A/N: Plot. Plotty plot plot.

My clothes were still ruined. This, despite what Malik or Altair might have believed, was a problem.

I had left most of my wardrobe behind in Damascus—in Tamir's house, to be precise—and that was hardly the sort of thing I could recover; the few things I had brought with me were looking rather battered after a week of being subjected to Altair's training. Perhaps it was petty of me to care but I could not go and meet a Templar whilst looking like a street urchin—and if I needed to seduce this Templar, or more, then it was imperative that I look the part.

A caravan should have arrived from the Damascus rafik with new clothes for me. It had not; I was beginning to worry.

But, of course, not everyone else shared my concerns.

—

"Clothes?" Malik asked blankly, when I brought the subject up. "Why? Don't you already have clothes?"

"They aren't suitable," I said. The shirt I was currently wearing wasn't even mine; I had found some novice's old castoffs lying forgotten in a chest.

This was lost on Malik, who continued to look puzzled. "Why not?"

I sighed. "I need something—prettier. Feminine. Bright colors and silks and long skirts. Perfume. Jewelry. I was expecting a shipment from Damascus—"

"I shall look into it," Malik promised, and valiantly refrained from rolling his eyes as I knew he would have liked to do. "If you need anything in the meantime, perhaps you should go see Yusuf."

"Yusuf?"

"Yusuf ibn Salim al-Tamun. He acts as Sarai's brother." Malik shrugged. "I'm certain he would let you borrow her things, if you have need of them; he has a house near the eastern gate."

The merchant. I remembered Sarai describing him in her letters.

"I'll go see him, then," I said, and went out to find Altair.

—

Altair wasn't much more sympathetic than Malik had been.

"Clothes," he said flatly, stalking after me through the dusty streets like a particularly aggrieved shadow. "And this is of paramount importance to our cause."

"Oh, yes," I said reassuringly, which of course did not reassure him at all. "And you have the honor of carrying them back to the bureau!"

I could feel him glaring at my neck. Oh, I should not bait him so—but it was so easy.

"And what," Altair said, "is wrong with what you're wearing now?"

I had braided my hair and hidden it beneath a scarf; with Al Mualim's pendant and the novice's old clothes, I looked perhaps thirteen years old and male.

It did make a good disguise—no one stared at me now, when I went down the street—but it was the only disguise I had on hand, and perhaps I desired a little more flexibility in my choice of costume.

Not that Altair would understand the explanation; not that I particularly wanted to explain.

"This isn't nearly frivolous enough for my taste," I said instead, flippant. "Couldn't you tell?"

Doubtless Altair had trouble believing that anything could be too frivolous for me, if his scowl was any indication, but he fell silent after that and did not speak again until we were almost to this merchant's house; quiet streets and crowded markets and quiet streets again, and I had already forgotten what we had been talking about, and that was when Altair said: "It's mine."

"What?"

"Your shirt," he said, his mouth tightening. "It was mine during my apprenticeship here. I outgrew and left it behind when I returned to Masyaf."

Oh.

I stared down at my sleeve, where someone—presumably Altair—had mended a tear. He was a better seamstress than I had ever been; I'd never had the patience to sit and sew things up properly.

And, because I could not think of anything else: "Do you want it back?"

Altair cast me a glance, swift and unreadable. "No," he said.

I went after him, utterly lost. "But—"

"Keep it," Altair told me.

The silence between us was all edges now, and I did not know what to say, and I did not understand Altair at all.

I was grateful that our arrival on Yusuf's doorstep saved me from having to respond.

—

He was not an important man, this Yusuf—he was not an assassin, he was not even a spy—only some trader who had grown rich on our gold, and mild enough in temperament to be trusted not to molest a pretty girl like Sarai.

She hadn't particularly liked him, I remembered. She hadn't particularly disliked him either—

entirely inoffensive was the phrase that Sarai had used to describe the man.

Altair raised his hand to knock. I unfastened the silver amulet from my neck; warmth rushed across my skin as the charm faded away, and then a servant was standing there blinking at us, bewildered, as he opened the door.

I didn't blame him. We must have looked a strange pair, Altair and I.

"If you're lost—" the servant began.

"We have business with your master," Altair said, flashing him the red silk of the Assassins. "Let us in."

The man snapped his mouth shut and let us in.

