Part Eighteen: Death of a Scholar

When they entered the Bureau, the rafiq abruptly turned around.

"What news, Altair?" he asked in a quiet whisper. "About Jubair?"

"... I've learned much about my enemy," Altair said, taking a moment to rearrange his thoughts and focus.

"Share what you know then," Ibtisam said, his voice low, his tone slightly impatient.

"Jubair has become obsessed with purging the city of its knowledge."

The dark circles under the rafiq's eyes became more obvious as his eyes doubled in size, the revelation clearly unexpected. "A most terrible crime," he muttered. "Now I see why Al Mualim wants you to remove him."

"He's using the city scholars to assist him," Altair added, rubbing his face, still exhausted. "They go out into the streets, harassing the people and collecting written works. I fear he intends to destroy them all."

The look on Ibtisam was absolutely bloodthirsty. "He must be stopped."

"That's why I'm here. He's to hold a meeting soon, at the Madraasah Al-Kallasah, it's where I'll go. It's where I'll take his life."

The rafiq nodded, pulling out the book and the feather. Altair took it and placed it in his robe, eyeing the murderous Ibtisam, but the older man held the assassin's eyes, dark and meaningful.

"I'll leave you alone to prepare," he said in a low, black voice. "Bring glory to the Brotherhood."

Altair nodded. "I'll do my best."

"Make him suffer."

"... As you wish."

Ibtisam disappeared into the back room, his voice suddenly booming, calling for Aamil and others, shouting that Naji couldn't be left alone until he was well enough to be brought to the Bureau, that he needed at least two men to go to the hospital, and other orders. The irony and humor had disappeared like smoke.

The voices eventually faded in Altair's mind. He had several hours before Jubair would begin speaking to the other scholars. The assassin went inside and looked for new robes, one not smeared with blood or half cleaned. Once he was changed, he procured a toolkit and made his way to the courtyard. During his fight with the guards who had injured Naji, he had used one of his bracers to deflect, and the metal was now dented. He quickly unstrapped it and his hidden blade, and went about cleaning and checking every coil, every spring, every plate of metal of his preferred weapon. The string that triggered the blade needed replacement, one of the blades edges had dulled slightly, and despite his best efforts at keeping the blade clean there were dried bits of blood that needed to be scraped and flecked off. Altair sat in the courtyard, doing maintenance on his weapon, his motions practiced and methodic - and cathartic, as Naji's troubles slowly faded from his mind. He could visualize Jubair better now, with golden robes and a large pouch, information that Naji had almost died trying to give him. He would do the informant honor with this kill.

When he was done, he lay upon the cushions, closing his eyes, and gave himself a little over an hour to rest.

Then he left the Bureau to begin his assassination.

It was still early morning, with the sun crested and beginning its assent through the sky. Morning prayers would be finishing, so Altair restrapped his blade and kept to the roofs as he went to the Madraasah Al-Kallasah. Already, across the city, columns of smoke that were neither cook-fires nor lamps. Those were likely book burnings and Altair snarled at the very idea.

He arrived at the Madraasah quickly, as it was just south-southeast of the Bureau, but he had to pick across the roofs carefully. Many archers were keeping weary eyes around, fresh from a night's rest that Altair did not truly have. He still worried over Naji and if he would live or not.

Altair dealt with the archers he could, his supply of throwing knives depleted after the previous day's long search for Jubair's guards and never having the chance to replenish. He had four left and he was only just reaching the Madraasah that he had visited so many times unseen in the previous few days. And, given the patrols down on the packed and crowded streets below, Altair did not dare risk going to pickpocket more.

So he stayed low on the rooftops, climbing carefully, and surprising the archers in his way with silence and stealth, his hidden blade dispatching them quickly.

The Madraasah was a square building with a large courtyard in the middle of it. The roof bore safety rails as stairs lead up to it from the courtyard, likely for study of the sun, the sky, stars, or whatever else was being taught. As such, once Altair had removed the archers in his way, he had an easy way down into the building. He stayed low, looking over the railing to a bonfire being built and fueled with the university's own scrolls and books. Black-and-red robed scholars stoked the fire, letting sparks and embers land on the once beautifully tiled floor, marring it with soot and ash.

"Every single text in this city must be destroyed!" a scholar said, stepping out from inside.

