Alright, now can I have a head count of who's gasping and squawking with excitement from seeing an update, and of who's screaming at the computer, wondering why in the name of Sasquach did this woman take 2 months to update? Eheheh... I'll explain at the bottom. Disclaimer, disclaimer, blah blah blah, read and enjoy.
Damiel lowered his aching body on a bench, his head bowed as he panted and gulped down air. Sweat trickled down his brow and neck, the sun mercilessly glaring down at him. His muscles throbbed from Rauf's ceaseless training, and his limbs felt like useless planks of wood. Damiel lolled his tongue and almost gagged as sweat dripped into his mouth. He had always hated the sickly sweet taste of perspiration, and to taste it after such hard work that demanded every ounce of strength in his weak body—
He swore beneath his breath.
If he had any energy left in his abused self, he'd march off, find Rauf, and wallop him one right over the head. A wheezy chuckle escaped his lips just from the thought of himself performing the act.
With his eyes pointed at the grass, he couldn't see the man standing in the Garden's courtyard, mending and inspecting their wooden training swords.
If Rauf even dared to take a small peek at him, Damiel wasn't sure he'd be able to resist the urge to rip the Assassin's throat out. He felt the faintest of raw fury trickle through his veins when Rauf walked past him.
But Damiel was too exhausted to even lift his head to acknowledge his leave, but heard the man's admirable murmurs of 'The Karkafian, The Karkafian!. How quaint. He was a celebrity now, his only fan being Rauf.
The boy's knees groaned as he leaned back and lounged against the bench. He winced when his spine creaked and cracked. Maybe he'd find Hildegard later on and ask her for a massage.
Damiel whimpered. That would mean he'd have to heave his lethargic self up, spend hours just trying to find the flittering woman, risk the possibility of partaking in her gossip session (either as the topic or as a participant), and either beg, coo, or woo her to relieve his beaten up back.
No, a nice, twenty-four hour nap was all he wanted before Rauf decided to torture him again. He closed his eyes, content in indulging himself with this wish, and drifted off. He wasn't sure how long he was asleep, but when he awoke, the sun was setting and Rauf was nowhere to be seen.
'Gracias a Dios,' Damiel thought. Breathing a sigh of relief, he rolled his shoulders and shifted on the bench. The cool evening air nibbled at his skin, making the hair on his forearms and calves stand straight up. He exhaled and let his eyes flutter shut. He heard boots crunching on grass, and snapped his eyes open. Standing before him was an Assassin—a novice, by the look of his robes—and the boy carried a basket in his arms.
Damiel narrowed his eyes. Ah, yes, he knew this novice. The chuckling one, if he remembered correctly.
"How long have you been standing there?" Damiel sighed.
Mustafa shrugged and glanced at the basket swaddled in his arms. "Maybe for a few bells, maybe more. Or less."
Damiel leaned forward, wincing when his back whined again. He rested his elbows on his knees, waiting for the novice to continue. When Mustafa still stood there with a childish grin on his face, Damiel huffed. "Why?"
Mustafa chuckled. "I suppose that is the burning question, isn't it?"
"You seem to be full of them," Damiel grumbled.
Eagerly, Mustafa bobbed his head up and down. "Ah, yes, that reminds me!"
Damiel buried his forehead in the palm of his hand. He scrunched his face as he felt the beginnings of acne forming on his skin. He should have bathed the sweat and grime off before falling asleep.
Undeterred by Damiel's obvious disdain, Mustafa chuckled, "Do you like pomegranates, friend?"
"Is this coming from Hildegard? Doesn't she have anything better to do than run her mouth on and on about—" Damiel's hand fell from his face and his eyes lit up as Mustafa pulled out the fruit from his basket. Damiel smiled and shook his head. "Yes, I like pomegranates." He moved over on the bench, and Mustafa sat next to him.
They split their pomegranates open on the edge of the bench. They ripped open the cream-colored flesh of the fruit, digging out the red beads like men discovering a lost treasure.
"Our elders would beat us if they saw us eating like this," Mustafa chuckled.
Damiel rolled his eyes and brushed the comment off with, "They're too old to chew with their mouths closed, anyway. You always know what they're eating since half their food slides down the corners of their mouths." The boys paused and lowered the fruit, glancing at each other. Their mouths were stained with red juice, and soon a fit of laughter exploded from both of them.
"Hopefully they don't eat hummus, then!" Mustafa chuckled.
"Or yellow lentil soup," Damiel added. The boys shared a giggle from this.
"I take it Rauf does not allow many breaks for food?" Mustafa asked as he regained his breath.
Damiel finished chewing and swallowed. He opened his mouth to reply, but then slowly closed it as an idea came to mind. As innocent as the question seemed, he knew that whatever words floated through Mustafa's ears would be heard again in a tribal circle of Assassins. Damiel smirked and vigorously nodded. "No, he starves me and throws twigs at me when he catches me trying to eat the grass when the hunger becomes unbearable."
Mustafa's eyes almost popped out of his skull. "Really? That is most awful!"
Damiel nodded and feigned a helpless whine. "It is, isn't it? Poor Damiel must endure torture after torture from Rauf."
"Rauf the Torturer," Mustafa affirmed with a nod. "It sounds fitting." Mustafa's eyebrows rose as he glanced at the boy. "And does Rauf not permit clothes, either?" If Mustafa noticed the burn marks and scars on Damiel's body, he didn't say anything or give any sign that he was repulsed. Damiel was glad.
He looked down at himself and sheepishly shrugged.
"Or is training in undergarments the new appropriate way to exercise?" Mustafa scratched his chin as he pondered this.
"According to Rauf," Damiel began between mouthfuls of pomegranate, " 'clothing is a privilege that you must earn'. Personally? I think he did not want me to sweat to death today due to the heat."
"And was Rauf in his under-clothes, too?"
"No," Damiel shook his head. "Thank God for that—my eyes would have formed the Red Sea."
Mustafa chuckled at this. "Na'am, that would be a sight worthy to forget. But you should not fear Rauf's demands."
Damiel scoffed. "He's probably a boy-lover. I've had boy-lovers pine after me before. It was most unpleasant."
Mustafa cleared his throat and uttered a choked chuckle. "Rauf's no Ganymede. " Mustafa looked over his shoulder, making sure they were alone in the Garden. He turned back to Damiel. "Rauf loved—" Mustafa huffed when Damiel was too interested in his pomegranate to pay much mind to him. The Assassin latched onto Damiel's hand and brought it away from his mouth, ignoring the pout aimed toward him.
In a hushed voice, Mustafa explained, "Rauf loved a woman once."
"And? What happened to her? Did she scream and run away from his hairy chest and legs?"
"No," Mustafa curtly replied. "She didn't—who are you to speak of hair? You Armenians are all hairy! Even the women."
Damiel shrugged and grinned. "And Arabs aren't?"
"I'm still waiting for my facial hair to arrive," Mustafa confessed. "Not even a single hair on my lip yet."
"It's mutual," Damiel murmured. Mustafa gave his arms and legs a long look before sending the boy a dubious expression.
"Nabil says it's because I laugh like a girl too often," Mustafa finished. "But anyways, yes, Rauf used to love someone. But she cannot return his affections."
"And he couldn't have found another woman as his life partner?"
"Oh, she wasn't just another woman, friend. Her father was part of a council, if I recall correctly. She had many ties to government and monarchy."
