Part Eight: City of Graveyards
Altair stood at the entrance of the graveyard, staring at stone coffins and edifices. Each one had a funeral, each one a procession, each one a ceremony. Altair had only been to a funeral once. He had been but a boy, thirteen, just before his apprenticeship to Jerusalem. All he really remembered was thinking it a waste of time - what was the point of getting together for someone who was dead? They were long gone, and there was hardly any "afterlife" those stupid religions proclaimed where the dead could watch, and to a young Altair's mind it was utterly pointless. It wasn't long before he had snuck away to the empty training ring. There were more important things to do, he had thought.
A dozen years later, the demoted assassin stared at the graves, leaning against the frame of the gate, watched a man in white standing at a grave and praying, and he wondered if his childish notions weren't wrong. Oh, the dead were still dead, but perhaps the funerals were for the living: a chance for friends and family to remember, and to mourn, and to grieve.
There were many to mourn. Altair wished he didn't have to return to this city, to Jerusalem. The taste was bittersweet in his mouth, and he feared that if he kept coming back it would only ever be bitter. It had been bad enough when he had only Adha's kidnapping. Now Altair's eyes saw young Kadar, wide-eyed and so eager to learn. He saw Baasir, patiently training apprentices and advising journeymen, the words of praise he always showered upon Altair.
He wondered where the bodies were. Kadar may well still be in the buried temple, rotting and alone. Baasir, Altair didn't even know the circumstances of his mentor's death. He could be anywhere. For some reason that bothered Altair. Bodies meant nothing to the assassin, but these bodies were important, and not even knowing where they were... it upset him. The emotion was sudden and unexpected, Altair didn't know how to react to it, and the energy of it translated to his legs, pushing him into the cemetery. He did not know what to do with it.
Towards the back, behind an obelisk, Altair found four men, one a city guard, accosting some kind of scholar. "Teach your blasphemy somewhere else!" one of them shouted.
"Please, I'm not here to teach, my brother-"
"Filthy lies, you're not welcome here!"
It had nothing to do with Altair. It did not affect him. But his turbulent emotions made him rash, and he knew the fight would be simple, and he rationalized that it would do him good. Boldly, Altair marched up to the city guard, guarding against intruders such as the assassin. Before the guard could tell him off Altair had grabbed the hand holding the sword to stay it as he thrust his hidden blade deep into the man's gut. He let loose a gurgled groan of surprise that went unnoticed by his compatriots, so busy were they in harassing the scholar. The second man was trying to hold the scholar down, and Altair quickly grabbed a shoulder, holding the miscreant in place to shove his blade into the neck. The pierce was imprecise - a testament to his state of mind - and blood spurted out.
"How dare you!" One of the remaining cried out. There were but two men now, and as they hastily made for their swords Altair knew that this would not satisfy him. The third was felled with his short sword, a quick unhindered slash to the neck. The last made a wild swing, but Altair ducked under it, stepping into his opponent's zone and punching the man in the gut with such savagery the man flew back, stumbling and desperate for air. Altair did not wait, only straddled the man and plunged his blade into the neck, an instant kill. Blood flew everywhere, and Altair stabbed again, looking for something, expecting some kind of feeling, but it did not come. He stabbed again, but the short sword caught in the bone because of his clumsy action, and his vision blurred in frustration. Energy seeped out of him, and he slumped, feeling hollow.
He did not know how long he sat there, but duty finally settled into his mind: he had to go to the Bureau and meet the new dai. With a deep breath he forced himself to get up. Altair put a boot to the corpse's shoulder blade and slowly worked the short sword out of the bone, cleaning it on his red sash before sheathing it. His uniform was spattered with red; he looked a mess.
To his shock Altair saw that the scholar was still there, staring at him. The man also looked worse for wear, his face swollen and bloody.
Altair felt embarrassed the scholar had seen such clumsy work, worse that his breakdown was witnessed. Weakness should not be shown, and the four-man slaughter had been just that: weakness. His emotions had overtaken him, just as they had with...
... with de Sable.
Altair had been so desperate to kill the Master of the Templars, so eager to fill the pain left from Adha. It had been nothing more than weakness. Weakness that had cost Kadar his life, Malik his arm, and Altair his friendship. Weakness that lead to the Templars attacking Masyaf. And worse, weakness that brought disappointment to the Master, the one man he looked up to and believed in. It was entirely his fault, and his refusal to admit it was yet another weakness.
His vision blurred, and he looked away from the scholar. "I'm sorry," he whispered, though to whom he did not know.
A hand touched his shoulder and Altair stiffened, blinking his eyes.
"One should not be sorry for saving another's life," the older man said, his face compassionate even through the bruises.
Altair could think of nothing to say. Realization weighed heavily on him, it all felt surreal.
"Come," the old man said. "You have shown me great kindness by saving my life, the least I can do is return the favor in some way. My sons wait outside."
Numb and unable to find the strength to resist, Altair could only follow. Five men stood at the gate, slightly anxious. "Did you find him?" one asked. "Was Uncle buried there?"
"No," the scholar said, "I found no plate with his name, but fear not, there are still three more graveyards left."
"I cannot believe the city guards!" another son said. "They say only that he is dead and buried, but neglect to tell us where! And now they beat you for looking!"