Altair crouched low on the balcony, watching.

"My friend, you must not do this," said another scholar. A scholar Altair recognized. It was the chief scholar that had helped him and Naji the previous day. He stood in front of the first scholar, one whose belt bore gold-striped threads and bore a pouch. Jubair! "Much knowledge rests within these parchments. Put there by our ancestors for good reason."

Jubair scoffed. "And what reason is this?"

"They are beacons, meant to guide us," the chief scholar replied calmly. "A physician needs texts like these to learn anatomy, as I was reminded yesterday. An alchemist needs texts to look up medicines to mix and how to identify herbs. All to save us from the darkness that is ignorance."

"No!" Jubair interrupted, gesturing. "These bits of parchment are covered in lies. They poison your minds! And so long as they exist, you cannot hope to see the world as it truly is." He walked away stiffly towards the bonfire where other scholars were tossing in manuscripts and scrolls.

"How can you accuse these scrolls of being weapons?" the chief scholar replied, stepping in front of Jubair again. "They are tools of learning."

"You turn to them for answers and salvation," Jubair replied, crossing his arms. "You rely more upon them than yourself. This makes you weak, and stupid."

The chief scholar shook his head.

"You trust in words," Jubair continued. "Drops of ink. Do you ever stop to think of who put them there? Or why? No. You simply accept their words without question. And, what if those words speak falsely, as they often do? This is dangerous."

"You are wrong," the scholar replied, standing in front of Jubair again as he walked to the bonfire. "Words, once wrong, can be rewritten. Corrected. New texts can show errors, question errors. These texts still give the gift of knowledge! We need them!"

Jubair scowled fiercely. "You love your precious writings? You'd do anything for them?"

This couldn't be good.

"Yes," the scholar replied hesitantly, feeling the shift in conversation but uncertain what to make of it. "Yes of course."

"Then join them!"

Jubair shoved.

The scholar screamed.

Fire consumed him, easily catching his robes that landed first, and then through to his back. The scholar rolled, trying to get out of the flames, but once he was on his stomach, those clothes caught fire and he couldn't get his hands or legs under him without burning. The scholars who has been feeding the bonfire backed away in horror as Jubair stood calmly over the burning body.

"Any man who speaks as he is just as much a threat!" Cold eyes swept the scholars. "Do any else among you wish to challenge me?" No one dared say anything as their former colleague kept screaming. "Good. Your orders are simple enough. Go out into the city. Collect any remaining writings and add them to the piles in the streets. When you're done we'll send a cart to collect them that they may be destroyed."

With a gesture, the scholars all left, leaving the chief scholar burning on the bonfire.

Once the courtyard was empty, Altair acted swiftly. He grabbed a rug from under his feet and leapt down to the sooty tiles below. Dropping the rug, he ran to the fire and reached in, ignoring the heat and flames as they tried to lick at his thick leather guards, and grabbed the scholar. A firm yank pulled him off the bonfire and Altair lifted the rug and laid it out over him, smothering the flames and depriving them of the air they needed. A few more smothers and the flames died out and Altair quickly knelt down.

"Brother!" he hissed harshly. "Scholar! You saved my brother yesterday, making you a brother to me, can you hear me?"

The scholar coughed, groaning and moaning. His face was smoked and half burned, but one eye was able to focus on him. "Brother? Ah... ack," he coughed again and Altair started ripping the burned clothes off, revealing the red and peeling skin beneath. "From yesterday..."

Altair nodded, already pulling out his waterskin and pouring its warm contents onto the most badly burned areas.

The ones that weren't charred anyway.

"My son... my son..."

"Yes?"

"Get my son... to my father..." the scholar started coughing again.

"And his mother?"

"Dead... childbirth... oh my love..."

"I shall see to it."

The scholar coughed again. "Thank you... brother..."

Altair grimaced. The more he peeled back the worse the burns were looking. The scholar could not survive this.

"Worry not, brother," Altair said. "Your son will be looked after and you will feel no more pain."

Altair's hidden blade's first taste of blood after the cleaning was burnt. He closed the scholar's eyes. He had extra work to do after he reported to Ibtisam and before he left back for Masyaf. He would tell the son of how brave his father was. That the man's last thoughts and words were of his own flesh and blood.

But for now, he had a deranged scholar to kill.

