Chapter Four

I couldn't stay in Masyaf.

It wasn't out of embarrassment or shame. Although, I must confess, I felt those emotions, as well. After all, a ten-year-old had bested me. And even though none said as much out loud, I could see it in the faces of the masters, the other instructors, the brothers, even some of my own senior students.

But that I could have ignored.

What I couldn't ignore was that Aless was only a brisk walk away from me, yet she was learning the art of death, and I could do nothing to stop it.

Seeing her with my students and learning of her trickery, I finally realized that a simple, carefree childhood was something she would never experience. And it was my fault.

When I returned to my chambers that morning after the gathering with the masters, all of Aless' things were gone. Her clothes, her bedding, her writing tools. Even the gold choker I had placed around her neck on the journey back to Masyaf, gone. Her training had begun. It meant that I would only see her on rare occasions, and even then it would be in a public, formal setting.

Without her near me, nothing could shield me from my old injuries. Aless had been the salve to my grief. That is the trick with wounds: Eventually, you must let them feel the outside air, or the ointment actually causes them to go moist and fester. But back then, I didn't know that. All I knew was that loving Aless with everything I possessed made me forget my dead wife and child.

With her gone, there was nothing to numb the pain.

I didn't cry, of course. That wouldn't be fitting. I just became very, very angry.

I requested a second audience with the masters a few sleepless nights after my daughter was taken. As they took their seats, some looked annoyed to be seeing me again. Omran had an amused expression on his face, and Ahraib couldn't hide the concern from his creasing features.

"Be quick," one said.

"I request to be granted the hood and to be transferred to Damascus," I stated.

None of them could hide their shock. Some gave vocal exclamations, while others sat up in their chairs. I had caught their attention.

"You have already been granted the hood once, and you gave it up for the child."

"My daughter is gone to me, so I wish to serve the guild as a brother once more."

"You're too old to begin anew!"

"I am only approaching my third decade," I retorted. "And do not pretend that I am new with a blade."

"Kaim," Ahraib said. He was not using the tone appropriate of a master, but a father. "Kaim, please. The pain will lessen. Do not do this."

"No, no," Omran said, raising a hand. "I believe if this man wishes to retest for the hood, let him. We need more brothers in Damascus to 'acquire' us some more of her legendary steel. And considering the city's current uncertain political future, perhaps now is the time to reconsider our commitment there." Omran must have sensed my intent. And he was more than eager to grant me my death wish.

"Is this truly your desire, Kaim?" Ahraib asked.

"Yes."

"Do any object?"

No one responded.

But I didn't wait for them to grant me approval. I had much training to do.

The retesting for the hood was just another obstacle thrown in my path to humiliate me. The masters knew I would pass, but many delighted in watching me compete against men at least ten years my junior.

But it didn't matter. Once the white hood was pulled over my head, I felt a shadow resurrect itself within me.

In less than a year after that meeting, I found myself in the alleys of Damascus. The masters had no qualms in hurrying along my reassignment. Omran's words were true: Even though the brotherhood's focus had moved to other areas as the war's rekindled fires spread to new regions, many opportunities were still lying in wait there. Opportunities that the Templars would seize if we did not stop them.

But I had no care for any of these matters. Damascus was also the city of my birth and the city of my past, and I wanted to know what had become of it. Cities after a war are raw places, like the air after a storm. The buildings and streets themselves seem to shudder and quiver with possibility.

Upon my return, I soaked in all of this raw energy. I laid my fingers over the mouth of the city, testing for her breath. And when I felt it on my skin, I set my own rhythm to match her, becoming one with the chaos.

Damascus' bureau leader quickly picked up on my restless thirst, and he used it to his advantage. Other brothers were sent on task that required a more delicate, nuanced skill set. I, however, eagerly accepted missions that involved plunging my blade deep into the city's murkiest of pools. No matter who my target or how dark the deed, I seized it. And it was just like old times.

In my youth, I did not fear the grimy corners of human existence. It was, after all, where I had grown up -- the grit and undergrowth. My parents were murdered by common street thugs when I was very young. And afterward, I survived alone, my cunning and instinct my only allies. I slept with my back against cold walls and my fingers curled around a short sword.

