Chapter 10: Matched

Never had Kazhal been so grateful to be back in the Bureau. She had found that, not only was it part of Ismat's plan to show her how the women she despised lived, but that she could live a good life in the Order. The bedroom she remembered being bare save for a cot was now furnished and decorated. Malik was behind her when he heard her gasp in delight. One Assassin banner hung on the wall, but arabesque art covered the remaining spaces on the wall. A newer bed supplanted the previous cot, though still as modest in appearance. Kazhal now had a new wardrobe, which stood open to boast clothes ranging from humble to luxuriant. There was even a desk and a trunk to place personal effects. She turned to Malik, who stared with the same sort of awe. Apparently, he was not the one who did this.

"Ismat?" Kazhal guessed.

Malik shook his head. "I didn't know she was going to do all this. I have heard stories, but this is ridiculous."

"Stories?"

"You are not the first this has happened to," he explained.

They heard clearing of the throat from the entrance room. "A visitor," Kazhal mumbled, and interestingly enough, left to the kitchen to prepare food and drink for the guest.

Malik had to admit he had doubts. Kazhal was a stubborn woman, but now she was doing exactly what she was meant to do. She passed him carrying a tray of fruit and some juice, a smile on her face.

…What did they do to her at the brothel?

Did they defile her into submission? It would not be the first incidence.

Did Afshan talk all about their relationship with Kazhal?

There were so many thoughts swimming in his head, enough to occupy him even when Kazhal was trying to relay a message to him. "What? I'm sorry?"

"I asked if you were okay. Has your arm been bothering you any since Aidah left?"

How strange of her to care. He looked over her eyes, scanning them for any sort of humor. Instead, he found care and concern. "No, I believe it is fully healed."

"That's good," she slowed her words down and started to look away. How had it become this awkward? Why did it become this awkward?

That night, Kazhal decided to entertain Malik and the three guests they accumulated by telling Kurdish folk stories. She told one of a fox who lost his tail after stealing milk from an old maid. He wanted it back and asked her what he could do. He does as she asks and she sows lovely things to the stump of his tail, making the other foxes regard him highly. One of the brothers chuckled at this, and spoke before he thought. "Perhaps you should do that Malik!"

Malik glared hard. The assassin swallowed just as stiffly, and the others laughed at him. "I am not less of a man for having one arm!"

"As long as you didn't lose the 'arm' in your trousers, I shall agree with you, Dai!" Another shouted, and the men broke into hollers again. Kazhal stared at her lap with a blush comparable to a wine stain on her face. The man continued as if she did not sit beside Malik, "How about that anyway? There are plenty of brothels around here—have you made your rounds?"

"I am nearly thirty, not some young boy trying to prove himself by sticking everything that moves—excuse me, Kazhal. This is not a suitable topic for your company."

Her name left his tongue like the chime of a bell. It was a sweet lilt in his natural baritone voice that raised the hairs on the back of her neck and made her vocal chords quiver as she tried to minimize the concern. "Are we not around brothers?"

"But you are my assistant. If I do not regard you kindly, who else will?"

"The brother that wishes to marry her, of course!" The last of the three stated matter-of-factly. "How old are you, my sister?"

She ignored urge to be smart and answered the personal question. "Allah has blessed me with twenty years in this world."

"Ismat knows, yes? She is probably arranging your match as we speak?"

"Match?" Kazhal scanned the room for lacking sincerity and found none. They were all serious. She remembered what little the book said, reinforcing the beliefs of Islam about sex outside of marriage. But why have brothels if one is going to enforce Islamic law? "Do I have a say?"

"It depends, but usually the answer is no," Malik answered. "We match to increase chances of survival, to breed for the best. It sounds strange, but there is proof of its work."

There was a part of Kazhal that wanted to be ballsy. Ask the question, and see what the answer is; is he already matched to someone? Was it Afshan? Maybe it would be better to joke about Afshan. "I guess Afshan is your match? You did not seem to like one another."

"That is because," he sighed, "there is something wrong with her."