"We cannot change the past," the scholar said. "Coming here was a blessing, though, for I have met this man, and he saved my life."
Five sets of eyes locked onto Altair, and the attention made the white shadow distinctly uncomfortable. He stepped back; instinctively ready to run. Instead, hands clapped his back and shoulders, men offering praise and thanks and gratitude and platitudes. It only made Altair more uncomfortable; he did not know how to react or what to say. The family took this as humility, and piled more kind words onto him.
"Tell me," the old scholar said. "Who have you lost to make you react so violently to tragedy around you?"
Altair knew he could not stay silent and tongue-tied forever, and with effort he managed to simply say, "... too many."
"Truer words were never spoken," the scholar said. "My brother died this spring. He had been working in an underground mine, they said, when it collapsed on him."
Altair froze, looking at the scholar, his age, his weathered features, his height. There was no way... was there? Altair could not picture him, the old man in the mine was utterly forgettable, he had thought nothing of it...
"He was a dreamer, my brother," the old man said. "He could never hold a job for too long for his mind was always elsewhere, in the skies and the clouds. When we heard he had been killed," Altair stiffened, "we were all very upset. But now he is in the clouds he so loved. Oh, he must have hated working in that mine." The old man smiled, tight and sad and relieved all at the same time. "But listen to me prattle on, I insist that you came to my home where I can help clean you up. It is the least I can do, and it is just inside the gate. It is very convenient that I live near where I work. My sons, on the other hand, they are all merchants. I don't know where they got it from."
"From you toiling away at scrolls and not getting paid enough for it," one said, grinning at an old in-joke.
"Yes, yes," the scholar said. "Come, come, let's get you home. I live just inside the gate."
The seven of them made for a large party, and the sons were distinctly protective of their beaten father and the bloody Altair, but the guards let them pass through the Lion's Gate, and within ten minutes they were past the guards and in Jerusalem proper. Altair didn't even have time to think about all his memories of this square when he heard the name of his target.
"Protect the ones you love! Talal provides!"
Altair paused, looking across the square. Beyond the pool was a town crier shouting at the head of St. Ann's Church. The demoted assassin clenched his fists.
"Pay that miscreant no mind," the scholar said. "He preaches every day in different parts of the city. For the last two weeks his words are the same but his offer is fickle. My oldest here," he said, gesturing to one of his sons, "Went to him for the work he offered, and was turned down, yet another merchant he was able to make an offer to, and an unsavory merchant he was. A man of your honor will find no opportunity with him."
With some prodding, Altair was lead across the square into a small courtyard. At the bench an elderly woman sat. She quickly stood upon seeing the group enter. "They beat you!" she cried, rushing to the bruised scholar.
"No, no," the scholar said, "They were to kill me, they thought I was a Christian. But this man, he saved my life. Friend, this is my wife."
"Oh, bless you, stranger! Bless you," she said, bowing her head several times. "They beat you too, it seems, come inside and I will tend to you."
The kindness seemed too much for Altair, and he started to back out of the courtyard. "I hardly-" he started but was quickly cut off.
"No, no," the wife said, "As bloody as you are you will have the guards following your every step of your journey, let me clean your clothes and bandage your wounds."
"What about me, dear wife?" the scholar asked, looking crestfallen.
"You can wait until our guest is tended," she said firmly. All five sons laughed.
"We are back to work, father," the oldest son said. "Friend, if ever you've need of us, we all work at the souk south of that Christian church. We will drop anything to help the man who saved our father. I'm certain Uncle would be proud of you."
Shame filled Altair, and he could say nothing as the five departed, and the wife slowly coaxed him out of his blood stained clothes to have them washed. The blood was still fresh, it rinsed out quickly, but Altair could not leave as the wife insisted on giving them time to dry and the scholar insisted on engaging him in conversation, asking after his savior and looking for some way to return the favor.
"Tell me, friend, what brings you to Jerusalem?"
"... Work."
"Truly? Work can be had here aplenty at the Temple Mount. I work at the Dome of the Rock, and we are always looking for messengers."
"No, you misunderstand," Altair said, still uncomfortable, still uncertain what to say. "I have work. I am on assignment."
"You are lucky then, work in the city has been dwindling of late. The people are nervous here; tension is high with the infidels so close at Acre. I hear Richard and his troops have begun their march south to Jaffa. Rumors of the atrocities at Acre have already run rampant here, and we are terrified sheep at the idea of Christians being in charge of the city. It would be a tragedy. The call the fight a Crusade, bah! A crusade for what? Ignorance? Violence? No, madness!"
"Politics again, husband," the wife admonished, taking a damp cloth and wiping his face. He reeled back.
"That stings, woman!" She said nothing, ducking to another room for medicinal herbs. "Anyway, I will talk you ear off if you give me the opportunity. Where will your work take you?"
Altair hesitated. He did not want to give away too much, but cover stories were necessary on occasion. "I... word has reached of the death of a weaver, and my Master sent me to meet his knew replacement, establish a relationship with him."
The old man's face frowned slightly, rubbing his beard in thought. "Yes, I think I know who you mean. Southwest of here near the cotton market. He made lovely carpets, far too expensive for me, but I think my youngest commissioned him once. You say he is dead?"
