A/N: Okay, this chapter is better, I think. I was in a mood to write. Enjoy, my luscious readers.
DISCLAIMER: I so don't own Assassin's Creed or any of its characters, though I do wish I had Altair, that yummy hunk of man-meat. -cuddles Altair- My assassin! -blink- What? Not mine?? Damn…
Arrangements
I walked casually towards the imposing palace, doing my best to look inconspicuous. It worked, as usual, and I slipped past the guards and made my way around to the back of the large wall surrounding the palace, where I scaled the high wall with the help of ivy and crumbling mortar. Once on top, I quickly dropped to the ground, rolling on impact to keep myself from getting injured. As soon as I was on my feet, I was sprinting again, my destiny being a small balcony at the back of the palace several stories up. I stopped before the balcony and looked up at it, squinting in the harsh light of the setting sun.
"Biyya!" I hissed. When no response came I tried again, "Biyya!"
I waited and waited, but still nothing. Damn that woman. I told her to be listening for me. Once again, my anger clouded my judgment and I bellowed up at the balcony, "BIYYA!"
Seconds later a face poked out from the balcony for a few seconds, then disappeared. I impatiently waited, arms crossed over my chest and foot tapping. Soon enough, a long rope ladder was dropped down to me, which I climbed as quickly as I could. Once at the top, I helped the matronly woman draw the ladder back up before anyone could see. I took it from her and placed it in a small compartment hidden in one of the planters on the balcony.
"Child!" I heard her call from behind me. I turned and blinked at her, "What are you doing, screaming for me like that! Someone else could have heard you."
"But they didn't." I said before turning and walking into the adjoining room, brushing past the soft red and gold curtains. I stripped off my brown wool overdress and threw it haphazardly under the enormous, gold quilted bed along with the shemgah and sandals, leaving me in a tight, sleeveless undershirt and think pants. I turned to see Biyya holding out a beautiful green dress and silver shemgah, which I gracefully accepted and began to put on.
Biyya, called Jathibiyya by all but me, has been around as long as I can remember. I think she was my nurse and was nanny, teacher, and is now my 'servant'. I don't make her do much, seeing as I'm so independent and stubborn, but I love to have her around. Though she is nearly fifty and served as my mother most of my seventeen years, she is more of a sister to me than anything. Many nights we have stayed up late, gossiping about men and other silly topics. She helps me slip out of the palace and away from my cursed noble duties to spend time with those who need it, just like today. If my father, God forbid, found out what she lets me get away with, she would be out on the streets before you can say Allah jisallim aklak (1).
She is kind, and very beautiful despite her age. Standing at almost six feet tall, Biyya has long, chocolate brown hair that falls in waves about her face, now more grey than brown, however. She is a bit on the heavy side, but I think it makes her more cuddly. Her soft appearance, though, is contradicted by piercing grey eyes that portray her intelligence and wisdom. High cheekbones, a full lower lip, and arching eyebrows complete the ensemble, and I wonder everyday why she works as my servant instead of being off, married to some wealthy merchant with children. Biyya would make a wonderful mother, because she was one to me. And she could have had any man she wanted; from what I know, she came from a relatively wealthy family and moved to work at the palace when she was young. Over many years, she had counless suitors, but turned them all down. Why she did this, I'll never know. I've asked her before, but she will not speak of it.
There was a sharp rap at the door and I hurriedly tucked my hair beneath the shemgah before nodding to Biyya, who smiled and went across the room, avoiding the mass of cushions and pillows in the middle, to open the door. It was my mother. Great. She strode into the room, head held high. My mother wore on my every nerve.
She was short, unlike me, standing at just over five feet, with long blond hair and dark blue eyes. Fair, soft skin along with the rest of her fae-like features gave away that she was not native to Jeruselam, and perhaps from no where near the city. I looked nothing like her, having shoulder-length, straight brown hair, dark green eyes, and rich, dark skin. I also stood at about five feet, seven inches. However, my mother intimidated me. I had been raised to obey my parents. Always. No matter what. My mother over everyone but my father. He was the head honcho. God, I hated him.
