Part Thirteen: Death of a Liege
It was pre-dawn when he awoke Stephen, and the two made their way back to the Bureau along the rooftops. Altair was pleased to note that the young apprentice did better on the roofs with more light and he seemed to be taking the advice given him to heart and the effort was clearly improving his leaps. Guards were just starting to change shifts when the two made it to the fountain in front of the Bureau. Altair sat on the edge of the fountain, silently motioning for Stephen to go in first. After ten minutes or so, Altair followed.
"Altair," Jabal greeted. Stephen was nowhere to be seen. "What brings you back so soon? You sent Stephen ahead of you and I thought you'd be off investigating again."
"I've done as asked and armed myself with knowledge," Altair replied.
Jabal raised a snowy brow and pulling out a dusty tome. "Speak and I will judge." Clearly the old rafiq did not think Altair would finish his investigations in two days time.
"William's host is large and many men call him master, but he's not without enemies. He and King Richard do not see eye to eye."
"It's true, they've never been close," Jabal agreed, looking at Altair intently. That much information was obvious after all.
"This works to my advantage," Altair replied. "Richard's visit has upset him. Once the King has left, William will retreat into his fortress to brood. He'll be distracted. That's when I will strike."
Jabal narrowed his eyes. "You're sure of this?"
"As sure as I can be," Altair replied, wondering where the questioning was coming from. The demoted assassin pulled out the maps he had been making when he studied the fortress from the cross of the cathedral, gesturing to where patrols were and how many guards were placed on roofs and catwalks, estimating how the numbers would reduce once Richard left. "If things change, I'll adapt."
"Then I give you leave to go," Jabal pulled out a white eagle feather. "End the life of Montferrat that we may call this city free. Is there anything that you need from me?"
Altair leaned over the counter to start going over what he planned and what route he would take. "Can you arrange for a large stack of hay here?" he asked. "I will have to escape via the citadel walls and climbing down will be much slower than a leap."
Jabal rubbed his beard. "Yes, I still have enough influence to manage that. Or at least send one of my journeymen to do so. But Altair, with Richard still in the city, you will be facing twice as many foot soldiers."
"He will leave tomorrow. I can slip in after Richard has gone, as all William's men will be breathing a sigh of relief."
"Hm. If it's all the same to you," Jabal replied, "I'll have a pigeon sent to you once Richard has left."
"As you wish," Altair bowed to the rafiq's wisdom. They continued going over the plans for most of the day. After they'd eaten a lunch that Stephen brought up from below, Altair decided to talk to Jabal about the young apprentice's training and what he'd observed.
Jabal actually laughed. "You will make a good instructor when you retire," he said. "Yes, he's still very young, even after all the time here under siege. But you are correct. He'll make a good journeyman, once he gets past his awkward stage."
Altair nodded. "Why not have one of your journeymen mentor him?"
The old rafiq looked older. "Altair, how many men do you think I have?"
Something cold settled in Altair's gut. "A full city like this usually has dozens of apprentices and journeyman. Your words before indicated a great loss during the siege, enough that you took up active duty yourself. I'd guess just over a score."
Jabal gave a bitter smile. "A dozen, at best. Most, still just apprentices."
"Why?" Altair balked. "Why has Al Mualim not sent more to aide you?"
"Because this Bureau is watched. We cannot have men coming and going. Even if things are going better, that does not change that the curious still keep an eye on that."
"Then set up a temporary Bureau elsewhere. Or a few smaller shops so that the number is not noticed. Use pigeons to stay in contact."
"You've a good mind, Altair," Jabal said with a wizened smile. "Keep thinking like that and you'll be a dai some day. But Al Mualim is still rebuilding and replenishing Masyaf. He cannot spare any for Acre, which is enough of a mess without inexperienced novices trampling about under foot."
Altair disagreed, but let Jabal change the subject back to his plans for William.
However, if Altair returned to Ace, like he suspected from the letter he'd pickpocketed that spoke of a man in the harbor... If Altair returned, Al Mualim's orders be damned, he was bringing aide to this Bureau.
That night the assassin sat in the moonlit courtyard, deep in thought. Politics had never been his strong suit, but now that he was forced to look at it, he wondered if there was not more that he could do - even internally with the state of Acre or the time it seemed to be taking the Master to recover from the assault on Masyaf. The town itself had all but forgotten the attack, the three houses lost were in the process of being rebuilt - and quickly by Altair's inexperienced eyes; the gates had been fixed and the stables were serviceable. Al Mualim's quick action and sealing of the fortress had kept loss of life to a minimum, at least as far as Altair knew. Was the Order spread so thin that he could truly spare no one for the broken port city? Altair wondered, dozing on and off as he waited for the predawn light.
When it arrived, he stood and stretched, working his mind onto the mission, and looking inside briefly to see Jabal entering the back room.
