Part Twenty-Three: Death of a Templar I
Later that evening, after Ghunayn had been properly tended to and packed away in a back room to avoid poking around for more gossip, Altair and Malik sat by the chessboard of the Bureau. The other assassins had gone home and to bed, leaving Altair to finally give his report.
Malik sat back. "You've the scent of success about you, Brother."
Altair nodded. "I've learned much about our enemy." He started to lay out his maps and information.
"Share your knowledge then." Malik gave a wry grin. "Let us see what can be done with it."
That sounded like a challenge, something like back from when they were kids. Altair ducked his head and avoided it. "Robert and his men walk the city. They've come to pay their respects to Majd Addin. They'll attend his funeral tomorrow."
"Funeral?"
Altair shrugged. "More of a memorial, though the Christians intend a procession like a funeral. Either way, I will attend as well."
"What is this that the Templars would attend his 'funeral'?" Malik asked, an eyebrow raised.
Altair could see his mind working much as his own had been since putting the pieces together when he started his redemption. "I've yet to divine their true intentions," he admitted, "though I'll have a confession in time. The citizens themselves are divided. Many call for their lives. Still others insist that they are here to parler. To make peace."
"Peace?" Malik said incredulously, a brow still up.
Altair shook his head, rubbing a temple. "I told you. The others I've slain have said as much to me."
"That would make them our allies," Malik countered. "And yet we kill them."
"Make no mistake," he replied, "we are nothing like these men. Though their goal sounds noble, the means by which they'd achieve it are not. At least," Altair hesitated. "That's what Al Mualim told me."
Malik leaned his face onto his one hand, looking straight to Altair in the candlelight. "You hesitate. Why?"
Altair frowned. "Al Mualim has not shared the information I have learned with any of the rafiq from what I can tell. Yet I believe that at the least, you and the other rafiq I have been visiting should know of the deep tides we are swimming. All my kills are connected and their purpose remains a mystery. Something feels off about it and the wisdom of a rafiq or dai should be used to help ascertain the true nature of this plot. Yet Al Mualim sends no word other than my arrival and target." Altair looked down. "Even now, I feel that the Master is holding things back from me. I had thought I had proven that I had changed, but I don't know what more I can do."
They sat in silence for some time. Malik changed the topic, "So what is your plan?"
"I'll attend the funeral and confront Robert." Maybe then he could have some proper answers.
"The sooner the better," Malik agreed. "I want him out of my city."
They started looking over the maps of David's Citadel.
The following morning, Altair lay awake, despite his attempts at rest after submitting all his reports and planning just hours ago. The funeral would not be until later, but Altair wanted to get an early start. This target... This kill... Robert de Sable... Altair held much hope for it. There were still many unanswered questions and a confession would hopefully clear them all.
The stars were just starting to fade in the approaching sun as Altair finally got up and prepared, going over every inch of his blades and ensuring that everything was sharp and ready. Robert, even with all of Altair's stealth, would not be one to go down easily. He felt he would need all his weapons ready for such a crafty and elusive target.
He was adjusting his harness when Malik came out to the courtyard, leaning against the doorway.
"Fortune favor your blade, Brother."
"Fortune favors your blade."
Kadar...
Altair turned. This would be his last attempt. "Malik. Before I go there is something I should say."
The dai raised an eyebrow. "Be out with it."
"I've been a fool."
The corners of Malik's mouth twitched, but his eyes remained somber. "Normally I'd make no argument, but what is this? What are you talking about?"
Of course Malik would drag it out of him. But then, he deserved no less.
"All this time," Altair started, "I never told you I was sorry," he said quietly. He shook his head. "Too damn proud." Altair continued to look Malik in the eyes. "You lost your arm because of me. Lost Kadar. You have every right to be angry with me."
Malik looked away for a brief moment. "I do not accept your apology."
Hurt blossomed in his chest, and Altair looked down, his head bowed. "I understand."
"No. You don't."
Altair looked to the dai again.
"I do not accept your apology," Malik continued, "because you are not the same man who went with me into Solomon's Temple. And so you have nothing to apologize for."
"Malik..."
"Perhaps," the dai said, looking to the wavering candle on the Bureau's desk, "if I had not been so envious of you I... would not have been so careless myself. I am just as much to blame."
Altair disagreed. Strongly. "Don't say such things."
"We are one," Malik turned back to Altair, standing straight again. "As we share the glories of our victories, so, too, should we share the pain of our defeat. In this way, we grow closer. We grow stronger. We become a Brotherhood."
Altair dipped his head in respect. "Thank you, Brother."
"May fortune favor your blade."
"Fortune favors your blade."
