Part Fifteen: Death of a Regent

It was late afternoon when he finally deemed it safe to leave the hay, and as he patted himself down of straw he moaned that he had not had time to go to the west wall plaza. It would be evening, and Malik likely wanted to keep a tight leash on him. Sighing, he made his way to the Bureau.

As he expected, Malik was waiting for him. The two once more stared at each other, last night's argument pulsing unspoken between them, and the dai finally turned away, stalking back into the Bureau. Altair stayed outside, the two silently agreeing it was for the best. He spent what little light was left beginning the outlines for his report - too early to do so but it kept the apprentices and journeymen that entered as the day ended from trying to strike up conversation.

The next morning was as hot as the last, and Altair left the Bureau to once more scan the Jewish quarter. It was a short walk from the Bureau to the plaza, and the sun was just cresting the eastern wall when the demoted assassin exited a narrow street and into the plaza. Shade still enveloped everything, and Altair simply took a moment to look.

He had exited Solomon's Temple from this wall; he could still see the cracks in the wall, the protruding root system, though his exit seemed to have collapsed on itself. He wondered, not for the first time, if Kadar's body was rotting in there. There was no way to go back and check, the entrance to the temple was no doubt heavily guarded by now, and whatever his personal desire the risk made the attempt too dangerous. Was the miner there, too?

The assassin shook his head; such thoughts would do him no good.

Instead, Altair pulled out his parchment and charcoal, sketching out the wide expanse. The carpenters he had saved before were working on the stage, shoring up its poles and replacing weak boards. Altair moved to another corner and started again, and then again when he climbed to the roofs. He wanted every angle he could think of, to ascertain where the archers and guards would most likely be. If Majd Addin was on the stage, playing to the crowd, then in some respects he was an easy target - particularly for a throwing knife. But archers had sharp eyes, and the effect would be better if he were but a blade in the crowd, as "shocked" as everyone else when the self-proclaimed regent met an untimely end.

As midmorning approached Altair saw several city guards climb up to the roofs, a sign for him to get going. A boot nudged him in the shoulder, and he turned to see another guard had appeared behind him.

"You have no business here," the guard said.

Altair thought quickly, and replied, "Is there no execution today? I enjoy watching them but cannot always see on the ground."

The bearded guard made a noise of disgust. "Trials won't be until noon, now get out."

Altair nodded, keeping his head down, and took the ladder right next to him down to the streets. He would be back later, when all the guards were on the roofs and he could mark their positions. Lowering himself to the ground, he milled about, still feeling the eyes of the archer. The plaza was slowly filling with people, all waiting for the show. Altair stayed for an hour or so before leaving. He would come back later. Instead, he focused on the small alleys and narrow streets around the plaza, keeping his ears open for the guards and patrols, seeing if he could spot who was assigned to guard the upcoming execution.

That was why he saw one city guard depart from his patrol, walking down an alley away from the plaza and to a main street. He looked about, but Altair was invisible in the crowd, and ducked down another alley. The assassin followed and watched as the guard stopped a worker. They seemed to know each other.

"Ah, they sent word you wish to speak to me," the worker said.

The city guard nodded, handing over a rolled parchment to him. "Majd Addin intends another execution tomorrow. We must ensure all goes well."

The worker nodded. "It is my duty to serve." Altair eyed the two and realized they were related; the guard could have passed as the twin of the worker. Family would explain why the two would even associate with each other while the guard was on duty.

"Bring the document I've given you to the master, this way he'll know where my men are at all times and be quick about it. We can ill afford any delays."

"There will be none, you have my word," the worker said. He looked past the guard for a moment, and Altair sat on a bench, looking for the world that he was fighting the heat. The worker asked in a lower, softer voice: "Is there anything else?"

The guard looked left and right, his eyes lingering on Altair but ultimately ignoring him. He leaned forward, his voice even softer. Altair could barely hear him. "We've reason to believe they've infiltrated the city." Altair's mind flared in anger. He'd made too much a scene yesterday, and the day previous. They knew the assassins were in the city. He would have to be most careful, now. "Majd Addin fears for his safety," the guard continued, "Truth be told I don't blame him. A man in his position has many enemies."

The two shared a shudder, before they leaned back. The worker ended the conversation in a louder voice. "I'm sure your men will keep him safe."

"God willing," the guard said.

The two parted.

Altair followed the worker and his rolled bit of parchment, working his way slowly closer and closer, before he lifted the man's load and disappeared to another alley, none the wiser. The Turkish letter explained to the regent of the guard's plans on placing his men for the execution at the end of the week, noting in carefully worded terms that these were the positions he always took during a trial and that everywhere was adequately covered. The assassin made his way back to the plaza, this time taking the roofs and ducking into a sky garden, hidden to all.

As the trials began below, Altair eyed the guards on the roofs, checking them against the letter he had nicked and plotting them out on the multiple sketches he had made of the plaza. The guards along the edge of the plaza would be of little consequence; he could bowl through those he needed and lose them in the streets. The archers were a different story, and they were many. He would have to take the time to kill them - silently - before he made his move, and that would take an arduous amount of time.

Difficulty was irrelevant, however; he had a job to do and he would to it to the best of his ability.

After the trials concluded - everyone sentenced to death, Altair took his moment to duck out of the sky garden and take to the streets. With the execution tomorrow, he needed to make his plan thorough and complete, there was little time - lest he have to wait for another execution and plan for that. He suspected he would be up all night...

He headed west, away from the plaza, to find a good place to plan his strike. People resting from the intensely hot summer sun occupied every courtyard he came across, and alleys or benches could have any guard passing by. The roofs were still an option, if it came to that, but Altair, too, was looking to avoid the heat, and sky gardens were not as efficient as a simple shaded alcove. He found one at last by one of the city gate, and stepped into the welcome shade. It was not, however, unoccupied.

