AN: Regarding That Book, written by That Author…the one who has a good chunk of the fandom out for blood, preferably his…well, for the most part this story will ignore it. At times it will flat-out contradict it; my backstory for Malik is definitely not the current canon backstory.
I'll tell you one thing [spoiler]: Malik's ridiculous demise in The Secret Crusade sure as hell ain't happening in my head-canon. I've nothing against the plot idea of him being betrayed and imprisoned (Battle of Eagles was all about his getting grabbed by Robert), but don't lets pretend he'd sit around for two years starving into a helpless invalid. I mean, really, he gets thrown in jail and doesn't proceed to break out, kill twelve or so people in pure irritation and then crown himself More Awesome Than That Loser Altair Grandmaster Of The World? Out of character! I also have nothing against the idea of Altair coming to save the day, but if Malik doesn't insult him for it every step of the way someone's doing something wrong.
Another long one.
The Distant Smell of Smoke
Masyaf is not a large place, but its narrow streets are often clogged with travelers, villagers, merchants passing through. Through it all assassins slip through the crowds, or else jump from roof to roof to avoid the throngs, scaling the walls that border the respective layers without much effort. It's easy to climb in Masyaf: the houses lean into one another, and a person's front porch tends to be someone else's roof as well. Because the village is built against a mountain there are some steep drops, but there are also bales of hay set up in necessary spots, so that an assassin can go from fortress to first level without ever touching ground.
Malik hasn't been taught how to jump into those hay bales; there's a way of doing it that enables a fall even from many stories up. He looks forward to the day when he's shown how to execute a so-called leap of faith (faith in either the protection of the Brotherhood or the survival rate of jumping head-first into not a lot of hay). He's fourteen now, so that bit of training isn't too far away. Fourteen, he knows, is when most non-Altair novices learn more advanced techniques, and at fifteen they're sent out on their first real missions. Basic things, usually, spying on minor politicians or running errands for a Rafik or bringing supplies in answer to a struggling village's requests.
But all that will come later. Malik has spent most of this day wandering about the village, looking for any small details he might have missed; his map of Masyaf is almost finished, but he doesn't want to show it to Faraj until it's exact. It's his first map, and he's the only novice studying under the cartographer so his is the only the scholar will have to critique, and since there's no hope of encrusting it with jewels he'd like it to be accurate. Plotting buildings in such a small place seemed easy enough until he realized that, for the map to be useful to the Order, every bench and every pigeon's roost would need to be marked down.
He stops at the end of a muddy footpath that curls into a small circle and ends at mountain's edge. There is a cluster of clay houses here, two of which are built up against the rock. The shadows are long at this time of day and various cooking smells waft from the glassless windows. Malik's stomach grumbles but he ignores it and squats down: there's a bench here, between two houses, which he's yet to note on his map. Why anyone would want to sit squished between houses in an ally littered with rotting food (and other, more pungent wastes besides) is beyond him, but if it exists then it's a potential point of interest for the Brotherhood.
Footsteps come up behind him, but when he glances over his shoulder it's only a village woman heading towards a house on his right. She pulls her scarf tighter around her face and gives him a wide birth when she sees his uniform, out of respect. The people of Masyaf are used to the assassins who protect them and rarely bother them at their work; it's easy to tell visitors from those who live here, because the latter don't bother to look up when a novice flies overhead en route to another rooftop. The former gawk and occasionally run away.
Malik frowns at his map. It's cluttered with symbols, and looks messy for it. Dai Faraj's maps are always clear and well-drawn, but this one suffers from shaky handwriting and the occasional smudged line. Cartography is difficult, and not what he'd imagined assassins did when he first joined. At fourteen he has yet to kill anyone, has yet to throw a punch that wasn't either in training or aimed at Altair. Life's been a lot of hard work, a lot of warnings and promises regarding the future, and that distant goal to revenge himself on those who stole his safe life away. But it hasn't been dangerous, or frightening. It hasn't been too hard to keep Kadar safe.
With a sigh he rolls up his map. It isn't as though he's complaining about his role in the Brotherhood—he never has to worry about finding food or water, he can read Arabic easily and French so long as he sticks to small words, and when in a bad mood he can throw rocks at Altair. Granted the rocks get thrown back but still. He's grateful for what he's been given but he doesn't feel like an assassin yet and wonders when he will. He doesn't…
Malik widens his eyes, keeping them fixed on the ground, on a new shadow creeping along the dirt. The faint scrabbling of footsteps on thatch drifts into his ears. He tenses his shoulders, his legs, steadies his breathing and waits for the footsteps to reach him. They drift closer. Malik keeps his eyes on the ground. There's a pause.
The moment breaks and he bolts, legs pumping, alive with the energy of the chase and the threat and the Order. He reaches the nearest house and grabs for the window; his fingers find purchase in cracks and he hurtles upwards, scattering nesting pigeons. His feet thud against the roof, but it's a small house and it ends quickly: below is a steep drop down to the first level of the village. There are more houses down there, more roofs and balconies, and nothing soft to cushion his fall.
Malik can hear his chaser climbing up onto the roof behind him. He shrugs, and leaps.
The wind catches hair and cowl, swoops in echo to his falling stomach. He hits the roof below hard but rolls to absorb the brunt of the impact. It hurts, and he can feel bruises blossoming along his shoulder blades, but there's no time to tend to wounds; above, on the edge of the second level, his attacker is hesitating in much the same way he just did. It gives Malik spare moments in which to increase his lead.
One house blends into the next here, and it makes for easy running—so Malik runs. His robes billow out behind him, but his leggings are tight and don't hamper his movements. From this angle Masyaf looks small and grey, flecked with color where housewives have hung clothing to dry, every building sitting at an odd angle or depending on its neighbor for stability. Ahead he sees a makeshift chimney blocking his way, but rather than goes around he grabs its edge and vaults over it with sheer momentum. His feet land solidly without his having to slow down. There's a faint thud as someone else lands hard and then the footsteps behind him, but he doesn't bother to look over his shoulder. It would only cost him crucial seconds.
Some assassins, when attacked, will run in mindless rushing until their pursuer is either exhausted or lost; Malik is too careful for that and puts a plan together even as he swerves around rotten bits of wood. It'd be embarrassing to crash through someone's ceiling, but it'd be worse to be caught. Up ahead the row of houses ends at the main road that cuts through Masyaf. It's crowded there, and that suits his planning well.
He grins with the joy of it all.
Malik reaches the edge of the roof and sees a wagon sitting in front of the last house, full of hay; it'd be an easy jump but he ignores it. Instead he throws himself off the roof, launching into the crowd. The jump's a bit messy, and the landing more of a crash than he'd like to admit. People fall back in surprise and one old lady screams. Malik pulls himself to his feet, his knees stained brown with dirt and aching, and tries to look unconcerned. A man brushes past him, muttering; the old woman scowls at him and takes a step farther away. Down the road a bit, two guards far higher ranked than he shoot him warning glances.
"What a fool," someone in the crowd complains. "He'll hurt someone, doing that."
Malik judges the situation. His pursuer is only a few steps behind and there's still a small crowd staring at him…the only thing to do is bow, which he does with much aplomb. Then he takes off running again.
But he doesn't have far to go this time. The next row of houses provides ample places to hide; he puts his back against a wall, facing away from the main road, and waits. Another thud, followed by a creaking of old boards, confirms that his follower chose to jump from roof to hay-cart, rather than risk the further wrath of the populace. Good: it makes it that much easier to track his movements.
People walk past, a bird circling overhead calls out, the voices fall together into a general murmuring, and all the crowd seems to move as one. Malik tries to focus on a single member. He sinks back, lurking behind his eyes, drawing on that eagle's vision he still isn't sure he has. The crowd is glossed over with grey, the guards down the road flicker blue, and one small figure only now creeping out from the hay-cart jolts red for just one second. Then he too looks lined in blue ink…a clearer, deeper, darker blue then anyone Malik's ever tried to scan. He turns away, wincing, because eagle's vision tends to spark nasty headaches.
But when the figure reaches him he is ready. He springs from his hiding place, catching the other one unaware, and tackles him in much the same way he once tackled Altair. They fall together, legs tangling, but Malik is in control the entire time and his final position is exactly what he'd wanted it to be. He sits on his attacker's chest and pins his shoulders to the ground. They look at each other a bit.