Perhaps they were both blessing him. Altair dipped his head even lower, his humility and respect obvious. Then he left.
Once on the roof of the Bureau, Altair cupped his ears and listened. Faintly, he could hear the sound of a Gregorian chant. That meant the Christians had left St. Ann's Church and were making their way to David's Citadel and its graveyard. It would take the entire morning to wind its way through the streets, and Altair had a lot of work to do.
Sticking to the roofs, the master assassin worked his way west and then south, wary of archers but surprised to find very few. His journey was virtually unmolested, and it was a very fast hour before he started approaching the citadel. It was there he quickly learned where all the archers had disappeared to, every building of two rows of houses were filled with them, pacing about and vigilant. Altair quickly pulled out the maps he had received of guard positions for the funeral and found them accurate. Hiding behind a roof access, he peeked around its corner and assessed his options.
The archers further away from the citadel bothered him little; they had no line of sight to the graveyard and would be of no consequence in the assault. What he did not know was how much the archers in front, the ones closer, could see. Maps could not help in that regard, and he had simply had no time to scout. His latest kills seemed to always be against time, and he frowned at the inconvenience of it.
Spying a small tower on the row of buildings in front of him, Altair stalked towards it carefully. There was a guard there; the archer already had an arrow knocked to the bow, pacing about. Altair threw a knife, and the man went down with a grunt that even he could barely hear. Altair leapt to the roof and dragged the body into a shadow before climbing the viewpoint. He had a perfect view of the graveyard and the citadel, and he quickly pulled out his telescope to better assess what to expect. Some people were already there, waiting for the procession. A group of scholars were there, a place for Altair to be invisible. More importantly, however, there was a small building complex between the two gates with no archer manning it, and it blocked the view of the graveyard from several of the archers that Altair was concerned about. He turned and looked more directly south, to the archers that worried him. They all had their bows knocked; they were expecting trouble - to be expected with a Christian ceremony over a Muslim. The guards that were further south had an unblocked view of the south side of the graveyard, but Altair pulled out his map and, with some quick math in his head, realized they were at a bad angle for much of it. That would be to his advantage. Nodding, he turned his attention to the gates. Four guards at one, two at the other, as his map had attested. His white hood would make them nervous, could he get around...?
Altair blinked, pulling away from his small telescope and cupping his ears again. The procession was almost here? Already? He glanced at the sun and saw how high it was. Cursing to himself, he looked down. There was a haystack below him, but the distance was too great and the cart too small - he would break bones if he tried to jump. Sighing, he climbed back down as quickly as he could and found a ladder to take him to the street.
He lost sound of the procession once he was at street level, there were too many people talking and selling and moving. Altair merged with a line of women carrying jars of precious water and soon departed to a crowd of thugs, picking one's pocket for the knife he had used earlier and then detaching again to lean against a wall where he could see the gate but the guards could not see him.
And he waited.
He looked up to the citadel, knowing the Templars were there; de Sable was there. Would he at last learn what the madman wanted? Conquering the cities, creating an army of it denizens, that harmless piece of silver, how did it all lead to peace? He looked forward to the confession, the anticipation filling his body with tension. But, even as he visualized his next kill, he eyed the Sarcen banner; ludicrously large and fawning out in front of the citadel like an awning. What would Salah ad-Din think of his subordinates for what they had done?
For that matter, what would Richard?
It was almost exactly midday when the procession filled the streets, Altair merging with the crowd seamlessly and passing unnoticed by the guards. The crowd gathered at the south end of the graveyard, a sheik holding prayer. Altair kept his head down, mimicking the scholars and others surrounding him, but his eyes never left the three men in white.
Two Templars, the other de Sable, the man who had done so much damage to Altair, to Malik, to the Order, to the Holy Land. Bloodlust filled Altair's mouth and he worked his jaw to contain it. He recognized the heavy grey cape, and his mind's eye filled with the Roman architecture of Solomon's Temple, of the struggle and the collapsed wall, and the sounds of Kadar dying. The hidden blade contracted, and for a brief moment he wrapped his fist around the blade, pressing the flat of it against his missing finger, drawing strength and more importantly calm from it. The white smock had dirtied since last he saw him, likely from the ride south with the army, perhaps in a skirmish here and there. He was a fool to only bring a pair of Templars with him; the man would rue the day he set foot in the Holy Land.
With a deep breath, Altair retracted the blade and focused on his role as one in prayer.
The two Templars flanked de Sable, just to the side of a sheik holding the service. They were trying too hard, it seemed, as they even had a Muslim hold the Christian service. A city guard blocked the door to the citadel, and another stood off to a corner, silent support to Robert's plan. That made five men to fight, including de Sable, and three of them nobles trained to fight since birth. In such a crowd innocent people would be hurt, Altair decided to wait until the end of the service, when they were already turning to leave so that they might already have a head start on the running. That would be for the best.
