The rain has been falling for two days straight now, a steady downpour that soaks Masyaf from the peaks of the mountains down to the gates, where soldiers stand in sodden armour and huddle by braziers, hoping the wet weather won't dampen the flames they hold. It is not uncommon, this wet, cold weather, not 20 days into winter, and it is not unwelcome either - later in the season, there would be grumbling from everyone about the chill in the air, but now, so soon after summer has slipped away, it is a welcome relief from the heat. Even snow might be heralded as good fortune over these few days, though it is a little early yet for the mountains to properly freeze over, and snow would not be welcome for long. It turns streets to muck and roofs and ledges to slippery, dangerous places, and children like to throw it at each other only to catch a cold and infect the entire village. They are not Acre, where people seem to revel in living in squalor.
The path to the castle, steep and winding even on a good day, has turned to a river of mud under the feet of Masyaf's soldiers, and the walls of earth surrounding it do not offer any support to the souls that try to climb it - not even the three novices that arrive in the fading grey light of the afternoon, soaked and exhausted by the hard ride home. They walk in a line, surefooted Duma at the fore. Na'im flounders in the middle, and Marwa is a step behind him, pushing him up the path with an impatience that belies her age and rank. Perhaps that is why none of the soldiers posted around the place jeer at them as they slop up the path in white tunics quickly turning brown in the mud. Or perhaps the guards just don't care for teasing novices today.
Na'im falls for the last time right at the top of the mountain, one step below solid ground. He falls heavily this time too, splashing mud all over himself and Marwa too, who is walking right behind him. Duma, ever graceful, walks on into the castle, unaware (or uncaring) of Na'im's troubles. Marwa curses, and makes sure to kick him in the shin as she reaches to help him.
"Can you be any more clumsy?" she asks, and heaves him out of the mud and onto his feet. It is no easy feat - Na'im is tall and built to be strong and sinewy, while her form is distinctly more feminine, lacking the strength she is training to gain. Just right for those fine gowns, her mother would say wistfully every now and then, when she stops to watch Marwa follow her father's footsteps.
"It is a hard climb," Na'im mutters, and shakes her hands away. "And I am tired."
"We are all tired," Marwa snaps back, and he gives her a look of annoyance and then hurries off after Duma, not one to actually get into a fight with her out here in the rain.
She does not run to catch them once she is out of the mud herself, with solid rock under her feet and the shelter of the castle gate just steps away. Instead, she stops and cranes her neck so that she can look up at the walls of the assassin stronghold. It is a dark, foreboding sight in this weather, with its cold stone and walls so scarcely guarded they almost appear abandoned. The flags and banners do not fly in the wind today but rather hang limp and heavy with water, a mess of deep crimson and grey material, the crest they bear hidden in their folds so that it is nigh impossible to tell whose castle you have even come to. Flags are a symbol of power, she remarks to herself, except in the pouring rain.
Masyaf is only unwelcoming on these sorts of days - in the summer, with the bustle of a crowd and the warm light of the sun to soften it, it is almost too easy to forget it is a fortress seated at the peak of a mountain. Now it is dark and angry, and has she not grown up under its long shadow, she might not dare walk through its gates at all.
"Marwa!" Duma calls from somewhere up ahead as the rain grows more persistent. Shaking her head, she pulls her hood further over her face and hurries inside, shivering in the cold wind that whistles through the open gate. The courtyard immediately behind the wall is only slightly more sheltered from the weather, though still equally filled with puddles and muddy, well-worn paths. She finds Duma and Na'im immediately to her right, huddled together by a small brazier with two soldiers.
"Here you are," Duma says. "Do you like standing out in the rain?"
"Perhaps the rain is a better companion than you," Marwa replies, and lets her sodden hood drop to her shoulders.
"The closer you keep, the sooner you can escape my company," Duma points out, and then turns his eyes towards the castle proper. "Come, we need to find the Dai before we can rest."
It is another climb to the inner keep, but there is less mud inside the castle and Na'im has had time to steady his feet, so Marwa does not have to shove him quite so much. It is cold inside, but dry, apart from the puddles their robes drip across the stone floor. None of the novices notice the chill though, because the man they are looking for happens to be right there, standing in the hall with the Mentor.
"Dai," Duma says as they cross the draughty hall, bowing his head in respect. "Mentor." Na'im, ever the follower, does the same, hurrying along by Duma's elbow. Marwa trails along behind, and lets the boys deal with the pleasantries.
Malik turns at the mention of his title, and the Mentor turns with him. Under their sharp eyes, Marwa's stride becomes more urgent - she can get away with it with the Dai, but the Mentor, the leader of the Assassins...better not to push her luck.
"Well now, it seems my novices have returned," Malik says, mainly to the man beside him. "Maybe they have learned something in the travels that they can teach you."
