"Do you think this will work?" Amir asked when they were close enough to see the stitches in the hide of the lions embroidered upon Richard's red-and-gold campaign tent.

I have to believe it will, Malik thought. "Hopefully." He followed the Eagle's sight to a line of picketed horses, and found a knight whose family had sworn revenge against William of Montferrat, who had fallen in Acre to an Assassin's blade.

The knight carried a message to one of the eight Hospitaller knights that guarded the king, standing like pillars through sun and rain and freezing snow on every side of Richard's tent. A few moments later, four of the eight knights left their posts and approached Malik and the rais. Amir watched them warily. Malik forced himself to nod. He had his answer. As they were still alive, the answer was yes.

The knights delivered them to Richard's tent. Two of them turned back to their posts. The remaining pair escorted Malik and Amir through the canvas flaps and settled themselves in the doorway, snow-caked furs thrown over mail, swords bare in their gloved hands.

The air inside the tent was warm as a spring day. Twisted olive branches smouldered in a stone-lined fire-pit, and the smoke spiralled up through a hole in the canvas. Hangings lined the walls. The muddy grass was covered with painted cloths. The English king sat in the centre, framed like a picture in the lamplight.

Richard I, Duke of Normandy, Aquitaine and Gascony, Lord of Cyprus, Count of Poitou, Nantes and Maine and Overlord of Brittany, known as Coeur de Lion to his own subjects and Malik al-Inkitar to the Arabs, perched on a low stool, strumming a lute and singing in a pleasant bass.

"I have two purebred horses for my saddle,

Fine-spirited and both trained for battle.

But I can't stable them together,

For neither tolerates the other."

The king was tall, even for a Frank. His head reached Malik's shoulder. His narrowed eyes were nearly on a level with Malik's as he glanced up. His right hand tensed on the strings of the lute and plucked out a final note before he laid aside the instrument. "Who are you?" he demanded as the sound died away. His hand dropped to the blade that hung from his belt. "How come you here? Who from?"

"We're messengers," said Malik. "From Salah al-din." His eyes followed Richard's hand as the king gripped his sword. To his way of thinking, the weapon made little difference. One word, and we'll be dead regardless.

"Saladin, eh? Not Imadduddin, this time?" Richard frowned. "You don't have the look of soldiers."

Malik shook his head. "I'm no soldier." He pointed at Amir. "He's a soldier. I'm from Masyaf."

Richard's eyes narrowed to slits. "Masyaf, eh? Not Al Mualim? I'd heard the old man died."

"You heard correctly," Malik said.

"So that serpent Sinan's dead." Richard said. "And the Assassins, it seems, have allied themselves with Saladin."

Malik shook his head. "We stand for neither." he said. "Salah al-din is my enemy. The Crusaders are my enemy. I don't trust either of you to come to an accord. I'm here to tell you that you cannot hold Jerusalem. The weather is against you, and your supply lines far too long. If you attack Jerusalem, you'll fight against the entire Muslim world. Continue, and you will fail. Negotiate, and I promise you Salah al-din will sue for peace. He's a fair man. He'll give you fair terms. "

"A pretty speech," Richard said, "but I doubt you speak for the sultan."

"I bring a message," Malik told him, turning to the rais. "This man is one of Salah al-din's soldiers. The sultan offers to marry his brother Sayf al-din to your sister in exchange for peace."

"Johanna?" Richard exclaimed. "Absurd!"

Amir scowled at Malik. "He wants an end to this war as much as you do," he said, holding out the paper towards Richard.

"Then he's vulnerable," Richard said.

"As are you," Malik said quietly. "You're a long way from home, English king. Attack Jerusalem, and the losses you've suffered will only be the start."

Richard took the paper from Amir and raised one reddish eyebrow. "It's a shame I can't test the truth of what you say by combat. God does not favour cripples." He frowned at Malik. "No doubt you have heard of the duel at Arsuf from your comrade Altaïr. He is a mighty warrior."

"That's true," Malik agreed. "And you promised him at Arsuf that you would end this war,"

Richard's face clouded like a summer storm. The message crumpled in his hand. "I promised nothing," he shouted. "I owe Saladin nothing. I owe his Saracens nothing. I owe the Assassins less than nothing. All this talk of marriages and negotiation is worthless if Saladin will not reconsider his actions."

Malik stood his ground. He'd heard Richard appreciated boldness. "Shall it be war, then? Is that what you want? For our people to be fighting a thousand years from now?"

