In which people do things behind each others' backs.
Men drifted in and out of the bureau all day. What must the neighbors think, to see the reclusive cartographer's shop suddenly so popular? Perhaps Malik would spin them a tale of how his many distant cousins had come to visit, and another tale of how they had all been waylaid by bandits on the road; there were more injuries than I cared to remember, and more deaths, too, than I had ever wanted.
Malik wanted to talk to me after dinner.
He said this ominously, but I was too tired to care. "I'm not going back to Maysaf," I announced flatly.
"Not here, Isra," he growled at me, casting an impatient glance around the crowded common room, and dragged me off to the shopfront with Altair in tow. Malik shoved me into a chair. "Sit," he said, pointlessly. And: "Listen. You're in danger."
Since when hadn't I been in danger? Malik rolled his eyes when I pointed this out. "Tell her," he ordered Altair.
"The man who killed Sarai," Altair said, "was a professional."
I blinked at him. He paced restlessly across the narrow room and back again, and turned back to me with something like regret. "He was careful," he said. "Do you remember how we entered? He killed the footman first, and hid him behind the tree so that no one would see the corpse from the street. Then the maid he killed while her back was turned, before she could shout for help—and Yusuf must have heard his footsteps on the stairs and opened the study door to check—"
My throat hurt. "Why are you telling me this?" I demanded.
"Because this man has had training," Malik snapped. "He's learned the craft as we have, he knows how to move silently and take down a household without arousing suspicion—"
"So we aren't the only murderers in the world," I said bitterly. "What of it? The Templars have killers of their own; why should I be surprised?"
"His name is Alexander," Malik said. "Farid told you about him—and he would have told you more, if you hadn't picked a fight with him first—and he was the one who followed Sarai here from Acre. The pope's personal bloodhound, I hear, and his personal executioner as well—" He broke off at my expression. "Never mind. I asked the neighbors if they saw anyone enter the house yesterday, and two of them gave me a good description of him, so we know what he is capable of beyond mere orchestration. The point is, you won't be able to make a move in Jerusalem without alerting him. And we don't have the resources—not anymore, and maybe not ever—to keep you safe."
He wanted me to run. "And if you can't keep me safe in Jerusalem, how can you keep me safe on the road with only one man as escort?"
"You'll slip out before he knows you're gone," Malik retorted. "He's waiting for a counterattack—the bounty, and everything else he's done points to a trap being laid—"
I held up my hand. Malik stopped talking.
"I won't go," I told him, "unless Al Mualim orders it. And you cannot force me."
"Yes," Malik said grimly. "I know."
Which was somehow even more ominous.
I couldn't go back to Masyaf. Not now. Possibly not ever—but certainly not when I had such unfinished business here. And Malik was plotting something. I couldn't afford a power struggle with the Jerusalem rafik.
What did he want?
"I have to tell you something," I said abruptly.
Malik raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
"Altair," I said. "Leave us."
"What?" said Altair, who had apparently forgotten that he was no longer a Master Assassin and therefore not privy to certain secrets. Although, to be honest, I would have sent him out of the room anyway.
"Out," I said, nodding at the door. "And make sure no one's eavesdropping, either. This is important."
Altair gave me a look.
Then he sighed and left, thankfully without further argument. The door swung shut behind him with a reassuring thump. Malik crossed his arms and gave me an assessing stare.
"Well," he remarked. "This should be good."
I rose. It was my turn to pace restlessly, the dust tickling my nose and maps rustling faintly as I brushed past them; if this was a mistake, then it would be the biggest mistake of my life.
"You'll have to swear not to tell anyone," I said. "Not Altair, not any of the other rafiks, not the alley cats—no one. This is—very important. Sarai died for it."
"I swear," Malik said immediately.
"On your life, and on the Creed?"
"Yes."
I stopped. I turned to face him.
"There is a traitor in Masyaf," I said. "Sarai found him through the accounts, and she sent a message to Al Mualim to warn him—but our couriers must have been compromised, or one of the scholars at the fortress, or something—because he found out. He must have. And he betrayed Sarai to the Templars."