Robert stood at his full height, helmet hiding his face from the crowds, but Altair could see his eyes sweeping the masses.
The assassin lowered his eyes, focusing on being invisible.
"Amen," the crowd said as one, the silent prayer complete.
The sheik began to speak. His words were slow, almost wooden, as if he wasn't sure what to say at a Christian memorial. He kept his words generic.
"We gather here to mourn the loss of our beloved Majd Addin. Taken too soon from this world, I know you feel sorrow and pain at his passing." De Sable's eyes roved over the crowd again, subtle but persistent. He was the grandmaster of the Templar Order, he was good, and Altair kept his head down in the crowd, surrounded by scholars and invisible to all. "But you should not. For just as we are all brought forth from the womb, so too must we all one day pass from this world. It is only natural, like the rising and the setting of the sun.
"Take this moment to reflect on his life and give thanks for all the good he did. Know that one day we will stand with him again in Paradise."
Robert kept eyeing the crowd in the following silence. He knew the assassin was here, was waiting for his strike, and Altair was more than happy to let the man sweat. He wondered how he would act with his death. Would he be afraid like Sibrand? Or welcoming like Jubair and Talal? Confused, perhaps, like William or Tamir? No, he would likely be none of those. It didn't matter how he would face death, the point was that he would die, and that was all Altair needed.
Slowly, de Sable's eyes turned to Altair's direction. For a split second he thought their eyes had met, but he ducked his head down and dared not confirm. His body filled with energy, cursing that he was so intent on Robert's death he had forgotten his role as a mourning scholar. He redoubled his efforts, determined not to fail in this mission.
At last, at last, he would have answers.
"Amen."
Robert walked slowly up to the sheik turning his back to the crowd slightly. The sheik leaned in, listening, before he began speaking again.
"As you know, this man was murdered," he said, and Altair watched as de Sable pointed to the city guard in front of the citadel door and then gesture to the two men who had flanked him. "We have tried to track his killer." The city guard stepped away and opened the door to David's Citadel, two more Templars filing out and the four spread out on either side of the sheik.
Dread began to fill Altair.
"But it has proved difficult. These creatures cling to the shadows, and run from any who would face them fairly. But not today! For it seems one stands among us."
Altair froze.
"He mocks us with his presence, and must be made to pay!"
And the sheik pointed directly at the assassin. The entire crowd turned, dozens, perhaps a hundred eyes immediately on him. Exposed, exposed! He had been exposed!
"Seize him!" the sheik cried. "Bring him forward, that God's justice might be done!"
Holy shit I'm fucking screwed Altair saw two arrows fly by him as he spun around the screaming crowd, the people falling over each other to run away. Altair shoved them aside, trying to help them out of the way even as he simultaneously drew his short sword and dodged the high-pitched twang of arrows. His free hand went to one of his belt knives and he searched for the archers, but that had to be quickly dropped as well as the knife as one of the Templars advanced on him. The long sword had a better reach than his, and Altair was quickly on the defensive, deflecting strikes as a city guard tried to take advantage even as a third - Altair did not see whom it was, circle around him from behind.
He deflected a strike from the Templar and ducked under the city guard's strike, slashing his knife along the man's neck and spinning into a tight circle. An arrow landed at his feet, and his eyes flicked up to trace the trajectory, a man on a platform to the north.
Nodding, he grabbed a fistful of a Templar's chain mail and shoved him aside, knocking him into de Sable and another Templar before running at full speed, shoving a city guard away and then all but leaping up a ladder. The archer already had his sword drawn, but Altair was quick to grab him and throw him down, the fall breaking an arm. He could not gauge more because one of the Templars had followed him up the ladder and shoved him as well. Altair had significantly more training falling, and he was able to prevent serious injury, though he knew his shoulder would be bruised for the effort.
He had not, however, expected one of the Templar's booted and heavily armored feet to slam into his left hand, and pain exploded up his arm as he jerked the limb out from under the foot. Altair held it close to his chest, waiting for the pain to subside even as he put it out of his mind; his sword arm still worked, and with it he deflected another strike, this time from de Sable himself. Altair blocked it and kicked the grandmaster aside - he couldn't deal with someone that well trained yet, not until the others were dead.
A city guard advanced next, and Altair ducked under the obvious strike, shoving his short sword into the man's foot, the man's cry dying quickly as the assassin's jerking of the sword out of the wound created another slash at the man's throat. Two city guards were dead as was one of the archers; that left the four Templars, de Sable, and another archer somewhere in the citadel.