"I want Jerusalem!" shouted Richard. He slammed his fist on the carved wooden seat. "If Saladin truly wishes an end to this war, let him cede the city."

"Jerusalem is Muslim as much as it is Christian," Malik pointed out. "Salah al-din will fight, because he believes his cause is just. His soldiers will fight for pay, and the citizens will fight because they have nowhere left to run. They'll fight you to the last, and the Assassins will fight with them." One Assassin, at least.

"Why?" Richard rose from his seat to pace the floor. "I thought your kind cared only for your Creed. Are you so afraid of what will happen to Masyaf if we succeed?"

"I did not come for Masyaf's sake," Malik said. "I came for Jerusalem's. As for my motives, they are my own. There is a woman-"

Richard laughed, a huge rolling rumble. "A woman! So the Assassins are human after all. For that, and for ridding me of that traitor Robert, I'll grant you answer. The truth is that I had already resolved to retreat. The Hospitallers already beg me to turn back. This weather plagues us, and the pox has taken many of our men." He scowled, mood turning quickly from amusement to anger. "I will be forever known as the king who lost the Holy City."

It was not yours to take, Malik thought.

"The alliance?" Amir asked.

"I will consider it," Richard scratched his beard, thick fingers grating audibly in his wiry hair. "You have my word on that. Nothing more."

"That's all we ask," Malik said. "That, and a reply, so we might return safely to Jerusalem without censure."

Richard looked around, then bellowed for pen and parchment, and a secretary to use them. He dictated a letter in rapid-fire French, folded the parchment and pressed his seal into the wax. "There," he said, "You have it. Tell Saladin I have received his message. No doubt I shall hear from Imadduddin later. Now leave this camp. I give my word that you will not be harmed." He frowned up at Malik. "How did you enter?"

Luck, Malik thought. Bribery. Threats. Guilt. Favours. "We have our ways," he said. Let the English king think the Assassins had magical powers. It never hurt to build a reputation.

Richard grimaced. "Tell your new leader to keep his spies away from my camp in future," he said to Malik. "And you, tell Saladin we'll settle this with honour."

The rais bowed awkwardly. Malik nodded. They backed away, exchanging the warm confines of the king's tent for the frigid dark wasteland outside. The Hospitallers were waiting, and at a word from Richard they escorted Malik and Amir through the camp. A man-at-arms beyond the ring of fire-pits brought a pair of horses. Malik didn't permit himself to relax until the thousand flickering flames of the Crusader camp had faded into darkness behind them.

They found the Jerusalem road without trouble and rode east to the city. The limestone slabs shone palely in the night. Moonlight puddled on the pitted surface like water. The horses settled into a steady canter that ate up the miles.

"With luck," Malik said, "we'll be home by morning."

The rais grinned fiercely into the dark. "If God wills," he said.

God willing or not, Malik didn't remember much of the ride back. The miles blurred into one long freezing lope. The horses were slow, and fat by Arab standards, but they were as comfortable to ride as a ship under sail. The easy gait made the journey slightly less tortuous than it would otherwise have been, Malik peered between his horse's ears into the dark and waited for Beit Nuba's shacks to appear. When they reached the village he checked his horse and turned into the street.

Amir reined in briskly, muttering a decidedly un-Islamic curse. "What are you doing?"

"I'm fetching my sword." Malik slid from his horse, landing with a squelch in the muck of the street. He tossed the reins to Amir. Amir caught the straps despite his complaints. Malik dodged between sleeping peasant houses until he reached the shabby mosque's arched door. The tiled roof glittered darkly in the moonlight.

Mali fumbled in the dark for what seemed like an age before he found Nusaybah's sword, wishing that the Eagle's sight conferred night vision. He slung the baldric awkwardly across his shoulders, snatched up Amir's blade and slipped out into the street. Amir came trotting up, the horses' great dish-shaped hooves silent in the mud. Malik tossed the rais his sword. He grabbed his horse's mane and swung astride. The horse sidled ponderously, but Malik kept his seat.

Amir jerked his head at the blade. "Why bother?"

Malik shrugged. He let go of the reins and slung the baldric awkwardly across his shoulder. "Why not?"

The rais gave him a sharp look. "Was it a gift from your woman?"

"Ask me more questions and I'll sheath it in your throat."

