The Length of God's Patience
An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99
Chapter Two.
Five days later...
The floor of the practice arena was already stained with blood. Rauf kicked sand over the mark nonchalantly, his wooden practice sword dangling loosely at his side. "So," he said, looking up at Malik.
"You're a dai now."
Malik took offence at the casual comment. "I would have settled for staying fidai'in and have my brother and my arm," he said sharply. "If it were not for Altaïr..."
"Don't think too harshly of Altaïr. He'll do his penance."
Malik snorted. Rauf was always quick to think the best of people. "You're soft."
The fighting master did not rise to Malik's taunts. "Enough of this,' he said calmly."Let us begin. You must learn to fight one-handed."
Malik did not wait. He flexed his fingers around the practice weapon in his right hand and leapt at the other man. Rauf was caught off guard. He fell hard and landed with a gasp on his back in the sand with Malik's blade at his throat. "I can already fight one handed." Malik told him.
Rauf sighed. He used his free left hand to shove Malik's shoulder, using all the leverage the sand at his back gave him. Malik reached instinctively to block him, realized too late that he would have to take his knife away from Rauf's neck to do it, and went down in an undignified and messy sprawl.
"No," Rauf said conversationally. "You can't."
Malik spat sand and curses.
"You are lucky that you lost your left hand." Rauf said from his perch atop Malik's chest
Malik snorted. "Lucky is the last thing that I am." He pushed the Assassin off and scrambled to his feet.
"Al Mualim did you great honor." Rauf called as he rolled aside.
"Whatever I have gained was not worth the price."
"Remember that Altaïr will report to you the next time he visits Jerusalem."
"True." Malik admitted. He felt a slow curl of satisfaction. "I had not thought of that." He recalled Altaïr boasting that he was Malik's superior in both title and ability, and smiled.
"Don't be too hard on him. Altaïr-well, he is Altaïr."
Malik was in no mood to make allowances. "Are we here to talk, or to fight?"
"To fight, of course."
"Then enough. Let's begin."
Rauf crouched down in reply, and the fight began.
It was longer than their first duel by about ten heartbeats. Malik had been taught a dozen techniques for disarming a knife-wielding opponent, but most of them required two hands. He ended up on the sand again; the practice knife sunk a hand-breath into the gravel several feet away.
Rauf studied him. "Again," he said.
Malik was a little more careful the third time. Instead of going straight in with the knife, he feinted and kicked out. He caught Rauf's hip. The fighting master staggered. Malik jerked his leg back just in time to avoid Rauf's hands grabbing for his ankle, but he had forgotten to adjust for his body's altered balance and ended up flat on his back again.
"If I had both arms, you would not best me,' he said angrily as he struggled to his feet.
"Maybe. But as the whole point of you being here is to learn to fight with one, there is nothing to be gained by wishing. Is there?"
"Curse you."
Rauf ignored the insult. "Try this," he said and demonstrated a technique.
Malik groaned and complied.
He staggered back to his rooms some hours later with sand down his robe and bruises all over his body. The room, like his dai's robes, was new. It was slightly more comfortable than a fidai cell, which meant that it was bare and ascetic by most people's standards. Malik's possessions filled a chest by the door. The books Al Mualim had given him were piled on the table by the window.
Malik changed his robes. He lit an oil lamp and sat down at the table. Unrolling the parchment was easy. It was much harder to stop the paper from rolling up again without using his right hand. Finally he weighted the corners of the paper down with the heaviest texts and settled down to write.
Malik had thought that a scholar's life would be easy compared to the hard life of a fidai. He soon discovered that he had made a mistake. The text, a treatise on the campaigns of Saladin's uncle Shirkuh, was dull. The small writing was hard to read and worse to copy. Despite his practice, Malik's best script was nowhere near that of a professional scholar. Eventually he gave up, forcing himself to place the quill neatly in the inkwell rather than throwing it across the room, and stared out of the window at the firelight from the village below. When that entertainment palled, he got up and searched the chest for his sash. The cloth was heavier than it should have been, thanks to the vials of medicine knotted into the fabric.
Malik untied the bundle and counted the vials, one by one. There were twelve. The liquid inside each tiny glass bottle gleamed black in the lamplight. Malik cracked the wax seal from the neck of a vial. He poured a drop into his palm and tasted it. Opium. And a few other things, but the opium should be enough.
He had saved all the vials that the surgeon had given him. How deep a sleep would they bring, taken together? Deep enough?
He took the bottles to the window and lined them up on the bare bricks of the sill. The glass glinted with reflected firelight. Malik looked at them for a long time, and then he pushed them from the windowsill, one by one, listening for the sound of shattered glass in the darkness.
When he went down the next morning, he found a mess of shards and split liquid in the courtyard below. He borrowed a broom from the steps of a nearby house and cleaned the debris up without comment before he went to train with Rauf.
He found the techniques easier, this time.
