alone wasn't unduly frowned upon.

I arrived at my destination long before my contact. I suspected he was late on purpose. I spent the extra time planning. That's the kind of person I am. I plan; constantly and for every situation. It's part paranoia, part fear and part careful nature. Maybe all three stem from the same source. I don't know. I watched the people filing in and out of the tavern. It wasn't lavishly decorated. A few carpets and cloths here and there to cover the rough clay walls. There was a higher floor where I assumed the management lived. The ground floor was larger and had several small tables. It wasn't a large tavern, but I liked it. It wasn't seedy enough to attract unwelcome visitors but wasn't large or rich enough to attract more posh clientèle. Time passed, and eventually my contact arrived. Our eyes met and I waved him over. He sat down hurriedly and we shook hands.

"As-Salāmu `Alayki," he greeted.

"Wa `Aleyka As-Salaam," I greeted back. "I am your contact. Would you like something to drink?" He glanced furtively at the empty tankard in front of me and then nodded. I smiled inwardly as I fetched a tankard for him. My tankard had never been anything but dry and was at my table only to make him feel at ease. When I returned to the table he downed his drink quickly.

"So what can I do for a pretty girl like you?" he asked somewhat snidely. I ignored the remark. He was trying to establish a position of power. I simply smiled, knowing it infuriated him.

"I'm told you know something about the, um..." I trailed off and signaled the barkeep for another drink. "The assassins." The fact of the matter was that I knew that he knew. Moreover, he was one of them. Not a high-ranking assassin, if they had any hierarchy at all, like the one who killed my father, but an assassin nonetheless. I also knew that he drank eagerly, often a little too much and that his tongue loosened up quite a bit when he did.

"Truly, I might. But what is that to you?" The second tankard arrived. This one wasn't gone as quickly. I whispered to the barkeep to keep them coming for two drinks more.

"My business is my own."

"Of course it is, but I would feel much more at ease in a company with mutual trust." We smiled venomously at each other. I'd anticipated this.

"Of course. I am employed by someone who wants information the assassins with a minimum of personal risk and involvement."

"I see. Now what motivation is there for me to divulge my secrets?" he asked, leaning back and crossing his hands behind his head. Because if you don't I'll cut off your balls and throw them in the river, I thought behind my smile, but I held my tongue and set a leather pouch on the table. He eyed it speculatively for a moment before nodding. Then he told me of the assassins.

"We are followers of the Nizari tariqath, a pathof the Ismaili branch of Islam, though in recent years our focus on religion and spirituality has lessened. We began when Hassan-i Sabbah and his followers found themselves without alliesin enemy territory, so to speak. He led our people to the fortress of Alamut. From there they consolidated their position by eliminating the most dangerous political enemies. Since we had little by way of military might we trained our warriors to eliminate our enemies unseen. This way we conserved our numbers and our enemies fell. Slowly our position was secure once more. This was almost a century ago.

"Since then we claimed more fortresses to use and went through a short succession of leaders. We killed Muslims and Christians alike; our only goal was survival, maintaining a balance of enemies. We truly entered a 'golden age' when our latest leader,known only as Al Mualim like all our leaders, save for Hassan-i Sabbah, came to power. He perfected the training regimen and methods of our assassins and has since led us with unequaled vision and purpose."

"This Al Mualim, does he ever leave the safety of Masyaf?" I asked. For the tiniest moment there was a flash of intelligence and unbridled joy in his eyes.

"Rarely... But by chance such a time is now upon us." His speech was slurring slightly. "In a week or so he is traveling here, to Damascus, to meet with the local bureau leader." I cocked an eyebrow. "A bureau leader manages to brotherhood's business within a city."

"Why the meeting?"

"I cannot know for certain," he said irritably, waving his hand as if to dismiss a source of annoyance. "But my guess is to discuss the matter of a replacement. The current bureau leader is old and weary of his post." He began mulling over his fourth tankard of the meeting. I propped my elbows on my hands and smiled as sweetly and sincerely as I could.

"Please, tell me more."

***

From there on out things went bad. When he finished telling me all about Al Mualim's visit he leaned back and closed his eyes. After he'd been completely still for some time I decided to take my gold back and quietly make my exit. While I could've lost the gold without much trouble, if the opportunity arose I was more than eager to take it back. As an assassin he wouldn't risk an incident with the authorities. However, just as my hand closed around the leather pouch his eyes snapped open and he gave an angry yell. Without really thinking I jumped on the table, kicked his teeth in and jumped for the stairs. At the top I saw a corridor with three rooms along it. The first one had an open window. There were angry yells sounds of struggling coming from behind me so I ran to the window and jumped out. It wasn't far above street level and I managed to soften my landing with an awkward roll. Immediately I got up and ran. A few turns later I ducked behind a low wall and caught my breath. Carefully I peeked above the wall and saw no one. I crouched and observed the street. A short way ahead of me was a ladder. I ran for it just to be safe.