"Ah, safety and peace, brother," said a journeyman, looking up tensely before relaxing.

Altair recognized the eyes, and the short stature; he frowned, searching his memory of a name. "Seosamh," he said, "Safety and peace."

"I had not heard you were on assignment here," the small journeyman said. "But, I've not been in town for a while; well, not since Majd Addin put a bounty on my head, and I ran to Masyaf to beg reassignment. That was just before the Templar attack."

That had been in spring, it was high summer now. "What happened?" Altair asked, sitting down on the packed earth and gesturing Seosamh to do the same.

The Jewish brother shrugged his shoulders. "I was caught picking pockets. I hear people are taken these days for even smaller offenses. I've been helping rebuild Masyaf but now the Master says it's time I faced the problem I caused." He snorted. "Not in the city for an hour and already some of the city guards are after me. I had thought the season away would dim their memories."

"How many?"

"Three of his men are after me," he said, sighing. "It was a novice mistake, too. A degenerate ran into me just as I was leaving. I'm never that clumsy usually. I don't know how I'm going to get to the Bureau and report to the new dai, I hear his words are poisonous to those who make a bad impression on him."

Something inside Altair burned, and he was quick to open his mouth. "The dai does not mince his words, and his tongue is very sharp, but he is intensely loyal to those in his command and he is proving to be an excellent teacher. I suspect he will welcome you."

Seosamh nodded, absorbing the advice. "You sound like you know him well. Perhaps if I mentioned your name that will better reflect on me."

Altair shook his head. "No, it would better reflect on you if you never mention my name."

The journeyman frowned, seeing a deeper story. Altair was quick to change topics. "I'm here to end Majd Addin's life. He's an execution planned for tomorrow that I will be infiltrating. Thinning his ranks will be helpful to me, and in exchange you can tell me what you know of him."

Seosamh scoffed. "I can handle myself, and I've not been here in over a season. I doubt anything I remember would be of use to you. Still..." he added, his eyes glancing over Altair's shoulder to the square in front of the gate. "Perhaps your blade could help. Get rid of them, and I'll search my memory for something worth your while."

Altair left the shaded nook, entering the sunlit square and keeping an eye out for the three guards Seosamh had named. Several degenerates were hanging around the square; Altair could see why the journeyman had been spotted so quickly. The sick men, laughing and groaning at things only they saw, often swung indeterminately at whatever outside stimulus they could find - including innocent passers by. Most knew to give them a wide berth, but one was walking around the narrow alleys, making it harder to do. There was a patrol going around, too, and the captain in charge seemed to eye the degenerate at every chance. Altair almost wondered if the degenerates had been placed deliberately, so the guards could arrest any man or woman upset by them, giving Majd Addin more stock for his bloody performances. The idea burned in the assassin's mind, and he wondered just how clumsy Seosamh was, or if it had been something else all together...

He shook his head, without proof the theory was useless. Instead, he closed his eyes and opened up his mind to the eagle inside him, his intense eyes taking in the square and looking for the three men hunting a brother. One entered a narrow alley, and Altair followed, deftly maneuvering a degenerate that lunged at him, going into the long shadows of midafternoon and stalking his prey. The guard stopped at a crate, leaning over and around it, hand on his sword and ready to arrest anyone he found. Altair was invisible behind him, and silently took his life.

The demoted assassin followed the alley through to the end, coming across the southern wall, and he spied a second city guard trailing behind a patrol. This would take some finesse. Altair stalked his target, a white shadow none could see. Gaining ground, he kept one eye on the patrol, waiting for the captain to speak to them briefly, using the distraction to plunge his hidden blade deep into his prey. Satisfied at a job well done Jesus Christ I'll never get used to this Altair continued to follow the patrol until they looped back around and out to the square, passing the degenerate.

Altair needed to step very quickly around the bony, starved man, the degenerate seemed determined to bowl him over, his giggles not quite sane as the demoted assassin at last exited the radius.

The third was much more difficult to find, and Altair plunged deeper into the city, checking alleyways and thoroughfares. After an hour of searching, he climbed to the roofs to get a better vantage point, only to spy the guard walking away from a sky garden. Altair quickly ducked his head back down below the roof, taking a moment to assess how to sneak up on the man. He waited thirty heartbeats before cresting the roof again; the guard was standing at a corner, eyes locked on the streets below him. Perfect.

Altair pulled himself up to the roof and dashed at full speed to the guard, taking a running leap. The man turned just in time to see the white cloak of death enshroud him, Altair's hidden blade plunging deep into the soft tissue of his neck. He let out a gurgled scream as the pair landed hard on the roof, but it was too late. The demoted assassin dragged the body to the sky garden and dumped it there before taking a ladder down to the streets and backtracking to the city gate. It was late afternoon now; he had little time to spare.

Seosamh was slightly wide-eyed at Altair's accomplishment, and his voice gave away the smile under his colorless scarf.

"Now I am starting to understand why they call you The One," he said, nodding. Altair perked, wondering when that rumor had begun to spread. "But, what could I tell you that would be of any help? Hmm," Seosamh crossed his arms, head dipping down slightly as he searched his mind. "Oh yes. Majd Addin enjoys lecturing his prisoners before executing them. While doing so, he turns his back to the crowd. I'm sure it is the perfect moment to strike. Does that help?"

Altair pictured the moment, working it into his plan. "Yes, I can use it."

"Then I've proven my worth. Now I must go to the Bureau."

"We are both going there," Altair offered, "I will walk with you."

