Part Ten: A Captured Captor
Desmond stared blankly at the visor and the ceiling, his mind sluggish and still half in his ancestor's headspace. Altair, a lot happened to him in that last memory, Desmond could still feel... he couldn't put a name to it but he could still feel Altair's emotions in the training ring. It faded slowly, and Desmond found his eyes burning. Did he want to cry or something? He reached a hand up to rub his face and realized belatedly that his body was sweating.
"Damn it. What's the problem now?" Vidic.
"I'm getting weird temperature readings. I think the Animus if overheating." Lucy.
As expected, Vidic did not take news of the delay well. He growled. "Christ! It's always something!" He threw his hands up in disgust, pacing for a moment before heaving a great sigh. "... How long?"
"Too soon to tell."
"These delays are unacceptable, Miss Stillman," he scolded; shaking a finger at her, his grizzled face irate. "I want progress report every hour!"
Desmond sat up slowly, watching Vidic storm out of the lab, his heavy footsteps echoing off the enormous white room. He saw that the normally blue lights of the Animus were red, the vibration of the curved table were stronger than normal, and it made an odd noise at odd intervals.
"It's gonna be a while, Desmond," Lucy said. "Why don't you lie down or something, get some rest."
He took the time to stretch his legs, a little wobbly still, and moved to his prison lav to wash the worst of the sweat off his face. Any thoughts of that died as he walked into his room. What the hell? he thought, seeing the previously locked closet now wide open. Someone's been in here. He looked back into the cavernous main room, but Lucy was still typing away at the Animus, focused on her work. He moved further in and took a moment to just stare at the closet. His first thought was: At last! A change of clothes! Proper shower! And he started digging through the contents, pulling out towels and examining shelves. On one of the bottom ones he lifted a facecloth to see a scrap of paper. He paused a moment, frowning, but made sure his body blocked the cameras in the room as he pulled out the paper and looked at it. A series of numbers were written on it hurriedly in pencil. Looks like some kind of access code, he realized. He stuffed it into his jean pocket while standing up, grabbing one of his pilfered towels and finishing his short journey to the washroom, trying to act natural as his brain fired back and forth over how someone had snuck into his room and given him that code. Lucy...? Not Vidic. Perhaps someone else...? He shook his head, cursing his lack of information. He couldn't even ask about it, all he could do was use it.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped back into the Animus room. The dinner tray had arrived and Desmond quickly grabbed a sandwich, sitting on the Animus and looking to the absorbed Lucy."... Why is he always yelling at you?" he asked. "It's his machine."
"His theories," Lucy corrected, staring at the screen. "He's not the one who built it."
Oh. Then... "Who did? You?"
Lucy gave a short, amused laugh, turning to look at him. "No. Abstergo has a team of engineers... not much they don't have," she added softly, looking away before looking at him again. "But I did oversee the assembly; I guess that's why he gets so angry."
"He's a dick," Desmond said, brushing off the old fart's attitude.
"He's under a lot of pressure," Lucy said, her face slightly stern. "...We all are."
"I can't believe you're defending the guy," he answered, shaking his head.
"Warren saved my life," Lucy said in a flat, serious tone, giving Desmond pause, "so if he wants to yell a little, let him."
Desmond shook his head slightly, not quite understanding. Not quite believing.
"What do you mean he saved your life?"
Lucy pulled away from the computer, her face a myriad of emotions. "... You're not the only one who doesn't get to go home at night."
... What?
"Wait, are you saying that you're a prisoner?"
Lucy leaned against one of the stuffed leather chairs, staring off at nothing. "When they first approached me I was finishing up my PhD," she said. "The university had made it clear I had no future there. They didn't like the subject of my doctorate, called it pseudoscience, said keeping me on would discredit and embarrass them." She sighed deeply, her eyes locked on a memory, her voice despondent. "It was the same everywhere. Other universities, companies I interviewed with, pretty soon I was out of money and out of time. I was this close to waiting tables," she said, holding her fingers apart to show how close she had come. "Then I got a letter."
"From Vidic?" Desmond asked.
"He said he'd been following my career since undergrad, that he believed in my work and wanted to meet, to discuss my future. You have no idea how good it felt to hear that." Her face lit up at the thought, her voice light and airy. "So I met him, what did I have to lose?"
"And he offered you a job."
"Yes. Here at Abstergo, helping out on the Animus Project. I'd have the chance to test my theories and prove my professors wrong. How could I turn that down?" She looked at him, her eyes bright but also pained.
Desmond stared, trying to absorb it. "I think I'm missing the part where you become a prisoner."
"Sometimes I wonder..." she said, looking away suddenly. She crossed her legs. "If they weren't behind it all, if they manipulated events so that I'd get desperate. They can do that," she said, turning to look at Desmond with deep, meaningful eyes. "They can do anything." She looked away again, the pause drawing out, pregnant with implication.
She took a deep breath, at last, and continued. "I didn't think when I agreed to come here. They even told me I'd be trapped, for six months, a year max. Once the product launched there'd be no need for secrecy anymore. Until then, I'd be a 'guest' of the company. At least, that's what they said."
"... And when the Animus was ready?"
She shivered, from the cold of the room or the cold of the memory Desmond could only guess, and she pushed herself off the chair, walking up the steps of Vidic's dais to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her face was pained.
"... They came in while I was sleeping. Three guys. Guns. They dragged me out of bed... God..." She shivered again, a hand going to cover her face, rubbing her forehead and hiding from the pain. "The worst part is I knew them. One guy, Richard, we ate lunch together sometimes, and now he was gonna..." Her voice broke off and she wiped her eyes before trying again. "They were cracking jokes. I tried to pull away, but he hit me. And that's when he told me I was going to die."