Damiel furrowed his brow and took another handful from his pomegranate. "So she left him?"
"Yes, she did," Mustafa sighed.
"For what? A man with money and power?"
"No," Mustafa cleared his throat. "She died."
Damiel felt like ramming his foot into his mouth. All he could say in reply was a feeble 'oh'. After a few moments of awkward silence, he prompted, "Who was she to him?"
"A wonderful woman, according to the rumors, you see. But she had eyes for another man."
"She never loved Rauf in return?"
"Oh, she did, she did, but as a comrade—a brother, even. But she could not reciprocate the intimate shade of love she possessed for someone else."
His curiosity piqued, Damiel asked, "Did she die with this other man, then? Did she at least have a happy ending?"
Mustafa shrugged and stood from the bench. He stretched his arms out. "Who can say? Only Rauf knows the real story, and he's never spoken a word about her to anyone. Well, maybe to the Master, but even that's unlikely. He may seem to be outspoken and forward, but he's very hesitant to share details of his past."
Damiel thought on this for a moment. "And where is Rauf now?"
"Feeling as if you have a better ground of understanding with him?"
Damiel nodded.
"Probably arguing with Tamam. He's the head trainer," Mustafa added when he saw Damiel's look of confusion. "He replaced Rauf when he was moved to work in the smithy as our blacksmith. As you can probably guess, tension is thick between the two men. Rauf disagrees with Tamam's teaching style, and Tamam is eager to have Rauf keep his nose where it belongs—in the forge."
"So why is it Rauf training me instead of Tamam?"
Mustafa cracked his neck. "Probably to prove a point that Rauf isn't too old to teach new students the art of our ways. But if I understand it correctly, Tamam wants you part of his own class. Rauf's doing his best to keep you from the others. He's protective of you, Damiel. You should feel honored by that. It's very rare for a teacher to take a student in as his own."
"I never asked for Rauf to take me under his wing," Damiel grunted as he crossed his arms.
"But yet you asked him to make you one of us."
"Wrong. I asked him to teach me the Assassins' ways so that I may choose my own life."
Mustafa, sensing the rhetoric in their conversation, shrugged his shoulders again. "Be that as it may, Rauf is protecting you from Tamam. But maybe you'd like to meet my other Brothers?" He watched Damiel as the boy mulled it over in his mind. Mustafa clasped his hand around Damiel's and heaved him to his feet. "A pomegranate will not keep a training novice full for long. Come, dinner is still being served in the fortress."
Once the boys found a robe to dress Damiel in, as Damiel had no doubt that he'd ruin any possible decent first impressions if he arrived at the dining hall in nothing but his white under-clothes (does Rauf even give the boy clothes?), Damiel followed Mustafa. As they neared a set of double doors, Damiel could hear murmurs and laughter coming from inside.
He swallowed and turned to face Mustafa before they entered. The Assassin gave Damiel a firm pat on the shoulder before pushing the doors open and entering the hall.
The conversations between the Assassins stopped as they eyed the stranger behind Mustafa. Assassins were huddled together in small circles, separated by rank. They sat on cushions, all of them keeping to their respective group, and all of them staring at Damiel as if he was an unknown species.
Among them sat Hildegard surrounded by a group of nosy Assassins—mainly novices. To her left was Rauf, and to her right sat Malik, which Mustafa thought strange. Usually Malik preferred to eat in the study. Maybe someone stole his kibbeh again?
No, that couldn't be it. Mustafa would have known if he was missing his kibbeh. After all, Mustafa was the mastermind behind the disappearances.
Hildegard saw the spooked look in Damiel's eyes. He looked like a horse cornered by breakers trying to lasso it. And judging by the looks of it, Damiel was contemplating whether to bolt out of that dining hall without looking back.
She cleared her throat and placed a hand on Malik's shoulder. "As I was saying," she lilted in a voice loud enough to break the Assassins' scrutinizing glares, "it is absolutely normal for a man to feel inadequate when with a woman, either in conversation, trying to catch her eye in the marketplace, purchasing something for her, or—do forgive me for saying, but it is my favorite—in bed."
Multiple heads swiveled in Hildegard's direction, not believing what the woman had just said. Damiel shot Hildegard a grateful look before following Mustafa to a small circle of novices.
"After all," Hildegard continued, "women are the more dominant species."
"Which is why they are always on the bottom," Malik mused as he helped himself to a ball of kibbeh.
"Oh, pish posh!" Hildegard laughed and swatted her hand at him. "I'm sure a great deal of men enjoy bottom-ing, but—oh, don't let anyone else hear me say this—they are just too proud to admit it." She stared at Malik, waiting for him to make eye contact with her. When he did, she sang, "You yourself seem like you'd enjoy being topped, Malik. Shame on pride for you lying to yourself."
Malik closed his eyes while Rauf choked on his food.
Mustafa ushered Damiel to a huddle of Assassins and motioned for the others to make room for them. The novices gave Damiel a suspicious look before shifting over.
Even while sitting, Damiel could still hear murmurs as to who Mustafa's unfamiliar company was. From his peripheral vision, Damiel saw heads turning to look at him.
"We missed you today during the archery session, Mustafa," Rakin said as he took a drink of ayran. "You should have seen it! Tamam snapped a bow in half when none of us could hit the centers of the targets."
Mustafa chuckled and plucked two pitas from the table in the middle of their small circle. He gave one of them to Damiel. "Did you hit the targets anywhere else?"
"The edges of them," Rakin murmured. He blushed red from embarrassment. "Well, Nabil did. I hardly nicked a target. We could have used you to ease Tamam's temper."
"Forgive me, Rakin. I was preoccupied today," Mustafa said. He gave his friend's arm a squeeze.
"Oh, that is most obvious," Nabil grunted. He hadn't touched his food since Mustafa and his little friend joined them, and had kept his arms crossed over his chest. He glared at Damiel. "Nice of you to make a new acquaintance, Mustafa. Maybe next time you could remember your other comrades in time to make your lesson?"
Mustafa glanced at Damiel. He had his head hung, his curls falling in front of his face. From the angle that Mustafa had, he could see Damiel's face red with restrained rage. He didn't want to see how much longer his new friend could hold in his emotions.
"Damiel, this is Rakin, and this is Nabil," Mustafa gestured respectively between the two novices. "Rakin, Nabil, I would very much appreciate it if you allowed me to introduce you to Damiel, son of Jenaro—"
"We know very well as to who he is," Nabil interrupted. He spat, "The entire fortress knows the fairy tale as to how Jenaro Karkafian's legacy has returned to Masyaf. It's also widely known that he's receiving private lessons from Rauf."
Damiel shuddered and looked over his shoulder at Rauf. Rauf was discussing something with Malik—Hildegard putting her two coins in every few seconds—but the man sitting to Malik's right caught his attention. He was a stern looking Assassin, his face sharp and pointed like an eagle's beak. Scars interrupted and crisscrossed over his beard.
Damiel found the man's eyes locked onto him, and judging by the angry and possessive look on the man's face, could only guess as to who he was.
"Why does Tamam not train him? Is he too unique to train with us?" Nabil stared Damiel down with a challenging look.
Damiel turned back to Nabil just as Mustafa answered with, "Come now, Nabil. He's faced many hardships lately, and Rauf is only preparing him to join our sessions. That's all."