"I'll return when the deed's been done," he said softly.
"Safety and peace," the rafiq answered.
Altair climbed out.
Mist filled the morning air, making it even thicker and heavier than it had been for the last several days. Visibility was poor, but Altair made good time in arriving to the open-air market outside William's fortress. Customers and nobles were already filling the massive square, looking to get an early deal as businesses began. Altair filtered about, waiting for a sign.
He did not have to wait long. Drums and trumpets filled the air as the gates opened, two score knights marching quickly out of the citadel and making a human fence around the gate, pushing the watchers and lollygaggers back. Altair stood neither near nor far, closing his eyes and asking his eagle to awaken in his mind, that he might know what he was watching.
A redheaded man on a massive warhorse rode out; similar horses trailing out behind him like a living banner. His accented English clearly carried out over the crowd, and Altair quickly picked out the name of his target.
"Three thousand souls, William!" the redheaded man was saying. "I was told they would be held as prisoners, and used to barter for the release of our men."
An older man followed the massive warhorse on foot. His hair was still dark, but lines of age were carved into his face, and his irritation was plainly marked with those lines. This was the target: William of Montferrat. He looked up to the horseman, his rich voice clear; it did not carry as well as the redhead, but Altair could hear it as plainly as day. "The Saracens would not have honored their end of the bargain. You know this to be true, I did you a favor."
Altair worked hard to hold in a growl Jesus Christ it wasn't Richard that killed the Saracens it was William that's screwed up no wait, stay focused as the redhead, Richard, King of the Crusaders, burst out in bitter laughter.
"Haha! Oh, yes; a great favor indeed!" he said with unhidden sarcasm. Cold eyes fixed down onto the target. "Now our enemies will be that much stronger in their convictions, fight that much harder."
"I know our enemy well!" William defended, fighting to sound calm but unable to. He sounded like a petulant child. "They will not be emboldened, but filled with fear."
The two political powerhouses glared at each other, William staring up and determined that his king see his point, Richard staring down and frowning as his mind began to work.
"... Tell me, how is it you know the intentions of our enemies so well?" Richard asked, wheeling his horse around and circling the target. Altair knew the answer: because William worked with Saracens like Abu'l Nuquod and Tamir and Talal. And, too, he was making a ploy, leading Richard into a false sense of security - of that Altair could see plainly on the target's face, though he wondered if the Crusader king did. Politics were being played in this conversation; William was making a gamble and hoping he would win. "You who forsake the field of battle to play at politics?" Richard's voice clearly informed him that the regent had lost the bet.
"... I did what was right! What was just!"
"You swore an oath to uphold the will of God, William! But that is not what I see here." The horse made a complete circle, and Richard looked down on William with contempt. "No, I see a man who's trampled it."
William burned, his eyes raging with fire and his jaw working to contain the energy that coursed through him. Slowly, bitterly, he tried to save face. "... Your words are most unkind, my Liege," he said, choking his words out. "I would hope I might have earned your trust by now."
Richard straightened in his saddle, shocked at the words. "You are Acre's regent, William, set to rule in my stead! How must more trust is required?" His eyes narrowed again. "Perhaps you'd like my crown?" Altair perked at the accusation.
"You miss the point!" William hissed, his aged face twisted in frustration. "But this is nothing new," he added, under his breath.
"Much as I'd like to waste my day trading words with you, I've a war to fight. We'll have to continue this another time."
"Do not let me delay you then, Your Grace." But Richard was already galloping off, his cavalry following with great fanfare. Altair watched from the crowd, waiting for all the soldiers to follow their king. They did not.
William turned, his posture rigid. "I fear there will be no place for men like him in the New World," he muttered, the winds only barely carrying the words to Altair's ears. The regent turned to one of his captains. "Send word that I wish to speak with the troops, we must ensure that everyone is doing their part. Warn them that any negligence will be severely punished. I'm in no mood to be trifled with today."
"Yes, my Lord," the captain said quickly before darting off.
"The rest of you, follow me."
And, to Altair's great disappointment, he watched the two score men file back into the citadel, none of the troops having joined Richard's return to the ride to Jaffa. His estimates had been wrong. All the men in the citadel were William's, not one belonged to Richard. Sneaking in on the ground was now out of the question; the assassin was good, but walking into the citadel, with more men coming in for William to scold, was imprudent. The soldiers would be alert for any trouble and quick to dispel it for the regent's favor, and Altair's whites did not blend in with the construction crews inside. He would have to climb.
Cursing and frowning, Altair looked up to the façade of the citadel, marking a route and assessing what the climb would be like. It would take hours, but it could be done. It would take hours for the captain to finish his errand and bring the men to William. He hoped that the sudden climb would work to his favor. Taking a deep breath, Altair walked slowly to the south side of the wall, spying a forgotten piece of scaffolding and hoisting himself up onto it. Above him was a balcony, and with a quick hop his hands easily gripped the bottom lip, letting him swing his legs to build the momentum to lift himself up. After that, there were a series of beams for lanterns he could climb.
