Part Nine: Death of a Slaver
Altair did not sleep. Or rather, did not rest well. He was in the middle of a mission, and even though he was safe in the Bureau walls, even in the courtyard, he would not sleep until the mission was truly done. Yet staring up at the sky through the latticework, Altair could not even relax enough to rest. The Bureau practically oozed of Malik's tension and displeasure of having Altair there and the worship of the lower ranks kept Altair stiff, lest some novice try and come to him to ask questions as he had Baasir when he was younger.
So when Malik came to kick him awake once more, Altair simply dodged and stood. The dai did not look any more well-rested than Altair, but Malik could nap and rest once he'd seen all the apprentices and journeyman out for their various missions. Altair had a full day of investigation ahead of him.
"Get moving, Altair," Malik growled. "The day is wasting away and you have work to do. Or am I to do it all for you? Or my men?"
Altair didn't bother to dignify anything with a response. He knew he was too tired to do anything but argue and that truly would waste time. So he simply nodded and climbed out of the Bureau.
The sun had yet to raise, the sky a purplish pink of dawn, and Altair headed north. He had looked around the souk, the Dome of the Rock, and he had started scouting out the barbican. He wished another look at the barbican's west entrance, particularly the roofs, to see if he might get a better idea of the layout of the guards.
He stayed to the rooftops this time, for the better lighting from the rising sun. He was almost to the western entrance when he spotted a sky garden. Altair hesitated for a moment before slipping into its shade and finally resting. A few hours wouldn't hurt; at least until the sun was fully up and people started bustling in the streets. While he could go for days without sleep if he needed to, that did not mean he had to in order to prove some point to Malik.
Three hours later was longer than he had wanted, but he felt all the better for it. The sun was clear of the horizon and Altair stretched before adjusting his harness and silently leaving the shaded garden.
"You do not belong up here. Leave."
Altair raised his hands in surrender, glancing to his left where an archer stood with his bow notched. He bowed his head and muttered an apology before walking to the ladder to his right, rubbing the back of his head in a show of embarrassment.
As he descended, the guard chuckled. "Next time, don't let your romantic tryst wear you out so. You need to be on the streets by sun up."
Altair let his hood hide his grin.
Once back on the streets, Altair headed west, knowing the above archer, despite leniency, would likely be watching him. He ended up at another cemetery and for a moment, Altair's heart ached before he ruthlessly squashed it down. He had a mission to do after all, and being distracted by unimportant matters would be a hindrance. Still, he wandered inside, his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer as he looked about the stones. He wondered if any of them was for Kadar or for the scholar's brother who may or may not be the man he'd killed under Solomon's Temple.
He was staring at one grave when his ears picked up something interesting from a pair of men behind him.
"He's a coward," the rounder man said. "That's why my sister lays here. If it wasn't for the money, I'd be long gone!"
"You're either stupid or blind," the other replied. "Maybe it's both."
The rounder stepped into the other's space. "How can you say that?"
"You didn't see what happened," the thinner said smugly.
"I saw well enough! Our caravan was attacked, and the first thing he did was flee!"
"No, he didn't run."
"What are you talking about?" the round man growled.
"Do you forget what became of the men who attacked us?"
"Felled by our archers, thanks be to God."
"Not our archers. Him. Alone." The thinner man gave a satisfied grin.
The round man stepped back. "So you're saying he saved us? Talal?"
"Yes," the smug man nodded. "He headed for higher ground, used his bow to kill them."
"I... I had no idea," the round man looked sadly down to the grave.
"The man is a master archer. You'd do well to remember that."
The rounder man put a hand on the grave. "So he avenged my sister without my even knowing it." He sighed. "I am late for work. I must be on my way."
The thinner man followed. "Remember to apologize for your rudeness when you have the chance."
"I will."
Altair watched them go from the corner of his eye. For appearances, he stayed in the graveyard for another hour, checking on graves and appearing to pray for lost souls, while he turned that tidbit of information over in his mind.
Talal being an archer would make things difficult if he got away. Knowing Jerusalem as he did, Altair could already see his target heading for the merchant halls that had swifter access to the roof than private houses or exposed ladders like Altair himself would use. When he killed Talal, he would have to make sure it was in the warehouse or some other enclosed area, so that Talal would not have a chance to use his bow.
Regardless, he needed to plot out where the guards were in the barbican.
He started to head east again, sipping from his waterskin as the day continued to get hotter. Staying to darkened alleys and side-streets, he finally had the western entrance in sight.
The roofs would be the best way in. The entrance here was well guarded and the southern entrance even more so. Altair was looking around for a ladder when a wide-eyed boy of barely fourteen turned the corner and ran into him.
"Sorry!" he shouted, hurrying off on his way, but Altair paid no mind, instead pulling out a small sheet of paper that had been dropped into his pack when they collided.
The barbican is watching for white hoods, you idiot. You drew too much attention yesterday. Discretion! I told you about the boarder between the Muslim and Jewish districts, now move!
Altair scowled so strongly that people started to give him a wide berth, but otherwise turned and headed south.
On his way he stopped off in the cotton market again for the vendor that he had eaten from the previous day. The food was good and filled his belly as he started to see the impoverished Jewish district in the distance.
One of Talal's guards, with the blue and yellow stripes was weaving down the street, somewhat drunkenly. Clearly he did not have a clean source of water. Altair sat down at a table in the shade to finish his snack and discreetly watch.
The guard tottered by before Altair saw something most interesting happen.
A bald man snuck up behind the drunken guard and started following.
