Chapter Six

The double doors lead them to a long, twisted hallway that splits at the end. There's no other option but to follow it, but Altair is starting to feel the back of his neck prickle. Indoors is almost as bad as underground. He is eager for the comforting chaos of outside, and he pulls his cowl back up more for comfort than anonymity.

"The way I entered is behind Robert," he murmurs to Malik. "What other exits should we search for?"

Malik shakes his head. He has to steady himself with a deep breath before he can find the energy to speak. "I was blindfolded before I was brought here," he says. "All I can tell you is that there are too many halls for comfort. The layout is bewildering."

"I thought this place might be a mosque…" Altair muses. Mosques tend to have similar architecture—he could find his way if this was a mosque. But again Malik shakes his head.

"If it is, it's…of no design I've ever seen." He coughs, clenching his jaw against the pain. "No, this—keep moving, Altair. We'll never find our way if you keep stopping to give me wary looks. Are you an assassin or a nursemaid?" He glares, and waits until Altair grudgingly speeds back up. "This is not a building meant for the worship of Allah. I think only death is worshipped here."

Altair considers this, remembering the fight in the cemetery, and the way the fortress behind it seemed to swallow up whole sections of sky. "That citadel…"

Malik understands instantly. He is Jerusalem's guardian, after all: the only person who knows the city better than Altair himself. "That would make sense," he agrees. "The most powerful and corrupt of men have passed through the great fortress's gates."

"Yes…" Altair lets the conversation die as they near the end of the hall. It leads out to another hallway, but the walls block any sign of what the second passage holds. Figuring out where they are has solved none of their problems. He slows down, fingers itching for his blade.

"Again you falter?" Malik looks at him, and something close to unease crosses his face. His own assassin's instincts come alive. "Altair…"

"It's quiet," the assassin says. "Robert and his men were not so far away, and this hallway is not so endless…"

"But they haven't followed us out of the courtyard," Malik finishes for him. "Then they…they do not feel the need to. They expect someone else to finish us now. There must be guards lurking in every direction."

Altair is silent. Malik turns his head to study his guarded expression. "You have a plan, then?" he asks.

His only answer is a gruff question: "Can you stand on your own?"

Malik flushes and sneers. Rather than respond he pulls himself away from Altair, taking a few steps back for good measure. He even squares his shoulders. "Does it look like it?" he snaps. "Of course I can."

Altair looks at him for as long as he dares. Malik's tunic is blotched with red and brown; he moves his arm against his stomach, hiding the worse of the wound from view, but it isn't hard to imagine its disgusting depths. There isn't much color left in Malik's face: even his lips are pale.

Malik meets Altair's eyes for an interminable second. They were friends once, or at least not enemies, but though Altair has been forgiven the wounds have not scabbed over. There is a canyon stretching between them now, and Altair doesn't know how to get across.

He turns away, for both their sakes. He pretends not to notice when Malik slumps against the wall.

"There will be a guard around the corner," he says with certainty, though he has not seen down the second hallway yet.

"There could be many guards around the corner," Malik points out.

"Perhaps. But we would hear voices…"

"You doubt that Robert's men are well-trained? Twice now they have held you off."

Altair can't tell if there's scorn hidden in the Dai's seemingly neutral voice. But, he reminds himself, what if there is? Malik above all people has earned the right to doubt his skills.

"Even if there are multiple guards," he says, "it will be better for me to take them by surprise than for us to wait for them to realize we're here. I have slashed my way through crowds before."

"Were you missing half your side when you did so?" Malik demands. "I know how hard it is to fight off several men at once. Did you think I'd fail to notice how much of the blood on the ground is yours?"

Altair grits his teeth, impatient. "Are you an assassin or a nursemaid?"

"Neither," Malik says, and now there is definitely scorn. "It's as Robert said—"

"Hold your tongue," Altair orders, but tiredly. Malik falls silent; his eyes look weary, too.

"Fine," he says after a moment. "I don't know why I bother to argue with you. Go throw yourself head-first into the viper's nest. Altair…"

His voice softens. "I did not learn to stand your presence just so you could get yourself sliced into pieces. I know you are too proud to care what others think, but you could at least remember that."