Amir snorted, but he did not press the matter. The horses snorted white clouds of frosty breath into the air as they set off down the road to Jerusalem. Amir reined back to a walk, and Malik followed suit. The only sound in the still night was the clop-clop of the horses' feathered hooves.

"When did you read the message?" Amirasked after a while.

"The first night in the village."

Amir snorted. "I didn't know that you could read."

"You haven't seen the Bureau. It's full of books. Of course I can read."

The rais exhaled. "I shouldn't have shown you the message."

Malik agreed. Far away and faint, he heard the muezzin call. Another voice joined the cry, then another, and then the whole night seemed alive. A thousand lanterns lit the sky, one by one, burning as the city woke.

They came to the hitching posts beside the Damascus gate and tied the horses to the rails. The gate towered above them, spiked battlements piercing the air. Lamps burned either side of the archway. The oily light reflected off the mail of half a dozen soldiers. They huddled in the lee of the gate and used its solid walls to shelter from the wind. They frowned at the rais and frowned harder at the parchment Amir held out.

"Hold," one soldier said, raising his hand to block Amir. He took the paper. "One moment, please."

Malik measured the distance between the guards and the gate with an experienced eye. He went to push past, but Amir motioned him to stop. "They're emir's guards," he said, as if that meant something.

Malik raised an eyebrow.

"They keep the city safe. They'll help us."

Malik rolled his eyes. He waited with ill grace beneath the gate's carved lintel as Amir went forwards to speak with the guards. The city moat gaped to either side of the narrow bridge. The moat was deeper than Malik remembered. Its steep earth sides bore shovelled scars. Salah al-din's still fortifying the city. It's almost a pity he won't need it.

Malik leaned on the railing by the bridge and watched the first trickles of the day's refugees enter the city, heads bowed beneath their burdens as they passed between the gateways, fleeing from their homes to Jerusalem's uncertain safety. There were men, women and children, all alike in their expression of stunned panic. He hoped the hurried truce with Richard would deliver the peace they deserved.

What's taking so long?

He turned to glare at the rais. A pair of children burst from the ragged crowd. They hit the bridge one on either side of Malik and bounced off, racing back the way they had come and teasing one another that King Richard would catch them. Malik thought he recognized the Christian children Salim and Hayat. They'll be safe.

Amir pushed against the tide of the crowd towards Malik. His face was troubled. "The guards will let us in," he said, shifting uneasily. "Malik-"

"What?"

Amir turned his back on the refugees and rested his forearms on the carved rail of the bridge. His fingers twisted together, healed crooked from years of fighting. "You know I'd do anything to see an end to this war?"

"As would I." Malik flexed his fingers, wincing. His fight with the Franks in the forest had finished what the cold weather had started and he was in no mood for patience. "Now are we going to stand and freeze out here, or are we going to find Salah al-din?"

Amirglanced towards the guards. "Follow me," he muttered.

Malik nodded and pushed off from the bridge. The soldiers followed them through the gate. The refugees gave them a wide berth as they walked beneath the arch and through the L-shaped defensive pathways into the city. Malik jerked his head towards the guards and raised an eyebrow. Amir shrugged. The rais seemed at ease with their escort, but Malik had spent too long fighting Muslim soldiers to feel comfortable in their company.

They walked through quiet courtyards as the sun rose bleeding into the eastern sky. When they'd walked for longer than it took to hone a blade Malik said "This isn't the way to the Barbican."

One of the soldiers turned. "Salah al-din isn't at the Barbican," he said.

"Then where is he?"

"We'll take you to him," the soldier replied. His hand rested on his sword hilt. Malik noticed that all four guards around him had their weapons ready. He heard the men behind him breathing in unison, four breaths in, hold for four, exhale for four. Beside him, Amir rolled his shoulders, spine cracking. Malik recognized the tics and preparation of professionals readying themselves for violence. He'd have understood the preparation in Crusader territory. In the streets of their own city, it made no sense.

Or then- it does.

He was in motion before the idea had fully formed, hand reaching across his body for the hilt of Nusaybah's sword.

The rais drew his left hand back and slammed his fist into Malik's ribs. Malik's hand missed the weapon. Sharp pain sliced his shoulder, and the sword fell away. A weight struck him from behind. Malik reached out to catch himself with his left hand, and broke his fall with his face. Blows slammed into him, panicked and hard, and darkness rolled in.

That day, Imad al-din invited Nusaybah to a meeting at his house.

