City center, Aleppo
Malik could not wash the blood off his clothes until they'd reached Aleppo's main square. It was the only public source of water in the city, and barring any attempts to break into a lord's house to use a private supply, they were left with no other choice but to wait.
Not that Altaïr minded; it allowed them to walk through the streets unhindered. There were always beggars lurking in the shadows of big cities, materializing out of nowhere when someone of means happened to pass. As a rule the Assassins dressed plainly, but there were no better witnesses to their deeds than those living on the streets. One only had to be on the lookout for a monk with a blood red sash. Chances were you'd be safer amongst the Assassins than with fellow vagrants.
The city's fountain stood in the Eastern corner of the square, and there were quite a few women and children standing around collecting water and exchanging gossip. The idle chatter ceased the moment they caught sight of Malik, as their eyes glued nervously to his bloodstained clothes. Quickly and in silence they melted into side streets and houses. Doors rattled shut, and suddenly the Assassins were alone.
Malik dropped onto the stone edge of the fountain, eyes closed and breath uneven. Altaïr suspected for a moment that Malik might fall back into the water, soaking his clothes and making a scene. He'd been seething silently since they'd left their target's home, and he hadn't looked in Altaïr's direction for nearly an hour. But Malik simply turned away to pick up an abandoned bucket, filling it with water and dumping it over his head and chest.
"Would you mind getting us something to eat?" Malik asked after several minutes of this.
He emptied the bucket over his left shoulder, dislodging some dried blood and dying his sleeve brown. Altaïr watched him repeat the motion twice.
"There is a baker's stall three streets down," Malik prompted.
Altaïr shook himself and took off. He ignored Malik's advice to find the bakery; he knew which one Malik had meant, and it would be no good getting in there. The baker kept several serrated knives for slicing his produce, and three blades tucked into his belt to protect against thieves. Altaïr had come into contact with all ten during his first week in Aleppo.
Instead he made his way towards the outskirts. Aleppo was full of merchants, whether they were selling food or clothing or warm bodies; trade was always lively throughout the year. Altaïr must have visited each shop at least twice during his stay with the Northern Brotherhood. He knew exactly where to go for their supper tonight.
A vendor in the Eastern sector was standing outside his stall, head bowed and arms folded. He was leaning casually against the wall, and didn't move when Altaïr swept down from above. Altaïr made no effort to conceal his intentions as he snatched three pears from the shop's display.
He hesitated for a second, conflicted, then flicked a coin at the man's feet before leaving.
Altaïr tucked the pears away into his pouch without so much as sniffing them. He could appreciate their fine texture and sweet taste, but he could never justify going so far out of his way for something so trivial and easily bruised. They were not ideal to bring along on a mission, and there were rarely any merchants offering them. In any case the pears weren't for him.
"God will judge us all, alive or dead, but by then it will be too late!"
Altaïr stopped walking, catching sight of a young man dressed in preacher's garb. He was speaking to a gathering crowd from on top of an upturned vegetable cart, in a fervent and lively manner that seemed to permeate the Christian masses.
"Because only those who believe in Jesus will be saved," the man continued, waving a little worn book and thumping the cover.
Jesus will not save you in this city, Altaïr thought, though he commended the man for being brave enough to enter the city in the first place. Aleppo was not part of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and as such was still under Muslim control. Altaïr didn't doubt that there were many Christians living discreetly in Aleppo, but there would be no one willing to defend this man should the commoners turn against him.
The man was working himself up now, his face red and his voice straining. "What are you waiting for? What are you waiting for? The Kingdom of God is upon us. Do you understand what I am telling you, like men? Or do you nod your heads like sheep? Baah-baah!" The man made a funny sort of noise and the crowd laughed.
"You are smiling now, I can see it! But God sees past your smiles and your laughter. He will forgive the lies upon your souls if you are willing to love Him and accept His love in return!"
Someone in the crowd jeered, and another spat at the man's feet. Altaïr slipped his hand down the nearest two pockets, replacing the money he'd paid for the pears, and continued on his way. He had no desire to stay and watch the heretic get torn apart by an angry mob.