"More like grooming him to rise faster in rank than us," Nabil growled. Rakin shrunk from his place next to him. "What's his choice of weapon? He doesn't have the arms of an archer like you do, Mustafa."
"Maybe he prefers daggers and swords?" Rakin suggested.
"The dagger over the sword," Nabil sneered. "A sword is much too long for him."
A spark flashed in Damiel's eyes as he took a sip of ayran. Mustafa gulped and offered a chuckle to calm the situation. Nabil was relentless, though.
"Or maybe a toothpick, even? Yes, I can see you having a toothpick—"
"Spear," Damiel said as he brought his eyes to Nabil's. "I use long, pointy, spears."
"Ohh, a pikeman!" Rakin squeaked out excitedly. "We don't have many of those here, do we? I think he's our first, actually."
"Really," Nabil challenged. "A spear. Well, where is it, then? How much coaxing do you need to display it?" He leaned toward Damiel and hissed, "Or does it take too much time that you give up?"
"Nabil, enough," Mustafa sighed. "You're making us look like fools, Brother. If you're so interested in his genitals, maybe you should ask him to remove his robe instead of beating around the bush."
Nabil's face flushed and Damiel smirked at him. Rakin giggled and elbowed Nabil, but cowered when he glowered down at him. Furious, and not wanting to spend one more moment in the company of this Damiel Karkafian, Nabil stood and stormed out of the dining hall.
Damiel, sharing a mischievous glance with Mustafa, leaned back and called after him, "Oyé! So should we make it noon tomorrow for you to coax my spear out? Or are you going to be busy wooing someone else's instead of mine?"
Nabil didn't even bother looking back as he marched off. Laughter rang out from a few Assassins, but mainly Hildegard's guffaws were heard above all the chuckles and giggles.
"That's my Damiel for you, gentlemen," she laughed. "That's Maria's Damiel." From across the room, Damiel and Hildegard shared a knowing grin.
He regretted seeing Tamam glaring at Rauf. Rauf's chest was puffed out, his chin lifted in pride.
From the corner of his eye, Ghalib watched Ahmed speaking with Saraj. She seemed to be enjoying herself as she partook in conversation with the merchant. How she managed to keep that interested look on her face as Ahmed explained the times of year most appropriate for catching fish, Ghalib would never know.
He sighed and continued to pretend to inspect the wares laid out in the Palace's courtyard. To him, all the vases set on the table seemed perfectly fine. He'd never been a man for decoration, nor one that would demand the best of the best in quality, so he found himself flabbergasted. According to Ahmed, most of the vases and pots were approved of to send to the market stalls, but some were defected.
Altair rolled his eyes. To him, as long as it served its purpose, there weren't any faults. But oh no, the world of mercantilism was a bizarre wilderness where everything had to be just so.
Women, apparently, fell into that category as well.
His eyes narrowed at Ahmed, knowing that with Saraj's back to him, he knew fully well that Saraj's husband was sending him a warning. As if Saraj could feel Altair's eyes on her back, she bid Ahmed goodbye and moved away to admire the vases.
Ahmed moved toward Ghalib and sidled up next to the man.
"You are forgiven," Ghalib stated.
Ahmed frowned and shook his head. "Nothing of that nature is occurring between us, Master Ghalib. I respect you and your wife too greatly to try to steal her away."
"I never detected any competition, Ahmed." Ghalib returned to inspecting the vases.
Ahmed followed him. "She is not of our culture, is she?"
Ghalib froze momentarily, wondering how Ahmed could have possibly known that. Maria's accent was plausible—he even forgot time to time what her real voice sounded like.
"It's in her eyes," Ahmed said. He took one of the vases from the table and began looking it over. "The color is rare in the Levant, as you probably already know, and her features are different than other Arabic women's." He showed the vase to Ghalib and traced the pattern beneath the depicted figures on it with a finger. "Beautiful, isn't it? Imported from Greece."
Ghalib glanced at the vase, then turned his eyes back to his own. "She is of… a unique heritage. Multiple ones, actually."
"Oh?" Ahmed did not take his eyes off of the pattern. "Would you mind my guesses?"
"Of course not."
"I would say Spanish for her dark hair. A Nordic heritage of European for her eyes. But for her accent, definitely from the Levant."
"Interesting assumptions," Ghalib mused. "From her maternal grandmother's side, she has some Spanish and other form of European in her. When they came over to the Middle East during the Crusades, European blood mixed with Arabic and Armenian."
"Armenian?" Ahmed asked. He blinked and looked over at Saraj across the courtyard. He leaned toward Ghalib and whispered, "She must tweeze a considerable amount, then."
"Not enough for my standards," Ghalib replied evenly. Ahmed briefly scowled, then motioned toward his vase again.
"Greek pottery has always fascinated me. Usually items imported from countries further west intrigue the merchants here, but I've always found that the Greeks know how to stand apart from the crowd. Look at the pronounced anatomy they study and draw! Can you name any other country that has such unique art? Men pass their eyes over Greek work, not taking the time to truly see and say to themselves, 'I like this,' or 'I want that.'"
Ahmed sighed and placed the vase back on the table. "A shame, isn't it?" He smiled, the somber atmosphere shattered, and clasped Ghalib on the shoulder. "A good day to you, Ghalib. I will see you at our meeting shortly." Ahmed left and walked back inside the Palace.
Ghalib exhaled and shoved his vase onto the table. He rubbed his forehead. Damn Ahmed for trying to make himself out to be the better man, and damn him for lusting after Saraj. Ahmed posed a potential risk to his and Saraj's true identities, and if either of them were found out—
He didn't want to think of what would happen to Maria if he wasn't there to protect her.
Ghalib squared his shoulders, intent on joining the other merchants inside the Palace, but was stopped as a hand fell upon his shoulder. He tensed, ready to tackle whoever was behind him, but the sultry voice whispering in his ear halted any action from him.
Because he knew that voice all too well.
"My husband's frown can be seen from even the farthest corner in this courtyard. Why is this so?"
Altair turned his head. He swallowed the lump in his throat as steel-blue gazed up into hazel. Maria had her hand curled around his shoulder, her body flush against his side. His hip pressed against the cloth between her legs, and she rubbed her thigh against the back of his.
He licked his lips and managed to say, "Your husband finds Ahmed to be a nuisance and thorn in his side."
"Is that so?" Maria stood on tiptoe and kissed him right below the ear. The peck was so soft that he wasn't even sure if it was a kiss or just his imagination. "And why does Ahmed trouble your mind?"
His breath hitched as Maria flicked her tongue over his ear lobe. "Ahmed tries to claim what is not rightfully his." He felt her free hand slither across his waist and up to his chest. His eyes darted around the courtyard and found themselves to be completely alone.
"And what is the merchant trying to steal, I wonder?" Her fingers searched his chest until they found what they were looking for. She rubbed his nipple through the fabric of his tunic and lightly moved her hips against him.
Altair tried to twist his body so that that ever-lovely piece of heaven between her legs would rub against something other than his hip—a something that was quickly rising and in need of a feminine hold. But her hand on his shoulder kept him from obliging.
He grunted and looked back at her. He lowered his head, encouraged when she leaned up to meet his lips with her own. His eyes closed and he moved his hand to wrap around her waist to hold her tighter to himself.