"Nice try," he says. "You kept up with me pretty well."
Kadar grins and groans at the same time. There are a few stray strands of hay stuck in his hair. "You knew I was there the whole time."
"Actually, you only gave yourself away at the very end. Might've surprised me if I hadn't seen your shadow."
"Oh, come on." Kadar wrinkles his nose and starts squirming until Malik slides off and he can sit up. "I'm never gonna be able to surprise you, brother," he sighs.
"You still walk too loudly," says Malik, "but you're getting better at it. I swear."
"If you say so." There's no one pinning Kadar down now but he apparently feels no need to stand; instead he flops back down and lies there in the middle of the road, arms outstretched, hair collecting dirt. "It's so nice out," he says. "The sky is so blue."
"A good day for attacking one's brother," Malik agrees. "Are you just gonna lie there all day?"
"Maybe. Why not?"
"Someone is going to trip over you."
"You should lighten up. The view's fun from down here."
"What view would that be?"
"You know." Kadar drags his shoulders against the ground in a shrug. "The buildings. The sky. The older brother. Try it, Malik, it's an interesting look at the world."
"Kadar…" Malik sighs. "You are really weird."
His brother jabs a finger in the general direction of Malik's face and waves it around. "You wouldn't say that if you were down here."
So Malik lies down in the road as well. He looks up at the sky, sees nothing particularly amazing, and says, "No, you're just really weird. I mean, look how dirty your uniform is now. They just gave you the wider belt three days ago and it's already fraying."
"Can't hear you. I think there's hay in my ears."
Sometimes Malik looks at his younger brother and forgets that four years have gone by since their village burned. Kadar at ten is far different than Kadar at six…and yet, in some ways, he hasn't changed at all. He still talks fast and often, still refuses to be anything but mellow and content. Though his nightmares are rare, on the hottest nights of wretched summer he might begin to thrash about, to shout muffled protests of Templar and Malik and stop.
But no one grumbles at being woken up by ten-year-old Kadar, and no one snickers about it the next morning—Malik has grown in the past four years as well. The Brotherhood talks of peace and control and resisting emotions, and that's all fine, but Malik also knows that the teasing only stopped after he came across Nasr mocking Kadar in the courtyard and punched him in the eye.
Still, the boys who staggered through the desert going (as Malik now knows, having checked on one of Dai Faraj's maps) the wrong direction entirely, have faded away with the rising sun. Kadar is currently in the throws of a growth spurt that threatens to leave him taller than his brother in a few years; his face looks more fifteen than ten, the last bits of baby fat having been replaced with a remarkably square chin. Already he's all limbs and elbows and gawky strength. Malik himself is growing slower than he'd like, especially considering how damned tall Altair is getting, but there are muscles starting to reshape his chest and arms.
The A-Sayf brothers don't talk of their parents, or what life was supposed to be for ten-year-old Malik, shepherd of sheep. They don't talk of the journey to Damascus, of Fahima, of the nights spent crouching in underbrush with empty stomachs pasted against ribs, waiting for soldiers to pass them by. But still Kadar likes to curl against his elder brother at night, and still Malik feels uneasy if he doesn't know where in Masyaf his younger sibling has gone.
"Hey, Malik," Kadar says, still stretched out on the ground. "How come you still study so much with Dai Faraj?"
On reflex, Malik checks to make sure his map is still safely stashed away under his belt. He looks at his brother and shrugs. "He likes me, I guess. Probably when I'm a bit older I'll get sent to another city to practice the disguise. If I don't become a Master Assassin, that is."
"Oh." Kadar frowns, a rare event. "Are you gonna get to decide either way? Or will they just make you go?"
"If Al Mualim tells me to go to Damascus, I don't think I can turn him down." Jokes Malik, "It's about time I went there."
"But if you go, can I come? Will they let me, or will I have to stay here alone?" Kadar sits up, newly anxious. His hands fiddle with a string coming loose from his tunic. "I guess it wouldn't be so bad if you were coming back but what if they tell you to stay?"
Malik bites his lip. Here's a worry he hadn't thought to have—but what if, indeed? "I don't think Al Mualim would split us up," he says slowly. "He'd know we'd want to stay together, obviously."
"But all the instructors say that the Brotherhood comes before everything else. Doesn't that mean family too?"
"Listen to me," says Malik. "We're going to stay together, even once we're old Rafiks or once we get married or whatever. Ok? Just like I told you when you were little. Al Mualim won't separate us. No one will."
"Yeah, but…"
"Kadar. I promise. You should—"
"I should listen to my older brother, I know." Kadar bobs his head. "Even if he lies about wolves."
"Killed one yesterday," says Malik, putting his own uncertainty away for now. He won't be separated from Kadar…and why wouldn't it be just as simple as it sounds? "Right in front of the fortress, I swear."
"Uh huh." Kadar grins, wiser now at ten. "I believe you, definitely."
"You shouldn't." The voice that interrupts them is weighed down by disinterest, at least partially real; Altair still makes no secret of his disapproval of family ties. "Malik isn't a good liar," he says, standing before them on the road.
"Whoa." Kadar cranes his head around to see over his shoulder and almost falls over in the process. "Where'd you come from?"
Altair stands smirking, hands on hips, as if he'd dug his way up from the ground. There'd been no footsteps, there'd been no sight of a novice's uniform in the crowd. But then, this shouldn't be a surprise: Altair is very good at drifting through crowds unnoticed and unhindered, even in full assassin's robes.
"Not training today?" Malik stands up, dusts himself off. "Is that wise? You know you tend to forget everything you're taught."
Altair quirks one thin eyebrow. "Have you gotten shorter since yesterday?" he wonders. "Is it normal for beggars to shrink?"
"Ass."
"Fool."
"A lovely day," Kadar sighs again. "Blue sky, fluffy clouds. And it's almost time for dinner."
Both older boys are used to and ignore his dreamy interjections. Malik drifts over to stand by his rival-friend, in no real rush to get back to work on his map. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
"Blending with the crowd. For practice."
"You know, in the cities you'd have to blend in with religious scholars. Even monks if they send you to Acre."
"So?"
"So how are you going to blend in with a bunch of priests?"
"I don't have to understand their stupid mythology to look the part," scoffs Altair. "The hardest part about blending is hiding your sword and I'm good at that."
"If you say so."
"What? As if it wouldn't be just as hard for you?"
"At least I know when to praise the crescent and when the cross."
"Superstition," Altair insists. "It's all pointless unless it helps you make a kill."
"Says the boy," Malik observes, "who's never killed anything."
"I've—"
"You haven't even helped slaughter a sheep?" asks Kadar in surprise. "I thought everyone did that."
"Is there a reason you're still here?"
"He's here because he wants to be here," says Malik, mildly enough.
"Well, anyway." Altair purses his lips. "Practice crowdwalking with me after we eat. You could use the help."
"Sure," agrees Malik, "as long as afterwards you learn how to—"
A great commotion comes from the first level of the village just then, and all three boys turn to look below. At the gates to the entrance the beleaguered guards are trying to hold back a pushing mass of curious villagers. Masyaf's people are no richer than those of the surrounding villages, but in their clean clothing they look a damn sight better than the ten or so strange men keeping their distance behind the guards. Those men are dressed in little better than tattered rags.
They're all bearded though, except for a couple who don't look old enough to have beards, and they all hold themselves with that assured bearing that suggests tribal elders. The leaders of whatever place they've come from, then. Only…
Malik, wondering why half of Al Masyaf would gather to stare at the local gentry, looks past them and sees, huddled past the open gates a ways, at least twenty people. Not to mention the sense of far more that he can't see. All strangers, all obviously weary and disheveled even from a distance. With the exception of a bleating goat or two, none of the newcomers seems to have anything in the way of possessions: just what's on their backs.
He's too far away to see anyone's eyes, but Malik recognizes that fear-stench hovering over the crowd. He hears it in the wailing of babies and the haggard faces of the men. Half a village, if not more, clustered and begging for entry into the protected haven of Masyaf.
Templars. Malik and Kadar glance at each other. Kadar shifts closer to his brother, dropping his gaze.
