Part Four: Death of a Deathdealer

Altair had spent a long time on the roof of the Damascus Bureau, listening to the wind chimes and just thinking. He stared, long and hard, at the iron ring hanging from a pole, used for target practice; Malik had explained in his letters that it was very small, and they threw from longer and longer distances, early in the morning when the sun was almost blinding them. It would have been one of Malik's best skills. How was he healing?

Altair shook his head, hopping down into the Bureau. The door to the building was restricted to customers of their cover business, in this case pottery. There were no apprentices or journeymen below. That was not uncommon, and he walked through to the inner chamber, the "back room" that customers never entered. He had been to Damascus during his apprenticeship on different missions, but he had been to the Bureau only two or three times. The rafiq Ibtisam was in his fifth decade, his hair still dark but the lines of his face were pronounced; he had a smooth, soft voice and was very amiable.

"Altair," he said softly, "It is good to see you, and in one piece."

"You as well, friend," Altair said, glad for the welcoming voice.

"I am sorry for your troubles."

"Think nothing of it," he answered. His problems were his own; he did not wish to worry others.

"A few of your brothers were here earlier, in fact. Ooh, if you'd heard the things they said... I'm certain you would have slain them where they stood." The rafiq twirled a paintbrush in his hand with the skill of one who often wielded a knife before putting a delicate stroke on a large jar he was working on. His tone sounded strange.

"It's quite alright," Altair said, finding himself weary.

"Yes," he drew out, "You've never been one for the Creed, have you?" And suddenly the demoted assassin was listening to the cutting words of Malik. This, then, was where he learned to use his clever tongue.

"Is that all?" he growled, suddenly angry.

The warm, welcoming face of Ibtisam disappeared, his hard frown visible under his dark beard. "No, not at all," he answered. "You've no idea what you've done to my best apprentice; you have no idea what the role of a rafiq is for, do you? When that convenient collapse occurred, you assumed Malik and his brother dead, yes? What was your first thought after that? Did you go to the rafiq? Use his resources and informants to confirm that conclusion? Did you beg guidance or ask for a distraction as you left? No, you did none of those things; you crawled back to the Master so he could absolve you of your sins. You bypassed the chain of command and as a result nearly brought ruination to the entire order. The Templars would not have known where to go if Malik had not been so desperate to chase you; the rafiq would have distracted them and thrown them off the scent but no, you were so self-absorbed you ignored the best and closest resource you have. You are a failure."

Then, just as quickly as it had gone, the welcoming face came back. "I'm sorry; sometimes I forget myself. What business brings you to my city?"

"... A man named Tamir," Altair said. Better to deal with business at hand. "Al Mualim takes issue with the work he does. I am meant to end it, now tell me where to find him." Better to get this meeting over with.

"Surely you remember how to track an enemy?" the rafiq asked, his smile warm but his eyes cold and amused.

"Of course," Altair grunted, " 'Learn where he will be an when.' But that sort of work is best left for-"

He stopped. Really stopped. He thought of the rafiq's bitter words, that Altair did not use others in the Order for help. Perhaps... perhaps he should have gone to the Bureau, if for no other reason than to learn if Malik and Kadar were truly dead or not. In that, at least, the rafiq was right, and Altair burned as he realized this truth. It was not just Al Mualim that he had disappointed, but the Jerusalem rafiq, Baasir. The man was old, wizened, and patient beyond any natural measure; he taught many things to Altair, and he had done a disservice to bypass him. Because of this, he had disrespected all rafiq. Or at least, regardless of his personal interactions with them, all rafiq felt as though he had disrespected them. It was more than Al Mualim's eyes that he needed this redemption for, then.

The thought brought him quiet.

Ibtisam, indeed, all rafiq, would test him in some way. Tracking his targets himself was not a one-time test from the Master; it would need be done for all of his targets. He was still a novice. It was a bitter pill, made no easier with his realization, but then, that was the point of this exercise, was it not?

"... I understand," he said simply.

The rafiq smiled. "Go and search the city, determine what he's planning, and where he works. 'Preparation makes the victor.' "

Altair swallowed. "What can you tell me of him?" he asked, voice quiet.

"Tamir makes his living as a black market merchant, so the souk district should be your destination, I would suggest you seek out the following places: a small souk northeast of here, the madrasah to our east, and in the gardens north of this Bureau. "

"I assume you want me to return to you when this is done."

"Yes. Come back to me; I'll give you Al Mualim's marker, and you'll give us Tamir's life."

