The Beginning of Silence
Chapter 08
The boy awoke in a bed with a soft mattress and a real pillow. It was filled with feathers, from the feel, which was odd: his family had never been able to afford anything softer than hay. Sister had always said…
Said…
A face, warm and pretty, swam in front of his eyes, but it began to fade away. Desperately he grasped at the warmth of her eyes, the sound of her voice, the softness of her hair, but it did no good: it was like grasping at thistledown. Every time he seemed to get near the memory it blew away—his attention disturbed it. They were opposite ends of a magnet, he and this memory. What disturbed him even more, however, was that he could remember nothing else besides this shadowy face. Not even his own name.
Lying still on the bed, the boy concentrated, trying his best to recall something, anything, about the past prior to the too-soft pillow and bed. What trickled into his mind's eye were images of fire, of blood, of fleeting white shapes in the dark, and of a horse. A dying horse. Or was it a murdered one? Dimly he could see a young hand that looked suspiciously like his own end the beast's life. Had he really done that? He couldn't say for sure.
Sun was shining through an open window onto his face. His head reeled when he sat up, and when he put a hand to it he found that it was covered in bandages. He squeezed his eyes shut against the light.
A door opened somewhere to his left. "Ah. You're awake, Altaïr."
The boy sat up. What was that last word? "Altaïr?"
A tall man strode slowly into the room. He wore an air of utter calm and self-assurance that was nearly as tangible as his black robes and dark beard. He didn't smile at the boy, exactly, but his eyes weren't hard, and the boy took comfort in this. "That is your name."
The boy blinked and mouthed the syllables, tasting the words on his tongue, learning the feel of them. "Altaïr."
"Are you hungry?" the man asked, and the boy's—no, Altaïr's—stomach grumbled in response. Mutely, he nodded, and the man held out a bowl full of something steamy that smelled of spices. Altaïr took it in shaking hands, tasted it hesitantly, then devoured the meal: a stew of rabbit and vegetables. The older man looked on in silence.
When the boy finished, he balanced the bowl on his knees. "Where am I?"
"Masyaf," the man answered. His right eye, milky and blind, mimicked the movements of his black left, yet saw nothing. Still, Altaïr felt that the man could somehow see everything, be the things thoughts or emotions or actions or anything. He felt like a mouse caught beneath an eagle's eye.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Al Maulim," said the man.
"And who am I?"
This seemed to take Al Maulim off guard. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Altaïr put his head in his hands, cradling his temples in small fingers. "There's nothing in my head from before today. Why is this?"
A gentle hand ruffled his short hair, and Altaïr looked up. Al Maulim said: "You suffered a nasty head wound, child." His voice was mild. "Sometimes, when one is hit in that way, memories fly to the wind as if struck from your mind as a seed is struck from the stalk. You may recover your past, in time, and re-gather the kernels of your memory, but…"
"But for now, nothing," Altaïr said slowly. His eyes, bright as stars but black as night, searched Al Maulim's face. "Who was I, then?"
"I… do not know," Al Maulim answered, hesitant. In soft words he explained to the boy of the demise of his family and all who lived at their steading; the way his sister and mother had been carried off into the night by rogues. The fleeting white shapes—Assassins, Altaïr learned—had been unable to catch them, though they had killed many stragglers. "We came when we saw the smoke, but were too late. You were the only one we saved. It will be nigh impossible to find your family… if the bandits did not kill them out of spite for their fallen, that is."
If Al Maulim was expecting tears, he was disappointed. Altaïr sat still for a little while, mind in a distant place, but eventually came back to the present with dry eyes. He felt no grief at the death of those he used to know—only a twinge of melancholy at the thought of the warm face hovering on the edges of his memory lying dead in a ditch somewhere, or being held in the pens of slave drivers. It was as if he'd never known either her, the vague girl from his memory, or the others, and lamenting over the death of a stranger seemed… like a waste. Stupid, in fact. So he simply said: "I see. What is to become of me now, seeing as how I know no other face than yours?"
For a moment, the boy Altaïr thought Al Maulim was glaring at him. Then he realized that the man's eyes were glowing not with rage, but an impassioned fervor. His words were hushed, reverent, and commanding. "My child… how would you like to change the world?"
Blue mist, crackling with electric numbers and figures, swirled around him. Desmond felt himself standing once again on nothing as a cool voice, that of the automated female taken on by the Animus's AI, soothingly whispered: "Fast forwarding memory, to a more recent one…"
Altaïr hefted the light practice sword with conditioned ease, swinging it in a viper's lightning quick arc at his sparring partner's block. The boy he faced, nearly two years his senior, lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. The bout's overseer, a fourth-rank Assassin Altaïr fancied as something of a fool, clapped and whistled.
