Part Eleven: Death of a Merchant
Entering into the citadel again was easy, and Altair spent two hours talking to the various construction crews asking who would be helping Abu'l Nuquod prepare for his party. More than a few spat at the very mention of the Merchant King's name, and several said they would never take his coin. The assassin was glad that there were those who still had principles, but his irritation was more prevalent as his means to enter the palace grew daunting. He walked into one of the citadel's structures, sitting on a bench and resting in the afternoon heat.
"Safety and peace."
Altair's head snapped up, surprised to see a journeyman standing over him in the shade. "Safety and peace, brother," he replied, grateful for the greeting.
"You want information about the city I suppose?"
The assassin stood. "No, but perhaps you can help me with something else. I wish to gain entry into Abu'l Nuquod's palace. He is preparing for a party and I wish to scout the location and learn what I can before I strike."
The journeyman straightened, his eyes narrowing. "You are Altair," he said, his voice lowering in pitch and becoming much less friendly. "I lost my cousin and my uncle in the attack at Masyaf."
Altair said nothing, waiting to see what the journeyman would do. When it became apparent the informant would do nothing, the demoted assassin gave in to his frustration. "Whatever you feel about me, I have been given an assignment from Al Mualim to take the Merchant King's life - and that is a mission you cannot interfere in. If you are so hesitant to help me then test me as others have, let me prove myself worthy of the information. That is a task the Master has placed on the entire Order."
The journeyman glared, hatred radiating off him as the heat radiated off the city. His fists balled at his sides, and Altair simply waited.
"I am in the middle of something right now," the informant finally said, growls emerging from deep in his throat. "Wait here."
The demoted assassin sat back down and watched the shadows stretch across the small courtyard. In thirty minutes the journeyman returned, winded and with sweat coloring his clothes. Altair stood.
"I would love to help you, but right now I don't have time," the journeyman said in quick, clipped tones. "I must find some flags which have been stolen from our cache. But, with this heat, me legs cannot carry me anymore. Would you be kind enough to help me?" His tone indicated his expectation of Altair's help. "Return with the flags and I'll help you as best I can."
A weak premise, but Altair paid it no mind, quickly spying the first flag and snatching it before dashing up to the roofs for the rest. The journeyman had been in a rush, the route was simple and easy for Altair, and as he leapt from one roof to the next he kept steady count of his heartbeats. At the end, jumping down to the courtyard the informant waited and startling three people, Altair handed the flags to the informant.
"Sixty-eight heartbeats," he said.
In spite of himself the journeyman whistled, impressed. Then he shook his head and returned to the matter at hand.
"Thank you," he intoned, still antagonistic. "The rafiq will be happy to see these flags returned. Perhaps this morsel of information will help you: I was invited by Abu'l to one of his lavish parties. I noticed the fountain in the middle of the Merchant King's palace can be easily climbed."
Altair balked.
"You have been to the Merchant King's parties and that is what you choose to tell me? How many people can be expected to be at the party, what sort of events will happen over the course of the evening, how many guards will there be and where will they be positioned, where will the Abu'l be when he addresses the people? But instead you tell me of a fountain that can be climbed?" He glared.
The journeyman glared right back. "Use this information wisely. I'll not trust a traitor with more valuable information. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go."
Furious, Altair marched out of the citadel, heedless of where his steps took him, trying to work off the energy that had so suddenly filled him. He was not a traitor! What would it take to convince the others of this? And yet the informant had lost family in the attack, and the assassin could not begrudge the man his anger. The two emotions conflicted within Altair, and he struggled to release the emotions quickly.
Evening was approaching, and as Altair entered an alley, rubbing his forehead, his ears caught something.
"Dirty thief, I'll have your hand for that!"
"Please, I've done nothing wrong!"
Distraction at last! Altair walked down the narrow alley, spying three guards accosting a young woman. He was more than happy to start a fight, but he remembered his terrible form in Jerusalem with the scholar. Also, he did not want to help someone if they were guilty of thievery. The woman struggled against one of the guards, her hijab torn off and half tangled in her hair, but her skin was clean and without disease. Her smock was well made but plain; she was neither poor nor rich. He waited, and listened.
"An urchin like you does not belong in this district!"
"Please, I am here to visit my cousin and her new husband!"
"Lies. Give me back my money!"
"I have no money!"
The assassin studied the girl again, but could find no pouches or purses with which to hide coin. None. The girl told the truth, then, and Altair grinned at the opportunity to let loose excess energy and also help the citizenry. Two birds with one stone.
He exited the alley and assessed his surroundings. Maghrib prayer would be starting soon; the streets were nearly vacant, more importantly there were no other patrols of guards. That left the three.
Altair marched up to the one city guard guarding against spectators. "You have no business here," he said, "Go away."
The assassin's response was to plunge his hidden blade into the man's gut, retracting it quickly and silently. The second guard was inattentive, watching instead his friend harass the woman. He didn't even realize Altair was behind him until it was too late, and the assassin grabbed the man's mouth to still his cry as his hidden blade sank into his back in Altair's favored strike. For the third, he grabbed the man's shoulder, spinning him around and away from the girl, kicking the man's legs and making the guard fall to his knees. His blade sank into the man's neck, the soft tissue no match for Altair's skill.
He turned to the girl. "Come," he said, "Quickly."
He had to take her hand and pull her to get her moving, through the alley he had come through and out to a different street. The girl mechanically struggled to fix her hijab, tears streaking her face and her motions jerky and nervous. A guard patrol appeared at the end of the avenue, and the girl gave a soft whimper.
"Be calm," he said in his soft tenor, "act normally and none will notice you. If they do, I will distract them and you can run."
She fought to bring herself under control and Altair watched the patrol discretely. Only one turned to study the woman, and the assassin caught and held his gaze, silently communicating that he had everything under control. The city guard nodded and no incident occurred. Altair walked another fifteen minutes before stopping.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"You," she started. Her voice cracked and she tried again. "You saved me."
"I will escort you to your destination, but I do not know where that is," Altair replied, pressing the point. He wanted to be off the streets - or at least on the rooftops - when the bodies were discovered.
It was another forty-five minutes before the girl at last knocked on the door of a house in Sarouja district. A woman, clearly related to the girl, and a man opened the door.
