Part Seventeen: Corrupt Scholars
It was nighttime when Altair finally arrived at the Bureau. He dropped through the roof with a heavy thud, having spent the entire day on horseback and just wanting some sleep. Al Mualim had stressed that whatever Jubair Al Hakim was doing was getting worse by the day and Altair had pushed his horse to get here as quickly as possible. He was ready to greet Ibtisam and then be on his way to some sky garden or haystack to catch some sleep.
A young apprentice was at the counter, sleepily trying to read something when Altair entered.
In fact, Altair recognized the young apprentice, Aamil.
"Ah, Master Altair!" Aamil blinked, surprised. It appeared he was on duty that night while Ibtisam slept. "I'll go get the rafiq."
Altair shook his head. "He rests. Let him. I will still be here in the morning." Because those cushions in the courtyard were looking very inviting.
"No," Aamil shook his head. "Ibtisam always greets any who come in at night." With that he scampered off.
Altair let out a sigh, then a yawn, and scrubbed his face in an attempt to wake up further. Ibtisam's sharp tongue needed him to be awake enough to deal with it.
The rafiq came in, scraggly looking and hurriedly dressed, but with a wide smile. "Ah, it's the hero of Damascus! Come in, stay a while! Tell me all about your adventures."
It was, perhaps, the warmest greeting Altair had ever gotten from the Damascus rafiq. But knowing the usual sarcasm and insulting wit, he doubted the sincerity. He just wanted to report in and be on his way so that he may sleep before investigating. "I'm afraid I don't have the time," he replied.
"I see," Ibtisam replied, his face blank. "You're too important for me now."
Altair regretted his words instantly, and rubbed at his face again, biting back another yawn. "It's not that..." he replied, trying to get his meaning across.
"No, no, of course not," Ibtisam agreed, his voice light. "How may I serve you?"
Altair paused.
No biting rhetoric? No veiled insults?
Had his last mission actually changed the rafiq's mind about him?
Altair doubted it. He was just too tired to think about it.
"Al Mualim has asked that I take the life of the one they call Jubair."
"Ah, Salah ad-Din's chief scholar, strange choice of target, in my opinion," Ibtisam rubbed his beard, clearly trying to catch up in wakefulness just as Altair clung to it. The rafiq shrugged. "But who are we to question the Master's will? I'm sure he has his reasons."
Altair frowned. He questioned those reasons. But he knew that he would learn as he investigated, as he would learn as Jubair died by his blade. He would learn when he asked questions of Al Mualim. Altair could not understand how Ibtisam just quietly accepted Al Mualim's will without such questions.
He shook his head. He really needed sleep. Such thoughts would not help him at this moment. "Then you are familiar with the man."
Ibtisam nodded. "He's been quite busy these past few days, organizing the scholars and sending them into the streets to preach."
"What do they speak of?"
"Light and fire. Cleansing sin. Apocalyptic nonsense, if you ask me. All this talk of paths and a New World."
New World?
Others Altair had slain had made reference to this. Just what was it? He crossed his arms and looked down, trying to dredge up the memories through his fatigue. "What about this 'New World'?"
Ibtisam shrugged. "Couldn't say. I don't pay attention to the ramblings of madmen. Much too busy with real work."
Altair's frown deepened. It was the ramblings of madmen that had given him information about the Templars and their plans. Madmen like Majd Addin, Abu'l Nuqoud, and those who worked for them. All words, be they mad or not, needed to be heard and assessed for value. Even madness might have a grain of truth in it.
"Very well," Altair nodded. "I'll walk among the people. See what I can learn. Where would you suggest I search?"
"South of here you will find an academy and a guard tower. They're both good places to search. There is also a hospital to the east you might want to visit."
With a final nod, Altair turned to the courtyard. "I'll begin at once."
"So eager!" Ibtisam replied. "You've certainly changed. And for the better, I might add."
Altair looked at the open lattice and started to climb.
"Ah, but then the arrogance returns," Ibtisam said from inside. "The whole of Damascus watches for you and you still won't sleep in the Bureau, the only building in the whole city where you will be safe."
Altair dropped back down and stood in the doorway. "Is it too much to ask for you to speak plainly? You speak in light tones to hide insults and reprimands. You tell me what to do within words of how the others at this Bureau see me, despite my many protests that I care not what others think, while claiming you defend me. I am clearly unwelcome here, yet you insist I stay."
A traitorous yawn escaped.
"As rafiq, I will always do as you say. But knowing what you are saying can be difficu-" Altair stopped. He would never admit a weakness, so he bit down his words, cursed his tiredness, and let out a long sigh.
Ibtisam stared at him for a long moment. Finally he ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. "Malik had said you were always good with words. It appears your wit was not what he meant."
"Malik had a gift for sciences. I for languages," Altair shrugged. "How many of the apprentices here could go to a Christian city like Acre and be able to learn information in European tongues?" Altair shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said tiredly. "I'll be in a sky garden close by."
He turned to leave once more, but Ibtisam held his shoulder. "No, Altair. You sleep in the Bureau. Many saw you slay the Merchant King and your description circulates despite our efforts. You will stay."
Altair merely nodded and headed to the cushions, ready for true rest before beginning his search for the scholar Jubair.
He awoke far earlier than he would have liked. It was just before sunrise and Fajr prayers and the assassins of the Bureau that had covers were up and leaving to get to their jobs. They all talked and compared notes, chatting amicably as they left either through the courtyard where Altair could no longer sleep or the hidden door to the pottery shop in the adjoining building.
Altair's eyes were still burning with fatigue, but he rose with the others, nodded to Ibtisam, and left in the dark pre-dawn. He scouted around for a sky garden, then settled in for more sleep.
It wasn't until mid morning that Altair awoke, sweat already dripping down his face as the summer's heat continued to rise with the sun. Still, he felt better for the rest and it was time for investigations. He knew Al Mualim had said there was an urgency here in Damascus that preceded the Templar in Acre, but the Master had not said what.
