Part Twelve: Riddles and Confusion
"Come, Altair, speak with me a moment," Al Mualim beckoned from a corner of the library, instead of being at his usual table.
Altair stepped forward. He had been waiting for two days to speak to the Master, and in that time the physicians at Masyaf had told him he was healthy (which he already knew, thank you) and refreshed the students of Rauf on what they were clearly forgetting since he'd helped teach them.
"As you wish," he replied, standing by a bookcase.
"Word has reached me of your success," the Teacher said, scanning titles. "You've my gratitude, and that of the realm. Freeing these cities from their corrupt leaders will no doubt promote the cause of peace."
Altair was not convinced. "Can you really be so sure?"
"The means by which men rule are reflected in their people. As you cleanse the cities of corruption, you heal the hearts and minds of those who live within."
This felt true. Removing someone who oppressed the people and left them in despondency made room for people to become happy, and seek their own dreams. Still...
"Our enemies would disagree."
Al Mualim turned sharply from the books he was searching through. "What do you mean?"
"Each man I've slain has confessed strange words to me," he explained. "They are without regret. Even in death they seem confident of their success. Though they do not admit it directly, there is a tie that binds them. I'm sure of it." One he hoped the Master could explain.
The unease in Al Mualim's eyes turned to pride. "There is a difference, Altair, between what we are told to be true and what we see to be true. Most men do not bother to make the distinction. It is simpler that way." He turned back to his shelves. "But as an assassin, it is your nature to notice, to question."
"Then what is it that connects these men?" he asked.
"Ah," Al Mualim offered a cold smile, "but as an assassin it is also your duty to still these thoughts and trust in your master."
Altair thought instantly of Ibtisam, who always referred Altair to the Master.
"For there can be no true peace without order," Al Mualim continued, "and order requires authority." He turned to another shelf.
This confused Altair. Greatly. This did not sound like the Al Mualim he had learned under. "You speak in circles, Master! You commend me for being aware, then ask me not to be. Which is it?"
Al Mualim turned and the flicker of pride seemed to die behind the coldness. "The question will be answered when you no longer need to ask it."
Feeling woefully unsatisfied with this, Altair changed topic so as to get away from the discomfort of his Teacher not acting like his teacher. "I assume you called me here for more than just a lecture."
"Very well," Al Mualim said in a tired voice, once more scanning the shelves. "A rank and weapon are again restored to you. Two more leaders remain. Go and see to it that their rule is ended. I suggest William de Montferrat first. Richard has been called back to Acre because of him and something is amiss because of it."
Altair nodded and left, feeling more confused about the connection between these men that before he had arrived.
The ride to Acre had not helped his confusion. In fact, it had only grown. He could not resolve the direct opposition of praise for seeing the connection and then forbidding him to ask of it. The Master had never been one for dichotomy, saying that life held more than enough of it and he did not wish to add to it. And the comment about no longer needing to ask which was which... What riddle was that? Altair could not help but find a headache.
He wondered if Malik would laugh at him for his confusion. He was always much quicker in unraveling riddles, he and Kadar both.
That thought only made him angry, and when he entered the Hospitalier district he was determined to stick to the streets and walk off his negative energy. He would need focus for the coming mission. He did not know much of William of Montferrat, his son Conrad was much more active in the war in years previous, and rumor was that he was now back in Tyre with his wife. Conrad had performed well in the Battle of Hattin, where his father William had been captured. Salah ad-Din had tried to use William as a hostage against Conrad in trying to take Tyre. The man had refused, claiming his father had lived long enough and calling the sultan's bluff. It was Conrad who had turned the captured Muslims of Acre to Richard for slaughter. William... he did not know much of the man.
Altair cut through the abandoned souk of the ravaged Hospitalier district, now empty of guards because the slavers route was no longer used, and passed through a square before turning east down a street that would lead him to the fountain in front of the Bureau. A Christian was standing at the fountain, shouting at the public.
"Stay strong citizens, remain fixed in your beliefs. Though the road is long and your trials many, know that God watches over you. It is His hand that guides our warriors to victory. First in Acre, soon in Jaffa! The Saracens are routed at every turn. We cast them out of Acre and pushed them from the countryside. Now they retreat to the South, begging Saladin to save them. He will not succeed for none can stand the might of King Richard's army. He is graced by God! It is only a matter of time, friends, before all the land is ours once more, just as it was meant to be."
Was it not Christian belief to turn the other cheek? They were such hypocrites.
Shaking his head, Altair ascended the ladder of the Bureau, keeping a sharp eye out for archers or guards watching the building and seeing none, before he hoisted himself up onto the roof and then down into the closed in courtyard. It was midmorning.
"Rafiq."
Jabal had his back to Altair, perusing his shelves stacked with books, looking for something. He spoke without turning. "Word has spread of your deeds, Altair. It seems you are sincere in your desire to redeem yourself."
"I do what I can."
"And sometimes you do it well." The rafiq turned and eyed Altair, his dark orbs intent, before adding: "The Master has seen fit to forward your report on your last assignment to myself and one other. It is a rare man who will deliberately draw fire to reduce the pain the masses feel. You held true to the Creed. I'm sure he was proud of you."
Altair's mouth pressed into a thin line, his last conversation with his teacher running through his head.
Jabal saw this and frowned, slightly, before graciously changing the topic. "I assume it is work that reunites us?"
Altair was grateful. "Yes. William of Montferrat is my target. What can you tell me of the man himself?"
"William has been named Regent while the King conducts his war," the rafiq said, beginning to pace behind the counter. "The people see it as a strange choice given the history between Richard and William's son Conrad, but I think Richard rather clever for it."
"Clever how?" the assassin asked.
"Richard and Conrad do not see eye to eye on most matters," Jabal explained. "Though they are civil enough in public, there are whispers that each intends evil upon the other. And then, there was that business with Acre's captured Saracens." Both paused in disgust over the slaughter. "In its wake Conrad has returned to Tyre, and Richard has compelled William to remain here as his guest."
"You mean his hostage."
"Whatever you wish to call it. William's presence here should dissuade Conrad from acting out."
Altair shook his head, feeling another headache. "... I've never been one for politics," he confessed.
This made Jabal openly frown. "But surely you realize your every action shapes the course of this land's future. You are a politician, too, in your own way."
"As you wish," Altair said quickly. The last thing he needed was one more thing to think about. He would never get anything done at this rate. "Now where would you suggest I begin my search?"
"Richard's citadel, southwest of here," Jabal said after a moment's thought, "or rather, the market in front of it. You'll find the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in that direction as well. It's a popular place and should be filled with talkative citizens. Finally, try the boarder to the West, where the Chain and Hospitalier districts meet. That should start you one your way."
"Very well, I won't disturb you further."
"It's no trouble at all," Jabal said. "Teaching those that wish to learn is often almost effortless."
Altair had almost left before he turned right around. "The water?" he asked. His water skin was still full, but the idea of making it last...
