Conrad stood just outside of the gates of the battlements, a frown gracing his clean-shaven and well-kept face. His hair had been cut, his eyes bright and young with several night's worth of deep sleep. His wounds, hidden under his clothes, were treated and bandaged. No harm done, they basically said. He let them treat him, heal his wounds, pat him on the head like a disciplined child.
He convinced the Masters that the proper way to evade the assassin's wrath and plan their next assault was to treat the city in the way the assassins did not expect. That was to say, well. Withhold from them not their food, or their homes, or their families. The Masters relented, perhaps because they thought him hopelessly merciful and incompetent and merely sought to appease him, but they cared little for his feelings. Regardless of the reason, they allowed him his vision to an extent.
He carried his tasks out, however, with a perpetual grimace. Garrick gave him sideways glances at every other moment simply because the Siege Lord had stopped confiding in him.
Looking over his city every morning, Conrad felt unlike himself. He was numb; no longer afraid of the assassin nor the Templars. It seemed he had grown up by years in just a few short days. His father would be... Proud.
From the Siege Lord's side, his attendant demanded his attention. "Liege... A letter from Isabella. She wishes you to return to Cyprus for a reunion, and perhaps dinner." Garrick smiled.
Conrad looked down, away from his city. "I cannot leave now, when the end is so near."
The smile faded from his attendant's face. "What-"
"Tell the dockworkers to secure half of the shipments from the east today and place it in the battlements," Conrad began, adjusting the bracers he wore on his wrists. "The spices and silk I have kept in the western warehouse should remain there for a fortnight, along with whatever else we have requisitioned from the people." He thought for a moment. "That should give me enough time to travel to Masyaf."
"Masyaf!" Garrick gasped. "I thought you had washed your hands of any business with the assassin."
"Wash my hands of one evil to trade for another is not something I would do. Nor something I could live with."
"So this," Garrick gestured to all around them, "This was just another act?"
"In order to survive, one must practice moderation, tact, and a significant amount of cunning. I am merely biding our time." The Siege Lord smiled curtly.
They watched in silence as guards patrolled around them in repeating patterns like debris drifting through the ocean of citizens that flooded the marketplaces and streets. Conrad was unable to keep his eyes off of the Templar knights who hovered at regular intervals throughout the city per the request of the Masters.
Wolves in sheeps' clothing. Conrad narrowed his eyes.
"Your old schemes have resurfaced, then?" Garrick asked.
"They never sank." Turning to his attendant, Conrad grew more serious. "I go to Masyaf alone, Garrick. I need you to remain in Acre and carry out the tasks I have just given you, among others."
"When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow. The sooner I leave, the sooner I return and this city will see a new era."
The Templar knights tilted their obscured faces towards the two, but only out of idle curiosity. Conrad turned to meet their gaze evenly and they looked away. He was still their commanding officer on these streets.
"Tonight, however," Conrad said, leaning in, gaze still lingering on the knights, "I attend dinner with Phillip."
"Phillip? He still lives in Acre?"
"Still, he does, and he would be a valuable ally."
"Can you trust him?"
Conrad waved him off with a scoff. "Of course. He has been my friend for years."
The moon was full when Conrad left the home of the Bishop Phillip with a full stomach and a light heart. They had discussed matters of art, politics, love, and whatever else the drinks had provoked. Conrad spoke of his birthplace in Italy, where the green fields were unending, and of the friends he had made before politics entered his life. Phillip spoke of France, his home before Acre, but mostly of the food and the women.
Conrad's men hovered by the doorway, deep in a light conversation as they waited for their Lord to finish his business.
Garrick crouched in an adjacent alleyway, a narrow section between two homes dissected midway by a low wall. His back was to the wall, his eyes scanned the door to Phillip's home, and he was obscured by shadows. He had taken every precaution to ensure the Templar knights had not followed or that he would not be taken by surprise. The nights in Acre were cold, so being without his gloves, Garrick breathed into his cupped hands and rubbed them together, trying to keep himself warm as he waited for the Siege Lord to leave. There was another feeling he had. He was uneasy, though he could not pinpoint precisely why. It was as though he was being watched and at the same time he knew they were not; he had scouted the area beforehand and several times during. Garrick eventually shook it off as a faulty premonition due to the cold and returned his concentration to the door.
Finally, the door open and Conrad stepped out with a cackle. "Good night, my friend!" he called to the room behind him and waved. He stumbled past the guards, clumsy but not quite drunk. "Come, men. Let us return to the battlements."
Garrick had been ordered to scout the area before flanking them, so he ambled away as Conrad and his escorts walked to where a small church sat on the edge of Acre's middle district.
The group stopped, at Conrad's behest. "Wait," he wheezed. Unbearable pain began to weave throughout his body, every heartbeat more feeble than the last. He put a hand to his chest and struggled to breathe. "No..." he whispered.
There was a choking sound to his left, as one of his guards fell to his knees, his hands going to the knife in his neck as he began spitting blood. Immediately, blades were drawn. The other men whirled in every direction, bringing up their swords as they moved to shield the Siege Lord.
It was far too late for him, however, and he knew it.
His men fell around him, knives piercing their necks and hearts, their legs kicking as they struggled to resist death, but they soon fell still, blood seeping from their wounds.
Conrad had fallen to his knees, one hand clutching his chest, the other pressed against his temple. Black stars glittered in his eyesight, a swimming sensation overcoming him. Alarmingly still, his legs grew numb. Amidst his dying response, his survival instinct flared like a fire, and with what remained of his movement, drew his own sword and turned on the spot, barely parrying an attack from behind.
"You," he growled, caught between anger and a feeling of awe. The belt, the red cloth, the shape of the hood; they were all unmistakable.
The assassin jumped back, moving into a defensive position and sparing the Siege Lord not a word.
Shoving aside the urge to simply lean back and give up, Conrad pushed himself up with his sword as a crutch. He planted his feet firmly apart and brought up his own weapon in front of him, his eyes unfocusing and focusing several times before settling into a state of near-clarity. "Come, then." Something about the way the words left his mouth gave him the impression that he had slurred them or had said them too quietly for the assassin to register. Regardless, the assassin rushed him.
A surge of adrenaline aided him in gauging the assassin's abilities, for but a small window of clear cognition would exist before he would grow tired again. The poison was working quickly. Under an onslaught of flurry attacks, Conrad realized the assassin was far too skilled to be bested. With Conrad's gradually crippling state, he would be lucky to remain alive for a full minute.
He brought up his sword and the following parry reverberated along the hilt and up his arm. Switching arms did little good. The next attack brought him down, flat on his back.
His blade was well out of reach, even as he struggled to simply wrap his fingers around the hilt. If he could just... Reach it...
The breath was forced out of him as the assassin dug his knee into his chest, the hidden blade jumping from the cuffs of his robe.
Then, darkness.