That was the laborious part. There were several patrols on the parapets, and the rising sun splashing on his whites would make him an obvious sight for the market below, and all he needed was one alert guard to see the customers pointing and think to look down. If that happened he was doomed, and so he would make one leap to a beam and then wait, eyeing the crowds to see if any would see him, an constantly looking up to keep the guards in mind. When he felt it safe, he would leap again, and again he would wait. It was midmorning before he finally reached the top of the citadel wall, and he allowed himself a moment to sigh in relief at the accomplishment. The assassin had little time after that, however, as a guard turned a corner and spotted him, taking his bow to aim, but Altair was too quick, reaching into his belt and throwing a knife into his neck before the man understood what the sudden gesture was for. Grimacing, Altair realized he would have to be more careful with his knives. He still had only five, now four, and he would need to make them last.
He entered the structure, dragging the dead guard inside and hiding him in the shadows before climbing a ladder to the roof of the parapet. He glanced over the edge to see several carts of hay being pitched directly below him. Good. He had an escape for when his work was done. Nodding to himself, Altair walked around the parapet and looked out over the other side.
There was a guard directly below him at his post, and two two-man cells; one marching back and forth, the other standing at the far end. Altair licked his finger and held it up. He was downwind, meaning the sound wouldn't carry. Excellent.
As he waited for the walking pair to come forward and then walk away, the demoted assassin pondered William and the politics he had been playing. Richard caught scent of the fact that William had other plans, but the assassin doubted he understood just what the plans were. Altair himself did not know, either, but his muttered words about the Crusader king not being needed in the "New World," that seemed all too clear. William was planning, or his brotherhood was planning, to kill Richard. The letter spoke of the citizens rejecting William when the time came. Disfavored as he was with the king and unpopular with his own citizenry, perhaps William saw the biblical writing on the wall, and sought to grant a replacement of his own to the brotherhood. Conrad? The idea had merit. He, too, was in poor standing with Richard, but in good standing in securing the Jerusalem throne. Altair wondered what confessions the man would make as he bled out.
At last the pair met with the man below Altair, they talked briefly, low words about dreading their turn to be lectured to by the target, before they went off again to walk up and down the wall. Altair waited twenty heartbeats, until they were far enough away that the noise would not carry, before he swung himself over the edge of the parapet and sought purchase on the wrought iron gate beneath him, climbing down. The kill was quick and Altair dragged the body into the shrinking shadow the sun afforded as it climbed into the sky. He stood in the guards place, knowing that the sun would be in the guard's eyes and blind them to the danger they were walking towards.
Altair judged the two when they approached warily, waiting for any hint that they noticed the different uniform. One guard slowed down, moving to cover his eyes and get a better look, and the assassin took his opportunity, dashing forward as quick as an eagle, throwing a knife into one guard and leaping up onto the other, driving his blade into the soft tissues of his neck. Both fell almost silently, and Altair quickly looked up to see if the two at the far side had noticed anything.
They hadn't.
After dragging the two extra bodies back to the shade, Altair walked down the length of the wall as much as he dared before climbing over the side. There was a thin lip of stone, a decorative boarder, just below the line of the wall that offered just enough grip for Altair to shimmy along it, his feet taking purchase whenever he could. After twenty minutes of this he risked a glance up to gauge how far he had traveled. The two guards were still far down the wall, and Altair mentally groaned before going back to the task at hand. He rested every thirty minutes, giving his soon trembling grip a break before starting again, and by late morning he had at last cleared the guards. Climbing up for more secure footing, he grabbed a rock and threw it back the way he had come. The noise was just loud enough for the guards to hear it.
"Hey, you see the others lately?"
"Not for a bit. Should we look for them?"
"Have to, don't we? Don't want to find them nicking the wine and get caught by the Master."
"Aye."
Altair waited five heartbeats this time, before grabbing a third throwing knife and tossing it, one of the guards stumbling to the ground as he leapt on the second. The hidden blade did its job perfectly, and he used it again when he discovered the first guard still alive. Satisfied, Altair finally looked to his hands. They were shaking from the exertion of carrying his weight for so long. He shook them out as best he could, stretching and pulling at his arm and back muscles to loosen them for the climbing he still had to do. The door to the parapet was locked, and looking down Altair saw nowhere to land without either doing injury to himself or alerting the guards patrolling the roofs of the complex. He did, however, notice that he was at the very back of the citadel - as he had expected of course - but this fact made him happier when he realized that William was almost directly below him, gesturing wildly as he talked to a score of his soldiers before dismissing them for the next set.
He may not have as much climbing left as he thought.
