CH 12
Altaïr grimaced at the horrible aftertaste of the medicine. When the girl took back the cup their fingers briefly brushed, causing a deep blush to creep abruptly up her neck and face. She quickly backed away for the door, holding onto the cup tightly. Altaïr leaned back, studying his personal servant who also never turned her back on him. She was a good maid who did her duties faithfully, though sometimes he questioned her loyalty to the hospital; on more than one occasion she had pressed the plaster back into a hole that gaped too close to the door, so she must know that he had a weapon on his person. Such tacit cooperation made him regard her, if not warmly, then at least not as coolly. But she was too quiet, so quiet in fact that Altaïr thought her mute until she spoke to his guards. She opened the door and backed out of it, allowing him a peek at the forbidden freedom just beyond before closing the wooden exit.
Sighing, Altaïr turned his attention onto the meal she'd just brought in. Flat bread, plain hummus, and bland soup, just like the day before, and the day before that. The sight was enough to chase away his appetite. Several minutes later he recognized a familiar rapping on the door.
"Come in." Altaïr said, trying to conceal his elation. Another two weeks had crawled past and he was having troubles hiding the notches in the walls. On the flipside, his aim had improved considerably.
"Altaïr, it seems at a time like this you are lacking companions." Malik remarked, striding in from the doorway. He sat on the stool, trying to scrap the dirt from beneath his fingernails. Malik was his main source of information from the outside world, from whom he learned of Jamal's intentions to marry a lowly servant girl named Ikram. He had no idea who Ikram was, and didn't care enough about the issue to ask.
"Companions are burdens. I do not need nor want burdens." Altaïr said firmly, sitting up.
"A good saying for the battlefield, but come now, do you really enjoy being alone and locked up in here?" His friend countered swiftly, still picking at his nails. Altaïr scowled; Malik's habit annoyed him. Suddenly, the older man looked at him with a strange expression.
"If you wish, I can arrange for a Courtesan to pay you a visit. Surely you are strong enough now, yes?"
"A most generous offer that I have no need for."
"Very well," Malik shrugged, and then waved a hand in front of his nose, "but you should seriously consider a bath."
"You know I am forbidden to take baths."
"But they allow you to shave," Malik helpfully pointed out.
"Enough. Out with it, why are you here?"
Malik feigned surprise, before turning back to his nails.
"To visit you, good friend. Why else would I be here?" Malik said nonchalantly, finally satisfied with one hand. He could feel Altaïr's gaze boring holes through his head.
"Fine, fine. News came from Fahra."
"Oh?" Altaïr instantly brightened up.
"A bad news of sorts."
"What?!"
"Calm down. She is fine, physically." His friend said, and then proceeded to clean out his other hand.
Altaïr wanted to strangle him. "Malik!"
"No need for violence," his friend smirked, "I happened to chance upon a message from Fahra on Al Mualim's desk. While she dealt with two of her targets, the remaining one fled by sea. She is still trying to track him so it will take her much longer before she comes back."
Altaïr frowned. That was certainly not good.
"I thought you might like to hear that before you torment yourself with worry."
"Speak sense. I have no cause for concern."
"If I withhold this information, two weeks from now you will be questioning the Master about Fahra, and bring down his wrath upon both of you."
Altaïr looked away, rubbing his nose uncomfortably.
"You may need to be more inconspicuous. As of now I know, Kadar knows, and many others as well." Malik stated plainly. Altaïr looked mournfully at the door, thinking of various stealthy and non-stealthy ways of escaping.
"I cannot stay in this room any longer. You must help me get out, brother."
"What? Are you out of your mind?" exclaimed Malik. "You are not going after her."
"Of course not! But I am bored to death here!"
"There are guards outside!"
"Such an excellent observation," Altaïr said sarcastically, "I will need you to distract them."
"No!"
Altaïr tried to hurl his throwing knife with his eyes. "I am your superior!"
"Not for much longer! I shall not have the Master's wrath on me!" Malik shot up from the unsteady stool, looking rather flustered. A brawling battle of wills was how their conversations usually degenerated into.