"Christ," Desmond whispered. "What did you do?" It was like some bad movie scene, or the opening of a crime drama.
"Nothing," Lucy said, her voice almost a whisper. Her hand finally left her face and Desmond could see the haunted look. "I kept telling myself it wasn't real. And then Warren was there, shouting at them to get away from me, and they listened."
"Jesus..." he said, and he pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. Her body stiffened, surprised, but for a brief moment she leaned into him, pressing her face into his chest, letting his sweatshirt get damp before she quickly pulled away, her watery eyes darting to the cameras. Desmond understood.
"He's not a happy man, Desmond," she said after taking several minutes to get hold of herself. Her voice was finally strong. "I wouldn't even say he's a good man but he saved my life. They never came for me again, and he promised they never would."
"But... You're still stuck here working for these nutjobs."
"But I'm alive," Lucy answered, her eyes were bright but they were also strong. There was something in them Desmond could see but not understand, a message he was missing. It was gone in a flash, however, and the blond suddenly turned away, back down the dais. "Anyway, I really do need to get the Animus repaired. See you tomorrow, Desmond."
Desmond followed her back to the Animus, picking up his sandwich to finish it and cleaning it up. He watched Lucy for a long time as she worked, trying to assimilate what he just learned. He'd break her out, too, he vowed to himself. She deserved better than this.
The first step to that was using the access code.
Nodding with the decision, he hopped off when he was done and moved back to his prison room. He paused at the door, turning and looking back to the blond. "Lucy..." he started.
She looked up, and Desmond was at a loss as to what to say after hearing her story.
She must have seen something in his helpless look, and she gave a soft smile, sweet and beautiful, before turning back to the screen.
Desmond waited three hours before trying out the code, parked by the door with his ear pressed to it and listening to the hourly reports Lucy gave. An hour after the fix, he tried out his mysterious access key and found his assumption was right, it worked on the door and he was loose in the giant lab room. The code did not work on either the door Vidic stormed out of every night, nor did it work for the door to the observation room. Still a prisoner.
He cursed very creatively at that, feeling more than slightly ungrateful to his unknown benefactor, before he walked by the curves of the Animus and saw a pen with light on the cap. This was the ID thingy from yesterday's email. He glanced at the cameras, but they were probably already watching him anyway, and with a mental finger to the stupid red lights he nicked it, going over to the Animus computer and plugging it in. It automatically logged him on as Lucy, and he spend the next two hours going over every file and program he felt safe in opening to find nothing useful. There were no new additions, and not even a DOS window for him to try and code some kind of key-logger - not that he could make one from scratch but he was willing to try anything at this rate.
Frowning, he clicked on the email program to see if there was anything he could glean from it.
Lucy had forwarded an email to several people asking about Leila, the girl Vidic had threatened her with on his first day of captivity (was it really two days ago? It felt like a lifetime...). One person said they weren't at liberty to discuss the case, and Vidic of course brushed the whole thing aside, saying it was a suicide over some boy. Desmond, like Lucy, was disinclined to believe the old fart just on principal, and if the autopsy was sealed like Lucy said in her email then it was all the more damning.
Vidic's computer was still locked, Desmond was determined to pick the dick's pocket tomorrow, and with no other alternative, he went back to his room, showering with his newfound luxury of towels before throwing his jeans back on (with the access code and pen in those pockets, there were never leaving his eyesight) and crawling into bed.
He was like Altair, in a sense. He understood the gravity of his situation, of the situation of people around him, and he was determined to be diligent.
His last thought before he fell asleep was to wonder when he started thinking of his ancestor by name.
eagle vision leads to ANSWERS leads to questions leads to sense and scents and cents it makes no sense to anyone but me so all the answers must be left for the next for seventeen for the sun for the son for the future let the vision be open think of eagles and opening doors and brain cases and less than ten percent of the human brain is used but this part needs to be accessed because it's where the ANSWERS are hidden eagles see everything see blood see people see messages see invisible threads that connect it all together running out of time not enough blood to write everything and still need to code it picture places things memories go further back to the beginning and forward to the end that can't be an end
He jolted awake, reaching for some dream that was important, reaching for eagles... but fell back asleep in an instant.
Desmond heard the slide of his cell door open, and there were the quick, almost light steps. It woke him up swiftly, since he didn't ever care for anyone coming into his room unannounced. Something he'd learned from childhood.
"Rise and shine," Vidic said in an excited voice. "We've got quite a day ahead of us," he added cheerily.
"You're in a good mood this morning," Desmond commented, getting up. He grabbed the fresh and clean t-shirt and sweatshirt he had pulled from his closet the previous night and shrugged them on.
"Miss Stillman has made some modifications to the Animus," he said gleefully. "You should be able to stay inside even longer now."
Desmond decidedly did not like the sound of that.
"And help you with your treasure hunt," Desmond added. Because that felt like all it was for Vidick. A damn treasure hunt with Desmond doing all the work like some Indiana Jones. Never mind that Desmond (and Lucy) had been kidnapped from their lives.
He rubbed the back of his head. This wasn't about anger or frustration. This was about him getting Warden to talk. And if he was so giddy, he'd hopefully spill like a gossiphound.
"This is serious business, Mr. Miles." Vidic replied coldly. Then he grinned smugly. "I don't think you appreciate the work that Abstergo does."
Desmond gave his own smug grin. "Maybe because I don't actually know what you people do," he jibed.