"Come on," says Altair to Malik. "They'll need us." He ignores Kadar, but the younger boy follows anyway as they stride back to the main road. The crowds are only getting larger, especially as they get closer, but nevertheless it's easy going: just as assassins can be invisible, they can also be seen when they want to be. The villagers part for the trio, turning to them for this as they turn to their Order for so much else.
One of the tribal elders is deep in discussion with one of the guards when they reach the gates. He has the slightest bit of an accent, and his eyes are an odd hazel; Malik can't help but be surprised at how far these people must have traveled. While Altair goes to insert himself into the conversation Malik peers outside the gates at the newcomers, half curious and half concerned.
It's worse than he'd thought. There must be fifty people out there!
A couple of thin goats bleat ceaselessly. One man, laden with—of all things—a bunch of iron cooking pots, clangs whenever he shifts. Otherwise the people are silent. Too silent, for a group of that size. The older men, mostly bearded and wearing prayer caps, stand with their families and scuff fraying sandals against the hard-packed ground. The younger men are gathered in groups, muttering, eyes suspicious and defensive in a manner Malik recognizes. The only other large gatherings Masyaf ever sees are the merchant caravans cutting across from North Africa, but these men are clearly no merchants: their arms are empty, their faces angry. Those caravans rarely have women attached, unless a leader brings his wives; supposedly some of them carry slave-girls (and boys), but Al Mualim never allows that sort of convoy anywhere near the village gates. In this group, however, are plenty of women, cowering in black abayyas and veils, clutching at too-quiet babies and children who sway where they stand. Malik thinks of Fahima's sickly infant, for the first time in years. There are a lot of young women in the crowd without any children to hold.
He glances to the side and sees that Kadar has crept up behind him. The younger boy stares at the crowd with round eyes, for once with nothing cheerful to say. An old woman in the crowd, one of the few without her face hidden, sees them looking and stares back, beyond modesty or shame. Malik wonders if she's expecting rocks.
"Malik." Altair gestures impatiently at him, and he tears his eyes away. "Come over here, would you?"
The guard he has cornered is higher-ranked but deferential around the Master's star pupil. The village elder has backed away a few steps and stands watching him warily.
"They're refugees," Altair tells him. "From a village on the other side of the river."
"Far past," adds the guard. "Closer to Acre than here. A large one cut in half by water…"
"So when the Templars attacked from one side, the other side had a chance to escape." Altair's lip curls slightly, as it always does when speaking of retreat. He can't help but be disdainful, and probably doesn't even notice when he is. "But half the villagers were lost."
"He says it was chaos," the guard says. "He says the river was so clogged with bodies you could walk across using them as a raft. The survivors ended up in the middle of the godforsaken desert. They fled to a place nearby but the rubble was still burning when they arrived."
"It must've been slow going," says Malik. "All those women and kids."
"There's not so many kids," says Kadar.
Altair tosses his head. "Of course there aren't that many by now," he says, but when Malik glares at him he has the good sense to change the subject. "They're asking for protection. They want to stay here."
"Al Masyaf isn't big enough for all of them," the guard says uneasily. "I told them that the hills are filled with villages they could settle into. Some of them have more of us than of regular people, they're just as safe, but they don't want to leave."
"They want the gates between them and the desert," says Malik, who understands what it feels like to know there are walls between home and hell. Walls that evil, without warning, cannot breach.
"Al Mualim must protect us!" one of the old men cries suddenly. "The assassins must protect us!"
"I'll tell the Master," Altair says to Malik. "You'd better find some more guards."
Malik nods and looks over at his brother. "Kadar," he starts to say, "stay here until…" but his voice trails off when he sees Kadar isn't listening. The younger novice is still looking at the newcomers with huge eyes, and Allah only knows what he's really seeing past Al Masyaf's gates.
-i-
Room is found for the refugees, normalcy is restored…and from all across the wide desert world comes the wisdom incarnate of the Order and its teachings. Rafiks from the great cities, spies from far-off kingdoms, informers with their accents turned by years in the enemy's camps. Men in positions so secretive and so obscure that Malik cannot recognize the patterns of their robes. Those who hold the ears of tribal leaders, and who arrive with brigands of mercenaries all their own: and those who hunt the tribal leaders, suspicious and jumpy, wary around both strangers and unfamiliar food. There are a few pale-skins for Altair to blend with, finally. A few with the slanted eyes of Orientals. A spare few with looks so strange there seems to be no country from which they could be called.
Because the Templars are moving. While Malik has adjusted to the Brotherhood, to life closed behind walls and ranking, the enemy has wrest control of Acre from the Saracens, the Arab army they've been fighting off-and-on for years. The irreligious Brotherhood is not concerned with country-loyalties, or with kings, and the Acre Rafik has only gained more spies in the switching, but the people are suffering more and more. The Christians…not all the Christians, but the select few that paint red crosses on their banners and call themselves the Knights Templar…these men are searching for something. No one seems to know quite what.
It doesn't matter what. What matters is that in their searching they have plundered villages, destroyed homes, dragged the war into places that had little to do with the Crusades before. They do not limit their bile, their screams of heretic and blasphemer, to the Saracen soldiers—Malik has heard of their burning churches. The first group of refugees to arrive pleading at the gates of Masyaf is not the last, and the bubble of training bursts as the countryside erupts with fresh blood.
The novices talk excitedly of what this means for them, what missions they can hope for, what great deeds they can accomplish now. But Malik has no time for such heroics; he is still training hard, day after day. At night he stays awake to consol Kadar, whose nightmares have begun anew since that first bunch of desperate strangers appeared.
("Malik," he groans sleepily one night. "They got you an' I couldn't help. So much smoke…it hurt to breathe and I couldn't find you."
"Don't worry," says Malik, blinking back his own tiredness. "It's not hard to find me. I'm right here.")
Altair, meanwhile, is delighted.
It starts when the Rafik from Alexandria, younger than most and still strong with a sword, challenges some of the novices to a fight. He puts on a great show of being feeble and outmanned before thoroughly beating six novices in a row; it's when he faces the seventh novice that his struggle becomes less of an act and concentration scrawls across his brow. He does beat that seventh novice, but it takes a while, and by fight's end there are half a dozen Rafiks and spies and instructors watching in admiration.
And Al Mualim. He watches quietly, hands tucked inside his wide sleeves, surrounded by approving assassins of all types. At the end of the fight, when the Alexandria Rafik is panting and Altair is licking flecks of blood from his lips, the Master nods. "Yes," he says to an informer's query, "he's one of mine. One of the very best, since he was little. There's work I have in mind for him."
Altair hears this, of course, because Altair is good at hearing things not necessarily meant for him. He hears his beloved master's praise and he beams.
Malik is the only one who doesn't congratulate him on his might-as-well-be victory. He takes it upon himself to point out various flaws in the still-sloppy footwork, if only because no one else does. It's a bit sickening, really, all this fawning and what it's doing to an arrogant somebody's arrogant head. So he makes sure to critique just about everything that can be critiqued, and when Altair takes a swing at him he ducks it with a grin.
Still, Malik's attempts at keeping Altair somewhat grounded are overwhelmed when compared with a great master's compliments. And when Al Mualim calls all those masters together for the first time, he has Altair stand at his side. Ostensibly the boy is there to fetch food and drink for the men as needed, but the true honor in the request is obvious. To be asked to stand by the Grandmaster, to be asked to help him in any way! The rest of the novices have not been invited to the meeting, and are forced to cram themselves on ledges and in trees in hopes of overhearing even the slightest bit. When the meeting ends Altair comes swaggering back, full of information he "mustn't tell, so don't bother asking, because only certain people are trusted enough for this information and since you weren't invited…"
Rauf smiles and agrees that Altair has been given a great honor. Abbas is sourer than ever, jealousy pouring from his sullen mouth. He takes to reciting various worship-Allah-and-no-man sermons from the Quran, to which no one pays any attention. Kadar forms a small band of novices his own age and leads it after Altair, begging for crumbs of information, utterly enthralled whenever he deigns acknowledge their existence.
"He isn't a god or a Grandmaster," protests Malik. "He's just a jerk who throws good punches."