"As you wish." He would earn the rafiq's respect; he would make restitution for the error he made against Baasir.

"Remember Altair, if there is trouble you may seek shelter here, but not if the trouble is at your heels. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Altair said. "To bring the enemy inside would compromise the brotherhood." The third tenet of the Creed.

"Very well. Oh, and you should know, you'll find no help from your brothers here. Since you do not seek out aide from others, they will not offer their aide to you; you will have no informants for this mission. Off you go."

Altair hesitated, uncertain if he should say more, express in some way that he was, indeed, committed to earning the man's respect.

Ibtisam raised an eyebrow.

"What? Do you not know how to perform an investigation? No, of course you do, you're Altair. Well," he added, smirking, "Except for that last job, of course."

Respect be damned, Altair turned and left the Bureau, refusing to hit the man.

Irritated, he made his way north to the gardens the rafiq had spoken of. It had been years since he had done any information gathering, the tasks were meant for apprentices and younger journeymen; it made them familiar with the city, helped them make specific or personal contacts, and tested the skills of their minds. As they proved their worth, the work shifted to the more physically demanding missions that the physical training such as target practice or swordplay prepared them for, once they were tall enough and advanced enough to handle it. This did not mean that Altair did not know how to search a city, but the constructed test at Masyaf did not do him any favors, either. Moreover, he did not know the city well, not like Malik likely did. He knew the souk and the madrasah, these were large structures one could not miss, but he was uncertain of the gardens Ibtisam spoke of. Huffing, he looked for a ladder to climb to a roof unobtrusively.

There was a spire in the distance, and he darted his way over and ascended it, sitting on a beam and looking out over the city. Reaching into his pack he made a rough sketch of the area with a piece of parchment and a bit of charcoal. He would need to climb another viewpoint later and create a more detailed sketch of the souk; if that was Tamir's place of business that was likely where the assassination would take place. Looking north, he found a cluster of palm trees, likely the garden the rafiq had mentioned was there.

For a long time, he just sat there.

Looking down, he saw a haystack. The distance was great, he would be risking injury if he jumped, but he was feeling reckless and he leapt off the parapet with abandon. Adrenaline surged through him, the buildings rushed past him, an eagle screeched above him, wind assaulted his ears, and then he angled his fall at the last possible moment and plummeted into the hay, momentum driving him deep into the pile. His back banged heavily against the bottom of the cart and he lay there for several moments in the darkness of the hay, breathing, his blood pumping in his veins. If he had his short sword that would have been dangerous, his shoulder throbbed.

A deep breath, a pause, and he casually climbed out of the hay.

Rubbing his shoulder, he shook off the last bits of hay and made his way north. He would have a vicious bruise for that jump, but he felt better for it. Calmer, he could navigate the thick crowds of the district without being annoyed by them, without spoiling for a fight. He kept his ears open, hoping to find what the rafiq Ibtisam expected to be there. The older man had gotten a letter notifying him of Altair's arrival, no doubt also of Tamir's name so that he could begin reconnoitering the target. It was grating that he refused any of this information to Altair, and thinking of it made him irritated again. He realized why there were no apprentices or journeymen in the Bureau, no doubt they were all deliberately avoiding him - either by whim or design, or perhaps both.

What did it matter what others thought of him? So long as he got the job done?

Frowning, he paused. Had he just heard Tamir's name?

Doubling back, Altair ducked into a narrow alley and exited to another wide street. Some guards walked by on patrol, but two stood guard, dressed slightly differently, at a raised dais where a town crier was making a speech.

"Back in those days," the speaker said, "Tamir is said to have driven a caravan, and poor his business had been, none would buy his fruit and vegetables. But, as he traveled north he crossed paths with the Saracen army. They say that the men were starved. And Tamir gave of himself, offering his foodstuffs, and the Saracens ate their fill, for each had something the other wanted. Some say, were it not for Tamir, Salah ad-Din's men would surely have turned on him. It could even be we won the battle because of that man! When it was done, Salah ad-Din repaid Tamir for his generosity, one-thousand times over!"

Propaganda.

Altair watched as the crier pontificated for another hour, telling similar stories of Tamir's supposed greatness, how generous he was, how close he was to Salah ad-Din, how great his weapons were and how they saved the Saracen army several times over. Pretty stories; exaggerated and polished, too good to be true. But, say something often enough, loud enough, vehemently enough, and anyone would eventually start to believe it. Propaganda. Altair suddenly wondered if his own story had been turned into such, were his errors being spread to all corners of the Order and he made an example of? He did not care but for the fact that his work would be made all the more difficult for it.