"Yet another favor I owe you," the informant said.

The two navigated the streets, talking quietly and catching up. Seosamh was a permanent resident, living in the Jewish Quarter and working as a basket weaver. He was a few years older than Altair, married a year before. The wife knew of the Order, and had kept his shop running while he was away. "I really don't know what I'd do without her," he said, a happy lilt in his voice. "I hope you can find a woman as fulfilling as she one day."

"Zamil has made similar overtures," Altair said. "He has settled in Damascus as a merchant in the Sarouja district and already found a girl."

"I suppose it happens to us all," Seosamh said with an overdone sigh. "Though I wonder what kind of woman could possibly catch your eye. You are too serious, it scares them away."

"I have no interest in settling down," Altair said, "Not anymore."

"Oh, yes, I had heard of Adha. I am sorry my friend."

Altair grit his teeth, not wanting to talk about it. He opened his mouth to change topic when a distraught voice caught both their ears.

"My son? They have my son? What is to be done with him?"

The two turned as one, looking to two men, one trying to placate the other.

"Ahmad, we did everything we could."

The other, the father, grabbed the first's shoulders, roaring, "WHAT IS TO BE DONE WITH HIM?"

The other man crumpled under the pleading voice. "... He's to be executed, tomorrow."

The father stared in blank shock, the revelation hanging in the air. "No," he moaned, his voice low and flat, almost dead. "I won't allow it."

The other took his turn to grab the man's arm, pleading. "But what can we do? Majd Addin will hear no appeals; he says there can be no barter with God's will."

The father shook his head violently. "This is not God's will, but madness. I'll go to him myself! Where is he?" He spun away from his friend, marching blindly down an alley, causing the other to catch up.

"He will attend the execution," he said quickly, "perform it even," he added with disgust. "He enjoys the act... Truly evil man."

"We have no time to lose, then; let's go! I will save my son!"

Altair stared after the two for a long, long time, his fists clenching at his sides. Majd Addin, he wondered what cryptic justification the man could offer for creating scenes like this. Surely there could be none. But then, he had thought that for the others, too. Seosamh touched his arm gently, and the two resumed their trek back to the Bureau.

It was blessedly empty when they arrived, the Jewish journeyman talking with Malik quickly, introducing himself before going deeper into the building to spend the night. It would take him time to reestablish himself in the city, create a cover story for his absence, and acclimate to the changed climate of the Holy City. Altair waited in the courtyard, reluctant to start another fight in front of the journeyman. Once they were alone, he entered.

"What news, novice?" Malik asked, his tone wry, almost light.

Altair bit back a sigh and resigned himself to the fact that the damage was perhaps too great. "I am not a novice," he corrected simply, quietly.

"A man's skill is defined by his actions," Malik countered, "not the markings on his robe."

He did not want a fight. There was simply no time for it. "We can trade barbs or do Al Mualim's work, it's your decision."

"Then be out with it," Malik hissed, pulling out the record book.

"Jerusalem's regent Majd Addin is holding a public execution not far from here tomorrow. It's sure to be well guarded but it's nothing I can't handle. I know what to do."

Malik glared at the demoted assassin, leaning forward. "And that is why you remain a novice in my eyes. You cannot 'know' anything, only suspect. You must expect to be wrong, to have overlooked something. Anticipate, Altair. How many times must I remind you of this?"

More harsh words. But in proof, there was some truth to them, and Altair worked to take it in stride. "... As you wish." He could not completely hide the clipped tones, however. "Are we done?"

"Not quite," Malik said, his tone changing. "There is one more thing: One of the men to be executed is a brother, one of us. Al Mualim wishes for him to be saved. Do not worry about the actual rescue; my men will take care of that."

"No," Altair said.

"What?"

"No," he repeated. He walked the length of the counter and grabbed a stool from a nearby table, dragging it back to the counter as he began pulling out his drawings and maps. "We cannot work independently in a mission such as this, we will only get in each other's way. Better then to work together so that each knows what the other is planning and doing at all times. We cannot fail in this. Who was captured?"

Malik stared hard at Altair in the evening light, gauging, assessing. "... Farasat," he said at last.

Altair startled, though he did not show it. "How?"

"He was speaking to a merchant in the souk north of here and was arrested for being a heretic. He was immediately put to trail today and convicted. He was going to report to Masyaf."

Altair marveled. He had been at the trials just a few hours ago, ignoring the proceedings and looking at the guards and their positions. If he had paid attention... No, such thoughts would do him no good. He shook his head, rubbing his forehead and grinding his teeth. "We have no time to waste," he said instead, and laid out all the drawings he had been doing of the western wall plaza. "How well do you know the Jewish quarter?"

Malik pulled out his map of the city that he had been working on and Altair studied it briefly. "It is technically accurate, but do you know the city? The locations of sky gardens or haystacks or hidden courtyards? Places to hide or place your men?"

The dai glared at him, a frown pressed against his face. "You think I've had time to explore the city?"

Altair looked up. "Of course you have. You are too detail-oriented to not spend every free moment of your time committing the city to memory. All the better to anticipate, correct?"

Something flitted over the dai's face, gone too quickly for Altair to read, before an answer came. "I've come to know the Muslim district the best, though I prefer to know it more before I can say anything with confidence. The Christian quarters I can recognize, but I know little of the Jewish district.

The demoted assassin nodded, looking at Malik's map and comparing it to his own. "Then there are some things you should know."

And the two began to plan.

Apprentices and journeymen alike returned from their various assignments and startled to see the dai and the assassin working so closely together. Many skirted the back room entirely, uncertain what might happen and hesitant to see any explosions. Those that stayed kept to the chessboard, though it was obvious where their attentions were as the two men continued their work.