"Many of the bodies have been fished out of the river, though not all. It is fortunate that most of your work will likely take place in the Chain district, they suffered the least damage during the siege and their water is mostly clean. Be wary of fountains bordering the Hospitalier districts in particular - they are slow in collecting bodies since the death of their master, but those deeper in fare better, my sources say. Which of course make sense," he added with a wry grin, "Given that Richard was living in his citadel until a few weeks ago. Word is he will return shortly, for what I don't know."
"And the Bureau, is it still watched?"
"Not with the regularity of before," Jabal said. "Weeks of being quiet have left certain eyes bored. However, if you wish to sleep here, you must return right at sunset when the shifts are changing. Early or late of that, and I'll kick you out."
"Understood," Altair said, nodding, before climbing up the ladder to begin his search but I can't keep up with the politics can someone hit pause?
Desmond gasped slightly, blinking and looking around. He was on the roof of the Bureau. The midmorning sun had changed to the scorching midafternoon sun that certain god-complex dicks preferred, and he knew that he had somehow desynched from his ancestor Altair.
"Damn it, what's the problem now?"
"Well, gee, doc," Desmond said, pacing the roof slightly. "Maybe I'm a little confused because my ancestor's an idiot like me and doesn't keep up with the times. Maybe a lot of names are being shot back and forth and I don't know Tom from Jerry. And maybe all my confusion over it just made me desynch. Did you ever think of that?"
"Of all the-"
"What do you need, Desmond?" Lucy's voice asked.
Desmond hopped off the back of the Bureau onto a crate, then to the ground before he sat down. "I know Richard, only because of that Kevin Costner flick about Robin Hood. I don't know what he did in the Crusades, only that he was in them. And this William and Conrad guy are just names being thrown at me. Which one was I, he, Altair after?"
"The father, William. He doesn't show up much in history. He fought in the battle of Hattin in 1187 and was captured. Saladin tried to use him as a hostage to have his son Conrad surrender the city of Tyre but to no avail. He was released later after his usefulness was proven ineffective in 1188. We don't know much else about him, only that he died three years later, in the summer of 1191."
Desmond nodded to himself, trying to keep it straight. "So, target's a mystery. No outside information to help. I guess cheating isn't allowed." He looked up to the sky. "And the Conrad guy?"
"William's son," Lucy replied. "Give me a minute... Okay, his refusal to bow down to Saladin in 1187 when he offered up his own father as a hostage to barter the city of Tyre didn't make him a lot of friends. It says he was good at politics."
"Which is what his refusal was. Salah ad-Din made a bluff with Conrad's old man and he refused to take the bait," Desmond muttered, unaware he had said the sultan's name with Arabic pronunciation rather than European. "Kay. Next."
"He'd spent some time in the Byzantine Empire before joining the Crusades, he had a wife there," Lucy said, her voice sounding like she were reading off a screen. "He did a good job defending Tyre from Saladin, it seems, I won't bore you with the details. When Guy of Jerusalem came to Tyre for help, Conrad refused and insulted Guy. It says he fought in the Siege of Acre. In 1190, he married Isabella of Jerusalem, next in line after Guy's wife Sibylla and children died."
Desmond looked up. "But didn't you say he was married to some chick in the Byzan-something or other?" Bigomy actually happened? Even back then?
"Reports are conflicting. It was another strike against him, though. It says he was the negotiator for the surrender of Acre and named heir to Jerusalem after Guy. He got a substantial amount of plunder and hostages from the city, and he ultimately handed over the hostages to Richard, and King Richard slaughtered them all. This would have happened right around Altair's first trip to Acre."
"Jesus then this was recent," Desmond said. "No wonder he felt so much disgu - the mass grave outside the city. The one I saw in the construct. Was that...?"
"Probably."
"Christ."
"Are we all caught up now? Feel like getting back to work?"
Desmond didn't bother replying to the old prick and instead go up off his crate, crossing his arms and thinking, trying to wrap his head around the information as his feet started to carry him. Politics weren't his forte either, but he had to keep it all straight or his confusion would affect his synchronization, which would hurt his chances of finding whatever it was Abstergo was so insistent on digging out of his DNA before they did.
Guy he remembered from his crash course before: the guy in charge of Jerusalem by marriage. Knocking on Conrad's door and getting snubbed. Trying to take Acre and flashpoint-ing two armies to go fight each other. Siege on Siege of Acre. Slaughter. Riding south for the Holy City. So the son was a big player in the war, while the father, William, the target, was a background piece. Wouldn't the son make more sense? But then, there was the connection he and Altair had seen with the four men he'd killed so far - God he was almost halfway through that damn list and he had nothing to show for it!
Desmond growled and ran his fingers under his hood, into his hair. He passed by a ladder and climbed it up to a tilted stone-tiled roof, so different from the clay-and-thatch roofs of Damasus and Jerusalem. Looking around, he saw a giant church all but bursting from the roofline, putting the rest of the city to shame. Probably the Cathedral of the Holy Cross the rafiq had mentioned. Well, if he was going to synch, that was the best place to start.
The guards on the roofs weren't the black and white colors of the Hospitalier, but rather their armor was split into red and white quadrants. He supposed he'd figure out the division eventually. A part of Desmond was curious if he could hold out in a fight with them, he'd learned a lot from watching Altair fight with Rauf in the training ring in Masyaf, but a much bigger part of him said it was a bad idea to test out the theory, and so he kept to the roofline, avoiding archers when he could and out and out running from them when they spotted him. None chased him, and for once Desmond was glad the NPCs were stupider than their historical counterparts.
As he got closer to the cathedral, he worked his way around, hoping there was somewhere that would be an easy jump across. There wasn't, and so he backed up on the roof of the narrowest gap and took a running leap.
"Aw, shiiiiiit!" he cursed as he missed his targeted handhold by more than a few feet. He was still moving vaguely forward as gravity started to take over, and he reached out more than a little desperately for something - anything - to prevent him from going splat on the paved road below. His hand wrapped around something and his abrupt arrest of falling damn near yanked his arm out of his socket; his body instead went splat against - what was it? - a window and he took a moment to just breath. "Christ that was a bad idea," Desmond muttered.
Assessing his situation once the sudden rush of adrenaline wore off; he found that he had grabbed iron crossbars that held the window in place. They made a perfect ladder, and Desmond slowly made his way up the vertical face of the cathedral and up to the roofline. There were archers here, too, of course, because why should life be even remotely simple? Cursing again, Desmond hung at the edge of the roof and waited for them to pass before hauling himself up and darting up the tilted roof. He thought of climbing the giant cross, knowing his ancestor had a penchant for high places but there could be time for that later his first objective was to assess the citadel...
Altair stared up at the cross for a long time, safe as he was from the guards below seeing him. It would be like the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus, and the idea of looking down on the city pulled at the eagle inside him, waking when he wasn't ready to use it yet. Perhaps later, he thought. His first objective was to assess the citadel. If William was there he needed to know it's defenses, either that or determine when the man would next be out in the city. Perhaps when Richard arrived...?
Turning from the massive cross he watched the guards pass beneath him, waiting for the two to cross each other's path and move further down the roofline. Once they did, Altair crept down the roof and flipped over the ledge of the cathedral, slowly making his way down. He could see through the stained glass here, could see the parishioners as they prayed and could hear the Gregorian chants of the choir. Whatever else he thought of Christians, their holy music had a certain beauty to it - until one realized the lyrics.