He became angry.

The crier finished the last of his words, and stepped carefully off the dais, past the guards and merged into the crowd. Altair followed, one fist slapping into an open palm. Adrenaline from anticipation started to fill his blood, he wanted to see blood on this man. The man soon parted the crowd and into a heavily shadowed alley. Altair looked about, but saw no one. Perfect.

He grabbed the man and shoved him into the wall of a building. With a grip on his shoulders he yanked the crier back and slammed him again. Altair saw blood spatter on the wall, but he was not done yet; turning the little man around, he gave a vicious punch under the ribcage, bruising organs, and then punched again in the face, breaking the man's nose. Blood showered out of his nose, flying through the air, and at last Altair felt good.

"You seem to know quite a bit about Tamir," Altair said. "Tell me what he's planning."

"I know only the stories I tell, nothing more!" His words were slurred, his consonants blurry because of his broken nose.

"A pity," Altair said, raising a fist, "There's no reason to let you live if you've nothing to offer in return."

"Wait, wait! There is one thing!" the man cried, falling back to the ground in terror.

"Continue."

"He is preoccupied as of late. He oversees the production of many, many weapons. He constantly sees the blacksmiths and the merchants, determined to guide everything personally. The number of weapons is so large he works day and night."

Altair let himself snarl. "What of it? They are meant for Salah ad-Din. This does not help me, which means it does not help you." He kicked the man in the ribs.

"No, stop! Listen! Not Salah ad-Din!" Altair stopped, at last reaching the desired information. He stood perfectly still, a silent judge. The town crier was sniveling, hysterical, his words were high pitched and half shrieked. "They're for someone else! The crests these arms bear, they different, unfamiliar! It seems Tamir supports another, but I know not who!"

"Is that all?"

"Yes, yes! I've told you everything I know! Spare me!"

"Then it's time for you to rest." Altair offered a hand, lifting the man up, before plunging his hidden blade into the man's abdomen.

He left the alley after cleaning his blade on his red sash, the blood disappearing into the red silk. He walked slowly through several streets, blending into the crowd and drawing no attention to himself, before finding a ladder and taking to the roofs again. He made his way east, towards the souk, to see what more he could learn of this unusual shipment. If Tamir was as busy as the crier said, then sneaking up and slaying him would be a simple matter.

The sun was low in the sky; he would not make it to the souk before nightfall. Frowning, he looked south to the Bureau. He was not welcome there; Ibtisam had made that clear. He did not care what they thought, but... listening to the jibes, the taunts, it would be annoying, and he needed a clear head for the investigation. He frowned, debating.

No, it was not worth the irritation. Altair checked his pack at the small of his back. He had rations, the late spring nights were comfortable, and he could steal something if he needed it. He would not return to the Bureau. They would be grateful for it, no doubt. Altair made his way east, looking for an empty sky garden to spend the night.

He started out at dawn the next day. Without the pillows and carpets of the Bureau, the shoulder he bruised from his reckless leap was painfully sore; he had to roll it for several minutes to limber it up. Sighing at the indignation, he hopped down to the street level and made his way to the souk, he still did not know it's name if it had one. Altair paused, thinking. If the target worked there, he did not want to accidentally come across him, Ibtisam was right that preparation made the victor, and so he decided to go to a smaller souk, hoping to listen to gossip and learn more about the death dealer.

As the stands became more clustered, the street narrower, Altair looked up to see boarded planks spread out sporadically over the street, creating shade for the afternoon heat. Already the morning was warm, and it was only late spring. Sconces lined the souk, candles lit to cast off the dark shade as people shouted left and right for prospective buyers.

"Come, come! See what I have to offer!"

"I see you are very wise, which is why you've come to me!"

"I have fresh meet, slaughtered only hours ago!"

"The finest wares to be seen anywhere in the city!"

"I have the best prices anywhere!"

Altair looked instead to the customers, listening to their talk of morning gossip, stories of their days, whines and moans about prices or degenerate family members. None talked about Tamir. He looked to the merchants next, but none of them seemed to sell metal or weapons. The closest he could find was earthenware cups, and when he inquired the merchant disgustedly explained that they were all at Souk Al-Silaah. He had almost made it through to the other end of the market when he heard the distinctive vowels of a Crusader. Shocked that one would be so far away from the battlefield Altair ducked into the shadows of an unlit sconce, looking around for Christian armor. He found none, but his eyes surveyed the crowd, intent on finding something.