"No, no, that is foolishness! How can you propose to place a man there right out in the open?"

"Because there is a derelict sky garden there, I used it myself when I was observing the guard locations! How can you assume that this is such a better location?"

"Because it will be shaded at the time of the execution and easier to access!"

Several such outbursts breached the Bureau walls, and it wasn't long before those brave enough to hide around the chessboard decided it just wasn't safe to stay there, and soon the two were alone. They stayed up late into the night, working out how to stage the assault. The night air cooled considerably, and the lamps provided more than just light as they poured over their maps and diagrams. The hashish incense kept them awake if not always alert, and the overwhelming sense of losing time pressed them to work through their differences of opinion quickly.

"I will need a signal," Altair said finally, rubbing his burning eyes. "To know when your men have taken care of the archers."

"Each man will carry a pigeon. They'll release it one by one; no one will notice unless they realize pigeons don't fly at regular intervals. That is how we did it in Damascus."

Altair frowned, thinking. "I might miscount the number of birds if any of the local flocks are startled. Is the eagle still here? Release that last so that I know for sure."

"Eagle?" Malik asked, blinking.

Altair shook his head. "Of course it's dead, it's been five years since I last saw her. Baasir found her outside the city and nursed it. He told everyone in the Bureau that assassins are like eagles: silent birds of prey that screech only to make their work known to the masses, and that we should always be open to the eagle in our mind. She made a nest on the watchtower near here, and he would task apprentices to climb it and retrieve a stray feather from the nest. Sometimes he would catch her and release her if we needed a signal like now." Perhaps smoke signals would work best?

They worked for hours. The still silence of the night settled over them, the temperature evening out and darkness surrounding their small sphere of lamplight. Even the insects could not be heard as they worked, the men absorbed in doing their best. They were alone in a small lamp-lit world; nothing existing beyond the small flame's light. Silence surrounded them like a blanket, and everything was still save themselves. They had finally ironed out where to place Malik's men; most of them would be tasked with killing the archers surrounding the large plaza, while a small handful would wait in the crowd to snatch Farasat and anyone else Altair managed to save in his assassination. Halim had reported at some point, time interminable in the dim Bureau room; that he didn't even need to arrange to place scholars at the site, they were planning to attend. Altair would not use throwing knives, as he had initially planned, but would have to manage to get on the stage itself and kill Majd Addin in front of the entire crowd, drawing as much attention to himself as possible so that Farasat's escape would go unnoticed. It was well past midnight, the apprentices and journeymen long since gone to sleep. Between the two of them Altair's sketches had smeared terribly, and he was in the process or redrawing them in charcoal when Malik suddenly asked a question.

"Who is Adha?"

The charcoal broke in his fist.

"... No one," he said quietly.

He looked up to see Malik studying him again, his face carefully neutral. "The men here," he said softly, his voice still neutral, "They speak of her in hushed whispers, and when they do they say your name, and hang their heads. Who is she?"

"I will find you Adha!"

The memory of it all burned through Altair's mind, and he rubbed his face again.

His reticence pulled a dark frown out of Malik, and he moved to press harder. "Altair-" he started in dangerous tones but Altair beat him to it.

"The Templars took her," he said in a flat, dark voice.

Whatever he had been expecting from Malik's probing, he was surprised to see honest shock flush across the dai's face. Uncomfortable, Altair refocused on the task at hand. "If the smoke signal was here, everyone could see it."

"Why did they take her?" Malik said instead.

Altair lowered his head, suddenly exhausted, and gave a deep sigh. Memories were filling his mind's eye, and he could not afford to think about this before a mission. "They believed her to be the Chalice," he said in short, clipped tones. "She hid here for a time. It was she who identified Harash as a traitor. When I went to Alep to deal with him, they took her. I made it to Basilisk's ship, but I learned later that she had been ferried off on a different one. Is there anything else you wish to know?"

"... You knew her before, didn't you?"

Altair said absolutely nothing, refusing to relive the memories, refusing to give in to the weakness. He would find Adha one day, he would, and then the memories would not longer be tainted. He went back to retracing the lines of his map in charcoal, stubbornly silent.

Malik stared at him for a long, long time, before going back to his own work.

At dawn, Malik called out every free hand he had and gave them their assignments. Several looked at Altair, knowing he had a role to play and curious to see what the famed assassin would do, but they all knew the importance of their respective tasks, and they quickly dispersed, preparing.

"The executions will be at noon," Malik said. "My men will take care of everything, but you must ensure that Majd Addin does not take Farasat's life."

"I won't give him the chance," Altair said.

"... So I hope."

He did not need to go over the plan, and instead went to the warming courtyard to catch three hours sleep, Malik no doubt doing the same, in hopes of being more alert when the time came. The demoted assassin's sleep was poor, filled with memories of Adha, Farasat as he taught, Baasir and chess, sneaking into Alep to kill Harash, fighting through everyone to Basilisk's ship only to discover it was the wrong one, Farasat demonstrating how to be invisible in a crowd and watching with envy as he did so, the assault on Masyaf and Alep by Templars, and how the cursed red cross seemed to take everything away from him, even his friendship with Malik. Altair woke with a start, more tired than when he had gone to sleep, and growled before going to the fountain washing his face, running wet fingers through his hair and willing himself to focus just focus...

Desmond blinked, startled as he stared at the walls of the inner courtyard of the Bureau.

"What happened this time, damn it?"

Desmond blinked again, looking around. "His thoughts..." he mumbled.

"What, Desmond?" Lucy asked.

