CH 1
"Altaïr, you are late."
"My apologies, Master, I have gone as fast as I could," the man in white averted his gaze, but not before noticing his master watching his companion, "Master, she is only dressed as such because her own clothes were unsuitable for journeying."
"The rafiq in Beirut has already informed me of it," The older man assured him, then turned to his companion, "I am Al Mualim, Master of the Assassins. What is your name?"
Altaïr looked to the girl to his right, seeing her shake ever so slightly under the grey robes of a novice. He was almost about to reply for her when she did so.
"I-I am Almira…Master."
The old man studied her with slight interest, then spoke solemnly, "Almira, my child, it seems that my student has gotten you into quite a bind. Let me put it plainly. You can either stay here, or you must die."
"Di…Die?" She gasped.
Altaïr looked to the ground,
"We cannot let you go, seeing as you know of what Altaïr looks like and where the bureau in Beirut is located."
"I am sorry, girl, but those are your choices." Al Mualim added, as if to remind her.
"Well, only an idiot will choose to die," she said, more to herself, "I will stay here, Master."
"Good, good. That was what I had hoped to hear." Al Mualim's expression instantly softened, "now, you must be tired, both of you. Altaïr, you may go. Almira, this is Raja, she will show you the hospitality of the Assassins."
A severe looking woman stepped out from the shadows. She was short, standing no more than Almira's shoulder. Her face seemed frozen with a perpetual frown.
Altaïr bowed to Al Mualim in respect, noticing the girl copying him. She was overweight, contridicting the life she's led so far. She smiled to him and bid him goodbye as they exited the library.
The warm rays of sunset hit him as he strode out of the castle. The clamor of training swords reached his ears as he leaned on the wooden railing of the ramp that led down to the training grounds. Two newly initiated assassins were sparring, both of them sporting bandaged left hands. His attention shifted momentarily to two figures disappearing into a corridor. Altaïr pushed gently away from the railing, walking into the castle. He half-heartedly searched for someone, though he knew if his friend was here he would be talking to him already.
It was midday. He had been waiting for at least an hour with no signs of life appearing in the graveyard. Out of boredom he activated the hidden blade, hearing its faint "shink". Keeping an eye on the cemetery, he ran his right hand along the length of the weapon, feeling its deadly sharpness. With a flick of his wrist he retracted it. The assassin unsheathed and sheathed it repeatedly, his form hidden by the conveniently placed roof garden.
Then, a man appeared. He was dressed in common robes, with a haggard expression. The smuggler.
Altaïr immediately crouched, retracting his blade as an entourage of guards emerged from an alley. His target, Tariq, was surrounded by them. They stopped at the gate to the graveyard, Tariq summoning his soldiers to stay outside while he went in with the smuggler and what must be his adored wife.
They talked, argued, shouted. Tariq pulled a dagger out and the woman broke her silence, begging him to see reason. He slapped her with enough force to knock her to the ground, then cursed and kicked her. Altaïr pounced, making the crime lord topple to the ground with a blade in his neck. His aim was true; the blade had severed both the jugular and the carotid on both sides of his neck. After brushing a feather across the dead man's neck, he raised his head to check his surroundings.
Those eyes. He'll never forget those eyes.
For one, she had differently colored eyes. Two, he had seen neither of those two colors before. The left one was a shade bluer than white, which made that eye look like just a pupil. The right one glistened in a bright amethyst.
He had to run though; the guards were angry at him. He sprinted across the cemetery, jumping on top of a tombstone then leaping onto the fence. From there he bounded onto the roofs, when alarm bells screamed throughout Beirut. He took refuge in a lifesaving pile of hay as the madmen ran past him.
He'd let her see his face.
Once again he sprinted across the beams and tops. His eyes not only watched where he was going, but also for a well-dressed woman amongst the stampede. It was grueling work, but he managed after an hour of roof-running. She was sat by a fountain in a quiet courtyard, her body bent double and shaking from crying. He landed soundlessly behind her.