Altair ran from the pack, back the way he had come and under the shade of the enormous Saracen flag. Turning, he took a deep breath and fought through the pain in his hand to grab another knife. He couldn't do it, two fingers were likely broken and he couldn't hold the weapon right to throw it. He had little time to react other than to snarl as one of the Templars made his advance. Altair pulled his short sword up in defense, deflecting a strike and kicking him aside as a second moved to take over. Holding off that blow sent shudders up his good arm, but Altair saw an opening and was able to painfully grab the man with his injured hand and stab him - once, twice, into the collarbone before shoving him aside.
The Templar he had knocked away was back now; with Altair in the corner as he was they could not surround him. He did not have as much room to maneuver as he would have liked, but they, too, had little room and assassins were used to fighting one on many, unlike Templars who trained in one on one duels or battalions. A massive swing came that Altair didn't even have to block, it banged against the wall of the citadel before it could complete its arc and Altair used the split second advantage to plunge his sword deep into the man's leg where there was no chain mail. Then he forcibly pulled the blade out of the wound, severing muscle and blood vessels both, holding it up to guard against a third Templar.
"Heathen murderer!" the Templar said, furious to see two compatriots fall.
Robert stepped in next, still reticent, but Altair deflected the blade and rammed a shoulder in under the grandmaster's guard, knocking him aside. He would be last, so the assassin could savor the death and learn everything he could.
"You'll pay for this!" the Templar said again, giving a perfect feint and grabbing Altair's robes. The assassin tried to grab at the fist but the Templar was too good, and soon he was rolling into the stone cross of a grave, bruising his shoulder further and stiffening his back. In pulling himself to his feet he put his weight on his bad hand and his broken fingers protested loudly. It was enough of a distraction for something to strike the side of his head and for a moment all he saw were stars. He rolled blindly to the side, his head pulsing in pain, and somehow managed to block a blow from above. His vision swam, but his muscle memory did not need his sight - once he saw the downward slash his body did the rest, spinning dizzily under the strike, around behind the Templar, and practically shoving his sword into the back of the knees, severing ligaments and shattering bone.
That left only one Templar and de Sable. No, only de Sable. When had the fourth Templar been killed? Altair shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He could feel blood sliding down his temple, too far from his mouth to lick it aside. An arrow struck his abdomen, but the leather belts protected him from any damage, and the shock of it made him aware of de Sable advancing on him. Altair moved to deflect the blow but the short sword was knocked out of his hand.
Growling, he pulled out his sword, training his eyes on the grandmaster. There were none left now, aside from the archer, and with that thought he slowly started backing up, looking to press himself against another wall and let Robert be his cover. De Sable knew this, and moved to grab him. Altair would have none of that, not again, and side stepped, the two wearily circling each other. Altair would never attack - not like at the temple - assassins defended peace, they waited it, for people to discover wisdom, and that was something a Templar could never understand. They were action. Assassins were reaction.
Altair painfully grabbed the arrow caught in his belts and snapped it off, backing up further. Robert at last lost patience and advanced. The assassin blocked the strike, the force of the blow traveling up his arm but ultimately ignored as Altair guided the sword away. He spun around, trying to angle into de Sable's defense but the grandmaster refused, blocking the blow by striking at the assassin's arm. Strange that he did not go for his neck as before. Altair traded a few blows and strikes, neither managing to land anything on either one. Robert had skill - to be expected from a grandmaster of course - but there was an inherent grace in his moves, an efficiency in his movement, that Altair appreciated in the technical part of his mind. The rest of him hated it however, because it made his work harder and de Sable's death longer in coming.
In the end, though, the drawn out fight was a boon to Altair, because his vision finally cleared even if the headache did not, and de Sable clearly did not have the stamina for protracted battle. His blows were weak, not up to par with a man who'd trained since birth, and finally Altair was able to overpower his assailant. Knocking the sword away, he grabbed Robert with his broken hand, willfully ignorant of the pain, and pulling him towards Altair - the direction de Sable was not expecting - and spinning around, using the momentum to slam de Sable into a wall and shoving his arm against the man's neck.
Had Robert de Sable always been this short? Or had Altair's mind made him appear larger than he was?
Regardless, the archer could not see him now, and now he would fulfill his mission.
"I would see your eyes before you die," he said slowly, softly. They were both panting. His good hand reached up and ripped the helmet off, ready to see the look in that grandmast-
A soft, circular face appeared under the helmet, pale, smooth skin, arched eyebrows, pink lips. A woman?
"I sense you expected someone else," she said in Arabic, her words dry.