He hopped down the last few meters, tucking into a small roll before getting up and walking as if nothing had happened, ignoring the startled cries and comments of the crowd.
Weaving through the narrow streets, he at last exited an alley to see the massive square in front of the citadel, filled with merchant stands and people and chatter. Good. He would learn a lot here.
"Back again, Altair?"
The demoted assassin turned, spying a journeyman. The derisive tone was a giveaway, the nameless man from Garnier's investigation who took pleasure in belittling Altair into collecting flags. Before, Altair had been cold and resentful, now he knew he had earned this man's ire, and held his tongue of sharp retorts. "I am sent to end William of Montferrat's life. Do you have information that can help?"
"Always in need of a hand to do your dirty work," the journeyman said, smug smile in his voice. "This time Al Mualim did not order anything, it is just for my own pleasure that I ask you to find some Masyaf flags I've hidden in Richard's District."
"I have not yet been promoted above you," Altair said, trying to be cooperative. "Such is your prerogative until I have proven myself."
The journeyman's eyes narrowed, clearly discontent with the assassin's words. "Since I am a loyal assassin unlike others," he glared at Altair, "I will tell you what people are saying in Acre, since it is important information. This time, try to come back even faster than the first time."
"As you wish," Altair replied. He had already spied the first flag and took off running, grabbing it as he went before darting up a crate, onto a lantern beam, and then to an overhang, the flags and the route taking him higher and higher up the side of the buildings. Once he hit the roofs, he took a brief moment to see where the next flag was before leaping towards it. He remembered the weaker wood from his last run and compensated quickly, hooking them around his arm in a different way and making much better time.
An archer spied him with a condescending, "Leave, peasant, before I make you!" but Altair paid it no heed, already running across a narrow arch bridging a street and disappearing from the guard's line of sight.
Altair wasn't sure how long the journeyman was expecting him to take, but his eyes betrayed how surprised he was when Altair landed in a tight roll to the ground, surprising several people with his arrival and bundle of flags wobbling in his arms before he calmly walked back to him and handed them over.
"Seventy-five heartbeats," he said, panting slightly in spite of himself. Summer heat combined with the moisture in the port city air tricked his body into thinking it had run three times the distance.
The journeyman glared again, his eyes full of emotion before he took control of it.
"Your hard work is changing my opinion of you," he said in a tone that was utterly contradictory. A deep breath showed his reluctance to uphold his end of the bargain, but he had already stated he was a loyal assassin and could not go back on his word.
"Here is what I know about William of Montferrat: he and Richard had a disagreement before the king left for Jaffa. Since then William stays in his citadel, surrounded by his army. Do you have what it takes to attack William in his protected environment?"
"I do not know. Such will be determined when my investigation is complete."
The nameless journeyman scoffed. "We'll see, but I am still doubtful."
And with that the informant stomped off, muttering under his breath.
Altair frowned, still catching his breath, but he could not expect to change everyone's opinion of him and ultimately he didn't care what they thought regardless.
He spent the next two hours trying to cool down while perusing the merchant stands in front of the citadel. Many merchants were cross with William while others were indifferent. Grain sellers and blanket weavers, salt merchants and lamp oil distributors, all spat at William's name and lamented at what he had stolen from them, grousing about their stock piled inside the walls of his fortress and they unpaid. Carpet dealers, however, or the rich spice merchants from Damascus, or fishermen or cattlemen, they were not affected and cared little for others troubles. All they talked of was how William - or any man that had been captured by the vile Saladin - was unworthy of leading a street patrol let alone an entire city. If the heathen sultan had tainted him then he could not be trusted.
Altair stood at the gates of the citadel, eyeing it wearily. There were but two guards at either side, he could walk in easily with other men as they came and went, but the informant had just told him that the Liege Lord of Acre had an army inside. Staying invisible would be difficult with so many trained men wandering about. The assassin decided he couldn't just walk in. He would need a rouse as he did with Abu'l Nuquod. Without it, he would have to wait.
Reluctant, the demoted assassin finally turned north, following the seawall to see if he could find other markets to ask questions in.
The noon sun began baking the city, and Altair cursed the city for it's unforgiving nature. He had thought coastal towns were supposed to be a blessing in the summer because of the sea breeze, but such could not be found in the narrow and packed corridors of Acre. Instead, the moisture of the sea hung in the air, clinging to everything that moved. Sweat could not dry off in this air, and because of that Altair could not cool down.
At last the street opened out to a small square, and one building cast an adequate amount of shade that Altair greedily took, leaning against the seawall and at last feeling a breeze. He exposed as much of his skin as he could to the wind, determined to cool down as quickly as he could. Several others were crowded around another orator, a priest of some kind.
"A plague upon Saladin! A plague upon his people! We came in peace to the Holy Land, to spread the message of our Lord, but they turned away. They refused to accept Him as their Savior. These men hold evil in their hearts, and so Blessed Richard, King and Savior now stands against them, defending us from their wicked ways! Be not afraid. Fear and doubt are weapons of enemies. Do not listen to their lies, poisonous words meant to sow the seeds of confusion! If you find yourself tempted, go and pray! Ask God for direction. If your heart is pure, He will surely answer."
How could anyone stand to listen to such sophistry? And yet two-dozen people cheered as the priest continued to talk. Altair was tempted to point out that by the Bible's logic, Adam and Eve had birthed the entire human population, meaning Christians and Muslim's were brothers. He doubted it would go over very well, and while he liked instigating debate he ultimately didn't have the patience for it. He was not meant to be a politician, and yet he remembered Jabal's words. Was he a politician? If so, he was the most backwards type he could imagine.
The thought actually made him smile.
Any thoughts of further cooling down disappeared into smoke when he saw a white smock enter the square and shove his way through the back of the crowd. A white smock with a red cross.
Templar!
He had thought the Templars off with Richard on the ride south to Jaffa. Bloodlust almost automatically filled him, images of Adha and Kadar filling his mind and pumping energy into his body. Whatever the knight's business Altair would see it go unfinished. The hidden blade retracted from his wrist and his fist wrapped around it, clutching it in anticipation as Altair began to shadow the Templar. He licked his lips in anticipation. He would see blood before the day was out.
The Templar Order was the best-trained order in Richard's entire camp. Theirs were not from peasant stock that was plucked from farmlands and shoved to the battlefield, no; Templar blood came from the noble class and had been trained in fighting all their lives. Their perception and ability made them difficult to tail successfully, but even with his demotion Altair was still the greatest assassin in his Order, and the Templar turned only once to see if he was followed - only to see a flock of chickens escaping their iron cage.
The Templar followed the seawall, Altair a shadow under the sun. It would be easy to kill the agent now, but then he would not know what his purpose for being in the city instead of with Robert de Sable and Richard in the field. No, better he wait.
The Templar went up a series of steps, away from the seawall and down a street before a priest in brown waved at him, beckoning him to come.
Altair stayed at the steps, keeping his distance and watching. The two greeted each other, if a little stiffly, and began walking back up the street. Altair leaned against a wall and quickly retracted his blade, instead going through the process of cleaning his nails, looking for all the world like he was killing time.