Altair climbed back up to the rooftops. The time to help the chief scholar was enough for a fair amount of distance to be covered and Altair would need the roofs to catch up.

Looking down to the streets, however, Altair realized that he had lost all sight of the scholars, and even if he could see them, he was too high to truly see if they weren't just a fanatic underling or Jubair himself.

Altair didn't like cursing, but this felt like a truly appropriate time for it.

He pulled out the map that Zamil had so generously provided of the bonfire locations for the district. Jubair could not be far, hiding as he was from "the man in the white hood," so Altair believed he could catch up.

Or so he hoped.

The closest bonfire was to the west of the Madraasah, so Altair started tracing his way along the roofs, looking to the column of smoke indicating that another bonfire of knowledge was burning. He stepped swiftly, killing an archer on his way with his hidden blade, until he came to a small courtyard. Laying flat on the roof, he looked over, studying.

"Citizens! Bring forth your writings! They seem safe," the scholar was saying, "but it is a trick! Fair words give way to evil deeds! Look around; all the land is consumed by wickedness, because of texts like these! No more! If you truly value peace, if you truly wish to see an end to war, give up your books; your scrolls; your manuscripts! For they feed the flames of ignorance, and hate!"

The rhetoric was vile, but Altair ignored it as he looked around the courtyard. The scholar stayed at the entrance, preaching to a small crowd of citizens, some hesitantly handing over the works of knowledge that they'd brought with them. The courtyard itself was small, a palm tree stood to provide shade in the afternoon surrounded by purple and white flowers.

Strange for Jubair to be alone and to provide such access for the crowds.

Altair eased back from the edge of the roof and went to another angle, looking down.

Guards. Set in back and watching the crowds.

Oh that was clever. Jubair had sent out his own men to die. The scholars would preach to the crowds and the guards kept an eye out. Once they saw anything, if the scholar died, the alarm would be sounded and Jubair would be rushed back to the Madraasah, safe once more. And given the uniforms, it was assumed that Altair would have to get close to confirm that it was Jubair.

Altair backed away from the edge of the roof once more and sat in the mid-morning sun, thinking. He was exhausted, but focused. He didn't have time to check every single bonfire in the district. Wherever Jubair was going, he wouldn't be long. He was in hiding, after all. Or at least attempting to.

Looking out over the skyline, he checked the bonfires and their position to the Madraasah. The next closest would be just south of the university, so Altair gave a quite sigh as the sun continued to beat down the heat and moved along the rooftops once more.

It was almost an hour later when he finally crept to the edge of the roofline, crossbeams offering little shade in the courtyard below.

"Today is a glorious day! We will at last be free! Purge yourselves of these evil spirits before they can control you! Put yourself above their corrupting influence! Their words can only do harm!"

It was the same set up as the previous courtyard. A scholar preaching to the crowd at the entrance of the courtyard as bait for the two guards behind him, sharply watching the crowds.

Altair sat back again, sweat dripping down his face. It had been hours since Jubair had left the Madraasah, surely he'd be back at it by now? But why had he even left in the first place? After dropping that poor scholar into the flames, shouldn't he have retreated into the university where he felt safe? What was so important out in the bonfires that his minions clearly had well in hand?

He glanced around the columns of smoke rising from the streets, and noted one of them was near the hospital where Naji was staying.

... Of course!

Altair reached back for his small pouches and pulled out the letter he had lifted at the hospital from the doctors who seemed eager to follow Jubair's will.

Master Jubair:

I fear your suspicions have been proven true. We followed her as you asked us to, and discovered she has indeed kept the books. We would have taken them ourselves, but felt it best that you attend to it personally. She's your wife, after all.

Below is a map that will lead you to her hiding place. It is a small garden, empty save for a sundial and bench.

I am sorry it has come to this. It cannot be easy, but I am certain you will do what is right.

Your Brother Always,

Hakim

It seemed Jubair's own wife didn't agree with his teachings.

How kind of the man's underlings to provide a map. Altair took off across the roofs once more. From below, various words from the other scholars burning books across the city filtered up to him.

"Anyone can put ink to parchment, anyone! Such power, such influence, must be controlled! It cannot be given over to just any person. It is irresponsible and dangerous. We must destroy them all, that they may not further poison our minds!