"But the Master let him stay for the discussion! And I heard from Nasr who heard from—I'm not sure who but he heard it from someone, that he's gonna get promoted to journeyman soon. He's not even near the right age for that, but he's so good that he's gonna get promoted anyway. And he got to sit with all those people…!"
"He's a jerk. Not to mention he was just there to fetch them water. I thought real assassins weren't waiters or cooks."
Kadar is scandalized. "You're his best friend. You should be happy for him too."
But Malik waves that away. "I'm not about to worship Altair Ibn La'Ahad," he says. "Especially if I'm his best friend. That's the last thing he actually wants."
"I don't understand," Kadar complains. "I wish you'd tell me what you're talking about."
But how can Malik begin to explain? How can he reason away the frequent midnight sparring sessions, brutal and deadly serious? How can he admit the constant, controlling awareness he has towards Altair, and that Altair has towards him? Always knowing where the other is, and when, and why…how can he explain the crackling tension that sparks between them, connects them, in friendship or hate?
("Coward," hisses Altair. "Coward, your loyalties split."
"Son of no family," answers Malik, "and no name, and no home."
The punches are thrown with real violence…they can read each other's movements in the furious strain of the fight…each muscle's tensing is a sign that no one else would know.
Parry here, strike there, jump and shuffle and scratch. Close—so close—bodies bruised and aching and tense. And afterwards, collapsed in the courtyard under the stars, chests heaving and faces drenched with sweat, arms slung about each other's shoulders in the solidarity all comrades in arms must share: admitting things that no one else would want to hear.
"When we're Master Assassins," says Altair, "we'll kick the Templars back to Europe. I don't think most of the Brotherhood is strong enough to do that. If…when I'm in charge we'll kill every Templar we see." Malik agrees, with more bloodlust than he'd known he had, and Altair continues: "No one else in this fortress is worth anything. Just us. And when we're Masters the whole Order will look up to us alone."
When we. When we.)
-i-
But while most of the Order is returning to Al Masyaf, one member is going away.
A week after the chaos begins, Malik makes his way through a crowded fortress, slipping past groups of men speaking in languages he doesn't know about subjects he's too low-rank to understand. It was a great surprise to come across the first assassin whose mother tongue was French, but since then Malik has overheard conversations in everything from English to Hindi. Strange things feel less strange the fifth time around.
He's too distracted to care much about languages. The rumors of Altair's being promoted to journeyman have sent something not quite resentment soaring through his system. Journeymen are sent out on real missions, important missions: they kill Templars. And isn't that what Malik promised Kadar he'd do, years ago? The enemy is still out there, still making orphans of unsuspecting shepherds and their siblings. How much longer will Malik have to wait before he's deemed ready to stop them?
He sidesteps around a Rafik being followed by a small herd of novices, then ducks down a narrow hallway he knows very well. At the end of the hallway he climbs a small staircase, only three steps, and keeps walking down the hall it opens into until he reaches a door no different from any of the others he's passed. Malik knocks once, waits, and then pushes it open. The clutter that waits for him inside is familiar, and reassuring.
But nothing else about the room is reassuring in the least.
The usual piles of books have been scattered about the room, and the table is no longer crowded with maps. Dai Faraj is too busy packing a satchel to notice Malik's presence, at first; he frowns in concentration, tugging absently at his beard with one hand.
"Dai?" says Malik, a bit uncertainly. He fumbles for his own, less-than-stellar map, as today is its day to be presented, but the old scholar barely glances in his direction as he continues to pack.
"Ah, Malik. It's good that you've—now where is that quill?—it's good that you've come. I was about to send a guard to go find you."
"Am I late? I apologize, Dai, I thought we were supposed to meet…"
"No, no, you aren't late." Faraj shakes his head. "You're early, actually. It's I who will have to be late. I'm afraid our sessions will have to be put on hold for a while. I've been sent…well. I've been sent elsewhere by Master Al Mualim."
"You're going on a mission?" Malik glances around the room again. It isn't unheard of for instructors to be sent out with the rest, but Dai Faraj? How can he be leaving? He's always been right here.
"A mission, yes." Faraj nods, and it's then that Malik notices the scholar has cast off his dark robes of office. He wears only the white uniform now, though his sleeves and tunic have been decorated as befits his rank. His red sash is wide with flowing silk, and the elegant hilts of several small daggers stick out from beneath the belt.
"You know that I was the leader of the Jerusalem bureau before coming here. One of the duties of any bureau leader is making contacts, and I may mention that doing so is an art in of itself. It appears that Al Mualim has need for those contacts again…forgive me, Malik, if I must be vague. Someone I once knew is now keeping company with someone the Brotherhood dislikes. For a while this was tolerated, but he's always been a foolhardy man and we believe he's begun to spread secrets."
Malik asks, "Does that mean you're going to kill them? Kill both of them?"
"If it comes to that," and the ease with which Faraj says this is unnerving at best. "I think it won't. My contact is a nobleman, and his death will be both hard to arrange and hard to keep quiet. Besides, I don't much like killing men for the company they keep—though killing them for the stories they spread is much a different matter."
"What if it doesn't come to that? Will you let him go?"
"He isn't a Templar, Malik," says the Dai with a slight smile. "A sympathizer, perhaps, but in my heart I suspect he's not much more than a careless oaf, eager to ingrain himself to those in control. Careless men should be given a chance to redeem themselves before they die."
"So you'll warn him. And if he doesn't listen…"
Faraj says simply, "Then I shall do what assassins must."
Malik nods and is quiet, absorbing it all in. Though he still harbors no real desire to be a mapmaker, the cartographer's messy little room has been a comfort over the years. A steadying presence, and Dai Faraj within it to smooth away any troubles or fears. But now he will be gone, and for a long time, too…Jerusalem is very far away.
"It isn't forever," laughs the scholar when he sees Malik's crestfallen face. "I'm an old man with no desire to dawdle. Besides, no doubt I'll be needed here the minute I leave, what with everything else that's happened. You should be looking at this as a benefit: it gives you more time to work on your map."
Malik flushes and squirms; the Dai gives him a knowing glance, eyes twinkling. "It's ok," he says. "Allah knows I wouldn't want to be drawing maps when I could be listening in on the Master's meetings, either. Take this extra time to, ah…redo anything that isn't right. As for myself, I'm too old to enjoy so much travel. I'll take a fast horse to Jerusalem, and a faster horse back in a few months."
He gestures around the room, at all the books and maps and scrolls. "This is as much yours as mine," he says, "so continue to come here to study whenever you'd like. Those cartography skills have to be kept fresh, yes?"
Malik glances at the nearest pile. The book on top has a leather cover, reddish with golden letters; the pages are thin and uneven. "There's too much in here," he says. "I won't be able to figure out what's worth reading on my own."
"Start with the Latin," Faraj says, chuckling. "You ought to be practicing that more than I think you have been."
"Yes, Dai," Malik says, flushing again.
"Well, Malik, I must get back to work. Even basic missions take more preparation than you could imagine, but you'll find that out for yourself one day." He offers Malik one last smile. "I'll send for you," he says, "when I return to Masyaf."
His attention turns back to his packing, and takes Malik's interest along with it. Curious, the novice presses in against the table. What, exactly, does an assassin take with him on a mission? Surely for assassinations it would be crucial to pack light, but this mission will require some theatrics and disguise. He watches as the scholar fits books in among the swords.
Footsteps, and someone clearing their throat: Dai Faraj and Malik both turn to see Abbas lingering in the doorway. "Safety and peace," he says, and bows.
"And for you as well." Faraj smiles at Abbas, who he likely hasn't seen since the basic lessons were abandoned two years ago. "Did you need something?"
"Malik. The Master has sent for Malik. Am I interrupting?"
"Even if you were, the Master shouldn't be kept waiting." The Dai waves a hand. "Go on, then. I'll see you in a few months, Malik A-Sayf." He warns, though still with his eyes crinkled in good humor, "If you haven't finished your map by then I'll have you memorizing Latin phrases for a year."
"Yes, Dai," says Malik, and also bows. Though he is closer to the old man than to some of his fellow novices, he never forgets to be respectful. Friendships and attachments mean nothing: as the oft-repeated story reminds, a favorite assassin of Al Mualim's was nevertheless banished for disobeying orders. No one is quite sure who that assassin is or was, but the point remains a valid one.