... A woman? But... but de Sable was here! The Templars were here! Another trick? Like when Al Mualim had given him a vision of his death? No, that wasn't possible, it couldn't be! The blow to his head? But... How... what... what...
"... What sorcery is this?" he shouted.
"No sorcery," she answered calmly, looking Altair directly in the eye. "We knew you'd come. Robert needed to be sure he had time to get away."
"So he flees!" The coward was running away! Treachery!
"We cannot deny your success," the woman said simply, shrugging her shoulders under the weight of Altair's arm pressed against her. "You have laid waste to our plans, first the treasure then our men. Control of the Holy Land slipped away." She smiled, soft and supple, but also hard and vindictive. "But then he saw an opportunity. To reclaim what has been stolen, to turn your victories to our advantage."
That was impossible. Altair shook his head in denial. The Order had all the advantages.
"Al Mualim still holds your treasure, and we've routed your army before. Whatever Robert plans, he'll fail again."
The woman smiled again. "Ah," she said coyly, "but it's not just Templars you'll contend with now."
Who else would there be?
"Speak sense!" he demanded.
"Robert rides for Arsuf to plead his case, that Saracen and Crusader unite against the assassins."
Saracen and Crusader? United? That was impossible. And against the assassins? "That will never happen," Altair said, staring at the woman. "They have no reason to."
Another smirk. "Had, perhaps," she said. "But now you've given them one. Nine, in fact. The bodies you've left behind, victims on both sides; you've made the assassins an enemy in common and ensured the annihilation of your entire order. Well done."
The moment hung in the air, the woman staring at him and reveling in the slow dawning of horror across Altair's face as it all came crashing down in his mind. Three Crusaders, six Saracens. The treaty with Salah ad-Din would be null and void if he realized the assassins were involved with Jubair's death, or with Majd Addin, and Richard didn't care whom his enemies were. Masyaf was small, too small; it did not have the supplies or the forces to fight of two armies. If de Sable's plan worked...
It would be a disaster!
Altair growled, energy taught in his muscles as he struggled to think rationally. He glared at the woman for a long, long time, staring into her eyes, before he took a deep breath.
"... Not nine," he said. "Eight." He released his arm from her neck and stepped back.
The woman blinked several times, openly shocked at the gesture. "... What do you mean?" she demanded.
"You are not my target, I will not take your life." The first tenet of the Creed: Stay the blade from the flesh of the innocent. "You're free to go, but do not follow me."
She stared at him, still confused, before a haughty look finally filled her face. "I don't need to," she said, unable to hide the defensiveness in her voice. "You're already too late."
She turned and ran away.
"...We'll see," Altair whispered.
There was still the archer to deal with, and so he sheathed his sword and pulled out a knife, aiming with his right hand instead of his left and stepping out of his cover. The blade flicked from his hand and he bent down to retrieve his short sword, sheathing it without even looking up as the archer gave a dull thud to the ground. He stepped over the bodies at his feet and carefully eyed the gates, weary of what lay before him. The city alarms were ringing, everyone knew the assassin was in the city; he looked a bloody mess, and his broken fingers and blow to his head made him vulnerable. His fist priority was finding a ladder, the second tenet of the Creed: Hide in plain sight.
First stop would be the Bureau, he needed to tell Malik what was happening, maybe get him to ride to Masyaf while he rode to Arsuf. He would be damned if he brought another attack to Masyaf, not while there was breath still in him. The third tenet of the Creed: Do not compromise the brotherhood. He would die before he did it again.
With that resolve, he took a deep breath and boldly marched out to the streets. He was too bloody to pass for anything other than what he was, and he turned south, crossing into the Jewish Quarter, looking for an alley or a ladder to disappear in.
It was not to be.
"There he is!"
"Get him!"
Cursing Altair dashed down a main street, shouting, "Get away! Get away or you'll be killed!" and shoving a poor woman with a jar out of harms way and leaping up two crates and a lantern beam, trying to get to the roofs. One of the guards threw a stone, however, and hit his already throbbing head. He lost his balance and fell to the ground, disorientated. He managed to pull himself to his feet - how he did not know - and stumbled away from the guards and took off running again. He did not have the energy to fight, and so he ran.
He ducked into an alley that lead out to another main street; people were staring again but he could do nothing about it as he made a hard right, ran several meters, and then another hard right into a courtyard. Two people were there, staring at Altair in shock. The assassin cursed.
"Forgive me," he said quickly. "I'll be gone in a moment," before taking a running leap up the back wall of the courtyard, grabbing a beam and hoisting himself up and then jumping to reach a crack in the wall. In his hurry he had once more forgotten about his broken fingers and fell several feet to the ground, the handle of his sword digging into his hip. He could hear the cries of the guards behind him; he would have to run out.