"For centuries, we've quietly acquiesced, agreed to believe in nothing more than the words of men and women long since turned to dust! And why? Why do we believe absent logic and evidence? We submit for no other reason than we are told our ancestors did the same! This ends today!"

It was truly disgusting rhetoric and Altair sneered at the very presumption in it. Burning knowledge. Knowledge was what led to all things.

To Altair's displeasure, he ended up using the last of his knives taking out archers on his way over the skyline. While Altair had already proven that he could do these assassinations with naught but his hidden blade, it didn't change that more weapons in such a high-alert city would be appreciated.

Still, with the sun at its zenith, heat stagnating the very air around him, Altair could hear the voice of Jubair from the courtyard below.

"Good people of Damascus, you are doing the right thing. Let us cleanse this city of it's poisoned past. This is a righteous act, and from the flames, shall be born a new era, one of truth and unity, governed by a singular wisdom."

The courtyard did indeed have only one bench, and the sundial was an obelisk. But Altair saw other things. There was a pair of ladders that lead down into the courtyard, the guards that for other scholars remained back were instead at the entrance of the courtyard, taking scripts and texts handed in from the crowds, but allowing for no one to come into the courtyard. Crowd control to keep the real Jubair safe.

This presented a problem for Altair. Those guards weren't letting anything past them but scrolls. If Altair had the soot-and-blood robes of Jubair's fellow scholars, he might get through, but he didn't have the time to go looking. Jubair was looking around with nerves, though he clearly believed in what he was shouting to the masses outside. There was no guarantee he'd be there all day.

He stepped back from the edge, thinking of his options. He had originally been planning to get Jubair back at the Madraasah, or if he left to see his followers, some time when there weren't so many guards. But he hadn't had time to properly plan, not after Naji had been attacked. He was exhausted still, and the heat was dripping sweat down his face and arms and back like it was rain.

Lying down on his stomach, he crawled to the edge again to see the layout once more, assessing approaches and filing through plans and dismissing them as they appeared.

In the end, Altair had to grimace at his plan. It wasn't ideal, but he didn't have time or options.

Checking the entrances once more, Altair laid out both of his swords on the roof, behind crates and descended the first ladder. The eyes of the guards immediately flicked to him, but he ignored them, walking through a door like he owned the home. Once inside, he found the stairs and descended to the ground level. He could see Jubair out the window, still preaching and shouting to the crowd.

From a pouch he pulled out blank parchment, rolled it and ripped off part of his red sash to hold it closed. He did the same with the maps he'd made of Damascus and Acre, making a small pile of scrolls that could pass as the "poisonous texts" that were to be burnt.

Silently, he opened the door to the courtyard just a crack and listened as Jubair continued to shout his twisted logic. The scholar certainly knew how to harangue and it was a half hour later when the target finally paused, likely to catch a breath. Or maybe a meal. Altair's own stomach was grumbling. He hadn't eaten since the previous morning.

Still, this would likely be his best chance. He opened the door silently and walked across the courtyard. As he passed behind Jubair, his hidden blade, still bearing soot and ash from a scholar who sought to protect books, slid easily into the scholar's back. Altair continued on, tossing his maps and blank parchment onto the bonfire and turned.

Jubair was still staggering and, weary of the crowd that was watching, Altair put on concern and worry and helped the target to the bench.

"Why?" Jubair hissed, looking to Altair. "Why have you done this!"

Altair answered, "Men must be free to do what they believe. It is not our right to punish one for thinking what they do, no matter how much we disagree."

The scholar coughed. "Then what?" he spat back.

"You, of all people, should know the answer: Educate them, teach them right from wrong. It must be knowledge that frees them, not force."

Because the best wisdom was one that a person learned for themselves. One cannot ram knowledge down another's throat. Altair knew this at the very core of his being. It was how Al Mualim taught, through example and lessons. He did not force.

"They do not learn," Jubair lamented, "fixed in their ways as they are. You are naïve to think otherwise." He gasped, then coughed. "It's an illness for which there is but one cure."

Purging. Altair shook his head, and wondered what had twisted the man so.

"You're wrong. And that is why you must be put to rest."

Jubair gave a hollow, choked laugh. "Am I not unlike those precious books you wish to save? A source of knowledge with which you disagree? Yet you are rather quick to steal my life..."