Altair checked around the sky garden and found no immediate guards nearby, so he swiftly stepped out and found a ladder down to the streets below. He headed south, intent on finding the academy or guard tower that the rafiq had spoken of.
The streets narrowed the further he went, becoming more packed with people rushing about from place to place. Patrols stuck to squads of six, plus captain, all marching along with swords drawn.
On alert indeed.
Altair kept his hands clasped in prayer and silent contemplation, moving at a slow gate of one deep in thought. The people talked of knowledge, the end of the world, of books and texts, be it listed as poison or defended, and Altair wondered what sort of rhetoric that the scholar Jubair was listing that started debates of simple written words.
He edged along an open square when his ears picked up an interesting conversation.
"Please I must go," a dark skinned man was saying, "this letter must be delivered and I cannot risk upsetting him."
"Listen to yourself!" replied a heavy, bearded man. "You are his puppet! Give up this task, and join up with us in our fight."
It appeared that the people did not care for their scholar. It was good that Altair was there.
"No!" the dark man replied, stepping back. "I've a wife and child to think of."
"Which is exactly why I've come to you," the heavy man persisted. "Is this the kind of world you want your son brought up in?"
"It will pass. If we just wait, maybe he'll stop, and everything will go back to normal."
Altair shook his head. Madmen only ever stopped when someone stopped them.
"Everyday, more is lost and no way to reclaim what's been taken," the heavy man pleaded. "There will be no going back. You know this to be true!"
"Enough! I am leaving." The dark man walked away, glancing hesitantly back, before striding away more decisively.
"Bah!" the heavy man shouted. "When it is gone and nothing remains, then you will listen."
Altair tailed after the dark-skinned man. He hid in cowardice and ignorance, thinking that hard times passed if one did nothing. Altair could never understand such thinking. If there was a problem, one should work to solve it. Waiting for others to do something merely prolonged the problem. Even if attempts to solve it made things worse, at least something was being done.
So Altair lifted the letter the dark-skinned man needed to deliver, and rested on a bench in the shade, sipping his waterskin as he read.
Master:
We are close now. Soon the entire city will be purged. Every day, more are illuminated and come over to our cause.
Should you have further orders, send them to the Madrasah Al-Kallasah. It is here that I now reside, surrounded by my most loyal men. I suspect the Assassin comes for me, as he has the others. I do not fear death at his hands. Only let him wait until our work is finished.
I will continue to keep you informed of my progress.
May the Father of Understanding Guide you,
J
Purged? Just what was Jubair purging the city of? Apparently Jubair's speakers were convincing, as they "illuminated" other citizens. More likely scared them into complying. If only the letter explained more.
Still, Altair had a place to look to. The university, Madrasah Al-Kallasah was where his target was hiding. It would be a good place to find him when it was time to kill him. But for now, Altair needed more information.
He also couldn't quite stop the smirk at how Jubair knew he was coming.
Good.
Time to get more information.
Altair put the letter in his pocket and continued walking through the streets in "humble prayer" and even joined others in Durh prayer to maintain his façade. Whenever a patrol started looking to closely at him, he struck up conversation with someone he was walking beside, putting on the part of a scholar recently moved to Damascus and interested in learning of the city, so much larger than the tiny village he grew up in.
Lunch was light and mostly the trail mix he had brought with him, so that he kept on the move and didn't linger anywhere too long.
The flow of the crowds started to drag him east. People in the packed streets remained in heated debate over whatever it was Jubair was preaching. The press of people and the bright hot sun made tempers tend to flare and the patrols frequenting the streets often had to stop and break up a squabble going on, which always provided a good distraction for Altair to disappear further into the crowds.
He was nearing the southeast corner of the city when trouble finally found him.
A solitary guard was standing watch and Altair was giving him a wide berth, easier with the thinner crowds in the area. However, a homeless degenerate, bare-chested and gurgling nonsense suddenly tensed took a step to Altair and shoved him.
Altair had not been expecting it, and though he caught his balance quickly and split the difference between the degenerate and the guard, it was too late. Attention had been drawn.
"Hey," the guard called as he walked past. "You look familiar."
So Altair decided it was time to switch languages. Since Damascus spoke Arabic, primarily, he slipped easily into a Turkish accent. "Oh?" he questioned, thickening his accent and pronouncing the Turkish vowels with the fluency of a native. "You speak to me? I'm from here not," he replied in poor grammar. "Large city, yes? I no see one so large before. Many... ah, what word... spires. Tell, how you build?"
The guard just shook his head. "Move along."
Altair nodded, slipping away, but he entered a courtyard to sit for a while. Guard changes would be soon for Asr prayer. He'd be back on the streets then. In the meantime, he struck up conversation again, this time with a woman beside him on bench, holding a baby and with a toddler at her knees. She was polite enough until Altair picked up the toddler and let the child poke and prod him as any curious child would. Then she was far more friendly.
Much as he did with Nuzhat in Masyaf, he played too fast to catch with his hands, keeping the toddler out of trouble yet still entertained. He made cloth appear and disappear, as he often needed to with knives, and the child laughed and clapped while the mother and he talked of Damascus and how it had changed since this Crusade had started.
Out of the corner of Altair's eye, he saw the gray robes of assistants walk in. A quick question of how the mother and her husband met sent her on a tale of their courtship and gave Altair a chance to listen.
"I wish to see him! Hear him speak," the first assistant said.
"Then you must be careful," the second replied. "There are still those who reject illumination. They would harm him."
Illumination? That sounded like the letter from Jubair.
"Then they are ignorant and afraid," the first scoffed.
"You seem sincere, but how do I know I can trust you?"
It would seem Jubair's precautions were spreading to his underlings.
"It hurts me to even hear you ask the question," the first assistant shook his head.
"Very well, then," the second said reluctantly. "We gather each day in the Madrasah. He comes to speak and then leads it into the city that we might cleanse it."
That would be Altair's next stop then.
"Could I join you then?"
"Understand that it is a difficult path we walk. Our work demands sacrifice."
"I understand."
"Then come and meet with us. Let us see how strong you really are."
