A/N: So apparently reviews don't actually make me write faster, but thanks to everyone for reviewing anyway.

It was strange how quickly the world moved on without regard for anything.

I did have business to discuss, though Malik raised his eyebrows when I said so; Sarai, for one, had sent with me a list of requests as long as my arm. I had lost it somewhere in the courtyard. Malik went off to look for it.

"Arsenic," he said incredulously, waving the paper at me when he returned, "or realgar if I cannot get that; dried monkshood; two large glass bulbs—this is her requisitions list?"

"Some of her distillation equipment broke in transport," I felt compelled to explain, though Malik continued to look skeptical. "Oh, and she needs a new mirror—"

"A mirror. Isra, you understand I must justify these expenses to Masyaf?"

"That's another thing," I said. "She wants to see the ledgers."

Malik frowned. "Why?"

"Missing payments," I said, shrugging. "I'm not too certain. But she thinks that some of our gold is being funneled away, because the profits on the last spice shipment from Damascus didn't add up properly."

"Spice shipments never add up properly."

That's what I had told Sarai, but she had assured me that this was important. Malik sighed and promised that he would send them over as soon as he could. Then it was on to more mundane things—no, my things had not arrived yet from Damascus; yes, we knew where Talal's next shipment would go; no, none of our agents had anything significant to report—and troop movements after that, marking out the course of the Crusade—

Soon it was twilight, and then dusk, and we were lighting candles against the gathering gloom, and it was almost as though nothing at all had happened between us. There had been no time to think about it, so I did not.

Not then, anyway.

—

I did not know how Malik bore his guilt. Some men wept, and others prayed, and still others raged and shouted and denied it all; but I could not imagine him doing any of those things. For all the secrets I had stolen, there were still many things that I would likely never learn.

He should have stopped Altair.

But he had not realized it until afterwards—days and weeks later, after it was far too late—

In a month, would I be sorry for what I had done? It was a worrying question, and not only for its own sake: I had not known I possessed such a conscience. My will was Al Mualim's, and he would have praised me wholeheartedly for making Malik so much more tractable—so I should not have been thinking of regret at all.

The world went on, in any case, and did not give me time to dwell on Malik overmuch. The next few weeks were a relief from the usual chaos. The city guards cut down their patrols, and eventually even the rumormongers grew tired of speculating upon Abu'l Nuquod's death—and then news came that Salah al-Din had attacked the Crusader army at Arsuf, which handily diverted attention from the Assassins altogether. The city became abuzz with a different sort of speculation: whether Richard the Lionheart would take Jaffa, and whether a truce could be reached, and what we would do if the Crusaders came for Jerusalem—

But at least there were no more soldiers stalking the city streets for white-robed men with swords. It was a reprieve of a sort, even with the threat of siege looming overhead, and I was grateful for it while it lasted.

Not, of course, that it lasted for very long.

The peace ended abruptly one morning some two weeks later. I came into the bureau, and Malik looked up and said: "The Templars are after you."

And that was the end of that.

—

"The Templars are always after us," I said. "Anyway, Talal has still been keeping his men on me—"

Malik was frowning. "That is not what I am talking about," he told me sharply. "They are not seeking out Assassins as they usually do, Isra. They are looking for young women, about your age, who might have come from Acre in the past month or so—"

Sarai.

"Yes," Malik said. "It seems her hound has tracked her to Jerusalem. Do you know who it is?"

I shook my head. "The virtues of heaven," I said. "I've never heard of them, before Sarai mentioned it."

"Oh, wonderful," said Malik, and bent over his desk.

"What happened?"

"Women dying," he said grimly. "Two strangled and one with her neck broken—one I could have understood, perhaps a lover's quarrel, and the other could have fallen down the stairs—but three, in the space of little more than a week? So I pulled two men away from the madrasahs and sent them to check, and there is a newcomer amongst the Templars." He held out a slip of paper. "A description," he added. "Ask Sarai if she recognizes it."

I tucked it away. "When did this start?"

"Last week. Perhaps a little more. These are women from good families, not—well. Not otherwise."

Sarai had been followed. We had been taught, over and over again, to cover our tracks: she would have left a trail to Tyre or Damascus, and changed her schedule at least three times, and identities too—but still, it was not impossible that someone would think to search for her in Jerusalem. "How close is he?" I asked. "Do we need to move? Yusuf might go to the countryside, or traveling—"

Malik was shaking his head. "Too much attention," he said. "This man—this virtue, however he calls himself—he could have left those women alive. He is trying to frighten us into showing our hand, I think."

"And our other operations? The trade routes? The regent? Are they at risk? Should we put a stop to any of those?"

"That," Malik said dryly, "was what I was about to ask you. But first, there is the other pressing matter of your protection—"

I had been doing fine without a bodyguard for the past few weeks, and I said so.

"Yes," said Malik, "but something has come up—"

"Something more pressing than the fact that Sarai has a murderer on her tail?" I asked.

"Yes," said Malik. "Isra, listen—"

But I had stopped listening, because that was when Altair walked in.

—

It was not one of my finer moments when I picked up a map and flung it at his head. Altair looked surprised more than anything else; he dodged the scroll easily, and then stared at me as though I were the one out of place in this scene.

"You!" I said, furious. "You're supposed to be in Masyaf! What are you doing here?"

