Part Nineteen: Paranoia at the Docks

He slept deeply that night, and the very next morning was summoned to the Master's library. Altair took the time to reorganize his thoughts before he entered.

"Welcome home, child," Al Mualim said. The Templar treasure from Solomon's Temple was not there. "What news?"

"Another of the named is put to rest."

The old man nodded, stroking his white beard. "Then it would appear your work is nearly complete, and your status restored."

Altair hesitated a moment, but said, "... A question, Master, if I may." He remembered the last time he had a pressing question, one that Al Mualim had refused to answer and lead to that bold confrontation. He would not repeat that incident, but he felt he needed to know.

"Ask and I will answer," the Master said, his voice as warm as it could be. There was no weariness now, he looked upon Altair not as an errant boy slow to learn, but as a man who had earned his place and right to ask.

"Why these men? Jubair and Sibrand?" Why a scholar twisted into destroying books? The others, they took control of the cities and it's people to provide an army, warm bodies for slaughter. That made sense, but a scholar...

"Ah, don't you see?" Al Mualim asked. "They pave the way for change," he said in an almost reverent voice, "ensure threats both old and new are not given cause to intervene."

"To weaken them is to weaken our enemy... I suppose that makes sense." But... it was roundabout. Something seemed off; Altair could not put his finger on it.

"Were these men to continue their work," the master explained, "our work would quickly be undone."

Altair frowned. "... How is that? We've caused them much grief." Seven lay dead at the assassin's feet, major players in the Templar plan. These were milestones, how could the ground Altair had worked so hard for evaporate so quickly?

"We strike at the arms, yes," Al Mualim said. "But this is a hydra that you face, and it is quick to replace that which is severed."

The comparison to the Greek monster of old was terrifying. Did that mean they already had another deathdealer, another doctor and slaver? Were they arranging for new men to take charge of the cities? The assassin shook his head. "Then we should lob off its head and be done with this." Without de Sable, the Templars would crumble.

"Soon, soon," Al Mualim reassured. "We are close. Only one more man stands between us, and our ultimate goal."

Altair nodded. "I'll return to my work. The sooner this last man dies, the sooner I might face our true enemy." He would look forward to killing de Sable. The bloodletting would be satisfying. He turned to leave.

Al Mualim's face changed, then, a frown tugging at his beard as he stood up a little straighter, hearing something in Altair's voice. "Before you go," he said. "I have a question for you."

"Of course," the assassin said.

"What is the truth?" The old man's eyes narrowed, gauging, assessing. He began pacing slowly in front of his desk.

Altair found himself straightening under the weight of the half blind gaze; and he remembered the thoughts he had the previous day, looking out over the lake. "We place faith in ourselves. We see the world the way it really is, and hope that one day all mankind would see the same."

"What is the world, then?" Al Mualim asked.

"An illusion. One which we can either submit to, as most do, or transcend."

"What is it to transcend?"

"To recognize nothing is true and everything is permitted, that laws arise not from divinity but from reason." Altair took a breath, adding, "I understand now that our Creed does not command us to be free, it commands us to be wise."

Al Mualim had stopped pacing, he stood in front of Altair directly, staring at the man for a long, long time, before he nodded, an approving smile touching his face for the briefest of moments before a more neutral expression settled on it. "Do you see now why the Templars are a threat?"

The assassin nodded. "Whereas we would dispel the illusion, they would use it to rule."

The Teacher nodded again. "Yes, to reshape the world in an image more pleasing to them. That is why I sent you to steal their treasure. That is why I keep it locked away. And that is why you kill them. So long as even one survives, so too does their desire, to create a new world order." He looked at Altair for a long time, something the assassin couldn't read permeating his face, before he turned and gestured to the desk, where a short sword lay waiting for him. "Take your equipment. Seek out this last man. With his death, Robert de Sable will at last be vulnerable."

Altair bowed. "It will be done."

And, for the first time since this all started, Al Mualim said, "Safety and peace upon you, Altair."

Wishing for his safety was the highest regard the Master could give, and Altair smiled slightly as he took the new short sword, stronger and newer, and began to swing it around, testing it's weight and balance desynch, desynch, desynch, desynch damn it...

Desmond gasped, looking around to see an empty library.

He grinned.

"God damn it what's the problem now?"

Desmond looked up to the ceiling of the library, working to keep his face and voice neutral. "No idea, doc." He rubbed his chin, hiding the triumphant smirk and looked around. His new short sword was strapped to his back; he pulled it out in fluid if still not quite natural motions of one who had watched his ancestor do it over and over. The handle was different, and the blade just looked sharper. Putting it back, Desmond walked down the stairs round the perimeter of the library, stopping when he saw the door to the gardens.

An assassin flag stood in the middle of a square garden. Frowning (and willing to do anything to stall) he stepped into the garden and look it's a test for all the novices, there are twenty flags hidden around Masyaf see if you can find them all."