But his mouth did not meet hers, nor did his hand touch her. He staggered as he almost fell over, and snapped his eyes open. His fists clenched at his sides and a needy smirk formed on his lips. She was halfway across the courtyard and threw her head over her shoulder to give him her own sneer. He made to go after her, but the enormous, jiggling blubber known as Bashshar came rolling in the direction Maria was coming from.
Altair never knew it was possible to have an erection shrivel up so quickly nor so suddenly, but when Bashshar's round, quadruple-chinned face came into view, he felt his penis almost curl inside his crotch.
And from the distance, he could hear faint traces of laughter.
Maria's laughter.
"How's our boy, Benjamin?" Hildegard leaned against the railing beside the veteran, following his gaze out at the tiled center in the Garden.
Benjamin scratched his beard. "There is definite improvement in his skills with a sword. For some reason, he never could accustom his arm to the swing of it. But I see progress, Hildegard."
She bobbed her head and watched as Rauf sidestepped one of Damiel's attacks and slapped the boy behind the legs with his wooden training sword. She smiled. "Rauf's a good teacher. Very patient, very knowledgeable."
"His muscle's returning, too. Slowly, but surely." Benjamin grinned when Hildegard rested her head on his shoulder. "He'll bounce back, my dear. All he needs is time."
"Aye," Hildegard agreed. "I'm elated that it's Rauf training him instead of that pinecone-nosed man. Tamam's his name, isn't it?"
"That may be the situation as of now," Malik said as he joined the two at the railing, "but Tamam's persistence has yielded some results."
Benjamin quickly excused himself when a disgusted look appeared on Malik's face. Hildegard squeezed Benjamin's hand before he went back inside the fortress.
"And these results are?" she asked.
"Soon the boy will have to join the other novices under Tamam's teachings." Before Hildegard could voice her disapproval of the idea, Malik held his hand up. "I know it is not what you want for the boy, but as the advisor to the Master, I cannot allow our fortress to be divided just because of one person."
Hildegard huffed and looked over at Damiel. He had fallen flat on his bottom, and Rauf was helping the boy back onto his feet. "He is not my charge, Malik," Hildegard said. "Maria's responsible for him."
Malik nodded. "And like how I must offer my guidance when the Master is absent, you must take Maria's place when she is not available."
Hildegard grumbled and drummed her fingers against the railing. "Is there no other way? You were there in the dining hall; you saw how your Brothers murmured amongst each other and stared at him like he was a damned intruder."
Malik clicked his tongue and placed his hand on hers to stop the annoying bad habit. She didn't pull away from him. "Think over this, Hildegard. Keeping him from the Brothers will not fully show him the Hashshashin's lifestyle. He needs to see the family we raise in the fortress and know the men beneath the hood.
"And Tamam is a good trainer. He might not be the kindest, but he knows the art of combat just as well as Rauf."
Rauf had paused the lesson for a five minute water break.
Hildegard rested her chin in her palm and pouted. "Must you be so reasonable, Malik? Sometimes I wonder about you."
A smug grin twisted on his lips. "It comes with being a bottom-er."
Damn the man, and damn it, for what seemed like forever, Hildegard blushed.
Two weeks later…
Damiel pulled his boots on and rose from his bed. He still slept in the infirmary, and it had become a haven for him to either mull over his training sessions or to hide from Rauf. Asiya, though the woman was brutish in every sense of the word, didn't mind his occupancy at all. She never engaged in deep conversation with him, but had taken a liking to him nonetheless, and brought him fresh baklava from dinner on occasion.
He'd taken to eating with Mustafa and Rakin, and had found a companion in Rakin. He was terribly shy and reserved, but a good listener and kind soul. Nabil refused to sit with them during meals and chose to glare Damiel down at a distance.
Today was the start of a new beginning for Damiel. A horrible beginning, to say the least. When Rauf was told that Damiel would be moved to Tamam's division, the blacksmith extended their lessons and shortened their breaks.
But now Damiel was leaving Rauf's nest. As he stepped through the fortress and neared the doors leading to the courtyard, he couldn't help but feel like a sheep running full speed into a pack of wolves.
He swallowed. He hadn't seen neither hide nor tail of Mustafa and Rakin, but hoped to God that he'd find them in the courtyard. He took a deep breath, braced himself, and pulled open the doors to the courtyard.
The perimeter of the training ring was filled with small clusters of Assassins. From the looks of their robes, they were all novices. He slowly walked down the slope that led to the ring. Panic zipped through him as he couldn't tell Mustafa and Rakin apart from the groups; they all had their hoods up.
Damiel gave a mental slap to himself and gritted his teeth. He wouldn't make Maria proud if he acted like a scared ninny. He took his place beside the Assassins as they lined up for the instructors. He was horribly aware that he stood out like a sore thumb in the mob of white robes. He wore dark shalwars and tunic, and scolded himself for not asking Mustafa to steal a pair of the novice robes for him.
Tamam paced down the line, his hands folded behind his back as he silently took attendance. Damiel watched as how the Assassins closest to him held their breath in—fear? worry? shame?
A sinister smirk splayed on Tamam's face when he caught sight of Damiel. Damiel narrowed his eyes at the man, not liking the conniving look in his eyes. He'd have to speak with Rauf later. He glanced up at the fortress and saw Rauf and Malik leaning against the railings. Damiel made eye contact with his former teacher, and hoped that that was an encouraging smile Rauf gave him.
But knowing Rauf, it could have been a grimace. The man made the most amusing expressions from Damiel's insistent usage of foul language. Like that one time how he compared a woman to a brick—
Tamam, having seen where Damiel was looking, paced back over to the boy and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at him. He turned his head this way and that, as if inspecting livestock. He jerked his hand away from the boy and sneered, as if finding fault with him. He moved down the line.
Damiel rubbed his chin. "I don't suppose he's that way while with women, is he?" he murmured aloud.
The novices beside him gave him fearful looks. "You watch yourself in Tamam's presence, newcomer. He does not hesitate to punish."
Damiel raised his eyebrows at this. A smirk slowly formed on his lips as a devious thought invaded his mind. "What more can happen to me?"
Ghalib followed the other merchants into the dimly lit courtyard. He instinctively embraced his gift and scanned the room for any potential threats. Deeming it safe, he closed his eyes and willed the gold tint to his eyes to withdraw.
Saraj had retired to the Umayyad already and was sound asleep. With both Bashshar and Ahmed present, Ghalib did not have to worry over either man paying her a surprise night-time visit.
Incense floated into the sky, and cushions had been scattered around in the courtyard. Hookahs were carried out by servants and placed down next to the cushions for the merchants.
Altair frowned. Other feasts that Ahmed and Bashshar held were not quite like this. Perhaps this was a special convention? Regardless of whatever it was, he sat down next to the others, listening to all of the sounds around him. Underneath the merchants' murmurs and occasional chuckles, he could only hear the soft trickling of water from the central fountain and the distant commotion from the Saruja.
Nothing out of the ordinary, but yet he could not help but feel as if something was askew. His eyes flew back over to Bashshar and Ahmed, making sure that the brothers wouldn't try to sneak off to the Umayyad. The thought of their hands on Maria made his blood boil.