"You are alright!" the woman said, ushering in the girl and throwing her arms around her. "It's so late! We were worried!"
It was all the prompting the girl needed; she burst into tears. Altair and the husband shared a slightly panicked look, but the women quickly disappeared to a different room and the husband ushered the assassin in. Altair explained briefly what happened and why he was with the girl.
"Hah," the husband said, "We're missing Maghrib for this. I do hate doing two prayers at once, but I am certain Allah will understand. It appears as though you've saved the life of my cousin-in-law. She is very close to my wife, and for that you have my thanks and gratitude. You will always be welcome in this house."
Altair chose not to reply to that, uncertain what to say.
"Well, best not have you on the streets during prayer," the husband said. "We wouldn't want you labeled as a heretic, and a story like this is private at any rate. I'm certain we still have some food from our dinner, are you hungry?"
Before the assassin could wave off the offer his stomach gave an audible rumble. The husband laughed good-naturedly and led him to the cookpot. As he ate, the man regaled him with small talk. The husband was a contractor, married only two months, and did work in the citadel. Altair perked at the information and casually asked how he could find work under Abu'l Nuquod.
The husband laughed again, a large, hearty sound. "You are not that abomination's type, my friend."
Altair frowned, not understanding the statement, and clarified, saying he heard the Merchant King was preparing for a party and that he wished to help in the preparations. "I need the coin," Altair lied, "and in these times I will not be choosy."
"You speak wise words, though I hate to admit it," the contractor said. "I loathe the man, how he became the father of the money I will never understand, but even I work for him, his hand is in almost every contract dealing with Salah ad-Din's citadel while the Sultan is not here. If the men knew it, they would surely riot." He frowned, rubbing his short beard. "I might know a few people. Come see me tomorrow morning. I will see what I can do."
Altair nodded.
"Now, I'll not hold you longer. No doubt you still have business to do, and I don't want to miss Isah prayer on top of Maghrib. Allah isn't that forgiving." He laughed again, and Altair chuckled as well in good humor, before setting out into the late evening light. The next morning the contractor introduced him to another contractor, and for two days Altair reported for work at Abu'l Nuquod's palace. His assassin robes were replaced with a worker smock, he felt uncomfortable without his swords or his throwing knives, but he persistently kept his hidden blade, hidden under the sleeve of his overlarge shirt. For two days he studied the inner courtyard of the palace. The fountain, an indecently exposed woman of Roman design, could indeed be climbed, and on either side were stone arches. There was another structure, too, further back that acted as some kind of open room that had plenty of things to grip. The rest of the courtyard was very smooth, well built, and handholds were too high up for him to reach.
Guards were far and few between, though Altair knew that would likely change for the actual party. True to what he had heard to this point, Abu'l was nowhere to be seen, deeper inside his palace that Altair and the other workers had no access to.
At the end of the second day, as the assassin and the others left, one of the workers walked up to Altair.
"There is a problem," he said. "I need your advice."
"What is it?" the demoted assassin asked.
"This morning, I went to hand the lanterns for the party."
"This troubles you, why?"
"I... I forgot to remove the scaffolding," the worker said, rubbing the back of his bald head in embarrassment. He shook his head, nervous.
"Forgot it where?" Altair asked perking at the information.
"Just outside the Merchant Kings' quarters, above the balcony. Wh-what if it falls? Someone could be hurt."
Useful information. Altair grinned and put a hand on the worker's shoulders. "Too late to do anything about it now," he said. "Just hope it isn't noticed. I have a few things to do yet tomorrow before the party, I will handle it then."
"Oh, thank you," the worker said. "You are very generous."
Altair slept in his sky garden and once more "checked in" with the Bureau by letting someone inside see him. Now he would sneak into the palace before Fajr dawn prayers would begin. Hopefully the guards were more prevalent during the night, and just before dawn they would be at their most tired, and Altair could mark where they were on his map.
He was almost at the gates when,
"Altair, my friend! My brother!"
The demoted assassin froze, the voice surprising him. He turned, and exiting the door of a house just outside the palace was Zamil, a fellow apprentice and journeymen during Altair's time in Jerusalem. He smiled.
"Safety and peace, brother."
"Safety and peace," Zamil said. "It's been such a long time. Any news of Adha since she left?"
"I will find you Adha!"
The assassin froze, his back straightening, his fists balling at his sides as the old pain swept over him. He said nothing, but Zamil saw just the same.
"No? How sad," he said, looking down, giving Altair time and privacy to pull himself together again. "I'm sure you'll find her some day."
Silence hung awkwardly between them.
Zamil finally changed topics. "I've heard a feather is lying atop Abu'l Nuquod's head; maybe I could help you. But, I have a mission myself; I have four targets I must eliminate before noon. Let's cooperate, just like old times. Two for you, two for me? They are Abu'l's personal guards, you'll spot them in minutes."
"Yes," Altair agreed blindly. Murder would do him good.
"Good. Come with me," the journeyman said. "Imagine, me, me finally settling down and taking a permanent assignment. I thought I would wander forever, but it seems even I find the endless travel tiresome and wish permanence. For the last two weeks I've been establishing myself as a spice merchant in the souk, and I'm not afraid to say I've already taken a wife. Timid little creature, shy and soft spoken, and her father is very possessive of her, but I fell in love at the sight of her. And once you get her alone and comfortable, her mind is very sharp. She talked me in circles when we first met. She's make a fine addition to my cover, and to the order, if I can convince her."
"You are doing well, then," Altair said as they entered the massive souk.
"Happy as can be," Zamil said. "I never thought settling down could be so exciting. I recommend it to you but I know your wanderlust is even greater than mine was. You've a few years left in you before you'll feel the itch, I'd wager. How long have you been in the city?"
"This is my fifth day," Altair said.
"What?" Zamil cried out, "And I've not seen you till now? What have you been doing, brother? Where have you been sleeping? I'm at the Bureau every evening and I've not seen you."
Altair squirmed, looking away and instead keeping a lookout for the sleeveless uniforms of the Merchant King's guards. "Is that one?" he asked softly, pointing.
