In the morning, news came to Jerusalem that Abu'l Nuquod had died.

I had not forgotten about Altair. He was impossible to forget—reckless and arrogant and dangerous all at once, and unrepentant, too—no, Altair was the sort of man who made an impression, and once you gave him a mission you could not help but wonder fretfully at how he would carry it through.

But then, perhaps that was only me; Altair was, after all, Al Mualim's best assassin.

In any case I need not have worried about this particular mission. Altair dispatched it better than I could ever have hoped—and the details were hazy, trickling into Jerusalem slow and hesitant, but what little I heard was encouraging. Ah, it sounded like a grand tale: a merchant king, a fountain spilling blood, poisoned wine and the specter of death—

This was a death to taunt the Templars with—and oh, they were furious when they heard.

Rumors were unreliable. Anything could have happened and people might spin an elaborate tale about it—Abu'l Nuquod might not be truly dead, only poisoned or wounded, or it might not have been assassins at all, or perhaps everything was an elaborate hoax dreamed up for some reason or other—and the Templars would believe nothing until one of their own brought confirmation. We knew, almost to the hour, when their couriers arrived. That was the hour that four burly thugs showed up at Yusuf's door and set up camp outside every entrance and exit to the house.

Talal was not a very subtle man.

It was a pity that my association with the Assassins had to be hidden so, or else I would have sent the maid out to bring these guards some wine; it would have been worth at least an hour's amusement to watch them wonder if the refreshments had been poisoned or not. In any case, that was the end of my plans for the day. I had thought to visit the markets with Sarai, and perhaps go to the bureau afterwards—but of course we could not go now; the house was being watched, and Sarai had never been given use of a shard of Eden as disguise.

So we waited, instead. Fortunately for my patience, the Templars did not take long to act: the very next day, the city had been put into a state of high alert.

—

The rumors had grown more outrageous overnight. The maid insisted that there had been eagles involved, sweeping down to knock over the goblets of poisoned wine; the street-sweeper said that she was mad, and that only Saladin's soldiers had appeared; the cook contradicted them both by insisting that Abu'l Nuquod had faked his own death and there had been no one there at all—which rather begged the question of how everyone knew about it.

What was not rumor, however, was the extra guard presence on the streets and the heralds shouting out the news in every plaza; powerful men in Damascus and Jerusalem and elsewhere were afraid for their lives.

"He's very good," Sarai said softly, as we sat by the window and listened to the distant calls of the city criers: beware the honorless assassins, who strike men down in their own homes, who breach every sacred rule of hospitality—

"He's the best," I said—gloomily, because I was complimenting Altair. "I hope Al Mualim sends him somewhere far away."

—beware the assassins, who would violate a man's trust for their own gain—

"He's very useful," said Sarai, and it was true: two days ago Jerusalem had been a placid city; now all the officials were in a frenzy over Abu'l Nuquod's death. But I still did not like Altair. He was Al Mualim's best assassin, so surely the Master could find another use for him somewhere else—in Cyprus, perhaps, or maybe even Italy, and then Altair could be troubling oleander instead of me. It was not only the arrogance—arrogance, I could have understood—but everything else that came with it—

And there was no use fuming over him when he was not even here, but it was so hard not to, especially when I was reminded of him every time I glanced out a window and glimpsed Talal's watchdogs.

They were there the next morning, too, and the morning after that, skulking in the shadows in what they doubtless thought was an inconspicuous manner; but by then I was impatient enough that I had decided to chance a trip to the bureau anyway. Jerusalem had calmed a little from the initial frenzy—or at least, all the heralds had been sent home, though the guard patrols were still out in full force and of course there was nothing I could do about the rumors—still, it seemed safe enough, especially as I did not think very highly of Talal's guards. They napped on benches, they drank while on duty, they grumbled if their shift ended late—

But most importantly of all, they never looked up.