"I'll get them first!"

"No, Abbas, I bet I'll get them first!"

"You're too stupid to know where to look!"

"Oh yeah, watch me!"

And Desmond blinked, looking at the flag. "Hey, Lucy," he asked. "This village was made up from his memories, right? Altair's memories?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Do you know when in his memories it was taken from?"

"When? I'm not sure..."

Desmond grinned and dashed back to the stairs, past the blank-faced guards and the training courtyard. He had some flags to find. "Watch my synch rate, will ya?" he asked, "I want to try something."

He scoured the entire village, around massive trees and by wells and in shadowed corners. He climbed to the roofs and made a show of how inexperienced he was as he hopped from one to the next, arduously climbing back down or sometimes even accidentally falling. (He learned something about the construct when he made one scary fall of several stories. The Animus wouldn't hurt him. He supposed that made sense, since this was his own mind, after all.) Bits of memory would flash, five year old Altair and Abbas chasing each other to find the flags, giving Desmond clues on where to go next when he was stuck. He finished his self-imposed assignment back where he had started, in the garden, and he grabbed the last one "It's a tie!" "No it's not!" but the mission was accomplished and Desmond found himself grinning in childlike glee.

"Well?" he asked.

"It's amazing. You got another bar doing that," Lucy said. "What were those things you were grabbing?"

"Flags," Desmond said, explaining as he walked down the mountain. "The Order would hide them in the village... and the cities, I think... and get the novices and apprentices to find and collect them all. Altair did it, so I guess reliving it by proxy did something."

"Your synchronization rate is just fine, Mr. Miles! Just trigger the next memory!"

Desmond passed by the stage and under it, finding the main path and hiking down the mountain. He grabbed the dull brown mare and pulled himself up into the saddle. What else could he do to stall? He rode down the mountain path and thought, entering the patchwork set up of the Kingdom.

Moaning over the idiocy of it, he pulled out his map and studied it. By this point, he knew the "true" trails better than the patchwork the construct had created, and he needed to remember how to get to Acre. The watchtowers helped, and soon he stopped needing the map, one trail "leading" to another that he knew was right. He avoided the guards mostly if not easily - even the annoying archers on the archery towers. When Desmond arrived at the giant mass grave, he stood over it for a long time, staring down; thinking. Remembering. He could still smell the bodies as Altair had first entered the city to kill that doctor guy, the disgust of seeing corpses half rotted and missing limbs, the diseased bodies of the people who still lived.

... He wouldn't let Abstergo get what they were looking for, the Templar treasure. Whatever stupid things it could purportedly do, he wouldn't let them have it.

He needed another way to stall, to take up time, to push back their precious deadline.

Desmond walked past the mass grave and into the city and it's constructed bodies, looking around for a ladder and trying to get to a roof. Acre had the least direct route to the Bureau, and the different heights of the buildings made it hard for him to remember where it was. He avoided the archers on the roofs when he could, they were dumb enough to miss him most of the time, and those that did gave a little beeping sound in his ear, letting him know he was being watched. Lucy's work, perhaps. It was the first time he had a chance to really wander around Acre, Altair's memories had taken him over so quickly when he first came here he didn't have the chance to explore the city in his own right.

Perhaps because of that, he was surprised when he saw another flag being tickled by a faint breeze on one of the roofs. Desmond walked over to it - it didn't have the Masyaf symbol on it... that stylized compass in a cup, but rather a black half with a white cross on it. He recognized it, sort of... Hospitalier flag, right?

Glancing at the sky as he realized he might have another way to stall, he picked it up and while you are here see how many of these you can find; we need to know how much presence is here in the city in case another Crusade starts. Teenage Altair, then.

Nodding, Desmond started looking for flags.

There were several types of flags, he discovered. One for each district - that took him longer to figure out to his chagrin. Ignoring Vidic's repeated protests - for someone pretending to be so formal he knew some very colorful language, Desmond worked his way through the Hospitalier and Chain district, areas Altair had already been through, meaning he had some familiarity (sort of) with it. He wasn't the expert that his ancestor was, but he recognized big places like the hospital and the fortress and the giant freakin' church. The flags themselves seemed to disappear when he touched them - probably for the best because he'd lost count of how many he had collected, but Lucy said the synch ratio was increasing, and so he stopped listening to the old fart and kept wandering.

There was a third type of flag, too, black Latin cross on white. Desmond didn't recognize it but shrugged his shoulders, figuring he would never understand all of it.

Eventually, though, even if it was in the construct of his own mind, Desmond needed to rest, and so he sat down on a bench and stretched his legs, rolling his shoulders and wondering what those two Knights were whispering about so conspiratorially.