Cursing more, he moved to get up but one of the people touched his shoulder, a woman, offering a soft, "Shh."
The other occupant of the courtyard, a man, stepped out and started pointing. "Did you see him? A man covered in blood! He ran that way, that way!"
The guards ran by, not once looking in.
"Are they gone?" the woman asked.
"Yes. I think so," the man said.
"Praise God," she said, sighing in relief.
"Are you sure it's him?" the man asked.
"Yes, I recognize the hood," the woman said. She turned to Altair. "Do you remember me?" she asked. "You saved me from the city guard raping me."
Altair blinked, exhausted, trying to remember. Majd Addin's investigation... right?
"My, you're handsome under the hood," the woman said. "But you're exhausted. I'll get you some water. My husband will keep the guards distracted."
The assassin couldn't quite believe it, but everything was so numb he just mutely accepted the cup of water, sipping it slowly and waiting for the throbbing in his head to die away.
"You've no idea how grateful I am that you saved her," the husband said softly. "I care not what others think, to me you are a hero."
Altair shook his head, the motion causing pain. "I am not one to be lauded," he said softly. He rubbed his forehead, trying to get the throbbing to go away.
The wife picked up on it right away. "He's been hurt," she said, "We need to get a doctor."
"No, no," Altair said swiftly. He stood, swaying on his feet as a wave of dizziness overtook him, but held firm. "My presence here is a danger to you, I'll not risk it. Thank you, but I must go." He returned the cup and eyed the street before taking the posture of a scholar and slipping out. He could not hide the bloody robes, however, and inside of fifty heartbeats a guard spotted him.
"You cannot run forever!"
Altair begged to differ as he printed down the streets, the adrenaline pumping and making his head hurt even more. The one guard quickly grew to over a dozen and someone somewhere threw another rock. It didn't hit his head, thank goodness, but an archer placed an arrow at his feet and he tripped over himself trying to jump it.
"He's tiring himself!" someone cried out, but Altair's reply to that was to dive through a merchant stand, smashing pots and jars and plates, using the commotion to bank a hard left down an alley, barreling through a degenerate, and exiting out on another street. He'd somehow crossed back into the Christian Quarter and he at last found a ladder, all but leaping towards it and beginning to climb.
To his disappointment, however, an archer appeared on the roofline. He kicked the ladder away from the building and Altair crashed into the guards giving chase. Panting, the assassin felt and arm wrap around him and drag him up, his vision was blurry again and it was work to get is feet under himself before yanking his arm away, a hand on his sword to draw it.
"Wait, wait, my friend," a withered old man was saying. "I'm trying to help you."
Altair stared at the man, unbelieving, before he heard a curse from a guard and ran away, down yet another alley. He burst into a main square of some sort, dozens of eyes on him, and someone pointed.
"It's him!"
Feeling much like one of Rauf's training dummies, he made a mad dash down the street. The guards chasing him were quick to spot him, and Altair was certain the entire city knew where he was at this rate.
A bearded man stepped in front of him, and the assassin nearly fell over trying to avoid him. The man gave a great cry, however, and then ran towards the guards. Unable to fully comprehend it, Altair allowed himself only a moment to stare as the man grabbed the wrists of one of the guards and tried to hold him. That was all he had time for before he was on the run again, dashing up crates and then down them, trying to make himself difficult to track.
A woman pointed, "It's safer that way!" before shrieking and dropping her jar in front of the guards, demanding restitution. Two men, brothers perhaps, ran straight at - and then straight past - Altair and barreled into the guards. Another woman threw something onto the road, and a massive dog leapt for it, tripping several guards. A withered old man simply said, "God praise you, boy!" while a man and woman beckoned him to come into their courtyard.
Confused, Altair finally slowed down, there were no guards in his immediate line of sight, and sat down on the first bench he could find, trying to get his breathing under control and for his head to stop throbbing. He hunched in over himself, trying to hide the bloodstains. It was afternoon now, he had to hurry to the Bureau and then to Arsuf, he was running out of time. His thoughts were scattered and hard to catch, but he remembered all too well the vision of the Templars assaulting Masyaf, the burning buildings and the slaughter and the bodies. He was responsible for it then, and he would be responsible for it again if he could not stop it.
He shook his head in spite of the pain. Not again. Not again.
"Friend," a man whispered, "The guards are coming, you need to move."
Altair looked up to see a scholar, the scholar he had saved before, with two of his merchant sons. He blinked, shocked to see him.
"Move!" the scholar said.
Altair did, he surged to his feet and almost immediately put a hand to his head, trying to fight off the dizziness.