Altair stayed playing with the toddler and mother, who was hugging the baby close.
As the afternoon sun bore down harder than ever, Altair offered an apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I must take my leave. I was hoping to visit a madrasah here and learn how it is run in such a large city."
The mother stood as well, holding the toddler's hand, her eyebrows furrowed. "You are a good man," she said softly. "The madrasah here is..." she looked down. "Be careful."
Altair gave a soft smile. "Safety and peace to you," he said quietly.
She blinked, but nodded. "To you as well, I suppose."
Altair slipped out to the lengthening afternoon shadows.
The madrasah was a large building, almost as large as the hospital the assassin passed on his way there. The main entrance seemed to be on the east wall, two rows of trees reaching dozens of feet up - a testament to how old the university was - that lined a moderate plaza and fountains. A professor stood at the gates, speaking to the public, and Altair heard Jubair's name mentioned with some frequency. He would check back later, as the crowds thinned for evening prayer. Passing by, he walked along the street of the south wall, eyeing the guards. They eyed him back, hands at their swords, and murmuring to each other. One stepped forward.
"You, scholar, do not look like one of ours," he said in low, menacing tones.
Altair thought quickly. "That would be because I am not," he answered, "I am from Alep. Is there a problem?"
"What business do you have here?"
"I am visiting family. My niece was born recently and I've come to see her."
"I don't care about that. Why are you here, at the madrasah?"
Altair put on a show of rubbing his face, as though the man had asked a simple question. "Because it is on my way," he said, not needing to fake the impatience. "My family lives near souk Sarouja and this road is the takes me there. Is there a problem with that?"
The guard frowned, but backed down. Altair continued walking down the street, his pace determined, and turned southwest on a wider road. Once he no longer felt eyes upon him, he ducked into a narrow, dark alley. The streets were proving most troublesome, and so he looked up. There were several crossbeams above him, and with a jump he was on them and hopping his way across the alley until he found an upper story nook with a ladder. He took it and was at last on the roofs, and he leapt over the narrow alley and crossed to the other side of the roof to see where he was in relation to the madrasah.
He got a good look at the western wall of the university, and he was high enough that a leap would get him onto the roof of the building. The light was too poor to explore further, and Maghrib prayers would be almost upon him. Altair made his way down to the streets again, walking along the north wall of the madrasah and turning south once he cleared it, hoping that the professor was preaching to the crowd.
He was.
"Though our fathers dwelled in darkness and their fathers before them, it does not mean we must as well! This is our chance to begin anew, let Jubair lead you to revelation! Let him lead you to the light!" Apocalyptic nonsense indeed, Altair could see Ibtisam's contempt for the rhetoric, but the assassin was determined to learn what he could. "Once he was a teacher, a false prophet of their lies. But then the way was made clear to Jubair. He saw what must be done, understood it fell to him, having learned the truth to spread it. And he was shown the way, so was I, and I will show you as well. Jubair sees things the way they truly are! Sees the poison you carry in your hearts and minds! He works to cast it out! Remove all texts from your homes and schools give them to us! They must be destroyed!"
Altair openly balked. Destroy books? A scholar wished to destroy books? That... it... There were no words! Energy pulsed in Altair's veins, bloodlust mixing into his shock and demanding he run up to show the professor an opposing point of view, but he quickly grabbed the thoughts and worked through them, his golden eyes taking in the six armored city guards on either side of the plaza, watching for any trouble to be had. Grinding his teach, he waited, watched the man as he finished lecturing about light and fire, before turning north and then west, working his way through the narrow street Altair had just traveled. The crowds had thinned with the setting sun, prayers would start soon, and the assassin could not wait for everyone to disappear before the preacher entered a mosque.
Taking a calculated risk, the assassin darted up behind the man and threw a vicious kick to his back, sending him stumbling forward.
"Hey, that man just kicked the professor!"
"We have to help him!"
"I'll teach you to pick a fight!"
Suddenly three young men, perhaps Halim's age, darted up and tried to throw punches at him. The professor stood there, watching the fight. Altair ducked under one swing, wild and poorly thrown before landing a punch to a different assailant, the boy stumbling backward. The third managed to duck one of the assassin's punches, but he was not experienced enough to dodge the follow up kick. None of them had proper training, and the only advantage they had was numbers. Altair broke one wrist and knocked out two teeth before he was done with the children, and they all lay in a heap on the ground, groaning.
He advanced on the professor.
"Violence is not the answer, my child!"
"In this we agree," Altair said, his words surprising the speaker. "So speak and I may stay my blade. What is it your master intends? Why destroy all this knowledge?"
The question seemed to be one the professor had been asked several times. His answer was quick, almost automatic: "We lay the stonework to build a road upon which, soon all men will travel. It leads to a better tomorrow."
Altair snorted. "That is not what I see."
"Then you are blind," the professor said, as if it were obvious. "The words upon these parchments, they are poison. Jubair holds the cure," he said, reverence in his voice. "He'll free us from their lies!"
"It's nonsense you speak," Altair said. He was aghast that one - a university professor no less - could so easily believe that books should be destroyed, that they held poison. How could Jubair create such sophistry? How could other even believe it? There was only one explanation: "You've lost your mind."
"No!" the man protested, "Not lost, but found! I see the world for what it truly is! He has shown me so much; I am illuminated."
"Fanatic is all you are. And you are dangerous for it." Blind faith... Altair had learned his lesson from it; blind faith in his abilities, blind faith in his own opinion, they lead to downfall, and worse, blind faith made men blind even to the fact that they had fallen. Altair had almost lost everything from his own blind faith, and he would not suffer it again. From anyone.
The speaker saw the intent in Altair's eyes, and he stood to his full height, looking proud and brave. And foolish. "Do what you must. It changes nothing. We are not afraid."
For this, at least, Altair had a simple answer.
"You should be."
The blade rammed deep into the man's abdomen, and Altair saw his eyes widen in absolute shock. "You..." he gurgled, "You really... But I..."