"...Yes." The word pained the demoted assassin.
"That is terrible news," the scholar said, shaking his head. "We had thought he had disappeared like the others."
"... Others?"
The old man waved it off. "I said before, tensions are high here in the city. People are disappearing left and right, fleeing to family in other cities, some being arrested and executed, some just disappear off the street. Our population is dwindling. But this does not help you. I did not know the shop had been repurposed - but things happen quickly sometimes, as was the case of my poor brother." Altair winced, and his hood was nowhere to hide it. The scholar saw it, frowned. "I am sorry," he said, "Your losses must still be very recent, that was inconsiderate of me. Well," he added expansively, putting his hands on his knees to hoist himself up, "in this heat your clothes must be dry, and I've held you up long enough; I'll not keep you longer."
The wife returned with the herbs and the clothes, Altair dressed quickly and efficiently. It was already late afternoon, the sun was lower in the sky than the assassin wanted, and yet the scholar was not done with him, offering him coin to help him on his way. "I don't now how long you'll be in the city, but my door is always open to you," he said.
Altair said nothing, stiffly walking away.
The herald was still in front of St. Ann's, and Altair was but a white shadow in the crowd, listening to the crier as he made his speeches. His mind was only half working, however, the rest of it drifting away like dust on a road. The miner he had killed, had it been the scholar's brother? There was no way of knowing, but Altair had never thought of a kill like that, as a person, with family that would mourn his loss. Such thoughts were the undoing of an assassin; worrying over those left behind was weakness, cowardice that stilled a blade when it was most needed. A target was only a target, a straw dummy that happened to have blood and the capacity to run, to be left to rot in favor of the escape. How many had Altair killed that had such families?
He shook his head to the thought. Al Mualim would not choose the death of a kind person, one that helped a stranger on the street, or the good Samaritan that Christians talked about. But... Garnier de Naplouse, he sincerely thought he was helping his patients, and many of them believed the same. What did that mean? Significance came from context, Al Mualim said. Using that logic, then perhaps, in a different context, the men he killed were not bad men? Perhaps, in a different context, the significance of his kills changed? Did Garnier have family? Tamir? Were they kind, like the scholar was, and mourn their deaths?
Altair rubbed his forehead. Such thoughts ran him in circles and only made him doubt himself. He could not afford that, not now when he needed to redeem himself to his master. The assassin did not want to think about it, he could never understand why Malik enjoyed such thought experiments, his head hurt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. Thinking was for other men, he was meant for action.
He looked to the town crier.
"Who knows what the future holds, what tragedies tomorrow may bring? Defend against an uncertain future; protect the ones you love! Work hard, and you will be rewarded. Talal provides."
He had heard nothing else of the propaganda, and Altair cursed as the crier walked into the crowd, wishing he had paid more attention. Too many thoughts were in his head, too many memories and conflicts and emotions that did him no good. Bloodlust was making it difficult to see, and he bared his teeth, forcing himself to stay invisible in the crowd.
The herald headed toward the gate, for a moment Altair was afraid the man would leave the city but he turned to the dark shadows of an alleyway. It was too perfect for words, and the assassin gave in to his thirst for violence.
He kicked the man viciously in the back, making the herald stumble forward. "Oh," the man grunted, getting up, "Is it a fight you want?"
"Yes," Altair replied, and punched the man in the face before a defense could be raised. The herald threw a punch of his own, but the assassin ducked it, shoving his fist up under the man's ribcage once, twice, before grabbing an arm and spinning him into the city wall. Altair kicked the man in the side, then, before following up with a kidney punch and finishing with a chokehold.
"I have nothing to say to you," the crier grunted, struggling against Altair's strong arms.
"Speak to me or speak to God," Altair said in a growl, "It's your choice." Part of him wished the man would refuse, the demoted assassin's energy was not spent yet, and wanted to fight more.
"You won't stop the work he does," the man gasped, desperate for air, "Cannot stop it. He prepares them... for the Journey. They are held in his warehouse; and when the time comes, they are sent to Acre."
"Where is this warehouse?" the assassin demanded. There were several warehouses in the city, mostly merchant. Searching them could take days.
"Talal tells me what I need to know, nothing more," the crier grunted. "It is safer that way."
Such confidence! Altair saw red.
"For him, perhaps. But not, I fear, for you." And the hidden blade went deep into the man's neck, the move decidedly more precise than his clumsy, emotive work in the graveyard outside the city, but still less than his standard. Blood spurted, but it did not fly, and Altair found no blood on him as the crier fell limp to the ground. It would be an insult to the scholar's wife if he dirtied his whites after her effort to clean them. Blinking, he looked down to the crier. He had killed out of bloodlust, out of confusion and anger and without thought. Would this man at his feet also come to haunt him?
... He was no good like this.
Marching back into the square, Altair deliberately kept to the streets, trying to expend the energy his body was coiled around. He felt like a spring, taught and ready to be released, but now was not the time, he had to do something to fix himself. He walked down the main thoroughfare from the gate, past the merchant stands before turning south up some steps into an open-air market. Mostly it held cotton merchants, selling cottons and rugs and clothes and blankets. Baasir spent much time here, his cover as a weaver making him well known.