Malik was still watching me, silent. I went on: "Yusuf was a merchant. The thieves of Jerusalem wouldn't have known that he was harboring one of our agents. This traitor told the Templar—and the timing, don't you think that was telling? He struck just when we moved against Talal, and we thought we were moving too quickly for the Templars to suspect anything—so how could he have known when our attack was, unless someone told him? And this traitor—he's been watching for a long time. He knows our secrets and our courier routes and our passwords. Sarai found discrepancies in the accounts going back years—"
"I believe you," Malik said.
I uncurled my fingers from their death-grip on the countertop. "Good."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You don't sound very surprised."
"I am," he assured me. "There are always leaks. But this—a leak large enough to bring down Sarai, and orchestrate an attack against nearly every safehouse in Jerusalem at once—this is troubling." He leaned against a bookshelf, frowning. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to return to Masyaf anyway? He wouldn't dare strike you in the heart of the fortress—"
"I'm not leaving," I said. "And if you ask Al Mualim to order me back, then this traitor will find out and tell the—what did you call him? The pope's bloodhound?—and he'll catch me on the road, and kill me there. Is that what you want."
"No," Malik said dryly. And: "Well, there goes my brilliant plan."
"What brilliant plan?"
"Courier pigeons," he told me. "I was going to slip out tonight—or make Altair do it, I suppose—and send a pigeon to Masyaf, requesting that you be recalled immediately. But I suppose this traitor knows about that, too."
"We have pigeons?" I had never heard of such a thing.
Malik shrugged. "We don't use them very often. For emergencies, usually, and only the ones that don't require us to send sensitive intelligence by something that could be eaten by a hawk. Human couriers are safer."
Human couriers could be bribed. But then, I supposed that a pigeon could be bribed even more easily with a handful of grain. "You were going to go behind my back to make Al Mualim recall me?"
"Yes," said Malik, not sounding repentant in the least.
Well. I sat back down. We both brooded in silence for a moment.
"Tell me your plans, then," Malik said finally. "You wanted to stay in Jerusalem for a reason?"
"Yes," I said.
And I told him.
—
Some unexpected streak of chivalry kept the assassins from turning me out of my room that night. The bureau was crowded with perhaps a good half of our Jerusalem agents and an injured courier besides, but Malik declined when I offered to let someone else have my bed. He even declined when I offered to let someone share the room—and this made me feel guilty enough that I actually went and lay down on the pallet, though I didn't want to sleep at all. Instead I stared up at the ceiling and tried not to breathe too deeply against the darkness.
It was a relief when the knock came.
"Come in," I called, sitting up.
The door opened. I wasn't entirely surprised to see Altair. "You're awake," he said.
"If you came here to ask me about what I said to Malik—"
"No." He shut the door behind him. "Malik sent me to check on you."
"I don't need a nursemaid," I snapped.
"All right," Altair agreed. He drew closer. "I brought you some wine."
I peered at him suspiciously. "Why?"
"In case you were awake."
I stared at him.
But I took the goblet anyway, when he offered it; the wine was too sweet on my tongue but I couldn't bring myself to care. "Thank you," I said, trying for gracious and probably failing. I swallowed. I tried again: "Thank you."
Altair sat down next to me, careful and uninvited. "Farid asked me to extend his apologies," he said, "for offending you—"
"He couldn't come himself?"
"He left. Malik sent him to find out what he could amongst the thieves."
Oh. I took another sip of the wine. There was a faint trace of bitterness beneath the sweet—like life, I thought gloomily, except life wasn't intoxicating at all, and not made from grapes. "I see."
"He gave quite an eloquent speech," Altair said, sounding faintly amused. "How he was so blinded by your beauty that he forgot to watch his tongue—you would have liked it, I think."
"I suppose it's an improvement on some people," I said darkly, "who aren't blinded by my beauty and don't bother to watch their tongues anyway."