"Perhaps it was unwise to embrace William," the priest was saying in hushed tones, "He is old and thinks too much of himself."
The Templar shook his head in negation. "His army is the largest beyond the land. We'll have need of them. For now I'll go and visit with the other brothers, and make sure they have everything they need."
Another reference to brothers, and now a Templar was in their number. Just what was linked between these men? How could the Master deny his right to question it? Anger pulsed in Altair's ears and he had to force himself to keep listening.
"Aye. They must not fall," the priest said, his brown hood bobbing up and down in ascent.
"Fear not," the Templar said. "The Master has a plan. Even now he prepares a way to turn our losses to his advantage, should it come to that."
There was a master in this mysterious brotherhood? Who? What was their objective?
"What does he intend?"
"The less you know the better," the Templar said. "Just do as you've been instructed. Deliver the letter you carry to our Master."
And Altair found himself painfully torn as the Templar handed a rolled piece of parchment to the priest: go after the letter and learn more about the Master? Or kill the Templar and feel satisfaction that there was one less enemy that faced the assassin order? Indecision pulled his body into a taught knot, and he pressed his fingernails into his palms, struggling.
... The letter. It would have more information about the mysterious brotherhood and the more he could gather about its hierarchy the more it could help him. Bloodlust would have to wait.
Exhaling a hot breath, Altair darted after the priest, eyeing him easily as he hopped up the steps. Tailing him was far easier than the Templar he had left, and he abducted the letter easily. That brought him no pleasure, however, and he turned smartly on his heel and backtracked to the seawall. If he was fast...
The assassin took to the roofs, hoping for a better vantage point as he scanned the streets. Templar crosses stood out against the other Christian divisions, and it wasn't long before he caught his target, still walking the seawall before coming to a stop in the shade of a building. The seawall ended in favor of the buildings, and tucked in a corner was a chest, seemingly forgotten, but the Templar put on his helmet and stood in front of it, hand on his sword and ready.
That made Altair even more interested.
He backtracked a little, landing at street level a block away and purposely winding his way north, looking for another ladder so he could position himself better. He would have to scale the row of buildings down, with nothing but the ocean cliffs beneath him, but it would be worth it for the blood he would spill. The assassin plotted his route very carefully, wary of any noise he made. Eventually he landed on a small tiled overhang, his feet silent. Taking only a moment to catch his breath, he retracted his blade and swung himself over the overhang, swinging slightly before falling lightly on his feet.
At the last moment the Templar sensed him, spinning around and beginning to draw his sword, but Altair leapt over the chest and plunged his blade deep into the man's neck.
"Your master will learn nothing this day," he whispered into the enemy's ear, and smiled openly when the Templar realized his work had been for naught before landing in a heap on the ground.
There was little time after that. Altair cracked open the chest with his bloody blade and looked through the contents. Anything paper he took for himself to examine later, but mostly it seemed to hold expensive fabrics and perfumes. It was a lady's trunk.
Unable to determine more after that, Altair jumped up to the overhang and climbed back up to the roof. A moment later a city guard patrol came across the body.
He was covered in sweat again, the sun bearing down on his back as he darted over rooftops before finding a sky garden to hop into. Taking a deep breath, he looked through his plunder. The chest letters were useless, love letters from a woman, likely the Templar's betrothed. The letter he had filched, however, proved much more insightful after he had translated the French:
Master:
Work continues in the Chain District of Acre, though we are concerned about William's ability to see this through to the end. He takes his duties a bit too seriously, and the people may reject him when the time comes. Without the aide of the treasure, we can ill afford an uprising, lest it recall the King from the field, and then your plan will be for nothing. We cannot reclaim what's been stolen until the two sides are united. Perhaps you might prepare another to take his place - simply as a precaution. We worry that our man in the harbor will become increasingly unstable. Already he talks of distancing himself. And this means we cannot rely on him should William fall. Let us know what you intend that we might execute it. We remain, ever faithful to the cause.
So even the brotherhood doubted William's ability. Altair inferred that these men were looking for charismatic leaders. Perhaps that was why Abu'l threw his parties, to garner favor with the citizens? William was not as successful, it seemed, and the murdered Templar thought the man too diligent. Once more there was reference to a stolen treasure, and all Altair could think of was the ornamental piece of silver in Solomon's Temple. He shook his head; unable to equate the paperweight as something with the power that these men seemed to place on whatever it was the spoke of. Besides, Malik had stolen a Templar treasure, and Altair doubted a brotherhood that had Saracen members could be so strongly affiliated with the assassin's enemies. Besides, theirs was not the only splintered faction amongst the Holy Land. There were more than Crusaders and Saracens. What did two sides united mean? Perhaps a reference to the master's plan, which the Templar alluded to the priest. And now there was a third man in Acre, in the harbor. Altair expected another visit to the city before his work was done. The man sounded like a coward; perhaps that kill would be easy.
So far he had learned much about William's character and how others saw him. He also had learned that he kept to the citadel. It was a solid start to the investigation, with the added bonus with getting another fragment to the puzzle of what connected all these men. Al Mualim's words be damned, he would learn everything he could about this organization, even if he had to challenge the Master himself.
Altair let the flow of the streets pull him back to the citadel. If this was where William was hiding, he would need to study it and it's weaknesses. He wouldn't make it to the Bureau that night, but Jabal wouldn't mind. The times to get in were short so he doubted it was expected. The sun was almost set when Altair finally turned away. He would find somewhere in the city to rest, likely an abandoned home in the Hospitalier district.
The plan was derailed, however, as he passed the back of the Cathedral.
"And what do we have to show for it, graves and widows and orphan sons. Richard promises a better tomorrow, unspoiled land and new beginnings, but he's delivered only death. We are too soft with our enemies. With one hand we engage him, while the other tries to embrace! What good can come of this when a King cannot decide what he truly wants? But William knows, if we would only listen!"
This sounded very interesting.
"William of Montferrat had a vision, saw a way to end our pain. It's him we should follow; it's him who'll lead us to victory. Stand up friends! Do not allow yourself to be sent to slaughter based on the whims and wishes of an uncertain king! We must rely on men who are stronger in their convictions, men like William of Montferrat!"
The waning light left many shadows for the assassin to hide in. Torches were being lit and the crowds were starting to thin. The herald likely wouldn't be here much longer. This was to Altair's advantage. Jabal wouldn't mind his being late for a chance investigation.
The herald did indeed start winding down. Within a half hour, the herald's last breath and started down the steps. He was talking quietly with some of his listeners.
As the crowd thinned further, Altair rushed forward, appearing to be in a rush, and bumped squarely into the herald, knocking him down the wide steps roughly.
"Desolee!" he cried out in fluent French without a trace of an accent. "Desolee, desolee!" Altair ran down the steps and pushed the town-crier down another flight of stairs, appearing to still be a klutz. He offered apologies and excuses in continuous French, something the herald clearly didn't understand. When Altair reached down again to help, he leaned in and whispered in clear English, "Come with me..." his voice dripping menace.