Altair shrugs, and smirks, and feels strange in a way he doesn't bother to think about. Extending his hidden blade, he runs to meet whatever lies ahead.


There are guards, but only a couple; the second hallway ends at a wooden door, but the door isn't locked. It isn't that their luck is turning, so much as it's holding steady: they meet no serious obstacles, but they find no way out of the maze that they're in.

Altair's side is beginning to go numb. He is bearing more and more of Malik's weight. Eventually they stop, and this time Malik doesn't bristle: he doesn't have the strength.

(Altair is getting a headache from the sickening sameness of this place. Every hall looks the same. None of the rooms have furniture. This fortress is claustrophobia incarnate, with dust in the corners.)

Malik leans against a wall with a sigh that's almost a gasp. He draws his arm even tighter against his stomach; he's still on his feet, still cognizant, but...

This is not the time to be lost.

"Another hallway. Rooms without windows. No wonder Robert chose this place. He didn't expect to defeat you in battle, he's just going to wait until we starve to death."

Altair cleans his sword with the edge of his robes. "No building is inescapable."

"There might just be the one entrance. The one you said you came from, not to mention the one the Templars are blocking."

"Then we'll use it."

"Oh yes? Just like that?"

"Why should that door be any harder to open than—"

"Open your eyes, Altair." Malik shuts his, as a spasm of pain crosses his face. "We're both exhausted. Half the Christian army is in that courtyard. How will you fight all of them? Do you expect them to run the minute you scowl?"

Altair leans against the wall opposite, and smirks. "That has worked in the past."

"Arrogant fool." Malik lets his legs give way beneath him. He sits down, back against the wall, arm still drawn across his stomach. Sitting is no less safe then standing, at this point; there haven't been any guards in the last few branches of the labyrinth. They are so deep within the building's bowels that even Robert's lice haven't spread this far.

But Malik's eyes are still closed. That's disquieting for another reason.

"You should stand up," Altair says.

"What are you complaining about this time?"

"You are injured. You've lost a lot of blood. You need to stay focused."

"Stop worrying." Malik finally looks at him—no, not at him, past him. At some demon only he can see. "I've had worse wounds than this."

There it is again: that maybe-scorn. Altair's stomach clenches. Warily he walks over and kneels down beside the Dai. "It isn't just your stomach. Your ankle is swollen, and your fingers…"

"Enough." Malik frowns at him. "Aren't you tired of sounding dramatic? You can be a hero another day."

"I am not trying to be a…"

"No? Then why did you even bother to come here?"

Altair feels as though they are speaking separate languages. "To kill de Sablé before he could kill you."

"Altair, you are an idiot," Malik snarls. His body is beginning to tremble with the effort it takes to hold himself upright.

Altair's eyes flash. He's never been good at controlling himself, and his voice ices over. "How am I an idiot, for upholding the Creed?"

"You couldn't give a damn about the Creed. If you did you wouldn't be here right now!"

"I have been sent to rescue members of the Brotherhood before. Why does doing so now suddenly go against what we've been taught?"

"You," Malik says venomously, "have been sent to rescue those who were worthwhile to save. People with information, assassins with strength enough to still be of use. You have been taught to be cautious and stealthy. Tell me, Altair, how does walking into Robert de Sablé's ridiculous trap live up to those expectations?"

"Did you expect me to leave you to some horrific death?"

"I expected you to uphold the tenants of the Brotherhood!" Malik reaches out suddenly and grabs Altair's collar. He curls his broken fingers around the fabric with a snarl; doing so must hurt immensely, but Altair is too distracted by the Dai's newly-exposed wound to pull away—

It's nauseatingly deep.

"I thought you said you'd learned something over the past few months." Malik's voice shakes, just slightly. "Instead you charge right into Robert's ambush! His plans were so obvious it's almost insulting, and you play along! And for what? What possible reason could you have?"

"I told you," Altair says quietly. "To kill my enemy and to—"

"Right, to save the cripple." Malik spits out the word. "The best assassin in the Brotherhood risks his life for stupidity's sake, and he wants to know what he's done wrong. You're worse than a novice, Altair."