"Match—Altaïr!"
The older boy rolled to his feet and stretched. "Looks like you win again."
Altaïr nodded politely. He'd only lost in sword matches twice, both times during his first week as a novice. The bouts had been lost to Assassins of considerably higher rank, too. Altaïr had improved at an alarming rate, and though several of the boys training as Assassins looked at him with contemptuous eyes, none dared cross him… or his sword arm.
Altaïr held out his hand and helped his opponent to his feet. He got a smile in return, but it was chilly. No matter. He had grown used to the smiles— those that were all at once respectful, wary, and scornful—over his four month stay at Masyaf. The days since his initiation as a novice had been filled with rivalry; it seemed Altaïr was a natural, which earned the other novice's resentment. Being the odd man out did have its perks, however: the other boys had given him the best bunk in the novice barracks, and let him head the line at meal times. This last was the best part, seeing as how the novice quarters were on the opposite side of the compound as the kitchens. By the time the youngest boys got to the kitchen at meal times, the best of the food had been taken by the apprentices, cadets, and soldiers, whose quarters were more close. What was left was nutritious, but was usually cold and consisted of nameless scraps that lacked much flavor. The fact that Altaïr got the head of the novice line meant he had the pick of the meal, and the choicest pieces, giving him more strength in the ring than his fellows.
"You did well today," the instructor said as Altaïr left the sparring pen. "I'm amazed at how fast you've managed to improve. The best of the novices—and the newest one, at that!"
Altaïr did not smile. He knew it would only serve to alienate him even further from his peers. "I thank you."
"Put away your blade," the fourth-rank said warmly. "It's nearly time for your—" His words were cut off when a gray-robed soldier ran up, calling: "Where is Altaïr?"
Altaïr stepped forward. "Here," he said. Dimly he noticed the other novices eyeing him and the soldier, trading whispers behind their hands. He ignored them.
"Al Maulim wishes to speak with you," the soldier said, placing a hand on Altaïr's shoulder. "In the library. You'd best hurry—I'd not deign to keep a man like the Master waiting."
"You heard him, boy!" barked the fourth-rank, who had been looking on all the while with keen interest. All his warmth had faded in the presence of his equal. Roughly he jerked the training sword from Altaïr's grasp and smacked the boy on the backs of his calves with it. "Make time!"
The stinging smack jolted Altaïr into a trot. As he ran towards the library's stairs, the soldier and instructor began to talk quietly together, casting glances at him as he ran. He paid them no mind. He was preoccupied by the nerves making his stomach to churn. He had not seen Al Maulim in nearly a month; the Master had checked on him once since his start as a novice, but had not deigned to visit a second time. What could he want now?
The interior of the library was a welcome relief from the outside sun. The marble absorbed the cool shadows, and the light air dried the sweat from his brow as he slowed his pace. He did not wish to appear panicked in front of Al Maulim. Still, he reached the Master's favored desk in a very short amount of time.
Al Maulim stood staring out the open window, his shoulders erect and back straight. Altaïr cleared his throat to make himself known, and when the Master turned around the boy delivered a sharp bow. "You wished to see me, Master?"
"Ah, yes," Al Maulim said, as if noticing him for the first time. "Altaïr. How goes the training?"
Altaïr thought on that then slowly formed the words: "It goes well, Master. I've progressed far, I think."
Al Maulim's eyes narrowed. "And the other novices?"
"They treat me as their better, Master," Altaïr said, deciding that honesty was the best policy. "But in their hearts I fear they resent me." Then, thinking about the courtyard: "They talk behind their hands when they think I will not notice."
Al Maulim nodded sagely. "I suspected as much. Your instructors praise you—too highly, perhaps, as would make your peers comfortable."
Altaïr cast down his eyes. "It is so."
Silences descend upon them. "You've confirmed my fears," said Al Maulim, after a fashion. "It was the same with me, when I climbed my way up the ranks years ago." He lapsed into silence again. "That being said, I have made a decision that, in light of your progress and social situation, will prove beneficial to both you and the Brotherhood."
"Which is?"
Al Maulim's eyes glittered. "Why, my newest Apprentice, a promotion!"
For the second time that day, the Animus murmured: "Fast forwarding memory, to a more recent one," in Desmond's ear.