Altair did not care for the comparison. "Others have sought to make you see reason and you have not even heard their pleas. You are a small sacrifice to save many. It is necessary." For those watching, he gave his waterskin to the scholar.

Jubair pushed it away. "Is it not ancient scrolls that inspire the Crusaders, that fill Salah ad-Din and his men with a sense of righteous fury? Their texts endanger others, bring death and war in their wake. I, too, was making a small sacrifice." Jubair started to slump. "It matters little now. Your deed is done... and so am I."

The day's work weighed heavily on his mind. Jubair swore he wished only to protect the people from repeating the mistakes of the ancestors. A noble goal. Still, his methods were unacceptable. He could not be allowed to continue. To deprive people of so much knowledge... He was not saving these people, but blinding them. But was killing him the only solution?

With a hand hidden from the crowd, Altair dipped his feather into the blood of Jubair, and stood, calmly walking back the way he came and into the house. He silently and swiftly returned to the rooftops, getting his swords from where he hid them, and started making his way back to the Bureau.

Behind him, the alarm started to sound.

Altair dropped into the Bureau in the high heat of midafternoon. He was drenched in sweat and desperate for some proper sleep. As expected for the middle of the day, there were no other Assassins about, so Altair walked in to see Ibtisam.

The rafiq turned and put on a black smile. "Altair. Tell me you've met with success."

"Yes. Jubair's fires are extinguished. His life as well. Naji may heal easily." He held up the bloodied feather.

"Excellent news! I had no doubt you'd succeed," Ibtisam's smile, though still dark, lightened. "The other Assassins who are checking in on Naji will be most envious they couldn't stick their blades into that twisted scholar, but you were the one who would have no doubt of success."

That was likely the kindest words that the sarcastic rafiq had ever offered.

Altair shook his head. "You should have seen him," he said quietly. "The scholars followed him so readily." He paused. "Wasn't just books they fed to fire either. The scholar who helped me get Naji to the hospital died this morning. He bade me to ensure his son went to his father."

Ibtisam nodded. "We will see to it."

"If possible, I wish to speak with the boy. Tell him of his father's last moments."

The rafiq blinked, looking surprised, before a smile far warmer crossed his face. Ibtisam leaned back against his shelves. "Such ignorance breeds only evil," he said quietly. "You've done a good thing this day."

Altair shook his head again, rubbing at his tired eyes. "As with my other targets, he believed he was doing the right thing. Clearing a path to a better future." Such twisted logic.

Ibtisam shrugged. "Of course he would. Such is the landscape of a madman's mind."

"The things I've seen these past few months," Altair replied, tired and weary, "it is as if all the land has gone mad."

"And this is why we fight to end the war," Ibtisam said firmly. "War breeds such madness. It matters not who wins or how, but that the dark deeds are stopped. That sanity might return. The people are desperate for direction. It's easy for men like Jubair to prey on this, and turn them towards evil. You should go, Altair. Return to Al Mualim and tell him what you saw, let him know the good you've done this day."

Altair nodded.

"But first, get some sleep. You still haven't done any of your reports, and we'll find the child of that scholar." Ibtisam gestured. "Come, I'll give you a private room."

"Safety and peace, rafiq."

"Upon you as well. After today, you've earned it."

"Ah, it's you! My husband's friend."

Altair looked up in the early morning light as he entered the gates of Masyaf, tired from a long night riding. A woman with stunning eyes was at the well under the tree, and it took a moment for the assassin's sleep deprived mind to remember where he had seen such eyes before. Zamil's wife. What was her name? Aaqilah.

The woman adjusted her hijab before taking a massive jar of water she had no doubt just filled and lifted it to her head. "My husband will be jealous that I saw you before him," she said warmly. "But then, he was quite jealous on the trip back, unable to believe a woman as shy as myself would bring herself to talk to you - the mighty eagle of his Order - after just meeting you. Ah, it's so nice to see him jealous."

... Altair would never understand women.

He decided not to comment. "Was your journey safe?"

"Yes," she said. "We only just arrived yesterday. You must have ridden very hard to catch up to use so quickly; Zamil said you would, said you were always in a rush."

"Zamil talks too much," Altair said, walking with the woman.

"It is part of his charm," Aaqilah said, her head and neck stiff with the weight of the jug of water. "None would ever believe a man so affable and talkative be such a competent killer, but then, none would ever believe I am as intelligent as I am, so I suppose we all have pieces of ourselves that are kept hidden to all but those who are close."