"Uh, nothing, I think," he said quickly, shuffling on his feet. It didn't feel right, talking about all of Altair's other memories, the ones that had nothing to do with these nine Templars he was sent to kill. Desmond felt almost dirty seeing the other man's pain and thoughts. The dreams... if they were half right then Altair had fought through a freakin' army to get to Adha, only to find out that the ship had sailed - literally. The anguish of that moment was still so raw in his ancestor's head. Desmond had seen, felt, glimpses of it before, but that... that was private. He shouldn't have seen that.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Synchronize!"

"Sure, doc," Desmond said, forcing levity into his voice he didn't feel. "Just as soon as you stop having a conniption."

He washed his face in the fountain, or at least he tried to until he realized the construct hadn't been programmed with all the right properties of water, and he couldn't feel wet even when he did manage to trick the system into splashing water on him. Sighing, he climbed out of the Bureau with the ease of his ancestor and ascended the roofs and their mid-afternoon heat. He had a plaza to get to.

Standing on the roof, looking around, Desmond had to admit, just running from rooftop to rooftop, climbing and leaping rafters or crates or scaffolding, it was a tempting thing. This was a construct and he could see what would be too far and what would be just enough space to be the difference between good and proficient. While he had kept up those skills as best he could since he ran away, if only for some of the fun of being able to go where no one else could, he knew that he wasn't as good as Altair. Desmond couldn't help but wonder if, in this avatar of his ancestor, whose skill he would have. His own diminished one, or Altair's mastery?

And just running across the rooftops would be a wonderful way to forget about the pain and agony that Altair was currently (had been) going through as he prepared to assassinate another Templar.

But this was a construct. One where his every move was watched by Warden Vidick and whoever else saw the recordings of his sessions.

As such, Desmond couldn't let on how much skill he did (or didn't) have.

With a silent sigh, he rolled his shoulders. "Map, Jerusalem," he said. After the map fluttered into his pack he pulled it out. Really, he could have just gone back into the Bureau and studied Malik's maps, but as well as his ancestor knew every alley and back way through the Holy City, Desmond didn't. He needed the old-fashioned approach. Besides, he learned from earlier attempts to synchronize with Altair that he couldn't pick up objects in this construct.

Once glance at the map, however, had Desmond looking up to the sky.

"Okay, just how stupid do you think I am?"

"Is there a problem, Mr. Miles?"

"My map has a giant X on where this Majd Ad-dim is."

"And explain to me, Mr. Miles, how this is a problem?" Vidic's voice was all smooth condescension.

Desmond shut his mouth firmly and bit back all the responses coming to his head for that arrogant-god-complex-smarmy-old-bastard! He'd been wandering around in Altair's head long enough that he knew, thank you, that he needed to get to the West Wall Plaza, he just needed the map to give himself directions. Even finding the West Wall Plaza on a map was simplicity itself. Find the Dome of the Rock, look to the west. Really, did he need a giant Go Here pointing obviously to his destination like he was some ignorant idiot who couldn't even read a map?

A few deep breaths to control his anger and Desmond studied the map enough to know what he needed for landmarks and directions before putting it away. He looked down to the streets then across the rooftops. He had vague flashes of Altair's memory that the street that lead to the plaza was guarded and Desmond didn't really care to try and figure out how to get past the guards.

Decision made, Desmond started to cross the rooftops like he was some sort of beginner, waving his arms around to look like he could get off-balance easily, studying gaps he knew would be a cakewalk before taking a running leap that was far too overdone, and crawling across beams with hands and feet to make sure that it didn't look like he knew a damn thing about free-running.

The archers that surrounded the plaza were, at best, an annoyance. Desmond kept a wide berth of them and stayed hidden as best he could. The one time an archer seemed to see him, the NPC said nothing, merely drawing his bow in warning. Desmond quickly retreated into a sky garden, once again grateful that the NPCs were so stupid. Once the archer turned around, Desmond oh-so-cautiously leapt to the roof and then eased his way down to the street, just behind a pair of guards meant to search people who came so close to the Dome of the Rock. From there it was simplicity itself to blend into the crowd.

Altair was but a blade in the crowd, mingling as more and more sought to quench their thirst of blood by watching such a public execution of such petty crimes. On the left was Farasat, bare-headed and standing proudly. On the far right was a woman, her head held high despite severe trembling. Between them were two men, one round and the other skinny and both were unable to imitate Farasat's calm collection or the woman's attempt and righteousness. All were tied to poles.

Among the crowd, cheers and jeers were shouted, to Altair's disgust. But as he let the press of people move him towards the front, he noted that there were also cries of outrage, though they were few.

A row of guards stood, evenly spaced, in front of the crowd, keeping them at a distance from the stage. Two more guards were at the stairs that lead up to the "guilty" and a glance at the rooftops showed that the archers were keeping a sharp eye out, each with their bow already drawn and notched.

Altair stayed back from the precise front of the crowd that was in front of the guards, watching he sky for the signal.

His focus was distracted, when the crowd let out a loud cheer and two guards escorted out his target, the butcher regent Majd Addin. The target was tall, taller than even Altair, in expensive blue robes embroidered in gold. He waved to the crowd as he crossed the stage, a large smile visible despite his bushy black beard.

Centering himself onstage, the regent glanced back at his four captives before turning to face his citizens once more.

"Silence!" he bellowed, his voice deep and cruel sounding as he manipulated the crowd like a master performer. "I demand silence!"

Once the crowd quieted, he spread his arms wide. "People of Jerusalem, hear me well! I stand here today, to deliver a warning!"

Altair scoffed, looking to the sky once more.

"There are malcontents among you!" the regent continued. "They sow the seeds of discontent! Hoping to lead you astray! Tell me! Is this what you desire?"

The crowds, be it from fear or agreement shouted, "No!"