"Mourning…for the loss…of your master?" He asked coldly, trying to minimize his panting.
She slowly raised her head, her sobbing ceasing the instant he spoke. Her veil was gone, revealing odd features that looked both Arabic and Crusader at the same time. A few strands of her straight black hair had escaped her scarf, hanging around her face.
"No, assassin, not mourning. These are tears of joy." She wiped her eyes.
"Who are you?"
"Almira al-Dimashqi."
He's heard of her, in fact, the whole city has. Almira was well-known for being Tariq's adored wife. He doted on her, buying her the best of everything with money from his crime empire. His informants said that he even killed for her. He felt his left hand twitch.
"Don't kill me," she said softly, "I had just gotten a taste of freedom; don't take that away so soon."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know what the others tell you, but I am no lavished princess, assassin. I was Tariq's sl-...I..." her voice choked, though she seemed determined not to cry.
"Speak sense, woman," he said coldly, "None in the entire city talks favorably of you."
"Well then, Tariq has reached his goal," she retorted bitterly, "The truth is, I was Tariq's slave, a slave and nothing more."
"A slave? Why does he bring you to every meeting then?"
She sighed. "Tariq isn't exactly...right...in the head, which may be why he has such a high standing in the crime world. As for bringing me along, only God knows why."
He clenched his jaws, but offered no response.
"So what will become of me?" She asked impassively after several moments.
A frown of annoyance crossed his features. He can't kill her since she was innocent, but she knows his face so he cannot let her go either. Damn, what to do? He'd rather she be guilty of something so he can just get rid of her.
An hour and several groaning guards later, they arrived at the bureau in Beirut. He could have gotten there so much faster but with a girl in tow, they had to go through the chaotic streets. The rafiq, Karim, agreed to shelter them until the city stops her shrieking. The bureau leader also recommended that Almira change out of her extravagant silks into some commoner clothes. He remembered asking Karim why he had spare novice robes, to which Karim replied nonchalantly that its previous owner had died. It took them two days to travel to Masyaf. He had to steal a horse for her and was relieved that she could at least hold on for dear life.
He found himself back in the library, only this time going through the vast shelves of books. Nothing really appealed to him, but whoever was in charge of the library sometimes added new books, and so he searched with ever diminishing hope. His hand was resting on the ancient bindings of a thick volume when a voice called to him.
"Altaïr! It's good to have you back!"
"Rauf." He nodded, as the uninitiated youngster weaved through the shelves to get to him.
"Was the mission successful?" Rauf asked excitedly.
He frowned, "What do you think?"
"Of course, of course, a master like you never fails." The young boy said, smiling innocently.
Altaïr wished that he actually was a Master Assassin; as of yet, only one man in the entire Brotherhood holds the title.
"I do hope Al Mualim would allow me to be taken on a mission," Rauf continued, scratching his head, "I feel that I am ready."
"Al Mualim will inform you when you are, Rauf." Altaïr responded, "Have you any idea where Malik is?"
"Ah, you do not know? He left for Acre at noon today with another assassin. Altaïr, do you think you can take me along on your next mission?" Rauf looked hopeful.
Altaïr cringed inside. How many times did he have to tell the youngster that it's not his decision?
"Rauf, have you nothing better to do than pestering me?"
The younger boy shrugged, "I'm just waiting-…"
At this moment a loud bell rang slowly for three times.
"…-for dinner! Altaïr, come to the dining hall! You can tell me of the bold things that happened this time!"
Altaïr rolled his eyes; Rauf was so unlike the others of his age.
"Sorry Rauf, I'm not that hungry." As soon as he said that, his midsection grumbled in complaint.
"I do believe you belly says otherwise. Come! The tables will still be open if we go now."
Altaïr's face flushed as another grumble issued from his stomach. He was glad that his hood covered his face.
"Ok alright, I'm hungry. Stop elbowing me!"