"We change the world," Vidic said expansively. Desmond held back a triumphant smile. "Every day, in a hundred different ways." He started pacing. "Did you know that nearly every single breakthrough of the past millennium, be it medical, mechanical, or philosophical, has come from Abstergo, or its predecessors?"
Desmond took a moment to absorb that.
A millennium? Back in 1012? That would make everything people advanced in from the Renaissance, the Dark Ages, even in Altair's time. That was a lot of history for Abstergo, yet they never showed in the history books.
So Desmond resorted to skeptical prisoner. "That's a bold claim, Doc. Think you might be exaggerating a bit?" he asked, getting up.
"Not in the slightest," Vidic said confidently. "Oh, we certainly don't take the credit," he sipped his coffee, "that would arouse far too much suspicion. We choose our beneficiaries with great care."
God complex. Dictator. Desmond couldn't stand it. But he didn't let any of it show. Instead he raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Vidic smiled. "It means we're in control."
Desmond arranged his face to skeptical again, though he knew from Lucy's story and his own just how in control they were. "But how?" He gestured vaguely. "What makes you guys so special, so smart? That you happened to invent all these things while we mere mortals stumble around like idiots?" Because that was a lot to swallow.
Vidic looked into his coffee mug. "To be fair, we don't invent them." He looked down his nose to Desmond. "We find them."
"...Find them?"
"They're gifts, Mr. Miles," Vidic said quietly, almost reverently. "From Those Who Came Before."
Desmond started at him, incomprehensively.
"We'll have to continue this discussion later," Vidic turned and was back to being the smug, smarmy bastard Desmond was used to. "Time's wasting," he added.
He followed, his head awhirl with Those Who Came Before and what the hell did that mean? But he did focus enough to casually brush against Vidic as they left his room and pocketed the access pen smoothly into the sleeve of his shirt, holding it in place under his watch. Then he rubbed his head in confusion.
Those Who Came Before?
Again: What the hell?
"Morning, Desmond," Lucy greeted, acting like nothing had happened the previous day. Like she hadn't dragged out a painful memory and relived it.
"Ugh..." he rubbed his head vigorously. "Hi..."
She glanced at him, in concern, but he shook his head slightly, indicating for her not to worry. He just had a lot more information that he was expecting and it was making his head spin.
Did he just get off the ship into a sci-fi movie?
Those Who Came Before? Like, what... aliens? Who was here before humans that left the advances that people had done (found?) over the centuries? He sat down in one of the cushy chairs and started to dig into his breakfast, his mind awhirl with more questions than he'd ever had since arriving here, and none of them actually pertinent to his current situation.
Desmond numbly ate his breakfast, the weight of things beyond his comprehension pulling at him as he tried to just sort through it.
In the end, he decided to just think about it later.
Perhaps tonight, after he'd accessed Vidic's computer and learned all he could there, then he could ponder Who The Hell Came Before.
Eagles see invisible threads that connect it all together.
Desmond didn't know where that thought came from, but he thought of how Altair had somehow seen what others could not in the dark slaver warehouse. And really, Desmond could use that skill now. See things here in the lab that he could use, see details that would give him ideas, see something to help his utterly hopeless situation.
Taking another gulp of milk, he thought of how Altair had reached for that strange vision. Of focusing on the sharp sight of an eagle and reaching for something in his own mind.
Nothing happened.
Naturally.
Desmond sighed and went back to eating. That was when he really noticed his breakfast.
Two huge bagels, three muffins, a large bowl of cereal and three slices of toast to go with his glasses of milk and orange juice.
"Should I be saying thanks for the big breakfast?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.
Lucy didn't look at him directly. "You'll be needing it today," she replied quietly.
Right. Staying in the Animus even longer... Desmond wondered what exactly "longer" entailed.
"Lie down, damn it!" Vidic growled.
Desmond leaned back to spite the bastard and settled in to finish sipping his juice and milk. He'd just had a big breakfast and he needed a minute to let it all settle. Lucy flicked an amused glance in his direction and Desmond looked down to hide a smile.
Once he downed the last of his liquids, Lucy smiled gently and said, "Let's get started."
And for her, Desmond got onto the Animus and lay down.
The white foggy room surrounded Desmond and he looked down at Altair's clothes. It was always strange to see himself dressed as his ancestor, but this felt stranger because after Altair's visit to Jerusalem, Desmond actually understood his ancestor. Altair was, in many ways, lost and directionless. He had a job, he had a purpose, but he had messed up so badly he could no longer find his balance. What Altair had done and done well for his entire life, he now no longer knew how to do because the way he had always done it was no longer acceptable. Indeed, it was dangerous.
Desmond could get that in a very different sort of way. He had abandoned his Assassin heritage, left everything behind save what he needed to stay hidden, and now he was looking at trying to call up long forgotten knowledge for survival and escape. Where Altair had a direction but no clue how, Desmond had a goal but no clue how.
Shaking his head to remove these thoughts, he pulled out Altair's sword. That weapons master Rauf had spent a lot of time with Altair and training the novices and apprentices. Desmond swung the sword experimentally, trying to remember what that week had been like and how the moves went. Turning, he focused on a floating chemical diagram and tried to mimic a swing.
The swing was clumsy, even to Desmond's eye, but the counter strike was perfect and Desmond's sword passed harmlessly through the diagram.
"Whoa." It seemed that week of training with Rauf had given him some level of muscle memory of how Altair fought.
...Sort of.
Desmond wasn't sure he could do that again.
Seeing another symbol floating in the fog he turned to make a swing and try and feel the right way to do it when the fog dissipated and he found himself standing once more at the base of the mountain of Masyaf.