Altair sat in the square in front of Saint John's Gate, looking around. The fellow assassins he'd brought with him were high-ranked apprentices or solid journeyman, and they were around him in the square as well, hidden in crowds or shadows, waiting for him. There were five total, all agreed upon by Rauf and Farasat on being ready to go back to the field and level-headed enough to be able to handle the chaos that Acre was still shifting through. Jabal would likely scold him for bringing people without Al Mualim's permission, but Altair could not let the wizened rafiq work with so few in so vital a city any more.

However, he had to get them to the Bureau first. And while they were all clearly accomplished at hiding in plain sight, that did not change the fact that the guards were looking for "the main in the white hood". Altair was willing to let himself be seen, but not those he had dragged along with him. So he needed to stay out of sight and unnoticed. Posture helped in that regard, as did the large travel pack he carried that held the gear of half of those he'd brought with him. None had noticed him yet, and he intended to keep it that way.

So for now, he waited, letting the guards get used to a heavily-laden scholar taking a break before getting back to work. No swords to be seen, no knives, just a man wilting in the humid air and resting.

But a pair of guards across the square was catching Altair's attention. They were grumbling and complaining. Gossiping as almost every person across the world seemed to do. But what they were saying was starting to catch Altair's ears.

A dark haired guard sighed deeply. "It's getting worse."

The lighter haired guard nodded. "His paranoia knows no bounds."

"He's doubled our shifts. No on sleeps!"

"Wasn't so bad until he made the port his home!"

Altair wondered whom they were speaking of. The mention of paranoia reminded him of a letter he had read when searching out William. It made mention of a man becoming unhinged in the harbor. And that letter had been in the hands of a Templar.

Perhaps these two spoke of Sibrand. Altair's hood and pack hid his smile.

"He's planning something at sea," the dark haired guard offered. "That's why he came here." From behind the pair a man in chain mail and a white smock bearing a black cross over his left shoulder was marching up, eyes darting swiftly around and slicked-back pale hair giving him a harsh, cold look.

"Planning what?" the other guard asked.

"What is the meaning of this?" the approaching man shouted. "Two of you off in a corner, whispering, PLOTTING?"

Ah, the paranoid man of which the guards where speaking. How interesting.

"Nothing of the sort!' the dark haired guard replied. "We were only-"

"Only what? What secrets are you keeping?" the unstable man replied harshly.

"You misunderstand!" the guard protested.

"Damned assassins!" the cold man screamed. "They're probably here right now watching us!"

Then this was indeed Sibrand. Altair memorized the face, looking at the quiver by his right shoulder and sword-belt. An archer like Talal, but no bow. And Altair could not stop the smile that spread wide across his face. Indeed, assassins were listening. Six, in fact.

"Do you find this amusing?" Sibrand screamed about, stalking around the square. "Do you? Well laugh while you can!" he rounded to the pair of guards once more. "Double the patrols!"

"Which ones?" asked the lighter-haired guard who had been wisely silent till this point.

"All of them!" Sibrand shouted.

"But we don't have the men!" the other guard replied, face stunned.

"Find them! Recall our knights from the field if you have to!" Sibrand hissed before stalking off.

The two guards looked at each other helplessly before scurrying off to obey their insane master.

Altair was tempted to go after Sibrand at that moment. The crazed Teutonic Knight was alone and had only his own sword to protect him. But Altair had five other assassins that needed to get to Jabal. Likely when he next saw the Teutonic Knight, he'd have guards around him. The man seemed convinced of conspiracies against him, and while it was true that Altair and the assassin's were out to get him, putting more poorly trained guards did not seem the wisest course of action to take.

Paranoia indeed.

Altair remained seated for another hour before standing, hefting the large pack onto his back and starting to walk further into the city. The others followed one-by-one, either on parallel streets, or further back from him.

One senior journeyman, however, walked up to stand beside him.

"Was that your target?"

Altair nodded, shifting the weight of his pack.

"And you let him go?"

"The brotherhood always comes first."

The journeyman shook your head. "You have indeed changed, Master Altair."

"I care not what others think," Altair said once more.

With a shrug, the journeyman wandered off to a stall, looking like he'd never even spoken with Altair.

They arrived at the Bureau and Altair's fellow assassins started to mingle about the square. Altair himself climbed the ladder and entered the Bureau.

"Greetings, Altair," Jabal offered from where he was weighing small bags of something. "What news?"

Altair bowed his head. "Al Mualim has named another. Calls himself Sibrand."

The rafiq straightened. "I am familiar with the man. Newly appointed leader of the Knights Teutonic, he resides in the Venetian Quarter and runs Acre's port."

"I'll start my work at once," Altair replied. "However..."

Jabal raised an eyebrow. "However?"

"I have two good apprentices and three solid journeyman who wish to speak with you for assignment."

Jabal's eyes widened and his face slackened. "You... what?"

Altair stepped out to the courtyard and whistled, looking to the journeyman who had spoken with him earlier and nodded. "Five assassins," Altair answered, turning to the rafiq once more. "All of whom are ready to help you rebuild."