"Yes," Zamil said, his happy exterior falling away. "I'll take first blood, if you don't mind." Altair nodded and the journeyman left his side, disappearing into the crowd. The demoted assassin stood next to a merchant stall, crossing his arms as he eyed the guard. The journeyman crept up behind him with great skill, Altair appreciated the technical perfection, and sank a knife into the man's back, just below the ribcage as Altair himself favored, without even breaking stride. The demoted assassin calmly started walking again and rejoined his friend.
"As I was saying, why have I not seen you at the Bureau?"
"I cannot stay where I am not welcome," Altair said softly, his words lost in the noise of the crowds.
"Well, that simply will not do," said his friend, patting the assassin on the shoulder, "we'll have to fix that."
"Have you even talked to the rafiq?" Altair asked. "His opinion will not change, and I do not care if it does. I can do my job without his support."
"Ha! Still looking to challenge yourself I see," Zamil said. The journeyman shook his head and clapped Altair on the shoulder again. "That push will surely get you killed one day. Mountains, great as they are, do not stand alone, do they? Even the mighty seas are connected to the lakes and rivers. So it must be with assassins. We are great by ourselves, but we are better together. You may not care what the rafiq thinks of you, but your should care that you have his support. And with that, at least, I can help you. There is the next target," he added, jutting his head to a patrolling man of the Merchant King. "Your turn."
Altair nodded and broke away, clasping his hands together and dipping his head down, locking his eyes on the feet of the target. The crowd was thick but the assassin navigated it with ease, working his way up to the guard, following him until he stopped to look at a stand. Once he bought a leg of meat Altair snuck up, stabbing the man. As the body fell many cried out, saying he was choking.
"Excellent," the informant said, "I would not have thought to disguise his death so. This is why you are a master assassin - title or not. And how is it, might I ask, that you can keep a man in your sights if your head is bent so low?"
"I look at his feet," Altair explained.
"A trick from a master, I will keep that in mind for the next one," Zamil said, happy at the thought. "Tell me, I heard another dai is in charge at Jerusalem. Do I know who it is?"
"... Malik."
"The boy you played with as a child?" the journeyman asked. "Then the Holy City at least is still a place of welcome for you."
"No," Altair corrected. "He and his brother Kadar were with me at Solomon's Temple."
Zamil stopped walking outright, staring at Altair with wide eyes. "Oh, brother," he said, reaching out and touching the assassin's arm, "The pain you must be in."
Something in Altair prickled, and he looked away. "I am fine," he said stubbornly. "I am fine."
"An excellent kill. Fortune favors your blade."
"All of this could have been avoided! And my brother... my brother would still be alive!"
He was fine. He was fine. He had a target to kill. He was perfectly fine... There was no pain. At all...
The two assassins exited the souk, searching the streets for the last two targets in silence. One was cutting through an alley, and Zamil took his turn to kill the man, searching his pockets for papers and coin, while Altair broke off to find the last. He was by a fountain, drinking from it. A degenerate was there, bony and shirtless, nibbling on his fingers and giggling at something only he could see. Altair briefly wondered if Garnier could have saved this man but put the thought from his mind, instead looking at the Merchant King's guard and narrowing his focus, thinking about eagles and opening his mind as he closed the distance. The stab was quick and efficient, and Altair walked by a city guard, listening to the man demand whom was responsible for the murder as the demoted assassin continued to increase his distance.
"Wasn't that great?" Zamil demanded when they met up again. "Just like in Alep, you remember? Here's something I found on one of the Merchant King's men. I think it's a map of where he'll station his guards. I'm sure it will come in handy in your mission."
"The last time I found such a map it was part of a trap," Altair intoned, looking at the sketch and the placements. Morning prayers were long since over, and now the guards were locked away in the palace with Abu'l. There was no way to confirm this until the actual party that night, and the demoted assassin sighed and accepted he could do nothing about it.
"Any time you're in Damascus, come see me," the journeyman said, "you know my door is always open to you. Where are you off to now?"
"The rafiq to get my feather," Altair said simply. "And then to the party tonight."
"Tonight?" Zamil said. "Then you've the entire day free. Excellent. Come with me."
"But-"
The journeyman did not take no for an answer, instead spending the rest of the morning dragging the demoted assassin about the district, catching up and sharing stories. It was past noon when Zamil at last pulled Altair to the Bureau. Several apprentices were in the courtyard, and the journeyman quickly accosted them.
"My friends!" he said expansively. "Look and see whom I've discovered today: Altair! This man is an excellent friend and brother to the Order; I expect you've heard many stories about him already."
Most stared, the ever-affable Zamil having caught them all off guard. One finally pulled himself together to mutter, "That he's a traitor and should be avoided."
Zamil took it in stride. "Oh, he's made mistakes like the rest of us, and it can be expected that the greater a man is, the greater effect his mistakes have. Let me tell you a story about Tripoli. The two of us were working together to kill a man there, vile guard captain. We were in the middle of assaulting his stronghold when we discovered our information was incorrect. Imagine my surprise when twelve guards suddenly surrounded me. None of the information we had gathered talked about wandering patrols inside the garrison."
"And whose fault was that?" a younger apprentice asked, wide eyed.
"The traitor's," the older one muttered. Altair said nothing.
"Ha! A good guess but mistaken," the journeyman said, still in good humor. "It was mine. I was responsible for gathering information about guards and troop movement. In technique, there are none that can beat my friend here. I was in dire straights at the time, one had managed to break my arm - I still have the scar from it - but he swept in and dispatched no less than four guards before they even knew a second man was there! Why, as I was fighting the guards Altair was not only able to complete the assassination but also come back before I'd killed a third man. "
"So then, he came back after the mission was finished," the apprentice said, still scoffing.
"As well he should have," Zamil said, "If he had not, the captain would have disappeared and ruined a month's worth of work. My position was already compromised; he could have made a clean escape but instead he made himself known and saved my life. I will always be indebted to him, he is a true hero!"
Altair could not take any more words from his friend, nor the multitude of expressions from the apprentices. He quietly made his way into the Bureau.
"Peace be upon you, Altair," the rafiq Ibtisam said. "How may I serve you?"
A wave of laughter erupted from the courtyard. "Ah," Ibtisam said, "That would be Zamil, wouldn't it? He has quite the string of stories from his days on the road. He says he knows you very well and likes you even though you've betrayed the Order and are responsible for killing a brother. He has defended you many times this week, and I have encouraged him to do so. After all, you being hated for your arrogance and reckless action that almost brought about the entire destruction of the Order seem so unfair. Don't you agree?"