That's no brother. Altair licked his fingers and drank from his waterskin again, his eyes on the guard and his follower. Altair followed as well, though at a much safer distance. Once the guard was in an alley, the bald man struck, knocking the drunk into unconsciousness before crouching to rifle through his pouches.
Altair observed it all on a bench across from the alley. The bald man seemed to find what he was looking for and hurried off to a small square, where a man in blue seemed to be waiting.
Altair faced a shop, appearing to observe the earthware, and listened.
"If the guards won't take action," the bald man was saying, "It falls to us to do something."
The man in blue shook his head. "What you propose is madness."
"But necessary," he said in a quiet hiss. "How many more will we allow to go missing before the people take a stand?"
"It does not affect us."
"Not yet," the bald man agreed. "But if we continue to do nothing, it will."
"What do you propose?" the man in blue asked incredulously.
"I've watched the man," the bald man leaned in. "Learned everything there is to know about his operation. It's all here. I've got a map of the guards' positions around the warehouse. He inspects his stock every day at the same time. This is when I'll strike."
"So you have a piece of paper," the man in blue scoffed. "It won't save you when you're discovered. Won't shield you from their swords and arrows."
"If all goes well, it won't come to that. Anyway," the bald man said solemnly. "It's a risk I'll have to take. Wish me luck my friend."
In this, the man in blue seemed to soften and they embraced. "Indeed," he said, clapping his back. "You'll need it."
Altair smiled, buying a simple wooden bowl. It would seem he didn't need to scout around the barbican after all.
The pickpocketing was simplicity itself and Altair retreated to the roofs and another sky-garden to start going over what he had learned.
The map he had grabbed showed guard positions along with the rotation shifts. The drunken guard had likely just been assigned a new post and was using the map to see his new duties. This was a stroke of luck for Altair, as it usually took the Order the better part of a week of observations to get so much detail. And, carefully written in a corner, was the usual time Talal checked his stock with the words "Extra vigilance!" scrawled beside it.
This was very good. Talal made his inspections mid-afternoon. The oppressive heat of the day would keep the stock passive and lethargic and the caravans departing with them would not leave until early evening when the weather cooled.
Altair left the sky garden and headed down to the streets once more, working his way to the merchant halls. Once there he wandered the halls until he found a parchment merchant and bought several sheets. He spied one of the scholar's sons again, but he pretended not to see him and went on his way. The son followed Altair with his eyes, but otherwise did nothing.
Outside, Altair once more climbed to the roofs and into a sky garden. He sorted through all the information he'd gathered from his investigations and started to write out his report. Malik had learned from Ibtisam and Ibtisam had made Altair rewrite his reports several times. Malik would likely be worse and Altair did not want to give him the pleasure of making him rewrite his reports over and over again.
It was while working on these reports that a basic plan worked itself out in Altair's mind. The western entrance was the least guarded and the rooftops would provide good cover from the guards down below. Any obstructions in his way would be swiftly dealt with and would mean fewer problems when he escaped. The only thing Altair wished he possessed was a map of the interior of the warehouse, but he could make do once he was inside.
Talal, a cunning slave master, has a warehouse in the northern babrican filled with human livestock. He inspects them daily, preparing them for travel. Knowing exactly where his guards are, I need simply strike during his next inspection, he wrote. Malik would no doubt scoff at it, but it was a fair assessment of what he had learned. Still, he kept pouring over his report and rewording things when necessary and detailing what he'd overheard amongst the people as he wandered the streets.
Night had fallen when Altair was finally satisfied (though a part of him knew Malik would still have him rewrite it...). He flitted from roof to roof in silence, making his way back to the Bureau, unseen by those still on the streets or the guards standing by their torches.
He dropped in silently and went in to the main office where Malik was waiting by the only candle.
"Malik," he greeted.
"Come to waste more of my time?" the dai retorted, clearly irritated at having to stay up to wait for him.
"I have found Talal," Altair replied, keeping strictly to the business at hand, handing over his reports. "I am ready to begin my mission."
"That is for me to decide," Malik said coldly, pulling out a book. "I am the dai here."
Altair bowed to no one but Al Mualim, but he kept his anger in check. Petty bickering would not let him leave Jerusalem any sooner and he was ready to be gone from the Holy City. "Very well," he replied haughtily. "Here's what I know: he traffics in human lives, kidnapping Jerusalem's citizens and selling them into slavery. His base is a warehouse located inside the barbican north of here. As we speak, he prepares a caravan for travel. I'll strike while he's inspecting the stock. If I can avoid his men, Talal himself should prove little challenge."
"Little challenge?" Malik interrupted. "Listen to you. Such arrogance."
Altair did not appreciate that. He was not arrogant, he was confident. He had been an assassin for five years with many kills and experience under his belts. Malik was his agemate and only promoted because he could no longer go out and assassinate. Altair was his superior in ability and he did not appreciate his work being questioned.
"Are we finished? Are you satisfied with what I've learned?" Because what more could Malik possibly want?
"No," Malik said emphatically. "But it will have to do."
Altair nodded. Neither of them wanted him here any longer.
"Rest, prepare, cry in the corner. Do whatever it is you do before a mission. Only make sure you do it quietly. I will go over your reports."
Altair said nothing. He took some leftover bread from the previous brothers left on the counter and went out to the courtyard.
Over the course of the night, Malik interrupted him several times.
"You're writing is atrocious. What is it you learned from Farasat?"
"Talal appears to be a leader of slavers, and occupies an area north of here, near the barbican. He seems wiser than those I've faced before, however, keeping to the shadows and having his men pay the guards to turn a blind eye."
"What is this map of the souk for?"