"Safety and peace," says Faraj to them both, though he only looks at Malik. The two novices hurry off, letting the door bang shut behind them as they go.
-i-
"What does the Master want with me?" asks Malik as they stride down the hall.
"I don't know. One of his bodyguards told me to get you, is all. I'm not Altair, who has privileges and information thrown at his feet."
"Oh, come on," Malik says lightly. He gets along well enough with Abbas, mostly because he puts little importance on the boy's constant grousing. Some people, and he suspects Abbas is one of them, like to complain more than they do act. "Altair is a good fighter and he gets rewarded because of it. It's not as if he doesn't work hard. He gave that Rafik a black eye, did you see?"
"You sound like your brother, fawning over him."
"I'm not fawning. He's my friend and I can admit he's a strong fighter."
"So what? You're just as good as he is, and you're not a terrible excuse for a human being—though Allah alone may judge in the end," he mutters quickly.
Malik turns a thoughtful eye on him. "I don't know if I'm as good as Altair. He's so fast, so…confident. Even when he should be tripping over his own feet, he doesn't…like he makes the rules work differently for him than for others. Besides that he keeps things exciting and occasionally he can even manage fun. I can stand him more than other people here. Definitely more than Nasr. If you ignore his bragging he'll usually stop and remember to act human. Nasr's mean, and he likes being mean. Altair is a jerk, but I don't think he's mean."
"Al Mualim should dote on him less and you more," insists Abbas. They've rounded a corner and the stone hallway is more crowded now, so he lowers his voice as he says, "Does the Master think making everyone jealous of someone so arrogant is a good thing?"
"I don't know." Malik shifts, uncomfortable now. He doesn't much like second-guessing Al Mualim…and he doesn't much like Abbas's glowering discontent.
"It's as you said. He isn't a god, he's a novice assassin. A half-breed novice assassin. Blending with crowds well won't dilute the infidel blood in his veins."
"It doesn't matter what he's made from. He's still a good fighter. It says in the Quran that blood doesn't matter, you know."
"Tabaan, I know that," Abbas snaps. '"Had Allah willed He could have made you one people. But He hath made you as you are, so vie one with another in good works.' Of course I know that."
"Of course."
"Let him lead you around by the nose, then." Abbas glares at Malik, a strange passion in his eyes. "And when he finally angers the wrong person he'll use you to block the blow."
"We're assassins," Malik says in exasperation. "Altair can try to do whatever he'd like to me—I can always punch him in the face if he gets on my nerves."
They come out into the main courtyard, clogged with its usual mix of guards, novices, and villagers from Masyaf. Off in a corner, thick in the shadows of the fortress, Altair is standing with a couple of informers; despite his lesser rank he appears to be the one doing all the lecturing. "…will never work that way," he's saying as they pass by. "You might as well give the Templar generals your name and address, too."
"I've been an assassin longer than you, boy," one of the informers growls. "I would think I would know how to—"
Altair flashes a predatory smile. "Yes," he says, "you would think."
Sadly Malik doesn't get to witness whatever violent outburst is sure to follow; it's been too long since he's seen Altair get a rock thrown at his head. Of course, whatever plan the boy was disparaging probably was a bad one…but his being better at informing than actual informers is no surprise at all, and nothing Malik needs to see.
Abbas stops at the entrance to the main hall. The guards there stare through them, an eerie ability Malik has never gotten used to. "The Master's in his study," says Abbas. "With some Rafiks."
"Oh. I wonder what he wants me to do."
"Don't you realize? He's giving you the same honor he gave to Altair, he knows you're good enough to be worthy of it. But even so he doesn't treat you like some beloved son…"
"I'll see you later," Malik interrupts. The argument is not one he needs to repeat so soon. "At lunch."
But Abbas sniffs and turns away. "I won't be there," he says. "Yesterday was the first night of Ramadan, you know."
Malik, who wasn't old enough to fast before he turned ten and wasn't naïve enough to play at hunger after he joined the Order, rolls his eyes and slips inside, past the guards. He's been invited inside, he's certainly doing nothing wrong, and yet still he feels a nervous chill down his spine when one of the men follows him in with a heavy gaze, beyond seeing or pity or much humanity at all.
Al Mualim is on the second floor as always, nestled in an alcove just past his library. With him are several greybeards, Rafiks and scholars all. They are seated on cushions (with the exception of the Master, who has a chair) and are pouring over various maps that have been furled out against the stone. Malik catches a glimpse of Jerusalem—he recognizes the particular lines of that city's streets after so much time with Dai Faraj—as he approaches them. Long before anyone's noticed his presence he's lowered himself into a bow. Malik doesn't really like having to bow before anyone, but he knows stronger men than him have been punished for less.
Al Mualim sees him, finally, and smiles. It isn't the warm one he saves for Altair, there isn't anything fatherly in it, but it's nice to get all the same. "Malik A-Sayf," he says. "One of the Brotherhood's most talented novices."
One of the other men squints nearsightedly, his face crumpling into a muddle of wrinkles and old scars. "A-Sayf? I knew another assassin with that name once, an older man in Damascus. Any relation?"
Al Mualim says, "Malik and his brother came here from the desert," and Malik is mildly surprised that the Master remembers the origins of two novices out of so many. "With his skills he has proven the benefits of hospitality ten-fold."
Malik bows again. "Safety and peace, Master," he says. "And to you, Rafik…" He hesitates, not knowing any names. "You've sent for me?"
The Master nods and turns his eyes back towards the maps. "The kitchens are sending us up tea and a proper meal," he says, "but until then we are still thirsty. There is a pitcher of ice water on my desk. Fetch it for us, please."
Malik nods. A part of him wants to point out that it made no sense for them to call him all the way over here just to pick up a pitcher, that while they waited for him to arrive they could have gotten it themselves a hundred times over. But Malik is no fool: the eyes of the Rafiks are all upon him now, and he knows this is another test. Only Al Mualim sees no reason to watch his reaction, choosing instead to smile down at his maps. He is the leader of the Order, the prophet-king of men who would run his errands through the night or his sword through the stomach, if given the order. He has control of the assassins, and he is made more powerful for knowing it.
Malik goes to get the water.
The pitcher is where the Master said it would be, sitting on the corner of the old desk. It's made out of clay and heavy, forcing Malik to use both hands to carry it the short distance back to where Al Mualim sits. He practices walking the few steps as quietly as possible, wanting to be as much like a Master Assassin as he can be. He's seen the way those men walk: like spirits, like demons, like fragments of dreamstuff cutting through the living world.
"…arrogant, that boy," he hears as he approaches. "He intrudes on the conversations of those much older than he, and he does not listen to their warnings." Malik slows his pace. The speaker, a balding man with patches of hair on his chin, is frowning disapprovingly at the rest.
The man sitting next to him agrees. "A boy of fifteen has no business interrogating others. Nor does he have any right for giving lectures. Be careful with him."
"Send him out on a mission, if he is so eager," suggests a third. "Let him learn what it is to fail." Meanwhile Malik, who can't stall any longer, kneels at the edge of their circle to lower the water pitcher. The Rafiks ignore him, which is a good thing, because it makes it so much easier to listen in.
"There is no time for mistakes," says the balding man. "Master, we must protect the people, before they lose faith."
"We assassins are no army," says he who has at his absolute command hundreds of well-trained men with a penchant for blood. "We cannot force the Crusaders and the Saracens to make peace."
"But we are able to control their leaders if not their rank-and-file. Both Richard and Saladin fear the old man of the mountain, this you know. The Brotherhood fights for peace and justice, does it not?"
"Through war, if necessary." Al Mualim speaks as if the contradiction isn't there. "We do what we must to rid the land of the corrupt and cruel. I am not convinced that either Richard or Saladin is cruel."
"Their armies are. The people are suffering!"
"And we will do what we can to prevent this. Still, I say that we must tread cautiously in this matter. The Templar Order is the true threat. They are the ones seeping into the cities to spark riots and enslave the populace. They are the ones destroying what villages they find. Even if the Crusaders leave, they will stay behind."
"Why would they do that? If they lose control of the Holy Land they have no reason to remain."