Once more offering excuses and promises of aide in French, he dragged the stunned crier to a darkened alley. Alone at last, Altair wasted no time shoving him face first into a stone wall, then grabbing his arm and twisting it sharply. He kept pulling on the arm until there was a pop to indicate that the shoulder was dislocated.
"Stop! Enough, enough!" the herald grunted, not fooled at Atlair's play of French given the hissed English. "What is it you want? Gold? I've a few pieces on me. Take them. Take them and go."
"It's not gold I seek, but information," Altair replied coldly.
"I know nothing!"
"You know William. Tell me how to reach him."
"It's impossible. He meets with the King."
Damn. Richard was there. When? Jabal made no mention of this.
"Now?"
"He arrives tonight," the herald grumbled, his shoulder likely very painful as Altair kept his hold.
"And when does he leave?"
"Three days. He can't stay long, he must return to the field." The man gave a sharp, painful laugh. "But it won't help you. They're sure to argue, and then William will retire to lecture the soldiers, so it always goes: Richard berates William and William berates his men. He won't see you."
Altair gave a cold smile. "I already told you; I need to see William. I never said he needs to see me."
"Then our business is done," the herald scoffed.
"No yet, I'm afraid. There's one last thing I need from you."
"What is it?"
"Your life." The blade easily slid between ribs and pierced the heart. The man didn't even gasp as his eyes widened and then he fell.
Altair left the body in the dark alley. He started heading north, intent on the Hospitalier district's abandoned rubble for shelter for the night.
His investigations thus far had provided much information to think on. Richard's arrival some time that night was neither worrisome, nor troubling, but it was startling. The English King was supposed to be with his troops, heading to Jaffa. What had brought him back and would he stay long? While having Richard there would not interfere with Altair's mission that did not change the fact that it would make things more difficult. And after two missions gone awry, Altair did not relish the idea of added difficulty.
As he flitted from rooftop to rooftop, a solitary soldier in the streets caught his eye. It was one of Richard's men, easily identified by the red and white quadrants of his tunic with a stylized lion on his chest. What caught Altair's eye, however, was the small bundle of flowers he carried.
It reminded Altair, for all the ugliness of war, assassinations and the cruelty going on in the Holy Land, there were still simple, good people who wanted to just live their lives. Much like he dreamed he might have with Adha.
Altair let out a wistful sigh. He would find Adha again. But he doubted at this point if he could have that quiet, simple life. Even with her. However, while he would miss that possible life, Altair was happy with the life he currently led. He had learned. He was working towards a path of wisdom. And if he lost his life for the Order, at least he knew he was working towards peace and making a better world.
...That reasoning sounded far too much like those he had killed...
Altair shook his head. Now was not the time for such thoughts.
"There he is!"
Altair looked down to the streets, already down in a crouch, anticipating he'd been seen and pulling a throwing knife out to deliver to whomever would raise the alarm.
But the shout had not been for Altair. Below him, the romantic soldier staggered forward as four men emerged from the shadows. The four also bore the crest of Richard emblazoned on their chests. What was this?
Altair skimmed the rooftops, getting closer to the confrontation.
"Well," one of the attackers drawled in low-brow English. "One of Richard's dogs, alone in William's city! Par-lay you English?" The others laughed.
"Couchons!" the soldier spat back, trying to stand but unable to balance himself. Likely struck in the head, "Traitors! The King is Richard! Not that harsh William!"
Of course, since the soldier spoke French and the attackers spoke English, there was no understanding each other. But Altair did understand. And the idea of fewer of William's men for when he completed his mission was indeed appealing. This soldier wanted a simple life. Altair would help.
He leapt down in the dark alley, landing softly in a cart of hay. He slipped out and swiftly crept through the shadows. None of them saw him coming, all focused on the romantic soldier. The first attacker was the furthest back and Altair's hidden blade buried itself in the man's jugular as smooth as candle wax. He eased the body down and was on a second attacker. It was again an easy kill.
The remaining two were fiercely kicking the soldier, so intent that they didn't notice the lack of cheers and jeers from their companions. But Altair knew he couldn't take one down without the other noticing. So Altair deftly attacked both at once. A throwing knife embedded itself into the spokesman's shoulder as Altair grabbed the other man's face, pulling back, throwing him off balance as Altair dug his hidden blade into the man's back and through a lung. Altair let the man drop to choke on his own blood and turned to the last attacker.
The throwing knife had been pulled out and thrown aside and the spokesman growled English curses. Altair did not reply, pulling out his long sword. The crass Englishman, despite being bloodied, ran forward with his own sword, which Altair easily deflected, kicking the exposed legs and bringing the man to his knees. From there it was simplicity itself for Altair to bring his sword down to the corner of the man's neck and go through the collarbone.
"Merde," the soldier coughed.
"Etez-vous bien?" Altair asked, sticking to French.
"Ah," the beaten man sighed. "Thank the Lord for such small favors."
"Don't thank me until you are well," he replied. "Where are you stationed? Is it close by?"
"Rrrgh," the man groaned. "My destination is closer... Though I hate arriving like this..."
"It can't be helped."
The soldier was able to stand, though he leaned heavily on Altair. "First chance to visit my wife and those pigs ambush me. A plague on that damn William and his army of traitors."
He stumbled and Altair steadied him.
"Dear Lord," the soldier exclaimed. "A Saracen?"
Altair grit his teeth. His biracial heritage was known to the Order, but he favored his Muslim father, preventing many hardships. Now, in a Christian city, it would seem to be a source of prejudice.
"Only half," Altair ground out, the sore spot of defending either half of his heritage throbbing sharply.
"Sorry," the soldier muttered. "I'm Pierre. A very minor noble of no import. I can't offer much as thanks."
"I didn't do this for thanks," Altair replied, still feeling bitter. "Nor do I need your gratitude."
"Then I'll say no more on the subject," Pierre replied quietly. "If you ever need a hand and are near his Majesty, I'll do what I can. But it is your choice to find me or not."
Altair nodded, stuffing the old pain back down and turning as the man directed.
They were walking down the street when a door further down opened, a woman with a lantern looking about worriedly.
"Jeanne!" the soldier called.
"Pierre!" she cried, rushing toward them with her light. "Pierre, my love, I was so worried!"
"Help me get him inside," Altair asked quietly. The woman nodded, some brown hair working loose from her ponytail.
The home was small, lending truth to Pierre's claim of being a very low-ranking noble. Jeanne rushed about, lighting several candles and oil lamps. With the added light, Altair had her ripping cloth into makeshift bandages while he helped Pierre shrug painfully out of his armor and shirt so that Altair could get a better look at the bruising.
"I am not a physician," he said shortly. "But I have had and worked with a lot of the injuries resulting from fights or battle." The fact that he had set aside his swords and knives attested to how he knew such injuries. "Your armor took the brunt of the damage, but you will no doubt be tender. It's the blow to your head that's worrisome."
"To the head?" Jeanne squeaked, her hands pausing in the basin of water that was being used to clean the gash along Pierre's hairline.
"Threw a rock at me," the soldier muttered. "Cowards couldn't even face me face-to-face."