"The target is rumored to flee from the fight at the first sign of trouble. This map I've made details possible locations in which he'll take refuge. This is sure to help if he manages to slip away from me. Though I doubt he'll ever get that far."
"And just what did you learn in that graveyard?"
"Talal is said to favor the bow. In a fight, he'll seek to put distance between him and his enemy, trying to kill from afar. I'll close the gap between us before he's even nocked his first arrow."
Altair kept all his answers directly related to the questions and avoided any deviation, despite how Malik's insults grated at him.
The interrupts kept him from properly resting and he was getting more and more irritable, making it difficult to hold his tongue when Malik decided to stomp out and prove that he was in charge of whether or not Altair would be able to go and kill Talal.
It was a waste of time. Al Mualim had bid that Altair kill Talal. Malik couldn't stop him.
Still, Altair was able to manage a few hours of proper rest before the sun started to rise. Once there was proper light, he was studying his maps again, planning for the guards on rooftops and a good way to evade them once Talal was dead.
Or rather, that's what he wished to do.
Instead, Malik kept sending novices and apprentices to him so that they might "learn from a Master." It only stopped when Altair went to Malik and said that if he failed it would not be Altair's fault, but Malik's for not letting him properly study.
There was an ever-so brief flash of surprise that Altair was certain he imagined, but no more brothers bothered him in the courtyard.
Around noon Altair left the Bureau to start weaving the crowds north to the barbican. He kept to the streets, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Whatever Malik thought of how he did a mission, Altair always went out of his way to do his best. With the map of guard positions sneaking in to the warehouse would be simple. Coming across the guards to the west entrance of the barbican, Altair ducked into an alley and climbed a ladder, peaking out slowly. A guard was on a roof a few meters away, making his rounds. The assassin waited until the man had turned before hopping up and dashing to the line of roof that the guard was pacing. Altair listened to the footsteps, waiting for the guard to make another round, hugging the wall and slowly making his way to the other side of the roof. When the guard walked back towards the ladder and away from Altair, he dashed off across the roofs and jumped to a lower level before pressing his back to the wall, waiting. The guard never saw him, however, and no alarm sounded.
Altair pulled out his map and aligned himself with where he was in relation to the warehouse. Even with the map he regretted not scouting the area himself. There was something about seeing something on a piece of parchment versus seeing it in person. Still, there was no going back now, and once he recognized where he was he hopped down to the ground.
The northeast corner had no guards to speak of, facing the city wall Talal obviously thought it safe compared to the south and west. That was his weakness for a man who was so organized in kidnapping people from Jerusalem and shipping them unnoticed to Acre. Altair suddenly wondered whose idea it was to use the broken souk in Acre to sneak the slaves in, Garnier's or Talal's. He wagered Talal.
He studied the warehouse with a critical eye. He saw the open door, most inviting, but Altair did not wish to enter without a more thorough assessment of what was inside. It was the only thing he didn't know. Altair climbed the wall of the warehouse, looking for an open skylight or window. He discovered very quickly that every possible opening was boarded up. He snorted; it was like they were shouting something was suspicious going on in this building.
After an hour of searching for a different entrance, or even catch a glimpse inside to assess he was walking into, Altair grimaced and jumped back to the streets. The door was the only entrance inside; everything else was locked.
Not sooner had he entered that the door slammed shut behind him, enclosing him in darkness.
Though startled, he did not move, instead giving himself time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. His mind filled with curses, and it took him time to force it all out of his mind. The mission came first; he would kill Talal no matter what the circumstances. He had to.
Eyes at last adjusted, Altair found himself in a narrow hallway, filled with boxes and crates. The smell was terrible, even worse than the hospital of Acre - no sweet scent of hashish mixed with opiates, only human waste, sweat, blood, disease, and death. He crept forward slowly; weary of more surprises.
A bony wraith of a man huddled in a cage barely large enough to fit him, passed out and drooling. Further down the hall Altair saw another, beaten and starved, hanging from hands bound in iron to the wall. Bloodstains littered the floor.
He sensed motion more than saw it, and his eyes automatically darted up to see a shadow by some kind of window. Altair could not make out details, could not tell if it was guard or slave, and so he closed his eyes and reached inside himself, thinking of an eagle and the remarkable vision it had, thought of a corner of his mind opening itself to that eagle, and casting out all other senses. Opening his eyes he saw the world as an eagle did holy shit what the hell was this no stay in synch, and sensed even without complete sight that this was his target, Talal. He knew their eyes locked, and Altair spoke.
"What now, slaver?" he demanded.
"Do not call me that," the shadow said, ducking from the window. "I only wish to help them, as I myself was helped."
So Talal was a slave, too? Altair put it from his mind, the observation did nothing to help his current circumstances.
"You do no kindness imprisoning them like that," he countered, gesturing to the two slaves, one in a cage and one bound to the wall.
"Imprisoning them?" Talal cried in indignation. "I keep them safe! Preparing them for the journey that lies ahead."
"What journey?" Altair spat. "It is a life of servitude." Life of torture with Garnier, and then a life of blindly following orders under the affects of plants for those that survived, mindless to their own circumstances. What else could it be called but slavery? That Talal suggested otherwise was contemptuous.
"You know nothing." Talal replied. "It was folly to even bring you here, to think that you might see and understand."
The time for words was over. "I understand well enough. Show yourself!"
His eagle-like vision saw the shadow of Talal turn from the window, nodding before disappearing. Altair heard the heavy grating of iron lifting. No light appeared from the hallway from whence he came, but as he approached the end of the narrow corridor he saw another was opening. Another invitation. Altair was hesitant, he did not like being led around by the nose like this, but what could he do but oblige? He would only make certain Talal's death was swift.
