The Master stood in the assassin's graveyard, a small plot of land just below the fortress, tucked deep in their territory. Aside from the fortress itself, the graveyard was a site the assassins protected with utmost zeal.

After looking over the headstones, Altaïr ran a hand over his face. He was thoroughly exhausted with the day's burden – the new addition to the small cemetery. They would eventually have to expand, he thought, though the majority of the headstones belonged to men whose bodies could not be recovered and whose stones were packed together more tightly. He grimaced at the newest stone. He had broken a sacred tradition by allowing it, but...

"Master."

Altaïr tensed imperceptibly. The slave had genuinely startled him. Though he began to pass it off as mere, uncharacteristic aloofness, he had to give Garrick his credit. Stealth, perhaps, he would learn quickly. The assassin straightened himself. "Welcome back."

Garrick, still clad in the clothes he wore days before, stared at the Master with cold, half-lidded eyes. He stood with a lethargic teeter, but he stood. Altaïr expected him to fail outright.

They stared at one another. Garrick broke away first, reached into his shirt and withdrew the bloodied feather. "How do you keep it from staining your robes?" he asked as he handed the feather to Altaïr.

Smiling, the assassin waved the feather. "You wait until it dries."

The color of Garrick's face darkened. "Right," he mumbled. Then, as his gaze lowered, he noticed the headstone that Altaïr was so lost in moments before. A smile broke out from his weathered features, formed from authentic delight. He strode over and knelt by the marker, ran his hand over the sandy stone. "He would have liked this," he said. "Thank you for allowing it; I doubted you would."

"I recalled watching as he berated Sibrand on the docks. I went to his chambers in the battlements and found his notes, some letters. I overheard the conversations of his men, the duties they were mysteriously left before Conrad left for the night – Proof enough that he intended to gain our support and use it against the Templars, but preparing in the case that he died. I interrogated a Knight, who told me everything."

Garrick stood, taking his hand off Conrad's gravestone to stand before Altaïr.

"Evidence enough to prove he was a man of good intentions, and by extension, you – a man we can trust."

Altaïr held out his hand, which Garrick grasped confidently. Abruptly, the assassin turned his hand over, revealing his own missing finger and observing Garrick's wholly intact hand. He looked as though he was about to say something, but instead he let go of the novice's hand with a thoughtful sound. "Welcome to the Order, Garrick."

Garrick beamed at the Master calling him by his name for the first time. He put a hand to his heart and bowed slightly.

"Is this where you have been wasting your time?"

They turned. Just a few feet away, a young, dark-haired man stood, glaring at Altaïr. Garrick was distressed in noticing the man was missing an arm, his sleeve pinned up to the shoulder. His other hand was planted against his hip.

"Malik," Altaïr greeted.

"I need you back in the study, Altaïr. I am sick of looking at it." The man called Malik smirked sportively and Altaïr returned the gesture.

"As am I," he said, "But I will return to it soon."

"And who is this?" Malik gestured to Garrick and turned his stony gaze upon him.

Garrick wanted to shrink underneath his gaze, but a hand met his shoulder, and the assassin next to him gave him a sympathetic pat.

"Oh," said Altaïr, "Just the companion of a...A good Templar."

Malik arched an eyebrow, frowning. The words were true enough, but unbelievable to any assassin – Garrick could be sure of that – except for the moment after, when this armless man smiled and shook his head and seemed to trust Altaïr's word completely.

"You always make such strange friends, novice."

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