To her surprise, he did not receive her in the harem, nor in the meeting hall. She found him in the garden, among orange trees shorn of their blossom, with a dozen braziers burning to spite the cold. He gestured for her to sit opposite him. She sat down upon a gold-embroidered cushion.

There were others present, of course. Nusaybah brought a manservant as well as Munya, and Imad al-din had his aide, as well as a veiled figure who was probably one of his wives. She recognised the attempt at compromise, and was grateful for it.

The garden was surrounded by high walls, and would have been chilly if not for the fires. The house was elegant, with three stories of open balconies, and hollow handrails for water to run through in summer. Despite the beauty of the surroundings, Nusaybah felt the walls press in.

Imad al-din cleared his throat. "I'm glad you came," he told her.

She inclined her head. "Do you want to discuss the contract?"

"I thought that was settled." He folded his arms, fingers rubbing the path of the old Assassin scar. The movement reminded her inexorably of Malik. "Business is important, but I did not call you here for that."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Do you have more news of the Assassins?" She knew it was a risky move to ask such a direct question, but she could not resist.

He flicked his fingers. "Those dogs don't concern me."

Then what? she thought. The servants drew back into the shadows, leaving them alone, save for the veiled woman, who regarded Nusaybah unflinchingly from beneath her veil, and did not speak.

He cleared his throat. She saw that he was nervous. "I have another proposal for you. I offer you support. Protection. A permanent home. For, as the prophet wrote, He created mates for you amongst yourselves; that you might dwell with them in peace and tranquillity."

She recognized the sura. "You-you're asking me to marry you."

He looked disappointed, as if it had taken her longer than he had expected to understand. "Yes."

Nusaybah felt neither peace nor tranquillity. She realized her mouth was open, beneath, the veil, and quickly closed it. "I'm married," she said, faintly. It was an honour for Imad al-din to even consider her, a barren woman past thirty, with a demanding job and an ailing husband, as a potential spouse. She didn't feel honoured.

"Your husband is sick, and not expected to recover. No court would refuse you divorce."

"I've lived with Rashid for too long. He's given me no cause for complaint. It's not allowed."

"I know the qadi," Imad al-din said. "He won't refuse."

"I'm barren. I can't have children."

He barely paused. "That's not what I want."

"Your wives?" She darted a frantic glance at the veiled figure. The woman did not respond. Nusaybah would find no salvation there.

"I have two. Neither object. The Qur'an permits me three, provided I treat them equally, and the sultan is a generous benefactor. You'll find no cause for complaint."

She shrank from mentioning marital relations. "My work-"

"You would of course retain your business," he said.

She scrabbled for excuses. "Rashid?

"I'd see he was well cared for." He frowned, encountering unexpected resistance. "No doubt you have had many other suitors."

"No," she said, then wished she hadn't. She could hardly call Malik a suitor, after all. "I can't," she said quietly into her veil, but no words escaped the fabric.

She could, she knew. She should. Imad al-din was highly placed, rich and influential. His wives would be restricted to the harem. She had no doubt that whatever promises he made could be just as quickly broken. Not intentionally, of course, but contracts had a way of changing with time. "I must think."

She was saved by the arrival of a messenger, sweating despite the cold. A soldier in uniform, without Salah al-din's yellow sash, who spoke to the manservant, who whispered in turn to Imad al-din. It was Imad al-din's turn to look troubled. He asked the man a few quiet questions, then stood, flinging his cloak back across one arm.

"I must leave," he said. "Urgent business. You understand?"

She did, or thought she did. "Of course."

"It may not be a bad thing. The delay will give you time to consider my offer." He tilted his head towards the veiled women, who nodded. Her cloak swept the stone floor. "There shall be no objection from my household."

Nusaybah nodded. She gestured to Munya, who bowed and held out the gift Nusaybah had chosen for Imad al-din. Another blade, neither as rare nor as expensive as the Cordovan blade she'd given Malik, but a beauty in its own way, with folded Indian steel that gleamed like water.

"I brought you a sword," she said, and saw him smile before he turned away

When the light returned it was dim, shot through with golden motes of dust. Malik's head swam with exhaustion and pain. There was a thick metallic taste at the back of his throat. He tried to breathe and choked. The darkness pulled at him again, but pain caught him and dragged him up, towards the light.