"Al Mualim has sent no word..."

Altair shrugged. "I said that if I came here again I would bring others to help you. Yes, it will take time to acclimate them and settle them, but it will be a start."

Jabal's eyes narrowed. "But the Master did not order this, did he?"

"The Master has been locked in his library for months, going over the Templars and their convoluted plots. I merely took some initiative."

An apprentice dropped down from the roof and came in, pulling down the scarf that covered his face and smiling. "Greetings, rafiq. I am Omar and I am at your disposal."

Jabal still looked stunned. The next two hours had the assassins dropping into the Bureau, slowly filtering in and talking to the rafiq of their skills, what they were good at, what still needed work, and how to best use them and what their cover should be. It was almost night when Jabal, with Altair's help, squared them all away down below the Bureau, to start their placements the next day.

"...Altair?" Jabal said quietly.

"Yes, rafiq?"

"I owe you an apology."

"For what?" Altair could not understand whatever for. Jabal had never wronged him in any way.

"For doubting your dedication to our cause," Jabal looked down to his scrolls.

Altair looked down as well before shaking his head. "No," he said firmly, if quietly. "It was I who erred. I believed myself above the Creed. You owe me nothing."

"As you wish my friend. Here are the places you should focus your search for Sibrand: On the docks east of here among the ships and their crews. At the chapel to the northeast near the cross overlooking the port. And to the north, in front of Saint John's Gate."

"This is most helpful," Altair replied. "My thanks for the guidance." With night having fallen, Altair settled himself to the cushions of the courtyard, looking up to the stars.

The following morning, he awoke with the sun. Jabal was already up and talking with James, a journeyman of mixed heritage, like Altair, though only a grandfather was Saracen. Altair stepped in only long enough to nod to Jabal.

"Go in safety," Jabal called as Altair climbed and headed out to start his investigations.

On the streets once more, Altair made his way east. Jabal had provided a fresh map for him, after explaining what had happened to his previous sketches and Altair decided to start exploring the docks for information. With so many ships coming and going for both dropping off supplies and troops and taking wounded home, he had no doubt that there would be a plethora of information, not only on Sibrand, but also on Richard and Salah ad-Din.

The square in front of the entrance to the docks was a thriving market, with many different languages shouting out to come and look at various wears. Also surrounding the docks and market were thugs and drunkards. Sailors loved their ale, after all, since they couldn't keep water fresh for their long voyages. Similar to Damascus, patrols pounded around the city wall, armed and looking suspiciously at anyone and anything. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Altair stood in a fish monger's line, listening and looking.

A pair of servants caught his eye as they came through the gate to the port, both looking weary and speaking German.

"He's done. Moved the last of the foodstuffs onto his ship this morning."

"How much is that?" the other asked. "I've never had to move so much food at once before!"

"Enough for several weeks, I can tell you that," the first replied, rubbing a shoulder.

"What's he planning I wonder..."

"Perhaps he intends to flee. Something's got him very scared. Anyway, I must be off. He asked that I deliver a letter to a courier at Saint John's Gate. Best not keep him waiting."

A letter? Altair looked over the fish closely, before shaking his head and trailing after the servant. It took longer than he would have liked to pick the letter, as the servant seemed nervous, constantly looking over his shoulder and pausing to look around.

Still, Altair had been trained by Farasat, the best pickpocket the Order had ever seen. The difference of time was mere moments and soon Altair was leaning out over a sea wall, reading the letter.

Master:

The situation here is dire. Stories of the Assassins and their evil deeds continue to plague me. Our losses at their hands have been substantial - both in Acre and our other holdings. I fear they come for me next. I have asked my men to increase their patrols throughout the city (and especially the docks), but they have proven quite resourceful. Can I even trust my men? How many of them might be in league with our enemy?

I have made plans to move to sea. As soon as she is ready, I intend to board my ship and be away. It is, perhaps, the safest course of action. Surrounded by water, and guarded by my most loyal men, it will be difficult for anyone to approach unseen. Should you have further orders for me, now would be the time to deliver them, before my ship arrives.

Yours in Peace,

Brother S.

It seemed Sibrand's paranoia was indeed making him mad. Doubting his own men? A journeyman might pay off a guard or use secrets in order to go after another low-ranked guard, but for someone of Sibrand's power, someone who lead and was seen by many and recognized, such tactics rarely worked. A skilled assassin would instead use stealth and speed.

The increase of men would be both a hindrance and a help. With so many looking for his white hood, Altair would have to be extra careful. But with so many patrols in the area, they'd be tripping over themselves and could be easily distracted by decoys. Sibrand's earlier claim that they should pull men from the field would never happen. Richard wouldn't allow it. So only the guards within the city would be an issue.