After sharing a word with his brother, Ahmed approached the fountain with a goblet in hand. Bashshar lowered his rotund self onto multiple cushions. An image of a sultan seating his corpulent behind on a palanquin carried by struggling and sweating men came to Altair's mind, and he had to subtly cover his mouth to hide his smile.
Ahmed filled his cup with water from the fountain and turned to address his guests.
"Where is Tariq?" Tamam demanded from the line of novices. "All of you are present besides him." Tamam walked down the line, his body poised like a cat prowling after prey. He stopped in front of a boy trying to curl into himself. Tamam looked down at the boy. "Where is he?"
The novice squeaked and shuffled his feet nervously. Damiel craned his neck in front of him to have a better look. He sighed when he recognized the novice to be none other than Rakin.
"Well?" Tamam hissed when Rakin did not respond. Damiel frowned from Tamam's manners toward Rakin. He didn't like it one bit.
Rakin jumped and hugged himself. "H-he said he was feeling ill, Master Tamam, and decided to stay in the barracks to rest," he stuttered. Tamam turned away from him, a grim look on his face. He nodded, as if he expected such a response. The novice next to Rakin placed a hand on his shaking shoulder to comfort him. Damiel knew it had to be Mustafa.
'Mierda, they're all the way down there.'
"Do you all know what is wrong with this picture?" Tamam asked the novices. "No? None of you know?" He frowned at the boys. "Incompetence. Irresponsibility. Lack of effort. Insufficient excuses." He resumed his pacing. "It seems there is a new excuse every day. I ask you why." He looked each of the novices in the eye, their hoods doing nothing to hide them from Tamam's boiling fury. "You call yourselves Hashshashin. You wear our robes, wield our blades. And what do you have to show for it? Absences? Tardiness?"
The sudden urge to act overcame Damiel. He narrowed his eyes at his new instructor, wishing that he'd never complained about Rauf in the first place.
"It is inexcusable," Tamam went on. "It is insulting. None of you know what the words 'dedication' or 'discipline' mean. It is my job to teach you. It is my responsibility to prepare and build your bodies for the world beyond these walls. It is my duty to instill dedication and discipline into you."
Rakin almost fell to his knees. A hush fell over the line, all the novices feeling shame wash over them as Tamam degraded them.
That is, all but one novice.
A wicked smile crept onto Tamam's face from seeing his pupils so distraught, but that smile was swept clean off when a small laugh broke the silence.
Tamam, his eyes bulging and thick eyebrows practically touching his hairline, stalked down the line, hunting down the source of the offensive sound of enjoyment.
Damiel's eyes flicked back and forth between the novices beside him as he continued to laugh. They seemed petrified as Tamam closed in on them. They looked away from Damiel, hoping that Tamam wouldn't associate them with the laughing novice.
Damiel had his head lowered as he chuckled, and all he saw were Tamam's boots in front of him. Slowly, his eyes rose to Tamam's.
"Is there something comical about what I have stated?" Tamam furrowed his brow and grabbed Damiel's chin again, lurching him forward so that their faces were barely inches apart. "I'd know that smile anywhere. Jenaro wore the same expression whenever he thought he was being clever. Tell me, boy, do you think you're clever by interrupting my speech?"
Mustafa and Rakin held their breaths. Nabil triumphantly sneered from his place in the line.
Damiel nodded to the best of his ability, Tamam's hand restricting him from movement.
"Perhaps you would like to share with all of us what is so hilarious. Because I fail to see the humor in this."
Damiel smirked, though with Tamam's talons clenching half of his face, it looked like he ran into a wall. "You said 'duty'," Damiel said matter-of-factly.
Tamam's brow furrowed, the creases formed making him look ten years older. "And you find reason to laugh at this?"
"That's what Bayo does," Damiel explained. "Duty." When Tamam made no comment or sign that he had any idea what the idiot in his grasp was saying, Damiel added, "Maria's dog."
Tamam's eyes flashed from the statement, and gasps rang out from the novices. Damiel saw the promise of punishment for insubordination in the man's eyes, and decided to draw out every bit of glory possible.
"Hunches over," Damiel smiled. Tamam's fingers uncurled from the boy's face, and Damiel took the opportunity to brush past him to face the entire line. "Like this," he explained. He crouched down on all fours. "Puts strain on his back legs, and sometimes grunts when it doesn't come out." He personified his words, and several chuckles sounded from the line. He shot a wink at Rakin.
"And sometimes," Damiel included, "he does this walk, where… where…" He slowly trudged forward, then plopped his bottom on the ground. "Even knows how to do this when he's all done." To the crowd's horror and entertainment, he wiped his bottom on the ground. "Smart dog, isn't he?"
Rakin giggled into his sleeve and leaned against Mustafa as he soon became breathless with laughter.
Damiel grinned and addressed the line again. "But that's only one of his duties. Interested in seeing his duty when with a bitch in heat?"
From his place beside Malik, Rauf laughed into the palm of his hand.
"Friends, friends! Please, your attention is a blessing to me!" Ahmed called over his guests. They eventually quieted and turned their heads to the speaker. Ahmed smiled and inclined his head once all eyes were on him. "Mamnuun, shukran, sh'norhekalem, sas efharisto, grazie, gracias, tesekkür ederim,toda, dua netjer en ek."
Murmurs went up from the crowd, each culture voicing their impressed approval of Ahmed. The merchant smiled at them.
"My friends, I am very much aware of the tolls our convention places among each of you. We have come a long way, reformed our merchandise, and opened several arms up to foreigners." Ahmed gestured to each of the small clusters in the courtyard. "Alliances have been made here. Cultures have been represented and taught to each of us through our actions. We have embraced each other's differences to prove the near impossible.
"With our meetings and settlings of wares and prices, we have strengthened our countries' economy, trust, and power in security and stability."
Several merchants nodded and clapped their hands. Ahmed handled the praises aimed at him with humility and grace. Altair watched, fascinated.
"Do you know what we are, friends? We are merchants to the eyes of citizens. We control the wealth of the land—we alone decide when we fall and rise. We make our mark on history through the items we place in the stalls and through our customers.
"But that is not all that we are, friends. We are servants to the people. We are servants to our kings and queens—to our government. We provide for our families, our friends, my neighbor, your neighbor, his neighbor. We look past our cultural differences and accept the fact that we practice a variety of teachings.
"We hail Allah, we worship God—we may not even believe in a deity. But we are united." Ahmed paused for his words to sink in. He slowly walked around the groups of merchants. "We are united by our desire to prosper. We look at maps and see our bordering countries, and we call our neighbors 'brothers' and 'friends'.
"We secure where we are today with the hope of a better future—of a better tomorrow—for ourselves, our neighbors, brothers, sisters, for the children!"
At this point, the crowd became very vocal and the merchants raised their hands in the air, Ahmed's speech very touching and inspirational for them. They cheered and clapped as he bowed his head in acknowledgment.
"We are merchants," Ahmed whispered, once the praise died down. "We do not need a blade or arrow to fight our way to the promised land. We come from many lands—across the Mediterranean and straight through the Levant—to pursue our mission. I know, friends, I know. We are tired. We have sailed for months to be here, in this courtyard, tonight to hear these words.
"We have traveled on horseback for weeks to make this dream into a reality. We have departed from our homes, saying our goodbyes to our wives and children. I know this. I see the exhaustion in your eyes, I know." He looked over at Bashshar, and the two brothers shared a knowing grin.