With a sigh, Desmond started making his way up the mountain to go find that master-guy. The nostalgia, unsurprisingly, got stronger the closer he got to the fortress. Once he was in the compound walls, an echo of Abbas was coming up to him, in a foul temper as always.
Altair did not appreciate seeing Abbas, any more than the foul tempered man appeared to appreciate seeing him. So Altair avoided conflict and ignored him, heading down to the training ring so that he and Rauf could continue with the lesson they had left off with the previous day.
"Ah, Altair," the gentle swordmaster called. "Your timing is excellent."
"No it's not," Abbas growled, his long strides catching up to the demoted assassin. "The Master wishes to speak with him now."
Altair frowned. He had been trying to see Al Mualim for a week to no avail. It was almost routine. He would stop by the library to see if the Master was free, only to be told that he was busy. So Altair would go down to the training ring, see Rauf and start knocking down the novices, apprentices, journeymen, and even assassins who wished for a bout. Altair would have liked to think that the novices had improved since he's started helping with the teaching, but he curbed such thoughts, not wishing his arrogance to get the better of him as it already had.
"I apologize, Rauf," he nodded his head to the swordmaster.
Rauf shrugged. "You must be busy. I understand." He smiled, however. "I look forward to you having time with me in the ring again."
Altair smiled. "I as well. Safety and peace."
"Safety and peace."
Abbas growled something unpleasant under his breath and Altair ignored him as he headed to the fortress, since he knew it irritated his fellow assassin all the more.
Al Mualim was once more in the library and he nodded as Altair walked by a scholar.
"Come in, Altair," he said, looking up from his desk. "You have done well. Three of the nine lay dead, and for this, you have my thanks," he smiled and Altair saw a flicker of pride. Then the Teacher's face flattened. "But do not think to rest upon your laurels," he said, leaning over his table. "Your work has just begun."
"I am yours to command, Master." Altair bowed his head lower than he ever had before. He understood his mistakes now. And he showed his regret and sorrow and desire for redemption by showing more deference than he had. Because Al Mualim was right. He had erred. Badly.
Al Mualim nodded, understanding the silent message.
"King Richard, emboldened by his victory in Acre prepares to move south towards Jerusalem," he explained. "Salah ad-Din is surely aware of this and so he gathers his men before the broken citadel of Arsuf."
"Would you have me kill them both then," Altair offered. "End their war before it begins in earnest?"
"No," the Master said softly, yet firmly. "To do so would scatter their forces and subject the realm to the bloodlust of ten-thousand aimless warriors. It will be many days before they meet, and while they march, they do not fight."
Altair nodded, seeing the logic in this. The purpose was for peace and as long as the armies were busy chasing each other, there was no needless bloodshed. Al Mualim had never shared his reasons before, only his orders, and Altair appreciated that he could now see the thought process behind what Al Mualim was saying.
Al Mualim continued, "You must concern yourself with a more immediate threat. The men who pretend to govern in their absence."
Altair blinked, not seeing the logic for this. But one never questioned the Master.
"Give me names and I'll give you blood."
"So I will," the Teacher nodded. "Abu'l Nuqoud, the wealthiest man in Damascus; Majd Addin, regent of Jerusalem; William of Monteferrat, liege lord of Acre."
Cities he had already been to. Altair nodded, knowing the familiarity he had with each city, save Damascus, would help him. And even in Damascus, he was an unknown face, an advantage.
"What are their crimes," he asked, wishing to see the logic behind these victims and if there was a link between them and Tamir, Garnier, and Talal.
"Greed, arrogance, the slaughter of innocents," Al Mualim answered, his eyes cold as he looked aside to something only he could see. He turned to Altair again. "Walk amongst the people of their cities. You'll learn the secrets of their sins." Al Mualim spoke firmly, "Do not doubt that these men are obstacles to the peace we seek."
As if Altair could ever doubt the Master.
"Then they will die," he stated.
Al Mualim nodded with approval. "Another of your items is restored. Take it. See that it is put to good use. Return to me as each man falls, that we might better understand their intentions. Start in Damascus," he said, opening a pigeon coop and letting three birds fly out the open window. "I sense something is happening there and is the most urgent of the three."
Altair nodded, turning to go.
"And Altair."
He turned.
"Your recent work has likely attracted the attention of the city guard. They'll be more suspicious than they've been in the past."
Altair bowed, trying hard not to think of Malik scolding him for being so public in his work in Jerusalem.
With a soft sigh, Altair pushed such thoughts aside. He had a journey to prepare for.
Damascus was, by far, the hottest of the three cities that he would visit. The nearest body of water, save the Barada River, was weeks away by horseback. Summer was settling in and the stone buildings reflected the sun's rays, radiating heat even hotter than the desert. The dry season left many seeking the various fountains throughout the city, for any source of refreshment that could alleviate the heavy heat.
Altair walked slowly through the shaded alleys to conserve his energy as midday continued to get even hotter. A small part of him hoped that the usual lethargy one had during such weather would dull Ibtisam's tongue when he arrived at the Bureau, but that was a childish and hopeless wish. He took a sip of water from his waterskin as he strolled down a row of houses and wiped the sweat from his brow. Once he was certain no one was watching, he climbed the ladder and dropped into the Bureau's courtyard.
Ibtisam looked up from a pot he was painting, looking faintly surprised. "Altair, my friend, welcome, welcome!" he said warmly with a large smile.
Altair knew just how insincere that friendly greeting was.
The rafiq put down his brush and leaned back. "I hear you were recently with my best student. I suppose I really should thank you," he said lightly. "Malik was promoted to dai because you ensured the loss of his arm. Imagine, my brightest student with the most potential a dai at such a young age. Really, I thank you, Altair."