Heartened by the thought, Altair hopped up to the arch of the door and stretched his arm out to reach the lantern beam above him. Hoisting himself up he shook his arms out again, determined to make them last, and crept up for a better vantage point. There was a ladder further down, on the other side of the parapet, he could use, and there were only two guards for him to take care of after that. Good, because he only had two knives left.
Slowly, Altair edged his way up to another lip, this time taking the time to get his feet on the narrow ledge and rest his arms and worked his way around the circular parapet. Once he was over the next wall he jumped down, rolling tightly to distribute the force of his landing, and made his way to the ladder. The citadel was filled with people; carpenters, stonemasons, stablemasters, and of course many, many, many soldiers. Even the master assassin took a deep breath, swallowing his anticipation, and slowly climbed down the ladder. One throwing knife when to a guard on a roof opposite him, and slowly he made his way to the inner courtyard where the target was berating his men.
"This ends today. I will not suffer further degradation at his hands! For whether or not you see it, and you should, this is your fault! You've brought shame upon us all." He gestured wildly, his frustration from earlier making his motions overdone and exaggerated. He was utterly focused on his anger and getting rid of it. "Skill and dedication are what won us Acre, and they will be required to keep it!" He paced before his men, shaking his head. "I have been too lenient it seems, but no more! You will train harder, and more often! If this means missing meals, missing sleeping, so be it! Should you fail in these tasks, you will learn the true meaning of discipline. Bring them forward!"
The soldiers parted, leaving two men to be dragged in front of the irate William. They trembled in fear, one already on his knees and praying. William glared at them, taking in their whimpering forms with a critical eye. "If I must make examples of some of you to ensure obedience, then so be it!" Both men cowered. "The two of you stand accused of whoring and drinking while on duty. What say you to these charges?"
"M-m-my Lord. P-Please," the one still standing said. "We meant no harm. We... we forgot ourselves. It will not happen again."
"No," the target said. "It won't." And with a flick of the eyes the two were slaughtered, impaled by their compatriots.
"Disregard for duty is infectious," William said, pacing about his men. "It shall be routed out and destroyed. In this way, we may prevent its spread." He glared at the ensemble of men, all staring at him blankly. "Am I understood?" he roared.
"Yes m'Lord!"
"Of course!"
"By your command!"
"Good, good. Return to your posts, filled with a new sense of purpose. Stay strong, stay focused, and we will triumph. Falter, however, and you will join these men." He pointed rudely to the two bodies to emphasize his point. "Be sure of it! Dismissed!"
Altair watched, his back to the wall of the fortress, as the soldiers left the bodies and marched back out of the enclosed space. Altair could see the stiff backs wary of further discipline.
"Where is the next unit?" William demanded.
"Sir, they're at the other end of the city, they'll be here within the hour," a captain said, fighting to keep his voice level.
"Such incompetence," the regent growled. "Go and see what is keeping them!"
The captain all but ran out.
"Alone at last," Altair whispered. He had less than an hour, but that was more than he needed. The enclosure was empty for now save his target, and with shaky, tired arms Altair slowly, silently, began his descent. The sun was burning the last of the mist away, leaving a hazy atmosphere. The assassin's arms burned with the exertion, and he dreaded the climb back up the wall and out of the fortress, but he put the pain from his mind, focusing and asking his eagle for strength as he feet at last touched he ground. William's back was to him, muttering to himself.
"Rest now," Altair said, "You're schemes are at an end."
The blade sunk deep into William's back, puncturing organs and ripping through soft tissue before finding its home in a lung. William turned, seeing the hooded man and stumbling as he realized death had penetrated his body. "What do you know of my work?" he hissed, falling back against the table, his weight shoving it forward.
"I know that you were going to murder Richard and claim Acre for your son, Conrad," Altair said softly, speaking the most likely hypothesis.
William openly laughed as energy began to ebb out of him. "For Conrad?" he spat. "My son is an arse, unfit to lead his host, let alone a kingdom! And Richard? He knows no better, blinded as he is by faith in the insubstantial. Acre does not belong to either of them."
"Then who?" Altair demanded. What was the goal of all the politics if not to secure Acre for someone?
William's legs gave out from underneath him, and Altair quickly caught him, laying him down.
"The city belongs to its people!" William declared with pride.
Altair stared, openly stared, at the dying regent. The Master, the Order, the assassins bid that freedom belonged to the people, that peace came from the people. To have William believe - and by extension the men he'd been sent to kill - to have them believe they were working for the people... Altair suddenly felt himself a villain. The assassin strove to deny the claim some way, any way, so that this could make sense.
"How can you claim to speak for the citizens?" he demanded. "You stole their food, disciplined them without mercy, forced them into service under you."