The move to sea, however, was worrisome. Altair truly couldn't approach a ship once it was out in the Mediterranean. Not without being seen from miles away. He'd need to act quickly. Once more he was racing against time to get to his target. He'd need to get Sibrand within the next two days before his ship set sail. For while the food might be aboard, Altair doubted that the men, themselves, were ready. Sibrand would have only decided this the previous day, and as such, his "most loyal" still needed to be gathered and seen to.

With a silent growl, Altair walked down to the docks and started looking around, seeing the small fishing boats a port would always be full of and walking along the rougher crowds, populated with thugs itching for a fight. Altair stayed to the shadows, looking out at the harbor and studying its layout as he worked north, under the rising city cliff. Out in the harbor, he was pleased to note only one ship that could carry the number of men Sibrand's letter implied and from the look of all the sailors scurrying about, it wasn't ready for sail yet. Indeed, the sails looked to still be in the process of being re-sewn and checked for rips.

Three days at most then.

It was still far too rushed.

He leaned against the city wall, looking out to the ship from his small telescope, and tried to study. But a voice overhead was starting to distract him.

"The Acre port is now under the jurisdiction of Master Sibrand, exalted leader of the Knights Teutonic. All crew members are to be turned over to the order for conscription into the fleet!"

Sibrand was in charge of the ports? That made sense if he was hiding here, and preparing to escape by sea. Craning his neck up, he tried to ascertain where the voice was coming from. The seawall was enormous here, stretching up somewhere over a hundred feet; there was a small stage up there with a Christian cross, where the man was making his announcements. Nodding, Altair looked around for a way to get up there. He wouldn't have to backtrack all the way to the entrance of the port, would he? The assassin made his way northeast, following the seawall to see if there was another gate to the city. He rounded the corner of a building, however, and found something very different: a Templar standing guard in a shadowy corner, under an unused scaffold.

Ducking back around a corner, Altair took a moment to plan his attack. He couldn't just leave the Templar, if his assault was to be on the docks as he suspected he did not need trained eyes to spot him. Frowning, Altair climbed up to the roof, laying down and assessing his options. He couldn't see the Templar from here because the scaffold blocked his view. Would that prove true for him? Taking an educated guess, Altair leapt up to the scaffolding. Beyond it was a partially demolished base of the tower leading up to a parapet. The assassin made the leap easily, landing on silent feet. With the deep shadows the Templar didn't even notice, and after that it was easy work to climb down and stab the knight from behind, deep into the lung and giving a near bloodless death. After that, he threw the body over into the water and began the tedious backtrack to the port gates to find the town crier.

As Jabal has suggested, he was by a church overlooking the docks.

"As decreed, all ships must be turned over to the Teutonic Order. Complaints and concerns must be presented to the guild representative at the Court of the Chain. Failure to comply will result in imprisonment. By order of Sibrand all merchant vessels must be turned over to the Teutonic Order. Clear out your cargo, ship deeds must be presented to the Court of the Chain by midday tomorrow. No exceptions! No delays!"

This was interesting. Rumor amongst the people in the city was that the Teutonic Knights were in charge of collecting port tolls, nothing else; because they were so new. Sibrand seemed to be stretching his authority, or was there more that he did not know of?

Regardless, it bore questioning. He stood at a discreet distance, weary of two guards standing by the church.

"All dock vessels must be cleared of crew and cargo! Captains are to present themselves to a representative from the Teutonic Order for reassignment. Any attempt to maintain possession of a claimed vessel will be punished severely!"

At last finished, the man took a breath and began walking from the stage. Altair did not give him the chance, instead marching right up to him. "You would take my ship?" he demanded in an almost loud voice, handing out a pretext. Then he rammed his fist into the man's face.

"Not again!" The herald said, bringing up a guard and managing to deflect the next punch. This man knew how to fight, even managed to land an excellent jab into Altair's shoulder and then his jaw, before the assassin threw caution to the wind and fought outright, as he had with Abbas just a little while ago. Ending with a brutal elbow to the man's ribs, sending him skidding into the dirt, the crier relented.

"It's not my fault! I'm only following orders!" The man coughed. "If you want your ship back, speak with the Court!" He gestured wildly to Chain district.

"That's not what I'm after," Altair whispered in a soft voice, kneeling down to the man. A glance at the guards and seeing they had long lost interest in the fight. Altair helped the man up and began walking with him, a fist wrapped tightly around his arm.

The crier looked honestly confused. "Then what?"

"Sibrand's claimed near a hundred ships. For what purpose?"

Frowning, he answered, "A blockade. They're to sail to open water and establish a perimeter."

...That made no sense. A perimeter against what?

"For what?" Altair demanded quietly, rounding the corner of the church. There were no guards here, and so he stopped. "Does Salah ad-Din intend to strike from the sea?" He had heard nothing of the kind; all intelligence said the two armies were massing south of here, toward Arsuf.

"No! It's not he we defend against, but ships from home! To deny Richard more troops."