He approached the door slowly, passing over some grating. A hand reaching up and grabbing his ankle startled him (Twice, now. He did not like this.). Below was another bony husk of a man, eyes fevered and desperate. "Help me," he groaned, his voice heavy with disease. The man had no strength, Altair easily twisted his foot out of the man's grip, and the body disappeared into the darkness before Altair could lean down and examine him further.
Of course the route would be underground, away from the paid guards and the more vigilant townspeople, likely exiting outside the city somewhere for the treacherous route to Acre. The realization did not help him further, but Altair filed it away for his report later. Talal came first.
Cautiously he stepped through the gate and into a more cavernous room. As expected, the gate closed behind him. There were no slaves here that Altair could sense, likely the shipment was underground now, he had missed the departure.
"Ah, so you want to see the man who called you here."
"You did not call me here," Altair corrected. "I came on my own."
Talal's response was to laugh. The assassin's eagle senses could see the motion above him, men, guards, were milling about, watching, waiting. They were but shadows in the painfully dim light, but to Altair he could perceive the essence of bloodlust. They were spoiling for a fight. "Did you?" Talal asked, a smile in his voice. "Who unbarred the door? Cleared the path? Did you once raise you blade against a single man of mine, huh?"
Altair did not respond. He knew he did not need to.
"No," the slaver said in confirmation. "All this, I did for you."
Altair could hear the sound of movement, could perceive someone taking a beam of wood and using it to lift the wooden bar of one of the skylights away, casting a hazy square of light onto the floor of the cavernous room of the warehouse. Specks of dust reflected in the air. "Step into the light, then, and I will grant you one final favor."
The assassin was no fool; he waited for his eyes to adjust to the new light source. He refused to be baited by this man, but he also knew that he had little option but to do as the slaver said. It grated on him to no end.
Gritting his teeth he stepped into the light.
All at once the guards hopped down, swords drawn, and loosely circled around the assassin.
Above, his target finally revealed himself. He wore blue with thin yellow stripes, like his men, and as Altair expected Talal had a bow slung over his shoulder.
"Now I stand before you," he said with a grand gesture. "What is it you desire?"
Altair remembered de Sable asking a similar question. Bloodlust started to fill him, dimming his eagle. He drew his sword. "Come down here! Let us settle this with honor."
Talal sighed. "Why must it always come to violence?" he asked. The slaver bent forward, putting his hands on his knees and peering down at Altair. The assassin felt himself bristle, he hated being looked down on. "It seems I cannot help you," the archer said, studying Altair, "for you do not wish to help yourself." He stood. "But I cannot allow my work to be threatened. You leave me no choice," he raised a hand, signaling the men surrounding Altair. "You must die."
Five men attacked Altair.
"This will teach you not to trespass."
Let him gloat, Altair thought. The first man lunged forward, and Altair ducked under the swing, slashing his sword himself, his blade striking precisely in the man's sides, between the ribs. The pain spread across the guard along with his cry, and Altair spun behind him, his sword circling around him and slashing at the back of the man's knees, almost severing them and making the guard crumple to the ground. Without missing a beat the assassin deflected a blade of an incoming assault, shoving it aside and kicking the offender back before advancing and slashing with his sword. He did not hit the neck like he wanted but he did not have time to fix it, a third man was coming in for a swing at him. Altair shifted his weight to the side, the sword missing him by inches and stepped inside the man's guard, shoving his sword under the ribcage and impaling the enemy before kicking the body out of his sword. The second man got up and tried again, his swing labored and clumsy from the injury Altair had granted him, and the assassin easily avoided it and swung his sword in quick precise swings, deflecting the blade and aggressively pushing the man back into a corner by a ladder before finding his opening and thrusting his blade into the man's neck, into the collar. Three down.
He cursed as he realized his sword had caught in the bone, he brought a foot onto the man's chest to detach the blade but a forth guard grabbed him and yanked. His balance ruined Altair simply ducked and rolled, his body a tight ball to prevent any sword strikes aimed at him. Coming back up to his feet he drew his short sword. One guard came charging at him with a powerful swing, but his moves were televised and the assassin avoided it, a fist thrusting out and grabbing the man's shoulder to hold him in place long enough to take his short sword and stab the man once, twice in the chest before throwing the dying body aside. Four down.
"No more delays! Be done with him," Talal called from above. He was a fool to watch, but Altair did not question the fortune that had been given him.
Three more guards dropped down from above, Altair could hear the city alarm ringing but paid it no heed as another guard advanced. The assassin spun around the swing, getting a grip on the man's shirt and shoving him into some wood scaffolding. The entire structure collapsed, taking another guard that had been near it, decommissioning two in one go. Six down.
The remaining guard hung back; weary of how deadly the assassin was proving to be. Altair would have none of that, however, and advanced with powerful steps. This last one had considerably more skill than the others, he understood that he had a longer reach than Altair with his sword and kept the assassin back, not letting him get close. The two circled each other around the light from the skylight, trying to find an advantage.
"Kill him already!" Talal demanded, impatient. "What's wrong with you?"
The guard advanced, his swings skilled and efficient. Altair bade his time, countering and ducking and side stepping, looking for a weakness. Then he cursed himself for his stupidity as a thought occurred to him. A quick glance at his belt showed that he was fully stocked, and he brutally shoved the guard into the light before jumping back into the shadows. The guard lost sight of him temporarily as the man's eyes adjusted to the light, and Altair took his time to pull out a throwing knife and flick it to the enemy, the blade plunging deep into his gut. Altair didn't even bother to watch the man fall, instead marched to a ladder he had spied earlier. He grabbed his sword as he went, yanking it out of the corpse it had gotten stuck in.