"To be mired with deceit and sin?"

"No! We do not!"

"To live your lives in fear?"

Altair shook his head. Let others think he was affirming the regent. In truth he could not believe the rhetoric of such madness. All other Templars he had faced had a vision that he wished fulfilled. What could Majd Addin possibly be working towards with such barbarism?

"Then you wish to take action?"

"Yes!"

"We do!"

"Your devotion pleases me," the regent gave a small bow that Altair read as pure mockery. "This evil must be purged! Only then can we hope to be redeemed."

"This is not justice!" a man from the crowd shouted, his black and white keffiyeh hanging loose from his head. "And all of you stand idle! Complicit in his crimes!" He ran forward, pushing through the line of guards while an ally came up behind. It was the father from before, hoping to rescue his son.

"God curse you all!"

The two pulled out short curved swords and were almost to the stage when arrows rained down from above. The guards at the foot of the stairs finished it off, each pulling out swords and stabbing the would-be disrupters through the necks before retaking their stations. The crowd screamed and pulled away, then froze as the intruders were so efficiently, brutally, and effectively stopped.

Majd Addin used it as an opportunity. "See how the evil of one man spreads to corrupt others?" he shouted. "They sought to instill fear and doubt within you. But I will keep you safe!"

Altair looked to the sky once more, refraining from glaring outright at the archers who had committed such slaughter. The archers, the guards, they knew that there was a price to be paid for protecting such a madman. They only did their jobs and accepted the risk. It was the madmen that needed his blade.

Besides. Malik's men would take down the archers. Altair need not worry about extracting vengeance from them for it would already be done.

That didn't stop Altair from wondering if something had happened to Malik's men. Surely they were in position by now?

Not only in position, but done, it seemed, as an arrow aflame flew across the sky.

Altair focused on his target and eased his way forward.

"Here now, are four filled with sin! The harlot. The thief. The gambler. The heretic," he almost spat at Farasat. "Let God's judgment be brought down upon them all!"

The crowd once more cheered.

Altair pushed the noise away and focused. The row of guards was far enough apart that Altair easily rushed through. Unlike the previous men, arrows did not fell him. Instead, in one great leap, Altair was up on the stage, blade almost in the regent's back when some sense seemed to make Majd Addin turn. Altair's strike was not perfect, but the blade buried itself into the regent's stomach nonetheless. It would be a slow and painful death as blood started spurting and flowing from the wound. But no physician could cure him now.

The crowd behind him screamed, starting to run, as the guards that surrounded the stage closed in.

That was fine for Altair. This was his chance to distract them as Malik's men would release the prisoners on stage.

With a leap, he pulled out his short sword while in midair and brought it slashing down on one of the guards from a shoulder down to the groin before switching his grip on the sword, lunging up to the left and slashing another guard, from hip to neck, and letting the momentum swing him into a round kick to a man's jugular that left him choking. As Altair's foot came down his short blade flashed again, severing a neck in a spray of blood and Altair spun, shoving his hidden blade into another guard.

Altair stood still, short sword parallel to his forearm as the five who had immediately surrounded him suddenly fell all at once.

The moment of stillness ended as someone shouted out something and Altair was moving again. Two of his knives went flying, one going into a man's open mouth as he was stupid enough to shout his charge and the other burying itself unerringly into a man's most delicate area. Altair dodged a swinging blade, bringing his short sword down into the guard's foot before pulling it out and letting the sharp edge catch on the man's neck as he looked down to his bleeding boot. Spinning Altair aimed high, slashing the eyes of another guard before grabbing a different guard and throwing him onto the sword of an approaching captain.

Turning, Altair slashed at another guard, letting his blade go from the man's hand all the way up to the shoulder, peeling flesh from bone like a butcher before turning in another direction and kicking a guard in the groin. This brought him to his knees and Altair wasted no time in plunging his hidden blade into the man's neck as he blocked a strike with his short sword. Ducking low, he slashed across the guard's stomach and let the momentum carry him to a roll where, as he stood, he sliced the back of another guard's knees, crippling him and then he threw another knife that sliced one man's neck before burying itself into the eye of the shorter guard behind him.

The man with the grazed neck lunged forward and Altair spun around the obvious strike and plunged his short sword into the man's back. The first strike was deflected by the collar bone, so Altair stabbed him again, this time piercing the lung as he had wished and pulled out the blade just in time to deflect a heavy sword to the side, leaving the back exposed for a quick slash along the shoulders and somewhat down the other arm. Another knife flew, driving through an ear into the brain of a guard trying to circle around him as Altair's short sword sliced open a back from shoulder to hip, exposing the ribcage. Another knife buried itself into another guard's stomach, making him curl down over himself.

A patrol that had heard all the screams came into the plaza to join the fray and a quick glance at the stage showed Farasat was free but the assassins were still working to free the others. Majd Addin still lay on the stage, struggling to move. None helped him.

The patrol was starting to surround him and Altair was panting under the hot afternoon. Twenty-two men lay dead at his feat, only two not from his hand, but he still had brothers on the stage to protect. A deep breath. Then another.

Once more in control of himself, Altair threw another knife. It appeared to miss the lieutenant and hit the rock wall of the West Wall Plaza, but an assassin on the stage quickly picked it up to use on the ropes still holding the "guilty". Muscles burning, Altair launched himself at the captain of the patrol first, the one with the most experience and thus the most dangerous.

The captain was actually quite skilled with a blade and Altair had to back up and reassess. With a flick of his short sword to fling the blood off of it, he sheathed it and pulled out his heavier sword. The captain reached out, trying to grab Altair as he switched blades, but Altair leapt back. He needed to draw this out and to let the brothers behind him finish their task and now that the odds weren't so overwhelming, it was time to take more measured steps.