Altair remembered when he had first arrived to Jerusalem, Baasir had taken all the new apprentices and showed them around the market, introducing them. He let apprentices make their own contacts, giving them "missions" to do favors for certain people and get in their good graces, to listen to their conversations and report back. Altair had taken his missions very seriously, but he had never understood the purpose. Baasir had said to "make friends," and the young teen had not understood how favors equated to friends. Favors meant debts to collect, things to hold over contacts to get what one wanted. There was no equality in the exchange that a young Altair saw. Friends... friends only existed in the Order - and even then, only Malik had ever been an equal. He was the only one who could challenge Altair, and he thrived on challenge.
Now...
The scholar...
Malik...
Altair rubbed his forehead again, growling loud enough that people near him startled.
He turned west again and walked with hurried steps through the cotton market, down a narrow set of stairs until he saw the Bureau. He walked the perimeter of the building several times, until the sun was almost set, trying to stop his mind and unable to. He climbed the ladder and stared at the roof of the building, trying to still himself.
The Jerusalem Bureau was one of the biggest buildings the Order had outside of Masyaf. One of the oldest, over time the buildings connected to the Bureau were purchased and became part of it. The roof was three different levels, with crates and poles and scaffolding; as a result Jerusalem boasted having the fastest runners and climbers in the Order. Baasir tested them every night at twilight, when the guards of the nearby watchtower were at their most tired and the shadows covered them best. If an apprentice could make the ever-changing course in one go without making noise in the dark, it was a pass, if not, it was a fail. Baasir had once proudly said that no one had ever passed, and he ate his words when Altair did it two years later when he was sixteen.
Twilight approached, the shadows were everywhere, and Altair found his feet dashing around the roof of the Bureau, following the old lines of the course, climbing, jumping, and balancing. He made the circuit in fifty heartbeats, a personal record.
It felt hollow.
The energy had left him at last, though, as he felt listless resignation. Baasir would never watch him run again.
Sighing, he jumped down to the walled in courtyard. An apprentice was there, looking up in anticipation.
"It is true then, you have returned!" he said, his voice high and awestruck. "When the dai said... but it is good to see you again, Master Altair!"
He did not want to deal with this. He never wanted to deal with boys admiring him, the assassin never knew how to respond, what to say, how to act. He tried to be tactful. "Were you sent to greet me?" He made no remark on how rough his voice sounded.
The apprentice flinched. "No," the boy said. "I have work near the Dome of the Rock to do."
"... Then you should get to it," Altair replied. "I will not keep you."
The apprentice's shoulders slumped, but he climbed out the Bureau, disappearing into the night.
Altair took a deep breath, reminding himself that Baasir would not be behind the counter when he entered. And, gritting his teeth, he stepped into the back room.
"Safety and peace, dai."
"Your presence here deprives me of both."
Altair stared, his mouth agape, as he saw who the new dai was. Standing behind the counters, examining the shelves, in the dark cloak of a dai, was Malik. His former friend turned, and Altair's eyes invariably looked to the right arm, the sleeve pinned up, the missing appendage. He had lost his arm. All because of Altair.
"I should kill you for what you've done. Malik thinks it only fair."
"Discretion, Altair!"
"An excellent kill. Fortune favors your blade."
"Men, to arms! Kill the assassins!"
"All of this could have been avoided!"
"How can you still trust him?"
"Make humble your heart child, of I swear I'll tear if from you with my own hands."
"Because you would not heed my warning!"
"Peace be upon you..."
"What do you want?" Malik snarled, his face vicious. Altair startled, realized he had been staring. What was wrong with him? He shook his head slightly, memories flashing over and over in his mind's eye, fighting for dominance. Altair violently shoved them aside, stepping further into the back room, to the counter. He looked to the old wood, tried to picture Baasir and the dyes and the threads and the smell of cotton, tried to pretend none of this had ever happened.
"Al Mualim has asked that-"
"Asked that you perform some menial task in an effort to redeem yourself." His eyes snapped up, looking again at the fastened sleeve before he forced his gaze to Malik's angry face. Altair opened his mouth but nothing came out. Words always failed him, whatever gift he had with languages he had no skill with words, conversation. He took a breath and tried again, a hundred thoughts firing back and forth in his mind, fighting to be said. He felt like he was crawling inside his own skin. Malik's face contorted with impatience. "So be out with it," he demanded, sounding bored.
Altair forced himself to respond to the prompt. "Tell me what you can about the one they call Talal."
"It is your duty to locate and assassinate the man, Altair, not mine," Malik lectured, leaning over the counter and pointing to the demoted assassin.
Altair's hackles rose. "You'd do well to assist me. His death benefits the entire land."
"Do you deny his death benefits you as well?" Malik asked, an eyebrow rose in disbelief.
"Such things do not concern me," Altair said.
"That is a lie," Malik growled, his face harsh again. "If you did not think of your own benefit then Kadar would still be alive, if you did not think of your benefit then none of this would have happened!"
Altair was confused, distracted with how the fastened sleeve folded and changed from a breeze of the courtyard. His mind was too full; he could not keep his thoughts straight. "None of what I did that day was for my benefit," he said. The demotion, the humiliation, nothing of that day had benefited him. Why did he feel so defensive? He had hurt Malik enough; his troubles should not weigh on the dai. "My redemption, as you call it, it does not concern you."
