In the back of the Bureau, behind the counter and past the book shelves, there was a small kitchen area and two bedrooms. One bedroom is for the Rafiq of the Bureau, where as the other was for sick or injured assassins, which is why I made Altaïr and the other assassins who visited Jerusalem sleep on the cushions outside of the office area.
Between those two rooms, there was another door, unused for decades before I had come there. Given the physical state of my body, I could not climb in and out of the Bureau through the roof like a normal assassin. Luckily, it seemed that the tunnel on the other side of that door was built with the Bureau, and seems to be the main entrance before the roof entrance was built. I had the only key, which I wore around my neck beneath my robes. I use the exit only when I have to buy various supplies for the Bureau.
Of course, in my first few weeks in the Bureau, I had tried to climb out of the roof entrance, when I was alone. I didn't get far. The only thing I managed to achieve each time was landing on my back on the pillows I had placed at the bottom, and feeling exhausted physically and emotionally.
As I walked through the tunnel, the stone floor sloping gently beneath my feet, the torch in my hand cast ghastly shadows that danced on the walls eerily as I walked. I carried an empty basket on my back for the food I would buy at the market, and, although I was posing as a simple, poor scholar, I carried throwing knives along with a short sword strapped to my waist, all easily concealed by my outer robe, if no one looked too closely, which no one ever did. Seeing me and my missing arm seemed to make people uncomfortable. And when people did look at me long enough, and they didn't bother to look away, they would always give me that despicable look of pity, and it would always make me feel angry and, yes, ashamed.
Of course, I hadn't liked Jerusalem at first, and still don't to some extent. I hadn't even wanted to return there at all. It was too loud, too crowded, and above all too close to Solomon's Temple. I didn't want to be anywhere near that place again, but Al Mualim had assigned me to Jerusalem, and I couldn't just disobey a direct order.
A couple of days after my arm was amputated, the Master came to visit me in the infirmary. I was still weak and feverish, but he informed me that I had done well, and that I was to be promoted to Rafiq, and I would be transferred to Jerusalem. Of course, I did not express my discomfort to the Master out loud. Once my fever was gone, the stump of my left arm had at least mostly scabbed over, the medics said I was safe to travel, and Kadar's funeral, I traveled to Jerusalem and had just two weeks to get used to life there before Altaïr's first mission at the city, where our paths crossed again. During the period I was healing, I spent a lot of my time re-learning how to do some of the most simple things, such as getting myself ready for the day and how to swim, one handed. It took some getting used to, and I can't exactly say I got used to it, but I can function, anyways.
The exit of the tunnel is a few blocks away from the Bureau, for safety reasons. I left my still burning torch on a sconce next to the door before slipping out into the abandoned house. I locked the door behind me, crossed through the house and locked that door as well, and melted fluidly into the crowd.
The world shifted around me with the various sounds, shapes, colors, and smells of Jerusalem. Women walked in groups carrying jars with water or spices in them on their heads, adjusting their veils with their free hand. Over enthusiastic merchants called out to random people from the stalls built into the sides of their houses, claiming to have exactly what they need, while beggar women swooped down on the people on the edge of the crowd, begging for coin. I moved along with the sea of people, flowing in the direction of the market.
Once I reached the bazaar, I moved from stall to stall, mostly buying fruits and vegetables, and what meat I did buy was lamb. I didn't buy any salt to preserve it, though, because there were a couple of barrels full of the stuff back at the Bureau. The lamb meat was wrapped carefully in paper, and was at the very top of my basket on top if the various melons and apples and the other comestibles I had bought earlier that day.
As I headed back to the Bureau, I found myself straying to the edge of the crowd. I tried to force my way back to the center of the throng, so I could avoid the beggar women, two of which had already seen me and were making a beeline in my direction, but the hoard of people was too thick. I attempted to fight my way through, but as I tried to get through, an alcoholic shambled towards me. He carried a bottle loosely in his left hand, and his gray-brown clothes stained with sick, human waste, and dust. I tensed when I saw him, and not just because of the putrid sent of alcohol and vomit that was emanating from him.
The drunk shouted something incoherent, and gave me a hard shove into a side ally way. I stumbled and fell to the ground, throwing out my arm in an attempt to catch myself, but I was imbalanced so the only thing I achieved was cutting my hand, the contents of my basket spilling all over the ground. I bit my lip to avoid cursing. Above me, at the entrance of the ally, the drunkard shouted something else unintelligible, flailing his arms in the air wildly, the contents of his bottle sloshing all over himself. The drunk shambled off into the crowd, harassing some other poor, unfortunate person.
A thousand curse words in every language I know ran through my head as I scrambled around on my hand and knees, picking up the food for my Bureau, collecting the ones that had rolled all the way to the back wall of the ally, thinking savagely how much I would love to kill that damned drunk, and how stupidly helpless I felt because of my arm.