Altair cut in before the wife could offer any sort of response, refocusing attention on himself. "The fact that you are conscious and coherent is a good sign. I don't think your actual brain was damaged, but it is a large gash."
"What needs to be done?" Jeanne asked, reaching out and grasping Pierre's hand.
Altair sat back. "It's a difference between Saracen medicine and Christian. Could you listen and do what a Saracen would or will you be stubborn and stick to your Christian ways?"
"Whichever keeps him alive!" the wife hissed fiercely.
Altair nodded. "You Christians, from what I've seen, don't believe in staying clean," he said bluntly. "While the same could be said for the Saracens, that is only because water can be extremely scarce here. But physicians do keep water and wine handy to ensure that wounds stay clean." He fixed his eyes on the young couple. "That gash needs to be kept clean. While a bandage will do so, it will need to be changed every few days so that the wound stays clean. If you don't, illness will strike and that will make things worse, if not kill you outright."
Pierre started to protest, but Jeanne put her hand right over his mouth. "I'll see too it, kind sir."
Altair nodded and started to pick up his weapons. He still needed to find a place for the night and the late hour would make the city guard more suspicious if he did not get moving.
"And where do you think you're going?"
He turned; surprised to hear the almost authoritative tone coming from such a small woman.
Pierre was smiling. "Sorry, friend, but you'll be staying here for the night."
Altair blinked. "I would never impose..."
"Nonsense, you can instruct me how to clean his wound and change his bandages."
"Now, Jeanne, I'll be leaving with the King, I'll need to know these things."
There was a fierce glare between husband and wife in a contest of wills, before both looked back to the assassin. "You're staying here," they said in perfect unison.
"I-"
Altair didn't even get a chance to protest as Jeanne hustled him to a seat at the table and started to hand out food for dinner as conversation flowed between herself and her husband, each trying to entice the assassin into their talk.
The following morning, Altair left, glad for a night in a proper bed after all the days in the saddle just getting to Acre. The young couple had been... amusing. They loved each other greatly and would willingly override the other if it came to keeping them safe. And as much as the night had made Altair hold back a tiny, warmed smile, there was still a part of him that stung, thinking of the time he'd lost with Adha thus far. Of the time Malik had lost with Kadar.
He pushed it all aside and wished the young couple happiness.
Altair wandered the streets for most of the morning, putting aside the feelings that the night had brought and shifting his mind once more to the investigation. Once he felt himself properly sorted, he once more climbed the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and this time ascended to the top of the cross.
The view was spectacular. The vast sea spread out behind the citadel under the pale blue sky and, at this height; there was a steady breeze to keep him cool as the air thickened. But the best part was Altair's small telescope, two lenses bound in leather. With it, he started sketching a map of the citadel and the interior, what he could see of it, and the positions of the archers as they patrolled the ramparts.
High above the world, he munched on bread and even started drafting some of his report on what he had learned thus far. The citadel would not be easy to access. Inside, with both William the regent of Acre, and Richard, there for some meeting, it seemed that guard patrols were almost doubled. Likely they were both William's and Richard's men, each keeping their lord safe. He sketched out patrol routes that he could see and tried to think how he might get in.
Near mid-afternoon he was no closer to an answer as he descended the massive church. He still had two days before Richard left, and Altair would rather deal with William then. Richard and William would argue and William, frustrated and irritated, would be distracted, the perfect time to strike. But Altair needed a way in for that skeletal plan to work. He wanted to walk around the large square in front of the citadel, but someone might notice him if he was there every day. So he wandered back into the city. He kept his ears open for gossip, mentally switching from English to French to Latin to German as necessary. Many guilds were fed up with William's taking of their stock and Altair overheard several bold (unrealistic) and imaginative (impossible) plans to try and take down the regent. As Al Mualim had said, listen to the people and one knew the evil of the man in charge.
He had dinner at a small inn, but heard nothing more, though a debate about Aesop's fables and the adage of "God helps those who helps themselves" versus the words of the Bible and waiting to see if He would help if He so wished, was very interesting.
After eating, he was out on the streets again and starting to make his way back to the Bureau. Jabal had said that it was safe to stay there and Altair wished the sleep of a bed again, if he could manage it.
He was wandering west, getting closer to the Bureau when a familiar white flashed across the street in front of him and ducked behind some crates, crouching down and trying to appear as small as possible. In fact, the small white ball was almost trembling. That just wouldn't do.
Altair slid forward, his steps light and silent as he approached the small bundle of fear. "Safety and peace, brother," he said quietly.
"Oh God, don't kill me!" The tagelmust of the young assassin was askew, his eyes wide, and as he turned he raised his arms in a classic defense that Rauf taught for hand-to-hand. "Oh, it's you Altair," the apprentice let out a heavy sigh, sinking down to lean back against the wall. "You scared me," he mumbled, before he seemed to realize whom he was talking to and stiffening.
Altair sat down with him and offered some of his bread, effectively blocking view of the young apprentice from the street. The shade the crates provided made sure that no one would think twice of why they were there in the hot, sticky evening.
The apprentice lowered his mask to munch on the bread and Altair let him be. Better to calm down and be able to speak than shout in surprised panic. The apprentice took more time than Altair liked to calm down, always stiffening and almost jumping if he saw the red and white of Richard's soldiers walking by their nook of the street. This at least proved that the apprentice had sharp eyes, since Altair, after discerning what was spooking him, used his larger frame to try and block any such views.
The apprentice finally looked down. "I am sorry," he apologized. "I am Stephen and Richard's men are after me, two of them to be exact."
"And how did this come about?" Altair asked, keeping his town quiet, seeking not to rattle the young apprentice.
"I was trying to strike a deal with them, but I realized that they were toying with me, so I ran away." Dejection poured off the young apprentice and Altair could not help but remember some of the novices he had helped Rauf train back in Masyaf, who were always disappointed when they could not do something on the first try.
Altair shrugged. "Every failure is a chance to learn." As he himself was doing. "Think of how things went wrong, see how it can be changed, improved upon, and ensure that the mistake is not repeated."
Stephen looked down. "And how can I do that when I'll be dead by nightfall?"
To this, Altair only glared, unable to believe that this apprentice's eyes didn't see what was right in front of him.
The light was slow in dawning. "Ah! You shall be the angel of death, and collect their heads before they collect mine!"
Altair nodded. "Now, describe the men that hunt you."
The apprentice did so, with surprising detail, showing that his sharp eyes were not only for when he was in a panic.
Stephen hesitated for a moment, before saying, "When it is done, I shall tell you of the deal."
Al Mualim's decree. This was fine by Altair. Stephen needed to learn the art of give-and-take and this was just another lesson.
He left Stephen behind the crates, trusting the lengthening shadows to hide him while he walked the streets. The narrow streets were lit by lanterns hung at regular intervals, though the alleys remained pitch black. The pedestrians were steadily decreasing, leaving only the soldiers and guards.
And the drunks.
Altair could not stand the drunks. Christians used wine as part of their holy rituals, but where Saracens were forbidden it, they only partook because fresh water was hard to find. Christians seemed to like their sacrament of communion as often as a jug was in front of them. It was a trade off. Muslim severity or Christian drunkenness. Altair would never understand religion.