He shook his head and looked around. The room was small, walls curved like a bee's hive, with a circular glazed oculus in the centre of the domed roof. The walls were lined with shelves, and each shelf was packed with books, hundreds of them, covers embossed or inlaid or bound with leather or metal strips. The paper and wood insulated the room effectively. No street sounds disturbed the quiet air.

Amir stood next to Imad al-din beside a smouldering brazier. The rais held Malik's sword in one hand, and Richard's letter in the other. Malik tried to turn his head, to see who held him. He caught a glimpse of scaled armour. Unfriendly eyes glared at him beneath the brim of a turban-wrapped iron helmet before the guard cuffed him on the back of his head.

"Sidi," the man to Malik's right said, "the Assassin is awake."

Imad al-din turned as Malik coughed, tasting blood at the back of his throat. The bridge of his nose smarted, broken again along old lines. "What happened to our bargain? You're a fool to make enemies of the Assassins, Imad. Better men than you have fallen beneath our blades."

"It is no sin to break agreements with infidels."

"It wasn't yours to break." Malik told him. "Where's Salah al-din?"

"The sultan has more important matters to attend to." Imad al-din said. "And you have questions to answer."

Malik did not like the sound of that. "I've nothing to hide."

"Good," Imad al-din said. "Then tell me how you were sent to kill the sultan."

Malik stared at him. "I wasn't." He glanced at Amir, but the rais avoided his eyes.

Imad al-din curled his lip. His voice was calm and cold. "So you said. I did not believe you in the Barbican. I don't believe you now. If you won't answer, tell me how many Assassins are there in Jerusalem?"

Malik considered telling Imad al-din the truth, but decided against it. The Order would look dangerously weak if he told Imad al-din there were only two Assassins in Jerusalem. "You haven't caught any, have you?"

"Only one," Imad al-din said, giving Malik a dangerous glare. "I find that very strange. We have captured the Bureau, after all. Tell me why."

"No." Malik said, and earned himself a smack around the head from the back of a gauntleted hand.

Imad al-din sighed. "Then where is the Bureau's ledger?"

"There were books in the Bureau."

Imad al-din flicked a finger. The soldier to Malik's left leaned forwards and punched him in the side. Malik gasped at the pain in his ribs. He felt wetness trickle down his side. Pain rendered him speechless for a second.

"I thought Assassins were supposed to be clever." Imad al-din said.

Malik licked his lips. His mouth tasted of copper. "There is no Assassin plot," he said thickly. "I burned the ledger. And I don't know how many Assassins there are in Jerusalem."

Imad al-din cast a glance at Amir. "Does he speak the truth?"

Amir shook his head. "I don't know."

"Then there's only one way to find out." Imad al-din said. The fingers of his left arm knotted on the elbow of his right as he turned to Amir and motioned to Nusaybah's sword. "Take up the blade."

Amir tucked Richard's letter into his sash. He drew the blade from its sheath with a clatter.

Malik grimaced. He'd have done the same in Amir's place without a qualm, but he had no intention of submitting without a fight. There were few situations he couldn't talk or trick or fight his way out of.

He straightened, though it cost him all he had, and looked Imad al-din in the eye, willing him to see not a cripple, but a rafiq of the Assassins. "You don't know the truth. We fight only for peace."

Imad al-din sneered. "I find that unlikely." He rolled up his right sleeve to display a silvery, faded scar. "I took this wound protecting the sultan from your Order at Aleppo. They sent thirteen men." He rolled down his sleeve. "They died. Not quickly."

"Times have changed," Malik said.

"Have they?"

"They will. If you'll let them."

"Is that what you think?" Imad al-din's fists clenched. He stepped forwards, slippers scuffing the stone. "That things will change if I let you go? I have no intention of letting you live, much less letting you go free. Your Order has long been a stain on this land. Soon Syria will be wiped clean of Assassins and Crusaders alike, and Dar al-Islam will be whole once more." He nodded to Amir. "Rais, I grow tired of this dog's lies. Find me the truth."

Well, Malik thought as the rais stepped forwards, blade in hand, at least I know where I stand. "I saved your life," he told Amir.

Ruby light danced along the edge of Nusaybah's sword as Amir raised the blade. "And I saved yours," he said. "That means we're equal."

Malik could see that there would be no help from that quarter. Amir came closer. Malik twisted and fought, but the guards held him easily.

"When will the Assassins strike?" Imad al-din asked softly. "How many of you are there?"