Altair took a deep breath. "I've done as asked and learned all I need to know about my prey."
Ibstisam stood, walking down the counter to pull out the book. "Then you must share your knowledge with me."
"Abu'l Nuquod is corrupt to the core and is despised by his own citizens as a result. It appears he's been stealing money meant for the people of Damascus and spending it on himself. Even as we speak he flaunts his greed and preparing for a lavish party. His guards and servants should have their hands full dealing with the guests. They won't even know I'm there."
"Most impressive, my friend," the rafiq said in his ironic tones. "The others said you'd make a mess of things, but not I. No, I was sure you'd come through, and come through you have." He opened the book and pulled out the feather, placing it on the counter.
"The Bureau is yours to do with as you please, until you are ready to begin." Ibtisam smiled. "I hope one of the things you do is the report, of course, but I know not to ask, you must already be planning to write it down."
Nodding, Altair pulled out quill and parchment to write his report, Zamil and his stories wafting from the courtyard. The afternoon waned, but Altair finished his report to Ibtisam's satisfaction quicker than he had anticipated, and so Altair spent the time pouring over the detailed sketches he'd made of the Merchant King's palace, mentally picturing the guard map Zamil had given him and associating it with certain spots in the inner courtyard. The courtyard behind him erupted occasionally with laughter, and Altair felt removed from it, disassociated. The journeyman always made friends with everyone; Altair did not have that skill and had never considered it necessary. Now, the proverbial mountain without a range, he began to wonder if it was a skill he should have paid more attention to. He had thought he had friends, brothers that looked up to him and lavished him with praise for his talents and exploits, but now they spat at his feet and scorned him, proving he did not sway their loyalty as he had initially thought. He felt... he felt lonely, listening to the noise outside and knowing he would likely never be a part of it.
He shook his head. Such thoughts did not befit an assassin. He was stronger than that.
Dusk arrived, and after evening prayer Altair stood and left the Bureau. Zamil bade him good luck, and said he would wait up for him, and shockingly a young apprentice wished him fortune as well. Dumbfounded, Altair could only nod as he climbed out the courtyard and made his way southwest, towards his target.
"Safety and peace, my friend," Zamil said softly.
Altair arrived at the Merchant King's palace to see the party had already begun. A steady stream of people were chatting as they entered the palace, dressed in finery and laughing. Altair waited, picking his moment before sliding into the throng without a glance and entering. Those that looked at him curiously, with his swords and throwing knives, merely shrugged, assuming him to be part of the guards who occasionally walked by on their way to something or other.
Inside the palace, a lavish display of food was set up, goblets of pure clean water, a true rarity in the high heat of summer with Damascus's only source being the Barada River, and servants with trays overflowing with fruits and meats circulated. Girls wearing see-through silks with flowing hair and beaded ornaments danced to amused calls of the men surrounding them. From a balcony above, a small band played lively music; flutes and drums of some kind and those already well into the revelry were swaying with the music, if without much rhythm.
Altair didn't mingle. He stayed by the walls, looking around with the sharp eyes of an eagle, his mind opened and searching for his target the Merchant King. He could easily see the balconies above where his map had said there would be guards, yet he saw none. Sensed none. This worried Altair, because there was something he was unaware of going on. So he kept his eyes eagle sharp as he constantly scanned the crowd, "mingling" enough to move from one wall to another to get another perspective.
The moon was high in the sky as people still danced and talked. For all that Altair had heard that many in the city hated these parties and their lavish expenses, those that attended did seem to enjoy a chance to relax. They talked of politics and discussed how they would strategize the war if they were there, and how to win. Altair tried not to sneer. People removed from the war, who knew nothing of blood and sacrifice, offering strategies that would "surely" win. He despised it when people who knew nothing of what they spoke tried to give advice.
The food was eventually removed; leaving only snacks as the party continued well into the night. Altair was starting to wonder when Nuqoud would finally appear, as he allegedly did. He kept his eyes sharp and stayed alert. The partygoers were oblivious to whether their host was there or not, so Altair kept moving through the crowds, looking for the "abomination".
It wasn't until the moon had reached its zenith that the Merchant King finally arrived. He stepped out onto the balcony with two of his buff, bare-armed guards flanking him. The partygoers seemed to notice and all turned, conversation not disappearing, but dropping.
"Welcome, welcome!" Nuqoud said expansively, his arms wide open and Altair finally saw why many might call him an "abomination." The Merchant King had a greater girth than any Altair had ever seen before. His face was potmarked and twisted with heavy cheeks of ugliness. And though the evening had cooled considerably, it seemed even walking from his private quarters to the balcony had left Nuqoud sweating. Indeed, he only wore a long, sleeved vest, leaving his chest and stomach exposed, still shining with sweat and Abu'ls fat arms rested on it as he looked down on the people.
Around Altair, he could hear muttered words of disgust for the Merchant King, harsh words whispered behind hands like children. Altair, having been subjected to such treatment himself, felt great pity for the massive merchant above them.
"Thank you all, for joining me this evening," Nuqoud continued, deaf, apparently, to the cruelty towards him. "Please! Eat, drink enjoy all the pleasures, I have to offer."
Altair noted the odd emphasis, but pushed it aside.
"Take your time," Nuqoud gestured to his own goblet. "I will wait."
The crowd seemed disappointed until, as if a miracle from the Bible, the water from the nude Roman fountain turned to red wine. Several men immediately started to fill their goblets and drink.
With a strange smile, the Merchant king said, "I trust everything is to your... satisfaction."
"Most definitely!" someone shouted.
"Oh-ho it is!"
Clearly, these did not mind losing their senses in the wine.
As many started to gather around the fountain, Nuqoud seemed pleased. "Good, good." He made another expansive gesture. "It pleases me to see you all so happy."
Altair pushed through the crowds, hoping to get to an exit so that he could get around to the scaffolding left behind.
"These are dark days, my friends, and we must enjoy this bounty, while we still can. War threatens to consume us all. Salah ad-Din bravely fights for what he believes in, and you," he pointed to the vast crowd, "are always there to support him without question." A twisted smile. "It is your generosity that allows his campaign to continue."