Duma breathes in sharply, surprised by their master's careless words. The Mentor merely smiles at the ribbing, however, and eyes each of them individually. "We can only hope," he replies easily. "Two of them seem to have learnt respect, if nothing else." His gaze settles on Marwa, unquestioning, and she feels like his eyes might cut through her.
"Well, we cannot all be perfect," the Dai remarks in good humour, and then turns to address the novices as a whole. "You must be tired and cold. Go find yourselves a meal and a place to dry off, and I will come and speak with you when I am finished here."
"Yes, Dai," Duma says dutifully and herds them away, grabbing Marwa by the arm before she can even think to depart company. She lets him drag her with them into the castle proper before making any kind of complaint, aware of the eyes on their backs.
As soon as they are free of the masters watching, she decides she's had enough. "Get off, Duma," she says, and tries to pull free from his grip. "I can take myself to the kitchens."
"You must stay with us," he tells her firmly, but lets her go. She rolls her eyes and drops to the back of the pack, putting Na'im between them again.
"How can the Dai speak to the Mentor like that?" the quieter boy asks when it is clear the other two are done squabbling.
"They are friends," Duma answers. "And equals. You would speak to any novice the same way, wouldn't you?"
"There is a difference between being novices and masters," Na'im insists. "Or a Dai and a Mentor."
Marwa huffs an impatient sigh. "Our Mentor is the reason Dai Malik lost his arm," she explains. "And many other things. If anyone deserves to speak to him without respect, it is the Dai."
"Fine words from one who couldn't even bow to either of her elders," Duma observes.
"You bow low enough for both of us, Duma," Marwa bites back, and ignores the withering look he shoots at her. They turn the corner to the dining hall then, and are all distracted by the smell of a stew cooking, and the rush of warm air from the large fireplace that keeps the room warm all through the winter. The hall is bustling, as the evening meal has just begun and assassins from around the castle have gathered to dine. They line up to fill their plates with food, stomach rumbling at the thought of their first hot meal in two days, and then find themselves a seat near the fireplace where they can be warmed through, saving a place for the Dai. Even Marwa has to admit it is a good place to be - Duma convinces some of the older novices and higher-ranking apprentices to allow them a place, their dripping robes and haggard appearances a testament to the hard day of riding he claims them to have had, and the fire has them warm in minutes, if a little uncomfortable in their wet clothes.
"It's good to be home," Na'im says, mostly to Duma, who hums in agreement. His mouth is too full of food to answer properly.
Marwa's eyes wander across the hall as she chews her first bite, settling on a group of other novices, who are all gathered around one boy with varying looks of awe on their faces. "Look at Farid," she says and gestures to the boy at the centre of the commotion.
Na'im follows her finger and Duma turns to see what she's talking about, just as Farid raises his left hand. "He has earned the second rank," Duma says in faint surprise, and turns back around so that he will not have to watch anymore.
"Why would anyone choose to raise the rank of Farid?" Marwa asks in faint disgust, and yes, she can see it now – only four fingers remain on his left hand, despite him having five the last time she'd seen him. It's a sure sign that the brotherhood has officially accepted him as an initiate, one rank higher than novice. She has no doubt he will put his newfound position to good use lording it over them all within the next few days.
Duma shrugs in response to her question, carefully refraining from any involvement. Duma is smart like that. "I believe he simply performed his tasks to the satisfaction of the assassin that trains him," the voice of Malik, their own master, says beside her as he slides into the seat they have saved for him.
Marwa doesn't respond in words but curls her lip in disgust at the thought of Farid being any kind of loyal or skilled novice. Surely it must be a trick.
"You don't like this boy?" Malik adds, not one to miss a single thing. "Or perhaps you like him too much."
She looks horrified, much to the delight of the boys across the table. "He is a bully and an idiot," she tells the Dai, before he gets any more ideas.
"Ah." Their master nods in understanding. "Well, there is plenty of time to knock that out of him before he is set loose on the world. Just like there is time to teach you some manners."
Marwa turned abruptly, Farid forgotten. "Manners?" she repeats, and then scoffs. "Manners are for those pretty girls at fine parties, hoping to prove themselves worthy of some attention."
"They're also for men to show respect to their commanders and their masters, so that an army might grow strong, or a business wealthy." He is looking right at her, but she has elected to stare into her bowl instead now, not fond of being criticised. "You have decided to be a woman in a brotherhood, Marwa. I suggest you stop living by a woman's way of doing things."
"I have never lived like that," she mutters childishly. Malik just shakes his head and turns away.
"We have been successful in our mission, Dai," Duma speaks up, when no one else will. "I think you will be pleased."