Malik had no intention of telling Imad al-din anything he wanted to know. He tore his eyes from Amir and glanced at the oculus that pierced the library's roof. "We strike when we please." he said, lowering his voice so Imad had to strain to hear it. "Our blades are without number. If you don't fear us, you should. Let me go, or spend your last days watching every shadow."

The guards tightened their grip on Malik's arms and Imad al-din nodded at Amir. The rais pressed the edge of Nusaybah's sword against Malik's throat, forcing his head back. Malik had sharpened the blade himself and he knew the edge was keen. Blood trickled down his neck as he waited to see if Amir had the stomach for something more bloody than throat-slitting. In Amir's place he'd have started with the eyes, or his right hand. Something he'd regret losing.

But Amir stood there with the sword at Malik's throat. He pressed a little harder. Skin split, and Malik hissed in pain, but still Amir held back. Malik nearly pressed forwards, ready to finish the job himself and deny Imad al-din the satisfaction of his revenge. He had anticipated fear, but felt no more than mild dismay. I've killed more men in these past few months that I ever expected. Perhaps this isn't revenge. Perhaps it's justice.

"Rais," Imad al din's voice cracked like a whip.

Amir withdrew the blade from Malik's throat, moving nearly too fast for Malik to follow, and jabbed the blade into Malik's left shoulder. Malik arched, fighting. Agony seared through him. He heard himself cry out. Cold sweat slicked his skin. Amir stepped back, jaw set, and flicked Malik's blood from his blade.

"Perhaps now you will be more forthcoming," Imad al-din said, leaning back against his bookshelves. "Tell me what I want to know."

Malik bared his teeth. Blood dripped from his chin and ran in rivers from his shoulder. "You think I'm afraid to die?"

"I think you're afraid of pain," said Imad al-din calmly. "Most people are, and those that aren't are fools. I don't think that you're a fool."

Malik sought desperately for something to say that would convince Imad al-din to stop. He cast his mind back to the meeting with the Frankish king. He'd told Richard they were messengers from Salah al-din, and the king had said-

Saladin, eh? Not Imadduddin?

Malik lifted his head and spoke, not to Imad al-din, but to Amir. "Why would Imad al-din send messengers to Richard's camp?"

The rais frowned, staring at Malik as he had gone mad. "We carried the sultan's message, not Imad al-din's."

"But Richard spoke Imad's name. Do you remember? He was surprised when we mentioned the sultan. Why would he expect a messenger from Imad? Why bring me here at all? I made a bargain with Salah al-din. Why break it now?"

Amir glanced uncertainly at Imad al-din. He looked back at Malik, shaking his head.

"So you're not a fool," Imad al-din said calmly. He turned to Amir. "Did you deliver the message?"

Amir paused. His knuckles whitened on the hilt of Nusaybah's blade. "Yes, sidi," he said at last.

"I'd hoped you failed," Imad al-din said curtly. "This whole affair is complicated enough. Do you know what the letter offered? A marriage between Salah al-din's brother and Richard's sister! Absurd! Let the Crusaders come! God will aid us! Jerusalem will not fall. We'll beat them in fair battle, break the Frankish crosses as they do their treaties and send them whimpering into the sea. They'll soon turn their backs upon Syria and their cursed kingdom will be nothing but a memory. We'll gain glory in this world, and Paradise thereafter." He held his hand out to Amir. "Did the Frankish king send a reply?"

"Yes."

"Give it to me."

Amir reached into his sash for Richard's letter.

"Don't!" Malik struggled against the guards' iron grip. "That's the only proof we carried out the sultan's wishes!"

Gloved hands bit into his shoulders, into ripped flesh. He groaned and sank to his knees. The stink of burning parchment stung his nostrils. He opened his eyes, blinking through a haze of pain. Smoke from the brazier curled into the air. Imad al-din's silhouette stretched long in the ruby light. The room swam around him.

Imad al-din withdrew his hand from the brazier. Coals glittered and smoked. "This is the only way. We've gone too far, lost too much. Now men are dying in the fields that should hold next year's harvest. We have to finish the Franks for once and for all. If Richard besieges Jerusalem, Islam shall rise."

"If Richard besieges Jerusalem, thousands will die!"

"Then they'll die honourably!"

"There's nothing honourable about wives losing their husbands. Where's the honour in crops failing and children starving in the streets? Isn't it more honourable to save the lives of thousands by killing just one man? This is treason!"