He returned to Malik with two fresh loaves of bread, hot in his hands and steaming when they were pulled open. Malik had finished washing his clothes, and he handled his loaf delicately on wet fingertips. They ate in relative silence, much to Altaïr growing agitation, until the pears were produced. Altaïr dropped them unceremoniously onto Malik's lap, and was instantly gratified by the look of pure craving that passed over Malik's face. Altaïr tried not to blink in case he missed them being eaten.
"One of these days I'm going to make you show me where you keep getting these." Malik said, picking up one of the fruit reverently.
Altaïr stared as Malik bit carefully into the pear, juices dribbling down his chin. "Gerard de Redfort…" Altaïr started shakily, trying for casual. "Do you recognize the name?"
Malik didn't seem particularly surprised at the question. "No, I have never heard it before."
Altaïr knew better than to ask if Malik was certain. They'd walked in silence for nearly an hour; most likely Malik had mulled over their target's final words multiple times already.
"Me neither," Altaïr agreed glumly.
Malik swallowed a bit of pear. "All I can assume is that he is a French lord, most likely a business contact of Sahar El Fehmi."
"And ten thousand men? Sahar El Fehmi is no slave trader."
"Even if he were, ten thousand is too large a number." Malik finished his pear and threw the core onto the street. He picked up another, pausing before bringing it to his mouth. "We know Sahar El Fehmi spends most of his time across the sea, perhaps the message is of no concern to us."
"That puts us in a bad position for finding further information," Altaïr looked pointedly to Malik's sodden clothes. "Our only accessible source has lost his head."
Malik shot him a dirty look, but made no comment. He finished his second pear, and offered the last one to Altaïr.
"No," I got them for you, "I'm not hungry."
Malik shrugged and tucked the pear away for later, getting up and stretching his arms above his head.
"I want to sleep in a proper bed tonight, Altaïr, another night on the ground and my neck will stiffen for good. We should get back before we get locked out."
Altaïr nodded and stood. He wanted to watch Malik eat the last pear, but he knew saying so would get him an odd look and Malik would probably avoid eating around him for the rest of his life.
"You've been spoiled by soft sheets," he said instead. "I can remember you as a boy, impressed with the finery of the fortress."
Malik snorted. "I had yet to experience the lifestyle of our Brothers here. Al Mualim would never allow such luxuries in Masyaf."
"Harash knows his beds must be comfortable, or else no one would ever return to his command," Altaïr quipped.
It didn't take them long to reach the Assassins' stronghold. The great complex of Aleppo was spread out over a very wide area, and did not rise above a single story. The only place where it diverged from this simple design was in the very center, where Harash's quarters rose above the walls in a conspicuous imitation of Al Mualim's tower. In this way it was completely different from the fortress of Masyaf, which rose ominously like the mountains surrounding it. The Aleppo stronghold was deceptively simple on the outside, though in fact it was nearly twice as large as the Masyaf fortress, housing nearly fifty Brothers at any given time.
Malik and Altaïr greeted the Brothers keeping guard at the gate, nodding in thanks when the way opened at once. Several novices ran through the main entrance, yelling to each other nearly knocking them over before diverging at the last second. Altaïr opened his mouth to reprimand the little brats, but Malik nudged him in the ribs and they continued along.
Four doors and a courtyard later they came across Fahd, a Master Assassin who took command of the Northern Assassins whenever Harash was indisposed. He beckoned them over without a word, and his authority was clear in the way he addressed them.
"You're back early," he said without preamble. "We thought you would be gone for at least two more days."
Malik bowed his head respectfully before replying. "Our target was more predictable than we originally assumed."
"I see. And what information did you acquire?"
Malik hesitated, and Altaïr stepped in. "With regards to our purpose in questioning him, he was not very well informed."
"Meaning?"
"He would not speak of Sahar El Fehmi," Altaïr corrected himself quickly, "he could not speak of him."
Fahd frowned. This report isn't going very well, Altaïr thought grimly.
"He knew El Fehmi," Malik interjected, "but only as messenger between him and another client named Gerard de Redfort."
Immediately Fahd's attention snapped into focus. His eyes narrowed at Malik's words. "Did he have a message from this man?"