The first assassin spoke again, "Apparently her miscarriage was an unnatural one. She did not want it."

Malik's eyes widened like two large white bowls. "Who told you that?"

"Everyone knows. Ask her and she will tell you. Or make Kazhal ask. Is it Kazhal? Like gazelle? Okay, yes. Make her ask."

"Afshan does not enjoy my company," Kazhal replied plainly. "When Ismat instructed me to reside in the House of Dinah, Afshan enjoyed bullying me. I tried not to acknowledge it, but it was rather bothersome."

"You know why?" The second one leaned into the circle, trying to get closer to Kazhal so he could mock-whisper, "She knows you work with Malik and she is jealous."

"Women," the third one clucked his tongue. "I'll never understand why women hate each other so much."

It was one of those nights again. Kazhal found herself awake when the moon was high in the sky. Though refurnished, her room still offered little to do, so she went into the kitchen and drank some juice or milk, whatever was available. Then Malik would eventually join her and engage in small conversation. It was their ritual: take care of the Bureau during the day, entertain guests in the evening, and speak freely to one another at night. She would even prepare a cup for him before he arrived to his seat and slid in noiselessly. "Good evening," he would always say, and formally too.

She would laugh, and answer back, the blush impossible for Malik to ignore in the dark. She would mess with her headscarf, still trying to be demure before him, though he was not fooled.

Suffice it to say they both knew.

How had it come to this? At first, he was a one-armed man who saved her from a pimp on the street. And now, she spent every late night in his company. His dark eyes would trace the swirls of her hennaed hands, her painted nails red even in the dimness of the room.

He wanted to reach across the table and push back her scarf, so he could admire her hair.

"I hope I am lucky in my match," she deadpanned as her eyes lifted to his coyly. She had never been this way around men before.

The two women met in the bazaar, walking idly, veiled in black. No one would recognize them aside from those who know of their meeting. "Peace be upon you, sister."

"And upon you," the second replied, "The Kurd was a useless addition, Ismat."

"But a necessary addition. After you lost Malik's attention, I had to find something that could. Kazhal proves to soften his frowns, keeps his mind off suspecting Al Mualim."

Afshan chuckled, "Yes, and what would that do? A one-armed man against Al Mualim in a battle ought to be a spectacle."

Ismat stopped. "You forget he has influence in the Brotherhood. It would be a matter of time before the whole Order would be falling over itself trying to seize Al Mualim…and the Apple…"

"I do not understand, though, why that girl? There is something about her that annoys me to no end!" Afshan folded her arms. "When Al Mualim succeeds, I want her gone. Send her home, or something. Send her to a real brothel, for all I care! I just want the infuriating little bitch gone."

"You are in no position to tell me what to do. She stays. We will use her to entice Malik, and then turn her towards Altaïr. They will be at each other's throats again. Then we poison Malik and pin it on Altaïr. He will be put to death. No one stands in Al Mualim's way then."

They shared an air of pleasure as Aidah looked on, unnoticed.

Kazhal was surprised that, as soon as Malik had left, three girls had slipped through the entrance grate, bearing sweets and food. "Oh! Salaam…"

The visitors found her in the kitchen, pulling freshly made pita from the vase-like oven in the corner. She struggled the entire day making the bread with the right thickness, ready to serve with mashed eggplant. Steam rose like wispy sighs from fine cups of tea. Kazhal's palms were dark with henna, eyes lined with kohl. Her hair was down, but still covered by a scarf, but arranged in a way that the waves hung loosely underneath.

"I was not expecting visitors while Malik was gone. He had to meet with the other Rafiq in the city," she said, placing the pita on a plate. Before her stood the Armenian blondes, Reyan and Sevan, and the Kurdish woman Ruya.

Ruya removed her head covering, as did the blondes, who looked yearningly to the food. "It looks like you were."

"I mean, I was not expecting you. But now that you're here, I have someone other than brothers to test my cooking," Kazhal carried the food to the entrance room and sat down with the women. "Malik says he will not be back for a few hours. I had nothing to do…I hope it is pleasant enough to eat."

