Chapter Three: Wrong

"Altair, I see you've made it," the Rafiq said greeting the hooded man as he stepped into the office. "What brings you here today?"

"I am here on a mission, Rafiq. What can you tell me about Shakir Bra'em?" replied the assassin.

"He is a very prosperous merchant, son of one of the most influential men in the city. I did not know he was our target. But, if our master says so, who are we to say otherwise?" The rafiq inquired, though he rarely made comments as such, he never would've expected that such a noble man as Shakir would end up their enemy.

"That's correct. I am sure he has his reasons, but, why so surprised?"

"Well, he is known for being quite wealthy, but, he does not spend such wealth on lavish items. No, he donates part of income to the city; to help it be improved, rebuilt when it needs to be. He also tends to helps beggars; he gives them some coins and a chance to work for him, to earn their money rightfully."

"Most templars hide their evil under a façade of good deeds." Altair replied. He always had doubts about his assignments, especially after he'd spoken with them. This time however, his concern was a bit more elevated than usual. From what the rafiq told him, there was no apparent reason to slay such a man.

"True, true," the rafiq accepted, still pondering about the assignment, nonetheless. "One thing I could tell you is that this may be the easiest assignment for you, Altair."

"Why is that?" Altair quickly responded, coming off a tad more impatient than he wanted to.

"The only time he has guards around him is when he is away on business, but at his home, there is just him and his servants." The rafiq stated, putting a feather on the counter. "Since I do not entirely agree with this one assignment, I am to let you do the assassination without much delay. The faster you end this the better it shall be."

"Tell me where to find him," Altair demanded, taking the feather in his hands and placing it on one of pockets.

"Easy, he never leaves his home. You are to find him every day and every night, as long as he is town, in his manor. It is located on the rich district, it is quite the big house, you will locate it easily. It has lots of gardens around them too, as well as many water fountains." The rafiq explained, his voice faltering a bit as he spoke.

"How come you know so much about him?" Altair pressed, he had never been given directions so concrete when attempting an assassination.

"He is my friend, or so he was, before you were asked to take his life." The rafiq responded, lowering his head as he did so. "Please, don't drag this out any longer Altair, it is as a favor that I ask this of you, please be done with it."

Upon hearing his superior's pleading voice Altair bowed to him and promptly exited the bureau. Things had gotten more complicated than he thought they would be and the situation definitely did not seem right. The assignment was given to him on a shorter notice than the previous ones and Al Mualim had refused to give him much information about it. One of their members, one of the rafiqs, seemed surprised by the choice for it seems he knew the man quite better than he was to expect. The fact that they were friends was the most intriguing, why would an assassin befriend a Templar? His mind racing and his blood boiling, he made his way as quickly as possible towards the mansion that was the home to his target.

***

With the dark of the night finally taking over the blue of the sky, Amira was dismissed from her tedious household chores. Weaving and pottery were to her trivial tasks, which she did not entirely despise, what she did hate, though, was being forced to learn them just because she was a woman. The reason why she loved the night so much was because it was silent and still – her chambermaids were sleeping and the guards that sometimes patrolled the outside had left their posts hours ago. In such still and peace she was allowed to indulge in things forbidden to women: books. Her father, who after losing his wife decided that he would do what he could to make his only daughter happy, bought her such writings, through gritted teeth nonetheless. She kept the books in his father's room, in the privacy of his study, in case the books were ever found she could easily say they belonged to her father.

Holding only a small candle, she made her way through the labyrinth of corridors she knew by heart. Silently – making sure nobody had heard her creeping about – she entered her father's glorious room. It was the biggest on in the house, and the prettiest one as well. It was decorated by her mother, who, unlike Amira, was as ladylike as any aristocratic women of the time. The room, with its lavishly carved walls and brilliant pottery adorning its sides, took up half of the second floor. Keeping her noise level to a minimum, she went in and shut the door. She lit two of the many lamps that stood inside and proceeded to take out one of the many books that sat on the shelves.

She dumped herself on the bed with the book and the lamp. It was the first time in almost a week that she had a chance to read. Her chambermaid had become quite suspicious of her random entries into her father's quarters which would, at times, last until midnight. Thinking the worse, her chambermaid decided to ban her entry to the room and to overwork her with new assignments every day. Night was the only time she had left to read, and sometimes she was much too tired to do so. 'I'm thankful to pottery', she would think, 'for it does not take as much energy as all the other chores.' That day, though, she had been working on a very complex quilt design, reason why, even though she longed to read, her exhaustion got the best of her. After merely two hours of lecture, she had finished the book, and instead of grabbing another one she placed the one she was currently holding back in its stand. She blew off the candle's fire, and again dumped herself into the comfortable and its smooth silk sheets.

She fell asleep after a minute or so, and her subconscious started getting the best of her. Though it had been five years since the assassination of her master, she had not let go of the imagery in her head. During the day, she was the happy little girl, always playing around and never taking anything too seriously. But, when she slept, her memories got the best of her and flooded her dreams with the events of five years ago. Everything was as clear and exact as if it all had happened merely moments ago. From time to time, her dreams would vary from the exact events, changing some details here and there. One thing would stay concise, though. The figure that had taken away the scholar's life, never exited her mind. She could remember him exactly as he was that day: a white hood over his head, covering most of his face, the hidden blade he carried in his gauntlet, the sword on his hip, and the blade carried on his back. Sometimes she would see him chasing after her, sometimes he was simply talking to her, but he was always, in her mind. Every time she awoke from the dreams, realizing she was still in the safety of her home, she would tell herself that everything was okay. 'There is no problem, for I am sure, I will never see that man again.' Though she did not exactly believe herself every time, her words would ease her trouble. What she did not know, however, was that she was very wrong.