There were too many of them for me to slip out disguised as a kitchen-boy this time, but it was not such a difficult thing to climb atop the garden wall and jump to the neighbor's roof. The man stationed at the rear gate was too busy yawning to notice my shadow as it went across—oh, perhaps I was too used to the severe discipline of the Assassins, but if I had been his training-master then he would be scrubbing extra pots for a week—then I was scrambling upwards into the neighbor's rooftop garden, flowers waving at me as I passed, and none of Talal's men were any the wiser by the time I was two streets over.

After that, the city guards gave me no trouble. Perhaps they might have stopped me if Sarai had been there—but Sarai had always been better at waiting than I, so she had elected to stay behind. It was easy to go slipping through Jerusalem unseen.

—

The rooftop entrance to the bureau was locked. For a panicked moment I thought that something had happened to Malik, until I remembered that the rooftop entrance was always locked in case of a citywide alert.

But the front door was locked, too. I shoved my palm into it in frustration and wished that I'd learned lockpicking. "Malik," I said into the wood, "Malik, it's me, let me in."

No one answered.

Another panicked moment. Perhaps he had been kidnapped. Perhaps the Templars had found our location. Perhaps everyone in Jerusalem was compromised—

A hand fell on my shoulder.

I was rather proud that I did not shriek. I was, however, less proud when I spun around and slammed my elbow into Malik's jaw; I had recognized him too late to stop the swing of my arm. "You bastard," he snarled at me, and staggered back.

"I'm sorry, you startled me—"

"Who are you?"

Oh. I scrambled to tug off the pendant; well, at least Malik had not hit me when I'd come up unrecognized. "It's me," I said, "I'm sorry I hit you, I thought you were a guard—"

"No," Malik said grimly. "Not here. Just—just wait a moment." He rubbed his jaw ruefully and reached into his pocket for his keys. A basket of bread had been set down nearby on the street; he had only been out shopping, and not kidnapped at all, and the bureau was not compromised, or our agents either—

I let out a sigh of relief. Malik looked at me, wary.

"I'm not going to hit you again," I said, but somehow he didn't seem much reassured by this. But Malik said nothing; merely held the door open for me, and brought the bread inside afterwards, and then shut the door again and glowered.

"So you've been given a Piece of Eden," he said bitterly, nodding at the silver pendant in my hands. "I should have known. What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

"Abu'l Nuquod is dead," Malik snapped. "Every courier out of Damascus is delayed. There hasn't been any news in days—and if there had been, I would have sent a messenger, so there was no need for you to run the risk of coming here!"

And he punctuated this by setting the basket down on the desk with so much force that a bun came rolling out and tumbled onto the floor.

I stared. "Malik, are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be all right?" he demanded. "There's no need to interrogate me." He flung himself into a chair and scowled at the piles and piles of maps around us; I was surprised that they did not catch fire at his glare. "I'm fine. Everything's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

I considered him, carefully, and leaned my hip against the edge of the desk. "You're lying."

His mouth twisted. "It's none of your affair."

"The first time I asked," I said, "you said everything was fine, and the second time too, and every time after that—Malik, we are all in the same brotherhood, so do not tell me it is none of my affair what the Jerusalem rafik does—"

"My brother died for that lump of silver," he said harshly, cutting me off. "That is what's wrong—are you happy now?"

I frowned at him. "Not really."

Malik laughed, short and unamused. "That's two of us, then."

I twisted the silver chain around my fingers. Malik was watching me with his eyes narrowed; oh, he had looked at Altair like that, when the two of them had argued with silence—

What did Malik want?

"I'm sorry," I said at last. "I shouldn't have left you here alone; that was thoughtless of me."

"I don't need your pity," Malik snapped.

Not precisely the opening I'd been hoping for, but anything would do. "I only meant that you shouldn't be here by yourself," I said. "Perhaps it isn't the Templars who find you, but this can be a dangerous neighborhood, especially if you go out alone—"

He was on his feet in a flash, his chair crashing into the shelf behind him as he moved. "I can take care of myself," Malik said, furious now, and actually growled when I shot a dubious glance at his empty sleeve. "Do you think that I've forgotten all my training?" he demanded. "Do you think I cannot hold a sword? I am not some helpless civilian who needs protecting, and you insult me by insinuating it!"