Twice, as Altair walked the streets, some foul-smelling, staggering, drunk spotted him and had to either wrap an arm around him to sing drunken drinking songs or grab him to buy them another drink.
Disgusting.
Worse, it drew attention that Altair did not want. He was just a scholar rushing home, not an armed assassin that slobbering drunks needed to assault with horrendous breath.
The first one of his targets was on a street that slowly descended east, looking through baskets and shrubs. Altair had no problem sneaking up behind and grabbing the helmet and yanking back and off balance so that he fell easily onto his hidden blade. Altair spared the man a glance and shook his head before heading into an unlit alley. Stephen had approached higher-ranked captains, not foot soldiers. No wonder he had been found out. They were more observant than serfs plucked from the farm.
On the next street, he started backtracking, looking for the white-and red of Richard's men, until he saw another captain making his way around a crossroads. Altair ducked behind one of the trees that flanked a monument of some sort and watched the target walk by. Then, ducking another drunkard, Altair deftly lifted the chain mail surrounding the man's neck and plunging his blade through the soft tissue.
He was gone before the body hit the ground.
Altair weaved easily through the streets, the increasing darkness making him just a shadow, until he returned to the nook behind a stack of crates.
Stephen looked surprised. "Already?"
Altair smiled.
"What a relief it is to know that I am safe! Thank you, Master."
He shook his head. "I have not regained the rank of Master, and am undeserving of the title until I do. Now. Explain how those guards sought your life."
"I... tried to make a deal with the citadel guards to leave the gates open, even when the alarm sounds." It seemed Jabal was trying to aide him, even though Altair was forbidden from asking help of the other assassins. "I failed you," Stephen's head bowed. "So now your only escape from Richard's citadel will be to climb the fortress walls. Forgive me."
Altair bit back a sigh. "An assassin is always prepared for the unexpected. I already knew escape would only come from the fortress walls," he replied, pulling out his map and sketches of the citadel. "Even getting inside will be difficult, as Richard's men and William's will be extra vigilant."
Stephen shook his head. "You are above me in rank, I am to aide my superiors. And I could not do something as simple as ensuring you an escape."
"Then learn from it," Altair said with more edge. Even now, as Stephen's guilt echoed Altair's own over the disaster of Solomon's Temple, one needed to learn from it and move on. And quickly. One could not fall apart in the middle of a mission. "If you must wallow in this guilt, then wait until you are safe at the Bureau. Assume danger is always there until you are at the Bureau, thus you are prepared when something goes wrong. At the Bureau, you can wallow in pity and guilt, but not until you are there."
"Yes, Master," Stephen replied. Altair waited as the young apprentice collected himself, yet again.
Altair glanced at the sky. "We won't make it to the Bureau by nightfall. Come, we'll find shelter in the Hospitalier district."
"Of course."
Together, looking like a pair of brothers, Altair led them deeper into Chain district to help Stephen clear his head and remove himself from a highly stressful afternoon. They talked quietly, and Altair was pleased to know that the young apprentice was quite fluent in English, though he still bore an Arabic accent. That would fade with time, particularly here in Acre. He quizzed the young assassin, subtly, so that Stephen didn't even realize Altair was assessing his knowledge. He doubted Stephen would ever make it to a full assassin, at least as he was now. His emotions tended to run wild, though that may be his age. But the young apprentice had an incredibly sharp eye and a memory for detail that was like a painting. He'd make a good journeyman with more training. Someone to have a permanent position in a city and gather information for the rafiq.
The sun was setting on the horizon as they walked up along the wall of the city that looked down to the sea below. Stephen was laughing at a story he was sharing of his time as a novice back in Masyaf when Altair quickly guided them to a bench.
"Master?"
"Further up the wall, about twenty yards."
Stephen reported instantly and accurately, as he had when Altair had quizzed him earlier. "Five soldiers, Richard's by their surcoats. Four low-level, one of rank. Two of the foot soldiers are guarding against the pedestrians from interrupting the three who are harassing a priest. White cloak and simple cross." Stephen frowned. "The white robes tell what order of priest he is, but I don't know what color is what. Normally I only ever see brown or black."
Altair nodded. "Has the priest done anything wrong?"
The young apprentice blinked. "Master?"
"Use your ears and eyes. Has the priest really done anything wrong?"
"Um..."
Altair leaned back, quietly looking out to the see as if to observe the beauty of the sunset. Stephen leaned back as well, his face facing the sunset, but his eyes focused on the accosting soldiers down the seawall.
"I am uncertain, Master," Stephen said quietly. "I cannot hear well enough at this distance. The waves against the cliff are too loud."
Altair raised an eyebrow. "Then how do you remedy this?"
Stephen stared blankly before grinning sheepishly. "I get closer."
"Go and report back."
The apprentice nodded, standing and ambling down the street, looking around in awe like a visitor. Not the best disguise, given that Altair doubted any Saracen would be visiting Acre after the slaughtering of Saracen prisoners, but Stephen pulled it off well. Altair watched as Stephen stopped off by a small stand along the wall that was starting to pack up but willingly haggling when Stephen expressed interest in the belt buckles that the metal merchant was selling. The merchant was the closest to the harassment and Altair would not have gotten so close, but if Stephen could hear, then it would work. He could critique later.
The apprentice came back and Altair leaned forward to look at the buckles and talk quietly with Stephen. "And?"
"I think the priest is innocent," Stephen said promptly. "The soldiers did not like that he was carrying and reading the Quoran. The priest was saying that he merely wished to better understand how the Saracens thought. In all my time here in Acre, the Christians have not outlawed the Saracens from practicing their faith or from priests of either religion to debate or talk."
Altair nodded. "Very good. Now what should we do?"
"Do?" the apprentice asked. "We were heading to the Hospitalier district."
"So you would have us pass by? When those in power bully those below them?"
Stephen frowned. "Would that not risk the Brotherhood?"
"If things went wrong, yes. But is the right thing to do easy?"
The apprentice looked down. Clearly no one had talked to him about the deeper meanings behind the Brotherhood. The things Altair himself was learning all over again.
Altair waited a few more minutes. "An assassin can always work alone, but working with others is always preferable. Mostly, we use the Order as our allies. But for brothers who are permanent residents, they need a network of associates within the cities as well." Altair paused to let that sink in. "Your connections may not know of your true intent, but will be willing to aide you should you so need it."
Stephen sat for a time, thinking, before realizing what Altair was getting at. "Oh! So if we help this priest, he may repay us down the road!"
Altair shook his head. That was how he had thought originally, and that was what started him down the path to trouble. "No. You help him so that you have a contact. A friend. Someone who can speak freely with you and not lie or hide facts and be wary of. You seek a friend. How much you trust of what you do is up to you, but he will be your defender and ally. The start of a network that you can turn to for things that you can't do yourself."
"Ah... I see." The apprentice was looking overwhelmed again. Time to redirect.
Altair turned to study the harassment. "How would you suggest approaching this?"
Stephen balked. "I haven't started learning about fighting yet! I have no idea!"
Altair scoffed. "Have you learned from Rauf or not?"
"But... but! They're trained soldiers!"