"Lamya Nadra I'timad." She said shortly and stopped less than a foot away from me. Uh-oh. It was never a good sign when she used my full name. I waited for her to continue. She sniffed, "Where were you all afternoon?"
"Walking around the palace grounds." I lied instantly, never breaking eye contact but being careful not stare at her too intensely. I had pretty much perfected the art of lying to my parents. She glared at me for a long time.
"I have a feeling you are not telling me the entire truth, but I will believe you for now. Hurry and wash up, though, Father is having an important guest for dinner and you are expected in five minutes, understand?" She raised an eyebrow at me under her dark blue shemgah before covering her mouth and nose with the soft fabric, and leaving abruptly, not even waiting for my response. She knew I had to listen. Or else.
"Damn…" I sighed and flopped down onto the cushions in the center of my large room. It was my favorite spot; a sunken oval large enough to fit several people that was full of cushions and pillows of various shape, size, color, and squishiness. Thin fabric hung from the ceiling and fell in a twist of semi-transparent gold and red around the area, and could be pulled to any part of the circle, closing it off or making a single wall. I loved it and usually could relax when lounging amongst the pillows, but not tonight.
"Lamya." Biyya said with a sigh as she slipped into an adjacent room to get some water, "Watch your language."
I snorted, "Not tonight, not now. You know as well as I that when Father has a 'dinner guest' over, it will be another stupid suitor for me."
"I understand that, dear." She said with a sigh, returning to the main room with a small basin, which she set at my vanity. With a single finger, she beckoned me, and I went to her, "Are you going to try another of your schemes?"
I sat down at the vanity and removed my cursed shemgah so I could properly wash my face, allowing Biyya to apply a bit of color to my cheeks and black liner to my eyes. I glanced up and stared into her grey eyes with my own green ones through the mirror, water dripping off my face, "Of course I am."
I entered the vast dinning hall as close to the set time as possible. And because it was me and I really didn't want to be there, I was late. But just by a few minutes. No more than fifteen, I swear.
I walked in, earning death glares from my father and mother. I was shocked that there were only three people sitting at the end of the large table. Normally we dined with at least ten other important members of court or society or whatever, but nope. My father was across from my mother and next to a man I had never met before. The only other place that was set just so happened to be across from the man. How convenient.
I marched over, grabbing a pear from one of the tables by the door on my way, and tossed it up in the air before sitting down. I caught it, pulled my shemgah down roughly and took a barbaric chomp out of the pear, leaning an elbow against the table. I chewed loudly, letting the juices run down my chin. I inclined my head to the man and said, with a full mouth, " 'ello." God I'm a bitch.
The man smiled, his lips twitching. Then he started laughing, where as my parents looked horrified. My father, with his neat, dark brown hair and hazel eyes, looked like he was going to get an aneurism. That made me almost laugh. What a dream come true that would be.
"She is something else." The mad said in a rich voice before breathing slowly as his laughter subsided. I slowly stopped chewing and scrutinized him. I'd tried this once before on an older man come to court me, and he'd stood up immediately, claiming illness or something. The next morning he was gone and nobody knew when he'd left. My father was infuriated. I was having hysterics. But this man was different. He watched me closely with black eyes that sparkled from the depths of this strongly featured face. The sharp cheekbones, strong nose and chin were almost too much, leaving him on the cusp of either very handsome or disturbing. I couldn't decide which. He leaned forward and offered his hand, palm up to me, "I am Ghalib Amir, and I am pleased to meet you."
I blinked and stared at his hand, getting a sudden image of me spitting in my own hand then grabbing and shaking his hand vigorously. That would be great. My father cleared his throat and I realized if I did that, I wouldn't live to see morning, and I'm not exaggerating. So I placed my hand, sans pear juice, into Ghalib Amir's. Everyone sat for a minute and stared at me. The man holding my hand raised an eyebrow at me and smiled.
"Oh! Yeah." I said with a start, then added none too enthusiastically, "I am honored to meet you, Ghalib Amir."