"Do you understand?"

There, a tall man, pale Christian skin in a Saracen smock and a thick dark beard. He almost could pass, but his accented vowels gave him away.

"Yes, I am to deliver the letter to your merchant friend."

A blacksmith, though a poor one at that. His eyes shifted back and forth, nervous.

"And you know who to see?" the Crusader asked.

"The same man as always."

"Do no think to betray my presence in this city," the man threatened in arrogant tones. "We have many eyes, many ears..."

"And many arms, yes. Good for silencing those who say too much. I know this well; you have my word."

"Good. Then be quick about it. Time is short." The disguised Christian haughtily walked away, leaving the poor blacksmith to look around, trying to find the "many eyes and ears" that would do him harm. Altair clasped his hands in prayer, bending his head and looking instead at the man's feet. He lurked in the shadow, waiting for the nervous man to pass. Lifting his head slightly, Altair began to follow the blacksmith back into the souk. It was still early morning, there were few bodies to bump into, and only one guard patrolling. Altair avoided the armed man easily, eyes intent on the blacksmith.

The man paused, looking around, still nervous, and a hand went unconsciously to his pack, patting the letter. Altair paused, waiting, and then with three quick steps was directly behind the man. He lifted the letter carefully and then casually walked off when they exited the souk. He heard cries of fear only moments later. Altair dutifully ignored them.

He leaned against a rail over the Barada River, unfolding the letter to read its contents.

Brother Tamir,

The time has come to prepare another shipment. I know that this is no small thing I ask, but be assured, your dedication will be rewarded. We'll need enough for at least a thousand men, so the support of the merchant guild is critical if you wish to deliver on time. I trust you know how best to persuade them, and who to see should you require additional coin. Let us hope that he has not yet spent it all on another of his lavish parties. Contact me when your work in Souk Al-Silaah is done and we'll arrange for its distribution to the men.

May the Father of Understanding Guide You.

Altair stared at the letter. So many weapons! But for whom? What purpose? If not Saracen, then... Crusader? Was that the reason for the disguised man? Richard did not seem so underhanded, but he knew little of the English king other than he and Salah ad-Din often exchanged gifts with each other. Who was the third man mentioned for coin that threw lavish parties?

The demoted assassin was beginning to see why Al Mualim would want this merchant dead.

He carefully folded the letter and added it to his pack, pulling out his sketched map. Clearly, the Souk Al-Silaah would need be his next destination. He needed to know as much as possible about his target's place of work.

It was mid morning when he arrived. The structure was enormous, richer than the smaller souk he had been to at dawn. The building had high arched roofs with tiny windows to let in sunlight. Inside was dark and gloomy, support beams strung about the high ceilings that held wooden chandeliers, candle wax dripping on unsuspecting heads. Altair stayed well outside, instead circling the massive structure, looking for something he could use. Buying and selling was in full swing now, he could hear the bartering and selling and bargaining even outside the structure. Merchants not rich enough to be in the comforting shade sold their wares outside, begging any onlooker they could find.

Altair saw many merchants groups together, not at any particular stall, milling about and talking. Always they parted looking upset, or worried, or annoyed. Word was traveling through them, and Altair darted a little further forward, trying to head off the rumor that he may hear what it was.

"He's called another meeting," a fat merchant said to two others. Clearly he was delivering the bad news. "Tomorrow at noon."

"What is it this time?" the second man demanded, angry. "Another warning? Another execution?"

"No. He has work for us to do," the fat merchant said.

"Which means," the third complained, "we won't be paid. And we'll work even longer hours to meet his demands."

"He's abandoned the ways of the merchant guild," said the second, clad in blue. "He does as he pleases now."

"He treats us as if we were his servants," the third moaned, running a hand over his beard.

"The guard does nothing to stop him," the first agreed.

"Enough!" the man in blue said, throwing his hands up in frustration. "We must go, if we're late, he'll be angry, and we'll suffer for it. It's all we can do to meet his schedule as it is, we don't need him killing someone to make another point."

"Perhaps one day," the third said in a wistful voice, "someone will have the courage to stand up to him."

"Perhaps," the second said, "but until that day arrives we should do as told. And I, for one, wish to live a little longer."