"Are they?"
The apprentice looked at him blankly.
Altair bit back a frustrated sigh. "Where do Christians get their foot soldiers?"
"From the fields."
"So what were they before they became soldiers?"
"Farmers."
"So how well do they fight?"
Understanding flew across Stephen's eyes. "Any basic training they have will be far less than what Rauf has pounded into us!"
"Exactly. Now, how do we approach?"
They plotted together for a few moments, trying to determine whom Altair's hidden blade would find. Stephen did have a small knife with him, but was more accustomed to fighting barehanded after much of the metal in Acre had been confiscated during the siege to make weapons.
They finally stood from the bench and started to slowly walk to the scuffle, Altair slinging a brotherly arm around the young apprentice and the two laughing like they were reminiscing some amusing memory.
The two foot soldiers standing guard eyed them in an attempt at intimidation. It was pitiful and blew over Altair harmlessly. Stephen was not so unaffected, but Altair's words about how they were facing farmers seemed to give him more confidence.
The two guards went down without even a blink, Altair's from his hidden blade and Stephen's from his knife to the neck. The next two who went down seemed to realize something was wrong and put up more of a fight.
Barely.
Altair's second foot soldier went down with a broken nose and a pained groin while Stephen started wrestling with his. That just left the captain, which Altair started to fight with his fists, as per Stephen's wise suggestion that the priest may not like people dieing in front of him. Not that they wouldn't die later, Altair was far too good to let these men live to identify them. Stephen agreed and was clearly endeavoring to kill the man he was beating by rupturing organs.
The captain proved to be more competent than Altair expected and he was soon giving ground to regain his footing. But really, the man was no match for Altair. One swift kick and the captain's heavy armor overbalanced him, sending him leaning to the side. One more punch and the man went over the seawall.
He turned to see Stephen helping up the priest. "Are you alright?" he was asking.
"Thank you, young man," the priest replied. "And you, young man," he turned as Altair approached. "I don't know what I would have done if you two hadn't shown up."
"It is our pleasure," Stephen said. "My brother and I would only do what any would."
"Brother?" the priest asked, clearly looking between the Christian Stephen and Altair's Muslim face.
"We share a mother," Altair replied. "I was an... unfortunate result of a bad encounter."
The priest made a sign of the cross. "You poor boy. You have done nothing wrong to endure the hardships you have likely faced."
Altair shrugged. "My looks and Muslim name make for little trouble in other cities."
"Ah, and that must be why you," the priest turned to Stephen, "hide in Saracen robes. So that the small-minded don't show how stupid they truly are."
Stephen gave a small chuckle. "Shall we escort you to your church?"
Chuckling the priest nodded. "Though 'chapel' might be a more accurate moniker. I am Brother Jacob. I thank you again for your aide."
They walked through Chain district, heading into the Hospitalier and chatting lightly. Jacob, it seemed, was a monk and not a full priest, who had a fascination with the Muslim Holy Book and how much was in common. Altair left most of the talking to Stephen, since this would likely be a contact for the young apprentice given that Altair traveled far too much. He only spoke when Stephen seemed to hesitate on the process of making friends with someone who wasn't an assassin. Altair led things at that point, keeping topics light and innocent, but using what he already had learned of Stephen to make the apprentice more amiable to Jacob than himself.
Stephen, once he realized how Altair was guiding him, caught on quickly and was able to take over without many more hiccups.
The left Jacob at his chapel, politely refusing lodgings, saying that they were on their way to where Stephen was apprenticing and the master wouldn't appreciate their being late.
Altair was pleased that Stephen picked up on it so quickly and, with the sun gone and the moon starting to rise, decided it was time to see how the apprentice did on the rooftops.
In this, Altair was reminded that he had been doing this far longer than his young companion and that there was a reason Jerusalem had the best rooftop runners and climbers. Acre, having been under a double siege, made anything that was on the roofs an open target. Stephen had no doubt tried to learn what he could, but he just didn't have the years of practice that he should have. And learning the basics under moonlight was not a good idea.
So Altair slowed his pace considerably and offered more basic pointers for just leaping from one roof to the next and how to land.
They were getting near the Bureau when Altair suddenly stopped, grabbed Stephen and yanked him down to lay flat on the roofline.
"Master Altair?" Stephen's voice dropped even further.
"Templar," he hissed. Below them, in an open square, between a pair of palm trees, a heavily armored Templar was directing workers with crates and wagons.
Stephen went both stiff and still, staring down at the red helmet and white smock below. Then he let out a long list of curses that he was far too young to have any business knowing.
"Shall we kill him?" Stephen asked, his body so rigid he was almost vibrating tension.
In this, Altair debated with himself heavily. The Templars were the enemy of the Bureau, and decreasing their number was always a good thing. However, Altair was with a young apprentice who was nowhere near experienced enough to even shadow a Templar, let alone fight him.
"Why is a Templar here?" Altair thought out loud. Because this was the second Templar he had seen in Acre, and the Templars, if not with Richard's army, were spread far to thin. Finding two in once city was unheard of.
Stephen, clearly thinking this was another question aimed at him, answered quickly. "Because Richard is in Acre."
Oh of course. They were likely part of Richard's guard.
Which only made things more difficult. Gritting his teeth, Altair turned to Stephen. "I killed a Templar yesterday. What would the Templars think if two of their number died in one city, a city that their main force was not actually in?"
Stephen frowned. "That someone was targeting them."
"And is the Bureau currently safe?"
The apprentice frowned even further. "No, not yet."
Altair growled. "So what is our best course of action?"
Stephen looked away. "To do nothing."
Altair nodded.
"This feels wrong."
"I know."
They edged silently away from the edge of the roof.
It was almost midnight when Altair found a ruined house that was still defendable for him and Stephen to bed down in. He spent the hunt showing the apprentice how to assess the rubble for safety and defense and weighing that against structural integrity.
It was a long night and not one that Altair slept well with. Every fiber of his being wanted to go after that Templar, but he knew that he needed to control that urge. It would do no good; indeed, it would do great harm. His hatred of the Templars had caused his demotions and he needed to reign in such strong fury if he wished to avoid how he fell in the first place.
With a growl, Altair turned and tried once more to sleep.
Author's Notes: Though Altair still thinks that thinking slows things down, note that twice now he's chosen to do something other than kill a Templar on sight: once to pickpocket a letter, and one to keep the Bureau safe. He's learning... Work hard, Altair!
This was another history dump, William and Conrad and Richard. It's a shape the game's database isn't in effect in this game where you can look up all the famous people. Hope y'all are able to keep track of it all. It's also another break to touch on Desmond - that deadline is approaching...
And yay, we were able to get a Templar assassination! Take note, if you do the pickpocket mission, look north along the seawall and see a Templar guarding a chest - it was too convenient to pass up!
And we once more curse the lack of subtitles. "His army is greatest in all the..." what? We're pretty sure it's the name of a place, but could we make it out...? No, of course not. Sigh.
And we meet Stephen. We like Stephen. Guess which investigation he is next time Altair's in Acre. Go on. Guess.
Next Chapter: Death of a Liege and a whole lot of sore arms.