A sword in each hand he ascended the ladder.
Talal stared, and even in the shadowy light Altair could see the shock on the target's face, the fear in his eyes.
"Keep him away from me!'" he shouted to the last of the guards, dashing up a ladder to the roof.
This was the disaster the assassin had feared, and blood pulsed in his body as he launched himself forward. The guard was pulling out a sword hastily, and Altair leapt, his weight shoving the man back as his hidden blade sunk deep into his neck, slaughtering him. He sheathed both his swords as fast as he could as he rant up to the ladder, leaping up three steps before his hands grabbed the sturdy side and he propelled himself up onto the roof.
The sun momentarily blinded him, even exiting with his eyes closed, and he reached into his mind for the vision of an eagle as he struggled to adjust to the light, his head whipping this way and that to see where Talal and run. South or west, south or west?
He saw motion to his left and saw the archer turn, by a sky garden, to see if he was still being pursued. West!
Altair wasted no time, running down the slope of the roof, his sharp vision planning as he ran. He took a flying leap off the roof of the warehouse and onto some scaffolding, one foot landing on the wooden landing, the second on the structural crossbeam, and then his next step was a leap to the roof of a building pressed against the city wall. Altair saw Talal take off running and the chase was on. He leapt over one roof to another, past the sky garden and leapt two stories down to the ground.
"Help! Guards, help me!"
The two men that had guarded the west entrance turned as Altair pulled out of his roll, and the assassin ran almost blindly into one, shoving his hidden blade into the man's stomach and ignoring the second, chasing after Talal and determined not to loose him. If he made it to the roof of the souk like the assassin suspected it would be an unmitigated catastrophe.
He dashed south, darting up some crates and leaping up onto a wooden ledge, wanting height over the archer. He leapt as his target slowed to look behind him, but in his rush he had misjudged the jump and landed shy of the archer. People around him startled, and Talal cried out, shocked to see the white shadow so close to his heels.
"Help me!" he cried, turning to run, struggling to remove his bow.
Altair took a calculated risk and pulled out a throwing knife, but it embedded itself into a corner of a building as the target ducked away and the assassin took off again, cursing bitterly at how this was turning out. He caught sight of Talal just as he turned into the souk, and Altair put on even more speed, willing his legs to pump faster, hoping against hope the midafternoon heat would have sent most of the buyers and sellers to repose.
One guard managed to plow into him, and Altair growled as he landed hard on his elbow. His hidden blade retracted and he shoved it mercilessly into the city guard's shoulder, his clumsy response miraculously missing the shoulder blade and sliding right out. Hoisting himself up to his feet he snarled and dashed into the marketplace, the dim light blinding him momentarily but he refused to slow down, running blindly into the halls and past one of the scholar's sons.
He came to a split in the souk and he looked left and right. "Slaver!" he shouted. "Show yourself!"
"I told you not to call me that!"
Instinct of an eagle made every muscle in Altair's body go limp and he fell bonelessly to the floor, watching an arrow fly over his head as he fell. Someone cried out behind him, and the assassin knew his target and hurt an innocent bystander. He thought of the miner in the tunnel and anger filled his vision, fueling his lungs and coursing through his legs as he ran full tilt after the source of the arrow. People were dashing left and right in a panic, screaming and shouting and getting in Altair's way. All of it was only barely registering in the assassin's perception, his focus tight as an eagle as he advanced on the retreating form of Talal.
His sharp eyes at last spotted Talal's blue; he was not as nimble as Altair in navigating the crowds, the assassin was closing the distance.
"Guards! He's trying to kill me!" Altair watched in horror as two guards at the entrance of the souk turned, drawing their swords and readying to critically block Altair from his target. It was catastrophe given form, he would loose Talal and the mission would be a failure. He couldn't let that happen!
A man, a merchant, bowled into one of the guards, knocking both over as another merchant joined the fray. Altair recognized the men as sons of the scholar. What were they doing? His momentum couldn't stop and he tripped over the four men. A third son appeared and helped the assassin up. "Go," he said, "Kill the slaver, we'll handle the guards."
And Altair had no time to loose, no time to nod or give thanks or understand why the brothers were risking their lives, their freedom, to help him. He could only turn and run after Talal, unaware that the merchant had seen his face, the shock and gratitude in his eyes. It was enough for the merchant turned vigilante.
Altair ran south, reading the crowd's surprise or watching fallen people get up to see where Talal had run. His entire body was covered in sweat. Midafternoon was the hottest part of the day and he was maintaining a full run over the entire city at this rate. He felt like his body was radiating fire but he shoved it all aside. The sudden shade of an alley blinded him and a crate banged into his shins, knocking him down. It served as sheer dumb luck, however, as he heard the high pitched twang of a bow release an arrow. He got up in a run and chased after Talal.
His target was slower, the heat was affecting him just as much as Altair, and without people or guards or other obstructions he at last closed the distance, leaping up and landing on his target, his hidden blade contracting and at last tasting blood.
He was panting now, nauseous from overheating, and relieved.
"You've nowhere to run now," he breathed. "Share your secrets with me."
Talal smiled, his chest heaving for air he would soon no longer need. "My part is played," he gasped. "The brotherhood is not so weak that my death will stop its work."
Another man of cryptic words. Altair demanded, "What brotherhood?"