Altaïr clenched his fists at his friend, and subordinate's response. He would have gotten out long ago if using his arms for combat wasn't so agonizing. With Malik's refusal, Altaïr contemplated trying to knock down the guards himself, if only to add some excitement into his day.
Damn him! He thought vehemently as he watched his friend step over the threshold, while he could only look on from his bed of planks. The door closed again.
Outside, sharp groans penetrated the wooden material. A second later, he heard two dull thuds and the door swung slowly inwards. Altaïr stared at it, curious and alarmed at the same time. He got up off the hard bed, walking carefully to the exit. From the doorway he could see his two guards lying unconscious on the other side. He poked into the hallway, seeing nobody else.
On second thought, he is not damned after all.
Altaïr smirked, stepping over the limp bodies. He pulled his hood low, put up the confident strut of a deadly assassin, and nobody dared cross him as he strode into the main area of the infirmary. What he didn't think about was the bright light that flooded into his eyes, and thus a blinding blue afterimage of the hospital's large double doors was all he saw as he stumbled out of the building.
Outside, the sun shone fiercely upon the Holy Land. Altaïr sighed in contentment at the dry heat and warm wind that caressed his skin. He treaded along the large path leading away from the hospital and by shifting the way he held himself, he could appear as unassuming as the average peasant or as menacing as Death itself. It was something he honed to perfection, for he knew it would help greatly on his missions. He thought about looking for Malik to thank him, but decided against it since his other brothers would surely recognize him if he walked aimlessly around the fortress. Instead, he followed the crowd all the way to the marketplace, where they started dispersing to look at merchants' wares. Altaïr slipped into an alley. There was no need to mingle with the commoners, for now he shall head for the lonely rooftop.
Some minutes later the white-robed man groaned in pain and anger; apparently his unhealed chest wound also prevented him from scaling walls. The stench and cries of the city's poor reached him, making him even more repulsed of his surroundings. They stared at him, drawn in by his clean clothes. They knew the uniform of the Assassins, but without any weapons on his person, they believe him to be a wealthy man instead, or maybe a lost merchant.
Armed with only his hidden blade and a throwing knife, Altaïr felt oddly vulnerable. A wealthy-looking man in the gutters of civilization was bound to get mugged. Since he wasn't supposed to be out, causing a scene would do him no good.
Altaïr straightened up, glaring daggers at the several beggars closing in on him. He turned on his heel and marched away into the busy plaza once more, taking care to keep his head low. A gangly boy rushed past him, followed by several younger lads wearing off-white tunics; the older boy was presumably their "target". Altaïr couldn't help but grin at such child's play; if only they knew the grisly reality of blood and murder.
Finally, the hustle and bustle of the town waned. Altaïr plodded along the lonely path that wound around Masyaf. It was created centuries ago, leading to two overhangs guarding the road to the city. The Assassins used these extensively until Al Mualim decided they were too close to town to effectively warn against oncoming enemies. A new path was later found that led to cliffs and outcrops far away from the city, so that the latter will have enough time to mount a sufficient defense before the invaders actually arrive. The old path then fell into disuse, which showed in the form of overgrown weeds that in some places obscured the actual trail. Altaïr, having no useful weapon on hand, resorted to stomping on the offending plants to clear the way.
The warm desert breeze played with his now slightly longer hair, stirring his robes into gentle waves. He pulled his hood down, feeling the unusual sensation of sunlight on his head. Below him peasants and merchants scurried along on the wide road leading to Masyaf, while the blue river beyond stretched serenely towards the distant mountains. Sighing, he carefully sat down on the pile of broken stems. It was quite beautiful up here, not to mention far more interesting than his bare hospital room.
The crack of a dried plant caught his attention. Altaïr shot up, flipping his hood over, grimacing at the pain that flared up. A figure in grey hood stood some twenty feet away.
"Altaïr! It is I, Abbas." Came the voice of the novice.
Altaïr scowled; being Abbas' teacher, the younger man should have called him "master". Granted he wasn't training him at the moment, but the formalities still stood.