Altair slowly moved backward, stepping over the bodies of the dieing and dead around him.

"One man could not have done all this," a younger patrolman said.

"Oh he did," the captain replied harshly. "Look at those clothes. He's bathed in blood."

"I wish no harm on those who protect this city," Altair said quietly. "Leave."

"Hah!" the lieutenant spat. "We protect this city from the likes of you."

"And I protect it from madmen like the so-called regent."

"Protecting this Holy City you may be," the captain spat, "but that means you think us fools who cannot do it ourselves. You don't even deserve a trial. We will simply kill you."

Altair let out a quiet sigh. "You may try."

The captain charged forward first, his men acting as a unit and closing the gap left behind. Altair blocked it, grabbing the wrist with his left hand while his right hand swung up his long sword, effectively breaking the man's arm before turning shoving the blade through the young patroller who tried to sneak up behind him. A firm kick sent the body off his sword and he spun, his sword out, making the circle a little wider and giving him more room.

The lieutenant was as good as the captain, giving orders with just the flick of his eyes. Altair swung his sword down onto the joint of shoulder and neck of the patroller in front of him so quickly the man didn't even try to bring his sword up to block and wrenched it out in what appeared to all as an awkward move, but really let him carry the momentum around to the arm of the man trying to edge in behind him, effectively severing it at the elbow.

That left only three left of the patrol. Behind them, Altair could see that the assassins and the "guilty" had all disappeared.

Good.

Altair flicked his wrist and three more knives went flying. One to a neck, one to a stomach, and one to a groin; effectively sending the remaining men around him down to the ground.

He took a moment to clean both of his blades with his red sash before tiredly walking over to the stage and up to the still struggling executioner. Altair kneeled down and helped the so-called regent up slightly.

"Your work is at an end," he said quietly.

"No!" he coughed. "No! It has only just begun!"

Altair frowned. "Tell me, what is your part in all this? Do you intend to defend yourself as others have, and explain away your evil deeds?" Because for all that the Templars had believed in what they did, for all that Altair could see their reasoning in some of their objectives, he would never agree with their methods.

Majd Addin shook his head. "The Brotherhood wanted the city..." he muttered, "I wanted power. There was..." he gasped for breath. "...an opportunity."

Altair's frown thinned. "An opportunity to murder innocents!" he hissed.

"Not so innocent!" the regent growled back. "Dissident voices cut as deep as steel. They disrupt order. "In this, cough, cough, I do agree with the Brotherhood."

Meaning any who questioned was seen as a threat. No open ideas or room for improvement, only one person to rule over all with a steel grip so tight none may breath. For all that Al Mualim maintained strict discipline, he always let one speak so that he could convince you of your errors. This, this Templar method was despicable. "You'd kill people simply for believing differently from you?"

"Of course not!" was the wheezed response. "I killed them because I could! Because it was fun!" Majd Addin gave a chocked laugh. "Do you know what it feels like to determine another man's fate?"

In this, Altair's frown was directed at himself, because that sounded disturbingly like something he would have thought mere months ago. Not that killing was fun. Killing was never fun for Altair. But the chase, the challenge. There was a certain thrill he always had on his missions. He had relished in knowing how powerful he was. In his targets being fearful. And when the cold pain of killing any in order to find Adha had taken over, he had merely gone through his missions grimly, killing any who were in his way so that he might be that much closer to the one mission that would lead him to her.

Malik had been quite correct in comparing him with this madman.

But unlike this so-called regent, Altair could learn from his mistakes.

Majd Addin coughed viciously, but continued. "And did you see how the people cheered? The way they feared me? I was like a god! You'd have done the same if you could! Such power..."

He started coughing once more.

Altair looked down at this rich and learned regent and felt nothing but pity. For this was how he once was. "Once perhaps," he admitted, "but then I learned what becomes of those who lift themselves above others."

"And what is that?"

"Here," Altair unsheathed his hidden blade. "Let me show you."

This quick death was far more than what such a madman deserved, but Altair saw too much of himself and how he used to be to do anything but take pity on the man. Altair had been given a second chance by Al Mualim. Majd Addin would not take a second chance and could not even see the error in his ways.

Altair brushed the feather across the fresh neck wound gently as the regent breathed his last breath.

He stood, looking down at his stained clothes. None were in the plaza and no doubt many wouldn't come for hours after the massacre that had taken place. But it was still too much in the open for his comfort. Swiftly wiping his hands on his ruined white robes, he grabbed the keffiyeh off one of the two dead men that Altair had not killed. He quickly ascended to the roofs, his tired muscles protesting after the strenuous fight he'd been in mere moments before. The hot sun setting off to the west didn't help much either.

Once on the roofs, he slowly made his way to the nearest sky garden. He needed to be rid of these bloodied clothes if he hoped to make it back to the Bureau.

Altair needed only to climb one more roof when a guard patrolling the darkening streets spotted him and made to give chase.

Not wishing to deal with this, Altair simply leapt up to the roof, breaking the guard's line of sight and headed to the sky garden so that he might hide and change clothes.

Unfortunately, it seemed the guard's cries alerted an archer on a nearby rooftop and an arrow flew by his face before he could reach the desired hiding spot. With a sigh, Altair took off, his bloodied coattails flying out behind him. As he ducked around rooftops, alleys and courtyards, the numbers pursuing him increased to a half dozen as Altair moved up through the Muslim district. So with a tired sigh, he pushed himself further north and away from the Bureau.