Altair made no response to that. I set down the goblet and stared at my knees. Why was he even here? Did he think I needed a nursemaid? Because I didn't.
The room was very quiet—quiet enough for me to hear the sound of our breathing, the tap of my fingers against the floor and the creak of his armor as he shifted—and Altair was warm, he was sitting close enough for me to feel it, and I was suddenly tired—
"So you aren't returning to Masyaf," Altair said, breaking into my thoughts. "What will you do instead? Or is that a secret, too?"
"No." I shut my eyes. "This should make you happy," I murmured. "Tomorrow we'll go to rescue that girl you were so interested in. We'll go look for her brother, by the eastern gate."
"Is that your plan?"
"And we'll talk to the city guards, too. There are a few high-ranking sergeants Malik thinks might—" I surprised myself with a yawn. "—might know something about the raids on our safe houses. Is that good?"
"Will they talk to you?"
"Of course."
I could imagine his skeptical eyebrow. "Really?"
"Torture or seduction," I assured him, not bothering to open my eyes. "Seduction's faster. They'll talk. At least one of them, anyway, and that's all we really need. To start with, I mean."
"Isra?"
His fingers were in my hair. I listed sideways. "Hmm?"
"You're falling over," Altair said.
"That's nice," I said vaguely, and pitched into his shoulder. He was reassuringly solid. I curled my fingers against his palm and fell asleep.
—
Malik didn't even flinch when I slapped him the next morning.
"I'm glad to see you well rested," he said, not sounding sorry at all. I wanted to strangle him.
"You put opium in my wine," I snapped.
He gave me a level look. "You needed it."
Perhaps I had, and perhaps I hadn't, but he should have asked first. I turned away, seething. Of all the high-handed things to do—
"You'd better hurry," Malik said. "If you're still going to the market, that is—it's nearly midmorning."
"And whose fault is it that I slept so late?" I demanded.
"Well, if you want to argue about it instead of leaving—"
"Malik," Altair said, coming in through the door, "Harun wants to know if you needed—"
"You!" I said.
He stopped.
"I can't believe you went along with him," I snapped. "Are the two of you conspiring against me now? First the pigeons, and now this—"
"You told her about the pigeons?" said Altair, which had not at all been the point I was trying to make.
"She would have found out eventually," Malik said. "I thought I told you to make sure she didn't suspect anything?"
"Because Altair coming to ask after my well-being isn't suspicious at all?" I demanded. "And you made the potion too strong, anyway—Malik, I didn't even finish the whole goblet. What if you'd poisoned me?"
"I made sure you were still breathing before I left," said Altair, as though that was any comfort. I glared at him.
"Oh, yes," I said sardonically, "you drugged a helpless woman and then watched her while she slept. The very flower of chivalry, I'm sure."
Altair muttered something under his breath about beauty not watching its tongue, either. I wanted to slap him too, but he would probably just dodge.
"I hate you both," I announced.
"Very mature," Malik said, looking oddly relieved. "Are you going to go or not? The vegetable sellers go home for the afternoon on most days."
It was only with great restraint that I did not throw a map at him.
But I did slam the door rather loudly as I went storming out.
—
It was a damp, chilly day in Jerusalem. I pulled up the hood of my cloak and scowled out at the world; the sun was weak today, halfhearted, and even the streets seemed emptier than usual. I wanted to go home.
Maybe I would go back to Masyaf, after this. But—not yet.
"We're here," Altair said.
Here was a narrow square in the shadow of the eastern gate. Two broad avenues met and departed again, and in the intersection were makeshift stalls for all the peddlers who couldn't afford a permit for the lower market; produce, mostly, though I saw a smith's wares beneath a palm tree and the glint of cheap jewelry from the corner of my eye. I glanced around. No one was watching us—well, none of the guards, anyway—and there was still enough of a crowd to hide in.
"Ask for Miraj," I said, nudging Altair with my elbow. "He sells vegetables, I think she said. Remember?"