That made even less sense. "Why would one of Richard's own seek to weaken him in this way?"

"I don't know," the crier said, shaking his head. "Ask Sibrand. They're his orders, I'm just meant to carry them out! Now please, let me go! I've told you all I know."

... Altair hesitated. The man was no threat on his own, he had spoken honestly and without hesitation, but now he knew that one was here asking about Sibrand. "You can tell no one of what has transpired," he said slowly, cautiously.

"Sir, who would believe me? Besides, the knights never help when I am assaulted."

Altair let him go and shadowed him for the rest of the day, but the crier only went straight home, avoiding the knights patently. Altair still hesitated, and hoped he was a good judge of character. He stopped off at the Bureau and explained his dilemma to Jabal and asked if the man could be watched for a few days to ensure secrecy. Jabal gave an odd, knowing smile, and nodded.

"Rafiq, what do you know of the Teutonic Knights? I know they formed recently; the people talk of their collecting port taxes. Is there more to them?"

"The one to ask is young Stephen," Jabal answered, still weighing things with his balance. "The knights have only recently received recognition from Pope Constantine, and rumor has it they follow the structure of the Templar Order. Beyond that, I do not know."

"Where is Stephen, usually?" Altair asked, remembering the eager but often self-doubting apprentice.

Jabal shrugged. "I asked not to be told of their safe houses during the siege so that I could not divulge it if captured. He speaks often of a choir, so I suspect he lives near a church, likely in the Venetian district. Though," he added, a frown bleeding through his grey beard, "I've not seen him for three days."

"Is he on assignment?" Altair asked.

"No, not since before the death of William of Montferrat. I've been using his memory for some of my older documents."

"Could he have been compromised? Hiding in one of his safe houses?"

Jabal rubbed his beard, thinking. "It is unlikely. Aside from your own work, there has been little need to be as visible as we were during the siege, and the guards' memories have been dimming for some time. I've not had to order an assassination since before your last visit; in light of that, I don't know how he could have been exposed."

Another mystery that none of them needed. "I'll look for him in the morning," Altair said, rubbing his face. "Would any of the others know where his safe house is?"

"I will ask," the rafiq said, lifting the trap door on the floor behind the counter. "Rest, Altair. You likely have a long day ahead of you."

The day dawned bright and clear, and Altair got up quickly, hoisting himself out of the building and merging into minimal early morning crowds, keeping his posture unnoticeable and giving the throngs of guards a wide berth. He made his way into the rich Chain district, trying to remember where the chapel of Brother Jacob was, a priest whom he and Stephen had helped on Altair's last trip here, and who had in turn given him cover when he was escaping William's citadel. Finding it, he put up with the suspicious stares of the priests and monks while he waited for the perennially curious Jacob to appear.

"Oh, it's you!" he said brightly when he appeared. "You're Stephen's brother, I remember!"

"So you know this Saracen?" one of the other priests asked, using the name like a slur.

"Don't be daft," Jacob said in a dismissive tone, "He's only half Saracen, and he and his brother saved me earlier this year; the pair of them are better Christians than you are with your suspicious gaze and dark heart. One must learn to turn the other cheek, as our Lord did, remember? No? Bah, I'll not deal with your narrow mind right now." The old man touched Altair's arm and gestured that they leave. Once they were out in the street Jacob made an impolite noise. "They all think me a heretic for reading the Quoran, that I do the Devil's work, God forbid. Ah, but I doubt you're here to learn of my petty trials of faith, what can I do for you, friend?"

Altair had spent all night remembering the lies and covers he and Stephen had told the man. "I have been on assignment for many weeks," he said, "And I never had much time to get to know the city. It would appear I am lost, and I do not know where my brother's home is."

Jacob looked at Altair before putting a gentle hand on his arm. "My poor child, forced to work so hard because of your cursed heritage. Of course I'll help you. Your younger brother is doing well here, I should say. He's part of a church near the docks; he helps the priests there when the seamen are at port and causing trouble. Bright lad, and a good Christian, as you are of course."

Altair nodded and listened, keeping his eyes open. Two men in white were less visible than one, but he saw more than a few guards eye the pair wearily, and the assassin kept his posture hunched, deferential, powerless. The guards all turned away after a time.

"He works with those German knights now," Jacob was saying. "Did you know they ran a hospital during the siege? A far cry better than what they do now, let me tell you. But young Stephen, he's nothing if not earnest; I like him very much. He's a good boy."

The pair walked in the shadow of a large church - though that was relative, with the massive Church of the Holy Cross over in the Chain district dominating the entire city, and Jacob knocked on a door, part of a long row of houses. Altair noted that this part of the district, much like the Hospitalier district to the northwest, had suffered from the siege as two doors down a building had the telltale signs of fire damage. Jacob knocked again, and for fifteen minutes the pair waited, but no one came.