"Are you fine with it?" Altair asked, watching the woman. "With the work that we do?"

"I would not be here if I wasn't," she said, eyes still looking straight ahead. "We all want a better world." The slope of the mountain began to increase sharply, and their walking slowed as Aaqilah became more careful with her steps. "My father, he thought the only way to keep me safe was to hide me away in that house. I never went outside unless it was under his supervision. I love him, but he had no understanding on how to treat a woman, and no amount of talking to him, reasoning with him, or even throwing a tantrum at him could get him to change his mind. In proof, he prevented me from becoming all that I am, and it was not so much a stretch to imagine people like Abu'l Nuquod and others doing such a thing to more than just me. There were times I wanted desperately to kill my father."

"Does Zamil know this?" Altair asked, suddenly uncomfortable. This was a topic best left for her husband; the assassin felt like he had somehow intruded on something private, though he could not for the life of him understand how he had gotten here.

"He knows, yes. He even offered to kill my father. That was very sweet of him." A bright smile bled through the hijab, soft and loving and private, meant only for Zamil. A thought occurred to her, and she turned slightly, as the jar would allow, to make a comment. "You failed to say how beautiful it is here. I have never seen water as clear, as clean, as what you have here; and the view of the lake is profound. Also, Zamil took me to your fortress - you can see for miles in all directions."

Altair frowned. He had lived here since before he could remember, the lake and the fortress were a matter of course; he never thought them beautiful because he saw them every day. He could not imagine what an outsider thought of the village.

"The gardens were also beautiful," she added, something hard in her voice. "The women, too."

Altair shrugged. "They are for those who suffer," he said simply. "Those that have been worn down by our work go there for counsel and comfort."

"Yes," Aaqilah said. "I'm sure they lay there every night."

Altair looked to her, confused at first. "Oh," he said finally, "that. Few women offer such a service and fewer men take advantage of it. It is their hearts, not their bodies, that go there to heal, and those of us with families do not need the gardens."

Aaqilah's sharp eyes turned to Altair, her head barely turning. "Truly?" she asked.

Uncertain what the woman was asking, he tentatively nodded his head.

"... I like this village more and more," she said softly.

... Never understand women...

Altair escorted her to a small house by the market, near one of the buildings that had burned from the attack that spring, and helped her with the heavy jug of water before saying his goodbyes and making for the fortress. He stopped just below it, looking out over the cliff side and eyeing the lake. A gentle breeze caressed his hood, and the sun rose lazily over the mountain range, the sky burning off the last edges of gold to turn its favored blue.

A matter of context, of perspective. Altair nodded, seeing what Aaqilah saw, and learning something else about the Creed. He stood there, watching the sun climb up into the sky, the mountains as they changed color, the lake as birds flew over it, a smattering of trees dancing in the light breeze, and he reflected. Reflected on what had brought him to this point, what had shaped him in his life, the lessons he had learned, the people he had met.

He could not call it an epiphany, not as he knew the word, but something akin to understanding settled over him, and a corner of his heart at last relaxed.

"Nothing is true," his said in his soft tenor. "Everything is permitted." Even perfect days like this.

Altair took a deep breath through his nose, smelling, tasting the air, and held it.

Then he made his way up the mountain to the fortress.

There was a fight going on inside, as Altair expected with Rauf's vigorous training exercises. He moved toward the ring to watch the bout, see if the sword master needed him, when he saw it wasn't a sword match. Altair realized belatedly that the cries amongst the crowd were much louder, shouting and jeering, and Rauf watched with hard eyes, arms crossed and his mouth pressed in a thin line. The assassin touched his arm and the sword master glanced at him. "What is going on?" he asked.

Rauf blinked, not expecting to see Altair. "See for yourself," he answered, and moved slightly so that Altair could get a better view.

Wait, was that...?

"... Zamil?" Altair startled as his friend was shoved against the rail of the training ring, almost into Altair. He caught the man's shoulders, and Zamil turned, eyeing the fellow assassin.

"Ah, brother!" he said good-naturedly. "Good of you to come!" He was no longer in the simple smock of a journeyman spy, but the chain mail of the assassin guard.