Altair kept his eyes lowered as he watched the group disperse before detaching himself from the wall he was leaning against and moving further around the souk. The man was a butcher of his own people? The other merchants would praise his death, then. Altair wondered why the death dealer had such privilege to do as he pleased, though, going against the guild. Guilds were sacred communities, it was how merchants and blacksmiths and other trades were able to set a fair range of prices, how they worked together to make money that helped them survive. Those that went against guilds were blacklisted and denied any means of support.

Support?

Altair refused to think of the rafiq's words.

After completing a full circuit around the souk, Altair looked up to the sun to see it was early afternoon still. He frowned, thinking.

If the there was to be a meeting tomorrow, then it was likely to assume that all the merchants of the guild would be there, and Tamir would be milling about the stalls, urging them into producing more, absorbed in meeting the astronomical order the unseen buyer had placed. With his mind occupied and the souk filled with merchants instead of guards, it would be an easy kill. Yes, that would be for the best.

Nodding to himself, he stole some bread for a light lunch and started another circuit around the structure. Now he focused on different words. He did not listen for Tamir or merchants or sales, instead he sought to find gossip about the souk itself. Mothers were chasing after children, begging they stay away from the stalls. A merchant was concerned that the guards of the district were so attached to Tamir. Altair listened to that further but there was no important information, only that the man wanted more security by his stall in the northeast corner of the souk, he had even drafted a letter to Abu'l Nuquod, asking the merchant king to right the error. Other merchants were complaining about noise on the rafters above the central courtyard, debating over rats or children. A thief was bragging to a friend that he had evaded a dozen guards because he had friends that slowed them while he made his escape. A woman moaned to an unaffected guard that his job was to protect public safety, not lick Tamir's boot, her precious jar of water had been broken! Two children talked about a hole in one of the souk's walls and how they often snuck in to steal food. A merchant bitterly moaned to a brother about the ambivalent guards that looked to Tamir instead of others.

All of it helped him.

By the time the evening sun began setting, Altair had a detailed map of the Souk Al-Silaah, all points of entry marked and notes of scaffolding and crates and other means that would assist him in his assignment.

Satisfied that his investigation was complete, he confidently made his way back to the Bureau. Let Ibtisam laugh at him now.

He made his way back to the Bureau; keeping to the streets he had been frequenting all day before eventually climbing a roof to spy the metal dome marking safety for the brotherhood. Looking around, he saw no guards, and so he stayed to the roofs, darting over the wood and clay and stone until he dropped down into the closed in courtyard of the Bureau.

"Altair! Welcome, welcome!" Ibtisam was once again bent over a pot. It's decorations were much more elaborate now, he had spent his time well, it seemed. His bright tone was distracting, Altair now knew the man was two-faced, and he did not like it. He decided to keep it straight to the point.

"I've done what you asked, now give me the marker."

"First things first," the rafiq said, his grin still sly. "Tell me what you know."

Altair had no patience for this. He spoke in quick, clipped tones. "Tamir rules over the Souk Al-Silaah. He makes his fortunes selling arms and armor and is supported by many in this endeavor: blacksmiths, traders, financiers. He is the largest death dealer in the land."

Ibtisam leaned back, the rafiq still grinning. "I am unimpressed," he said. "Any novice could learn of these things after only a day."

Altair held in a growl. "His arms are normally meant for Salah ad-Din, but recently he is working on an order for an unknown faction. He is insecure and oversees the work personally. He is also exacting to those under him, he will gladly execute an underling to demonstrate the immediacy of his needs. The merchant's guild is upset with him but cannot go against him. They tire of his disregard for their ways and his abuse of their abilities. Tamir has congregated almost all the blacksmiths and merchants to Souk Al-Silaah where he works daily."

"Better," the rafiq said, at last putting aside his brush. He walked down the length of the counter and pulled out a heavy tome, opening it. "And have you devised a way to rid us of this blight?"

"A meeting is being arranged tomorrow at the Souk Al-Silaah to discuss an important sale. They say it's the largest deal Tamir has ever made, arms for one thousand men to the unknown faction. He'll be distracted with his work, the pressure will be enormous, and that's when I'll strike."

"How?"

Altair pulled out the map he had been sketching, outlining how he planned to gain entry and where Tamir was expected to be managing his wares.

"Your plan seems solid enough. I give you leave to go."

Finally.

"After you've written your report."

"What?" Altair demanded.

Ibtisam smiled, crossing his arms. "Being stripped of your rank in front of the entire order must have been so embarrassing," he said. "To know that now your word can no longer hold sway on others, that you have to now lower yourself and do as we of such lower standing and actually commit your ambiguous words to parchment. But then, all novices need to write reports, don't they?"