"I remember." Altair went slipping off. I trailed after him, pausing at a fruit seller's stall to buy an apple—for effect, and because I hadn't had breakfast yet. The boy blinked at me in surprise when I didn't bother to haggle.
But he didn't complain, of course, and I turned away before he could think to sell me something else. Altair was engaged in what looked like a heated conversation with a woman selling chickens. I wandered off to look through the vegetable stalls; there was no point in getting involved with whatever threats or intimidation that Altair was using.
This is the eastern gate: tall, imposing stone the color of sand, high-arched, and armed guards standing vigilant on the crenellations above as people went back and forth along the dusty road. The banner of Salah al-Din was draped across the walls like a declaration. He had wrested Jerusalem from the Crusaders not so long ago, and already his regent was betraying him; would he have Majd Addin executed, if he knew? Doubtless Saladin would not be happy to learn that his retainer served two masters.
I snorted. Richard Lionheart wouldn't be happy about such news, either. He might support the Templars, but he would never go so far as to allow his men to swear two oaths—oh, none of the Crusader kings would stand for such a thing. Something to ponder, then: reveal the Templars' plots to the sultan and the English king, and perhaps that would gain us some allies—or at the very least, some time to maneuver if we needed it, while the leaders cleaned out the corruption in their own courts—
"Is this really the time for a snack?"
Altair had reappeared at my elbow. I shrugged at him and finished off the apple. "Maybe opium makes me hungry," I said, bitterly enough to make him sigh. And: "Did you find him?"
"I think so. This way."
He took my arm. The sudden touch made me jump. Oh, when had I grown so nervous, to startle at every little shadow? This was absurd, the guards weren't even looking at us and I had to bite my lip against the urge to run—
"He should be here," Altair said quietly, pulling me around a corner. I fumbled at my pendant. Nerves were making my fingers tremble.
"What are you doing here?" a voice demanded.
—
The first thing I saw was a cow.
She was a sweet, pretty thing, all soft brown eyes and soft brown fur, and she lowed at me politely as Altair and I came barging into the back of the stall and nearly crashed into a crate of cucumbers. I put my hand against her side to steady myself. She flicked her ear.
Altair had, unsurprisingly enough, gotten into a scuffle with the stall's owner. I gave the cow my apple core while I waited for their fight to finish. "Good girl," I murmured, patting her absently as she crunched away. "This doesn't frighten you, does it? Don't worry, we won't hurt you."
"I told you, I don't know anything—"
The voice broke off with a strangled yelp. Altair had forced the man to the ground, his arms twisted painfully behind him and a knee to his back. I glanced out at the street.
The woman selling baskets on the other side was staring at us, looking horrified.
"Miraj?" I said.
The man stared at me. "I—yes. Who are you? Are you with the city guards?"
He had green eyes, sharp and clear as glass, and I remembered the line of his brow and the shape of his nose, and how he tilted his chin in defiance—
"Let him up," I sighed. "And let's go somewhere a little more discreet, shall we?"
—
We couldn't go very far, as it turned out, because there wasn't anyone to watch the stall for Miraj in his absence. "But don't worry about the neighbors," he said bitterly, brushing himself off as he took us behind the wagon—the best we could do for privacy for the moment—and slumping down on an empty crate. "They've seen me take enough beatings in the past week, and none of them every bothered to come help. What do you want?"
"Just to talk," I said, and pushed back the hood of my cloak.
Miraj gaped at me. He started up.
"Don't," I said warningly. "You're unarmed, and there are two of us—and as you've pointed out yourself, your neighbors won't come to your aid. Sit down, answer our questions, and you might get your sister back."
"My sister?" He was still staring at me. There was a yellowing bruise on his jaw and more on his arms; the guards must have come by for him, after they took the flower-girl. Or perhaps he had sought them out himself.
"She sells flowers," I said, a trifle impatiently. "The city guards kidnapped her last week, or have you forgotten?" A memory came to me—flowers and dust and horses— "Is her name Rida?"