Almira followed the woman in front of her as fast as she could. Despite Raja's small size, she moved with the pace of a galloping horse. Speaking of horses, her thighs burned with every step, as if knives were grinding in between the different muscles. Her back, likewise, ached excruciatingly.
"You should not be wearing those," Raja said flatly, "You are not an assassin and should not taint their uniform."
Almira remained quite; she didn't have the energy to talk back. She kept her eyes on Raja's heels as they moved at a blur. A large door was suddenly in front of them. The older woman pushed it open, revealing a tailor's room. A young, slim girl was sat in a chair, sewing on a piece of white cloth. She looked at Raja with a hint of dread, her needle in midair.
"Ikram, I need some clothes for Almira here, now. She dares to wear Assassin robes."
Ikram's mouth formed an "O" before setting her things down carefully and disappearing behind a curtain. She came back shortly with a stack of brown and white clothes, handing them to Almira while gesturing towards a side room. Almira thanked her, before closing the door and changing out of the manly garments.
"How many are finished?" came Raja's voice.
"This is my third one, ma'am," Ikram sounded exhausted, "I will leave for dinner after I fini-"
"-the third? You have only finished two? Do you know how urgent we need them?"
"I…I am so sorry, ma'am…I-I am sewing as fast as I can."
"You are trying my patience, Ikram. You shall not get dinner unless you finish a forth."
"But…!" a slight sigh came out, "Yes ma'am."
Almira finished and stepped out, a dislike of Raja growing inside her. Her assassin uniform was now replaced with a brown, shapeless and long-sleeved dress. A slightly off-white scarf covered her hair. On Raja's command, Ikram took the rumpled uniform from her and absentmindedly tossed it into a basket. She wordlessly sat back on her stool and picked up the white cloth she was sewing. It was then that Almira discovered that Raja was already out the door, not waiting for her.
The dining hall radiated noise and chatter long before they actually reached it. The smell of food made her belly churn with hunger. Instead of the main doors, however, they went in through a small side entrance. It opened up into the same general area that the larger doors opened toward, but to a different section of the room. The servants ate in a corner with four long, unpolished tables laid out. It was right next to the kitchen, giving cooks a convenient route to their tables. Many servants were already sat, talking and jokingjovially but mostly ignoring the assassins behind them. Raja led Almira into the kitchen, where a counter facing the larger section of the hall was packed with food. Many uniformed men were lined up, moving along as they picked what they wanted on their plates. Through the line she saw a face that she recognized.
Altaïr, the man who killed Tariq.
For some reason she didn't want him to see her, not that it's a worry. He seemed too engrossed in talking to a younger boy to notice the people in the kitchen. Raja shoved a plate into her hands, quickly filling it with greens and hummus with pita bread, as well as a skewer of lamb. She allowed herself to be led back to one of the servants' tables, her hands unsteady from the two days of holding onto a saddle. Raja didn't speak to her again until almost all the assassins had left the dining area, leaving behind mountains of dirty plates and spilled food.
"Are you tired?" Raja asked her quickly.
"Yes, very much so-"
"-good," Raja cut her off, "we have a room ready. Follow."
Almira sighed as the older woman rushed out the door. Now that her hunger was quelled, exhaustion had taken over. They passed many assassins on the way, and Raja either pulled Almira out of their path, or stopped against the wall to let them pass. The castle was huge, with an infinite amount of doors and rooms. As they walked, the number of people passing them decreased. Raja finally stopped at a door, opening it wordlessly and gesturing Almira inside.
"I will come for you in the morning, the Master wishes to speak to you," she said as she turned to leave.
"Thank you." Almira mumbled. The mere sight of the bed was enough to make her legs wobbly. She closed the door behind her, staggered over to the bed. and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Note: I hope you've enjoyed that. I posted ch.0 because putting that little section here just didn't seem to "fit".
Please review! Flames will make me sad, but I love reading intelligently written reviews!