I nearly had everything back in the basket, and I was reaching for one of the last pieces of fruit when a shadow fell over me, and a heavy, booted foot stepped on my hand. I hissed quietly in pain and jerked my hand out from beneath it and looked up at the man leering down at me, his right hand closed around the handle of a knife at his left hip. He kicked over my basket, it's contents scattering over the ground once more.
Of course. This sort of thing seemed to happen every time I left the Bureau; some thick, imbecilic thug thinks he could make a quick coin or two by attacking the apparently harmless, crippled scholar.
I scrambled to my feet, my own hand closing around the short sword beneath my robes, as the thug drew a long, blood-stained knife. He advanced slowly, backing me into the back wall. I allowed myself a couple of feet of space from my back to the wall.
I scowled down at my attacker's weapon in disgust. Every now and then you get one that thinks he can intimidate his victims by not cleaning his knife, where as in reality you could do a lot more damage and it would last longer if your weapon was cared for properly. It disgusted me the way morons like that treated their weapons, most likely because proper weapon care was one of the first things we learned as Novices at Masyaf. How to clean, sharpen, and tend to our weapons was practically second nature to assassins, other than using them. That man was just displaying his stupidity by not cleaning his weapon.
"Hand over all of your money, and I won't have to hurt you." sneered the thug.
"Bous tize." I snarled in Arabic, "I could say the same to you."
The thug guffawed cruelly, and flicked the hand holding the knife to emphasize its presence. I scowled, and my eyes didn't leave his face, and I drew my sword, which made the thug laugh harder. His grin widened harshly.
"What are you going to do with that toy?" jeered the thug, "I'm willing to bet you can't even use that. So hand over all your coin, and you get to live."
My body was automatically tensing and relaxing the muscles necessary for a sword fight, my leather boots shifting in the dirt an gravel. I pointed my sword directly at his throat. The words of our trainer when Altaïr and I were Novices, and he wasn't training with Al Mualim, flashed through my mind. Cut him down quickly and efficiently. Let the enemy strike first, let him come to you. Strike with certainty. The thug clearly did not know a master swordsman when he saw one, because judging by his posture and his expression, he still thought he had the upper hand.
"Do you really think you can take me, cripple?" the thug said, a note of vicious excitement in his voice.
The man launched at me, his knife arcing high. Flawlessly, I turned my sword horizontally and blocked his would be blow.
As much as I wanted to, I couldn't kill this man. Not because he was an innocent, he lost his status as an innocent as soon as he decided that it would be okay to attack me, but it would have been too messy, and I was to be posing as a simple scholar. To have even the slightest possibility that I would be associated with a murder could destroy the entire status I have created as just some, random, anonymous scholar.
The thug advanced, snarling. I twisted, letting my instincts take over, raising my sword to meet him. His knife met with my sword with a clang. Anyone who wasn't experienced in fighting would have been knocked back and thrown backwards. However, my feet were planted wide and I was braced for the attack, and as a result his attack barely moved me. I swept his knife aside, but he managed to keep his grip. If his weapon had been just a little bit heavier, it would have flown out of his hands.
The thug lunged at me, and for a moment or so we traded blows. It was clear to me that he was trying to push me back against the wall, but I was steadfast and didn't budge.
Every time I created an opening, I gave him a large gash, or rammed the flat of my blade against him. Not any deep enough to seriously injure him, but enough to weaken him. Soon the man's movements and attempted blows were slower and sloppier than ever before. His eyes widened in horror as it slowly dawned on him that I was just toying with him. I could have killed him about a thousand times by then.
Like a coward, the thug turned tail and started to run towards the entrance, where the throng of the people of Jerusalem remained blissfully unaware of what was going on here. Every time this happened, I felt both amused and infuriated by the incompetency of the guards.
I sprinted forward, running much faster than that moron in his bloody, weakened state. I bashed the flat of my blade against his shins, catapulting the thug forward, his knife launching out of his hand, making him skid on the dirt and dust. I kicked him over so he was facing me. He put his hands up in a defensive posture, his eyes wild with fear.
He babbled incoherently about how sorry he was, that he would never make the same mistake of attacking me again, and that he would give up thieving forever. All the usual bullshit.
I looked down at him, pointing my sword at him, the tip of my blade less then a centimeter away from his Adam's apple. I crouched down and brought the handle of my blade to his temple, knocking him out instantly.
I straightened back up and replaced my sword back in its sheath, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, as I looked down at my would-be attacker.
I may have been a Rafiq, I may have been... hindered by my missing arm, and I may have been somewhat out of practice, but for a moment, just a moment, I felt like a true assassin again, before I picked up the last of the fruit that I had deemed salvageable, along with the lamb meat which should have been fine if I washed it once I got back to the Bureau.
I slung the refilled basket back over my good shoulder and strode from the ally brusquely, not once looking back.