It was the wrong thing to say.
Malik's face contorted, he looked nothing like himself as he let out a furious hiss. "Your actions very much concern me!" he shouted, pointing violently to his missing arm.
"Do not hold yourself responsible," Altair started, but Malik cut him off again.
"Oh, no, of course not, since you do not hold yourself responsible, do you? You will not even investigate the target that's been assigned to you!"
Rational thought finally left Altair.
His back straightened, his gaze level, his face hard, he hissed: "Then don't help me! I'll find him myself!"
He hated Jerusalem. Altair stomped out of the back room, into the courtyard and was halfway up the wall when he heard a heavy sigh.
"Wait, wait," Malik called, his voice tired, resigned. Altair paused, his face pressing in on itself as everything weighed on his shoulders. He was as tired as Malik.
He reentered the back room to see Malik slumped on a stool, holding his head with his single hand. Altair only felt more pain. "It won't do to have you stumble about the city like a blind man," Malik said, sighing again. "Better you know where to begin your search."
"I'm listening," Altair replied.
"I can think of three places: south of here in the markets that line the border between the Muslim and Jewish districts, to the north in the mosque of this district, and the eastern front of St. Ann's church, close to the Bab al-Asbatt."
"Is that everything?" the demoted assassin asked.
Some of the fire returned in Malik's eyes. "It's enough to get you started, and more than you deserve."
It was dark, but Altair had no intention of sleeping in the Bureau, and he turned to leave.
"Where are you going?"
"To begin my investigation," Altair said, his voice flat.
"Stupid novice, there is no one to investigate at this time of night, they are all asleep and the guards are fresh on their shift, now is not the time to go."
"I know all that," Altair growled. He did not wish to explain why he did not want to stay here.
Malik was a step ahead of him. "I heard from my old mentor that you think yourself so above the rest of us that you wouldn't even sleep in the Bureau. Is that true even here on your old training ground?"
"That is not what-"
"It is true that you don't deserve to sleep here," Malik cut in, his eyes bright and angry, "but I won't have you dishonoring us more than you already have. Sleep in the courtyard."
And Altair did not have the energy to argue.
He woke with a kick to the head.
"I doubt Talal is hiding in my Bureau, Altair, so why are you still here? Are you hoping I might do your job for you? Get out, get going, get to work!"
It took every ounce of willpower to not start another fight with Malik. It wasted energy for both of them, and the dawn light indicated that the dai was correct, it was time to move. Malik had disappeared back into the Bureau, and Altair refilled his water skin from the fountain, taking the water and splashing his face.
Hesitantly, he looked into the dim light of the Bureau. Malik stood once more behind the counter, looking at the back shelves, studying the books there. Altair wondered what front Malik would use. Would he take over as a weaver, or choose to be a potter like Ibtisam, or something entirely different?
Malik sensed the eyes on him, and turned around, already spitting out words. "What do you want?" he demanded.
"... Nothing," Altair responded.
He turned with taught shoulders and quickly ascended to the roof of the Bureau.
The morning sun was just cresting the city wall. Altair took to the streets again, working through the wellspring of emotions that had been plaguing him since he came to the city yesterday, trying to get them out of his body so he could focus on he needed to do: investigate Talal. He wandered, almost aimlessly, for just over two hours before he felt in control of his own mind. The streets were starting to crowd, and with a deep breath Altair settled himself and took stock of his surroundings. He was near the souk, it seemed, looking up he could just make out the arched roof above the building in front of him.
... The scholar's sons worked there, and they knew of Talal because of the town crier. Hadn't one of them tried to go for work? Perhaps he could learn when Talal's warehouse was. Nodding to himself, he made his way down an alley and up some stairs, coming out to the side of the massive marketplace. He started to turn and go down the stairs when something caught his eyes, and he saw a journeyman quickly approaching him.
He paused, letting the other man catch up, and the other man quickly grabbed his wrist and started pulling. "Safety and peace, Altair," the journeyman said, trying to sound casual. "We live in harsh times, do we not?" It was one of the permanent residents of Jerusalem, Farasat, in his forties and with family. He often oversaw the apprentices in pick pocketing.
"The times are always harsh," Altair responded, "Commenting on the redundant seems an ill use of your time. What is wrong?"
"As direct as ever I see," Farasat replied. The pair reached the side of the souk, half in sun and half in shade, and the journeyman gave a heavy sigh. "I am in an ocean of trouble," he admitted. "I had a mission to investigate some strange disappearances in the Muslim district, and Talal's men saw my face. My status is compromised!"
"That was careless of you," Altair said, frowning, "And unlike you."
"It is and it was," the journeyman replied. "The death of Baasir is felt by all of us, our focus is broken. That Talal's men are persistent did not help; I had thought myself perfectly hidden and was unaware of the guard around the corner. He ripped of my tagelmust when I did not answer the questions as he wished, and he and his partner gave chase. I am certain the new dai will be displeased."
Altair paused, his interest in a different area perking. "Is Malik a strict dai?"
The journeymen gave a small laugh and a shake of the head. "He is as lost as the rest of us," he replied, "perhaps more. He is quick to anger and his tongue is even faster than that of the rafiq in Damascus. But I have seen his mind, and he will be an excellent mentor to the apprentices and younger journeymen; and a good leader, too, once he conquers his anger."