Altair had almost reached an exit when he paused. Something about the Merchant's King's speech making him still. Something was... strange.
Nuqoud raised his goblet. "So, I propose a toast, then, to you, my dear friends, who have got us to where we are today."
The crowd crowed in happiness and flattery, while several still muttered insults to the benefactor that had provided their revelry.
"May you be given everything you deserve."
Everything within Altair tensed, that sharp vision of the eagle turning to the ugly, fat Nuqoud. Danger. The partygoers, heedless of the peril that was suddenly engulfing the palace, cheered and applauded.
"Such kindness," Nuqoud kept pacing his balcony. "I didn't think it in you! You, who have been so quick to judge me, and so cruel." He smiled. "Oh do not feign ignorance," he chided as the crowd started to boo. "Do you take me for a fool? That I have not heard the words whispered behind my back? Well, I have. And I fear I can never forget."
Altair was looking around, wondering where the danger! was coming from, his whole body tense for action.
"But this is not why I've called you here," Nuqod said with amusement. "No, I wish to speak more of this war, and your part in it." The people shouted in anger. "You give up your coin, quick as can be, knowing all too well it buys the deaths of thousands. You don't even know why we fight. 'The sanctity of the Holy Land' you'll say, or 'the evil inclination of our enemies'. But these are lies you tell yourselves," the Merchant King snarled and laughed. "No. All this suffering is born of fear and hate. It bothers you that they are different, just as it bothers you that I am different." He took a big gulp from his goblet and set it down.
"Compassion, mercy, tolerance. These words mean nothing to any of you! Mean nothing to those infidel invaders who ravage your land in search of gold and glory! And so I say ENOUGH!"
There was a crash.
"I've pledged myself to another cause," guards flooded the upper balcony, archers! Altair tensed even further. "One that will bring about a new world," Nuqod said, easing over to one of his guards, the dark skinned one, "in which all people might live," he placed a hand gently on the guard's shoulder and let it slide down a strong arm, "side by side, in peace." Nuquod smiled down at the upset crowd.
"A pity, none of you will live to see it."
One by one, those by the fountain who had been sipping or guzzling the wine started to cough and choke. Goblets fell and broke, men staggered and collapsed, and those not yet down started to scream.
"Kill anyone who tries to escape!" the Merchant King demanded.
As one, the archers opened fire on the panicked crowd as Nuqod calmly watched the people who had come get cut down. The people tried to scatter, getting under the balconies, heading towards the exits, not realizing the gates had been shut and archers from across the courtyard could still see them. The dancers were screaming, huddling together and trying to beg that they were only doing their jobs, the men hid behind the women or behind pillars, some grabbing pillows meant for sitting and holding them up as some sort of feeble defense.
Altair's mouth thinned.
These people were innocent. They had only come because they were invited. The city of Damascus may view Nuquod as an ugly abomination, but he proved himself to be what they expected by this slaughter.
Altair had to stop this.
He was an assassin. Stay your blade. At worst, these people were guilty of childish taunts and words. They did not deserve this.
Altair needed to save these people somehow.
Those fallen to the poison were already gone, but the archers only needed a new target in order for the people to be safe.
So Altair provided such a target.
He brazenly ran through the courtyard, coattails concealing his legs as he effortlessly ran up the statue and grasped the head. The poisoned wine poured over his arms, staining his whites and Altair kept his mouth sealed shut as he pulled himself up to balance on the nude's head before leaping to a set of decorative arches.
The archers had noted he was an easy target, and arrows were flying his way. He easily dodged them as he balanced perfectly and took three steps to leap to a flagpole and up onto the balcony.
"Infidel die!" the archers cried, realizing the threat to Nuqoud. But Altair was too swift. The arrows only grazed him at best as the Merchant King gasped and stumbled backward. The guards that had flanked him stepped forward, swords drawn as the fat abomination scurried out his door.
This was a setback, but Altair had no worries. The bearded guard reached forward to grab the assassin, but Altair grabbed the wrist, twisting it so that the bearded guard turned before Altair planted his boot in the man's rump, kicking him hard face-first into the marble. The dark skinned guard came up, sword swinging, trying to take advantage of Altair's distraction, but Altair easily brought up his sword, blocking the strike before kicking out with his other leg, sending the guard flat on his stomach.
He raised his sword to kill the bearded guard who was standing again when pain flashed up along his arm. He ignored it completely, finishing his strike, a heavy blow the bearded guard had no chance of blocking, that slashed through the unprotected chest, collar to hip. Blood spurted to Altair's face and arms and he spared a moment to wipe his face with a forearm and grunted. His arm was still blazing with pain, but he ignored it, not even glancing to see what the problem was because the dark skinned guard was on him again, a war-cry on his lips as he brought his sword down as heavily as Altair had on his partner.
The force of it pushed Altair back and an arrow shot by his face. A glance showed that the archers were all focused on him, but were hesitant to fire and hit their associate as well.
Good. That meant the people weren't in harm's way.
Altair fell back; blocking strike after strike until he was in the narrow hall that Nuqoud had fled down, the dark-skinned guard blocking him from the archers. The guard slashed again and Altair stepped back swiftly, pulling out knife and throwing it into the guard's unprotected neck. He would bleed out in minutes.
Taking off like an arrow, Altair ran down the hall and to the back of the palace. Behind him he could hear the archers shouting to each other, seeking new positions to get this wine-and-blood soaked assassin, their focus not returning to the panicked people below them.
For a fat man, he runs fast.
"Guards! Where are all of my guards!"
Altair saw Nuqoud running towards a guard tower, no doubt to get a sword. He couldn't have that. He raced forward, the back of the palace unguarded as everyone was to be on duty at the party. Nuqoud glanced back and with a startled yelp hurried even faster than his bulk suggested was possible.
Altair was upon him, knocking him down before the Merchant King was even twenty feet from the guard tower. It wasn't elegant in the slightest, but Altair was at last alone with his target. He wouldn't have much time, but it was enough. Nuqoud himself seemed to know that his time was at an end.
"Be at peace now," Altair offered. "Their words can no longer do harm."
Nuqoud only glared at him. "Why have you done this?" he demanded.
"You stole money from those you claimed to lead, sent it away for some unknown purpose." Part of which was Tamir, and likely Garnier and Talal and who knew what else. "I want to know where it's gone and why," Altair gave his own demand.