Altair released his blade, cleaning it on his red sash before darting further down the street and looking for an alley to duck into. He understood now why Al Mualim had insisted he come here first; he wondered dimly how many books had already been destroyed, what rare texts were now lost to antiquity. He shook his head, alarmed at the thought.
Evening prayer was in full swing, and Altair quickly made his way to the rooftops, a white shadow leaping from one roof to the next, working north and then west, back to the Bureau. Jubair worked in the Madraasah Al-Kallasah, and often walked out to preach to the people, no doubt with his other scholars and professors. If he missed his chance at the madraasah, he needed to narrow down the number of places to look. He did not want another extended chase through the streets like with Talal, nor did he want to involve other people like with Abu'l Nuquod, or Majd Addin. He also needed a detailed map of the city, to know the quickest routes to certain locations or how to head off someone if there was a chase. He needed to be a master of his environment, and not knowing the city made that difficult.
He paused on the Bureau's roof, wondering when he had started to think like Malik. The thought twisted something inside him, and he worked through it with difficulty before hopping down. The inner room was full of apprentices and journeymen. Altair surveyed them from the doorway, but he caught no sight of Zamil, and the thought of interacting with others that still hated him held no appeal. Instead, he sat down in the courtyard, letting the rapidly cooling air brush against him and lull him into a light sleep.
Fajr prayers, or rather the commute to them, once more woke Altair as the other assassins made their way out the Bureau. He lingered inside, not having the patience for faking prayers, and instead refilled his waterskin and his bag of trailmix. He went inside to ask for a map when he heard the dull thud of someone coming in. He turned.
"Altair my friend!" Zamil said in expansive tones. "I had not expected to see you again quite so soon. You have become quite the wanted man I hear, as am I."
Altair stiffened. "Have you been compromised?"
"No, no," the journeyman said, waving a hand, "but with all the assignments we've been carrying out here it's time for rotation. I must prepare my family for the trip back to the safety of Masyaf this afternoon."
Altair remembered their last conversation. "And your wife? Has she learned of the Order?"
"I had to explain it last week," Zamil said, rubbing the back of his head. "You should have heard her - I think it's the first time I've ever heard her scream, and believe me I do not wish to go through it again. And before you ask, no, she wasn't mad about my being an assassyun, she was mad about it taking so long for me to tell her. She went on for hours about how relationships are built on trust and that trust is built on honesty and honesty is built on integrity. She actually threatened to go back to her father! I was beside myself." The two walked deeper into the Bureau, an apprentice at the desk and already pulling out a piece of parchment and handing it to the journeyman. "And then little A'shadieeyah started to cry and cry. It was everything we could do to quiet her! Aaqilah and I were much quieter after that, as you can imagine!"
The journeyman scanned his list and his wince could be seen under his tagelmust.
"Trouble?" Altair asked.
"No, annoyance. I have one more mission before I'm free to go, but Aaqilah and I are still closing up shop and preparing to leave. There is much to do, and I do not know how I can get it all done." Then his eyes widened as a thought struck him. "Altair, could you finish my last assignment in exchange for information? Some men must be eliminated in Jubair's quarter."
"That is perfect," Altair said. "My next feather is for the scholar, thinning his ranks will be to my advantage."
"Then we've a deal!" Zamil said brightly. "My caravan leaves this afternoon, at the Bab al-Saghir. Be fast, my friend."
"I will. Safety and peace."
"Until later then. Safety and peace."
Zamil was quick to depart and Altair flicked his eyes to the document. Five men were to be eliminated, Jubair's men that frequented the madraasah, as one could expect. Their descriptions and names were listed, and the assassin quickly memorized them, noting specific characteristics before he darted up the courtyard wall and to the roofs of the city. With the map he had taken and staying to the roofline, he made much better time to the madraasah, and it wasn't long before he dropped down to the streets to begin looking for his targets.
They were all city guards, not associated with any patrols, and so as Altair landed in a small plaza with a fountain, he kept his eye out for lone guards making their rounds. He opened his mind to the eagle inside him and asked for his help I really want to learn how to do this and began pacing the streets. North of the small square, listening to a public speaker was his first target.
"I stand before you to deliver a warning! Should Richard take Jaffa, there will be no stopping him! He will march on Jerusalem next! We must end this, before it has a chance to begin. That city is ours! Has always been ours! And it is our duty to defend it until death. The Crusaders must be destroyed!" Invisible in the crowd, the assassin finally made his way up to the target and plunged his hidden blade deep into the man's back, between ribs and up through his diaphragm and into his lung. He began pushing his way out of the crowds as the speaker continued his rhetoric. "Curse him! Curse the Christian King and his army of infidels! They go against the will of God and must be made to pay! Everywhere they ride, they leave only suffering in their wake. They say it is a Crusade. A Crusade for what? Ignorance? Violence? Madness. We must resist! We must fight them in any way we can."
Altair made his way south, climbing a ladder quickly for a simple disappearance. When his head crested the roof he saw another city guard. He ducked back down, not wishing to be seen. Wait... the scar on the hand... He looked again and realized this was another target. What luck! Altair waited for the guard to turn his back before finishing his climb to the roof. His feet were nearly silent as he ran up to the man, hidden blade flashing in the sunlight as he took an impressive leap, his body weight slamming into the guard as his blade sank deep into the man's neck, reading a bloody but silent assassination.
He took to the streets again after that, weaving his way through beggars and degenerates both, the former whining, "Please, sir. I'm so hungry, just a little money I beg of you. No, you don't understand, I'm poor and sick and hungry!" and the latter giving deep, guttural grunts and foamed cries. He exited an alley - clumsily as one degenerate shoved him, to find one of the more persistent beggars had returned to accost him.
"Please, sir!"
Without a word he gently pushed her aside. She kept at it, however. "Don't you have any money? My family's sick an dying, can't you spare just a few coins?"
He shook his head silently, ducking into a courtyard and sitting down, trying to avoid her. She wouldn't enter, standing in the doorway and staring hard eyes, but Altair dutifully kept his head down, ignoring her. She eventually got the message. He waited an hour just to be on the safe side.