He dropped my hand and put it in my lap before taking another bite of the pear, not bothering to be gruesome this time. My eyes narrowed as I watched Ghalib, who turned to my father, thanking him for having him at the palace. I blocked out the pleasantries and my mother's hissed reprimands for spoiling my dinner with the pear.
Who was this man? I didn't often pay attention to politics, but I usually recognized the name of the man my father brought in to attempt to auction me off to. However, this man I had never heard of. My father had never mentioned him, that I was sure of. I did try to pay attention whenever my father mentioned a man's name around me, for it usually meant he would try to marry me off to them. After learning the name, I dig up information on them and sometimes can even find out what disgusts them the most. Like this one man, Izz Al Din. He was a fairly attractive man with a lot of money and a pompous attitude. And he absolutely loathes the smacking of lips. So, naturally, all dinner I smacked my lips loudly. He left the next day at noon.
"Lamya!" my father's voice cut through my thoughts and I blinked at him. Hm…the food has been served and I hadn't even realized it. I'm more bored than I thought. I glanced lazily at my father. He was angry, "Pay attention, girl."
"Sorry." I said monotonously. His eyebrows narrowed.
"Pay attention to our guest." He hissed. I nodded and looked at my companion expectantly.
"I was wondering if you would take me on a ride through your city tomorrow." Ghalib asked softly and smiled, "I am from Damascus and hate to admit that I have never been to Jerusalem, so it would be an honor if you could show me around."
Um…no, was what I wanted to say, but I stopped. It wasn't my father's expression that said, do it or die, that stopped me. It was that I could show him how my father was destroying the city. And I could behave like a hooligan, which was always fun. I would do whatever it took to get this man away from me. I was not going to marry him. I was not going to marry anyone. Honestly, I hate men. They are all arrogant, overconfident slime-balls that think they are better than women. Personally, I think women are perfectly capable of doing anything a man can. Look at me; I can outride any of the guards in the city, including most of the wretched Templar. Don't ask how I tested that. Plus I can fire an arrow farther and more accurately than anyone I know.
All my life my father has put me down along with his idiotic friends. Because of them and the rest of the male species and how they treat me and women in general, I hate them. And I will never marry one.
That night I snuck down the hallway towards my father's study, where I was sure he would be discussing my demise, I mean marriage, with Ghalib. With my stupid skirt bunched up, I slipped silently down the cold hallways towards my parent's wing. Yes, they had a wing all to themselves. Arrogant bastards. The one good thing about that, is that my room is far away from them, which made me very happy. My room was originally at the front of the palace, overlooking the city, but I had decided a change of scenery would be good a few years ago, and had moved to a room at the back. This had been a massive improvement for me, giving many opportunities for me to sneak out.
I stopped outside the thin door to my father's study, ever thankful that he spoke loudly and that nobody ever patrolled this particular hall. Pressing my ear against the crack where the door met wall, I listened adamantly to what was being said.
"…and even after, you would let me rule?" my father asked in his gruff voice.
"Of course." Ghalib responded. It was difficult to understand him completely, because of his soft voice, "I just…the city. And full…of the…"
"Yes, yes." My father boomed, "Of course, that would be excellent. I will get a cut of it though, right?"
Ghalib said something in reply, but I couldn't hear it. Damn his quiet voice! What were they talking about? It didn't sound like it had too much to do with me. It sounded like they were talking about trade agreements or something profitable. I frowned, curious for once about what sort of politics they could be discussing. Of course, now that I thought about it, they could be talking about me. After all, Father said '…even after, you would let me rule', which seems to imply that he wants to continue ruling after I marry. Hm. Personally, I would love to rule over the people of Jerusalem. I'm not power hungry, that's not it at all. I just want to make a difference in the world and in the lives of my people, for they are, after all, my people. But because I am a woman and just the daughter of the current ruler, there is nothing I can do to influence any change of how he people are treated. I had been trying for the past God knows how many years to fix what my father had broken.