"Then prepare to be more than insulted," I snapped back, "because it is not an insinuation; it's true."

Malik stared at me for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was tight and clipped: "If you were a man, I would strike you for this affront."

"Why hold back, simply because I am not a man?" I asked. "Challenge me for your honor if you like. Are you afraid you'll lose?"

"I'm afraid I'll hurt you," Malik said; his hand was clenched so tightly I could see his knuckles going white.

"Or perhaps you're afraid of something else," I said. "Perhaps you're afraid to realize how helpless you really are, now. Malik, it was wrong of me to suggest a challenge, especially when you're at such a disadvantage, but you must admit—"

Pity worked better than insults ever had; one moment I was speaking, and in the next I was gasping for breath as Malik seized my collar and hauled me forward. "I have not forgotten how to fight," he said, low and dangerous, "and it was not my sword arm that I lost."

"So that is a challenge, then?" I asked.

He let me go. His lips were pressed into a thin, furious line, and his eyes were very cold.

"Courtyard," Malik said. "Now."

—

We went to the courtyard. Malik tore off his coat, careless, and tossed it aside onto a pile of overturned pots. "Swords, then?" he demanded, too angry to think about what he was doing. "Knives? Daggers? Name your terms."

"No weapons," I said mildly. I unwound the scarf from around my hair. My braid came tumbling out; long hair was a hazard in close quarters, as Idris had showed me years and years ago, but there was no help for it now. "There's no need to risk drawing blood."

"Fine."

I squinted at him from across the cluttered courtyard. "I'm ready," I said.

He moved.

His first blow went glancing off my shoulder as I ducked aside. His second blow just barely missed my ear, and the third went whistling through empty air as I scrambled backwards as quickly as I could; oh I was very badly outmatched, and there was no point at all in trying to win. Malik was an aggressive fighter, pressing forward for any advantage—nothing at all like Idris, who had always defended until the very end, or like Rasha, who liked to dance circles around her opponents, or like Altair, who relied mostly on counterattacks.

I eyed Malik warily. He was taller, and stronger, and had a longer reach, and more experience; I was slightly faster, and had both my arms. And, of course, Malik underestimated me, as most men did when fighting a woman, so perhaps I could manage not to embarrass myself, though the chance of that was looking slimmer by the moment. Ah, well. Such were the things I did for Masyaf.

I darted in. Malik seized me by the elbow as I came towards him, but my other elbow hit his ribs and my knee went into his stomach; he doubled over, gasping for breath. It had been purely a stroke of luck—he had not been expecting me to make a move—and I made the most out of it, seizing his shoulders and sweeping out with my leg, and in the next moment Malik went tumbling onto his back.

He stared up at me, stunned.

It would be suicide to engage in a wrestling match. I danced backwards, out of reach, and grinned wildly as he scrambled to pick himself up—oh, that had been excellent, even Idris would have been impressed by that—

"I thought you hadn't forgotten how to fight," I called to Malik, a little taunting, and still flushed with exhilaration. He scowled at me.

After that, though, he made no more mistakes.

—

I lasted for perhaps another five minutes. The endgame, when it came, was quick and brutal: Malik cornered me and slammed me against a wall.

"Do you yield?" he demanded, his forearm against my throat.

It was not quite the end, because I had just enough room to kick him and try to twist away. Malik learned his lesson. The next time he slammed me against the wall, he did it with the full force of his body—and then he blinked down at me in bewilderment, apparently remembering, for the second time that day, that I was a woman.

"Those are my breasts," I said helpfully.

Malik opened his mouth, and then shut it again, as though he couldn't decide whether to apologize or repeat his demand for capitulation. "I—" he said. And: "This isn't fair."

"No," I agreed. "Are you going to let go of me?"

"Do you yield?"

"No."

He stared. "Isra," he growled, "what are you doing?"

Pushing him, to see where he might crack; but of course I could not tell him so. "What will you do, if I refuse to yield?" I asked curiously. "Hold me here forever? It might grow a bit inconvenient, after a while—"

"There are other things I could do," Malik snapped.

And, furious and impatient, he leaned down and kissed me.

