Damascus, 1513.

A cloaked man stood in the alleyway. What he was waiting for was, as of yet, unapparent. After 20 minutes of sitting there, without making the slightest attempt at any action, he was greeted by a man in bronze armor. This man handed him a package. The cloaked man spoke briefly with the armored man, before both nodded and departed.

The cloaked man walked into a large square, where he was met by another man, this time in a fine blue silk robe. The package was handed off again.

The robed man walked for a distance, through the winding roads of the city. At last, he paused by a door, looked around, and ventured deeper into what seemed to be an unassuming tavern.

Behind him, the door made a whooshing sound whilst it closed. This sound stopped for just a fraction of the second. Then it continued as before.

The man was hailed by the innkeeper, who took a heavy bronze key from his pocket and opened a door to the basement. They both went down into the basement, where the innkeeper opened yet another door, which led into a rough-hewn stone passage, lit by an occasional torch. The robed man continued his journey. The innkeeper went back upstairs, where the last of his customers were trotting out on unsteady legs.

The innkeeper searched his pockets twice. His key was gone.

Meanwhile, the robed man had gone out the other end of the passage, into a lavishly decorated palace; so lavishly decorated, in fact, that we can assume it was property of royalty. He turned to shut the door.

The robed man never came out of that basement.

Neither did his package.

All that could be observed on his body was a small piece of yellow cloth, clutched tightly between his stiffened fingers, which had clearly been torn from its natural position during a struggle.

The Order was being re-established in Damascus.