"You'll be rooming with a boy named Malik," Al Maulim said brusquely as he led Altaïr up a long flight of stairs in the compound's westernmost tower. They were ascending to the Apprentice's quarters. Each boy shared a room with a roommate, and Altaïr was about to meet his. "He's an Apprentice, like you, and shows a remarkable level of maturity." They reached a landing that branched off into a hallway lined with heavy wooden doors, and with a purposeful gate Al Maulim led Altaïr to the farthest one. He pushed it open with an arm. "Here we are. I do not know if Malik is in or not, but we shall see…"
Altaïr followed Al Maulim into the room, staring with appreciative eyes at the wide window on the western wall, the two beds with thick mattresses, and the timber chests at the foot of each.
A boy, maybe two years Altaïr's senior with a beak-like nose and small eyes, leapt up from one of the two beds and bowed from the waist at the site of his Master. "Al Maulim!"
"Malik," Al Maulim intoned solemnly. "I understand that you do not share your quarters with a fellow apprentice."
Malik looked nervous, but tried not to show it. His eyes flickered at Altaïr, then back to the Master. "No, sir," he said quickly. "There are an odd number of Apprentices at this time."
"Not anymore," said Al Maulim. "Meet your newest comrade-in-arms: Altaïr." And with that, he shoved the boy further into the room. Turning his back on Malik, he said: "There are Apprentice robes in the trunk, and a sword. I leave you to your studies." Then he walked out of the room.
The two boys stood facing one another, silent. Malik was the fist to speak.
"Welcome to Apprenticeship," he said.
"I thank you," said Altaïr.
The two lapsed into yet another silence. Finally, Malik asked: "So… how did you find your way into the Brotherhood?"
In a voice characterized by naught but monotony, Altaïr related how he came to know Al Maulim. Malik listened with interested eyes.
"I am sorry," he said, "about your family."
Altaïr shrugged. "I don't remember them." Then, realizing that if he was to spend the next however many years living alongside this boy, Altaïr decided that maybe getting to know him was a good thing. "And your family?"
Malik smiled, the first time he had done so. "My uncle is a merchant who owed Al Maulim a favor, of sorts. When my mother and father died in my youth, he sent me here to learn to serve my country. A noble pursuance, he said."
Altaïr was of a different opinion. From the sound of things, Malik's uncle had wanted to be rid of the boy, but he declined mentioning this to his new friend.
"Would you like me to show you around the Apprentice Hall?" Malik asked, trying to be welcoming and helpful. "I can take you to the sparring rink and the class areas so you will not be lost when you begin instruction tomorrow."
Altaïr gave him a curt nod, but softened the harsh gesture with something highly unusual: a smile. It was small, and had trouble reaching his eyes, but it softened his features enough so they appeared almost friendly…
AUTHOR'S NOTES & APOLOGIES
I am SUCH a dork.
I went to Alaska for the holidays, and guess what I came home with? A cool Alaskan knife? No. A moose sculpture? No. Something Alaskany? No.
I came home with a figurine of Altaïr as a souvenir.
Seriously. I travelled several thousands of miles in order to completely bypass the memorable Alaskan keepsakes for a plastic person about seven inches tall. With removable swords and a working hidden blade, but I digress. It rocks, but my parents think I'm a total nut job. Not that they didn't before, but… you get it, right? I thought so. You're just cool like that, aren't you?
Anyway… here is my approximation of the Assassin ranking system (it corresponds with the level-ups in the game, with a few modifications were the hidden blade is concerned. In my version, you don't get a hidden blade/missing finger until you reach rank 7).
0-- Novice
1-- Apprentice
2-- Cadet
3-- Instructor
4-- Teacher
5-- Soldier
6--Guard (Infantryman)
7--Assassin
8-- Master Assassin
9-- Grandmaster Assassin
10--The Master
The most skilled of the Grandmasters becomes The Master, or leader of the Assassins. Any individual, as long as they have attained rank 7 or higher, is eligible for becoming a Bureau leader (though rank 8's are more eligible than 7's, 9's more so than 8's, etc). The selection of a Bureau leader is usually made by discerning their aptitude as a tactician (as opposed to physical prowess). Most are too old or too damaged to take on regular duties; otherwise they would be used in the field.
Anyway… that's all for now. I'm too tired to concoct a witty note for you guys today, so content yourselves with the above.
Oh, and I'm sorry this chapter was kinda plot-less… but you had to meet Malik. I'll try to make the next chapter more eventful. See ya!