"Does respect mean nothing to you?"
"I do apologize, master," the grey-robbed man's bow was much too low. Altaïr felt his left hand twitch.
"What are you doing here?"
"The Master sent me to look for you."
Altaïr's brows rose every so slightly in apprehension, something Abbas caught.
"News travels fast in Masyaf, eh? He demands an immediate audience."
"What about?"
"I think you know," The grey robed man said impatiently. He stabbed a thumb over his shoulder, "I suggest you follow me back."
"I know the way back. Get out of my sight." Altaïr spat in irritation. Abbas bowed again, and then walked away without looking back.
Altaïr glared at his "student", cursing his luck for having received him as a pupil. If anyone should be cast out of the brotherhood, it should be him. The boy was malicious to every living thing, particularly to the stray dogs that wandered the streets. The only person to whom he reserved some respect for was Al Mualim, and only because the Grand Master could literally have his head if he angered the old man. Altaïr waited until Abbas disappeared amongst the shrubbery before bringing himself to retrace his steps.
Almira breathed in the pleasant fragrance as she brought another basket of herbs from the traveling merchant up to the hospital. Halim, like Raja, decided to use her like a pack mule; basically to carry loads back and forth within the fortress. But ever since Ikram's marriage announcement, she noticed a change in Halim's disposition. She was given the lightest duties such as bringing in herbs or spreading out clean sheets, and never again assigned to clean the floors or to carry the vile load of clothes. She learned after the fact that the basket held the soiled garments of the infirmary's most grave patients, ones who no longer had the ability to hold themselves. Three more times she had to lug them, and comforted herself in the fact that she didn't have to wash them. Now there's a horrifying thought.
Almira watched her surroundings, mainly so she could get out of the way if needed; being shoved by an assassin was no pleasant business. The clash of wooden blades came from the training arena as she walked past it. Throngs of men surrounded the fence, shouting random pieces of advice at the combatants inside. They were so many she couldn't chance a peek into the ring; whoever was fighting must be rather popular. The crowd tensed with the fervent clangs of wood, leaning anxiously inwards as the unseen fighters screamed at one another, their feet hurling up clouds of dirt. A few more blows and the sound of wood splintering reached her ears, followed by a painful grunt. A cheer suddenly ran through the audience, with some throwing their hands in the air in joy. Others were not so excited, hanging their head or chatting with discontentment. No doubt bets had been won and lost here.
Unfortunately, all this distraction led astray her focus. Almira turned back to her job to find herself much too close to…
"WOMAN, WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING!" The figure barked at her, knocking her basket into the air. Fragile plants flew onto the dusty ground with soft thuds, while careless passerbys trampled a few into the dirt.
"No! Whathaveyoudone!" She cried out in horror; Halim would be furious! The herbs weren't cheap in the least bit, and they were needed at the hospital. The grey-robe man advanced on her, his features twisted with anger.
"What did you say?!" She froze, immediately recognizing Abbas' harsh voice; she wouldn't forget it for the rest of her life. Several of the men around the arena turned to watch.
Almira gulped, a cold sweat breaking across her back. "…Abbas, sir. I-I was in your way. I am so sorry."
She flinched before finishing her sentence, for Abbas had raised a hand. The slap set her left cheek aflame and made her step sideways. She gasped in pain, pressing a hand to the livid red mark.
"You would do well to watch your place, woman." Abbas pursed his lips and spat on her. His sneer didn't last long, however, because a hand whirled him around and he was sent sprawling from a fist planted square in his face. Almira instantly forgot about the pain, and instead felt nauseous as Abbas toppled straight into the pile of dried herbs. The novice sputtered and clutched at his broken nose. Blood gushed everywhere; into his mouth, onto his hand, dripping down his robes and onto the plants. For several seconds he sat on the ground, dazed from pain and shock.