"What is..." Altair did not get the chance to finish his question, as the other participant in the fight lunged forward - Abbas - and clipped Zamil in the jaw before grabbing a fistful of mail and throwing him the other way. The Masyaf guardian made another lunge, but Zamil was no longer distracted and ducked under it, a foot digging deep into Abbas' stomach and shoving the man away. Zamil followed up with a shoulder and it was Abbas' turn to be shoved into the guardrail. Zamil continued with a punch, one to the man's already abused midsection and another a vicious uppercut that sent blood flying everywhere. Abbas spun with the hit, stumbling to the ground.

"Do you yield now?" Zamil asked, breathing heavily and holding his ribs. "I'd rather not take this any further."

Slowly, Abbas stood, spitting out blood and a tooth before wiping his mouth. "I'll say what I like," he spat in his deep, rumbling voice.

"Such a shame," Zamil sighed, crossing his arms. He turned to the crowd, to Altair, and then turned back to his opponent. "I find it despicable that you are so determined to ruin a man who's saved my life."

"Not that tired old story about Alep," Abbas growled.

Altair stiffened.

"If you don't like that story," Zamil said agreeably, "then I can pick another. How about one most recent, where a Merchant King had poisoned the water of his fountain and was determined to slaughter the guests of his party. He deliberately drew attention to himself, drew fire from the archers in order to save others. He took an arrow in the arm, for it."

Abbas scoffed, his head rolling from one side to the next as he loosened up muscles for another assault. "You weren't here. You didn't see the city aflame because of his arrogance. You didn't have to bury the bodies."

"You're right." Altair's fists clenched at his sides, and he gave a slight growl before stepping into the ring. Rauf watching with assessing eyes. "He was not there. I was, and since it is I that you have the quarrel with, it should be I that deals with it."

Zamil turned; his jaw swollen and one eye black in addition to whatever bruising he received that made him hold his ribs. He smiled brightly. "Sorry to bother you with this, my friend," he said, "I thought you would be another day, and the things he was saying were simply unconscionable."

"... Thank you, brother," Altair said softly. He didn't know what else to say.

Zamil's face softened slightly. He understood. "Well, then, I'll leave the rest to you if you're of a mind - and I know that you are. I would recommend looking out for his right hook, it is almost a vicious as his mouth."

Altair put his hand on is friend's shoulder, before turning to Abbas. "I do not wish to fight you," he said simply.

"So you've turned coward, now?" Abbas drawled, glaring at the assassin. Altair felt his ire raise, his fists clenched again, but he worked through it.

"No," Altair said. "You've already been in a fight, you have injuries, and there would be no honor in fighting you now."

Abbas stood to his full height, blood dribbling out of his split lip and leaving and angry red smear down his chin and neck. "Then you would go sulking back to the Master," he said, "desperate to lick his boot and have him pat you on the head."

The hackles rose again, bloodlust filled his mouth. He worked through it again, clenching his teeth and making himself unclench his fists. They balled up again. "You will not change your opinion of me, and I cannot make you." Jubair's face filled his mind. "I cannot stop what you say when I am not here, and whatever you believe about me is your right. However," he added, working to relax the body that desperately wanted to fight this man, "goading a brother into a fight is not a wise decision, and I would have you stop before you reap the consequences of your choice."

Abbas laughed, a sick, bitter sound.

"And now you think you're the Master?" he demanded, wiping blood of his chin again. "You've put yourself so far above everyone else that now you put yourself above him?"

"I am not-" Any correction Altair could have offered was cut short as Abbas made a swing - the right hook Zamil had warned him of - that almost broke Altair's jaw, had the assassin not pulled back when he did. As it was, he stumbled backward, a hand going instinctively to the sudden flare of pain, before he found his footing.

There was no helping it after that.

That hook was the only blow that Abbas was able to land on Altair; as the assassin had said, the other man was slow because of his previous bout with Zamil, and at this point his anger only worked against him. Altair, angry himself, took a deep breath and landed a vicious punch into Abbas' shoulder, throwing the man just off balance enough to shove his shoulder into the man, sending him stumbling back. Altair pressed the advantage, moving in and kicking the man before he fully landed on the ground. He darted back as Abbas tried to kick his legs away from him, and Altair let the man get up before darting to the side, circling around him. Altair let out a smart kick to an unprotected knee, effectively shoving one leg out from under Abbas, and grabbed the pinwheeling arm desperate for balance and used it to swing Abbas in a stumbling circle, driving him into the rail of the ring. The solid wood shoved air out of the man's lungs, and Altair grabbed a shoulder, spinning him around and offering a punch to further squeeze oxygen out of his system. This was followed by a brutal kick to the groin, and Abbas was in so much pain, so desperate for air, that he had no defense as Altair grabbed the other man's arm and shoved him into the dirt, twisting the appendage up to the point of breaking it, holding it.