The Merchant King scoffed. "Look at me! My very nature is an affront to the people I ruled, and these noble robes did little more than muffle their shouts of hate."
Altair frowned. "So this is about vengeance, then?"
"No, not vengeance, but my conscience. How could I finance a war in service to the same god that calls me an abomination?"
The assassin still wondered where in the Quoran that Allah had said that ugliness was such a sin, but put that aside. "If you do not serve Salah ad-Din's cause, then whose?"
Nuqoud gave a twisted smile. "In time, you will know them. I think, perhaps, you already do," he said quietly.
Altair thought of his first three kills towards his redemption. Yes, he did know. But the connection was but a pale thread. It existed, but could not be grasped. "Then why hide?" he asked. For all these men had hidden their true purposes. "And why these dark deeds?"
The Merchant King reached up, placing a fat hand on Altair's elbow and running it down his forearm. "Is it so different from your own work? You take the lives of men and women, strong in the conviction that their deaths will improve the lots of those left behind. A minor evil for a greater good. We are the same!" The hand stroked Altair's gauntlet again.
Altair felt distinctly uncomfortable. Yes, he killed, and he had been killing for years. He killed because it brought peace, removing the evil and letting freedom take over for oppression. He had seen this keenly through killing Tamir, Garnier, and Talal. The people those men had made suffer were better off without such villainy. Yet, from each of their perspectives, it was Altair who was the evildoer.
Discomfort and anger made him bite out, "No! We are nothing alike!"
"Ah, but I see it in your eyes," Nuqoud whispered. "You doubt. You cannot stop us... we will have our New World."
With a sigh, Altair's hidden blade slid into Nuqoud's throat. The man gurgled, his body resisting the breathing of blood. Altair pulled the feather from his belts and brushed it gently into the blood bubbling from the Merchant King's throat before standing.
"There he is!"
"I will catch you!"
And Altair was off through the northwestern door of Nuqoud's palace. He was covered in poisoned wine and blood and made for quite the site as he raced through crowded streets, but he was not alone. The crowds from the party had broken through the doors and were screaming as well. Altair easily blended into the crowd, the panic causing others who weren't even involved in the party to start running.
He made his way north, wishing to avoid going straight to the Bureau and bringing this pursuers along with him. He doubted Ibtisam would take kindly to that in the slightest.
The crowds started to thin and Altair found a secluded courtyard so that he may finally take stock of himself.
He was indeed a sight to be seen. He smelled like a drunkard and the wine and blood had stained his white robes to pinkish red that was slowly turning brown as the blood dried. The main issue was the arrow in his arm. Like a seamstress pinching cloth to put a needle through, an arrow had done more than graze his skin, piercing it like a needle. His wine-soaked sleeve was at least disinfecting it, but he reached up and snapped off both the fletching and the arrowhead, leaving only a few inches of the shaft still in his arm. It would be less noticeable and he would not do more until the physicians Ibtisam had could look at it properly.
These men he was sent to kill were wicked. They profited form the war. And so Altair was sent to stop them, and ensure that peace returned. But then why did the Merchant King's words dig so deeply? Was it wrong for the assassin to see a bit of truth in them? He needed return to Al Mualim, that he could help make sense of this and crush the seeds of doubt. To do that his first priority was to get to the Bureau.
He exited the courtyard, the nighttime streets darkened to almost black. It helped to hide his unseemly appearance as he continued to use back alleys and side streets to weave his way through the city.
He passed under a torchlight, confident that he had lost his pursuers, despite the still clanging bells of the guards.
But his arrogance once again ensured trouble.
"There he is! You will not escape me!"
Altair was off and running again, his whites working against him in the darkness of the night.
Arabic curses were hurled in his direction as Altair spotted the Barada River.
He couldn't stop the smile from gracing his lips. He may be weighed down with his swords, but he did not bear the heavy armor of the city guards. Without pause, he leapt over the railing and dived into the dark waters of the river, grateful to wash off the poison and blood so that he may hide better.
Desmond gasped for breath, disoriented in the white fog as the Animus reset itself. "What the hell?"
But the fog was dissipating. He was right where his ancestor was, just seconds ago, at the river, only it wasn't the middle of the night, it was high noon again. His clothes were once again the pristine white he always wore as his avatar, and the sharp pain from an arrow in his arm was gone. In fact, so was the arrow.
"What the hell?" he repeated, surprised to find himself out of synch with Altair.
"Get him!"
"Huh?"
Desmond turned and a guard was swinging at him with a two-handed grip on his sword, slashing Desmond's chest and sending a shock of pain through him.
"Hurry up and resynch, Mr. Miles!" Vidic growled. "We haven't got all day!"
He didn't hear the rest of Vidic's harsh words as he tried to dodge out of the way of four guards! Four! Why the hell did he desynchronize in the middle of open conflict?
A sword sliced into his back and Desmond was sent stumbling forward, through the circle of guards around him as a standard patrol came out of the noontime shadows and started to unsheathe their blades to help their associates. Desmond took the time to get to his feet and start running, panic raging to take control even as he firmly put it aside.
If there was one thing Desmond had always been good at, it was running.
He sprinted along the river, leaving the Arabic epitaths behind him and taking a sharp right and another sharp left, running along some big Umayyad Mosque. He could hear the guards still behind him, so Desmond started thinking outside of narrow alleys and crowded streets. (And why the hell was it noon instead of night?)
Desmond spotted some crates that were leaning up against a small one-story building that he easily leapt up. Once on the roof he used his momentum to climb up to the second story and across a street to the covered balcony of another building. Behind him he could hear the guards scrambling to catch up, their number slowing their ability. He leapt down from the roof he was on to a lower roof and then dropped right into a small, darkened alley. With a deep breath, he controlled his racing heart and breathing and calmly exited the alley. The crowded shoppers of the streets once more surrounded him and he found a bench that he sat on, looking down at his feet and waiting.
He had questions. A lot of them. But he dared not say a word until he knew he wasn't going to be attacked by guards again. Watching from under his hood, he saw the original four guards that had accosted him run swiftly by, followed by the seven guards of the patrol, and another three that seem to have joined the chase at some point or other that Desmond couldn't even begin to guess. Bits of code seemed to follow the guards, trailing behind like a scarf. The clang of the city bells were still sounding and the guards slowed to a stop just beyond where Desmond was praying no one saw him.