"It's for the good of the country. The good of Islam." Imad al-din turned to Amir. "Take up your sword, rais. Answer, Assassin. Tell me of your allies. How many spies are in Jerusalem?"

Amir stared at Malik. His eyes were haunted beneath his ragged turban. "I don't know how many," he said, "but I know one. He has a woman in the city." He hefted the blade. Light played along the damascened steel and cast the engraved letters in sharp relief. Victory comes only from God, the almighty, the all-wise.

Imad al-din stared at the sword. He crossed swiftly to Amir's side and cocked his head to read the inscription. "Where did you get this?"

Amir held the sword out to Imad al-din. "I took it from the Assassin," he said.

Malik cursed. He remembered telling Richard, there is a woman, and the Frankish king had laughed. And when he'd gone to fetch the sword from the mosque in Beit Nuba, Amir had said, is it from your woman?

I've been a fool, he thought. I underestimated them both.

Imad al-din took the blade from Amir, watching Malik with a peculiar sneer. "I know how you got the blade. You speak of peace, but threaten an innocent woman." He raised his right hand, and the guard to Malik's right slammed a mailed fist into his ribs. The world swam. He tried to struggle, but he could hardly breathe. The soldier hauled him upright. Malik spat blood onto the floor, and hoped the scarlet stain came from a loose tooth.

"Dog," Imad al-din said severely.

It was a moment before Malik could speak. "I bought the blade."

Imad al-din watched Malik with jewel-hard eyes. "Who from?"

Malik shrugged as best he could with both shoulders pinioned. The movement hurt. Everything hurt. "From an old man in the market."

Imad al-din turned to Amir. "What do you think?"

"He's lying," Amir said.

"You're sure?" Imad al-din sheathed Nusaybah's blade with a whisper of steel.

"Certain." Amir said.

"Then it's simple." Imad al-din slipped the blade into his sash. "I know the owner of the blade. Rais, go to the watch-house by the Bab Ourika gate. Take a squad of soldiers to Dar Khalifah. Fetch the lady of the house. We'll find the truth by any means."

Malik struggled to keep his voice steady. "That's not necessary," he said evenly. If he'd been armed, he would have cut Imad al-din's throat. As it was, he had only words.

Imad al-din frowned, stepping closer. "Why not?"

Malik coughed and slumped towards the floor. The guards shifted to take his weight. His head sank to his chest as his eyes rolled back. He muttered something.

Imad al-din came closer. "Why-"

Malik lunged. As he moved the soldier behind him shifted automatically. The movement told Malik everything he needed to know about the guard's position. He used his left leg to kick the guard's knee out. The soldier gasped, and went down. His hands slid from Malik's arm. Malik leapt towards Imad al-din, but the secretary drew back with more speed than he'd expected from a scholar, and the second guard hit Malik in the ribs. The coals of pain banked beneath his skin flared to a blaze of agony, and only his reflexes saved him from falling face-first in the brazier as he staggered forwards. The soldier he had kicked found his feet, and together the guards forced Malik to his knees.

Imad al-din scowled. He crooked a finger. Malik took a deep breath, tensing, but he still wasn't ready when the soldier to his right hammered a fist up into his side. More blows followed. It was easier than he'd expected to stop fighting, to let go, and sink down into the dark.

"My lord," Amir said loudly. "You'll kill him. That's your right. But you'll never learn the truth."

After a moment they loosed Malik's arms and he dropped to the floor, slick tiles bruising the parts of him that weren't bruised already. The oculus above his head shrank to a pinpoint. Imad al-din's voice echoed down a long tunnel.

"Go," he ordered. "Bring the lady here. Then go to the sultan. Tell him Richard has refused his offer. Blame the Assassins, if you wish."

He heard uncertainty in Amir's voice. " What will you do?"

"That depends." Imad al-din said.

Malik heard a long silence, followed by the scrape of a door opening. "I'll fetch my men."

Imad al-din didn't speak again, or if he did Malik didn't hear him. Blood pounded in his ears, and the swirling dark pressed in around him. He knew nothing more.

Author's Note:

Richard was quite the troubadour. He wrote lots of songs about love and women. This is one of them.

Salah al-din really did offer to marry his brother to Richard's sister, though it's anyone's guess if the offer was genuine.

Imad al-din believes that it's more honourable to die in battle. Malik believes it's more honourable not to die at all. Most of this part is my version of Tywin's Lannister's speech in Game of Thrones of how it's better to kill a dozen men at dinner than a thousand in battle.