Altair said nothing, refusing to rise to the bait.

The rafiq pulled out a roll of parchment, a quill, and an inkbottle. "I hope you remember how to write," he said in his blithe tones.

Breathing hard through his nose, Altair took the materials and marched out to the courtyard. Insufferable man! He took several moments to control himself before his anger stopped shaking his hands and he could write. The evening light was poor but not terrible, and he would be damned before he asked for a candle so that he could finish. Knowing Ibtisam, he made the report thorough, outlining everything he had done for the last two days down to the last whisper and gossipmonger and bruise he delivered. He made a copy of his map in the dying light.

When he was done, he closed his burning eyes and rubbed them with ink stained fingers. Cracks echoed along his back as he stretched, and his bruised shoulder ached. The air had finally turned cool, and he could see the stars through the latticework.

Going back inside, he saw the rafiq talking with an apprentice. He haunted the doorway, not wanting to interrupt and invite more criticism on himself.

"So, he is back?" the boy said. His voice was young, he couldn't have been more than sixteen.

"No, no, it is better not to ask," the rafiq said, once more focusing on that damn jar. "No matter how strange the method, the mighty Altair surely knows what he is doing."

"Then, when will he complete his task?"

The rafiq looked up, a lazy smile on his face. "That is not for you to know. Unless, of course, you wish to go against my advice and ask him? He is right there, after all."

The boy jumped, turning and seeing the fallen eagle of Masyaf standing at the doorway. "You... you..." the child stuttered. Altair leveled a glare, and the apprentice quickly crumpled, dashing out of the room.

"... I have done as you asked," Altair said, his voice quiet to prevent him from acting out on his emotions.

"Excellent, then allow me to review your work," the rafiq said; and for the next hour Altair had to wait as Ibtisam poured over the report, reading the stolen letter and making a great show of examining the map that he had already seen.

"It will do," he said finally, lazy smile still on his face. "I believe this is what you've asked for."

The dusty tome was still open, and on it was an eagle feather. Ibtisam grabbed it, spinning it in his hand, contemplating it as his smile slowly faded, and he placed it on the counter.

Altair took the marker, but the rafiq quickly snatched his hand, slamming it to the counter and holding it there.

"Let Al Mualim's work be done," he said in utter seriousness.

In this, at least, they could both agree. "I understand," Altair replied.

The grip was loosed, the grin was back, and the rafiq walked back to his stool. "You may rest here until you are ready."

Altair nodded. "Where would you have me?" he asked.

"Oh, if I had my way I'd have you out of my city after all my apprentices spat on you and kicked you. But alas, you are still a brother, and I at least know what that means, unlike others in this room. And so, the courtyard will be fine. All our other rooms are filled, you understand."

There was nothing left to say after that, Altair went back to the closed in courtyard and made the best use of the pillows he could. Sleep was light as the apprentices and journeymen slowly made their way in for the night, all stopping to stare at the demoted assassin in person; whispering amongst themselves. He ignored it all.

He slept through the dawn, waking mid morning. His shoulder no longer bothered him, and he said nothing, climbing out the Bureau without so much as a second glance. He knew the rafiq was watching him go.

He reached the souk quickly, sticking to the rooftops. He spent an hour canvassing the area, making certain his plan was sound and his route were secure. The sun at its zenith, at last satisfied, Altair slowly dropped down to the inner courtyard of the souk. The small square was packed with people, merchants milling about, traders running back and forth, guards in red only glancing at the crowds. Tables were covered with weaponry, smiths could be heard hammering in the shade of the building, and couriers were dashing about with messages or deliveries. The center of the square lowered to a small fountain, many men taking their hijab and hats and veils and soaking them in it before adorning their faces with it to stave off the noon heat. He kept his head down, his hood hiding his features, and slowly walked about the busy merchants, waiting for his target to arrive.

He did not have to wait long.

"Your men have failed to fill the order, which means I have failed my client."

"We need more time!"

Altair turned to see a man in red march into the courtyard, followed by a man in worker's whites. The man in red silks was clearly a man of wealth, his mustache neatly trimmed and his taqiyah hat finely made. The cloth under his hat was a pure white, fluttering out behind his head as he made his way to the down the steps to the fountain. This was Tamir, the man Altair was about to murder.

"This is the excuse of a lazy or incompetent man. Which are you?" the target demanded.