Talal still smiled, his head lolling back for a moment before lifting it again. "Al Mualim is not the only one with designs upon the Holy Land." He saw Altair's intent eyes, and his smile grew even wider. "And that's all you'll have from me."
"... Then we are finished. Beg forgiveness from your god."
An outright laugh gurgled out of the dying man's lips. "He's long abandoned us. Long abandoned the men and women I took into my arms." Blood rolled out of his mouth and he coughed, life essence struggling to hold on.
"What do you mean?" Altair asked. How could a slaver think of his stock like that?
Wandering, unfocused eyes locked onto Altair. "Beggers, whores, addicts, lepers; do they strike you as proper slaves? Unfit to do the most menial tasks? No. I took them, not to sell, but to save. And yet you'd kill us all, for no other reason than it was asked of you."
Altair felt suddenly uncomfortable. Nausea was overtaking him; he had not seen the stock and could not prove the veracity of his target's claim. He shook his head, denying the man's words. "No! You profit from the war, from lives lost and broken."
"Yes," Talal gasped, "You would think that, ignorant as you are. Wall off your mind; they say it's what your kind do best. Do you not see the irony in this?"
Altair glared.
"No, not yet it seems. But you will..."
Altair dipped the feather in the blood. He just put it away when he heard, "There they are!"
Would nothing go well today? Exhausted and overheated, Altair ran down the alley away from the body, taking a sharp turn and hopping onto a pile of crates, to a beam and hoisted himself onto a roof, dashing before dropping down a level and diving into a sky garden. He waited for the guards to pass, only three that he could hear, before taking out his water skin and drinking its entire contents. He needed to cool down before he suffered head stroke.
It took much longer than he liked to get his breathing under control and lost the burning feeling in his cheeks. His muscles ached and when he took stock of himself he saw he was a mess. Blood from the fight in the warehouse splattered his clothes - not a lot, but enough for a guard to look twice - and sweat stained everything. The elbow of his sleeve was torn from when the guard had plowed into him. There was a gash there, but not deep. His shins hurt, too, but nothing was serious.
Altair risked peaking out, the midafternoon sun bright and boiling. He would have to wait until the shadows were deeper. He leaned back into the garden, settling in. As the quiet surrounded the roof Altair reflected on the disaster of the mission. He cursed that he had not scouted the barbican himself, did not find out the layout of the interior of the warehouse. He could have placed journeymen or apprentices along the roofs to the souk, or taken care of the guards with a distraction, something.
Talal himself was also a source of consternation. Another hint that the murders he was committing were connected, another hint of a greater purpose that these men were working towards. Tamir and Talal provided supplies for Garnier, but where did Garnier's work go when they survived his experiments? Talal spoke of a brotherhood and their designs upon the Holy Land. However, he denied he was selling slaves and instead he was saving them. Why would a slave trader help anyone other than himself? What was he missing? He hoped Al Mualim would help him to make sense of it.
Once the shadows were long enough, Altair crept out of the sky garden and looked around. There were no guards in sight and Altair debated for all of a breath before doubling back to the souk. He had to see what happened to the merchant sons of the scholar. He kept to the shadows, the assassin's ear open and his eyes taking in everything. The scholar was there, he found, talking to his oldest in intense tones. The youngest had been arrested, it seemed. Altair winced to hear it, and slipped deeper into the shadows, thinking.
His first instinct was to brush it off, to say it was none of his concern, but it simply wasn't true, and the assassin could not ignore it. He hoped to save the vigilante in some way, but his apprenticeship in Jerusalem had ended five years ago. He did not know the guard patrols, and after his exertion that afternoon he was in no condition to stage a rescue. He would have to tell Malik, ask that he be saved and hope the dai could see past his anger. With that in mind, he turned south and ghosted his way to the Bureau.
It was twilight when he finally arrived. He was exhausted as he jumped into the closed in courtyard, startling an apprentice.
"Altair, you are all right!" he said, obviously relieved. "The alarm stopped hours ago, we were worried-"
"Altair, wonderful to see you return to us," Malik said in expansive tones, leaning against the doorframe. "And... How fared the mission?"
The demoted assassin stepped into the back room, following Malik to the counter. Several journeymen and apprentices were hovering around the chessboard or writing reports at a table. None of them were subtle in their eavesdropping - not that they needed to. Altair pulled out the bloody feather.
"The deed is done. Talal is dead."
"Oh, I know, I know," Malik said, nodding sagely before his face twisted into something else. "In fact, the entire city knows!" he roared, making everyone but Altair startle. "Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?"
To exhausted to think, Altair bristled and dug his heels in.
"A skilled assassin ensures his work is noticed by the many," he said, willing his voice to stay calm.
"No!" Malik countered, a finger rising up to shake at Altair. "A skilled assassin maintains control of his environment."
And the last thing Altair needed was Malik to point out how disastrous the mission had turned out when he already knew it. The demoted assassin was fed up. "We can argue the details all you like, Malik, but the fact remains I've accomplished the task set to me by Al Mualim."
The dai stared at him, and Altair held the gaze, tension radiating off of them. The others in the room watched very carefully. Malik could not argue the fact and Altair knew it. Malik did, too, and at last he leaned back, his face full of contempt.
"... Go then. Return to the old man. Let us see with whom he sides."
"I will," Altair said, "but first I've a vigilante to rescue."
A murmur sounded from behind them, and Altair spun around, ready for another verbal attack. "What?" he demanded.
An apprentice, the one who had been waiting for him, nervously stepped forward. "Do... do you mean the merchant? A scholar is his father?" he asked, his voice high pitched.
Altair frowned. "Yes," he said. "How do you know of him?"