Silence. Malik struggles for composure.

Gently, Altair untangles Malik's fingers from his robes. The Dai lets his hand drop into his lap and stares at it, almost blankly.

"Call me a fool or an idiot if you'd like. It changes nothing. I don't regret my choice."

"Your choice," Malik echoes, sounding hollow.

"Would you have done anything different if our roles were reversed?"

"Our roles would never be reversed. You are the idiot, I am the cripple."

Altair's eyes flash. "You shouldn't call yourself that."

"Why not?" Malik shrugs his shoulder, and his sardonic grin is almost a grimace. "Isn't it the truth?"

"You have given enormous sacrifices to the Brotherhood. There is no dishonor in that."

"Fine," Malik says, "Then I am an honorable cripple." He grimaces again. He looks so tired.

"Malik."

"What is it you expect of me, Altair? You lost your rank back in Solomon's Temple, but Al Mualim let you have it back. Whatever honor he took from you has been regained. A momentary lapse of dignity isn't fatal, though you like to pretend it is." Softly: "Not even almighty Al Mualim can return to me my skills as an assassin. There is nothing anyone can do to bring Kadar back to life."

Altair has to struggle not to flinch. It's hard, hearing that name on those lips. He's being flung into the canyon without any idea what's waiting at the bottom…

"You said you had forgiven…" he manages.

"I forgave you, Brother. You aren't quite as intolerable as you used to be. Bearing that grudge would serve no point." Malik's eyes are closed again. "Kadar was my family. I was the one who failed him in the end. My whole life, I protected him…"

"You were outnumbered. My conceit led us all astray."

"And Kadar died. I saw my brother die. I saw…Robert…I couldn't even bury what was left of Kadar in the end. I don't know where his body lies." His words soaked in bitterness, Malik turns away. "You wasted your time, coming here. I couldn't possibly suffer more than I already have."

Altair reaches canyon bottom. Every bone in his body begins to throb.

Malik gives a tired laugh. "Tell me, Altair…why do you even care? We were never friends. I was always jealous, you were always an ass. And after Solomon's Temple I didn't hide the fact that I despised you."

"Exactly. It gets tiresome, hearing nasty rumors but never being confronted face-to-face. It's amazing how cowardly assassins can be." Altair isn't one for smiles (not genuine ones, anyway), and the one he tries out now looks strange on him. "You are never afraid to insult me whenever you feel I need it."

Malik mutters, "You always need it."

"You see? The others are disdainful of me, but from a distance. They fear what my blade might do…"

"Whereas I've seen you wield that blade and know that you have all the finesse of a blind man."

"Exaggeration doesn't suit you."

"Who's exaggerating? Watching you flail around is like watching an untrained monkey."

Altair trades in the smile for a scowl. "You're pushing it, Brother."

"Has anyone ever told you that you take yourself too seriously?"

"I will leave you here," Altair threatens.

"You've no sense of humor. You should reflect on that." Malik smiles dimly, remembering old fights and old scars. "Preferably when I'm not around."

He looks down, and an oddly worn look comes into his eyes. Altair follows his gaze and sees red-brown mud between the cracked floor tiles.

The assassin wants to throttle his stupidity. While he's been bickering with Malik like a child the ground around the both of them has been gathering eager russet stains, and damn it, I will not let him die here!

"You won't be around for anything if you don't get your injuries treated soon. Come, get to your feet. We must keep moving."

"Another moment. Just to catch my breath."

Altair rises back to his feet, frustrated. Why is Malik, always the wiser of the two, being so stubborn now? "It will only get harder the longer we wait. The exit must be close. Stand up and we can find it."

Malik looks up at him through slitted eyes. "You're always in a rush. If you had such a busy schedule for today then you shouldn't have come." He sighs, angling his head to convey amusement that isn't there. "I know how you hate to be delayed by dead weight—"

This time it's Altair who grabs at Malik's shirtfront. He pulls the Dai up to his feet so sharply that Malik has no choice but to steady himself, startled. He winces from the abrupt movement, but for once Altair isn't fazed.