We waited for a moment in the front room before Yusuf himself came hurrying out to meet us. He was a short man, balding and nondescript, and he came towards me without needing to be introduced; "You must be Isra," Yusuf said, and I finally understood what Sarai had meant by inoffensive—restrained in speech and demeanor, bowing over my hand just long enough to be polite and no more—too bland for me to like or dislike him, either way, though Altair still scowled as though Yusuf had attempted the worst of improprieties. "Sarai spoke much of you, when she was here," he said, straightening up. "I hope the guards did not give you too much trouble?"

I had not been so inured to the ways of the Hashshashin that this seemed a suitable greeting, especially from a civilian.

"What?" I said, eloquently.

"No, of course not," Yusuf amended hastily. "I'm certain you were able to avoid them—"

"The guards? Why would I need to avoid them?"

Yusuf blinked at me. "Oh," he said. "Well. It's only that half the city garrison is searching for you, though of course their description doesn't do you justice."

"Their description," I said.

"Yes—a young woman, extraordinarily beautiful, answers to the name of Isra—"

Altair swore.

It was the first time I had ever heard him curse, and I was still staring at him in amazement when he strode up to Yusuf, seized him by the collar, and said: "Explain. Now."

—

Yusuf explained.

Well, he attempted to, though nothing very coherent escaped until I persuaded Altair to release him. Most of the explanation was delivered to me in Sarai's room as I packed the things I needed, and Yusuf was nervous even after I had banished Altair to the hallway—possibly because Altair was looming at the door like a particularly irate bird of prey.

Half the city garrison was looking for me. "Why?" I asked, and Yusuf shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. And: "The guards were ordered to take you to Talal alive, should you be found. He did not say why."

Talal. He was too much of a coward to come out and hunt me himself, so he had paid the city to do it—though how he had known I was here, that was a mystery. Jubair might have told him my name but certainly he would not have guessed that the Assassins would take me to Jerusalem; Masyaf was a far more likely destination if I had really been kidnapped.

I considered the contents of Sarai's jewelry case. Behind me, Altair was scowling—I could feel the force of his disapproval even while my back was turned.

"Who gave the order?" I asked.

Yusuf shook his head again. "I don't know."

Who would have the authority to do such a thing? A guard-captain would not—so the city sergeant perhaps, and he was an easy enough man to bribe if the rumors were true—or a corrupt judge with friends in high places, or some minister or other—

Or. The Templar Grand Master.

Sarai's collection of earrings was enviable. Regretfully, I passed them over for something a little more practical—hairpins sharp as daggers, and a bracelet with a hollow chamber for poison—with Yusuf watching me warily all the while. "There's a bounty," he offered.

Of course there was. "How much?"

"A hundred pieces of gold."

My dowry to Tamir had been six times that.

"We shouldn't linger," Altair said from the doorway. "It'll be safer if we move while the streets are still crowded."

—

The question of how Talal had know that I was in Jerusalem would not be answered for two more days. That was how long it took Sarai's reply to arrive from Acre:

With regard to the vial you sent me two weeks ago, she wrote, I can confirm that it is a sedative. Moreover, it is the very sedative the Garnier de Naplouse uses on his patients; I have seen its like shipped to him from Damascus. The guards on the slave caravans carry these to ensure that their cargo remains docile during transport…

So that explained a great deal many things.

"How," demanded Malik, "does this explain anything?"

I glanced at Altair, who had joined us at my request and over Malik's protests. "The men who attacked us by the lakeside tower," I said. "They were slavers—Talal's caravan guards—and you shouted my name to them when you told me to duck. One of them ran. You killed two, and the third recognized you and ran, do you remember?"

"I remember," Altair said.

"Oh, excellent," Malik said, acerbic. "Another fine calamity you've brought down on us, Altair. I have you to blame for this as well?"

"What would you have had me do?" Altair demanded. "Should I have left her there alone while I hunted the last guard?"

"You are the Master Assassin, not I," Malik snapped. "How am I to know what methods you could have used?"

Bitterness had crept into his voice, like dust, like ashes, and he was not the Jerusalem rafik and Altair was not Masyaf's best assassin; they were only two boys, staring each other down from across the room as they prepared to brawl. Perhaps Malik had been right and I should have left Altair out of this.

Or perhaps bitterness was clouding his judgment. Or perhaps Altair was an arrogant fool who needed to be reminded of it. Or perhaps all of these things were true, or none—but I needed the both of them, here.

I sighed. "Malik," I said.

He broke off and looked at me.

"It's done," I said. "There's no use arguing about it now. What of Talal?"