"This treachery," the Master murmurs, "is more than you know. Their lust for control won't be satisfied by the Holy Land—should they get the chance they shall conquer all the world. And as things are now…"
There's a meaningful trailing of words. Malik, who has been kneeling by the pitcher in some fascination, has the presence of mind to leap to his feet. The faces staring at him now are not particularly amused.
"Safety and peace," he says hastily. Then, with no concern for how a Master Assassin might move, he turns tail and runs.
-i-
Because the day is warm and breezy, Malik keeps running even once he's left the main hall. He lets his feet choose the road, his mind content to mull over the Master's meeting in a disconnected sort of way. He is only a novice assassin, and he feels no real threat at all this talk of looming war: only vague excitement, ready for the next part of his life to begin. His boots carve half-moon intents in the sandy earth as he darts past the training ring, past a crowd of civilians gathered at one end, past an irate instructor yelling, "Don't tell me how to use a hidden blade when you've never even-!" at a disdainful Altair.
Malik heads not for the gates but for a long ladder against the far wall. He climbs quickly, scaling one of the fortress's outer walls. Novices don't come up this way much, as the area must be kept clear for the archers on guard, but seeing as how there's no actual rule against it…
The ladder leads to a wide, round room. It's empty but for narrow windows, plenty of flags, and guards who frown at his intrusion. There's also another ladder, propped against a wall: Malik has a sudden need for height, for the sky wide and unscarred by towers, so he climbs this second ladder as well. Up here, along the platform that is the top of the watchtower, are more grimfaced sentries and supplies stacked in heaps. There are also several wooden platforms, jutting out from the round building; each is watched over by its own man, and each is suspended miles above the earth. This side of the fortress faces the river, and to fall from one of those platforms would be to smash against rocks, torn to shreds by the rough water's pull.
But jumping is not falling. There's a little slab of land directly below the sheer side of the watchtower, and well-maintained piles of hay as well. Falling from this height is death, and not one even an assassin could avoid, but jumping with the back first arched to ensure a sharp decline and then straightened to ensure a speedy drop—jumping is very survivable indeed.
Malik won't attempt his first leap of faith from such a challenging distance, of course; novices are taught how to jump from the roofs of buildings and minor cliffs, and still the infirmary is kept busy setting broken legs and binding crushed wrists. There's no real reason any novice would come to this watchtower, and Malik knows the guards are watching him carefully. He also knows—because this isn't the first time he's had a need for distance, for the wide world to keep where it can't reach him to drag him down—that they won't leave their posts to stop him unless he were to foolishly attack. They won't care if he climbs out on one of the wooden beams and sits with his feet dangling into the air. If he falls, he dies, and rids the Brotherhood of a clumsy member besides.
It's easy to forget those guards aren't statues, and today Malik doesn't try. He picks his usual spot, on the beam farthest down from the ladder, and climbs to the very edge. The height doesn't bother him; the far reach of the sun sparkling on the water doesn't make him queasy. The wind is rough, tearing at his hair, making it quite impossible to wear the cowl even if he'd wanted it on for once. It's also significantly cooler, and his eyes tear from the shock. He draws his knees to his chest, steadies himself, and looks out upon the world.
From here it looks so empty.
From here, and from this angle, there is no fortress and no civilian crowd and no Master with his beguiling charms. No tests. No mysteries. No muttered conversations, half-heard in strange whispers and snatches of air. He can see the mountain ranges that surround Masyaf, and the stream-turned-river-turned-sea, but he can't see the desert. He can't see the Templars or their burning handiwork. He can't see his fellow assassins, either. Not his brother and not Altair.
It's easier to think up here, despite the cold and the height and the sentinels. For all the great fortress's size, for all that it seems to swallow miles in its hallways alone, it can feel too close inside for clear thought sometimes. Too many eyes. Too many secrets. Too many men with eagle's talons roosting in dark hallways, breathing ancient dust. Especially when the Master's near. So hard to think straight when in the library, in that incense-choked room, watching Al Mualim ooze mesmeric charm. Up here, at least, Malik can feel properly alone.
He shifts so that his feet are hanging over the edge and tilts his head back. It's nice to be this far above the earth, and it's just as nice to know there's some stable ground to return to. In fact he thinks he might—
Footsteps on the plank behind him. He turns his head to look and frowns.
Altair moves past him with his arms held out, away from his body. His robes billow in the wind, but he walks with a surefooted grace, seemingly without any fear of the height. His boots scuff against the wood until he's standing next to Malik, though there's little enough room: he stops so close to the edge one more step would kill him, but still he keeps his arms out and his face tilted up towards the sun. Not for balance, because looking up can only make things dizzier. Not for balance, but for pride.
Malik watches the wind catch his cowl and pull it away. Altair's hair is longish and matted from the weight of the fabric, caught in tufts against his neck. His eyes dart about restlessly without shadows to hide in. In the thin light of the day their usual brown color looks flecked with gold.
"Why are you here?" Malik asks.
"I saw you climbing the ladder. About to jump?"
"Of course not. Don't be stupid." Malik brings one knee up and rests his arms against it. "You're going to fall off."
"I won't." And he won't—that's the annoying thing. They both know he's in perfect control so why the need to gloat? The difference between them, maybe: Altair shows off his accomplishments where the practical Malik bides his time. (But Malik was the first one to climb.)
Finally Altair lets his arms drop to his sides. "Why do you come up here? I've seen you climbing that ladder before."
"It's quiet," says Malik. "I can see more from up here."
"See what? How small you are?" But it isn't an insult; Altair looks surprisingly serious. Afraid of heights after all? Or maybe afraid of how little reach he has, for all that he can swing a sword. "You should stay where you have the most power."
"I know. Unlike you I pay attention to more than just who's fighting who in the training ring. There's a lot of gossip, you know?"
"How is aimless chatter important?"
"When I come up here it's easier to figure that out."
"And what gossip are you figuring out today?" Altair asks, curling his lower lip into that sneer Malik now knows means more than just disdain. "There's always someone talking behind my back, but I don't see the need to care."
Malik looks down at the water rushing beneath their feet. Would it hurt to fall, he wonders, if the jump went wrong and the bit of land was missed? Would the water be a solid surface to crash against? Or would it be a gentle grasp, sucking you down?
Altair says, "Assassins shouldn't gossip like women. They shouldn't worry what others might think."
"Then I guess I'm no assassin." Quietly Malik says, "Sometimes I don't feel like I'm really part of the Brotherhood. I haven't killed anyone. I don't understand half of what the Master says. All these secrets…"
"You're the best novice here, after me," and as before there was no insult, here there's less compliment than cool fact. "They'll make you a journeyman soon. Of course you're part of the Order."
"The Order makes simple things complicated."
"The Order," corrects Altair with a touch of ice, "believes in strategy. Al Mualim believes in strategy."
"But if towns are being attacked, why aren't we protecting the innocent like it says to do in the Creed? If people are being hurt—"
"By people, you mean Kadar," Altair says. "Other little brothers you want to save."
"Not just brothers, whole families. Why should people suffer when we could help them?"
"We are helping them."
"Not enough. Al Mualim says we're not an army but we could be! We could fight in the open and still honor the Creed. He acts like losing people is just collateral damage. Like our war is bigger than that."
"It's always been bigger. You've known that from the start! It's more than just keeping the Crusaders in Europe or getting rid of the corrupt in Jerusalem—"
"Then what is it?" Malik asks in the barest of whispers. "Then what is it Al Mualim wants us to do?"
Altair doesn't answer right away. He glances at Malik, turns away, stares at a distant bird, hovering and backlit by the sun. Then he clenches his fists.
"Malik," says Altair, "shut up."
"What? Why should I—"
"Because you're sitting there acting like some wise Dai who knows everything. Shut up and stop being so proud."
"Are you calling me arrogant? Altair, you are the biggest piece of…"
"Why do you think you can question the Master so easily? He took you in out of the desert, when you were nothing but dirt and bones, when you were so small and pathetic you couldn't walk straight. He could have let you starve! Put your gratitude in him if not your faith."
"Everything is permitted, right? And nothing is true. Dai Faraj says I should question—"
"I don't care about some old mapmaker mumbling into his beard. I don't care about anything but what the Order says. That's how it should be! Instead you have to wonder about everything, you have to keep yourself apart like it doesn't all apply to you. When you swore to uphold the Creed you swore to uphold all of it, not to pick and choose."