The code seemed to grow in size before the guards stopped completely, standing dumbly and then dispersing, swords still drawn, in different directions to start searching the area. Desmond stayed still, head down, leaning forward, looking as if the he was resting from the heat. With over a dozen guards on the look out for him, Desmond tried to reach for what Altair did. He focused all his might on the vision of an eagle and reached for the part of his mind he'd seen Altair reach for.
Colors flashed across his vision for the briefest of seconds.
But it seemed Desmond hadn't inherited that sharp-vision of an eagle. A thousand years to remove it from the bloodstream, but that was still disappointing.
The guards had finally left the area and Desmond let out a sigh of relief. He didn't get up from his seat, however. Instead, looking to the sky.
"My, wasn't that fun?" he asked sarcastically.
"We weren't expecting that, Desmond," Lucy said softly with a hint of sorrow. "You already know the Animus isn't programmed for swimming and we didn't have records of your ancestor being a swimmer. We just can't simulate it and you glitched out of the memory."
"Yeah I figured that," he replied somewhat sullenly. "But the night-to-day transition?"
"Night to day?"
Desmond frowned. Did they not see the memories in the proper timeframe? He looked around, seeing everything under the harsh noon sun. That was the only time the Animus ever showed, noon. Like the clock was set to midday and couldn't move forward. If Altair's memories showed the advancing of time, but the Animus didn't, was that something he could use?
Then he bit back a growl of frustration. Of course they set this thing to noon. All the better to see what Altair did and study his moves. Of course it can't be night when he can hide things. This wasn't just about getting to a specific memory of some treasure that they needed. This was a chance to study how assassin's worked. Even Desmond running just now was showing off an ability he had that was better kept to himself. He was such an idiot.
"So," Desmond looked up to the sky and changed topic. "Anyone want to spill the beans on exactly how all these guys my many-greats-grandpa was killing are connected?"
Vidic gave a great guffaw. "All in good time, Mr. Miles. All in good time."
Desmond offered many epitaphs of his own, all vulgar and demeaning, towards the grizzled old fart, in the silence of his own mind.
And, with a quiet sigh, he muttered, "Map: Damascus." The quickest way to resynch would be to return to the Bureau. With tattered and still somewhat blurry map in hand, Desmond started to make his way back to where Altair would be going.
One would think that a lost scholar with a map in hand studying the city would be dismissed as harmless.
Naturally, it wasn't.
Desmond ended up on the run from the guards three more times. It took longer each time, since he refused to show off his full abilities to either Vidic or whomever these sessions were recorded for, so he stayed to the streets and avoided climbing rooftops, using narrow alleys and merchant stands as distractions and breaking line-of-sights. It didn't change that his skill at running was still seen, but his first escape would likely look more like a fluke, or so he hoped.
When he finally heard the wind chimes of the Bureau, Desmond let out a sigh of relief. He walked into the shadowed alcove where the ladder ascended to the roof and started to climb. Strangely, as he went up his arm ached. He had climbed too often with the arrow embedded in it.
Altair's robes were uncomfortably damp, and the arrow in his arm was sending sharp twinges up his shoulder at every opportunity. After his swim in the river, he had decided it was wiser to stay to rooftops, where his white shadow would blend with the clay buildings. And, as predicted, he had no more trouble with the guards. But the minor irritation of the arrow was starting to get truly annoying. On the roof of the Bureau, he looked out to the east where the sky was just starting to lighten for the dawn. He had been at this for a full day and now that he was safe, tiredness was also starting to weigh him down. Ibtisam would no doubt scold him for somehow being late or some other triviality, so Altair pushed down the tiredness and took a breath to focus. He had a report to write out and a sarcastic rafiq to deal with.
Once more strong, Altair dropped into the Bureau. His drop startled awake two people. One, as Altair had expected, was Zamil. The other was surprisingly the young apprentice who had wished him luck.
"Ah, Altair, my friend," Zamil greeted warmly. "The bells toll your success!"
"Indeed," he agreed. "The Merchant King is dead."
"Excellent! Excellent!" Zamil lighted a lamp, casting a warm glow around the courtyard. "Come, tell us of your adventure! Perhaps your tale will convince this young pup that you are a skilled assassin of the highest order!"
Altair's lips thinned. His tale was not of skill or luck. He did not wish to share it, as he would have with Zamil once, when Atlair did not bear the wisdom he had recently worked for. Zamil clapped Altair's shoulder and they entered the main office of the Bureau. The silent apprentice set about lighting the other lamps and lanterns, throwing a glance of suspicion and confusion at the demoted assassin.
Altair sat on the cushions by the game board as the lamps went on one by one. Zamil pulled out water and bread, all but forcing it down Altair's throat as the last lamps were lighted.
Once the room was well lit, Zamil and the apprentice got a good look at Altair. The apprentice let out a sharp laugh at the demoted assassin's disheveled appearance.
Zamil laughed as well. "Altair, I'm reminded of when I ended up rolling through the stables running from a patrol in Jerusalem just after you made assassin. Ah, things were so much more difficult once you'd moved up the ranks."
Altair gave a tiny smirk, eating another slice of bread. He reached over the chessboard for the pitcher of water when Zamil stopped in mid-laugh as his eyes focused on Altair's fingers, which were dripping blood from what had been leaking from the arrow in his bicep.
"Aamil, get the physician," Zamil ordered, a blade already out and slicing Altair's shirt.
Altair tried, in vain, to brush it off. "I am fine," he said firmly. "The physician can see it later, after I've given my report to the rafiq."
But it was no use. The young apprentice was already gone, off to wake the physician and, as per custom, the rafiq.
"You make too much of this," Altair said, pulling his arm back.
Zamil shook his head with a fond, if exasperated smile as Ibtisam came in. "Altair, my friend. You have always, as long as I've known you, always refused to acknowledge any weakness you have, especially when injured."
"To show weakness is to expose yourself to an enemy," Altair replied bitterly.
"And what enemy is there to be had in the Order?"
"Harash, second-in-command to Al Mualim, last year."
Zalim paused, eyes wide. From where he was not listening as he set up the paints for his pots, Ibtisam looked up sharply before turning back to take a half-painted pot off the back shelf.