"Now, do you yield?" he demanded.

Altair waited for air to finally leak back into his opponent's lungs, and Abbas finally gave a weak nod, coughing and bloody.

Only then did Altair let go, and he turned without a second glance and walked out of the ring.

Rauf and Zamil both patted him on the shoulder. "Well done, brother," Rauf said.

"Yes, that will show that ruffian what it means to be a brother!" Zamil said expansively. "Imagine the arrogance of thinking he could make the entire Order hate you. Such cheek! Perhaps the Master should strip him of his rank and make the man earn it. Oh, I would love treating him as a novice again!"

"You handled it very well," Rauf said softly, under Zamil's boasts and warm epitaphs. "You gave him every chance to back down. The others saw; he will not be listened to after this."

Altair shook his head. "I was not looking to demean him."

"You didn't. He did that himself," Rauf said. "I'll leave you in Zamil's capable hands, though, as I've students of my own to beat back into focus after that little display." Rauf backed away, his voice already booming to the assembled crowd. "All right! Now let's see what you've learned from those fights! Form up!"

"Oh, wait until my wife hears of this! You must come and see her; I'd like to know why she opened up to you right away when she is so shy around everyone else. I must confess I was quite jealous on the ride to Masyaf. And you should see my daughter! I think she grows even as I am watching her! She takes after her mother, of course, but I think I see my chin on her; it is the most marvelous thing! And she knows what she wants, and is not shy about demanding it. I wonder what a full night's sleep was like, but I get to sing to her while she feeds, Aaqilah says my voice is very soothing for her - though how I don't know. She is so strong already, I can't wait to see how smart she will be when she is older, in that I hope she takes more after her mother than me, my mind for numbers is not what it should be, but then none of us could compare to Baasir and Farasat. Oh, he is here in Masyaf, did you know that? His face became known in Jerusalem, you've been traveling so much I don't know if you were there. His family arrived last week, and he's very relieved to see them, let me tell you..."

Altair let the words carry him.

Author's Notes: Saving up money before we go to Cappadocia, we want to get all those books in one sitting - that's 450,000 akche (is that how it's spelled in the Roman alphabet?). Anyway...

Though we feel the writing fell short, Jubair's assassination is one of the most unique in the game for several reasons. The streets are the narrowest and most densely populated, it has the most roof archers in the entire game (at least it feels like it...), but it's also the assassination that has multiple targets. You have to pick out who you're supposed to kill - much like the enhanced Eagle Sense of ACR. The investigations all conveniently give you different locations to cross out until only one is left, but translating it to a fic proved to be a challenge until we set it up like this. Having Altair work his way through the various book burnings (and MAJOR boo for book burnings! The horror!) before he thought to look at the clues he's been collecting and finding the right location. This also gave us an opportunity to play with Altair's approach and make it more theatric to the crowd. We also used artistic liscense for the scholar Jubair burns - it's just a random schmuck otherwise, so we switched out his kefiya scarf for a taquia hat and tried to make it meaningful. First tenant of the Creed: mercy to the innocent, right?

And at last, Ibtisam joins the Altair camp - at least as much as a sarcastic rafiq can - Altair just keeps impressing people.

Masyaf, too, keeps being impressed by Altair, though not so much Abbas. This was, again, written before Revelations came out, but now that we've played the game (er, and are playing it again...) I think this scene works out exceedingly well. Abbas is more in character than we ever could have imagined, and the ever-helpful Zamil sets up the sequence perfectly. Altair, too, greatly shines in this because of the HUGE difference from when we first meet Abbas in the game and Altair threatens to kill him for talking trash - now he's trying to avoid the damn fight until it couldn't be helped anymore. Yay for evolution of character.

Next chapter: Altair recites the Creed, Desmond collects flag, and Stephen.