It was midmorning now, and as he got up to leave a city guard entered, one Altair recognized as one of the targets. The assassin calmly walked up and stabbed the man, letting him stumble further into the courtyard and making it look like they simply bumped into each other. He heard a few cries as others saw the body fall, and the assassin put a little speed in his steps, disappearing into a main street.
The madraasah rose before him, he was along the south wall he had reconnoitered before. He leaned against a wall and watched the crowds, just out of site of two city guards that were talking to each other at their post. The topic of conversation was book burning and the mixed reactions it brought - to be expected at the epicenter of the event. None would say were it was taking place, however, and Altair hoped he would not have to scour the city. No sooner had he thought that than another target walked by him, not even giving him a second glance.
Altair pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against and followed, weary of the guards he passed and looking for a better place to perform the assassination. To his frustration, the guard moved into the eastern plaza of the madraasah, where there were even more guards. Altair pressed his lips into a thin line as he continued to follow, looking for a less watched location.
After an hour of following his circuit, however, the guard never left the eyes of the other guards, and the assassin was becoming quite frustrated. At last, however, his patience was rewarded, as he saw a troupe of scholars approach. Altair waited until he was past the latest pair of guards and quickly darted up, stabbing the man in the back, before joining the half dozen scholars and striking up conversation.
"Hello, friends; how are things in this city?"
"A far cry better than wherever you are from, it seems," one of them said. "I've never seen a scholar so well armed."
Altair looked at his sword and short sword, both painfully visible, and the throwing knives that could be seen on closer inspection. He thought quickly. "I've just come from Jerusalem. There are two armies between there and here, and I fear for my life more than a little."
"Yes, I can understand that," a second man said. He gestured to the sword he, too, was carrying. "It's a sad day indeed when those least able to use a sword feel the need to carry it. But the mere presence of it seems to ferry off the worst of offenders."
"That's because all know how terrible you are with a sword," a third said, "One swing and everyone would be dead, including yourself. They do not wish to risk the embarrassment."
All six scholars laughed, and Altair disappeared from their ranks, now well away from the body. He had only one more target, he hoped the man would not be difficult to find.
The last was in the very narrow north alley of the madraasah, there were no guards to speak of, and Altair killed him with silent skill, once more walking away as if nothing had happened.
Even with the map of the city, it took another hour for Altair to make his way into the rich Sarouja district and find Abu'l Nuquod's former palace. It was late morning. He knocked on the door near there, where he had first met Zamil on that assignment, and waited.
"Ah, Altair!" Zamil said in a grandiose voice. "It's good to see you back so quickly and in one piece!"
"Who is it?" someone, a woman, asked from deeper in the house.
"An old friend of mine!" the journeyman said expansively. "I mentioned him before! Come and meet him! Do come in, Altair, we've just finished packing, and we must move our things to the caravan at the Small Gate. A'shadieeyah is asleep so we have some peace."
"Zamil?" A small woman, her face covered with a hijab, stepped into view. Her eyes were stunning.
"Ah, Aaqilah, allow me to introduce you to Altair ibn La-Ahad. We went through our apprenticeship together, but he is far more skilled than I, and made master much sooner. Altair, this is my wife, Aaqilah, the most beautiful woman in the world! Well, excusing A'shadieeyah of course, but she's not old enough for others to realize it."
Stunning eyes narrowed. "You knew my husband as a journeyman?" she asked.
Altair nodded.
"Then you have heard of Masyaf?"
"It is home," Altair said slowly, not liking the suspicion in her voice.
"Good, then you can tell me just what I'm leaving Damascus for," she said, sniffing at Zamil. "All my husband will tell me is that it is safe place, and I question his integrity because it took so long to let me know just how the two of you know each other."
Zamil flustered, wide-eyed and embarrassed, sputtering as Altair frowned and tried to come up with an adequate answer.
"It is a small village," he said, "Smaller than Damascus, certainly, at the base of a mountain. It is not rich, but it is not poor, and it has clean water from winter's runoff. Everyone there is of the Order, and we all protect each other. The Master is there, and he is a wise and learned man."
"Will A'shadieeyah be taken by him when she is old enough?" she asked, ice in her voice.
"... There are a few women assassyun, if that's what you are asking," Altair said slowly, uncertain just what the woman was looking for, "And some volunteer to work in the gardens to console brothers who are suffering, but all come because they choose to. There are several children who decide to work in other fields, and more than a few who have no heritage with the Order who join because they want to. It is about choice. Everything we do is about choice."
Something he said must have been correct, because the narrow, assessing eyes suddenly became much warmer, returning to their stunning beauty and a smile could be seen under her scarf. "Excellent," she said, clapping her hands together in satisfaction. "It sounds like a beautiful place to raise a child, and I couldn't have asked for more. Were that my husband had been so honest with me when we met," she added, an icy gaze flicking to the white-faced Zamil. "But I guess that was his 'choice', too." Her eyes warmed. "I've still one last pack to fill, I'll be right back."
She turned and left the two men.
Zamil turned confused eyes to Altair. "I don't know what you said to her," he said, awe-struck. "I was right here and I don't know what you said to appease her anger with me! What did you do?"
Altair shook his head. He had no idea.
They worked up and through Duhr prayers to get everything assembled: two packs of clothes (mostly Aaqilah's), one chest of lamps and trinkets and toys for the newborn A'shadieeyah, and a pack of papers for the spice business they were going to set up. Zamil explained as Altair helped that Aaqilah would run the establishment when he was off on other missions, and when the affable journeyman's wife heard this she stopped wholesale and stared at him, unbelieving. It took several attempts to get her to believe that she would be allowed to manage the finances and stores and deal with customers, let alone be in charge of it.
When it finally sank in, however, her eyes once more became stunning.
"You can see why I married her," Zamil said as he lugged the chest down the streets. Aaqilah held her daughter close, one of the packs tied to her back while Altair held the rest. "She will be much better for the business than I, her mind for numbers is much sharper than mine."