William looked up to him and seemed to smile, as if to a child who did not understand. "What I did, I did to prepare them for the New World. Stole their food? No, I took possession, so that when the lean times came, it might be properly rationed." Blood from his pierced lung dribbled out of his mouth, and William coughed, color draining from his face. "Look around," he said, "My district is without crime - save those committed by you and your ilk. An as for the conscriptions..." he smiled again, his gaze beginning to loose focus. "They were not being trained to fight; they were being taught the merits of order and discipline. These things are hardly evil..."
It was true: order and discipline were not evil, were employed in his very Order. Saving food for lean times... Al Mualim did such every winter. It all made too much sense. How were these men any different from the assassins? But no, there had to be a difference. The Master let the village know every winter what he was doing. Assassins were not killed as examples to others, and education was not an ultimatum.
Altair looked to the dying William. "No matter how noble you believe your intentions, these actions are cruel and cannot continue."
The regent smiled, his face pale as a ghost. He laughed again, a weak, suffering chuckle. "We'll see how sweet they are, the fruits of your labor. You do not free the cities as you believe, but rather damn them; and in the end you'll have only yourself to blame." His eyes faded. "You... who speak of good intentions..."
Blood ran out of his nose and William of Montferrat finally slumped back, dead.
Altair suppressed a growl, grabbing his feather and soaking it in the regent's blood. He had wasted time with the debate, time he could not afford. Ignoring his shaky limbs he dashed from the body and leapt up the wall, climbing painfully to the roof and dashing southeast, across a platform and to the ladder that took him up to the citadel wall. No alarms yet. Hands numb and arms burning he climbed the parapet, once more using the exposed lip for his feet instead of his hands, shimmying his way around. He had almost completed the traversal when he heard the alarm bells ring. The body had been found.
Altair took a deep breath and steadied himself against the sheer wall. The soldiers would swarm the citadel, trying to catch the assassin by closing the gates and systematically checking every nook and cranny of the fortress. While they searched below, Altair was almost invisible above. Realizing that, he continued his journey around the parapet, landing shakily on the northwest wall. Waiting for nothing he pushed his legs into an all out run. The sun was nearly at its zenith, the shadows no longer hid his collection of bodies, and he all but leapt up to the iron gate, noticing only now that his hands were bleeding from all the climbing he had done.
He pushed it out of his mind, forcing himself up the parapet and darting along its narrow walkway. The hay was below him, now, and without pause he leapt from the parapet. Wind rushed through his ear and flapped at his coattails, the wall speeding by faster than a horse's gallop and the eagle inside him shrieked before he was covered in hay.
William of Montferrat sought to kill King Richard. Altair had assumed he meant to do this for his son, Conrad, but it seemed he was in error. William's wish was for the people to inherit the land, free from the whims of petty tyrants. A "New World" he called it. What was the meaning of those cryptic words?
Altair took the time to catch his breath as he rubbed the sweet smelling straw around his overworked hands, absorbing the blood slowly. He waited an hour in the hay, listening to the panicked orders of the guards as the citadel slowly emptied of its soldiers, all cast out into the city to find the murderer. Only when he was satisfied of the diminished number of soldiers in the square did he leave the hay, clasping his hands in prayer to hide the split and bloody calluses and slowly made his way northeast, edging around the busy market and to the safety of the streets.
"Ah, brother, there you are!"
Altair stiffened as a hand clasped his shoulder, and he spun around violently, fist raised to do violence, but saw it was Stephen, the apprentice informant, jerking back in surprise before laughing. He lowered his hands. "See?" he said, turning to a troupe of Christian scholars, "I told you he would sooner strike. Such has been his nature as long as I've known him."
"Ah, and it seems your brother has the right to do so," an old priest - Jacob, Altair recalled, said. "For one merely look at the state of his hands to know the trials he's suffered today."
The assassin quickly glanced down, taking a weary step back and eyeing the priests.
"Worry not, brother," Stephen said, "I have at last made friends in Acre! They will not do harm to family." He turned to the scholars. "Yes?"
"Yes, of course," Jacob said. "You saved my life the other day, one can hardly turn away those God has graced one with in his time of need." The elderly priest took one of Altair's hands slowly, giving the assassin time to allow it, before beginning to pray over it in Latin. He did so with the other and then patted the assassin on the back. "Our Lord is most generous when He grants favors, and so I've asked Him to help in the healing of your hands. Though it is perhaps ill of me, I hope the brigands responsible for such wounds fared worse."
"My brother is an excellent fighter," Stephen said easily, nodding sagely, "He has had to be, protecting himself but also me and any others he can find."
"Praise be, a Good Samaritan!" one of the other priests said, "No wonder you are armed so."
"The trials you must have faced..."
"The Saracen scum have not been too vile, I hope..."
"Be strong, boy; yours is a difficult life but God will provide..." said yet another.
Altair stared at all the priests, surprised at their kind words. He looked to Stephen.