"... I see," Altair said. His mind was entering thoughts he promised himself he would not trouble with, and he shook it off, redirecting the conversation. "I am here to kill Talal, but first I must investigate him. The two men after you, you say they are his men?"
"Yes, and likely nearby no doubt," the journeyman replied. "Would you be kind enough to eliminate them for me, in exchange for the information you seek?"
"Of course," Altair said.
Farasat nodded, something in his eyes. He explained that Talal's men wore blue, with thin yellow stripes on their uniform. One wore a dark blue-gray tagelmust, the other did not and had very dark skin.
Altair left, going down some steps and into the souk. The indoor marketplace was already filled with merchants and customers, city guard patrolled to keep the peace but not everyone from the morning shift had arrived, it seemed, for there were few guards indeed as Altair made his rounds. He saw one of the scholar's sons but did not speak with him; that would come later, after his work was done. He saw one of the described guards walking around; hand on his sword and eyes shifting everywhere, looking for Altair's old teacher. The demoted assassin fell in step behind him, keeping his head down and his eyes locked on the man's feet. A city guard passed, and with a quick look Altair saw that no one of import was nearby. Altair caught up to Talal's man in two steps and quickly stabbed him in the back, the near-bloodless strike under the ribs that penetrated a lung.
Altair calmly walked away as the man stumbled for several more steps before falling. He saw a city guard perk and move towards the fresh corpse, and Altair quickly walked down some steps. The other blue-clad man, the one with dark skin, stood at a corner of the indoor marketplace, alert as his eyes analyzed the crowd. Altair calmly walked past him and turned right; walking several feet down the souk before turning around. Talal's man had paid him no mind, and Altair slowly backtracked, his footsteps silent in the crowd as he snuck up behind the man and killed him as well.
As he made his way out of the souk, he saw another of the scholar's sons, looking at him intently. Altair did not comment, instead looked away. Whatever grateful feelings they felt for his poorly executed attack on their father's would-be killers, seeing him kill men now, in cold blood no less, would likely sour them. He had lost a possible source of information with this, but he would not let himself feel regret over it. They were just merchants, a brother's information was much more valuable.
"An excellent kill. Fortune favors your blade."
Altair shook his head again, climbing the steps and seeking out the journeymen.
"Altair! You're rid of the ones who knew me?" he asked, his voice a little higher in pitch. He had been truly worried.
The demoted assassin nodded.
"Excellent! I knew the rumors were wrong about you." Altair stiffened but said nothing, letting his former teacher continue. "Here's what I learned about Talal: He's a powerful slaver, occupies and area north of town, near the barbican. He pays a tribute to the city guards so he can operate in the shadows. But, from what you've shown me today, I'm sure he will share the same fate as the others. Thank you again, Altair." He put a hand to his chest and bowed his head.
"It was nothing," the demoted assassin said.
Farasat smiled under his tagelmust. "To you, perhaps it would be. But I suspect that over time you'll come to learn that it is, in fact, something. Perhaps when you conquer your own anger, you will know of what I speak."
Altair frowned, uncertain in one respect what the journeyman said, and in another all too aware. His thoughts scattered as he watched the pickpocket teacher disappear into the crowds, and he shook his head again, growling, as he forced himself to remain focused.
Since the scholar's sons had seen him, Altair decided it was best to leave the area. He headed south, letting the flow of the crowds take them wherever they willed. He listened intently to the surrounding conversations, hoping to pick up something, but all he heard was worries over disappearing people and fright at who might be next. One old woman cackled pleasure that a good-for-nothing son had disappeared while a young man wondered where his sickly brother had been taken. There were no details. And as he wandered away from the souk, fewer knew the name of Talal and what he did. Those that did spoke his name with great fear and in hushed whispers.
This was tiring. Did no one know the information he sought?
Altair passed the Bureau and debated for all of a second about going in for a mid-day meal before continuing with the crowd and arriving in the cotton market. The heat of the day was pressing heavily down on the people, but they still went from one chore to the next. Off in a corner, under the shade of the Dome of the Rock, a small food vendor was enticing people with delicious smells and aromas. Given that Altair had not eaten yet, he joined the throng and sat in a dark corner under a tree to rest from the searing temperatures and just listen.
"Is this the great Altair before me?" came an awed voice.
Altair said nothing, having seen the gray hood of a young apprentice before he sat down.
The same one he'd seen when he arrived at the Bureau in fact.
"You must be here for a very important mission," the apprentice said, "maybe I could help you?"
Altair turned, glancing at the apprentice and the pieces of paper scattered around him. He recognized the drawings as the Dome of the Rock and what's more, he recognized the code in them.
If one was to stay in one spot eavesdropping, after all, one needed an excuse. Malik had been fond of drawing and sketches if he needed to stay in one spot for an extended period, and could take dictation with his charcoal such that it was woven into the sketches he did. This apprentice was doing the same, letting the curved lines and dots of Arabic meld with toning and shading to hide in plain sight.
"If you seek to help the Brotherhood," Altair started, "then learn how to draw better. While your code is well hidden, your attempt at the Dome looks childish."