Malik pressed his lips together, unhappy. Not that I had ever seen him anything but unhappy. "I would order his death—but you still have need of him, is this not so?"

"Yes."

"Then," Malik said, "I cannot order his death."

"You should return to Masyaf," Altair said. "You've been compromised."

"My identity and affiliations are safe. My name has been compromised." That was all Talal really knew of me, wasn't it? Only Tamir had suspected me of being something more than I pretended to be, and he was dead, and he would not have told anyone these thoughts anyway.

And Jubair had only known me as Tamir's wife. If he had mentioned me at all, it would only have been that—and now I was Tamir's widow, who had been taken by assassins.

"You have a plan?" Malik asked, watching me.

"I've been kidnapped from my husband's home," I said. "The assassins took me to make a point to the Templars. But now—perhaps they have not bothered to kill me. Perhaps they have found a better use for an empty-headed flirt."

Altair's words, and he recognized them. "No," he said sharply, leaping to his feet.

And Malik, a moment later: "You know we would not do this—"

"But the Templars do not."

Both men were on their feet now, staring at me as though I had grown another head—or possibly two extra heads and a third arm. I pressed my lips together.

"What," I said, "is so unbelievable in the thought that you might have sold me to a brothel?"

"Nothing," Malik said, and sat back down with a furious thump, scowling ferociously. "Perhaps you would allow me to rephrase my objections? You wish for me to arrange for you to work in a brothel—"

"Don't tell me that it can't be done," I snapped. "I've seen our accounts, I know that we have affiliations with at least two procurers and half a dozen whorehouses—"

"—a brothel," Malik said again, louder this time, "where you'll wait for this slaver to approach you, and then you shall simply—what? Seduce his secrets from him?"

"Yes."

Malik gave me a flat, unbelieving stare. I shrugged.

"It's either this," I said, "or you can turn me over to Talal for a hundred pieces of gold." I would be the bait, either way—

A sudden sound made me jump. Altair had slammed his hands down onto the table.

But: "Excuse me," was all he said, cold and glowering, before he turned away and stalked out of the room.

A/N: So I got a writeup on TV Tropes! I'm not sure who you are, but since you liked my story enough to say such nice things about it then I'll assume that you're reading this. *waves* Hi! And thanks.

Notes: Arabic names have a long and storied tradition which I'm not going to go into because I am far, far too busy drooling over the new Brotherhood trailers from E3 (yay Ezio! Anyone else love his badass smirk?) Here's the short-ish version. You have your standard given names, like Altair or Malik or Isra. Then you have the family name, like al-Tamun in Yusuf's case, which means "that guy Yusuf of the family Tamun," or more literally, "Yusuf from the place Tamun which is where his family comes from." In between you can have a bunch of other things. One of these is the patronymic; "ibn" means son of, and "bint" means daughter of, so Yusuf ibn Salim means "Yusuf, son of Salim" and Altair ibn La-Ahad means "Altair, son of none." (Isra bint X would mean "Isra, daughter of X," but in this universe she's just Isra since, you know, she doesn't technically have a family.) Another is some sort of description, usually a flattering one, like "the brave" or "the righteous" or something; Jubair al-Hakim, for example, means "Jubair, the Wise"—although I actually don't know with Jubair since I'm not too sure how Assassin's Creed did all the names, so al-Hakim might just be a family name. (I took it as a descriptive because he's a scholar and supposed to be wise.)

So a name would go something like this: [Given Name], son of [Name], the [Descriptive Adjective], of [Family Name].

Okay, that seemed a lot shorter in my head.

If anyone is wondering about the route Altair and Isra took from Damascus, looking at an actual map of the area might be helpful; the one provided in-game isn't very accurate. Basically, Masyaf is the northern-most city, then Damascus. Acre is south and west of Damascus on the coast, and to get to Acre you would turn west at the top of Lake Hattin (or Lake Tiberius, as it's known now), and to get to Jerusalem you can follow the east coast of the lake all the way down because Jerusalem is the southern-most city. I guess my point is, if they ran into slavers along the lakeside, the slavers would have known that Isra and Altair were going to Jerusalem because they were headed south and were already past Acre. And, of course, everyone knows there are only four cities in the Holy Land, so where else would they have gone? (In-universe explanation: all the other towns and places on the way were too unimportant for Templars/Assassins to bother with.)

(Also? Guy de Lusignon totally got his ass kicked in Hattin.)