"Yes." And, "Who are you?"
"It would be better for you—and your sister—if I didn't tell you that," I said.
His eyes flickered between me and Altair. "Assassins," he whispered. "You are, aren't you? They said Rida was involved with them, and I told them she wasn't but they insisted, and now you're here. What do you want with her?"
I sighed.
"We're here to help," I told him.
"Why?" Miraj demanded, not taking his eyes from my face. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"
"It would really be better for you and your sister if I didn't tell you that."
He set his jaw in a stubborn line.
"It would also be too dangerous—for us—to tell you everything," I said coolly, "so glare at me all you like, but if you ever want to see your sister again, you'll tell us what we need to know and let us help. Where is she?"
"I don't know," he snapped. "Why haven't you already found that out? They said you knew everything that goes on in this city—"
"Miraj."
He broke off. I leaned in, lowered my voice, touched his shoulder and asked: "Do you want your sister back?"
"Of course I do—"
"And is it not said," I inquired, "that the enemy of your enemy is your friend?"
"It's also said that the Assassins murder people," he pointed out. Which was true enough.
"Only those who deserve it," I told him. "The men who took your sister—do you think they've given her a nice room, and made her comfortable? Do you think they've fed her well? Do you think they haven't hurt her? Think about what they might have done, Miraj—your sister is a pretty girl, isn't she?—think about it, and tell me that those men do not deserve to die."
A cruel touch, but it worked. I saw him swallow.
"What do you want?" he asked again, but quieter.
"Anything you know," I said. "The men who took her, any names they mentioned, anything—"
"He asked for a ransom."
I blinked. "What?"
"He asked for a ransom," Miraj said, louder. He looked up at me, his mouth tightening. "I went to the guards to ask after her when she didn't come back that day, and they laughed at me and said she was in jail—so I went to get her out, but she wasn't there, and the captain told me a friend of the regent's had taken a fancy to her, and that he would give her back the next day."
"But he didn't," I offered.
"No." His eyes were blazing, dark and furious. "The next day guards came and—" Miraj pointed at the bruise on his face. "—they did that," he said bitterly. "And he came and accused my sister of conspiring with the Assassins—"
"Wait," I said. "Who?"
"The regent's friend." He gestured vaguely. "The one who took Rida. Tall, straw-haired, foreign. I can't pronounce his name."
Beside me, Altair straightened. "Alexander," he said. "Alessandro Filostrato Bianci, al serviziodiRoma. In the service of Rome."
"Yes, him," Miraj said, looking as surprised as I felt.
I raised my eyebrows at Altair. "I didn't know you spoke Italian."
"Well, I do," he said repressively.
There was a story there—likely a tragic one, given his tone—but I didn't push it. "And then what?" I asked Miraj. "You mentioned a ransom?"
He sighed. "Three hundred dirhams," Miraj told me. "This foreigner—he said that Rida was a criminal. That she had done things that put the city in danger—"
"And he demanded coin in the name of reparations," I murmured. "Of course. And you haven't paid?"
"How can I?" Miraj demanded. "I don't—my family doesn't have that kind of money."
"You could sell your cow," I suggested.
"She's not worth three hundred silvers," he retorted. "And we need her for the farm, and both of my sisters need dowries, and—we can't." He ran his fingers through his hair, and looked, suddenly, very tired. "I've been to moneylenders," he said, "all this week, and promised to pay them back three times over. But none of them agreed."
"But if you had the money, what would you do?"
Miraj blinked at me, surprised. "Exchange it for my sister, of course," he said. "What else would I do?"
"No, I mean—did this Alessandro tell you where to bring the coin? Did he say you had a month to come up with it, before he sent his thugs around again? Is there a place for you to leave him a message, saying that you had the ransom?"
Altair's hand closed around my wrist, hard enough to make me wince. "No," he said.
"Yes," I snapped, shaking him off. Altair refused to let go.