It was a bluff—and not a particularly well-executed one, either. The kiss was hard and angry and full of bitterness, and Malik had fully been expecting me to slap him; oh, he should not have done such a thing at all if he had not been willing to follow it through—

I curled my fingers around his shoulders, and pulled him closer, and kissed him back.

There was a moment of agonized indecision on his end. "Wait," Malik said, sounding torn; his breath was coming ragged against my cheek. "Wait, this isn't—I didn't—"

"Are you a man or not?" I demanded.

Later I would feel guilty for saying it, but in the moment there was only the exhilaration of seeing it work. Malik stared at me for a moment, stunned.

And then he kissed me again, and this time he did not stop.

—

We went to my room. Malik's was larger, of course, but it would have seemed like too much on an intrusion—

A foolish sentiment. I had intruded quite far already, and would go even further—but my room it was, because sometimes there was no point in denying sentiment, and afterwards we lay together on my pallet and watched the afternoon sunlight come slanting across the room. Malik tangled his fingers in my hair. He had stopped looking angry a while ago.

Now he only looked as though he wanted to throw himself off a cliff.

"You compensated well for your lost arm," I told him approvingly. "When we were fighting, I mean. You must have been practicing."

There was a moment of disbelieving silence. "That's what you want to talk about?" Malik demanded.

It was a fair question, considering that I had just gone to bed with the man, but I merely shrugged. "What do you want to talk about, then?" I asked.

"I—" He stopped, drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes. His fingers tightened in my hair. "Forgive me," Malik said, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke.

"For what?"

"You know very well for what," Malik said, wry. "I was angry. And—you were beautiful. I'm sorry. I should not have."

I ran my fingers over the scar where his missing arm had been. He shuddered at the touch; the skin looked raw and angry, even now, and the bone jutted oddly where it ended. The wound itself had not been bad, I'd heard, but infection had set in—

"I'll forgive you," I told him, "if you tell me a story."

He snorted. "My conscience for the price of a tale," he said, sardonic, "like something out of the old fables. Fine, then. What do you want to hear?"

I paused a moment, as though considering.

"Tell me about Altair," I said.

"He is reckless and arrogant and a self-absorbed fool," Malik said. "And my brother is dead because of him, and I am crippled—what else is there to tell?"

Bitterness again. I turned my cheek into the pillow and sighed. "All right," I said. "I'll tell the story instead, since you are so reluctant. Shall I?"

—

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Malik al-Sayf, and he went to train as an Assassin in their mountaintop fortress at Masyaf.

There, he met another boy whose name was Altair. The two became friends. Altair was better at everything—the sword, the dagger, riding and climbing and pick pocketing—and Malik was jealous, but he admired his friend, too. Altair was perhaps a year older. Malik respected him for his skills in both body and mind; they trained together, and they fought together, and Malik must have learned a great many things from his childhood friend, even if he did feel overshadowed.

Then Altair grew up.

He became arrogant and thought himself above the Creed. Altair was Masyaf's best assassin, so he got away with many things that a lesser man might not have, and Malik warned his friend against being so prideful—but of course Altair did not listen. Perhaps they had an argument. But in any case, Malik grew bitter and resentful, and the two drifted apart; by the time they were both assigned to the mission at Jerusalem, they were no longer friends, but rivals—

—

"Stop," Malik said.

I stopped.

He raked his fingers through his hair, tiredly, and gave me a look. "How did you know?"

I shrugged. It hadn't been so difficult—we had all been at Masyaf together, years and years ago, and of course rumors and gossip made their way through the courier circuits; the rest was pure conjecture, but I had always been good at that. "I guessed," I said. "Was I wrong?"

"No," Malik said ruefully. The bitterness had faded by now, and he sounded only weary. "It was all true. Shall I tell you a secret, or do you know it already?"

"Tell me anyway."

"Jerusalem," said Malik, "was my fault, too."

Ah. That was a heavy secret indeed. "I had heard," I said carefully, "that Altair rushed ahead recklessly, and gave the Templars too much warning."

Malik shrugged.