Aamil arrived with the physician, who looked older than he was and haggard as only long hours of work could produce. With a glance at Altair's stained clothes, he groaned. "Let me guess," he said. "Poisoned and shot with arrows? I've been treating this all night."
The apprentice gasped, Zalim's usual smile disappeared, and Ibtisam kept working on his pot.
"I was not poisoned," Altair said firmly, willing them to get this through their thick skulls before he was the object of any more focus. He was uncomfortable with this as it was.
"Good," the physician said. "Maybe you can give me a clearer picture of what happened to make people panic and rouse me in the middle of the night?"
Altair nodded. He started to unbuckle his gauntlets and belts, knowing that as he told his tale, he would have the physician demanding he strip eventually as it was. His movements were neat and concise, showing none of the ache from the shaft in his arm, nor the fatigue from having been up for over a full day. As each item came off, he explained Nuqoud's party and the trap within.
When he spoke of the wine that was poison, the young apprentice gasped. When he spoke of climbing the fountain that poured the wine, Zamil interrupted to make sure he wasn't poisoned, and as he explained drawing the archer's fire away from the panicked crowd beneath him, the physician started grumbling about how stupid Assassins truly were.
"What would you have me do?" Altair replied thinly. "Sneak up the structure in the back of the courtyard while the people fell to the arrows? Make my own escape?"
The physician shook his head. "That is not what I meant," he replied with amusement, having already trimmed the arrow shaft more cleanly and pulling it out. He was now applying some salve to the various cuts from other grazing arrows Altair had received. "Over the years I have treated many of you Assassins," he said, pulling out clean cloth to wrap the bicep. "You tend to get into trouble with such ease that I wonder if any of you are truly sane. But you, young man, don't just get into trouble. You call it away from others. Others you don't even know." The old man shook his head. "If you Assassins suffer madness, would that more people fall prey to your insanity."
"If you are finished," Altair grunted, pulling his arm back and ready for this to be over.
Laughing, the physician turned to young Aamil. "If you ever wish to heal instead of kill, my door is open for a good assistant as you."
Aamil's jaw dropped, clearly not having expected to be addressed at all.
Zamil laughed, patting the boy on the back. "Why, it seems our young apprentice might have found his cover trade before he even finished his first year of training."
"Ah... I... um..." Aamil stammered.
Back behind the counter, Altair could see Ibtisam smiling at the young apprentice.
Zamil glanced at Ibtisam, who gave a slight nod. "Well, Aamil, since I'm new in town, why don't I help you escort our tired physician here back home. I think you can take care of any patients that come by so that our good friend here can rest."
"!" Aamil gaped.
"Don't worry," Zamil said expansively as the left. "I've treated enough arrow wounds that I know what to do."
The physician actually chuckled.
That left Altair putting on a clean set of shirts that Aamil had been sent to fetch for him and Ibtisam painting a pot. The sun was well into morning, Fajr prayers already done for some time.
Ibtisam finally looked up from his pottery. "Word has reached me of your success, Altair," he said lightly.
Altair pulled out the bloodied feather. "Abu'l Nuqoud's reign of terror is at an end."
"I'm glad to hear it," Ibtisam said with an honest smile.
Altair paused, the one feeling of the entire debacle overwhelming him. "He killed them. The men and women at his party. It was poison. A coward's tool," he shook his head. "Blamed them for the war. Said he wished to end it." And if that was his method for ending it Altair could not fathom the hatred behind it.
Ibtisam pulled out his book, marking things down. "Strange," he agreed before offering an almost sympathetic look. "But then the Merchant King was known to be a bit..." he gestured vaguely, "different. Perhaps this was simply a symptom of his madness."
"Perhaps," Altair allowed. But that did not feel right.
"You sound unconvinced. Speak with Al Mualim, then. He may offer a better explanation."
"Yes. We'll see what he has to say."
"In the mean time, get some sleep before you collapse and trip my apprentices."
Altair said nothing, merely nodded and headed out to the courtyard to leave.
"Not out in the city where you are hunted," Ibtisam stated. "The others assassins question your intelligence, know that I defend you. You would not be stupid to sleep outside when guards still hunt for you, no, I said you would be far smarter than that."
Altair bit back a sigh and instead arranged himself by the cushions in the courtyard to be out of everyone's way.
Author's Notes: Sorry this didn't get put up on Friday. A nor'easter hit New England last week and quintupled the combined snowfall for October for the last 100 years. The entire state was without power for a week. As you can imagine, we've been spending the last week cleaning up the hundreds of down branches, watching live wires set fire to asphalt, sitting in 20 degree nights trying to keep warm, and otherwise listening to the radio as the entire disaster is mismanaged and prolonged. We were without power for 103 hours - five days, and we're lucky, because there are STILL people out there with no power. Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled authors notes:
These middle assassinations are interesting in a way, because Altair is struggling with his old self and his budding new self. He's still appalled by his circumstances even as he's beginning to truly understand why they've been placed on him. We think this is highlighted by the presence of Zamil, a favorite of ours. He just sounds so happy to come across Altair in the game that we had to expand his character as much a possible. His friendship with Altair marks a stark difference with the other members of the Order, and almost makes Altair's isolation more painful.
Astute readers will notice we utterly reworked the eavesdropping mission. We had to, I mean come on, there's only so much you can do to make sitting on a bench and listening to dialogue of nameless characters interesting.
Abu'l Nuquod's sexuality is apparently a bit of a question mark, as we discovered when researching his character. His guards are very buff and don't believe in shirts, instead just vests that expose their buff torsos and arms. Similarly, the way he strokes a shoulder of a guard... While we don't state it overtly (in honor of the game's own subtlety and the fact that historically such things simply aren't talked about), we had more than a little fun with the idea that Altair is utterly clueless to such lifestyles. I'm sure the yaoi fangirls out there are quailing and pulling out their hair at the very thought.
We also took the time to check in with Desmond, and will do so with the next two assassinations. He's stuck in the Animus all day, if we waited until after the third target we'd have forgotten that Desmond had anything to do with the fic, so it keeps his plate spinning. Besides, we like messing with him in the Animus.
Here's hoping for a disaster-free week. Next chapter: speaking in riddles.