"I never do that. I never pick and choose."
Altair pulls his voice into a high mimic. "Oh," he simpers, "oh, I don't know about that. That doesn't really work for me. I have to put my brother first, I have to check on Kadar, I have to keep him safe. My precious little brother who cries in his sleep every fucking night. For once in your life stop worrying about Kadar! Worry about yourself. You could be…don't you realize how good you could be? How good we'll both be. That's what's important. The two of us in control, because…"
"Because what?" snaps Malik. "If you're going to bellow at least make some sense. And while you're at it, stop whining about my brother like he's the reason you're miserable all the time. It isn't Kadar's fault your parents…"
"Master Al Mualim felt there was no need to encourage family ties…he gave him no name and no past…"
Altair's voice is soft and dangerous. "What about my parents?" he asks, hissing his words like a snake.
Malik hesitates. "…I know Al Mualim is wrong about at least one thing," he says finally. "He shouldn't treat you the way he does. Ignoring you one day, putting the entire Brotherhood on your back the next. If he named you then he should have raised you also, like a real father—"
Altair's whole body stiffens; he jerks forward, and for a minute Malik thinks he's going to hurl both of them off the ledge. But just as quickly his shoulders sag and his face ages a year. Both boys stay carefully silent, aware that the wrong words now will have horrid consequences. The only sound is of the wind as it gusts and huffs the fight away.
"Sit down already," says Malik. "Before you fall off."
Altair does so, though he has to add a muttered "Not gonna fall" even now. He can't be any other person, after all, and truly Malik expects nothing less. They sit with their shoulders brushing and legs dangling, looking at the sun's reflection on the water.
"I told you the Order makes simple things complicated," sighs Malik. "Follow the Creed. Protect the innocent." Keep Kadar safe. "So what are we fighting about? Why are we even fighting? You don't give Abbas lectures on the Brotherhood, you just laugh in his face."
"That idiot? You understand more than he could even imagine. Him and Nasr and…they're all idiots. But you're not, though you're a fool in most other ways and a short beggar boy as well."
"A minute ago you said I didn't follow the Creed right. Now I understand it more than everyone? Is there anything but sand between your big ears?"
"Big ears?" huffs Altair, wounded. "I'm not talking about the Creed. I'm talking about…" He glares at his callused hands. "About this. About why we're so important, why we're so important together."
"Don't flatter me, I don't understand that at all. Do you ever make sense?"
But Altair says, "You know what I'm talking about. The thrill, the rush, the...the world gets so narrowed down when you face it from behind a sword. Most of the time it's just drudgery but sometimes you angle yourself just right and what you can do when that happens is—when that happens you know you were born for this life. There aren't any doubts or ranks or other novices. There's just you, holding power, because you were meant to and you can."
Malik doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how Altair has discovered the longing so brutal he dreams about it at night.
"We understand," says Altair. "No one else does, except maybe the Master Assassins and obviously Al Mualim. But we do. If Nasr wants to call me a half-breed or you a beggar, let him. They don't matter. No one will remember him a hundred years from now, but you and I will leave our mark."
"Actually," Malik—who isn't so sure he understands, at least not with Altair's stern conviction—says thoughtfully, "you're the only one who ever calls me that. Nasr never does."
To his surprise, Altair laughs. "Because you punch him."
"I punch you but you can't keep your mouth closed."
"Because I punch back." The older boy leans back and studies Malik in tolerant condensation. "That should be obvious."
It's gotten even colder by now; the wind is stronger, rushing thick clouds through the sky. The sun lurks behind a haze. Perhaps there will be a storm, though they're so infrequent here. This time of year, they almost never come at all.
But despite the chill Malik has no real urge to leave. He presses closer to Altair for the warmth, for the feel of the other boy's presence. There's certainly nothing odd about friends holding hands or embracing; still, he rarely gets so close to Altair. There's a distance there he recognizes even if he doesn't know why it exists. It's rare for there to be any human contact between them that isn't in a training ring, and that scarcity makes him enjoy it more. The solid heat of Altair next to him is a foreign pleasure, something as enjoyable as it is suspect. Do all friends feel this connected? Malik's father had plenty of friends in the other village men, but he was still a man and kept his own counsel. This sort of clingy pleasure feels too unnatural, too womanly. If Malik wasn't an assassin—and thus assured of his manhood—he might have started worrying after this day on the wooden ledge.
Altair shifts suddenly and rises back to his feet. He stands with the tips of his boots off the edge, legs bent slightly at the knee. "I think I will jump," he announces. "It isn't so far down."
"You're an idiot," Malik says, getting to his own feet in a hurry. Surely even Altair isn't so cocky as to try a first leap of faith from this distance. There isn't enough faith for a leap this high! "You'll break your neck, or your back, or your empty head."
"I'll land in the hay. I've been watching the others do it."
"Look down, Altair, not at the sky. You're not that good. What, did you forget you're not a bird?"
"Jump with me," says Altair. "We can jump from different platforms, there's plenty of hay."
"Oh, so you want both suicide and murder. We haven't been taught this yet."
Altair has yet to look down. With his eyes still fixed on the sky he asks, "Did you mark this place down on your map?"
Thrown off by the sudden change in conversation, Malik eyes the older boy suspiciously. He never talks about his mapmaking with Altair, never cares for the other's disinterest in anything not done with a sword. "…Of course. It's part of the fortress."
"So others will know of your hiding place."
"It's no secret. Other assassins climb the watchtower sometimes. The guards are always here."
With a swishing of robes Altair turns and walks back down the length of the platform. His shoulder brushes Malik's, and in the second of their standing shoulder-to-shoulder he murmurs, "You should keep something for your own self, Brother." He leans in so close his lips brush Malik's ear, setting off sparks along his spine—but if there's anything else Altair wants to say, it isn't said with words.
Then he's gone, before Malik has a chance to react.
-i-
Three days after he turns fifteen, Malik is in the little side room he'd stumbled on all those months ago: it's as unused as it ever was, and the latticework is overgrown with vines curling in from outside. It's very pretty, but Malik isn't here to look at the architecture. He's here because the straw dummy is still standing in the corner, and so this room is a more private place to practice difficult moves.
Just as he raises an arm to wipe the sweat from his brow, something thumps onto the latticework from above and a shadow cuts into the midday sun. Startled, he looks up: Altair is crouched there, peering down. Just him, then, climbing roofs and walls again.
Malik calls, "There's a door."
Altair doesn't pull himself up from his crouch. His fingers poke through the lattice and his eyes narrow at the sight of the dummy. As ever his cowl is up and his robes flare dramatically; he's beginning to fill those robes, beginning to hold a real assassin's strong bearing, and Malik knows he himself isn't far behind. They're both fifteen, on the cusp of being made journeymen, and if they aren't quite adult they are in no way still children.
"Are you just gonna sit up there? Like a pigeon? You look like one, you know."
"How long as this room been here?" Altair demands.
Malik rolls his eyes. "I built it yesterday. Don't be dumb, I found it years ago. When I was, like, eleven."
"So this is where you go to practice. I'd wondered how you're always so perfect in front of a crowd."
"We can't all be protégés," Malik says. Yesterday the Master had called Altair his 'own protégé' in front of one of the last informers from Jerusalem. Whether because the Crusaders have slowed their assault for the winter or because Al Mualim's strategies have paid off, the refugees have stopped flowing into Masyaf and the urgent meetings have ended. Most of the Order's high-ranking guests have already left, but the few remaining are still being treated to the Master's praising of Altar.
"Jealousy doesn't suit you," says Altair, preening.
"I'm not jealous. Abbas is jealous. I think it's all pretty amusing."
"Abbas is the only novice our age who can't throw a straight dagger. It's no wonder they're shaping him into a common fortress guard. They don't need to be good with knives."
"If you say so. Come off the roof so I can stop looking up at pigeon shit."
"Do you see a door?"
"Actually, yes, if you'd use the hallways like a normal person."
"A Master Assassin must be as skilled in climbing as in sword-fighting. You'll never get that good if you don't practice your free running—"
"Oh, go scold Abbas. You make me tired."