"No, he had a message for him."
"Which was?"
"Ten thousand men."
"…That's it?"
Malik took a deep breath. "Ten thousand men was the message, directly from Sahar El Fehmi through his agent in St. Symeon."
"And there were no documents to provide context for such a message?"
Malik shook his head. "We searched his home for records, but it was clear he had not been living there long."
Fahd stood still for several moments, contemplating the information in silence. Eventually he looked back at them, expression rigid. "Report yourselves to the armory," he instructed. "Mohammad will restock whatever weapons you've managed to misplace," he finished, directing this last comment at Altaïr.
They bowed their heads at the obvious dismissal, and left hurriedly without a word. As soon as they were around the corner, Altaïr groaned. "Why does he assume I'm the only one who loses things on missions? Abbas forgot to bring back a gold ring once. Do you remember that? His only mission was to retrieve it as evidence and he left it inside some brothel in Hama," a sudden thought made him snicker. "Inside a woman most likely!"
"I remember that," Malik said, smiling distractedly. "He told Harash it was sorcery."
"I'd believe it was sorcery if the woman agreed to bed him."
Malik grabbed his arm, forcing them to a stop in the middle of the corridor. "You go to Mohammed, I have nothing to report."
"Where are you going?" Altaïr asked.
"To the library. I want to find out what I can about Gerard de Redfort."
"I'll come with you," Altaïr said, before he realized how it would sound.
Malik smiled patiently at him. "Altaïr, complain all you want, you do actually have missing weapons to report. Go. I'll find you later."
Altaïr scowled. Malik's logic was as infuriating as it was helpful, and Altaïr couldn't reasonably argue the point any further. So the two of them parted ways.
The armory was at the opposite end of the stronghold, occupying two entire buildings for storage and a third for maintenance. Mohammad sat hunched over a desk in what could generously be referred to as his office, though there was barely enough room to move amongst the hundreds of loose blades along the walls and ceiling. Altaïr navigated the floor gingerly, wary from past experience.
"What is it?" The old man cawed when Altaïr came into view. "Lost the whole damn thing, is that right?"
"I left three blades behind," Altaïr admitted grudgingly.
"What's that? Speak up boy!"
"Three daggers!"
"Three?"
"Yes, three!"
Mohammad cackled loudly, and Altaïr grimaced at the grating noise. The old man rose from his chair and started rooting through his stores in the back. The clattering sound of steel drowned out his further snickering.
A boy dressed in novice garb poked his head inside the shop, relief flooding his face when he spotted Altaïr standing inside. He cleared his throat politely several times before speaking up.
"A-Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad," he began tentatively. "I've been sent to bring you to Master Harash."
Altaïr raised an eyebrow at him. "For what purpose?"
The novice blinked in surprise; clearly he had not been given this information. Altaïr could see the boy starting to fidget under his gaze. "I am s-sorry. I d-do not know."
"Obviously he doesn't know!" Mohammad cried, returning from his search with arms full of blades of all shapes and sizes. He was deceptively strong for a man of his age. "Look at his face. Big empty eyes like a cow."
The novice reddened and bowed his head. His desire to flee was almost tangible.
"Ashamed, are we? Good! Stupidity is the worst of failings," Mohammad pronounced, looking at Altaïr expectantly.
Altaïr ignored the invitation to join in with some mild satisfaction. He wasn't interested in making jokes at the expense of a novice, and it seemed like an activity only useless old Brothers would have time for. He inspected a few of the blades and chose the three which best fit his hand (though he couldn't find the patience to check through them all). He left the armory as soon as his new weapons were tucked into place.
The novice trailed after him eagerly. At first Altaïr didn't notice, until they'd turned down a third corridor and the boy was still almost stepping on his heels. Altaïr turned on him abruptly, ready to say something harsh in order to get the boy to leave. Perhaps his expression was more intense than he'd intended, because one look and the boy ran off in the opposite direction.
Altaïr sighed and continued on his way. He hadn't thought Harash would hear of their mission's success so soon after their arrival, and the fact that he would summon Altaïr immediately afterwards made the situation all the more suspicious.