The benefit of the Muslim district, at least, was that the roofs were at many different heights. The Jewish district was poor and didn't have any residents that could afford to build up, leaving many roofs at similar level. But with the varying levels of the Muslim district, Altair had a much easier time breaking their line of sight.

After clambering up over a roof, he dropped easily to a lower roof, so that any close to his heels still didn't see him, and slid easily into a sky garden, where he controlled his breathing, closed his eyes and just listened.

The guards were still shouting as they ran by, trying to follow his most likely trail and Altair stayed as still as possible, listening to their calls as they dropped down to the street and started to spread out, calling out to each other to see if they could find his trail again.

Altair waited another hour before letting himself move. In the darkness of the sky garden he pulled off his robes. He folded them neatly and as compactly as possible, then hid them under his undershirt, which wasn't quite so stained. His hood went with the clothes and he wrapped the keffiyeh around both his head and his face. Both his short blade and long blade were tied together and buckled to the back of his belt, covered by the cleaner parts of his outer robes that he could rip and spare. Between the change of the clothes and the darkening sky, he doubted any of the guards would recognize him. Still, he waited another hour before leaving the safety of the sky garden.

Majd Addin was mad. He killed because he enjoyed it. Jerusalem was now free of his reign, and the deed had been accomplished. Though it appeared he betrayed them, he claimed membership with the same brotherhood as the others Altair had killed. Why did they seek control of the cities? Al Mualim would have answers; he had to.

It was dusk when Altair finally climbed down, lanterns already lit against shadows. Despite how it had been hours since Jerusalem's regent had died, the alarm bells still rang and guards were still patrolling in groups of two or more. Altair stayed within any groups of people that remained still out. However, as it was the Muslim district, many were already inside, getting ready for Magrib prayers.

Altair was in an alley, sitting peacefully on a bench and keeping his blades hidden in the gap behind the bench and the wall behind him, when another patrol of seven walked by, swords all drawn.

They had just passed when one of the junior patrollers turned, looking more closely at Altair.

"Captain?" he asked quietly.

The patrol halted and the captain turned, coming back to the junior patroller.

"What?"

"That man on the bench..."

Altair silently cursed, casually shifting and grabbing his swords, ready to leave.

"He is dressed differently, but I recognize the boots. The left boot has the same knives that I saw when I... uh... retreated from the plaza."

Altair waited no more and took off running. He exited the alley and curved sharply down the road, leaping through a merchant stand and leaving it collapsing behind him. Another sharp turn down a different alley to another street and he saw a cart of hay that he dove into, once more waiting for the patrol to go running by.

Once it was silent around him once more, he exited the hay cart, shaking off stray bits as he walked steadily away, growing weary of the day's exertions after such a heavily hot day.

He finally reached the Bureau nearly two hours later, well after dark. He dropped into the courtyard with a quite sigh of gratitude to finally be back in the safety of the Bureau's walls.

"Jerusalem needs a new ruler," Altair offered quietly, pulling out the bloodied feather.

Malik looked up from his maps, the candlelight highlighting his pinched brow. "So I have heard," he replied.

Tired, Altair couldn't stop a smile. "What's this?" he said with put-on surprise. "No words of wisdom for me? Surely I have failed in some spectacular fashion."

Malik's frown deepened. He replied with no humor, "You have preformed as an assassyun should. No more, no less. That you expect praise for merely doing as told, however, troubles me."

Altair sighed. It seemed they would never return to the friendship they once had. "It seems everything I do troubles you," he said sadly.

"Reflect on that," Malik replied. "But so on your way back to Masyaf. Your work here is done."

"Is Farasat well?"

Malik merely nodded.

Altair did not try to get anything else, and went to the courtyard to get some well-earned rest. He pulled out his bloodied cloths and blades, setting them aside and arranged himself on the cushions.

Exhaustion, as always, proved a very good defense against dreams.

Author's Notes: Finished Revelations this week, cried at the end unabashedly. (Altair! Altair! And Ezio! Fratello mio! And... and Embers! (fawns) )

Er, anyway, lots to say about this chapter. First off, it was ridiculously hard to pick out a Jewish name (Seosamh) that couldn't be easily mistaken for a Christian one. In the end, though, that's neither here nor there. The fun part about that investigation was the theory that crazies work for Templars - we hate crazies infinitely more than beggars; beggars just stop you in your tracks, degenerates shove you into patrols, and they were the single more frustrating aspect of the game when we first played it. Seosamh's investigation took an ungodly number of tries (though there's an investigation in Acre that took us even longer...) and we had to pay hommage to all that work.

Also worthy of note: Farasat's prediction on combining caution with boldness to make cunning comes to fruition here. We both firmly believe that these two had to work together to do this assassination, and the hours leading up to it, planning in the dark with only a small sphere of candle light, has been in our (my) head for a long time, as was the conversation of Adha. Not having played the PSP game where she is a prominent character, we ultimately tiptoed around her story, but we think Altair's reticence on the subject is more telling that spilling his guts. The unnoticed display of vulnerability on his part also officially makes Malik sit up and take notice of the changes going on in him - and in true Malik fashion his response it to kick Altair out as soon as the mission is done. He's not ready for this newer, thoughtful Altair. The time away will help (because we all know about their NEXT conversation :D)

We also like that Altair just assumes Malik knows the city already, not even thinking about that amputated arm. That's so like him.

And, at the risk of stating the obvious, this is hands down the bloodiest assassination of the game (er, well, except for the end, but that's different...) Go back and count all the bodies when the fighting is done. Go on, count them. It was a slaughter. It was violent, too, in honor of the games kill animations (some of which we actually used, if you look carefully). It's an M-rated game for a reason!

And with that, we now check in on Desmond (and Lucy). Surely he can get some hacking accomplished now, right?