"Stay your blade, and your fist, from the flesh of an innocent, Abbas." A voice bristling with anger and yet colder than ice came from the tall, white-robed assassin who seemingly appeared from nowhere. Abbas coughed, his mouth moved but no words came out. He tried again and Almira thought he looked like a fish gasping for water.
"The next time you break a tenet of the Creed, it will be my blade to your throat," Altaïr hissed. "Now get out of my sight."
Abbas clenched his jaws, his face still bleeding unceremoniously. With some difficulty he got back onto his feet, shooting a glare of pure hatred for the man standing over him. He muttered something obscene and stomped away. The small crowd parted for him like the Red Sea, and then dispersed.
While Altaïr sorted his student out, Almira had inched her way to the overturned basket. The ruined plants were scattered about the basket like crops abandoned in some ransacked village. There was no room for thinking here, since all there was to think about was the punishment she would later receive. Blocking out her turbulent mind, she gathered the broken flowers and placed them back into the woven container as if they were still usable.
"Are you alright?"
Almira looked up, holding a handful of dirty plants. Altaïr towered over her, remnants of his rage still palpable in the air. She slowly stood, dropping the bundle into the basket. What was he doing here? She was sure the hospital hadn't discharged him yet. She wanted to ask him, but it didn't seem appropriate.
"I would have been fine." She said instead. Her words were unexpected, she knew, because Altaïr straightened a little, his face a little more set.
"But I thank you nonetheless," she added, not wanting his wrath as well.
"You rather I did not help?"
"I am glad you helped, it's just…I am now left with this…" she gestured to the basket full of broken stems and crushed pedals. Had he not shown up she would've been beaten, badly, but at least she would still have a large portion of the medicine intact. She cast her gaze to the ground, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.
"I didn't realize you preferred the alternative, I shall stay my hand next time." Altaïr said coolly, walking away.
"No, wait!" Almira called after him, realizing that she must sound extremely ungrateful. When he didn't turn around she ran to catch up to him, and tugged at his sleeve. The assassin stopped, his eyes making her neck hairs stand up on end. She let go immediately.
"What now? I have a meeting to attend."
"I…I didn't mean to sound rude. I do appreciate your arrival." She said quietly, not daring to look at him. "Please don't hesitate, should there be a next time."
He said nothing, but she felt his piercing eyes on her. It was the same feeling she got when Al Mualim looked her over. She turned stiffly to walk back to her basket.
"Almira."
"Yes?"
"I would like a word, when you are free to converse." Altaïr looked as if frowning, but his hood obscured his face.
"Yes. Of course." She said reluctantly. A shadow of a smile tugged at Altaïr's lips, and then he excused himself and headed up to the castle.
Almira sighed; it was now her job to make sure she never has time to talk to him. She bent down to carefully pick up the last of her luggage. The walk to the hospital felt like walking to the gallows. Halim had stressed the importance of the medicine; they were not only expensive - that could at least be remedied - they were rare, and do not reappear every season. These thoughts again made the fires of anger flare up within her. If only she watched her surroundings more carefully, she could have avoided all of this. Ugh, if only if only… She lingered around the huge double doors of the infirmary until she could delay no longer and, heart racing with anxiety, strode slowly into the massive building.
Altaïr felt the gazes of many as he entered the library. The building was enormous with an equally impressive collection of books; testament to the Brotherhood's wealth. The Grand Master of the Assassins always held his meetings here, even though the official room his predecessors used was further into the fortress. Altaïr saw the lit clearing above him where Al Mualim waited, as well as the doors that led into the garden. The glassy panels were open; an invitation to any privileged enough to come linger and forget their worries. Altaïr turned for the stairs instead, having no time for the simpler pleasures. His chest and hand still smarted from the exertion earlier, dull aches that he had learned to ignore. He took the stairs two at a time, approaching the large stained glass window at the other end. His steps slowed the closer he got, for he was sure of the old man's mood.
"Master." He bowed before the Master's desk.
"I recall not your release, Altaïr," the old man commented with apparent nonchalance, tending to the pigeons he kept by the window. To others he may sound as if his sentence was unfinished, but Altaïr knew better.
"I can stay there no longer."
