As he stood, Altaïr immediately felt the unmistakable sensation of imminent danger. Quick as a snake, he spun and threw out his foot, catching his attacker in the stomach and knocking him out of the air mid-flight. The young man hit the ground hard and rolled into an unmoving bundle.

Without a moment's time to catch his breath, the attacker was pulled to his feet and pressed against a wall, held aloft by his neck. The copper-skinned young man struggled to free himself, fingers prying at the hand around his neck.

"You look Syrian," Altaïr observed quietly. "Are you the man I was supposed to look out for?"

"Release me!" the Syrian croaked, his hands slipping uselessly from the assassin's steady grip.

Altaïr smirked. "You are weak."

The struggling began anew, the Syrian nearly enraged by the accusation. "Only compared to you!" he snapped. The assassin smiled. The boy may have had a pitiful past, but his backbone remained intact. Maybe his pretense about the slave was wrong.

The pain in his groin reached him before he had even noticed the Syrian strike. With his free hand, the assassin wrenched himself away and to the side, suppressing the urge to make a sound. He kept his grip firm, though any further attempts the Syrian may have to free himself were limited now that the assassin was not in front of him. "Clever," he said through clenched teeth. "Tell me why you attacked me."

In lieu of a verbal response, the Syrian reached behind his back and pulled a knife he had hidden there. He struck out, arcing it towards the assassin's face, but came up but an inch too short.

Altaïr jerked back, at the same time taking the man's arm in his free hand and twisting it against his back. The knife dropped to the ground. Within another brief moment, the assassin had pinned him to the ground, one knee planted in the middle of his back.

He leaned down, his voice lowered to a predatory whisper. "Tell me your name, then."

Between agonized groans as his arm was pushed upwards more and more to make him speak, he managed to spit out a few words. "Garrick! My name is Garrick! Let go of my arm!"

"Your true name, slave."

"I know not, Garrick has been my name for so long!"

"Liar." He applied pressure on the arm again. Any more and he may dislocate the shoulder, but he knew what limits he could push to. As it was he had already pulled the nerves, put it under too much tension and had probably rendered it too painful to move.

Garrick struggled further, frustrated. He smacked his forehead on the cool stone street to distract himself from the pain, tried to shake his head. There was no answer that would satisfy the assassin, so he merely cried out until the grip on his arm went slack. With his shoulder throbbing, nearly numb, there was no way he could defend himself, much less attack. He let his head fall to the side.

Just a few feet away, the Siege Lord was still and turning blue, the rivulet of blood from his neck slowing to a faint trickle. Garrick sighed, but his rage was renewed. With a cry, Garrick twisted around until he could move his arms effectively. The assassin had already gotten to his feet, taken a step back from the flailing Syrian, and watched as the man realized his arm was utterly useless.

"You bastard!" Garrick slammed a fist against the ground. The assassin quirked an eyebrow. "He would have saved this city!"

"Your charge was a dead man before I laid a hand on him. Trust me," Altaïr said. He extended a hand – the hand that would complement Garrick's good arm – and offered to pull the man to his feet. The gesture was sincere, but suspicion still lingered. The slave for the man he had tried and failed to kill, and the assassin who was doubtful that momentary adrenaline would fail to best his skills. Regardless, Garrick took the hand and was hauled to his feet.

"What do you mean?" He asked, already cradling his sprained arm.

Altaïr silenced him with a gesture. "Later. Garrick, you said?" With an affirmative nod, he continued. "Conrad mentioned you. You... are clumsy and brash, but you have spirit, and loyalty. A chance to prove yourself is the least you deserve."

Garrick watched him carefully. The hand that had helped him to his feet now held out a feather. The Syrian clutched it and held it close.

"Begin with the man that poisoned your master."

Garrick, who had stared at the feather and then to his master's body, glanced back, alarmed. "Who-"

But the master assassin had vanished.