"Between her mind and your presence with people, I suspect it will be a booming business," Altair said, looking on at the mother as she played with her daughter. Those eyes... they looked like Adha, a little, and Altair imagined what could have been. It hurt, in some ways, but seeing his friend Zamil to happy... it made him smile, too.
They arrived at the Small Gate, Bab al-Sahir, and Zamil's wife quickly turned into a quiet, almost timid woman, eyeing the men that were loading the wagon wearily, holding A'shadieeyah close. Altair remembered Zamil saying something about his wife being shy, and he nodded to himself. He kept back, watching the two interact, as the caravan was loaded. Would his life have looked like that? Once, perhaps, but not now. He would never have that kind of intimacy, not after Adha. But, at least, others could have it, and Altair tried to decide if that would be enough. The pain was too much, however, and the frown could not be hidden from Zamil as he separated from the crowding caravan to talk to him.
"You will find her some day," he said, already knowing the assassin's thoughts.
"I am fine," Altair denied.
A hand was placed on his shoulder, a firm, strong grip that squeezed in comfort. "If not her," Zamil said, "Then another. It will come, brother, no matter how long you have to search. People in our work deserve that much, at least."
Altair said nothing. Zamil sighed.
"I must return to my family, but before I take my leave, this is for you." A folded piece of parchment appeared in the journeyman's fingers, and he placed it in Altair's hands. "It came before you arrived. It's a map showing where scholars are planning to burn books and other sources of knowledge. I hope it helps."
Altair took it silently, pocketing it inside the red silk of his sash for later inspection. He nodded.
"Please be careful," Zamil said in a low voice, before adding in a louder one, "and let the future reunite us!"
Altair nodded again. "Safety and peace, brother. To you and your family."
"I'll give your blessings to my family," Zamil said. "I hope to see you soon. You return to the Master after each kill, yes?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll keep an eye on the gate once we've settled! Good luck, friend!"
The two clasped hands, nodded to each other, and then turned, walking in opposite directions. Neither looked back.
Altair took an alley at the end of the square in front of the gate, hoping to check his map against the locations Zamil had collected for him. He would need to know what they looked like and...
"Altair! Your name is on everybody's lips these days!"
The assassin turned to see another journeyman, his dark skin in stark contrast to his white tagelmust.
"What is your name?" he asked, frowning. He did not recognize the voice, or the eyes.
"Naji," he said. "I was apprenticed here, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you don't recognize me."
An age-mate then, when all the children were being trained in Masyaf. There were very few Altair remembered from those younger days, outside of Malik and Zamil and those that went with him to Jerusalem. Was that normal? Or had his arrogance cost him something else?
"Do you have a test for me?" Altair asked, squaring his shoulders and preparing.
Naji stared at the demoted assassin for a long time, assessing, gauging. "We all knew Malik very well here," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "But we also saw what you did at the Merchant King's palace, and the Master has been forwarding your reports to the rafiq."
"... And?" Altair prompted.
"... Amongst the chatter in the market this morning I heard Jubair's elite want you dead." Naji explained slowly, his eyes never wavering. "I was about to go after them, but... my back is hurting too much."
Altair stared at the man. It was the weakest excuse for a test he had heard yet. His eyes flicked to the bench not ten feet down the alley from him. Naji eyed it, too, but held his ground, refusing to break eye contact. There was, however, no malice in his voice, no superiority. "You should take care of them. I'll wait for you here, and we can have a quick talk about the things I know."
This was more than a test then, Altair realized. Naji was seeking to get a measure of the demoted assassin from his own observations, rather than listen to the dictates of others. In a way, he was the first to make his own decision in how to treat Altair. The assassin was grateful. "Be fast though," he added, "I am in pain."
Altair nodded and backed out of the alley, eyes searching the square. After Zamil's assignment he knew how Jubair's guards were dressed, and he kept an eye out for their distinctive helmets and heavier armor. He searched for two hours before being able to kill all the targets; they were quite spread out. It thinned Jubair's ranks a little further, however, and for that the assassin could not complain. He did worry that killing so many over the course of one day would further alert Jubair to his presence, but there was little he could do about it now.
When he was finished, he made for the alley, confident that he had shown off an appropriate skill level to the informant and hoping he had given the other man the right impression.
He was not expecting, however, to see an entire patrol attacking the journeyman.
Naji was thrown against the wall, his torso covered in blood and his tagelmust askew, almost off his head. One of the city guards raised his blade, ready for a killing strike, and that was all Altair had time to process before his own sword blocked the strike, holding the other blade shakily over his head.
"You will not touch him," he hissed.
"A white hood!"
"The assassyun!"
"Get him!"
Altair kicked the man he was blocking deep in his gut, knocking feet out from under him as he fell to the ground. Two guards swung at him from opposite sides, Altair blocking one and deflecting it along his blade, sending it to impale the other guard as the assassin ducked the strike. The first guard cried out when he realized he'd impaled an ally, and Altair used the opportunity to bludgeon his sword to the back of the guard's head. He could feel the neck snap under the strike and moved effortlessly into a swing at a third guard who blocked it. Two down, and the third guard moved to counter but Altair dodged it, circling around and swinging his blade into the back of the man's legs with such force one leg split in two. The man fell screaming to the ground but Altair was not done, his momentum spinning him in a tight circle and giving him time to change the angle of his blade, using it to drive it deep into the guard's stomach, silencing him.
"Don't just stand there!" the captain said to the three remaining guards. "We have to kill him!"
One moved forward, but Altair brutally shoved the swing aside, throwing a vicious fist into the man's chest. The armor absorbed most of the energy but it distracted the man enough that he didn't see the follow up sword swing, slashing deep into his arm, shattering it, before Altair spun around and slashed at his unprotected back. The captain moved in, his movement much more practiced and with a tighter defense. He managed to grab Altair, fist tugging at his white robes. The assassin grabbed the fist, yanking it off and spinning it around. The captain didn't want his wrist broken, and he spun with it, realizing too late he left his back exposed to the fighter. Altair kicked him aside, sending him headfirst into the wall of the narrow alley and cracking his skull against the stone.