***
Malik left Masyaf for Jerusalem a handful of days later, with a packhorse laden with books and maps and a pouch of gold hidden in his boot. The countryside grew dryer and more desolate as he headed south. He was stopped twice by curious patrols, but neither searched him, and he was able to continue upon his way unaided. By the time he glimpsed the golden roof of the Dome of the Rock it was high summer. His horses' hooves knocked up puffs of dust as he trotted down the steeply curving pass to the city gate.
It was a hot day, and the gate guards, sweating under the weight of a full coat of mail, were short-tempered. Their commander stopped Malik at the gates. "State your business."
Malik reined his horse to a halt. He dismounted to speak face to face to the guards. "My name is Malik al-Sayf. I am a copyist and bookseller."
"That's who you are. Now tell us what you're doing here."
"I have purchased a shop within the city walls." Malik told the commander. "I'm here to work." He trapped the reins of his horse under his upper arm and dug into his robe, handing a few silver dirhams to the guards. "Perhaps this will speed my entry."Although it would be cheaper to cut you all down.
The guard looked suspiciously at the dirhams in his hand. He raisedthe coin to his mouth, bit the edge and smiled at last. "You will go far with such an attitude," he said, tucking the coins into his armor.
Malik smiled back. "I hope so."
"Maybe we can help you. Where are you headed?"
"Pearl Street, by the mosque," Malik had memorized the address.
"You can't bring horses into the city. Salim will stable them for you. Or sell them, if you want."
"Sell them. I'm not planning to travel. And my cargo?"
"Porters," The guard waved an arm. A handful of men with small carts appeared, as stealthily as Assassins. Malik's books were loaded onto a pair of handcarts; his purse lightened by a small but not insignificant amount. The guards waved him through the gate and he entered Jerusalem.
It was chaos.
The city's streets were as narrow as Masyaf's but much, much more crowded. Woven lattices overhead blocked much of the sunlight and trapped choking clouds of dust. Alleys ran off from the main thoroughfares at every angle. Malik peered down each street as they passed. I need to orient myself as quickly as possible. Within the week, at least.
He tried not to look up at the minarets and towers that studded the city's skyline.
The porters led Malik to a quiet street on the south side of the rich district. They set down their barrows next to a bolted door. "This is it."
Malik looked up at the building. Sagging plaster, bared beams, no sign...the shop didn't look like much from outside.
It didn't look like much from inside either. The porters unloaded the books and vanished into the streets as soon Malik had paid them. They left Malik alone in the shop. He looked around. Shelves lined the shop walls. A heavy teak counter sat in one corner and a raised platform ran along two of the four walls with a ladder leading up to it. As a humble shopkeeper, Malik would be expected to sleep amongst his stock. A dusty rug lay before the counter.
I'll have to hire somebody to clean this up, he thought, and went outside.
The courtyard was a little better. It was shaded from the sun by a latticework roof and most of the plants had survived. Pigeons bathed in the water that trickled from a mosaic fountain against one wall. They fluttered up to perch on the trellis as Malik approached. The basin was a mess of pigeon feathers and dirt. Malik had hoped to wash the dust of weeks of journeying from his hands and face. It looked like he would have to wait.
Or not. I think I saw a bath-house a few streets away.
Malik locked up the shop and found the baths without too much trouble. He hired a towel and soap from an attendant, shed his clothes and ducked into the steam. It was late, and the baths were nearly empty. Once Malik had washed he found a quiet corner where the light from the moon-and- star-shaped skylights did not shine upon his face and relaxed for the first time in many moons.
He was almost asleep when he heard someone enter.
"Greetings."
Malik opened his eyes. "Greetings," he said politely. Now go away.
The stranger looped his towel over his neck and sat down next to Malik."I thought I knew everyone in this quarter. Who are you?"
Malik sighed. He was not used to explaining himself. Nosy Assassins did not last long. "My name is Malik al-Sayf. I've taken the empty Pearl Street shop. I'm a bookseller."
"Pearl Street? Good luck. Hope you do better than the last man there. Poor devil forgot to pay his bribes."
Malik made a mental note: pay bribes. "Who to?"
"You really are new in town, aren't you?"
Malik nodded. "I am. And I would appreciate any advice that you could give me. I have just moved to the city." And it seems that my masters not given me all the information that I need.
His companion, a fat man with the face of a born merchant, scratched his head." You pay bribes to Madj Addin's men."
"I've heard that name."
"Many have. He's the regent of Jerusalem. He used to be the emir's scribe. Now he rules the city. Takes a cut of everyone's trade."
"How do I find him?"
The man snickered. "Oh, don't worry. He'll find you."
***
Several days passed with no sign of Madj Addin's guards. Malik had almost forgotten the merchant's warning when somebody rapped on the door. The interruption irritated Malik, but so many things did these days.
"We're not open for business yet,"' he called.
"We're not here to buy. Open the door."
Malik considered ignoring the caller. He could hear a group of men outside, not just one. They were armed; he heard the clash of steel on steel. But they'd only return later if he denied them entry, and they'd be angrier when they did. Best to open the door, and get it over with, he thought as he slid the bolts.
He'd expected two or three men, but there were five. They carried swords and filed through the door, one after another until the small shop was full. The last man to enter kicked the door shut behind him. Malik's hand strayed to his knife.