A winding staircase led up to Harash's apartments, purposefully narrow and steep to facilitate it's defense. The tower was designed with combat in mind, just as the rest of the stronghold, though Harash's quarters were misleadingly garish in their appearance. The Northern leader had added a number of unremarkable decorations to the walls of the common areas, but his private chambers were more suited to a lord's tastes than those of an Assassin.
Altaïr navigated a small cluster of statues and pillows in front of Harash's study, knocking dutifully at the door before entering. His eyes first landed on Harash, who stood facing away from him with his arms crossed. Then he spotted Abbas sitting in a chair opposite the leader's bureau. They exchanged cold glances, and Altaïr didn't miss the confusion that flashed briefly over Abbas' face.
"There's been a letter from Masyaf," Harash announced, not turning. "Two, in fact. Both of which concern you."
Altaïr scanned the bureau immediately; mixed among the piled mess of documents he noticed two pieces of parchment marked with the red seal of Masyaf.
"A month ago Saladin claimed publicly to have escaped several attempts on his life. He blamed Al Mualim for these and laid siege to the city. As recompense he demanded our allegiance to his cause."
Altaïr frowned, confused. He knew of the Sultan Saladin, but could not fathom his reasoning for attacking the Brotherhood. The Assassins devoted themselves to maintaining the balance of power; political association was out of the question.
"On the third day of the siege, Ahmad Sofian reported knowing the location of the Sultan's tent and defense patterns," Harash continued, and Altaïr saw Abbas stiffen at the name of his father. "He and Umar Ibn-La'Ahad were sent to infiltrate the Sultan's tent and leave a warning; a knife on Saladin's sleeping pallet. In this they were successful, however Saladin awoke in time to raise the alarm, and Ahmad was captured. Umar escaped but was forced to kill a Saracen general in his path."
Harash paused, bringing a cup of water to his lips and drinking from it slowly. Altaïr forced down the rush of impatience that threatened to overwhelm him.
"In response to the death of one of his commanders, Saladin offered a truce and the release of Ahmad in exchange for Umar's life." Harash's voice was dull in Altaïr's ears. "Al Mualim accepted these generous terms for the good of the Brotherhood, and Saladin's army has withdrawn from Masyaf."
Altaïr stood very still, waiting for Harash to continue. What does he mean, accepted these generous terms? He saw Abbas staring at him from the corner of his eye, but he couldn't break his gaze away from Harash's perfectly embroidered robes. A truce and the release of Ahmad in exchange for Umar's life…
Harash turned around to face them for the first time, breaking Altaïr's line of sight. Their leader was looking between them impassively. "That is all," he said.
Altaïr didn't wait for a proper dismissal, exiting the room as quickly as possible and nearly tripping down the steps in his decent. He hardly noticed when he reached his room, slamming the door shut and pacing automatically between his bed and the stark stone walls.
At one point he removed his cowl and outer robes, tossing them into a corner carelessly. He lost track of himself and his thoughts until there came a sharp knock at the door, and he didn't stop his pacing even when Malik entered the room.
"It was more difficult than I thought," Malik began, as though no time had passed between then and their last conversation, "he isn't mentioned in any official records, nor any reports made by our contacts among the Christian leaders."
Altaïr stopped moving long enough to watch Malik sit down on the edge of his bed, spreading out several documents for him to see.
"I eventually came across this," Malik indicated the first page. "It appears to be a journal entry of some kind, though it gives no hint at its original purpose. Look here," he held it up for Altaïr to see. "It was written during the second crusade, signed and dated by a General de Redfort… and here, see, this little red cross. I think I've seen it somewhere before."
Altaïr leaned forward dutifully, but made no further attempt to look over the evidence. Malik watched him, eagerness slowly morphing into concern at Altaïr's sudden lack of interest. Altaïr anticipated the questions he didn't wish to answer, so he spoke up before Malik could ask. "Read it to me?" He cut in, hoping Malik wouldn't hear it as pleading.
It worked. Malik didn't hesitate, placing the first page on his lap and reading it aloud in a calm and clear voice.
"Jerusalem. Year eleven-fifty on the first day of the month of June."
Altaïr felt the tension begin to drain from his limbs.