The apprentice looked down at his drawings and winced, bowing his head in shame and apology, hurriedly picking up his scraps of paper.
It struck Altair that this apprentice bore the wide-eyed enthusiasm and gentle heart of Kadar and the strike hurt more than Altair wanted to deal with at the moment. He had not properly encouraged Kadar on that last mission. He'd been so full of himself that he hadn't bothered to play the part of a teacher, which every senior assassin was.
"Wait," he said, grasping the apprentice's arms. "A criticism is meant to help. You are competent at hiding words in sketches, but the sketches themselves need work, else someone might wonder why an amateur is spending the day drawing instead of learning from a master."
The apprentice sat again, looking at his drawings. "I see your point," he mumbled.
Altair awkwardly shrugged, a vision of Kadar far to sharp in his mind. "I see the new dai has taught you well."
The apprentice looked up, nodding enthusiastically. "Indeed! I would never have thought that sketches could hide codes. He has great wisdom behind his sharp tongue."
Altair would have smiled at that, remembering his many arguments with Malik as a child, but instead there was a sharp bitter tang and he wished to change topic.
Swiftly.
"Yesterday you said you had a mission. How is it going?"
The apprentice gave a great smile. "You remembered me from yesterday?" he asked. "I am Halim and I hope to become as great as you one day!"
Altair rolled his eyes under his hood at the abject praise. "Focus not on me. I am but one in a Brotherhood. Focus instead on what you can do. Now how has your mission gone?"
Halim nodded enthusiastically. "I have been eavesdropping and I have learned much! I have heard that-" he trailed off, sitting back.
"Yes?" Altair prodded, finishing off his snack.
"Ah," Halim stumbled over his words. "Both Al Mualim and our new dai have said that you must earn any information you seek from us..."
Altair stared.
Halim shrank.
Altair sighed, looking away. "I have expected such. What would you have me do?"
The apprentice continued to stare at the ground. "You have given me advice and wisdom. I believe that that will count as earning-"
"No," Altair interrupted. "That is what any senior assassin would do, for every assassin is a teacher to the next. What would you have me do?"
They sat in silence for a time as the apprentice thought. When Halim finally looked up, he offered, cautiously, "It is said you conquered Rafiq Baasir's toughest running course within two years of your arrival?"
Altair nodded. It seemed his name was known as legend in Jerusalem. He wasn't certain how to feel about that.
Halim smiled. "If you are done eating, there is a course around the cotton market here that our dai has been planning. I wonder how I would fair against such a master?"
In this, Altair could give an honest smile. None would beat him in such a race. He pulled out his map and Halim showed Altair the route that they would take over rooftops and beams. With the sun at its zenith, people were slowing down, seeking repose in the shade or indoors, making it as good as nighttime to practice the course.
He let Halim go off first and take the lead. After ten heartbeats, Altair took off after him, letting the wind in his face push back how Halim reminded him of Kadar, and even Malik in a way, with his sketches and codes. And how young Halim reminded Altair of himself, eager and determined, when he was that age. Desperate to prove himself and win any challenge to show that a half-Christian half-Muslim boy would be an asset.
Altair reached Halim in no time, making the young apprentice gasp and lose his footing, stumbling down to a roof too low instead of making it across, giving Altair time to get far ahead. The ending point was back under the tree and Altair leapt off a second story roof into the shaded corner and landed with a sharp thud, startling everyone who had sought the shade to relax.
"What is that man doing?"
"What a strange man."
"I've never seen someone do that before."
"He's going to hurt himself."
Halim landed behind him moments later, out of breath and already reaching for his waterskin.
"That was great! I knew I could count on you, Master Altair. You have shown me I still have much to learn."
Altair said nothing, taking a sip from his own waterskin.
"Here is what I know from listening to the guards near the Dome of the Rock: They were talking about the man named Talal. They said he has many loyal followers, all of whom will readily give their lives for the man. If their master is in danger, they are sure to intervene, giving Talal time to escape. That is all I know. I hope my small contribution will help you."
"It already has," Altair replied. "Now get back to your work."
Halim nodded enthusiastically and ran off, not even bothered by just having run under the hot sun. Altair stayed in the shaded corner under the tree, letting the afternoon heat settle around him and the city like a wall to walk through. He waited till midafternoon, when the day was at its hottest, but would finally start to cool, to finally stand and continue investigating. He stayed to the shaded alleys for both the coolness and the invisibility as he headed north towards the barbican that Talal was supposedly hiding. It was close to early evening when he finally spied the thick, tall walls.
When he had first come to Jerusalem, merchants had used the barbican; a solid fortification to store special and expensive items that only the richest of the city would pay coin for. While the city guards still blocked the entrances, Altair noted a number of guards not in the reddish brown of the city, but blue with yellow stripes that he believed to be Talal's men. During his apprenticeship, Baasir often tested rank by seeing if an apprentice could breech the barbican's fortifications. Altair had passed that test into journeyman as the youngest ever at seventeen, and despite the sour feeling Jerusalem stirred in his innards he smiled at the memory.