"I told you I made friends," he whispered, a massive grin visible under the cloth covering his face. In a louder voice the apprentice said, "When the alarm bells began to ring I was certain you had gotten into another fight. Brother Jacob was kind enough to offer his assistance in finding you. Tell me, did you find work? Now that I am apprenticed I hope that you can give up your work as a courier. Was there any luck?"
"... No," Altair said simply, catching on. "None would have me."
"Oh, the injustice of it!" Jacob said. "To be turned away from good Christians simply because of one's race."
"Ah," said another priest, "But who can be blamed? The Saracens are but a plague on the land, spreading their vile heathen ways; any good Christian should be worried when they see such filth. God makes the evil obvious; why, one merely needs to look at the color of their skin! Only a muddy soul would muddy the skin."
"No, no, that cannot be true. They are men just as we are; how can we judge them so? If they are heathens, then we must educate them on the ways of the true faith."
"How? We've tried and look what's happened! A plague upon Saladin, a plague upon his people!"
Altair and Stephen looked at each other, following the priests as they debated. Stephen shrugged his shoulders.
The boy's idea had been a good one, however. The two of them were invisible with the half dozen priests as they walked about the streets. Altair always kept to the middle of the group, where he most blended in so one could not see his two swords. Stephen offered wine to clean his hands and Jacob offered strips of his own robe to bandage them. With the leisurely pace of the priests, it was three hours before Altair and Stephen bid their goodbyes and made for the Bureau. Altair spent the time reticent to all but Stephen, reviewing what he had learned and trying to see what was true and what was not, to see what was exaggerated and what was sophistry. They waited in the alcove under the ladder until the sunset, Altair sending Stephen up first again before waiting and entering the Bureau himself.
Jabal was pouring over a book just as the apprentice disappeared in the trap door behind the counter. "What news?" the old man asked, a wry grin on his face.
"William of Montferrat is dead," Altair replied, showing his bloody feather. "With him his plans for betrayal." The assassin gave his report, detailing the climb and William's words to his men, and his final conversation with Altair.
The rafiq nodded. "You've done well keeping Acre from his hands."
Altair barely heard him, his mind still absorbed in his own thoughts."... But why now? When the Crusaders require unity most? He could have waited..." As a Crusader, it would have been better for William to make his move when the war was nearly over, why had he begun his preparations so early?
"Waited for what?" the rafiq asked, raising a grey eyebrow. "For Richard to return and discover his schemes? No, it was the perfect time for him to strike."
"... Strange. I was sure he meant to take Acre for Conrad, yet he claimed this was not his plan."
"You cannot trust the words of a snake, which even in death produces venom."
"Yet he had nothing but contempt for his son. He and Richard both. I saw as much when he and the king spoke, venom like that is not just for show." Altair looked to Jabal, hoping for answers. "I have yet to meet a dying man who would try to trick me in his last moments. Have you?"
Jabal frowned, casting his own mind back before shaking his head slightly. "I have rarely ever given a target time to speak, I must admit. I am often more concerned about getting the job done than hearing dying requests. I know others will give their victims time, some for gloating, but they rarely speak of it."
Altair's head tilted, and he frowned. "Men are at their most honest before they die, I have found, and have learned precious secrets by listening to their words."
"Such I have never heard of before," Jabal admitted, still leaning over his book, "but of William at least, I have my doubts. The man was ruthless to the captured Saracens; I cannot believe any of his words at face value. Old age, it seems, has made me prejudiced."
"I should discuss this with Al Mualim."
"Yes, my friend. Make haste for Masyaf. I am sure he is eager for news." At last the rafiq straightened from his book. "Perhaps he can shed light on the mystery you cannot let go of."
"It is also your duty to still these thoughts and trust in your master."
Altair said nothing.
The ride back was long and tedious for Altair; his mind so heavy with thoughts and questions and confusion he slept very little, even on the remote mountain trails. None of his work made sense, the more he learned of his targets the more he became lost to their purpose. William had been the most disturbing, for his belief that the city belong to its people, his words about saving for lean times and teaching, all of it so like the assassins, all Altair could do was doubt.
There were many things in life that he doubted: people around him, his purpose without Adha, politics, religion, etc. His life in some ways was a sea of doubt.
But the one thing he never doubted, the one person he never doubted, was Al Mualim, the living embodiment of their Order.
And now Altair doubted him.
What was the Master thinking sending him to kill these mysteriously connected men if they were not as evil as Altair had fist believed? Garnier healed people, in his own way, and Talal gave him the men and women to do it. William sought to help the people and Abu'l Nuquod held to his belief that he would not support a cause that scorned him. Did such people truly mean ill upon the Holy Land? Had his Master made a mistake? Was there something the great Teacher had missed?
And yet, when Altair had those thoughts, he knew that it was he who had less information. That Master knew something Altair did not, and his refusal to share such wisdom was quickly becoming a detriment. Just how many hoops did Altair have to jump through before he was worthy enough to understand these things? Surely he had proven himself enough by now...?