Altair accepted the insult, knowing that he had earned it. "Malik is already a good Brother. He will do well in any placement the Master deems fitting," he said, not knowing how else to respond.
Ibtisam raised an eyebrow, but changed the subject. "Tell me, who's life have you come to collect today?" He reached under the counter to pull out a book.
"His name is Abu'l Nuqoud," Altair answered promptly. "What can you tell me about him?"
"Oh," Ibtisam said in slight awe. "The merchant king of Damascus, richest man in the city, quite exciting!"
Altair frowned. Did Ibtisam not get the messenger pigeon or was he being facetious?
"Quite dangerous," Ibtisam continued with a wide smile and cold eyes. "I envy you, Altair. Well, not the bit where you were beaten and stripped of your rank..."
Beaten? Altair reached back in memory, but he had endured no beating at all. The only thing that came close was when Al Mualim had supposedly stabbed him. But Altair had checked under his robes. He had born no injuries from that encounter. No bruising, no stab wound, nothing. He hadn't been beaten. Gossip could not have exaggerated the story so far, could it? And even gossip was always started by something true. What had Al Mualim done in that one moment when Altair was certain that he was dying? What did everyone else see while Altair watched his blood drain and felt death's embrace? Because he bore no marks, nothing had happened physically. But what sorcery had Altair think he had been dying and others think he had been beaten?
"But I envy everything else," Ibtisam was saying cheerfully. "Oh, except for the terrible things the other assassins say about you, but yes, aside from failure and the hatred, yes, aside from those things? I envy you very much!"
Altair shook aside the doubt and questioning. Shook aside the distraction and the memories. "I do not care what the others think or say. I am here to do a job. So I ask again, what can you tell me about the merchant king?" Because if everything else was questionable, Altair's mission was not. So he focused on it.
Ibtisam shrugged. "Only that he must be a very bad man if Al Mualim has sent you to see him." He picked up his brush and went back to his pot. "He keeps to his own kind, wrapped in the finery of the city's noble district," he gestured with the brush. "A busy man, always up to something. I'm sure if you spent some time amongst his type you'll learn all you need to know about him."
Altair nodded, understanding that Ibtisam would offer no help.
Again.
"And where would you have me begin my search?"
"If I were you, I'd start with the Umayyad Mosque and souk in Sarouja, both of which are west of here. Further to the northwest is Salah ad-Din's citadel. It's a popular meeting spot and has proved a reliable source of loose tongues in the past. Yes, these three places should serve your needs."
Altair bowed his head respectfully. "My thanks for your guidance, rafiq. I'll return when I've gathered the necessary information."
Ibtisam looked surprised for a brief moment, but it was gone in a blink.
Knowing he wasn't welcome here, Altair turned to leave and start his work.
"A moment, Altair."
He turned.
Ibtisam's face had lost it's light-hearted sarcasm and he was looking seriously for the first time at the demoted assassin. "Last time, you would not stay at this Bureau."
Altair shrugged. He knew he was not welcomed here.
Ibtisam crossed his arms. "That is unacceptable, Altair. This is a place of safety for the Brotherhood. Even for you."
Altair sighed, and looked away. "That you would do as Al Mualim asks is to your credit. But you and the others here do not desire my presence. I will not be far away."
The rafiq frowned before putting on his easy smile once again. "Yes, I can see why the other assassins say you are so arrogant. But do not worry, Altair. I will defend you."
There was no winning with this rafiq. "You need not," he replied. "I care not what others think or say." Turning, he climbed to the roof and jumped to another row of buildings to begin his work.
It was midday and Altair doubted he would get any useful information for the remainder of the day. Instead, because of his unfamiliarity with Damascus, he decided to spend his time ascending heights to map out the district. He started north of the Barada River, slowly making his way west. He made good time as many down in the streets and even the some of the city guards were still in the Duhr prayer time and Altair had no problems ascending a minaret to start studying the noble districts layout.
He stayed up there for some time, sketching his maps and avoiding thoughts on where he would stay that evening and thoughts of what had happened back when Al Mualim had used some sorcery to appear to stab him. It was draining and the sun did not help matters, but at least this high up, there was a steady breeze.
Entering the Citadel from the east was the easiest, as he remembered vaguely from letters from Malik back when they had first been apprenticed to their cities, back before they had lost contact and Malik had changed.
Altair paused.
Really, Malik hadn't changed. His tongue was sharper and he was angrier after the debacle in Solomon's Temple, but it had been Altair who had changed. He had suffered heartache and betrayal so he had hidden behind the one thing he was good at. Killing. He had created a wall with his skill and became arrogant.
With a sigh, Altair set his charcoal back to his map. He did not have the time to think of these things. He had a job to do.
He has just finished sketching out the interior of the citadel, leaping from rooftop to rooftop to check his map and decided to leave through the southern gate. He saw beams high above the guards heads which would be easy for him to use.
He paused on a beam before actually leaving, however.
"There is no one more generous than Abu'l Nuquod!" A herald was calling out from a podium in front of the citadel. "Every week he opens his doors to the people of Damascus that they may lay down their burdens and know joy."
Altair could not keep a satisfied smile off his face. He had not been expecting to find any information that day, but now it looked like he had a start.
"Our days may be dark, but thanks to him, our evenings are now filled with light. The merchant king provides for one and all. He asks for nothing in return. Let his generosity serve as an example to us all. Everyone should strive to be as he!"
The herald paused, Asr prayers starting as the streets emptied as people headed to the mosque. The town crier took a breath and started heading to the citadel. Altair watched as he passed under him. Altair retraced his steps to the roofs and dropped down silently into the alley that the herald was walking down.