Their captain gave Malik a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring. "You're Malik al-Sayf. The new bookseller."
Among other things. "I am."
The soldier's smile widened. "Welcome to Jerusalem, Malik al-Sayf."
"I had not heard the people here were so hospitable." Malik said dryly. He tugged his robe tighter around him to conceal the dagger in his belt.
The captain yawned. "Well, now you know. I am Captain Yusuf al-Asad."
"My compliments. Do you wish to browse my stock?"
Al-Asad's gaze raked the shabby shelves. "No need. I can see that you're setting up, so we won't trouble you long. We're Majd Addin's men. We keep the streets round here safe. Now, safe doesn't come cheaply, so we levy taxes. The last man to keep this shop did not pay his taxes." He paused, giving Malik enough time to ponder the fate of the last shopkeeper. "That was ...unwise."
Malik met the man's glare with his own. "So I've heard."
Al-Asad looked Malik up and down. He did not look impressed with what he saw. "How'd you lose your arm?"
"Paper cut." Malik snapped. He had been intimidated by professionals. He was not about to be insulted by thugs.
The captain's smile faded. "Looks like a war wound to me. You don't look like a bookseller, that's for sure."
Malik sighed. "Appearances can be deceiving." Like the scum that passes for guards in this city. How unfortunate that I will almost certainly be forced to kill some of you in the line of duty. "Forgive me. I meant no disrespect. I worked in Acre for a time, until the Franj came. That's where I lost my arm. In the siege."
"Indeed," al-Asad said. He moved closer to Malik, his men at his side. "Maybe you did work in Acre. But your accent places you in the Orontes Valley."
"I was raised in Safita," Malik told him. The mountain town was half a day's journey from Masyaf, but it was unlikely that any man not raised in the area would be able to distinguish between the accent of a Safitan man and Malik's own.
"Hmm. Then you will know of the Assassins?"
Malik treated the question with the scorn it deserved. "Everyone knows of the Assassins."
"So you already know that they send men disguised as scholars, priests and even honest traders into cities to gain the people's trust?" Al-Asad asked.
"I have heard as such," Malik said cautiously.
"Then you will understand than I must satisfy my curiosity. One cannot be too careful. And you have seen battle."
It wasn't a question. Malik nodded. "I was a soldier before I was a salesman."
"A soldier...but no doubt you have been an honest trader for several years?"
"I started work as a bookseller in Safita in the year Saladin reclaimed Jerusalem for the Faith. I moved to Acre later."
"Experienced indeed," al-Asad said dryly.
Malik thought this man knows too much, but he said nothing.
Al-Asad continued. "You have the look of an honest man to me, but I must be certain. Indulge me." He jerked his head at one of the other guards without taking his eyes from Malik's. "Bring a book."
"Which one?"
"Any one, fool!" the captain snapped.
The guard plucked a book from the nearest shelf.
"Open it."
The guard hurriedly spread the book open on the counter. Al-Asad leaned in. "Read."
As if I have a choice. "Of course, lord."
The captain narrowed his eyes, unimpressed by the flattery. Malik leaned forwards and began to recite the text. He had not finished more than a couple of passages before the captain set another book on the counter. "Read this one."
The new text was older; the language archaic. Malik read it slowly.
"And this?" The captain opened a third book.
Malik peered at the text with a sinking feeling in his heart. The script was ancient, indecipherable. He turned slowly to the first page, buying time.
"What's the matter?" Al-Asad taunted. "Can't you read? I thought you were a scholar."
Only a scholar would know this tongue, Malik thought. What is the chance a simple captain of the guards would understand? He cleared his throat and spoke, substituting the first passage from Nizari's Tale of Layla and Majnun for the text he could not read. "Once there lived among the Bedouin in Arabia a great lord, a sayyid, who ruled over the Banu Amir..."
He read the whole first page, substituting words for sections of the text he could not remember, banking on the fact that al-Asad's knowledge of ancient Persian romances was as sketchy as his understanding of ancient languages. Once he had recited the first page he hesitated and looked up at the captain. "Should I go on?"
"You may stop." Al-Asad bit the words off as if Malik had struck him.
Malik closed the book. "You mentioned taxes."
"Eleven dirhams."
Malik dug under the counter for a purse. The captain handed it to another guard, who counted out fifteen dirhams and handed the purse back.
"You said eleven."
"You misheard."
Malik bowed. "Of course, lord. I hope my small contribution will help."
The guard handed Malik's money to al-Asad, who tucked it in his armour. "Let's go, men. It seems we have an honest man here after all." He gestured to his men, who began to file out the door. As the last man left al-Sadat turned and said quietly to Malik, "I will be watching you, bookseller."
And I will be watching you. Malik said silently as the door slammed behind the captain and his men.
***
Author's Note: I did research one-armed combat techniques, but I couldn't find any, probably because it's insanely difficult. So I had to hand wave it a bit. The Tale of Layla and Majnun is a Persian Rome and Juliet type story. Go read it. Islamic physicians were using inhalant anesthetics in the eleventh century and opium was widespread as a method of pain relief.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed!