But what if his Master was wrong...?
It would not do.
It would never do to doubt Al Mualim, and Altair cursed his thoughts even as another assaulted his mind:
"The question will be answered when you no longer need to ask it."
Something seeped into the assassin then, a thick branch that he knew all too well: audacity. If he was not to ask, then he would so something else entirely. It was a gamble, to be sure, but the idea took root in his mind so quickly that all other possibilities were pushed away. It might not be as much of a gamble as he thought, though, as he remembered Al Mualim's words from even earlier: "I should kill you for what you've done... But that would be a waste of my time and your talent." Yes, Altair decided, he would do it. He would gamble.
"Come, Altair," Al Mualim said when Altair entered the upper balcony of the library. "I would have news of your progress."
The assassin stared at his master, eyeing him, gauging him. His answer was slow in coming as a result. "... I've done as you've asked."
"Good, good," the master said, a hint of a smile peeking through his long beard. When Altair did not speak immediately his eyes narrowed only slightly, noticing the reticence. The treasure was on his table; the Master stroked it. "I sense your thoughts are elsewhere. Speak your mind."
Altair made his bet. "Each man I'm sent to kill speaks cryptic words to me; each time I come to you and ask for answers; each time you only give riddles in exchange," he said slowly, his voice building. Anger, irritation, confusion, frustration, and most of all doubt, all of it fueled him. "But no more."
Al Mualim's entire presence changed, the hint of warmth withdrawing as his voice became flat, neutral. "Who are you to say, 'No more?' "
"I'm the one who does the killing," Altair explained. "If you want it to continue, you'll speak straight with me for once." An ultimatum. An ultimatum to his master.
"Tread carefully boy," Al Mualim warned, "I do not like your tone."
"And I do not like your deception."
Anger at last began to hint in the Master's voice. "I have offered you a chance to restore your lost honor!"
"No lost!" Altair shouted, his emotions coming to a head. "Taken! By you!" He shook with anger, fists clenched at his sides as he began to pace. "And then you've sent me to fetch it like some damn dog!"
Rage boiled across the master, and Al Mualim drew a sword from the table, brandishing it with ultimate skill at his student. "It seems I'll need to find another!" he shouted back, his face contorted with emotion of his own. "A shame," he added, "you showed great potential."
Altair played his hand: "I think if you had another you'd have sent him long ago!" His betrayal to the Order was great enough that he should have been killed on the spot, as he had seen in the odd vision he had; but instead Al Mualim had chosen mercy. "You said the answer to my question would arise when I no longer needed to ask it. So I will not ask: I demand you tell me what binds these men!"
Two men, two fighters, glared at each other over the table, one armed with a sword and decades of experience and knowledge and wisdom, the other armed only with willpower and a guess.
Al Mualim relented.
"What you say is true," he sighed, lowering his sword. "These men are connected, by a blood oath no unlike our own."
"Who are they?" Altair demanded.
"Nom nobis domine non nobis."
Realization at last dawned. "Templars," Altair hissed.
"Now you see the true reach of Robert de Sable."
"All of these men, leaders of cities, commanders of armies..." The slaver, the doctor, the merchants...
"All pledge allegiance to his cause."
"Their works are not meant to be viewed on their own, are they?" Altair whispered, almost to himself. "But as a whole..." The connections ran all together in Altair's mind. Abu'l Nuquod financed de Sable, Tamir giving arms to the men Talal and Garnier de Naplouse provided, and the men were sent to William, and perhaps others, to secure the cities. All off the books, all behind everyone's backs. But why...? "What do they desire?"
"Conquest," Al Mualim said simply, fingering the treasure. "They seek the Holy Land not in the name of God, but for themselves."
Acre, Damascus, Jerusalem, all in command of de Sable? But... "What of Richard? Salah ad-Din?"
"Any who oppose the Templars will be destroyed." Altair frowned at the thought, but Al Mualim saw it and raised a hand in gesture. "Be assured, they have the means to accomplish it."
"Then they must be stopped," the assassin said.
"That is why we do our work, Altair: to ensure a future free of such things." Al Mualim leaned forward slightly, pressing his hands on the table and eyeing his student as comprehension filled every corner of Altair's mind. It all made so much sense now. His work would have been so much easier had he known...
"... Why did you hide the truth from me?" he asked slowly.
"That you might pierce the veil yourself," Al Mualim explained, leaning back and stroking the open egg. "Like any task, knowledge preceded action. Information learned is more valuable than information given. Besides," he added, "your recent behavior had not inspired much confidence."
"... I see," he said softly, the old regret hitting him again.
"Altair, your mission has not changed," Al Mualim said, not unkindly, "merely the context in which you perceive it."
"And armed with this knowledge I might better understand those Templars that remain."