"We heard right, you are injured."
"... 'heard'?" Altair questioned.
"Never mind that now," one of the merchant sons said. "This way."
The four men left the alley and out into a main street. They were in the Muslim Quarter now, and further up the street Altair could see two guards being assaulted by three merchants and a woman. Altair's eyes lingered on it before turning away to see another guard being accosted by a woman accusing him of breaking her jar and demanded that he pay for the damages. Another street had a collection of scholars having a heated debate with a patrol, demanding to know why they had the audacity to walk around with drawn swords.
What... What was happening?
He looked to the scholar. "He saves the lives of many and still he does not understand that the grateful will find a way to repay him," the scholar said to one of his sons, though Altair was the obvious target of the words.
A bearded old man sicced his dog on a patrol, children cried in front of a guard demanding to know where mommy was, a merchant physically grabbed the hand of a guard to have him look at his wares.
Altair was amazed.
"Where are you going?" one of the sons asked.
"... The roofs," Altair said, unable to stop himself. He couldn't believe what was happening. "Once I'm there I can get to safety."
"My place, then," the other son said. "It's near here and I can pull out a ladder. My wife can tend you, too, while I dig it out."
And so it was that the four men entered a small courtyard shaded with a palm tree, the two sons disappearing to get the ladder and the scholar looking over the bloody Altair. The two said nothing, Altair because he was at a loss for words and the scholar just looking on kindly, a knowing look in his eyes. A woman, presumably the wife of the merchant, came out with water and ripped strips of cloth, but Altair politely refused. If he would accept their help, the city's help, then he would leave no traces of his presence, and that included lost medical supplies - better the Bureau doctor look at him - assuming he had time, than endanger these people more than he had to.
His mind was swimming again, and it seemed almost instantaneous that the brothers returned with the ladder, and Altair bowed his head before climbing it, mindful of his painfully broken fingers, and cresting the roof. There were no archers in his immediate area, and he could see the guard tower that marked where the Bureau was.
Exhausted, injured, dizzy, he made his way to safety. The late afternoon sun kept trying to blind him, spots filled his eyes and his body had long run out of adrenaline to fuel his speed. His mind was so empty he almost walked by the Bureau entrance, and as it was he misjudged a step and fell down into the roof's entrance. It was only through sheer luck that he did not hit the fountain in his fall, as it was his fingers broke even further, and all he could do was lay on the floor, trying to pull himself together.
Malik was at the counter. He stared in disbelief at the state of the master assassin. For the moment, they were alone.
"It was a trap!" Altair growled, holding his head as it suddenly throbbed painfully. His vision blurred again.
"I had heard the funeral turned to chaos," Malik answered, eyeing him. "What happened?"
"Robert de Sable was never there," Altair answered, wishing his head would stop hurting. Why were there two Malik's? "He sent another in his stead, he was expecting me. The decoy was watching for me... The Templars," he continued, trying to concentrate, "they're going... to..."
Another wave of dizziness hit him and he quickly grabbed the counter to keep himself upright. His breath came out in a hot puff, and he could perceive very little beyond the pain.
"Altair! Halim, get the doctor! Seosamh, Saadah, help me carry him!"
He did not know how long he was out, but when he next opened his eyes his head felt significantly better, the throbbing and blurred vision reduced to a dull ache. Blinking slowly, he looked down to his left hand to see his fingers had been treated and wrapped, as was his head.
"Robert rides for Arsuf to plead his case, that Saracen and Crusader unite against the assassins."
Not again.
Altair cursed, pulling himself upright and moaning against all the aches and pains he felt in his shoulder, in his hip. He stretched as best he could as he pulled on a fresh uniform, belting his swords and strapping on his hidden blade. There was no time to loose, he'd lost too much time as it was, he had to get moving.
He started off with a slight limp, but it eased up as he made his way to the back room. Malik was there, and he looked shocked to see the master assassin up. "What are you doing?"
"We've been deceived! Robert has long since left Jerusalem. Arsuf is his destination - and so it will be mine as well. I only hope I will not be too late. There's no time, I have to go," Altair said. His head ached but he could more than ignore it.
"No," Malik corrected, "You must go to Al Mualim."
"There's no time," Altair pressed, "The decoy, she told me where he's gone, what he plans. If I return to Masyaf he might succeed. And then, I fear we'll be destroyed."
Malik looked confused, he shook his head, walking around the counter and grabbing Altair's arm. "We have killed most of his men. He cannot hope to mount a proper attack. Wait," he said, pausing. "Did you say 'she'?"