"So, please," Ahmed continued while holding out his goblet, "accept these gifts of entertainment my brother and I offer to you, all the while keeping in mind that I serve you, my friends. And so I propose a toast! A toast to you, gentlemen, for striving for a perfect world!"
Tamam stormed over to Damiel just as the boy, balanced on all fours, thrust his hips into the space beneath him. The novices, most of which were doubled over and gasping for air, paid no heed as Tamam grabbed Damiel's neck and hauled him to his feet.
Damiel gagged and coughed. His hands quickly scrabbled at Tamam's hold in front of him, but his grip was as firm as steel as he dragged the boy to the training ring.
"You find the need to amuse yourself? Very well," Tamam seethed. "Now I will find reason to amuse me."
Damiel grunted just as Tamam flung him toward the fenced ring. He caught himself on the wooden fence and gasped for air. "Oh? Will you perform a duty on me?"
Tamam snarled and smacked the boy across the face. The sound of the slap echoed throughout the courtyard. The novices were quick to sober, and that dreadful silence fell upon them again.
Blood trickled down from the corner of Damiel's mouth, and he flung himself over the fence to escape any more possible blows from the instructor. Tamam glared at him, that sinister smirk once again on his angular face.
"So, we have a jester among us! A jester serving to the court," Tamam waved at the line. "How very fortunate we are to have someone so brave as to challenge Tamam ibn-Safwah. It seems Jenaro's little brat has become the novices' new hero! Well? What are you waiting for? Bow down to him!"
The novices watched in terror as Tamam stooped low to the ground. Damiel took a step back in the ring.
"He's our new Hercules, it seems! Let us see if his blade arm is as quick as his tongue." Tamam whirled around to face the novices. He grinned as he approached one of them. "Nabil will do to put our little fool in his place, won't you?"
Nabil smirked and accepted the two dull blades Tamam held out to him. He jogged toward the ring and swung his legs over the fence.
Ghalib blinked at what he was witnessing. The crowd, once congratulating and cheering Ahmed's speech, had bitten their tongues and sunk back into their cushions. Filing out from the Palace doors were women clad in expensive silks that clung to their curves and exposed their stomachs, arms, legs, and very much of their bosoms.
Sharmutas. Ahmed had provided sharmutas to entertain his guests. Altair closed his eyes, his lips pursed in irritation.
But to the other merchants, this was the highlight of their trip.
Musicians soon entered after the women and took their places in the farthest corner, not wishing to interrupt the men and their gazing.
Ghalib leaned back in his cushion, watching the women move their bodies to the rhythm the darbukas set for them. The other merchants kept their eyes on the women at all times, fascinated by Arabian culture in an entirely different sense.
The dancers spread themselves amongst the merchants, not caring that by standing too close to a group, the men could see right up the slits in their silk skirts.
Through half-lidded eyes, they stared the merchants down as their waists, arms, and legs moved in the most elegant yet seducing of ways. Once emboldened by their smoldering stares, they dared to move even closer to the men.
One of the sharmutas kept her eyes on a certain handsome man with a scar on the right corner of his mouth.
Saraj secured the cloak around herself and silently crept through the Umayyad Mosque. She quietly padded her way to Ghalib's room and nudged her knuckles against the door.
"Ghalib?" She had no doubt that he could hear her, and found no need to raise her voice above a whisper. When she didn't receive a reply, she turned the handle on the door and slowly opened it.
His room was empty, the cushions neatly stacked as if no one had even been in it. She exhaled and shut the door softly behind her. 'Probably either at the Bureau or another one of Ahmed's conventions,' she thought.
Maria scurried over to the window and drew back the drapes. She unlatched the window and peered out at the mosque's courtyard. She grinned as she eyed a cart of hay conveniently placed below Altair's window. 'Of course.'
She carefully pulled herself onto the windowsill and judged the distance between her and the hay. Once the full weight of what she was about to do descended on her shoulders, she felt her body shudder with fear. She never did enjoy these so-called 'leaps of faith', and had only ever performed a small handful of them. She gulped back the lump in her throat and breathed in deeply. Leaving through the mosque's front door was not an option; she'd risk being seen by someone.
Maria summoned up all of her courage, making a mental note to chew Altair's ear off at the next possible moment, knowing that in some way, shape, or form, he was responsible for her fear of heights.
She sucked in a breath, then leapt from the window.
Nabil wielded one of the blades and tossed the other behind him as he approached Damiel. Damiel gulped, knowing that the blades were dull, but also aware from Rauf's training that any blow from them would be felt for days to come.
Nabil horizontally lunged at Damiel. The boy twisted his body and leapt backward. Nabil's blade barely missed his stomach. Nabil continued to advance on Damiel, using only short swings to stagger him.
Damiel knew that soon his back would be pinned against the fence and that Nabil would have even more of the upper hand against him. Pursing his lips, Damiel sidestepped another one of Nabil's swings. With Nabil's legs spread apart to balance himself, Damiel flung himself forward and under Nabil. Nabil, shocked from the move, froze for a split second before whirling around.
It was just enough time for Damiel to scramble to his feet. With the discarded blade behind him, Damiel continued to narrowly dodge Nabil's attacks. He glanced behind him at the sword. It was a good six feet away.
Damiel's distraction didn't go unnoticed by Nabil. He slammed the flat of his blade against Damiel's calf. He shouted and went down in a heap. Nabil brought down another blow on him. Damiel rolled out of the way, knowing that if he didn't move any sooner that he'd be missing an ear.
He kicked at Nabil's shin and brought him down to his knees. Nabil still held onto his sword, and when Damiel tried to climb back on his feet, he smacked it against his back. Damiel fell forward, another cry escaping his lips.
Tamam laughed and crossed his arms as the tables turned in Nabil's favor.
Rauf held his breath and willed the boy to stand up.
Ghalib watched as the dancers continued their motions. The dim candlelight in the courtyard silhouetted their figures perfectly, making them out to be seraphs sent down for the merchants' needs alone.
His eyes saw every subtle movement they made. It was erotic, he knew it and admitted it to himself, and certainly pleasing to every man around him. He knew where several of their hands were creeping toward, and he knew how difficult it must have been for them to keep their moans at bay.
Because Altair, too, allowed himself to fantasize as these women, so gifted with their heavenly bodies and luscious curves, continued to tempt them.
His eyes lifted up to meet with one of the dancer's. She wore dark silks with gold trimming that accented her olive skin. Her mouth was veiled with similar silk, leaving only her eyes visible to the merchants. She eyed him, naked desire radiating from those mysterious eyes.
Those not quite blue, yet not quite grey eyes.
It wasn't her, he knew it wasn't. Her hair was not that long, nor was it as curly. But he was captivated, nonetheless, for he saw her. It was her slowly slinking toward him, still keeping in time with the musicians. It was her whose hips rocked so perfectly and emphasized the feminine beauty of curves.
He swallowed as she stood in front of him and lowered herself upon him.
Maria lay still as a statue in the cart of hay, her eyes screwed shut as she refused to believe that she had actually made the jump without any broken bones or bruises. It was a success—well, if she didn't count her girly squeal before she leapt into the cart, but that hardly mattered.
No one heard it, so it never happened.