The heat had finally eased off, so Altair found a ladder and swiftly ascended to the roofs and went to a known viewpoint, scaling in the shade with the steady power that had made him the best in Jerusalem. An eagle screeched, not appreciating being ousted from its perch. From his high vantage point, he could see the warehouses in the barbican. But at his height, he couldn't quite see enough detail, not in the fading light. But it was enough to see that there was more motion on the barbican's roofs than when he had been apprenticed here.
Altair narrowed his eyes. He'd have to scout the guard positions for when he assassinated Talal. For now, he needed to return to the Bureau. Malik's sharp words from the previous day made it clear that he wouldn't appreciate Altair "not trusting" the Bureau to sleep in. Never mind that Jabal made it clear he couldn't stay at the Bureau or that Ibtisam made it clear he wasn't welcome. Admittedly, Altair did not feel comfortable staying at the Jerusalem Bureau either. There were too many memories there. His training under Baasir, now gone, Adha, the young novices and apprentices who looked at him with awe and respect that was just like Kadar.
But Malik seemed determined to torture him, so Altair returned to the Bureau.
It was after sunset when he arrived, the shadows of nighttime hiding his jaunt across rooftops. He used to arrive at this time before as it allowed him to either sit with Baasir or, as he became well known in the Order, go straight to his room to avoid the wide-eyed wonder of the novices and apprentices.
He realized his mistake as soon as he landed in the garden courtyard.
Malik was tapping his foot impatiently, a look of fury carefully banked. "Altair, you've already made a stir, I see."
"All I have done was start investigating Talal."
Malik's eyes flashed angrily "No, you've been using my men to do your work for you! You had no right to seek out Halim or Farasat for information."
Altair narrowed his eyes. He did not want an argument. "I did not seek them out. They came to me. If you have a problem with that, talk to them."
There was an almost-snarl. "I don't have to. Halim is already talking to any who will listen of the wisdom you have. Tell me, Master Altair, where your teaching ways were for Kadar? All you told him was to watch you!"
Altair refused to show the weakness of backing down. Malik knew just how to raise his ire and he was ready to offer his own biting words, when there was a thump behind him as another assassin dropped in, his robes showing a lower rank.
Malik immediately snubbed Altair, the senior assassin despite demotion, and Altair took the moment to go to what would usually be his room in the Bureau.
He found it converted to a room for apprentices, three pallets laid out. Two were in and when they saw Altair in their doorway, questions immediately pelted him. Altair had had the patience for Halim as it was only Halim. He always wished to avoid this. He tried to be polite, but he was tired and did not wish to deal with this. Fed up, he gave a glare, leaving the apprentices scurrying as he returned to the main office of the Bureau.
The main office wasn't much better. Senior journeymen were gathered by the chessboard and talking quietly. Younger midranks were gathered by the fountain in the courtyard, talking. Some brave novices were with Malik by the counter, going over scrolls and parchments, Malik providing lessons with biting sarcasm, but his words were wise nonetheless. Malik saw him come in and smiled smugly.
Altair felt... apart from the main office. Indeed, from the Bureau as a whole. He knew that the main offices of various Bureaus were gathering places, but he had never seen the point. He had focused on his studies and then his missions. Baasir often encouraged him to participate and, after all brothers had gone to bed, he would come down for a quiet game of chess with Baasir. (He never had won against the old rafiq...) But with the others, he had never bothered.
Seeing the camaraderie, all Altair wished to do was leave. He'd return after all the others had gone to bed.
Unfortunately, Malik wouldn't let him.
"Come, Altair," he called with an unholy grin. "These novices must hear of your prowess so that they might learn from a Master." His face went blank for a moment. "Just don't counter any of my lessons, novice."
Altair lowered his head to grimace.
It would be a long night.
Author's Notes: Ah, Malik... the fights you and Altair get into... it makes we fangirls happy!
One of the few complaints we have about AC1 is that famous sites are mentioned, but not pointed out like they are in AC2. You have no idea how religious we were/are in AC2/ACB (/ACR I'm sure...) in hitting select whenever a knew famous building or city came up and and reading/geeking out over the little factoids about things like Florence's districts or the Roman Colosseum. That we can't do that with things like St. Anne's church or the Dome of the Rock made knowing where to go in the game confusing. It actually wasn't until we were doing the research for this fic where we learned what these places were. For example, while the game's St. Anne's church is right by the city gate like it is in the real world, the structure that's in the game looks nothing like the pictures of the church on wikipedia. We also didn't know what a "barbican" was until we looked it up. A barbican is sort of a "fort in a fort," it's an extra fortified gatehouse connected to a city wall.
Also, in Malik's conversation with Altair in the game when he's listing places, he uses a word that sounds like "babarihadit," but we couldn't find that word or anything like it in our research. The closest we could get was Bab al-Asbatt, which is the name of the gate Altair uses to enter the city. It seems unlikely since that's also where St. Anne's Church is, but we really didn't have any idea. (We curse you, game-with-no-subtitles!) Does anyone with more knowledge of Jerusalem and Arabic know what he possibly could have meant?
Technically, if you go based off the interrogation investigation by St. Anne's church, we think Jerusalem is supposed to come first before Acre, but for the sake of storytelling (re: Malik. And our idea that Altair's apprenticeship was in Jerusalem) it made more sense to have it come last. That meant the interrogation investigation was pretty edited. Hope nobody minds.
Next chapter: Death of a Slaver