Chairs scraped suddenly and footsteps approached the door. I scrabbled away from the study and behind a tapestry, into a tiny alcove I had discovered years ago. There I stood, perfectly still and silent, when Father and Ghalib came out of the study, laughing at some joke I missed.
"I thank you again, for coming, Ghalib." My father said tiredly, "And now, shall I escort you back to your room?"
"No, no. That won't be necessary." Ghalib responded, "You seem tired, so go and rest. I would like to walk through the gardens anyway and think."
"Very well." Father said shortly. "I will see you in the morning."
"Indeed, my lord." There was a swishing of cloaks as, I'm guessing, Ghalib Bowed. I heard his footsteps fade into the distance and then silence. What about Ghalib? Did he leave without me hearing? For several minutes I stood pressed against the wall, breathing as slowly and quietly as possible. After five minutes I was sure Ghalib was gone. I was about to relax when the tapestry was jerked to the side and none other than Ghalib himself gazed at me with one brow cocked. I sighed and stepped out. I hate being caught. He smiled at me, "Well, well. What do we have here?"
I peered up into his face and realized he couldn't be much older than me. How one became successful enough to potentially marry someone of my social standing at such a young age was beyond me. Not that I cared. I just found it curious. "I like corners." I said stupidly, hoping for him to think I was insane. "They're fun."
"I'm sure," he laughed, "that was your reasoning for being in there."
I just stared at him silently.
"You were trying to listen in on us, weren't you?" He asked. I turned and walked away, padding silently down the hall on bare feet.
"Fine. I was." I admitted, "But I couldn't hear anything. I just wanted to hear you two plotting my death."
Ghalib was suddenly beside me and touched my arm. I looked over at him and he actually looked…concerned. "Your death?" he asked softly, "My dear, we were most certainly not discussing your death."
I sighed. I am rarely truthful with anyone, especially someone who had the potential to be my future husband, "Marriage, death, it's one in the same, to me. Listen, Ghalib." I started, letting the 'innocent and stupid child' façade slide away, "I am going to be completely honest with you; I do not, under any circumstances, want to marry you. I am not going to marry you. So you might as well pack up and go home."
He laughed at me. Laughed. Placing a hand on my arm with a grin, he chuckled, "What on Earth makes you think I'm here to marry you?"
I opened my mouth and then closed it. Frowning, I realized I had no premise to go on assuming he was here to marry me. I had just automatically figured that was the reason for him being here. And suddenly I knew I was being an idiot. A new merchant or something of the sort from Damascus comes to Jerusalem to speak with the ruler. He probably just wanted to open up trade here and get to know the city. I, of all people, had been selfish thinking every man my father invited over was meant to marry. Yes, all the other times that had been true, but I was wrong this time. Right? Something wasn't right.
"Sorry." I said stupidly and continued on my way. He kept walking beside me and I basically ignored him as I thought. I still wasn't assured that this man wasn't here for one of my father's schemes, whether it be my marriage or some way for him to get money. My gut was telling me all was not as it seemed.
"Lamya." Ghalib said. I stopped and looked at him. This must be his room, I thought, seeing as his had is on the knob. He bowed gracefully to me, "Have a good night."
"The same to you." I said absently before continuing down the hall to my own room. There was a feeling of dread in my heart, a feeling that said this would be another sleepless night for me. Too many thoughts were blurring through my mind. What was going on? And how could I figure it out? What was I going to do with my ride through the city tomorrow with Ghalib? And, most importantly, how would I sneak out tomorrow night, for it was the Summer's Day Festival in the Poor District, and every year I attended. Somehow, it seemed like a more difficult task for me to sneak out tomorrow than any other year. Well, there was no way I was missing the festival. I was going, no matter what. I just hoped my father wouldn't find out; he would most likely beat me to death.
A/N: Okay, totally lame ending to the chapter, in my opinion, but it's late and I'm exhausted. I have an AP Calculus exam tomorrow, so I need to study that. I was eager to get this chapter finished, so…yeah. Bam. R&R please! The next chapter should be…interesting. :P
(1) Arabic for: Allah help you (your brain), that you won't loose it all.