That was when Ahraib found me, back when he himself was still a hooded brother. He identified the talent in me, and I think a part of him also wanted to save me. And for a long time, I forgot my former life. I began identifying myself by my ascending rank in the brotherhood rather than my reputation among the shadows.

When my wife and son died, I felt the streets calling to me again. Only Ahraib's steady, guiding hand kept me focused on obtaining the hood instead of sinking back into the despair, back into the streets. I was still enough of a boy then that his direction was enough.

But after Aless was taken, nothing could keep me from returning. Although Ahraib tried to reason with me before my departure, he was no longer the infallible figure I remembered from ten years ago. His reassurances could not silence the quiet, intimate whisper of the streets. I answered her call with no regrets.

It is hard to remember much during those six years in Damascus, except for the overriding sensations: Smelling rotting, diseased flesh; hearing the wails of starving babes as the new sultan squandered the people's food; feeling the city's breathless anticipation for a climax it would never be given.

I slept standing up and befriended no one. I kept my distance from the other assassins stationed in the city, who wanted nothing to do with a disgraced, old brother, anyway. I killed many, fucked many. No, I never made love. Just fucked.

Ironic, isn't it? Losing my family had brought me to that state, yet I was spreading my seed as eagerly and guiltlessly as a mongrel. I cringe to think of the children I left scattered in those alleys.

Those six years came to an abrupt end, and that end began during a mission that sent me into the poor district's darkest corners. I was to seek out "the man with the mole." Apparently, this man had found his way to the ear of the sultan, and the brothers had reason to believe that he had also been accepting treats from the pockets of the Templars. A direct information line between our enemies and this new power could not be established, the bureau leader explained with fervor.

But I cared about none of this; all I was interested in was my objective. I was to retrieve the name of the Templar feeding him these tidbits. And if the name slipped this man's memory, I was to carve it out of him.

I found him in an alley, sitting cross-legged in a tight circle of five other slobs who were throwing short, multicolored rods against a wall. I was perched on a rooftop above them, watching from afar, but I could still hear the sharp, metallic clink of their coins as well as their shouts of triumph and defeat.

Just as the other brother had reported, my target had a thick, dark mound of wrinkled flesh on the back of his neck. In the moonlight and from the rooftop, it looked like a giant roach had burrowed into his skin and was feasting on the thick folds.

In my younger days, when my sole purpose was to please Ahraib and the other masters, I would have waited for the game to end and for my target to separate himself from the others. I would have shown patience, restraint and subtlety.

But my allegiance was no longer with the brothers. It was with my new dark mistress, the city of Damascus.

I vaulted off the roof, landed on the balls of my feet and pulled free my curved short sword.

As the men saw me approaching, my blade hanging low, they let out guttural moans of terror and tried to flee. As they scrambled to find their feet, the piles of coins in the center of the circle were scattered, flying up into the torchlight and glinting like pieces of the forgotten sun.

I watched, amused, as they tried to lift themselves off of the ground with their hands and skitter away. My target was the most obese of all of the gamblers, and he was having the most difficulty. In his desperation, he clutched at the garments of his friends' clothes as they found their legs, pulling them back down into the mass of flailing arms and joints.

I felt like I was observing fish flop around in a barrel.

Finally, one broke free from the mass, then a second, a third, a fourth. All that was left was my target, still sitting on the ground, heaving and sweating. He was no longer trying to move. He knew it would have been futile.

"Oh no, don't get up," I chided.

"Assassin! That's all you are, a dirty assassin!" he sputtered, pointing at me.

"So if you know what I am, you know what I want."

"I know nothing, nothing, I tell you," he said. "Go take that message back with you."

I sighed audibly, feigning disappoint. "Oh, to think …"

"What?" he said, his eyes going wide. "What? To think what?"

"To think you could have died a peaceful death." And I leaped upon him, driving my blade through the top of his hand and pinning it to the earth.

I knew the scream was imminent, so with my free hand I grabbed a crusted bit of cloth lying in the dirt and shoved it in his mouth. I watched his eyes roll back, and then center on me, then roll back again.

"Oh, don't faint, now. It will only prolong your suffering."

He made a whimper of acquiescence.

"This is how it will work. Every time you again tell me you know nothing, I will turn my sword. Do you understand?"

He nodded, his neck folds bouncing with his eagerness.