Sevan was the first to grab a loaf of pita, tear it to pieces and dip in the mashed eggplant. Upon chewing, she contemplated the different flavors and decided that it was not the best, but was definitely edible. "You need more spices."

"I thought I would never hear that told to someone from Persia," Ruya laughed, agreeing with Sevan.

After a few bites of food, Kazhal asked, "Why are you here? Is there something wrong?"

Reyan and Sevan exchanged uneasy glances, and then Armenian before Sevan said, "On the way to the Rafiq in the Poor District, Malik came to the House of Dinah to meet with Afshan. She asked him to meet her there. They…had relations—"

"We are telling you, because since we met you, we have thought you to be really sweet, and did not want your feelings to be hurt over Malik," Reyan cut in. "He's a wonderful man, but still in Afshan's clutches apparently. I think she is doing it to make you mad."

"That makes no sense. Why would it make me mad?" Kazhal's fingers trembled around the cup of tea, the steaming liquid rocking closer and higher to the rim. "Is he not hers? Are they not paired? I am no one to get in the way."

"Does not mean you do not care."

Kazhal looked away.

"I have heard rumors about your match. A man named Abbas Sofian. Aidah is meant to tell you, but she is out on errands for Dinah," Ruya continued. "It is not a bad match. He is very mindful of his honor, so you seemed a perfect match in Ismat's eyes."

"Then, why am I here? I do not understand—I'm so confused!" Before she could spill the tea, she set it on the carpet near the mostly eaten snack. "I thought I was meant for Malik…"

The room quieted. They all had faced the same truth as one point in their life. Unlike Afshan, the Armenians' and Ruya's matches had long been dead. They died on missions, from illness or old wounds, or were captured. However, they all felt the same way Kazhal did now. They all had once desired a certain man at one time. Ruya went on in a low tone, "I'm sorry Kazhal. The good news is you will not be leaving for Masyaf immediately. It will take months for the details to be decided. You have time to face your hurt before you meet Abbas."

When Malik came home that night, Kazhal had removed the kohl, replaced her hair under the scarf, and discarded the food for the day. His cheeks were rosy with drink and possibly his time with Afshan. Only one lamp and incense burner were lit throughout the Bureau, which initially perplexed him with Kazhal sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her hennaed hands. "What is this? What is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, I am happy to have found out my match before Aidah reached me."

Malik stiffened behind her. She could feel it.

"Did you enjoy your evening with the Rafiq?"

"I did."

"And Afshan?"

"H-how did you know about that?"

At that, Kazhal whirled around with a twisted expression of disgust, "Are you joking? Did you not notice the other women from the House of Dinah missing? They were here. They told me about your relations with Afshan."

The redness of Malik's cheeks spread to his entire face as he tried in vain to straighten it. "She is my match. I am doing right by her."

"I thought she repulsed you. As much as you repulse me about now." As she rose to rush past Malik to her room, Malik shifted his body to catch her in step. "Please move, Dai! I wish to be alone!"

The alcohol on his breath stung her eyes as he closed in, smelling her scent; he spotted a strand of hair poking out from under the scarf. He grabbed it gingerly, and as if he meant to tuck it back in, he pushed back the veil. It fluttered to the ground while he ran his fingers through long rivulets of brown hair. She could hear his breath quicken.

"Move," she tried again, to no avail. "I will push past you if I need to."

He did not respond.

Grabbing her scarf, she ducked under his other arm—or lack thereof—and ran to her room, closing the curtain and praying he would not pursue her.

Why should he pursue her?

He should not pursue her. He should stay with Afshan.

Kazhal curled into a ball on her cot as whispers of Allah's name floated through the air on the stale smoke of incense.

This took forever. I started to realize my timeline was not canonical, because it was after Eid that the final pieces of AC are coming together. Altaïr would have already visited the Battle of Arsuf, and all that jazz. I cannot believe what I am about to say, but FORGIVE ME. I am going to mess up the timeline to better serve the story and its consistencies. Altaïr still has to return to warn Malik. So, warning. Review! Please! Thank you!