She exhaled and heaved herself out of the hay. She clung to the shadows as she exited the courtyard and made her way to the Palace. She could hear the sounds of drums coming from the Palace's courtyard. 'Good. Ahmed and his guests are probably occupied, leaving me a perfect opening to do a little investigating.'
While she had full faith that Altair would learn anything possible about Clarence or of his Armenian bodyguard, she had her own pride to tend to. Robert had always valued her as a reliable source of reconnaissance, and she wanted nothing more than to put words into action.
She didn't dare enter through the Palace gates. She could hear whispers coming from the courtyard, and knew that it'd be the most foolish feat she'd ever perform if she barged in on the merchants' meeting. She was a woman, after all, and had no right to interrupt men and their dealings.
She'd have to climb the opposite walls and enter through yet another daring leap. Hopefully Altair had placed a haystack inside the Palace walls.
Damiel crawled toward his sword. Nabil circled around him and placed his foot on the blade just as Damiel's fingers brushed against the hilt. He smirked down at him, laughing as Damiel glanced up at him. He drew his arm back and slammed his sword into Damiel's back.
He yelped and covered his head with his hands as Nabil continued to beat him. He screamed as his wounds reopened and bled through his tunic.
"Termina, termina! Por favor, termina!" He curled up into a ball, his fingers tearing at his hair as Nabil ignored his pleas. The onslaught of beatings stopped when Tamam placed a hand on Nabil's shoulder and took the blade from his grasp.
Damiel exhaled as the abuse stopped. He felt his heart shatter as Tamam kicked Damiel onto his back. The instructor brought the blade onto Damiel's arms as they tried to cover his face and stomach.
"You want to laugh and make a fool of me? Is that what you want? Well who is the fool now, hm? Who is the fool?"
"Por favor, I don't know! I don't know, I don't know who they are or what they're planning! Please, STOP!"
Tamam, enraged by the whimpers coming from the boy, did not stop until Damiel's arms were hidden with blood. Nabil's smirk had long-since disappeared as he stared down at the bloody mess in front of him. He felt bile rise to his throat as he realized what he had just done, what injustice he had committed against a helpless person.
An innocent.
He tried to restrain Tamam and beg the man to stop his beatings, but his body wouldn't move. He watched helplessly as Damiel endured his punishment.
Tamam threw his sword aside and knelt down to the boy's level. He tore open his tunic, exposing the circular burn marks and the dotted scars from The Chair on his flesh. The novices gasped and looked at each other in uncertainty.
"Now the crowd has something to laugh about," Tamam hissed.
It was Rauf who saved the boy from Tamam's fury.
Indulgence. Raw, tarnished indulgence.
She settled herself on top of him. Her legs slid apart as she straddled him, rolling her hips against the bulge in his shalwars.
Altair breathed heavily, still lost in those eyes of hers. Around him, merchants had the dancers in similar positions, some having retreated to the shadows to indulge in their masculine needs. Gasps and moans filled the courtyard.
She leaned over him, her hair falling and creating a curtain around their heads as her lips moved to his.
So complying, so submissive, and yet he hadn't done a thing to her besides running his hands over her back.
The kiss, so innocent and chaste, did not progress further. She waited for his mouth to ravish hers, for his hands to find and free the claps holding her garments together.
Where was the fire, the dominance and control that only she possessed?
Altair sighed and opened his eyes to meet the sharmuta's. Confusion was written all over her face.
No. Pretending would be futile. This woman, so voluptuous and divine with her painted lips and outlined eyes, could not even begin to compete.
He grabbed her hips and set her next to him, then stood and left the Palace. He was confident that the merchants, Ahmed included, were far too busy gaining entrance to the sharmutas to pay him any mind, and Bashshar—
Sweet Allah, he didn't even want to think about Bashshar.
Maria carefully stepped throughout the Palace's interior. After enduring minor casualties from climbing up and over the wall (her cloak was snagged by a ragged piece of architecture, and the fabric suffered a tear as she had no choice but to tug it free), she had finally made it inside the Palace.
She kept her movements catlike and as quiet as possible as she scoured the inside of the Palace. More than once, she had to hide in shadow and become one with the wall as guards patrolled past her.
She came to a fork in the hall and was about to continue straight when voices from the right caught her attention. Her interest raised, she scaled the wall and peeked beyond the corner, making sure she was out of sight and as quiet as a mouse.
"I take it you have no need for Ahmed's provisions tonight?"
A shudder wracked itself up Maria's spine. Oh, she'd know that arrogant, slimy voice just about anywhere.
"Voch. Pleasuring men with sinful flesh are for the desperate and lesser in life. Let Ahmed and his playthings enjoy themselves. I hope they become diseased, every one of them."
Maria gawked and balled her hands into fists. That explained the peculiar noises coming from the courtyard, and Altair—
Good God, she'd never felt jealousy rear its hideous head with such power before in her entire life.
"Does it upset you, then?" Clarence asked. "I hope your memories are not a hindrance to your responsibilities, friend. I would certainly detest it if I had to request that my Grandmaster destroy all ties to your country."
"My responsibilities remain as strong and focused as your faith to your cause is."
"I want to hear nothing other than that, Tagvoryan. Should you show signs of failure, I will send you back to your king like a dog to his master. Understand me?"
"There is nothing not to understand."
The sound of footsteps becoming closer reached Maria's ears, and she reluctantly slipped down the hall back the way she had come from.
She had a name now. A title to give to this Armenian bodyguard, this Tagvoryan. All she needed to do was report back to the Umayyad, wait for Altair to lug his rear end back to his quarters, and tell him what she'd learned.
That is, she'd have to wait until he was finished with his whores before she could share the news of her discovery.
Rauf leapt into the ring and tackled Tamam against the fence. He slammed his back against the fence, the sudden pain shooting through his body keeping him from fighting Rauf's hold.
"I do not recall your job description including beating our pupils to a pulp!" Rauf snarled at him. "Who do you think you are by crashing such judgment upon a boy who hasn't even reached twenty-five summers yet!"
Rauf shoved him back and spat at his feet. Tamam, stunned by the older man's strength, only stared and gasped for air. Rauf moved away from him to face Damiel.
He was curled into himself, crying and blubbering nonsense. Rauf fell to his knees and gently lowered his hand on the boy's neck.
Damiel shrieked and jumped away from Rauf, his eyes crazed as he watched the man.
"Shh, shh," Rauf murmured, slowly crawling closer to him. "Damiel, Damiel, it's alright, my boy. It's me, Rauf. It's me, Damiel."
Damiel shook his head and kicked his legs out, trying to crawl away from Rauf.
"Estoy aqui, nino," Rauf whispered. "You needn't fear me, Dammi bear. That's what she called you, isn't it? She called you 'Dammi bear', and 'Dammi sweet'."
"No, no…" Damiel whimpered as Rauf held his shoulders.
"She'd make you tan when you asked for it, didn't she? She made you kufta and would sing Sirunig Avorig to you, wouldn't she?"
Damiel bit his lip and slowly nodded.
"Do you remember those nights, Damiel? She's hold you close next to the fireplace, your little body held tightly in her arms, and sing to you."
Damiel didn't resist or make a sound as Rauf picked him up and carried him out of the ring. The swarm of Assassins that had gathered around to watch the lesson parted, allowing Rauf back inside the fortress.
"I promised the both of them, Damiel Karkafian," he whispered, "that should you ever be left in my charge, I would raise you as my own and protect you with my life."