"I saw the arrest," he stuttered, uncomfortable with everyone's eyes on him. "I did not think much of it, save that he said he was returning a favor you had done him." His last words were almost a whisper.
Malik snorted. "And since when do you grant anyone favors?" he growled.
Altair turned, his face hard. "When I entered the city I saved a scholar from being killed by city guards. He was searching for his brother who died in a mine." Malik's face changed, reading something in Altair he did not want to be seen but the demoted assassin ignored it. "He and his sons were grateful, they helped me enter the city and cleaned my clothes and gave me coin." He reached into his pack and pulled out the unused money, turning and tossing it to the apprentice. "Here," he said, "Use it to free the youngest son. He should not suffer for a kind deed."
The apprentice dashed off before anyone could argue, and Altair turned back to the head of the Bureau.
"... You and I are on the same side, Malik," he said slowly, his voice rough in exhaustion.
No one bothered him as he went to the courtyard to fall asleep. He had a long ride ahead of him.
Altair lingered in the stables, brushing down his horse. There were so many thoughts running around in his head he felt as though the entire war was happening underneath his skull. Jerusalem had brought up many unhappy memories, spurred vicious fights with the man who had once been Altair's only friend, hinted at greater designs amongst the men he was killing - and most heavily of all - made him realize just how at fault he was for the events that had lead up to all of this. The ride had been exhausting because of his thoughts, and now all he wanted to do was hide in the stables, for he dreaded entering the gates of Masyaf.
... An assassin was never weak, however, and so he finally put his dread aside with the brush and entered the town.
The people themselves had not changed since that day. Their focus was on rebuilding, fixing the burned buildings and aiding those who had lived in them, taking stock of what had been lost and sharing what had been salvaged with those less fortunate. Their lives were small, in a way, for they did not need to concern themselves with anything that wasn't within the valley.
The assassins, however, now that was a different story.
As Altair made his way up the main path, the steep incline working his legs, a rafiq passed by and spat where he walked. An older dai stood directly in his way and glared at him from underneath a thick matt of grey hair. The higher up the mountain he climbed the more Altair could hear laughter just outside of his vision. Gate guards no longer bowed to him but deliberately turned their heads, disgusted at the sight of him.
Entering the fortress, Altair glanced discretely around and found relief at failing to see Abbas; the man took great joy in dogging him whenever he was home, throwing insult and barbed words at him, safe in the knowledge that Altair could do nothing to him. The training ring was surrounded with novices and apprentices; two were in the ring swinging wildly at each other with no precision or efficiency. The demoted assassin stayed back, watching from a distance. He was about to turn to enter the keep when he heard his name.
"Altair!"
He froze, turning back to the ring to see Rauf pushing his way towards the assassin. "It's good to see you, brother!" he said in bright tones.
"I have just now returned," Altair responded, eying the crowd wearily. Many looked at him with dark eyes. "Do you know if the Master is free?"
"He is not," Rauf said, shaking his head. "Several letters came from Jabal in Acre, and no doubt it contains news of Richard and Salah ad-Din. He meets with others to discuss what the next course of action is."
"Very well," Altair said, "I shall not keep you further." He would simply go to his room and wait. Being out did him little good these days.
Rauf's eyes narrowed, once more picking up on something Altair wanted to remain hidden. "Altair," he said, "It seems my students do not know what it is to wield a blade. Perhaps you could show them what you know?"
"They are already in the best of hands," Altair replied, raising a hand to deflect the offer. "I doubt there is more I can add."
"A lot can be gained from watching a battle between two masters," Rauf said, "And you need it as much as my students."
The sword master all but dragged Altair to the ring, pulling him in as the apprentices and novices and a handful of journeymen watched, murmuring and whispering amongst themselves. "All right you amateurs," Rauf said, "It's time you saw what a real swordfight looks like." He leaned into Altair's ear. "Start off with a textbook fight," he whispered, "when I give the signal, we will change."
The demoted assassin nodded and drew his sword, Rauf doing the same. Their sword tips touched, and that was all the greeting they gave each other before Rauf lead with a quick, precise swing. Altair deflected; their moves started slow and consistent. He could hear the novices watching, whispers and pointing. He shook his head slightly, putting it from his mind and focusing on the gentle sword master.
They moved through all the major swings and deflects and parries, their motion quick and precise and elegant. That changed quite suddenly when Rauf ducked to the side and threw a punch into Altair's chin, the signal to fight for real. Grinning, Altair made an aggressive swing at Rauf, the master moving to dodge before Altair pulled back his feint and instead kicked the man in the gut. A lesser man would have fallen to the ground but Rauf shuffled back and brought his sword up to deflect the next swing. Altair took it in stride and shoved his shoulder into Rauf's defense, the man giving even more ground before landing on the ground and pulling up into a tight roll, his sword coming up at an angle that surprised Altair and made the assassin jump backwards.
A cry of surprise filled Altair's ear, but he ignored it, blocking another strike and giving ground himself. The rail blocked him from retreating further, and he leapt onto the thin wooden beam, the crowds quickly backing away from the fight. Altair leapt over the next swing, springboarding off of Rauf's shoulder and landing behind him, kicking the sword master in the back, into the rail, and grabbing a shoulder and throwing him to the ground. Rauf kicked Altair in the behind when he moved in for the killing strike, and the demoted assassin tumbled forward, rolling to his feet and ready for the next strike.
Rauf held up a hand. Both were panting slightly, and Altair found himself grinning.