"My arrival on these shores was a day of celebration, yet these first few years in the Kingdom of God have given me many lifetimes worth of deception and disappointment. I have witnessed good men turned cruel and simple while fools and sons of whores are made lords over men. Soldiers cross the sea on the mission and word of God, only to turn blind and beggar upon arrival. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws here are men of faith and means to lead an honest life. They are not evil men, like those already living under the False Prophet, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising their loving God and caring only for themselves. Broken men are the result of our mission here. Christian men turned animals without purpose."
Altaïr took a deep breath, sinking down onto the bed with his back against Malik's.
"Almost all our men were common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house they were born in until the day we came to take them off to war. Poorly fed and poorly clad, they marched away beneath the crosses, with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoe. We took brothers and sons and fathers and we told them to bring along their friends and their families. They'd have heard the songs and stories, so they came off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they would see, of the wealth and glory they would win. The war for God seems a glorious adventure, the greatest of them all.
"Then we march them into battle."
Altaïr closed his eyes and allowed the steady flow of words to fill his mind. They pushed away the grim thoughts circling and crowding his head.
"For some, Faith flees them after the first battle. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in, and it becomes all that they know. Brothers watch brothers die, fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold onto limbs after they've been hacked off with an axe.
"They see that God does not take pity on their lords, and when one leader dies a different lord will claim them for his own. They take a wound, and before that one's been tended they take another. There is never enough to eat, their feet blister from marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are vomiting out their stomachs from drinking bad water."
Altaïr shuffled further up onto the bed. He twisted until he sat facing Malik's back, knees tucked beneath him. Malik didn't falter, even when Altaïr's forehead fell to rest on the back of his neck.
"Soon they are stealing from corpses to cover from the cold, and the men at their side are strangers they won't bother getting to know. Peasants and commoners become foreign to them, and they forget that their purpose to God does not serve them personally. Soon they are stealing from the small-folk too, and from there it's a small step to desertion and murder. A day comes when they can no longer remember the hymns and prayers that convinced them of their duty, and as the knights come charging down towards them, clad all in steel, shouting a language they've never heard and the thunder of their charge seems to fill the world…
"And I have never seen Faith sustain a broken man."
Altaïr let out a shaky breath, unable to move or form a response. Malik must have felt the moisture falling against his skin, but no other words were spoken until dawn broke the next morning.
XxXxX
A/N: When I first started writing this fic, I wanted to avoid adding any religious aspects to the story for as long as possible. I'm starting to see now that this will be impossible, as religious fanaticism plays such a vital role in shaping the setting. It's been established that Assassins didn't practice any particular religion (though most identified as one or the other; Alty's dad was Muslim. My own character, Yosef, was Jewish.) I've decided to approach this aspect of the story by comparing the religious fervor of the time to the Assassins' own cult-like devotion to the Creed and Al Mualim. I hope it's working!
Reviews:
Blahdeedah: bahaha! I should have made them have a fight right away, it would've been hilarious! For the moment, Malik's emotions are a bit tricky to decipher… I'm keeping his thoughts in the dark on purpose! Next chapter will switch between them as per usual. In regards to the scar: tut-tut! You'll just have to wait and see. I hope you like this quick-serve chapter :) Thanks as always for the lovely reviews. Lostwithoutdoubt: Their bickering is definitely my favorite part to write, I'm glad you enjoy it as well! It's an unfortunate cornerstone of their relationship, now and for many more years :) Thanks for the review! Coconuthero: I don't know why but I've always imagined Malik would have really thick eyelashes… I'm relieved to hear you say the transition worked, I was a bit worried I'd dragged it out too long. I definitely sacrificed a lot of readers for the slow build-up. High-five for sticking with me for so long, it's what keeps me going :) Thanks for all your lovely reviews! Nekokoa: Thank you for the review! I'm glad you liked the ending, it's the part I wrote first haha. Hopefully you're happy to see this update as well! Kiaraz: I can't even tell you how ridiculously pleased I am. When I started writing the story, I had this idea in the back of my mind that fan-art was the ultimate achievement for a story like this. Do you know what it means now that I've got some? I have won the life-lottery.