On the rooftop I checked my surroundings again and found that I still wasn't being followed. Even if my lovely contact had managed to keep his wits about him after four pints,which I found somewhat impressive in itself, he'd have to have lost some or most of his motor skills. I doubted he was up for a real exhausted, I collapsed against a stack of crates. For a while I only breathed in lungfuls of air. After my breathing had returned to normal I stared at the sky for a moment before beginning laughing uncontrollably. I wasn't amused by anything; I was just feeling the joy of success. I kept laughing until I was once again breathless. I had to once again regain my breath, but soon I was headed back to my inn.

I woke up before the sun was up. Having gone to sleep early on I was feeling energetic and reluctant to go back to sleep. It was time to gather my thoughts and plan for the future. Al Mualim of the Assassins was coming to Damascus in nine days and he would meet the local bureau leader in a teahouse in the Rich District. I had never been to the place myself; I avoided the Rich District like the plague, there were too many chances of being recognizedI would have to check out the place beforehand. I had a burkha that would sufficiently conceal my features.

Al Mualim would have an entourage, four assassins skilled with the blade, which was a double-edged sword. On one hand it would be much easier to spot an old man escorted by four strong men than it would be to spot just an old man. On the other hand I would probably have to contend with his escorts in some way to get to him. However, once I did get to him I was probably safe. He was an old man and according to my contact he wouldn't even leave his fortress without strong reason.

I addressed both concerns over the next days. For the escorts I could do little, so I settled on buying a new short sword, since I had no shortage of money. I visited the was crowded and there was little room to move about. However, the rafters of the teahouse large and would allow me to observe the meeting unmolested and jump in at the opportune moment. The rest of the week I spent gathering my strength and resting. The night before the meeting an overpowering feeling of exhaustion washed over me. How did it come to this?, I asked myself. Two years ago I had been a more or less normal young noblewoman. Very well, maybe not that normal, but certainly far removed from the bitter and vengeful creature I was now.

I don't remember how long it was until a servant discovered the bloody scene where I still sat. He of course alerted the city guards. They assured me that the killer would be caught and this injustice righted. Some of them even made a few passes at me. I'm sure you're feeling very lonely, they said. I ignored them. It was some time in the night that I truly realized the situation. I was doomed if I did nothing. When all was said and done my father was an outlander with no male heirs. What remained of his trade empire would be divvied up between corrupt officials and money-hungry, distant blood relations. I would be left barely anything.

Perhaps with effort I could take control of my father's assets, but what could I do with them? I had no mind for economics, much less for political and social intrigue. When I was sure everyone else was asleep I gathered the largest sacks I could find in the house and went to my father's treasury. I left the house carrying as much wealth as I could. Over the next few weeks I hid them in separate locations in Jerusalem and Damascus. One stash I located in Acre. There were at least some people I could trust.

On one of these trips, in Jerusalem, I once again saw the man in white. He was sitting on a bench and all his attention was directed at something I couldn't perceive. I slowed my steps and my hand subtly retrieved the dagger hidden in my boot. I concealed the blade within my sleeve and approached him. A few steps away I froze. I suddenly realized that I was completely outmatched. He hadn't noticed me, this I was sure of, but even with his attention diverted he could handle any attack I could muster, element of surprise or not. The dagger fell from my hand and clattered on the ground, the sound of it like the tolling of iron bells in my ears. I whipped around and ran. I ran and ran and ran until I could run no more. At the first alcove I collapsed onto the ground and cried at my powerlessness. I stayed there until nightfall.

Amidst my reminiscence I slowly drifted to an uninterrupted sleep. I woke up early as always. As I got up the sun was rising and watched it by the window. As I did I felt the backs of my hands tingling. A wry smile danced on my lips. A big day was ahead of me.

***

A/N: Hiya, kids, and welcome to the sequel to a Man in White! Yes, I know I said that I wouldn't return to the story, but in the end our intrepid heroine is too good not to write about. So stay tuned.

A few note about the stuff so far. First off, some of you may raise eyebrows at the blatant disregard for the Islamic requirement for the women to cover pretty much every inch of their skin. As I said, this is a liberty I'm taking as the author. I don't have patience for crap about her being disguised as a man, and, let's face it, a full-body robe (whatever the name was) is not the most acrobatically fit item of clothing. A second note is about the history of the Assassins. Part of if (more or less the first paragraph of the assassin's speech) is more or less historically accurate, from what I can tell. At the second paragraph things turn to the AC version of history, which I came up with myself.

That was that. Stay tuned and please review. Constructive criticism particularly welcome!