Malik turns towards him, and his usual good mood returns. "Tell me then," he says. "What you have learnt while you have been away."
"That Acre is the filthiest city in the world," Marwa mutters under her breath.
"And how many cities have you been to, novice?" Malik snaps back. She doesn't leave a snide comment a second time.
Duma shoots her a look. "Iyad Salib is a merchant of the seas. He deals in strays and orphans and beggar women." Malik nods and gestures for him to continue. "Na'im walked among the people to hear their whisperings, and discovered that many children who are not orphans on the street have been disappearing as of late. He also heard a man telling story of Salib's ship having pulled close to the eastern wall of the harbour, to take cargo and escape a coming storm. Marwa pick-pocketed a man with a letter describing the time and place the next shipment would be loaded. I met with one of the rafiq's informants in the city, who told me of Salib's practises – he never leaves the ship, and has scores of men to protect him. The time he is weakest is when he inspects his cargo on the deck of his ship before taking them below."
"Good," the Dai says, and he does sound satisfied with what he has heard. "And the assassination? He is dead?"
"Tariq was chosen by the rafiq to do the killing, as only one of us has a blade," Duma says. "He came back with an hour of the bell tolling to tell us of his success."
"Very good. I'm sure the rafiq will send many praises in his letter to me, whenever the bird makes it through this storm." As if summoned by his words, the rain outside grew louder, hammering at the windows on the west side of the room.
"And the ranks?" asks Na'im, who has been waiting a long while to be allowed a blade and a place in the brotherhood. His eyes have strayed to Farid, who swaggers to and fro across the room, apparently having missed Malik's presence (or indeed, any of the other master assassins in the room).
Malik looks at him also, and Marwa thinks maybe he sees just what she had been saying earlier. "We will see," he says eventually, distracted by some other thought. "We wouldn't want you to turn out anything like Abbas' favourite student, after all."
They all look once more to Farid. "I understand, Dai," Na'im says humbly.
Malik stands and reaches across the table to slap him on the shoulder. "And that is what will earn you a blade," he says. "You are dismissed, novices. Eat and sleep, I will find you when I want you tomorrow."
"Safety and peace, Malik," Duma farewells him, and the Dai inclines his head in thanks.
"Safety and peace," he replies, and then he departs, with just a quick detour across the room to slap Farid upside the head and give him a taste of his sharp tongue.
"Why would you ask about ranks?" Marwa rounds on Na'im as soon as he is gone. "It is for the masters to decide when we advance, not for you to ask."
Na'im curls in on himself, focusing on his food instead of her. Duma sighs. "Don't be like that tonight, Marwa," he just about begs. "It has been too long a day for this nonsense."
"If I had asked about ranks, you would be the one yelling at me," she points out. "But Na'im can do anything he pleases."
"What rubbish! He was only asking, it will not kill anyone."
"I have been waiting twice as long as you," Na'im says, half as loud as Duma. "Through three different masters. I would give two fingers to wield a blade and be done with the scorn of the others that advance far faster than I ever will."
"Malik has not been unfair to us yet, why would he keep you down longer than he needs to?"
"I thought it would not hurt to ask."
"Khallas," Duma says, cutting across them. "No more talk of this. The master took no offense to the question, it is done."
Marwa is not happy, but she doesn't say anything more, just sets her jaw and retreats back to her stew to sulk in silence. A tense moment passes between the boys, as if they aren't sure if the arguing is finished or not. When Duma is satisfied that she is finished, he says, "I have wondered too, if you will soon get a blade."
Na'im makes a noise of surprise. "Really?" he asks, as if Duma would be making a joke.
The other boy nods solemnly. "They have kept you waiting a long time, Na'im," he says. "You are not the only one that notices."
Na'im stares into his bowl. "Sometimes, I feel like they forget," he mutters into his stew, and then gathers up a mouthful.
Marwa huffs impatiently. "No one forgets," she tells him, just to say something.
"You are in a foul mood tonight, Marwa," Duma bites. His forehead is creased in frustration, that look he gets when he's had just about enough of her for one day. She forgets sometimes, when she sees him looking at her like that, that they are usually friends.
"I am cold and tired," she snaps back. "And this conversation is dull."
"Go to your bed, then."
"Fine." She huffs, annoyed because she doesn't feel like she has won any part of this argument, and scrapes the last morsel of food from the bottom of her bowl. She stands before she's finished chewing it, unable to stay seated under Duma's annoyed gaze any longer.
"Safety and peace, Marwa," he says as she steps away from the table; more to annoy her than anything else, she thinks. She grunts in response, as she walks away, not looking back to see him shaking his head at her, or Na'im drifting off at the table. Maybe tomorrow she will be in the mood, but not tonight, after a long ride in the rain and the Dai scolding her.