"He must be at work, then," Jacob said. "At least you know where the house it. You might try the docks, see if you can find him."

"I understand. Thank you."

"No problem at all! A man saves my life it's the least I can do. May God help you in finding him, child. I've not heard from him myself, if I don't hear from you, I'll help in the search."

Altair waited until the old monk disappeared down the street before pulling out his map. He wasn't as near the docks as he had initially thought, and after spending time there yesterday and not seeing the journeyman he doubted the boy was there now. There was another building, perhaps a church, nearby. Altair would begin his search there. Nodding, the assassin continued walking down the row of houses. Walking by a partially demolished wall, he heard a soft groan. Frowning, he walked behind the wall.

Stephen lay there, curled and slumped in a corner, moving slightly.

Altair allowed himself only a split second of shock before plunging into the shade of the wall, turning the apprentice over to get a better look. There were no injuries that he could tell, no blood and no bruising on the exposed skin. What had happened? The boy's face was flushed, and his eyes dilated. Altair slapped the apprentice, trying to get his attention.

"Ah Altair," Stephen said slowly, focus difficult for him. "Demons are after me."

"Don't talk like that," the assassin said.

"No, you don't understand... Demons with a black cross." His head lolled to the side, energy spent as his dilated eyes continued to roll around. "The sailors, they were drinking... I thought it was only water... then..." He frowned, trying to focus. Altair tried to think - how long ago had this occurred? Whatever poison Stephen had ingested, was it still in his stomach, should he make the boy retch, or would that only do more damage? The assassin couldn't remember the protocol for this; Malik was always better with the sciences.

"Stephen, when was that?" Altair demanded.

The boy appeared not to hear him. "The demons... They want me dead. Me!" He moaned, deep in his throat, a pitiful sound. "Can you imagine?"

"But why? What did you do?"

"I... I think I was trying to pickpocket," Stephen said, weakly dragging a hand to his face. "Everything kept tilting... I thought it was one of the rafiq's tests... It tasted just like water, but the incense was so strong... maybe it was hashish...? You see them; tell them to go away."

"Who? The sailors? Or the knights?" Black crosses could only be Teutonic Knights.

"... But use your blade. It's the only language demons understand. Please... come back as fast as you can."

"Will you be alright by yourself?" Altair asked, uncertain if it was wise for him to leave the apprentice.

"I... I think so. There are fewer of you now..."

Altair grimaced, his head dipping down, before he stood up to his full height and marched out into the square. Demons with black crosses? He would have to deal with it quickly. The square in front of the partial wall had a freestanding portico in the middle of it, offering shade for later in the day when the sun pounded everything down with late summer heat. Narrow trees stood at each corner of the square, and two beggars darted about the crowds, pleading for coin. There were also the Teutonic guards, of course, and Altair closed his eyes and asked the eagle in his mind to lend its eyes to him. He would want to find these targets quickly this is so freakin' cool how he sees the world like this.

One guard was pacing about, separate from the others, in a helmet and looking at the shrubbery lining the back of the church, trying to spot something. He was the first Altair killed, a quick puncture of his hidden blade up and through a lung, the almost bloodless death the assassin preferred. Without pause he marched around the corner of the church and almost immediately found another guard patrolling about, clearly looking for someone. Altair calmly walked up to him and stabbed him deep in the abdomen and continued walking without even breaking stride. Stephen plagued his mind, and it quickened his steps.

No one was at the front of the church, but Altair's eagle did spy a third one along northwest wall, and he was quickly dispatched. Though he hoped it was enough, he doubted it. Sibrand's paranoia would infest the guards, making them attack in larger groups. Stephen had likely disturbed an entire patrol. Frowning, he exited to the back of the church square where he started, and pulled out his map briefly. They would not spread themselves too thin, likely they would meet up at a major road... there. Altair took a narrow alley and rounded a building to a main road. One patrol in tight formation marched down the street just in front of Altair, as did an extra guard in a helmet that kept looking left and right, looking for someone.

This would prove more difficult. The patrol had their swords out, no doubt at Sibrand's orders, and his target stayed close to them. Clever, perhaps, but not permanent. Altair kept well back, waiting and following and waiting. It took almost an hour for the knight to feel secure enough to detach himself from the patrol, turning at a square. The assassin wasted no time, stabbing him in the back with the hidden blade and disappearing up some steps and down another street. He had been gone from Stephen for too long, he did not want to think about how the boy had come to suffer.

A fifth target all but ran into Altair, the two rounding a corner at the same time. The assassin darted away swiftly, not realizing at first, until he saw the guard eye an alley, clearly debating on whether to enter it or not. Altair killed him and hoped it would be enough, backtracking and taking the risk to climb to the roofs and duck the ridiculous number of archers to make his way back to the sickly apprentice. He was forced to use two throwing knives before he found the right row of houses and made his way down. He had been gone two hours, it was mid morning.