A guard tried to take advantage of the distraction, but Altair never got distracted in a fight how the hell does he manage to do this day in and day out and spun out of the way. A second followed up, but he lifted up a bracer to deflect the sword, leaving the running man open and, effectively, he ran into Altair's blade. Altair gave a final shove, the body almost up to the hilt of his sword, before he kicked it off.
The captain was up again, holding his head as blood smeared his temple, and the assassin took his blade and swung it, savagely burying it into the man's shoulder, cutting through the collarbone before finally stopping.
He looked at the final guard.
"No, no," he blubbered, sword dropping from his hands. "S-stay away!"
He ran. Coward.
Altair pulled out a knife and threw it, his aim unwavering, and paid no attention as the man fell, instead stepping over the six bodies at his feet and moving immediately to Naji.
"...A man is always better protected by a friend's blade, yes?" the informant said slowly, hurt laced in his voice. A pained laugh filled his lungs.
"Sh, don't try to talk," Altair whispered, calloused hands tugging at the sticky, stained robes, trying to see where the wound was to cause so much blood. The slash was long, and worse it was deep. It stretched from his shoulder blade down to his hip in a near vertical line; he had been struck from behind. Cowards! "You need a doctor," the assassin said, his voice level in spite of his emotion.
"Aamil's mentor," Naji started to say before a wince stopped him. Altair needed a moment to remember the doctor who had seen to him for the arrow in his arm, the man young Aamil had summoned. The slash was too deep, Altair tugged at the red sash under his belts, pulling it loose and wrapping it around Naji's abdomen as tight as he could, trying to staunch the bleeding. Then he ripped off one of his extended coattails and repeated the process.
"This needs more than stitches," he said, working quickly. "Where is the hospital from here?"
"Almost due east," Naji grunted, his dark face paling from the loss of blood. "Next to the madraasah..."
Altair nodded, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and helping Naji up to his feet. The journeyman almost fainted with the effort, and Altair knew he had to hurry. He left the carnage he had created, away from the gate square and working his way to one of the major thoroughfares - if such a narrow street could be called major - of the district. The informant's legs never moved, and Altair glanced at his companion. His eyes were open but glazed over, looking at nothing, agony painting his face. Cursing, Altair struggled to readjust the weight, distribute it more evenly, and quicken his pace at the same time. Several people stared at the site, blood trailing behind them as the assassin pressed forward. Murmurs were everywhere and it wasn't long before a city guard, a captain, trotted up to them.
"What's happened?"
Altair panted, giving him a moment to think. "I don't know," he said quickly, "We were attacked; a city patrol came in, and we ran. Please, he needs a doctor."
"Where?"
"By the Bab al-Saghir," Altair said; his words clipped from his impatience.
Before he could say more the captain motioned for his men. "It's likely the assassyun, we have to hurry!"
And all seven guards ran from Altair and the injured Naji and dashed the way the pair had come. The assassin growled and kept walking, the weight straining his muscles and slowing him down. He had to hurry!
"This is what I know about your target..." Naji said slowly, his words slurred.
"Quiet, words will waste energy," Altair said, struggling to move forward.
"... The scholar Jubair... is known to wear rich... golden robes... and carries with him... a large pouch..."
"Silence, Naji," Altair hissed.
"... This distinguishes Jubair... from the other scholars..."
The road opened up to a moderate square, and a child running across their path tripped Altair, causing the two to stumble and fall. Altair was up to his knees quickly, calling out the journeyman's name to see if he was still conscious. The man's eyes were glazed again, his skin almost Christian white, he had lost so much blood. Cursing, Altair ripped off another coattail and began wrapping.
"Naji, stay with me, we're almost at the hospital!"
Grunting, Altair rolled the informant over, intent to carry him again, when he saw shadows surrounding him. He looked up; ready for more slaughter if he had to, but instead saw several men in black robes and keffiyah. One, in a taqiya hat instead of scarves, knelt down. "What's happened?" he asked, looking over Naji.
"We were attacked," Altair said, sick of the delays as more blood pooled in his hands. "Please, there is no time for this, I have to get him to the hospital."
The man nodded, motioning for the others. They circled around Naji and Altair nearly went for his sword, uncertain of the intent of these men.
"Don't worry, brother," the man in the taqiya said, "we are fellow scholars, from Madraasah Al-Kallasah, and many of our professors are linked to the hospital. We will help carry him." The others, their keffiyah scarves hiding most of their faces, gently put their hands under the injured Naji and lifted him. Travel went much quicker, then, as they moved parallel to the south wall of the university, through the plaza Altair had been in the day before when interrogating the speaker, and then through the gates of the hospital.
A herald was there, singing more praises of the Crusade and Salah ad-Din.
"South comes the English King and his infidel army. They leave horrors in their wake. Salah ad-Din rides to meet him so that these barbarous acts might be avenged! Pray that God, glorious and exalted is He, finds favor with us, that He may grant us victory! The fires of war consume the land and thousands of lives are lost in its defense. It seems a tragedy, but I say this is an honor: to die in service to God, fighting for what we believe in! There is no greater glory than this. Praise be Salah ad-Din! He has found the strength to stand in defense of our great civilization. Make no mistake; it is our very existence we are fighting for. The infidel King would see us all wiped from the world! We must resist! We must push back."
One look at Naji and the doctors all but swarmed around them, the scholars offering what they could, and Altair explained what he saw of the wound, how deep it was and what organs seemed damaged. Surgery began almost immediately, and soon the assassin was alone with the lead scholar. His robes were soaked in Naji's blood, and suddenly he felt exhausted.
"You know a little bit of anatomy," the chief scholar said, his voice warm and kind.
"Not as much as a friend," Altair said, sitting on a bench.
"Ah, but more than most. Where did you receive your education?"
Altair hesitated, taking a moment to think, before saying, "My master. It was never a formal education."
"Even more remarkable then. You thought quickly and did well."