"Neither." The merchant shook his head, upset with the accusation.

"What I see says otherwise." Abruptly Tamir turned around, making the merchant come up short to prevent running into him. "Now, tell me: what do you intend to do to solve this problem of ours? These weapons are needed now."

The merchant shook his head again, trying to be reasonable but still stand up for himself. "I see no solution. The men work day and night, but your 'client,' " he held his hands up to indicate his opinion of the matter, "requires so much! And the destination, it is a difficult route!"

"Were it that you could produce weapons with the same skill as you produce excuses!" Tamir said, stepping into the merchant's personal space.

"I have done all I can," the merchant said, eyes level and clear.

"It is not enough," Tamir growled.

"Then perhaps you ask too much," the merchant said, throwing up his hands and walking away.

"Too much?" Tamir asked, his voice almost a whisper. He strode after the man, around the fountain. "I gave you everything. Without me, you would still be charming serpents for coin." He grabbed the man, spinning him around to make him look at Tamir, gripping his collar. "All I ask in return was that you fill the orders I bring you. And you say I ask too much?" Furious, his pale face burning with anger, Tamir spat in the man's face. "You dare disrespect me?"

"Please, Tamir, I meant no insult," the merchant said, his voice placating even as he moved to wipe his soiled beard.

"Then you should have kept your mouth shut!" Tamir pulled out a knife and slashed at the merchant. Altair remembered a knife in his own gut most recently, and his eyes hardened.

"No, stop!" the merchant said, clutching as his side.

"Stop? Hah! I'm just getting started!" With quick, unpracticed motions Tamir slashed the knife back and forth, gouging rips into the merchant's arm and side as the man tried to slink away from the assault. Blood splattered everywhere, and people backed away, gasping and the violence that had so suddenly descended on them. "You came into my souk, stood before my men, and dared to insult me?" Tamir took the time to change to a reverse grip of the knife, and he plunged the weapon into the back of the beaten merchant. And he did it again. And again. "You! Must! Learn! Your! Place!"

Rage spent, Tamir straightened and took a moment to look at the murder he had committed before kicking the body into the central fountain. One of his guards moved to remove the body, but Tamir held him back.

"No, leave the body." He turned to the gaping crowd. "Let this be a lesson to the rest of you. Think twice before you tell me something cannot be done. Get back to work!"

And, as if nothing happened, he calmly marched over to a stall and started belittling the man there.

Altair had seen more than enough. It was time to strike.

Invisible in the crowd, he circled his way around to the death dealer. He waited until Tamir's personal guard turned away, dealing with a beggar woman whining for coin. The hidden blade thrust up, between the ribs and deep into Tamir's organs. It was a precision strike, there would be very little blood. The target straightened, shocked, and as he fell limp Altair gently lowered him to the ground.

"Be at peace," he said softly.

"You'll pay for this," Tamir grunted, his eyes wide. A glance at the white hood and red sash drew recognition on his face. "You and all your kind."

Death was a heavy affair. Altair knew it well; even now there were some deaths that had yet to let go of him. He thought of Kadar, and knew it would be a while yet before he would be free of their burdens. It was because of this knowledge that he respected it, and because of that he paid no heed to the insult Tamir had laid upon him. Instead, he offered the man final words. It would not be solace, or absolution, or even kindness. All it was, all it could be, was closure.

"It seems you're the one who pays now, my friend," he said softly. "You'll not profit from suffering any longer."

Tamir coughed at first, before it turned into a pained laugh. "You think me some petty death dealer, suckling at the breast of war?" He snorted, blood seeping out of his mouth. "A strange target, don't you think? Why me, when so many others do the same?"

"You believe yourself different, then?" Altair asked.

"Oh but I am, for I serve a far nobler cause than mere profit." Tamir smiled, pride swelling in his face as color drained from it. "Just like my brothers."

"Brothers?" What was this?

"Ah, but he thinks I act alone," he muttered, coughing again. He gazed up at Altair with a lazy, haughty smile. "I am but a piece, a man with a part to play... You'll come to know the others soon enough... they won't take kindly to what you've done...!"

Others? There were others? Altair would think on it later, time was running out. To Tamir he offered bravado:

"Good," he said simply, "I look forward to ending their lives as well."

"Such pride," Tamir whispered, his head lolling back. "It will destroy you, child..."

Altair would not think on how the dying had offered words to him, instead of the other way around. He did not think about the brothers that the man spoke of. He did not think about the threat inherent of him paying for his murder. He did not think of any of these things as he took his feather and wiped it across Tamir's bloody chin, proof that the deed had been done.