"Altair was always arrogant," he said. "This mission was no different, except that the stakes were higher. He rushed ahead recklessly, and gave the Templars too much warning, and broke all the tenets of the Creed—and I should have stopped him when he went too far, but I did not."

"Why didn't you?"

He was quiet a moment, thinking. "I thought he knew what he was doing," Malik said at last. "He always did—or acted like it, anyway—and I believed him, and now my brother is dead."

"And you lost your arm, and you hate being rafik, and you hate being crippled, and you think Al Mualim sent you here out of pity."

Malik cast me another look. "I don't know why I bother to speak at all," he said dryly, "when you can do it for me."

"And you looked so skeptical, too, when you suggested that I seduce Talal's secrets from him." I sat up. My hair had long since come loose from its braid; the ribbon I had used to tie it had been lost somewhere in the courtyard. I looked around for another.

"Let's go downstairs," I said to Malik. "Do you have any food?"

—

We were halfway through an early dinner before he realized. Malik set down his piece of bread and suddenly looked outraged.

"Did you plan all of that?" he demanded. "Goading me into a fight, and then taking me to bed—"

"I'd actually thought of getting you drunk, instead," I admitted. "That was my first plan. But this worked, too."

"—so you could tell me about my childhood?"

I leaned back in my chair and regarded him steadily. "So I could decide what to do with you," I said.

"If that was meant to reassure me," said Malik, "it didn't work."

He had said it in good humor, but his fingers were curled tightly around his cup; there were too many secrets spilled out between us for him to pretend that they did not matter. Loss and regret and friendships betrayed—like something out of the old fables, indeed, and I touched the pendant in my pocket and wondered what these Pieces of Eden were. These lumps of silver seemed like such trifling things for the Templars and Assassins to go to war over—

Malik was still watching me.

"You're not useless here, you know," I said.

He raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"As Jerusalem rafik. I could reassign you, if you want—you could go to Damascus, or back to Masyaf, or ride the courier circuits—but you've never been useless. Al Mualim did not make you rafik because he was sorry for you and thought that you had forgotten how to fight."

"Then why—"

"I did not think you had forgotten how to fight, either," I said. "I don't think anyone has—even if you are out of practice—but I wanted to know why you were angry. So."

"So," Malik repeated, looking wary. "Now you know. What will you do with me?"

I spread my hands before me and shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "Would you like to go elsewhere? I don't think it'll help, Malik. You can't change the past, and you won't forget your guilt only because you've run a little further away."

"You think I should stay."

"I think you would be wasted on the courier circuits."

He drew in a deep breath and drained his cup. "Tell me," he said. "Did you do all this to make sure I would stay in Jerusalem?"

"Will you stay, then?"

"I'd feel guilty for leaving, now," Malik said, grimacing. "You're right. It wouldn't help. And—I owe you recompense, for the insult."

I could not resist teasing a little. "So bedding me was an insult?"

"I should not have done it out of anger," he said, "even if you were willing. But answer me, Isra. Did you do this so I would stay?"

He would have stayed anyway. Malik knew his orders well enough. I had done it because he had been unhappy beneath the weight of his silence; but of course I could not tell him that. "Yes," I said instead.

"I'll stay, then," he said, "since you have such a high opinion of my abilities."

It should have felt like a victory but didn't. I had broken into his heart and taken his secrets, and there was no glory in it at all—

Malik poured himself another cup of wine and drained that, too. "So this is what it's like to be seduced," he said, rueful. "I mean no offense, but you'll forgive me if I never wish to repeat the experience. Is this what you do to the Templars? Hammer at them until they crack before your will?"

I lifted my cup to him in a toast. "If it's any consolation," I said dryly, "none of them were half as handsome as you."

A/N: I can't believe I forgot to mention this! But bloodsmoothy over at deviantart has drawn fanart of Isra, so you should all go over and check it out (sorry about the lack of link, but ff deletes them all). It is very impressive because I don't think I've put in a physical description of Isra, like, ever. Don't worry, the next two chapters will be devoted entirely to descriptions of her violet eyes and shimmering auburn hair.