"Yes, it was a woman," Altair said. Her face filled his mind but he waved a hand in dismissal. "Strange, I know, but that's for another time. For now we must focus on Robert. We may have thinned his ranks but the man is clever, he goes to plead his case to Richard and Salah ad-Din - to unite them against a common enemy. Against us. If Robert succeeds in convincing Richard and Salah ad-Din we are the enemy; the assassins will be destroyed. We cannot withstand the combined might of the Saracen and Crusader armies."
Color drained from Malik's face as he absorbed the implication. His eyes closed, head shaking slightly, and his hand moved to rub his forehead.
"Surely you are mistaken," he said, though whom he was trying to convince was hard to tell. "This makes no sense. These two men would never-"
"Oh, but they would," Altair pressed, pulling himself out of Malik's grip, "And we have ourselves to blame. Myself to blame. The men I've killed, men on both sides of the conflict, men important to both leaders. Garnier, William, Sibrand, Jubair, Majd Addin, all men close to Richard and Salah ad-Din; their deaths drew attention to us, to the Order. Robert's plan may be ambitious but it makes sense. So much sense." He shook his head, still marveling at the cleverness of it all. "And it could work. It could work. I can't let it happen. Not again. I won't be the reason Masyaf is attacked again."
Malik was struggling as much as Altair was, his scraggly beard pressed behind an enormous frown, his eyebrows knotted together and staring, trying to absorb what Altair was telling him.
"Look, brother," the dai said, sounding almost pleading. "Things have changed. You must return to Masyaf, we cannot act without our Master's permission. It could compromise the brotherhood. I thought..." His expression changed; suddenly he looked pained. "I thought you had learned this."
Angry at the delays, angry at Malik's accusation, furious with the fate about to fall his beloved order, Altair slammed his good fist onto the counter, as much as to channel his anger elsewhere to prevent him striking his best friend as to get the dai's attention.
"Stop hiding behind words, Malik! You wield the Creed and its tenets like some shield!" He shook a finger at the other man. "He's keeping things from us, important things! You were the one who told me we could never 'know' anything, only suspect." He paced about the back room. "Well I suspect this business with the Templars goes deeper. Al Mualim claims Robert is trying to gain peace, but the man wishes to capture the cities and use their denizens as soldiers in an army - soldiers free of thought either through poison or from that harmless piece of silver you captured in Solomon's Temple. If he desires peace why would he build an army? Why do they and the Master think so much of their treasure? I don't know how deep this goes!"
He let out a deep, frustrated breath. "I ride for Arsuf. When I'm done with Robert I will ride for Masyaf that we may have answers, but perhaps you could go now."
That openly shocked Malik, the dai not expecting such a request. He immediately tried to deny it. "I cannot leave the city."
Altair growled and rubbed his forehead again.
"Then walk amongst its people! Seek out those who serve the ones I slew, learn what you can."
The two stared at each other in the dim room, their wills battling back and forth.
"You call yourself perceptive," Altair said finally, "perhaps you'll see something I could not."
Malik looked away.
"... I don't know. I must think on this."
It was the best he would get. Altair sighed again, acknowledging the dai. "Do what you must, my friend, but it's time I ride for Arsuf. Every moment I delay, our enemy gets one step ahead of me."
He stared a moment more, but then, "Be careful brother."
"I will be, I promise."
Altair leapt up the courtyard and left the Bureau.
Author's Notes: Mirror, when she read through this spent a lot of her time openly cheering at the computer screen. She never expected the city of Jerusalem helping one lone assassin, and so we hope that it comes as a pleasant surprise for all of you as well.
There's actually not much to say about this chapter, it follows the game almost verbatim, very little in the way of tweaking was necessary. Well, except for injuring Altair, of course, that just had to happen. We both agreed early on that there was no way he could go through the game - and especially the end of it - without sustaining an injury or two, and so we debated back and forth quite heavily on how roughed up he wold by at certain stages. Here, we have two broken fingers and a severe headache, perhaps a concussion, that had to be treated before he left. One can imagine how he'll fair after the next few chapters. (knowing laughter).
Maria we debated about quite heavily, but ultimately this is only their first meeting; Altair doesn't have time to fully process who he's talking to at this point, only that she's a woman and (whether he recognizes it or not) quite pretty. Crushing on her, in our opinion, doesn't really happen until the Bloodlines game - at least that's our supposition since we don't have a PSP to play it. If nothing else, she certainly made an impression on him, and we cross our fingers and hope the "What sorcery is this?" crack makes a little more sense.
Desmond had a small blip on the radar - even he didn't like being exposed like that - but he'll really get to shine when he gets out of the Animus.
And we finally got our hands on the Secret Crusade. Here's hoping this project is comparable!
Next chapter: Death of a Templar, Take Two.