A woman screamed, followed quickly by several others. The personal guard in red let go of the beggar woman and started running across the courtyard, shoving people away and drawing his sword at the same time Saracen guards started to shove their way in, and Altair had no time left to see how the crowd had reacted to his public assassination.

He shoved his way through a throng of people into the souk, the normally bustling thoroughfare nearly empty of people, as they had gone to see what the screaming was about. Altair ducked through the streets and alleys of the marketplace, running at full speed as he heard the shouts of the guards after him. When the bright sunlight hit him he ducked his head to prevent his pupils from contracting too much, looking at feet and torsos before his eyes could adjust to the sudden saturation of light. He shoved one person aside and hopped up a crate, scrambling up a wall. One glance back showed that the guards were hot on his tail, clamoring to follow him. His skill made him the better climber, and he had cleared three rooftops before the first guard, the personal guard, managed to crest the building.

Altair saw a flock of pigeons fly away and he boldly took a leap from the roof, dropping three stories and landing softly into a pile of hay. He held his breath and waited, heart pounding in his veins and in his ears. Sweat was seeping out of every pour. The combination of the noon heat and the adrenaline and the pursuit had soaked him. He exhaled slowly, his breath hot on his hands, before taking a slow deep breath.

The guards finally caught up to him, he could hear them climbing and crashing down, shouting curses and cries of retribution. Their voices receded, but Altair lingered a while longer. As his breathing slowly evened he finally became aware of the city alarm, someone had climbed a watchtower and was banging the warning bell over and over. He would wait.

Tamir spoke of others. Brothers, he called him. And said soon Altair would come to know them well. Stranger still, he seemed to know of the assassins, recognized his hood and sash. How did he know? He would have to speak to the Master, report this oddity to him immediately...

"What was your first thought after that? Did you go to the rafiq?"

No. He would not go immediately. He was still demoted, still a novice, and he refused to give Ibtisam any reason to belittle him further.

He waited until his breath was perfectly calm and the sweat dry before he climbed out of the hay. The streets were filled with guards and drawn swords, the alarms were still ringing, but it meant nothing to Altair. Grabbing a fistful of hay he rubbed it across his gauntlets, letting it absorb the blood before cleaning his blade with his red sash. He cupped his hands together in prayer, bent his head down, and calmly merged with a crowd of people walking down the street, listening to them wonder what all the fuss was about.

It took two hours to return to the Bureau, he took a circuitous route deliberately in case he had a tail. He was remiss if he didn't admit, however, that he got lost in the unfamiliar streets. It was only for a few moments, however, and by late afternoon he was climbing a ladder and dropping into a closed in courtyard.

"Word has reached me of your victory, Altair!" Ibtisam said, his smile once more wide and welcoming. "You have my gratitude and my respect." And, for once, the man seemed sincere.

"...Thank you."

"It is a shame that the other assassins continue to hold you in such poor regard," the rafiq continued, pulling out the heavy book and opening it. Altair pulled out his bloody feather.

"Rafiq, I do not care what the others think of me." He didn't, their thoughts meant nothing to him. He stared at Ibtisam. Nothing at all...

"As you wish, Altair," he said easily, shrugging off the demoted assassin's look. His businesslike tone took over as he made marks in the book to keep record of the work. "You should bring news of your victory to Al Mualim. I'm certain he has more work for you to do."

And no doubt be rid of the demoted assassin that much sooner. Altair nodded, taking his lead.

Author's Notes: And we have the first assassination - all in one chapter! As you can imagine, this is absolutely not going to happen again, but Tamir's assassination is the easiest of the game (as can be expected for the first), with so many eavesdroppings and pickpockets.

The rafiq for Damascus doesn't (that we know of) have a name, and so we dug through some Muslim name websites and decided on Ibtisam, which means smiling, as it seemed appropriate for his character. The informants, when they start showing up, will get names, too, fitting for their roles in honor of the fact that the game has a similar doctrine. Also in respect to the game, we're using the game dialogue as much as possible (which in part terrifies us because we don't want to plagiarize) with notable expansions. This is most noticeable with the conversations with the rafiq Ibtisam (and the others, too) and we hope that it reads well.

Not much on Altair's scale of badass-ery, but don't worry, the visceral awesomeness will creep up soon. As always, let us know what you think!

Next chapter: Desmond freaks out over murder.