Reaching out, Altair grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and yanked, cutting off both air and throwing him off balance and delivered a vicious kick to the ribs. The man was down and Altair held his foot to the man's throat while his other foot held a wrist.
"I'll talk, I'll talk!" The man choked out.
Altair relieved the pressure on the man's neck. Slightly.
"I've no interest in dying for him," the crier coughed. "His coin is not worth my life."
In the back of his mind, Altair wondered if this was another man like Thomas, who needed to be saved.
"A wise decision," Altair intoned.
"What is it you want?"
"I have business with the merchant king."
"Ha!" the man gasped a laugh. "Good luck with that." Altair put more pressure on the man's neck. "The man rarely leaves his chambers," he said, far more helpful this time.
"Why?" Altair asked quietly and with menace. "Is he afraid?"
"Not fear. Hate," the herald replied. "He hates himself as much as he hates the people he pretends to serve. Locks himself away in his personal quarters out of shame."
"He can't stay hidden forever," Altair prompted.
"No. Those celebrations of his, he comes out to speak. To look down upon the people. A sense of belonging, I suppose," the herald replied, "however brief."
Altair frowned. "What's wrong with him that he would hide like this?"
The man laughed. "You'll see." Altair eased his foot up. "Now let me go!" the herald demanded.
Altair gave his own laugh. "Let you go? So you can tell him of my plan?" He'd seen the gleam of gold in this man's eye. The herald may not feel like his life was worth the merchant king's coin, but Altair's life would be a different price. This man sought money. Thomas sought freedom. There was no comparison.
"I won't say a thing!" the man gasped, fear starting to flicker in his eyes.
"No," Altair said solemnly. "You won't."
Kneeling, Altair thrust his hidden blade up the man's nose directly to the soft tissue of the brain. And if that wasn't enough, the Altair shifted his weight, so that all of it was on the foot on the man's throat. He cleaned his blade on the man's shirt and left the dark alley. Finding a ladder, he quickly ascended to the roofs once more. Asr prayers wouldn't last much longer, so he returned to the southern gate of the citadel. He swiftly leapt from beam to beam, archers posted just outside, shouting, startled, as he leapt across the plaza to the roof over the podium the herald had used and then across to another rooftop and down to the streets before they could realize that he wasn't some illusion of the heat.
He sipped from his waterskin and blended with the growing crowds, letting the flow carry him south, away from the citadel and the body.
Altair spied another minaret and went searching for a ladder. He was south of the Barada now, and his map still needed adding to. High up over the city, an eagle glided down and rested beside him. Altair pulled out some dried meat and gave it to the majestic bird before going back to his maps.
It was nearing the dinner hour and Altair's stomach was starting to rumble. The eagle gave a hunting screech and leapt off into the winds. Altair climbed down until he spotted a cart of hay and he was low enough to not be injured by the fall. He jumped easily and none even glanced his way as he landed softly in the straw. He stayed still for a few moments, listening to the crowd ebb and flow until he hopped out and walked away quickly, leaving only a small trail of hay.
Since he was near the souk Sarouja he entered, seeking to replenish his food rations. The crowd guided his flow and he checked the stalls for bread, dried meat, and other supplies. He was just a blade in the crowd, hidden, and he kept his senses as sharp as his blade was sheathed.
It was as he was heading to a supplier of oil so that he clean his various blades, when he noticed a courier rushing through the crowds.
This perked Altair's interest. Couriers were usually with their masters at all times, waiting on when a message needed to be delivered. If a courier needed to deliver to a merchant, it was best to go to the merchant's warehouse. So why was a courier here in the souk?
Altair left the line he was in for oils and followed at a distance until the courier arrived in a corner. He walked around a stack of crates and listened.
"It was good of you to come," said the man who had been leaning against the wall.
"It is an honor to serve," the dark-skinned courier replied, bowing his head. "What do you require?"
"This letter must be brought to Salah ad-Din's camp. Seek out the one they call Hisham, he will be able to help. Tell no one else of this."
The courier nodded confidently. "None will know my mission," he said firmly.
"Then our business is concluded," the man said. Reaching up and scratching his beard, the man glanced around and calmly left the secluded corner.
The courier glanced around as well and Altair was already walking harmlessly by, another person in the crowd. The courier kept a hand on his pack as he started to hurry through the crowd, passing Altair. Far too easy, he thought to himself. With the courier ahead of him and focused on speed instead of safety, Altair was behind him in no time. The hand on the pack was the only hindrance, and even that did no good as Altair easily lifted the document and turned, heading back the way he came with the courier none the wiser.
Altair went back to the oil merchant and went back to getting supplies, including some feed for his horse and some scrap metal for the blacksmiths back in Masyaf.
Evening was fast approaching when he sat on a bench under a lantern.
Peace Be Upon You, Hisham:
I have done my best to balance the ledgers, but the counts show something strange: payments to Jerusalem's regent and William of Montferrat in Acre.
I had thought this might be connected to the ransom demanded by the Crusaders for our captive brethren, but given the way that ended (peace be upon those poor souls), this seems unlikely. It also does not account for the deliveries to Jerusalem. But if the money was not meant for ransom, then what is its purpose?
You should also know that there have been extravagant parties as of late. All held within the Merchant King's palace. This is absurd! The citizens of Damascus starve themselves to help Salah ad-Din's war efforts, but instead, their money is being spent on feasts! They deeply despise the Merchant King, and are powerless to stop him. Which is why I write you now.
Please, say nothing to the Merchant King for now. Should he become suspicious, he'll attempt to hide his misdeeds. I'll contact you when I've learned more.