"Do you intend to join Kadar so quickly?" he demands. "At least your brother died fighting."

"How dare you…" Malik's voice goes hoarse with rage. "How dare you speak his name when you weren't even there…"

"No. I wasn't." Altair's expression softens. He lets go of Malik's tunic and turns away. "I ran. You were the one who stayed to do battle. Even though you knew it was a fool's errand. Even though you were the one who'd resisted fighting all along."

Malik, eyeing the other man with suspicion, brings his hand up to brush at something—at nothing, a nervous twitch. His fingers tremble and smear blood across his cheek.

"You were the one who watched Kadar die. But instead of killing yourself in some hopeless attempt at revenge, you knew enough to escape with the Piece of Eden. You could have flung yourself at Robert de Sablé to avenge Kadar and die in the process, but you didn't. You completed the mission, upheld the Creed at a horrible cost."

Altair pulls out his sword and sets about cleaning it with the edges of his robes again. He's calm, collected…inside of him, there is chaos.

He is the Son of None, the master assassin—he does not apologize, and he does not admit to weakness, and he does not want to be saying these things, not now! Weakness will lead to failure, to dishonor: what is an assassin without his pride? What is Altair without his pride?

"Meanwhile, I ran," he says. "That makes you the stronger of us, it would seem."

He looks up, directly into Malik's eyes. Malik's gaze wavers and he almost glances away—but he doesn't. They look fixedly at each other, though doing so is hard.

"So what is your point?" Malik says finally. "Am I too good to die in a hallway?"

Altair's eyes flash. "You are too good to die before Robert. Have the satisfaction of knowing he is in Hell first. At the very least you deserve that."

Malik is silent for a moment. Then he lifts his hand again and considers his mangled fingers. "Like this, I can't even fight," he murmurs.

Altair reaches behind his back and slides a throwing dagger from its sheath. He holds it out to the other man and tries to ignore his own doubt. "Can you still hold this?"

With a frown, Malik tries to flex his fingers. Nothing happens: the skin around the knuckles is stretched tight by swelling, and marred around the breaks with blue-and-purple whorls. He grits his teeth, tries again.

Altair watches, and feels like an accomplice to torture.

The pinky and ring fingers simply will not move. The thumb twitches, then bends a bit; the middle finger bobs up and down but refuses to straighten out. The pointer finger is the most obviously broken, the middle joint jutting unnaturally upwards; Malik forces it to bend, cursing through his teeth.

"Nnh…!" He's panting as he finally raises his head. "I think…I can hold it," he says with some difficulty. Fresh pain is clumped to every word he speaks. "Throwing it…might not work. I can…try, at least."

Altair does not look convinced.

"What were you expecting…the breaks were done on purpose," Malik says impatiently. "Of course they're going to be severe. But I can wield…at least one dagger, Altair."

"It will hurt."

"It already hurts. You are the one who offered me the damned thing! You knew it wouldn't be easy."

Altair knows he cannot say what he is really thinking: that knowing is different than seeing, that he'd hoped for stupid reasons that the fractures weren't as serious as they obviously are, that watching Malik grimace is even harder than it should be and he isn't sure why. Malik is glaring at him with defiance and Altair wonders when things stopped being simple—before Solomon's Temple there was dislike and after there was bitterness and guilt, and now there's all of that plus more, plus some strange longing that makes no sense…

He hands the dagger over, slowly. Malik fumbles for it, clenching his jaw. He manages to sort of balance it awkwardly, between thumb and middle finger, pressing his pointer finger down as best he can to hold the dagger in place.

"You won't be able to throw it like that," Altair says. "It'll be useless for you."

Malik sighs, heavily. He steadies his hand, adjusts his fingers, only the tightness in his jaw giving his agony away. Then he twitches his wrist. The aim is far from perfect and the throw itself is shaky, but the dagger goes flying past Altair and hits the wall with a clang.

Altair stares at Malik. Malik purses his lips and stares smugly right back.

"Only a novice surrenders because of a little pain," he says. "Now do me a favor and go pick that up."