Stephen was sitting straight, still flushed but his color underneath it looked better.

"You are back...?" the boy asked, his words sounding clearer.

Altair nodded.

"And the demons?"

"Dead."

"The demons are back in hell!" he smiled, weakly, and gave an unearthly giggle. "I am a saved man. Thank you, Master, thank you."

"Can you stand?" the assassin asked. "You should get to the Bureau, the rafiq can summon a doctor."

"Yes, I think that is for the best..."

It took some effort, but Stephen was able to get his feet under him. His steps were unsteady, however, so Altair slung an arm around his shoulders. The walk back to the Bureau was tedious, the boy needing to stop at several alleys to empty his stomach, and it was almost noon when Altair finally was able to drag the boy to the roof and catch him as he all but fell into the Bureau.

One of the new apprentices was at the desk, and he quickly disappeared down the trap door to get Jabal.

"What happened?" the old man demanded, coming up and quick to inspect Stephen.

"I'm not completely certain," Altair said. "He said something about sailors and drink and incense. Perhaps the concoction Garnier was using on his patients has leaked out to the public."

"I thought it was water," Stephen said slowly, still sick. "And the incense didn't smell right... Then the demons..."

Jabal shook his head, summoning an apprentice Altair did not recognize, sending him off to get a doctor. "Not more of your Christian hellfire and damnation, boy. I would have thought you knew better by now."

"Whatever he saw in his fevered visions, he did manage to get a patrol of the city guard after him," Altair explained. "I only found five, but they at least are dead, and when word spreads to the remaining they will fear continuing the search."

"That cannot be guaranteed," Jabal countered, looking into Stephen's eyes and checking his pulse. "We must assume he's been compromised and send him back to Masyaf."

"But..." Stephen started to say.

"We'll make do," Jabal said, brooking no argument. "Let's get you to a room. The doctor is going to charge a fortune for this..."

Altair helped the two, going through the trap door and down a small tunnel to the building complex north of them, settling the apprentice onto a pallet and cushions. Jabal, much more experienced, stayed with him and Altair waited at the counter until word that the doctor had arrived reached him. When one of the new journeymen took his place, Altair once more took to he streets. His first stop was to the small stage by the church, overlooking the docks. With his telescope, he spied the movement around Sibrand's ship, estimating how much time he still had. He studied the guard patrols in the afternoon light, trying to assess how many men he would have to sneak through. Sibrand's paranoia was a hindrance in that respect, there were so many wandering around Altair sighed at the thought of how difficult the assault would be.

He studied until the sun was so low behind the city walls he could no longer see. Frowning, he made his way back to the Bureau, dissatisfied with how little he had to show for his work.

Stephen was up and about, though very sickly, when Altair came back.

"Should you be up?" he asked.

The boy smiled. "The doctor explained that all anyone could do was wait for it to work through my body. I was feeling better when you returned, and was better still when the doctor arrived, which means I am on the mend." He sat heavily into the cushions of the courtyard, looking up at the dying daylight. "I am a fool," he sighed. "Perhaps I have no place in the Brotherhood."

Altair frowned, sitting by the boy. "What drives you to say that?"

"Is it not obvious?" Stephen asked, pulling his gaze away from the sky above the latticework and to the assassin. "I am a failure in almost all that I do. Twice now you've had to save me because I was too conspicuous to the city guards. I somehow allowed myself to be poisoned, and interpret Teutonic Knights as demons. Can you not see how pathetic I am?"

The assassin stared at the boy for a long, long time.

Finally, he said, "I see a boy who is likely not fit for field work, but I also see a boy whose perfect recall will be nothing but an asset to the Order. Even the rafiq uses your mind to store information or remember where things are placed. Imagine using such a skill in interpreting finances or decoding letters. You are not a failure."

Even in the dim light, Altair could see the apprentice flush in embarrassment. He blinked several times before looking away. Nodding to himself, Altair took his cue and went into the Bureau, seeing a game of chess being played and deciding to watch it.

Author's Notes: And another AC fic is in the works. After playing Revelations we just weren't satisfied with the 30 year jump and decided to, er, "add more scenes." Those will be put up when we're done with this.

And so another investigation begins, and we finally find an excuse for the flags; Desmond has to do something to stall, and the flags made for the perfect distraction. Lucy will encourage it, of course, and Vidic, well... :D One can expect the flags to pop up again, too.

As for the investigation itself, the informant missions are quickly becoming the most interesting. Stephen's assignment always made us scratch our heads, why would someone in an openly agnostic cult talk about black demons? We really weren't sure how to make that work until the idea of Garnier's poison hit us, and then it all clicked together. It's also a great way to show of how Altair's changed, here and in his next informant investigation.

Next chapter: "he" finally gets a name, even if he still is a bitter sarcastic guy. And of course, the death of a Knight. Happy New Years!