With Peace,
Marzuq
Altair frowned heavily. He had already known from his mission with Tamir that the Merchant King had provided funds for Tamir's weaponry. Now, in the very first sentence, the Nuqoud was connected to his other targets set forth by Al Mualim. And since Tamir was connected with Garnier and Talal, that meant that there had to be some thread to weave them all together. But Altair could not see what. Why was the Nuqoud funding Garnier's army of brainwashed slaves? Why was Nuqoud sending payments to William in Acre, who should be an enemy? And how was Jerusalem's regent caught up in this? What bound these six men?
And what was Nuqoud's money funding in those other cities? Altair was anxious to get to them and see what was going on, if only so that he could see what was going on. He did not care to be so blind. If this accountant could not balance the ledgers, then what sort of extraneous funds were being funneled to the different cities?
The herald had said that Nuqoud hated himself and the people he served. It seemed that hatred towards the Merchant King came in equal measure. Though the herald had pronounced the parties as a way to relieve stress to "lay down their burdens and know joy," it seemed the people disagreed, preferring their money to be used more efficiently. But if even the rich people in the noble district felt powerless, that said something to how much Nuqoud's coin could "persuade" people.
Altair smiled, at last.
It seemed he would need to go to one of these parties.
Placing the letter in a hidden pouch, Altair found an alley almost black in the setting sun and swiftly climbed up to the roofs. As promised to Ibtisam, he did not enter the Bureau, but entered a sky garden nearby. Just before dawn he ducked his head into the Bureau long enough for an apprentice to see him before taking off again. Fajr prayers would be starting soon, there would be little for him to do, and so he spied the minarets of the Umayyad Mosque. They were the tallest in the city, and presented a beautiful challenge.
He dashed about the rooftops, confident that the guards were exhausted after their long shift and bleary eyed, likely to see little. Hopping over a series of wooden beams, he landed onto the roof and dashed behind and around pacing guards before standing at the base of the minaret. Altair took a moment to plot his route that he could see in the dim light. False dawn was filling the sky and if he cared to look down Altair could see the people of the city milling about in the massive courtyard of the mosque, arranging prayer carpets and chatting with each other before prayers started.
Taking a running start, Altair leapt up the flat face of the minaret, his legs pumping him up as high as he could before he stretched his entire body, his fingers just touching the handhold he wanted before he fell back to the roof. He made it on the second try, and for the next three hours all he saw was the rock face above him. The sounds of the city fell away as the sun rose, the faint breeze kissing his coattails as he ascended. Hauling himself up onto a small balcony, he paused to rest for almost fifteen minutes, shaking his arms and hands out, stretching muscles and relaxing before he climbed even higher, intent on reaching the top.
The paint was chipped, he noticed, the wind had scared the minaret in ways those below would never notice, and as Altair reached an old forgotten construction beam sticking out he at last sat down and looked away from the task at hand.
The view was breathtaking.
To the west he could clearly see the arched roof of the noble district's souk, beyond it he could Salah ad-Din's citadel, not even close to reaching the height he was at. To the south was a massive palace, a rich domed building dominating the area as it sat in a sprawling estate. To the east he saw the bronze roof of the Bureau, a spec in the uneven dots of roofs. He saw a madraasah, he did not know it's name, and even further, up near the east wall, so far away he could barely discern it, was the souk Al-Silaah, where he had killed the black merchant Tamir. Southeast he could see other structures rising out over the roofs of the city. He did not know them yet, he had not been there, but this high the massive city looked small. Leaning forward, almost laying down on the beam, he looked down, vertigo having never bothered him, and the people in the streets below looked as insects, milling about like a hive.
Problems were small things, he decided, looking down at the world. It was like the Master had said, everything had to be taken in context. Al Mualim saw that list of nine men as Altair saw the city now; he saw all the streets and webs of connection and ties that bound the men. Altair was but at street level, only able to see what was around him, only what was immediately below him if he stood on a roof. To understand the reason behind his orders to kill these men, Altair needed a higher perspective, as Al Mualim had. The demoted assassin would have to work hard, climb as he had this spire.
It gave him a sense of conviction, and he nodded to himself, satisfied with his climb, and began to work his way down.
It was just after Duhr prayer, the noontime heat high and hard to ignore after being up in the wind. Once he was low enough, he leapt down into a convenient hay bin.
Pulling out a loaf of bread he nibbled on it, having missed the mass exodus of the famous mosque after prayer, he went inside to see who was left. Several people were walking about, either cutting through on errands, lingering to talk with friends and family, or standing to listen to the heralds as they spouted propaganda.
"The fires of war consume the land! Should Richard take Jaffa, then soon all Jerusalem will fall to his wake. Salah ad-Din rides to meet him, so that these barbarous acts might be avenged! Some say this is a tragedy, but I say it is an honor! To die in service to God! The Christians call this fight a Crusade, a Crusade for what? Ignorance? Violence? Madness!"
Altair shook his head as he walked past. He could not understand how religion could be used for war. Wasn't the point of religion peace and tolerance and self-mastery? How could it ever be twisted into propaganda and hate? This was why he never practiced it, better to be a heathen or a heretic than a liar. At least the assassins were honest about their motives.
He exited the mosque and circled around the outer wall, his ears open for anything interesting in the side conversations happening. Much of what he heard was confirmation of the letter he had stolen yesterday. Many in Damascus were being tithed to finance the war, complaining that they could not afford oil lamp for night work or were sacrificing salt and food to make ends meet.
That was when he heard Christian vowels.
Altair spun his head around, trying to lock on where he had heard the accent.