"Well," says Altair, and then stops. Malik doesn't hide his grin: the wrenched squeal in the older boy's voice comes and goes without warning, and is a deliciously easy thing to tease. Never mind that his own voice has turned untrustworthy in the last few months; never mind that he's suddenly finding hair everywhere, in awkward places hair has no business being. Altair's half-developed manhood is worth all sorts of good-natured jokes.
"Yes, Brother? You were saying? Or is it Sister Altair now? Hard to tell with your voice that high."
"Shut up," says Altair viciously. He takes nasty comments about his temper and his bloodline in stride these days, perhaps being used to them, but not all the puberty-related mockery has been as light-hearted as Malik's. Calling attention to his voice is an easy way to draw his ire, and that ire has only gotten louder with age. "You've nothing to jeer at, that growth on your face makes you look diseased."
Malik rubs his chin with great indignation. "It's called a beard," he says, "and I'm not sure if I'm gonna keep it." Facial hair is another choice he has to make as an adult, since he has no religious edicts to fall back on. Some days he's tempted to shave it off, and some days he thinks he looks quite dashing. His beard isn't all grey and scraggly like the beards of some older men.
(Granted, his beard is made up of exactly five hairs and no one but Altair has even noticed its existence yet. But it still counts.)
"You should shave it. It's ugly."
"So's your face." Malik shrugs. "Rauf says city women like beards."
"Rauf has never been to any city and he's never talked to any women." Altair squints down through the ceiling. "And suddenly you care about city women too?"
There are several ways Malik could answer, the most truthful being that he knows that by now he's supposed to care. Even Kadar has started daydreaming about the Master's garden. But Altair won't understand the uncertainty caused by this delay in attraction; Malik supposes he's too inhuman to care about romance, considering his view of family ties and his still-constant mockery of Kadar. Most of the time Altair doesn't seem to realize that women exist, and when he does talk about them it's to bemoan as useless any group that can't wield a blade.
Altair won't understand why Malik forces interest every time Rauf starts talking about legs and breasts. So for now all he says is, "Masyaf women are too hard to see. At least in the cities some of them show their faces."
"You think they're going to show their faces to you? You still look like a half-literate, bumbling peasant boy."
"And you look like a djinn or a Crusader with that pale skin. You're outside all the time, how do you never get any darker? And will you come down off the roof already?"
"I'm not staying. I was going to tell you something before you interrupted."
"What is it?"
In a voice deliberately made deeper, so that he sounds sort of like a frog, Altair says, "I heard Master Al Mualim say that the Dai of Jerusalem was settling into the fortress. I thought you'd want to know since you're always fiddling with that map."
Malik gapes up at him. "Dai Faraj is back? Since when? No one told me, how long has he…"
"I don't know and I don't care. Just give him the stupid map so we can go for a run without you having to mark down some new pebble."
Malik feels for the rolled up parchment kept under his belt. It's been five months since Faraj left, and since then he's worked on his map until he's sure it's something of which the scholar will be proud. But why hasn't Faraj asked to see him, and it, yet?
"He must have just returned," Malik says. "He must be very busy."
Altair stands up, hands on hips. "Go give him the map. Then come train with me and Rauf. But don't bring your brother this time, he isn't any good and he's always…"
"Altair," says Malik. "Thanks for telling me about Dai Faraj."
The older boy reacts as he always does to unexpected kindness: he grimaces and storms away, head held high nonetheless. Malik watches the fortress swallow his shadow. Then he all but runs for the door.
He hasn't gone this way in five months (despite the old man's assurances, the room never felt as comforting when empty and the maps didn't feel like Malik's to touch) but his feet need no reminding. What good news, to have the Dai back at last! They'll go back to working on maps and languages, and won't he be impressed by how well Malik has memorized his Latin verbs? The fortress was so much colder without that comforting presence around. That presence that no one else had, save for his father…and it's been an awfully long while since Malik has thought about his father…
Eagerly he sees the familiar door and pushes it open without a knock. Dai Faraj will understand. "Safety and peace," he says happily as he enters. "Sorry for interrupting, Dai, but I thought…"
He stops. He stares. He does not understand.
The room is not what it was, nor what it should be; for a minute he thinks he's gone the wrong way after all. The table is empty but for a lit candle in an iron holder and a scroll still rolled together inside its case. The messes have been cleaned from the corners and the piles of books done away with—save for a neat shelf in the corner, containing mostly books of Christian scripture and the Quran. All of the maps are gone. The torn ones, the ones with the careful script smudged in oft-referenced places, the ones printed on thin paper and the expensive ones done in gold inks against parchment and set with jewels…all gone. There isn't a map left in the mapmaker's room.
And the man bent over the table with a rag, now looking up at him in startled surprise, isn't Dai Faraj. He's far too young, his beard far too black, his face devoid of laugh lines and wrinkles around the eyes. He's no one Malik's ever seen before.
"I apologize," says Malik, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Someone told me the Dai of Jerusalem was back."
"And he is." The strange man looks at him, confused. "Have we met? Has Al Mualim sent you to apprentice with me?"
"No, I…I'm waiting for Dai Faraj to return from Jerusalem. This used to be his room."
"Dai Faraj? Have you not heard the news?" The man shakes his head. Malik begins to feel nauseous, without warning or reason or chance of control. "You'd think," says the man dryly, "that people would keep informed in the heart of the Brotherhood."
Malik asks, and as he asks tells himself that surely his voice doesn't really sound so small: "Has he been delayed?"
The man says, not unkindly, "I'm sorry. They should have told you before this. Dai Faraj was killed a little over two months ago."
Two months! But that's impossible…two months ago Malik had only just started shading in the river on his map, and…and Faraj…
"He fell in duty and died an honorable death," says the man. "He was buried with great respect and will be remembered for an eternity. I was an assistant of his in Jerusalem and have been sent here to cover his tasks for now." He adds, with some alarm, "The Master assured me that his apprentices had all been sent elsewhere, to mapmakers in other cities. I'm not…my specialty is in a different line…"
Malik does not recognize the sound of his own breathing. He pulls out his map, carefully tied closed, not a word poorly formed, not a stone left unmarked. "This was for him. He was supposed to look at it. He was supposed to compare it with his own."
"Faraj's maps have all been removed, but…I could look at it if you wanted. As I said, mapmaking isn't my art. Perhaps you should keep it for your own benefit, novice…" The man squints nearsightedly at him. "What did you say your name was?"
Malik gives the map an urgent shake. He's worked so hard on it. He's sweated over every line. "Take it! It needs to be corrected, Dai." His voice doesn't shake and he hates himself for it. Dai Faraj's replacement does not move to take the map.
"I'm sorry," he says again. "That I can't help you with."
Slowly, Malik lowers his hand with it still clenched around the parchment. His head hurts. There's the distant smell of smoke.
Father I've forgotten you and I've forgotten what the village looked like Father I don't remember your voice
"You should keep it," says the man. "I'm sure it's very important for you."
"No," says Malik calmly. "It isn't at all."
He crumples the map in his fist, feels the parchment wrinkle and rip. He lets it drop to the floor a waste, a mess, and before the man can say anything he turns to leave the room. Dai Faraj's room. The room he'll never enter again. There are memories here, and he should inquire about the books Faraj said were his, but he doesn't—
Leaving is easier. Anger is easier. He strides down the hallway, burying himself in the fortress until there isn't another assassin anywhere in sight, and the isolation helps. The loss infuriates him; he is so sick of losing. Assassins die but the death is made no less permanent with honor attached. Honor. Who gives a damn? Better to live with it than die. And anger is safer because it isn't as bottomless as grief.
Even now, he upholds his promise. Malik has not cried since he was ten, and he does not cry today.
AN: "Had Allah willed…": An abbreviated quoting of 5.048 of Al Maeda in the Quran. I think. One nice thing about this fic is I find myself doing research into the Quran/Islamic tradition, which I've always wanted to do. That being said I must admit that I have no idea how one quotes the Quran. With the Bible it's 'verse something, Book of Someone', and I could figure out the format for the Talmud if I had to thanks to years of Hebrew School, but I've had little practice with the Quran in my life.
I don't want to give the impression that Abbas is some religious nut-job. Abbas is a jealous grouch who wants the fame for himself; he uses religion as something to talk about, because he knows more about it than most of his fellow novices and can show off with that knowledge.