Mustafa followed Rauf up to the fortress, Rakin hot on his heels. The shy novice sniffled and rubbed his eyes furiously with his hands. Mustafa wrapped an arm about his shoulders, letting him have someone to cry on.
"I never knew my mother," Rakin confessed as a fresh bout of cries accumulated inside of him.
Altair paced in his room, frequently glancing at the door.
Where was she? And why wasn't she in her room? Was it Bashshar and Ahmed? Did she sneak off? Was she kidnapped?
He wasn't sure what to do. Should he leave in search of her? What if he was gone when she returned, and she thought the worst?
He groaned and held his head in his hands. Where was the woman?
His eyes shot up just as the handle on his door turned.
Maria, with her back to him, moved inside the room. She slowly closed the door, being sure that none of the hinges would creak. Once it was closed, she exhaled a breath she'd been holding for God knew how long.
"Where were you?"
She gasped and whirled around, her body ready for combat if need be. When she saw Altair, though, her shoulders slumped and she waved a hand at him.
"Oh, it's only you. I was afraid Ahmed would be here—"
"Ahmed? Why would Ahmed be here? And where were you, Maria?"
She frowned and crossed her arms. "You're the one who's been suspicious of his supposed advances on me, Altair, don't forget that."
He walked over to her, his face still etched with concern. "Where were you, Maria?"
She didn't falter for a moment beneath his gaze. She tilted her head to the side. "Where were you?"
He pressed his lips together, not sure how to respond to her. Should he say that he partook in a meeting that involved Ahmed throwing prostitutes at the merchants? No, then she'd think that he partook instead of only partaking.
He rubbed his forehead. Why did he have to fall for a woman so stubborn and complicated?
"I thought so," she bluntly replied. "Well, while you were out whoring away with your merchant friends, I actually took it upon myself to finally give our mission a lick of maturity that it deserves."
"I was not relishing in—"
"Oh ho ho, relishing? An interesting choice on how to phrase it. I don't care what you were doing, Altair, all I care is that you hear me out."
"Why should I bestow my attention upon you when you will not do the same for me?"
"Because, darling," she purred, placing a hand on his cheek, "I know you too well to find comforts in a mere courtesan." She smiled and watched how his face changed from frustration to confusion, and then finally to sated contentedness.
"But you, my little eaglet, have yet to know what I was doing."
He pulled her by the waist so that their hips touched. "Nothing legal, I assume."
"It's purely justifiable if it helps the right cause," she countered.
"Not entirely true, Maria. For example, if—"
"We can continue this debate, Altair, or I can tell you that I know who Clarence's bodyguard is."
"No. Absolutely not," Rauf deadpanned.
"But, Rauf, you said—"
"I know what I said, and my answer is still no, Damiel. You are not to return to that ring under Tamam's orders. Do you understand me?"
"But—"
"Look at yourself, boy! Do you not see the bandages on your arms and back? You are to stay put in this infirmary until I say so."
Damiel huffed and fell backward on his bed. "But Rauf, you said yourself that Tamam has never reacted so violently toward his students before."
"Yes," Rauf agreed, "and now we know what the man is truly capable of."
"Didn't you see it, Rauf? I even saw it, and according to Hildegard, my eyes cannot see farther than three inches in front of me!"
"See what? The desire to beat you to death in his eyes? Yes, I saw that, boy. Every person in that courtyard saw it."
"No, Rauf," Damiel groaned. "The power I had over Tamam—the control my little antics granted me! Tell me something. Would Malik be forced to remove Tamam from his position as combat instructor if he continued to have violent episodes?"
Rauf sighed and closed his eyes. "I know where this is leading to, boy—"
"Answer me, Rauf. Would Tamam lose his position?"
Rauf nodded. "Yes, he would."
Damiel smiled. "And who would take his place?"
"No," Rauf barked. "I am a blacksmith now, Damiel. Malik does not have the authority to place me back as the instructor. Only Altair has that power, and I've argued for hours with that man about my duty—I see you smiling—to Masyaf. And every time, I've emerged the loser."
Damiel gestured to Hildegard. "What say you, Hilde? Do you think there might be a chance for him?"
Hildegard looked up from her book and raised a brow. "Dear boy, you should know better than to interrupt me while reading a love letter. But, if you value my opinion so much and if you absolutely must know, then yes, I agree with you."
"See, Rauf? Even Hildegard—love letter? From who?"
Hildegard laughed. "Oh, well it isn't to me, actually. I think one of the novices wrote it and signed it 'Anonymous'. This will be circling around dinner, I assure you."
Damiel clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. "You said you'd help me rebuild myself, Rauf. Now, I want to help you in return. Don't you miss being the teacher?"
"Of course I do," he sighed. "I've raised my Brothers from pups to men. Those were such fine days for me, but days that are best left behind."
"If you were requested to take Tamam's place, though, would you accept it?" Damiel pushed on.
Rauf glanced at Hildegard, hoping she'd be of use. She, however, refused to look at either of them. He sighed and threw his hand into the air. "As persistent as the father! Oomma! Yes, yes I would accept my former position without the slightest bit of hesitation!"
"Then I'll do it," Damiel said confidently.
Rauf shook his head. "To think that I'm relying on The Karkafian's boy to help me live my dream. What would Jenaro say if he saw me now?"
"That you're a good man," Damiel said evenly. "Far more than Tamam could ever be."
Hildegard folded her precious little letter and huffed at the two goons in front of her. "Well, I'll be damned," she grunted. She stood from her chair and smoothed her skirt out. Damiel and Rauf stared in utter perplexity at her. "It's about time you said it, you little idiot," she grumbled as she cuffed his ears. "I could feel myself wrinkling waiting for you to grow a brain in that hollow shell you call a skull."
Translations:
Spanish:
Gracias a Dios: Thank God
Estoy aqui, nino: I'm here, boy.
Oyé: Hey
Mierda: shit
Termina: stop
Por favor: please
Arabic:
Na'am: yes
Sharmuta: whore
Armenian:
Voch: No
tan: The Armenian equivalent of ayran (yogurt shake)
Sirunig Avorig: An Armenian song about pretty birds (at least, that's what I THINK they're singing about)
Mamnuun, shukran, sh'norhekalem, sas efharisto, grazie, gracias, tesekkür ederim,toda, dua netjer en ek = 'thank you' in Arabic (Syrian), Arabic (Middle Eastern/in general), Armenian, Greek, Italian, Spanish, Turkish, Hebrew, Egypt –all respectively
A/N: So, I postponed this chapter because I incorporate events that happen to me into my chapters. Yeah, you guessed it. Nothing happened to me for a long while. Until I slipped and fell in my bathroom at my parents' house. Silly, I know, but I realized that no matter how much of an idiot you are for not seeing the giant puddle of slippery goodness on the floor, parents still love you and will always be there. I hope you can see how I'm inspired to write Damiel's pain whenever he thinks of his family, and I hope you can relate to him in some way. He's really a troubled character, in my opinion.
Anyways. Yes, I know this chapter does not quite best the previous one. That's because since I took such a long break from writing, I'm a bit rusty. So, think of this as a preliminary chapter of sorts. The next one, well… that's where everything spicy happens. I'm sorry if this chapter is disappointing, believe me, I tried. I just have to bounce back to writing mode.