"The last of it has been delivered," said a man, large and well built with powerful arms displayed in a sleeveless vest.
"Good." The Christian from before! The one who had intimidated a merchant into delivering a letter when Altair had been assigned to kill Tamir. He was still in the city? For what purpose? "Make sure he also knows it wasn't easy arranging a shipment like this."
The man frowned, Altair walking around a corner before peaking his head around to see the men. "Its only wine," he said to the Christian, confused why the man was so put out. "Some can be fickle in their faith," he explained.
"Your holy book says something on the subject, I believe," the Christian intoned, a smug, knowing tone in his voice. " 'Leave them that they may eat and enjoy themselves, and that hope may be guile, for they will soon know; and never did we destroy a town that had a turn made known.' "
Altair frowned, trying to place the quote. He had read the Qu'ran, and the Bible, too, but he could not place the passage. Not in reference to wine. Muslims were not to drink wine, but with bad water or droughts many were lax to the law - often wine was safer than water, even in the market capital Damascus.
The man in a vest seemed of similar disposition to the quote, his frown growing. "... What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his tone defensive. Even he could tell that the Christian had insulted him somehow.
"Never mind," the disguised Crusader said, still smirking. "Be about your business."
"...As you wish," the man said, parting company. His broad shoulders rolled as he walked, right past Altair's corner, paying the assassin no mind. Debating between following the Crusader versus following the burly man, Altair bet himself on the burly man, putting his eyes to the ground and pushing himself off the corner. The Christian could not hide his accent, Altair could find him again if he had to, but the assassin wanted to know where this man worked that the Crusader would oversee a shipment of wine and be smug about it.
Tailing the man was easy, the man unworried and uninterested in things happening around him. Weaving through the streets, Altair frowned as he saw the massive domed building he had seen from his climb of the Umayyad Mosque. Who lived in this palace?
Stopping, he knew better than to enter, and instead looked to the entrance of the massive souk of the Sarouja district. He entered, changing his posture and his gate, turning into a wide-eyed and slightly confused man. "Excuse me," he said in his soft tenor to a merchant, "I am new to the city and have managed to get myself lost."
"It happens to the best of us," he said expansively. "Where were you heading?"
"A potter by the name of Ibtisam," Altair replied, looking down in sheepish nerves. "My master will be upset if I collect his order late."
"You are very turned around indeed," the merchant said.
"Oh? Where am I now?"
"You are in souk Al-Hamidiyah, out the entrance that way," he explained, pointing where Altair had come, "is the palace of the Merchant King. Head east from there until leave Sarouja district, then ask for more direction. Now, excuse me, it's time for Asr."
"Yes, of course. Thank you," Altair said, nodding his thanks before turning on his heel and leaving. He started at the ornate cast iron fence, up the steps and to the massive palace. Here was where his target lay. He had ordered wine, meaning he was likely preparing for another party. Altair would have to find a way to sneak into the palace. Perhaps he could help with the preparations...? He would have almost free reign of the palace, and he could make preparations of his own. Where would he find workers to ingratiate himself was the next question, and he answered it almost immediately. Salah ad-Din was still renovating his citadel from when he had taken it in almost twenty years ago.
He climbed the face of the souk, not wanting to be declaimed as a heretic while the masses began their midafternoon prayer, and took to the roofs, smirking as several guards had also gotten to their knees to pray.
Author's Notes: Whew, what to say about this chapter...
One of the great things about Assassin's Creed is the voice acting. Even belying Nolan North (famous for the Uncharted series), we also have Kristen Bell who plays Lucy. This scene, where she confesses that she too is a prisoner of Abstergo, is one of our favorite scenes in the Desmond parts of the game. In point of fact, we didn't really need to do much but transcribe the scene, Kristen's acting does it all herself.
Having said that, we hope no one minds that we took the one liberty of having Desmond hug the poor girl. She needed it, and it seems to add that little extra oomph to an already awesome sequence.
Also, we once more say if there's anyone out there who actually is Muslim or knows about Middle Easter culture, we hope that you can either confirm or correct our use of prayers. One of the Five Pillars of Islam is to pray; five times a day, facing towards Mecca. Wikipedia listed the names of the prayers: Fahr (dawn), Duhr (midday), Asr (afternoon), Maghrib (sunset), and Isha (night) and their times, but we felt confused on how long the prayers actually last - it almost seems like Maghrib and Isha prayers are done back to back, and the two of us got very hesitant and nervous on whether we did them justice. We can only hope they were done right, and that it makes sense how Altair - a heretic to Muslims - fudges his way around it. Both of us are doing a very delicate dance around a war between two religions that in some ways is still popping up today, and the last thing we want to do is offend anybody. That Altair is in effect an atheist gives him the ability to critique religions as he sees them makes it a little easier, but even though we're using his voice we're both tempted to lay down disclaimers left and right. It's no wonder the game opens with a blurb about how it was made by people of many faiths and beliefs. We raise our hands and agree.
Moving on to safer topics, as a side note the Umayyad Mosque is quite worthy of note - it's the fourth holiest place in Muslim belief, it was built on the site of a Basilica for John the Baptist, and it holds the grave of someone we by now know quite well - Salah ad-Din. There was no way we weren't going to have Altair climb it. :D
And we once again curse the lack of subtitles of the game. Barring the fact that wikipedia and google couldn't give us a reference to the Qu'ran quote to even get a reference for what it was talking about, we're not sure of the wording in the last line about never destroying that had a "turn" made known. Turn? Is that the word? (heavy sigh) We tried.
Next chapter: Death of a Merchant. Friends still exist in the brotherhood.