With one hand still on the hilt of my blade, I gingerly removed the rag from his mouth. "Now," I said gently. "Who is the Templar so eager to use you to lick the ear of the sultan?"

"I tell you, I tell you, I know nothing! Nothing, nothing, nothing! Please, let me go, let me go, let me go …"

I shook my head and replaced the cloth, now wet with saliva. I changed the grip on my sword and, with a twist of my wrist, rotated the blade.

A fresh spurt of blood erupted out of the wound, and tiny, razor-thin bones pierced through his flesh. He couldn't scream, but I watched him retch inside his mouth, yellow liquid trailing out the corners of his lips.

When I removed the rag, a stream of vomit came pouring forth. I carefully moved my boot to avoid the mess.

"Must I ask you again?"

"No," he pleaded. "No, no, no. Thorthgar. Garath Thorthgar. There, you have your name. Just let me go."

"Now what good would letting you go do, hmm?"

Before he could process what I said, I pulled my short sword out of his hand and sliced it diagonally along his fat neck, driving in deep enough to piece the windpipe. Hot blood pumped out of the wound, spraying my white cloak. His mouth gaping as he struggled to draw in air, he reached a clubbed finger up to feel the wound.

I could have ended it, but I didn't. I just watched him slump against the wall, pursing the lips that refused to grant him oxygen. Slowly, his skin grew paler and paler and his mouth movements became less frantic.

I didn't notice her until after I rose from the dirt. A woman, desperately squeezing herself into the corner of two building walls, yet unable to take her eyes from the carnage at my feet.

I stepped closer to her, carefully avoiding the vomit pile. She was slender and dark, with sunken eyes and gnarled hands. The city was eating her alive. Perhaps once, in her first years of womanhood, she had been beautiful. But she had spent too many moons crawling along the bottom side of these alleys.

"Men like you, they aren't afraid of the night," she said, pressing her hands against a wall and arching her back. When I saw the hunger in her eyes, I realized that we were similar, both servants to Lady Damascus. I could not blame her for showing the physical signs of following her loyally her entire life, after I had only recently repledged my servitude.

"No, we're not," I said, resheathing my blade. "But do you know why?"

"Because you are the thing that makes others afraid."

I chuckled deep in my throat and drew closer. "And yet you still beckon to me."

She pulled her blouse down for me, exposing her breasts the smooth moonlight. "Maybe if I bed you, the night things will not come for me anymore."

I closed the distance between us. "You are free to test your theory, but I cannot guarantee its success," I said, driving my hand in between her legs.

She threw her head back, and I cupped a hand over her mouth to stifle her shock. Once her pupils returned to normal, I took her skirt in my fists and ripped it up to her inner thigh.

"Bend over."

And as I seized her hips in my hands, I heard the man with the mole give his last, gurgling gasp.

"Garath Thorthgar," I repeated to the bureau leader the following evening, as he rooted around in the spare room.

He looked up to acknowledge me, but his lips curled in disgust. "Oh, by God, you've stained your robes! Was that necessary?"

I just shrugged.

He groaned and began digging around in his stores. "Pray that I have another one, or I'll make you walk around like that, looking like a butcher. See how long you go undetected then!"

He found one and threw it at me. I began to unstrap my weapons as he pulled out a thin, rolled parchment. He read it and eyed me with a smirk.

"You are to go north, back in the direction of Masyaf, to find this Garath and his encampment."

I pulled the stained cloak off my body and let it land in a pile. The new one smelled of dusty places, but at least it wasn't tattered.

"No," I said as I situated my hilt at my hip. "I'll stay here."

"This is not my doing, Kaim. I was told if you brought back that name, you were to go immediately."

"By who? Who told you?"

"The masters. A direct order," he said, waving the parchment back and forth. He paused, leaning against the shelves. "They said that this man may look familiar to you."

"Impossible. I have had few missions that involved direct contact with Christians."

"Yes, but there was one in particular. Do you remember?" he said, enjoying the chase. He roughly tapped me on my upper arm. "That mark here? The other brothers tell me it is to honor the babe you stole during a mission, yes?"

I turned away from him, balling my fists at my side.

"Thorthgar is the surname of the girl you grew to call daughter," he said carefully. "And Garath is her full brother."