Altair thought, his mind working almost as fast as a horse, working to put the pieces together now, seeing the paths from one target to the next, remembering the letters he had pickpocketed and read.
"Is there anything else you want to know?" the Master asked.
Altair stared at the opened egg, wondering how it fit into the picture. "What about the treasure Malik retrieved from Solomon's Temple? Robert seemed desperate to have it back..." And all the letters talked about the stolen treasure. Was it...?
"In time Altair, all will become clear," Al Mualim said. "Just as the role of the Templars has revealed itself to you, so too will the nature of their treasure. For now take comfort in the fact that it is not in their hands, but ours."
"If this is your desire." He had pressed enough. The time would come, as the Master had said.
"It is. You are restored another rank. Take back your weapon; use it to bring honor to the Brotherhood. Go to Jerusalem, Majd ad-Din's life is awaiting." Altair picked up the extra throwing knives, attaching them to his boot and securing them, stomping his foot and eyeing them, before he turned. "Altair?" Al Mualim asked. "Before you go?"
"Yes?"
"How did you know I wouldn't kill you?"
Altair gave a small smile. "Truth be told, Master, I didn't. I took a leap of faith."
He spent a few days in Masyaf, his body requiring a few days of almost solid sleep in a proper bed instead of on the road or in the rubble of Acre or a sky garden in Damascus. Once more rested, he did some training with Rauf, nudging novices in the right direction, bringing apprentices back to the path, and giving journeyman a goal to strive for.
Once Altair was set, he double checked his supplies, restocked on necessities, and brushed down his horse and checked all the saddle gear and making his way out of Masyaf. The journey to Jerusalem was a difficult one. Since Richard's men were advancing south every day and Salah ad-Din was chasing him, he had to maneuver carefully around both armies. While Jerusalem was farther inland, to the east, and Richard was aiming for Jaffa the nearest port, it gave him some leeway, but getting through two armies hardly seemed a wise course to take. Altair kept to the mountain passes, isolated, narrow and difficult to navigate, so well hidden that only the assassin's knew of them. Another advantage was that he was higher in elevation, which lead to at least somewhat cooler air as the high sun of summer continued to beat down on anything that breathed.
The ride gave him time to think. For all that Al Mualim had finally explained the connection of all these men he killed, there was still something that felt... wrong. Not with explanations or his mission, but with Al Mualim. When he was caressing that treasure from Solomon's Temple something was... odd. He couldn't explain why, but Al Mualim, for all that he sounded and acted like Al Mualim, didn't feel like Al Mualim. And while he felt Altair had more solid ground with the Teacher, he couldn't help but remember that Al Mualim had used some sort of sorcery to make all in the brotherhood think he had been beaten and stripped of rank while he made Altair himself believe himself stabbed and dying.
Something wasn't right.
He was following the Creed. More than he ever had before. He was seeing the merits of it, how it worked, how it led things through wisdom and patience. But the more he followed the Assassin's Creed, the more Altair felt doubt for the master who had taught it to them all.
With a sigh, Altair kicked the flanks of his horse and let a hard ride sweep away such thoughts.
Author's Notes: Silly, silly Altair for not further questioning Al Mualim when you had the chance. You'll totally pay for that later!
And, alas, the fic isn't done before Revelations came out, but the tribute will continue. We can't just leave everyone hanging, can we? Of course, now we have Revelations... and we've started playing... oo, pretty buildings, let us climb them, let us buy markets, let us make money (which aren't florins, what are they called...?), let us recruit assassins! (fawns)
Er, getting back to the regularly schedules author's notes, there's not as much to say about this chapter. The last two were huge, over 10,000 each, and this one was much smaller - what a relief. Take note of Altair thinking outside the assassinations and how to handle/run the Order - specifically bringing help to the Acre Bureau.
This chapter also represents probably the ultimate climbing challenge for Altair. While there are other more difficult or impressive climbs throughout the game, every time we play this assassination and we're crawling our way around the edge of the citadel we have a "meta" moment where we realize, "Wow, this has to take, like, hours, and his arms have got to be killing him!" We had to include that. :D
This also about the closest we come to touching the hatred Crusaders and Saracens had for each other outside of ingame dialogue. Racism is something the two of us could never wrap our heads around, it makes no sense to us whatsoever, but it was such a big part of ye olden times (and, sadly, it keeps cropping up in the modern world, too); our very own family suffered being Irish in turn of the century America, the NINA signs and laws, and of course black/white delineation is for some reason a matter of course in public education - the Achievement Gap, etc. The whole topic makes us uncomfortable, and it was a challenge for us to get as close as we did in that puny little debate with Stephen's collection of scholars. We sincerely hope no one is offended and that all understand what we're trying to accomplish.
Next chapter: Jerusalem. That means more sparing with Malik, emotional upheaval, and memories. See you next week!