Heavy footfalls, so different from the stealthy padding of a brother on the hunt, are Malik's only warning before Altair bursts through the heavy doors leading to Masyaf's library, panting with more than just exertion from a morning of sparring.

"Allah above! Do these recruits have no respect?" Altair stomps his way up the stairs to reach the window overlooking the courtyard. Malik continues his research, hoping to avoid notice at the table between two bookshelves. Suddenly, the overheated presence of the Grandmaster is before him, demanding his attention. "Was I ever so infuriating?"

"Yes," Malik says without hesitation, not looking up from his parchment. "I have no idea what you are talking about, but the answer is most assuredly yes."

"Malik," Altair growls, and the dai finally looks up to see his lover's face flushed and hands balled into fists. "I do not know what we are going to do with these trainees. They cannot follow even the simplest of instructions! Everything has to be questioned and discussed, as if they are negotiating with me!" He throws his hands up. "Negotiating! With the Grandmaster!"

Malik leans back in his seat, resigned to postponing his own work until this latest calamity is resolved. "Are you certain they are disobedient, or simply confused as to what you want from them?"

"How could there be any confusion? When I say, 'Show me a two-handed defense for an opponent approaching from the left,' how many ways can that be interpreted?"

"Do they know what a two-handed defense is?"

"Why wouldn't they? Are you suggesting that Rauf and his instructors are not training them adequately?" The Grandmaster looks ready to take his tirade to the next hapless victim.

"Not at all," Malik tries to calm him. "But it is only the first month for some of these boys. Do you remember forging our own swords and wearing them day and night before we were even allowed into the practice ring?"

"Vaguely," Altair admits after a moment.

"And I must say, unlike their prodigy of a Grandmaster," Malik says with fine, needle-like sarcasm, "many a new recruit, myself included, did not know how to hold a blade when I first arrived. It took time and repeated instruction for it to become second nature."

Altair is slightly mollified but still frowning, so Malik sighs and settles in for a longer discussion. "Now, imagine a young boy, the son of a farmer whose home was destroyed by Templars. He comes here an orphan, having never wielded a knife, and now he is asked to demonstrate a two-handed defense as he tries not to trip over his new sword." Malik rises slowly as he paints this picture. "He is asked to spar with the Grandmaster of the Order, the youngest in the memory of the Brotherhood, when he can barely draw his blade without injuring himself." Malik stands before Altair, satisfied to see annoyance recede behind a thoughtful expression. "Did you ever face ad-Din Sinan in the training ring, brother?"

"Yes. Once as a novice, then again just before my initiation."

"Do you remember what that felt like?" Malik speaks as if addressing a child.

"Yes," Altair answers briefly. "I was terrified." He smirks a little. "Though I hid it well."

"Of course you did," Malik rolls his eyes, "and he was not even much of a swordsman." He dips into his bag of dirty tricks now. "You, on the other hand, are. You have never faced off against yourself, so you cannot know how you appear." He steps a little closer, seeing interest spark in Altair's golden eyes under the shield of his beaked hood.

"When you drop into a fighting stance, even our modest robes cannot hide the width of your shoulders or the muscled line of your back." Malik's tone suggests he has made this assessment for more than academic reasons. "You are fluid as the wind and strong as a mountain." He pulls the hood back from Altair's face and smiles inwardly at his sharp inhalation. "And your eyes – ah! They shine as though they are lit from within. You take up the blade as if you were born to it." Malik lets a little huskiness into his voice. "It is difficult not to be awed."

There is a moment of silence, then Altair swallows heavily. "If I did not know better, dai, I would say you were flattering to some purpose." He doesn't sound too upset by the prospect.

"Not at all," Malik demurs, "if I wax poetic over your fighting skills, it is only because I am moved by their beauty."

Altair studies his face once more, searching for the trap, but eventually shrugs. "I suppose you are right. It was a bit unfair to appear unannounced at the morning session." He rubs the back of his head.

"Why not talk to Rauf about the training schedule, so that you can test the recruits appropriately to their level?" Malik suggests. "That way, the novices will have a chance to gather their wits, and Rauf will not be bothered with your inane questions and unreasonable demands."

As Malik's voice rises, Altair ducks his head and pulls his hood back up. "Fine, fine, I already said you were right! I will look into this, for my peace of mind and Rauf's," he grumbles with an exaggerated air, starting towards the staircase.

"A moment, Grandmaster." Altair looks up from the hand on his chest to Malik's contemplative expression. "If I might beg your indulgence, I would like you to participate in a simple exercise." At Altair's skeptical look, Malik elaborates, "A test. Of obedience."

"You want me to – what? Test your obedience?"

In the face of such obliviousness, Malik can either laugh or cry – so he shakes his head with a rueful smile. "Humor me, Mentor, so that you understand what it is to want to obey without necessarily being able to do so."

Comprehension dawns on Altair's face, followed quickly by aversion. "I'm not sure what can be gained by this – "

Fortunately, Malik has been sparring with Altair for decades. "All the more reason to trust me. It will be good for you." Malik leans even closer. "I will make it good for you, habibi. I promise you that." He punctuates his words with a delicate lick along the shell of Altair's ear. He sees the interest from their earlier exchange re-kindled in those brilliant amber eyes and knows he has won.

Altair clears his throat. "What would you have me do?"

"Come to my quarters after second watch, prepared to take direction. In the spirit of things, I will judge how well you obey, and construct the lesson plan from there." With a wicked smirk, Malik adds, "Rest if you need to, Altair, that you might be ready for what lies ahead…."

The Grandmaster's eyes flash in remembrance, and Malik can almost hear his retort, but he merely bows with as much servility as he can before turning on his heel and heading back to the main courtyard. Malik watches him go, already compiling that evening's curriculum in his head.