"... Thank you," Altair said slowly.
"No need to be so distrustful, friend. We are both scholars and understand the pursuits of knowledge."
Altair said nothing, instead looked to the black robes.
"Ah, yes, the change in color," the man said. "Master Jubair suggested it, we are in mourning of the false words and lost knowledge."
The assassin kept his reticence, looking down, not needing to pretend that his thoughts were elsewhere. The head scholar nodded, understanding.
Time stretched out between them as the doctors did their work. Exhaustion threatened to overtake Altair, but he refused to submit to it. Ibtisam needed to know what happened to Naji, but he dared not leave a brother in the hands of Jubair's scholars, and they seemed reluctant to leave until word arrived of the journeyman's progress. Two did disappear, likely to report the "assassin's" assault on innocent men to Jubair's ears, but the others kept to themselves, save the man who seemed to be the lead scholar, the one in the taqiya instead of a scarf. He tried to start conversation, but Altair would have none of it, simply staring at his bloody hands and robes and wondering if there wasn't something he could have done differently. Hours passed, and at last a doctor, soaked in blood himself, approached them.
"He's alive for now," he said simply. "The next few days are critical. Who bound his wounds?"
The lead scholar pointed to the bloody Altair.
"That was quick thinking and good work. It may have saved his life. Is there anyone I should notify?"
"I know who to contact," Altair said simply. He turned to the black-clad scholar, leery of his association but still grateful for the help. At length, the assassin finally decided to nod, and the lead scholar offered one in return. The lead scholar left with his troupe, and after asking a few questions, the assassin did as well.
It was late afternoon, now, and Altair tried to work his way around the city crier. Even in his exhaustion, he noted two doctors huddled together in a corner of the hospital's courtyard. He would have written it off, he had to get to Ibtisam, until he heard Jubair's name. The assassin worked his way closer, wanting to know what they were talking about.
"We found the place!" one of them said, "It's just as you described it."
The second doctor nodded. "I suspect he'll want to deal with this himself and quickly," he said, referring to Jubair. "Best we say nothing to the others."
"A wise course of action," said the first. "Truth be told, I'll be happy when this business is done."
"Soon, my friend, soon. Tomorrow should see the last of them put to torch. Boy!" he added, called out to a young messenger. "Come here. You still have the letter I gave you?"
"Yes," the young teen said.
"Go and deliver it then. You'll find the one it's meant for inside the Madraasah."
"Yes," the boy said. The teen went off, but Altair had taken the letter before he even traveled three steps. He walked past the crier and around the long string of degenerates waiting to be treated. He would read the letter later; his first priority was getting to Ibtisam.
It was night by the time Altair returned to the Bureau.
One look at the bloody robes and Ibtisam dropped his paintbrush, the jar he was working on long forgotten. "What happened?" he demanded.
"City patrol attacked a brother, Naji," Altair said, "They are dead. Naji is in the hospital east of the university; they say the next few days are critical."
The curse the rafiq spat was bitter and vicious. He called for Aalim, leaving the apprentice and another journeyman Altair didn't recognize in charge after explaining where he was going. Altair had enough time to change the worst of his bloodstained clothes and splash water on his hands before he and the rafiq left the Bureau through the pottery shop and then to the streets.
"Tell me everything that happened," Ibtisam said in low, hissed tone.
Altair explained everything, helping Zamil with his last assignment and escorting them to the gate, coming across Naji and accepting the test he had offered, and went into explicit detail when he described what he saw when he had returned and what he had done to staunch the bleeding and get him to the hospital. Ibtisam said little, his face hard and set; gone was the dry, ironic grin.
It was Maghrib prayer when they arrived, but Ibtisam bullied his way inside, knocking aside several degenerates and grabbing a doctor by the scruff of his smock and demanding to know where Naji was. Someone recognized Altair and managed to interrupt the doctor's prayer to bring him in.
"Are you a heretic?" the man demanded, furious that he had been interrupted.
"No," Ibtisam said, "I am a man who has just learned one of my best assistant's almost died! I would know his condition."
The doctor sighed, long and deep, and gestured the two assassins to follow. Altair stayed outside of the room, waiting for several hours as Ibtisam talked with the doctor and sat with the injured journeyman. He sat by the door, dozing, half thinking about Naji and half thinking about his mission; he tried to focus on the latter - the book-burnings were tomorrow, but his thoughts kept scattering. He pictured Zamil and his family, and Adha holding a baby, and bloody Naji and the ship with Adha disappearing into the horizon. The images all blurred together, and he startled when a hand touched his shoulder.
Ibtisam stood over him, his eyes heavy and with dark circles under him. It was dawn.
He left without a word, and Altair got up to follow. The walk to the Bureau was utterly silent; Ibtisam black with anger, and the demoted assassin let him have his thoughts.
Author's Notes: Still obsessively playing ACR; we just finished buying up all of the city - again - and we haven't even started memory sequence 4.
Anyway, a few comments for this chapter. We at last find out Ibtisam isn't always the bitter sarcastic jerk we see him to be; his opinion of Altair after his heroics with Abu'l Nuquod have softened his opinion of him, and saving Naji's life certainly helped. Our Damascus rafiq is certainly protective of the people under his wing, which is probably why he's so vicious with Altair; Malik was his pupil, after all. :D
Did anybody notice Altair managed to control his temper? Much better than the random slaughter of a herald in Jerusalem, yes? Our little eagle is learning.
But really, this chapter, this mission, is about the two informants, Zamil and Naji. Zamil; well, he did appear twice in the game, and he's just so affable that a girl just wants to learn more about him. It's also another way for Altair to think about the things that happened in his life - specifically with Adha - and a chance for him to try and grow past it. That will take time, of course, and a certain Templar steward... We also see Naji (which means survivor, by the way; he's not dying any time soon) be the chance to show how opinions of Altair are changing. He's also a counterpoint to the actual game - when you play the quest there really is a bench not three meters from where Naji is standing protesting that his back is in pain. We laugh every time.
Next chapter: Death of a Scholar, and more Zamil.