Altair was still staring. "You threw a map at me," he said.

"Al Mualim was supposed to reassign you! You should be going to Acre right now! Or Cyprus!"

"He thought that you might need—"

"I certainly don't need you," I snapped. And then, clearly because I had not been undignified enough today, I called him an ass in three different languages and went stomping out into the courtyard, where I threw myself onto the bench and sulked.

I should have gone back inside and demanded an explanation. I should have asked Malik how on earth this Templar had discovered Sarai. I should have, at the very least, ordered Altair to pack and depart the city at once. I didn't do any of these things.

I sat there, instead, and stared at the sky, and wondered why I cared at all. There are foolish Assassins just as there are foolish Templars and foolish men, and Altair was only another fool that I disliked; I should not have given him so much thought. Al Mualim would certainly not have approved.

First Malik, and now Altair. I dropped my head into my hands and sighed. Clearly I was losing my mind.

From beyond the confines of my misery, I dimly heard the sound of the door opening.

Then: footsteps across the courtyard, and a shadow came looming over me like the harbinger of doom.

"Isra," Altair said.

"Go away."

Altair sat down next to me instead, which was the exact opposite of go away, and he pushed back his hood so that the sunlight came glittering into his eyes. "You're angry," he said.

I did not even bother pointing out the obviousness of his remark. "What are you doing here?" I demanded again. "You were supposed to get a reassignment."

"I asked Al Mualim to send me back."

I stared.

"Why?" I managed finally. "You could have been rid of me; you could be doing anything else right now, almost anything you want—"

Altair was watching me, expressionless. "And have you given a great deal of thought to what I want?"

"Of course I have," I snapped at him. "It was the fastest way to get rid of you."

"And you?" he asked. "What do you want?"

I didn't know, and I didn't particularly care to consider it at the moment with Altair brooding over me like a predatory hawk. "Nothing you could give me," I said bitterly, slumping back down. It would be at least a week before I could be rid of him again, and perhaps I could not be rid of him at all; I still needed an assassin to help me in my plan for Talal—

"I came back to so I could speak with you."

"Then stop dithering and get on with it."

He glanced away at that. "There are three laws that Assassins must obey," Altair said, quietly. "First: ensure peace in all things; second: stay unseen; and third: never compromise the Brotherhood, for the actions of one must not bring harm to all. These are the tenets of the Creed, and the terms of your duty. I should not have presumed otherwise."

There was a long, long moment of silence between us, hanging like a sword.

"…so," I said at last, startled out of my anger, "you came all the way to Jerusalem to tell me this?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I—" He broke off and shrugged. "I could not leave things as they were."

Altair, with a conscience. I ran my fingers through my hair and then had to spend a moment untangling my braid; in my distraction, I had forgotten to untie it first. "It's strange," I told him, "to imagine you caring about such things."

It was strange to imagine him caring about anything at all, but I did not say that out loud.

"It compromised the Brotherhood," Altair said. "You sent me to Masyaf, and there was no one else to act as your guard."

The Brotherhood. Of course. "And does it compromise the Brotherhood for you to be feuding with Malik?"

"We are not feuding."

"You snipe at each other every chance you get."

For that, he had no answer. I sighed. "Never mind," I said. "I can't imagine you'd ever unbend enough to actually explain yourself properly, anyway."

"It is not as easy as you might think," Altair said, scowling. I snorted. Of course it wasn't easy; nothing ever was.

"Is there anything else you'd like to share, then?" I asked. "Or have you reached your limit for the day?"

"Nothing else," he said, after a moment.

"Of course not," I muttered, and went back inside to speak with Malik.

—

"So," Malik said ruefully, when I came back to the shopfront, "it seems that Altair has returned from his errand a little early."

"When did he get here?"

"Last night. I knew you were coming, so I sent him out to check on Talal before you arrived—but you see how well that worked."

"You should've mentioned him first," I said, scowling, "so I might have had some warning."

"Somehow," Malik said, "I imagined that the presence of a murderous Templar from Acre was more important, but I can see how that was a mistake."

I had to laugh at that, despite my mood.

"I am sorry," Malik added, more seriously. "I did not think—well. I had not expected Al Mualim would send him back. If you want to be rid of him—and I can't blame you for that—"

"No," I said. "Not yet, anyway. He's here now, so we might as well make use of him."

"What will you do?"

I sighed. "He can take me with him when he goes to meet our informants tomorrow," I said. Likely he would still stare them into stammering silences, but there was no help for that. "We'll see if he can hold his tongue or not; I hope he manages it."

Malik made a disbelieving sound. "And if not?"

"And if not," I said, "Sarai has three letters for Damascus and one for Masyaf; he can spend another week playing courier, at the worst."

—

Altair, with a conscience.

I had never thought of him as possessing one—but he was loyal to the Assassins, above all else, so surely Jerusalem weighed on him as much as it did on anyone. And he had been friends with Malik, years and years ago—

They had never spoken of it. At least, not to each other.

The thought that Altair was terrible at talking to people did not escape me. I wondered if he had noticed it yet.

A/N: Too tired to make historical notes. Blah. I wish real life didn't exist.

Quick poll: if I wrote an original fic (like, not fanfic) and posted it over on fictionpress, would any of you be interested in reading it? I have an account there but, well, you know. It's fictionpress.