"This is obviously a trap—"
"If you must argue, you can do it later," I informed him, "and if you can't hold your protests that long, then perhaps you would prefer to take a pleasant stroll around the market?"
Altair snapped his mouth shut, scowling, and let go of my arm.
"What is this?" Miraj asked, glancing between us curiously.
"Answer me first," I said. "Where did Alessandro tell you to bring the money?"
"Nowhere. I mean, he didn't say—"
Typical. "But could you find him? If a moneylender agreed to give you three hundred dirhams tomorrow, could you take it to him?"
"Yes," Miraj said. "The captain could take a message, I think. Or perhaps one of the guards who came with him—but they would want a bribe. They would all want bribes. Do you know how many bribes Jerusalem takes?"
Malik had often complained of the same thing. Knowing now what we did of Jerusalem's regent, I was entirely unsurprised.
"Here," I said, and shook back my sleeves.
Miraj stared. I pulled off my bracelets—three bands of plain gold the width of my finger, a rope of silver studded with garnets, a silver chain with a single gleaming emerald and a gold bangle set with pearls—and tossed them to him. "That should cover the ransom, and whatever bribes you need," I added. "Pawn them—at different places, don't sell them all to the same shop—and go tell the captain, or the guards or whoever, that you have the ransom. Tell them you found a willing moneylender. Have them send Alessandro a message to meet you in three days—in the public garden behind the madrasah, at noon—and tell him to bring your sister."
"Where did you get this?" Miraj said blankly.
They were the remnants of my dowry to Tamir—heavy, gaudy things that no one would miss, bought only for the purpose of being sold again if I needed to make a quick escape. I wouldn't mind seeing the last of them. But Miraj was looking at me as though I'd just handed him priceless family heirlooms, and he opened his mouth again and said: "I'll pay you back, I swear it. It will take me some time, but—"
"Worry about debts to the Hashshashin after your sister is returned," I told him. "Can you do what we're asking?"
He nodded.
"Come to the market in the morning, in three days. Bring your cart and your wares. Go to the meeting place at noon and retrieve your sister, and then go home. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Miraj said. There was worry and puzzlement and hope mingled together in his eyes. "But what are you going to do? And—and who are you? You look like—"
I knew very well how I looked.
"Don't forget your instructions," I said, straightening up. Miraj was still staring at me, as though I were a ghost or a memory or both, and I was beginning to regret removing my pendant. "You'll have your sister back soon—and if all goes well, you'll never see us again."
I could feel his gaze boring into my back as I left.
A/N: Okay, a few things. First off, thanks to all my wonderful reviewers! Fanfic wouldn't be half as fun without you. Now go forth, reader army, and help me achieve world dominion! (Apparently I have two readers from "Iran, Islamic Republic of," which amuses me to no end. ::waves::)
On a related note, this story is getting complicated. I have five different people plotting ten different things (each), and you guys won't see most of it since Isra doesn't, but it is happening and I am only one person trying to keep track of it all. So: plot holes may happen. I apologize for this in advance, and I will try to watch out for them, but please forgive me if you spot any. And please point them out! I might not be able to fix them, but I would appreciate knowing. Hopefully none of them will be huge or story/character derailing.
Notes:
1)You can make tea out of opium. It is bitter, but you can put sugar or honey in it to cover up the taste. Ingestion is a less effective way of sedation than smoking it, but people drank opium-laced tea for a while before they discovered the trick of inhaling the smoke, so it was done. Uh, please don't try this at home. It's illegal in a lot of places.
2) War is super-expensive. Saladin, to finance his campaigns, needed a lot of money, and he wound up taking a lot of gold out of the economy. What happened after that was that everyone else started using silver for their transactions, which is why I've given the ransom and the bounty in terms of dirhams (which are the silver coins) instead of dinars (which you may or may not remember was what Al Mualim used to buy Isra at the beginning of the story, more than a decade ago and before the very expensive wars started). And copper is still around, of course.
3) Anyone who tells me an interesting thing about Miraj gets a cookie. :)