"It is my wish for you to remain." Al Mualim's voice rang between the bookshelves. He turned to his pupil and paced in front of the solid table.
"But I have no desire to stay ther-"
"You will disobey me, boy?"
Defiance was evident on the younger man's face. "That place does not help me; my skills slide backward."
"Your skills shall deteriorate further if you continue to defy me," Al Mualim glared at him with annoyance, and something else. Altaïr saw concern in the old man's face; concern not like that given to a son, but like that given to a valuable asset. Assets weren't given emotional considerations, and the old man might just chain him to his bed if pushed too far.
"Master," he began, thinking over his words, "I merely believe I am well enough to recover on my own. My absence will only grant space to help another."
Silence lingered for a moment, before Al Mualim laughed quietly. "A change in strategy, I see."
Altaïr looked on with emotionless features while his superior walked again to the stained glass window. Beyond it, the sun lingered overhead, casting a bright wedge of light through the crystal. Al Mualim's messenger pigeons preened themselves carefully, watching the two with mild interest.
"Nothing is true, everything is permitted, you remember these words?" The elderly man's voice boomed around the study.
"Of course." Altaïr answered, confused as to where Al Mualim was headed.
"What is the meaning of this phrase then, my child?"
Altaïr tilted his head slightly upward, having not expected the question. What was the meaning? Al Mualim always commanded his students to search for it themselves, offering little advice along the way.
Apparently the Grand Master didn't expect, or didn't want, an answer; he spoke before Altaïr could gather a response.
"Think on those words, Altaïr, though you haven't the wisdom yet to fully understand them. You have my permission to leave the hospital. Now go, may peace and safety be upon you."
Before he finished Al Mualim had already turned his attention to the heavy book that rested on his solid desk, his one good eye taking in the scripted Arabic text that danced in willful strokes across the aged parchment. Altaïr bowed and then took his leave of the study. The Master's words rang in his ears. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. If everything is permitted, why must he abide by the Three Tenets? He grasped uncomfortably with the idea that "nothing was true" the world was an illusion, felt uneasy at the thought that his difficult accomplishments were nothing but mirages in the desert. The Assassin Scholars he questioned would shake their heads, saying he lacked the wisdom - the same thing Al Mualim spoke of - to fully comprehend the truth behind such seemingly simple words.
His thoughts bounded to the back of his mind when he reached the end of the stairs. Soft wind blew in from the Garden, inviting him with promises of relaxation and gentle pleasure. This time he heeded; he'll Malik later, perhaps at dinner time. Several Courtesans and assassins glanced at him as he entered their sanctuary. The women were beautiful, all of them, and trained in both social and physical grace. They gave nods of respect to him as he passed them. The younger girls shifted their poses, indicating their eagerness should he wish to talk, or require some other services. Altaïr favored the presence of one particular girl, but didn't trust her enough to say anything important. He, after all, wasn't the only man visiting her.
He headed past the women and continued down the stairs, an action which made the women lose interest; the two lower levels of the Garden were reserved for those who came to be alone. Altaïr walked to the end of the third level and leaned against the railing. With some effort he clambered on top of the marble fence, resting his back against a pillar. The cliff ahead plunged hundreds of feet into the azure waters, while the wide gorges on either side served as a wind funnel. Soft air played with the loose folds of his uniform, bringing with it the scent of distant lands. He himself had to wait twenty years before being granted access to such scenery, and Kadar wouldn't earn this privilege for many years to come. And Almira, he suddenly thought, Almira will never be able to see this, no matter how many years she stayed here. His brows furrowed together as he again remembered the strange date. He couldn't risk scaring her if she truly was someone sent by the Templars, and he didn't want to pour his suspicions to Al Mualim unless something was surely amiss. He sighed, gazing at the distant greenery. The Garden was supposed to be a place of inner peace, and yet he felt nothing of the sort.
He got down from his resting place, deciding to use his well-honed skills to seek some form of answer.
Note: yup, fastest update yet ^^ thanks to all who has read this since the beginning!!