The teacher turned to the crowds. "The work of a master," he said brightly. "Here, the battles are choreographed, to develop your muscles and to sharpen your memory, the ring is a boundary for your body and your mind, but in real battle anything and everything could happen, and that is what you must be wary off. Now, you," he said, pointing to a novice, "Come into the ring."
A hoodless boy, squeaking as he realized he had been singled out, carefully climbed over the rail and into the ring.
Rauf stood back. "Attack him," he said, "with everything I have taught you."
The boy squeaked again, looking up to Altair, before the color completely drained from his face. "I... I can't," he whispered. "He will kill me."
"No, he won't," Rauf said, a knowing smirk on his face. "It is not in his nature."
"Yes it is," someone grumbled, further back in the crowd.
The novice took some coaxing but took a tentative swing at Altair. He deflected it easily, and the novice trembled, waiting for the counter strike. Rauf stepped in, correcting footwork and posture, and the boy struck again, and Altair again deflected. By the fifth strike the novice felt comfortable enough to actually listen to Rauf's advice, and his strikes became much better. Once Rauf was satisfied, he called in another, this time an apprentice, practicing different strike. This boy was tentative only on the first strike, the rest were controlled and improved greatly with Rauf's brilliant teaching.
By the end of the day, Altair's arms were soar, and the crowd had doubled in size. Rauf was not the only one to give advice, Altair often paused the sword master to mention some small piece of advice or experience to improve a student's work. Rauf drank it up, using his small, soft-spoken sentences to turn them into entire lessons, speaking to the entire crowd.
"One last student," Rauf said, bringing up a young journeyman.
Altair saw the bloodlust in his eyes, and knew this was the one from the crowd that thought he would kill a Brother. No sooner had he stepped into the ring that he ran forward and attacked Altair. The assassin had time to shove Rauf aside before blocking the strike, letting the sword slide along and moving the energy away from him. He spun around behind the journeyman, sword up but he instead threw in a kidney punch. The young man grunted but spun around, another obvious strike that Altair threw aside, grabbing the man and throwing him over his shoulder; the journeyman landed hard on his back and Altair slammed his foot into the man's chest, knocking the sword out of his hand and holding his own at his throat.
The journeyman panted, his eyes furious.
"Your moves are obvious," Altair said. "You would do better to feint, or perhaps use the short sword instead, you are fast enough."
The journeyman's response was to spit up at Altair and shove his foot aside, surprising the crowd. He got up with impressive speed, but Altair was quicker and the demoted assassin circled around the uppercut and kicked the young man in the behind, sending him tripping over the rail of the ring. Rauf grabbed the journeyman, restraining him.
"Let me go," he growled. "Let me go! He's responsible for the death of my father! He died in the attack on Masyaf, it's all his fault!"
Rauf struck him in the back of the head at a sensitive spot, sending the journeyman to his knees, holding his head. "So foolish," Rauf growled, kicking the man in the abdomen. "Do you think every assassin is perfect?" he admonished. "Do you think no one makes mistakes when they are promoted? Striving for perfection is different from ever achieving it, because it cannot be done! Those that survive their mistakes are granted a golden opportunity: they have the opportunity to learn."
He hauled the journeyman to his feet, holding him inches from his face. "You made a mistake attacking a Brother, but he was merciful enough to let you live. Learn from it, and know that I will report this to the Master." Rauf shoved the man away, the journeyman stumbling before others helped him up and lead him away.
"I am sorry," Rauf said, "I did not think any stupid enough to do this."
Altair closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before releasing it. "True learning, it seems, it always a little painful," he said softly.
"There are many here that need to learn, then," Rauf said. "If you are not thrown to the desert again after meeting with Al Mualim, perhaps you can take some time in helping me teach them."
"... Yes," Altair said. Redemption came in many branches, it seemed, and Altair was determined to be a dutiful student.
Author's Notes: The hardest investigations to do are the pickpocketing and the eavesdropping ones, because it's straight dictation and finding ways to take the sometimes out and out boring dialogue and make it even remotely interesting and integrated to the story rather than "here's one part of the game" was more than slightly hard. We can only hope they came out okay.
If you didn't get the hints before, we feel now would be an obvious time to point out that the reason this fic is rated M is not entirely because of Desmond's potty mout, but because of Altair's violence. The game animations are downright brutal, ragdoll physics and computer bloodsplatter aside, and when we first played the game we both winced (and still wince) at the counterkill where Altair bends and elbow in the opposite direction before killing a guard. Taking that and translating it to the written word does not soften the experience, Altair hits hard enough to get his weapons caught i bone for cryin' out loud, these are not fights for little kids. And this assassination is "light" on violence, wait 'til we get to the later ones...
We hope the definition/description of Eagle Vision is adequate. They never actually call it by name in the game, and while the Animus translates Eagle Vision as colors/auras, we didn't want to be limited to just that. We hope it makes sense.
And we at last see some vigilantes. Putting them here was very deliberate, Talal's assassination is a pain in the rear if you try to do it without the vigilantes, and it served as a great writing tool to help Altair along his path. You'll see vigilantes again, though not for quite a while (knowing laughter). They also give Malik food for thought as he watched how Altair reacts to them, so we'll see how he is when a certain demoted assassin returns to Jerusalem. :D
We also toyed with how much we can hurt Altair. He always seems to come off these missions without a scratch, and given the end of the game we knew that there's no way in heck he can get through some of these assignments without sustaining SOME kind of damage, and so this time around we have nigh-on heat stroke among other small things we did, and it helps to give a sense of how superior Altair is to the city guards, but also that he isn't infallible.
As always, let us know what you think.
Next chapter: Desmond and Lucy. And a backstory.