Definitions:

Al-Awra = the one-eyed mare

Djinn = beings made from smoke, evil djinns are devils/shaytaans (like from Disney's Aladdin, "Genie", but then evil)

Ahbal = foolish

Eleven

Achmed led the young sheep into a disclosed room and gave it water from a cup, which the animal eagerly drank from. Esma watched the respectful routine before the slaughter absent-mindedly. With a prayer to the Lord, Achmed put the young sheep in a serene state where it peacefully laid down its head, waiting for its fate. "Bismillaahi wallaahu 'Akbar Allaahumma taqabbal minnee," the words were softly spoken, only for the young sheep to hear, but both Esma and Maher could hear Achmed's muttering. In one, fluent movement, Achmed's razor sharp knife slit across the animal's throat, disappearing into tender flesh and soft wool. The sheep suddenly started kicking its legs again, whether this was out of protest or a nerve reaction, Esma did not know. But its sudden spurt of movement made her jolt in shock. Vivid images of Salah'Al-Din's soldiers dying before her drew across her mind. Blood gushing out of fatal wounds; the cruelty of mankind. To protect her. Esma doubled forward and gagged. The wretched stench of blood invaded her nose and she tightly wrapped a hand around her mouth to prevent herself from vomiting. She watched as the sheep's struggle weakened; its blood gushing out of the fatal wound and disappearing into a drain in the ground. The sight made her stomach do a triple flip, pushing undigested food back towards her throat.

"Is she alright?" Achmed asked Maher. He was still holding the dying sheep, muttering soft prayers every now and then. "There's a trash pot there," he pointed a finger to a large, clay pot at the other side of the room.

"Sorry for this," Maher apologized in embarrassment, "Esma has never been this weak-hearted before." He walked over to his cousin and grabbed her arm firmly, making Esma flinch in pain and glower at him, but Maher ignored her hostile looks and pulled her along to the waste pot Achmed had redirected them to. "Don't look at me like that," he hissed, his lips set in a snarl, "What's gotten into you all of a sudden? If you were going to throw up and embarrass me, you might as well have stayed in the saloon!"

The nausea prevented Esma to reply in words, but she made sure how she felt over his harsh question by roughly yanking her arm back. The foul stench coming from the pot made her gag again and she quickly leaned over it. The pot was filled with slaughter waste consisting of useless guts and intestines. It was enough to have her throw up on the spot. Vomit forcefully found its way back out through her throat. She kept dry-heaving and coughing as long as she saw the intestines, so she decided to hold her breath and close her eyes.

"You're a mess. I can't believe this is happening."

Maher's voice sounded far away to her. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of the Assassin Altaïr and her father's possible connection to The Brotherhood. 'I can't believe this is happening' was exactly what Esma thought as well. Everything felt surreal. Her father had actually met Altaïr and found out about her meetings with the man, but he decided to let this particular bit of information slip by. Why? Why would he do such an unnatural thing? Because he had something of significant importance to hide…something that had to be bad news or else he would never have kept it a secret from her.

"Here." Esma opened her eyes and saw the butcher Achmed before her with a blood stained cloth in his hand. He looked a little flustered when Esma's eyes lingered on him, nonetheless, he handed her the cloth. "I know it's dirty," he stammered and searched for a clean spot, "but you can use this to wipe yourself clean with." He managed to present a clean blotch and seemed relieved.

A man giving her a blood stained cloth? She couldn't help but think of Altaïr. He would have understood her agitation since he was the only one who was aware of what had happened to her on that faithful day. Because he killed those men. A cold shiver ran down her spine and she accepted the cloth from Achmed without thought. "Thank you, brother."

When she was about to wipe her mouth with the dirty cloth, Maher suddenly yanked it from her hands. She looked up with a frown, only to meet Maher's scowl. "Are you stupid? This thing is drenched in blood!" he snapped in irk, then turning his attention to the butcher and accusing, "How can you give a woman something like this? That's just degrading."

Achmed, who had been flustered by Esma's presence a moment ago, was like a completely different person against Maher's bold words; he was unfazed by the harsh tone the young man used and crossed his strong arms before his chest. "I wasn't suggesting that she should cover herself with blood," he retorted, "in case you hadn't noticed, there was a clean spot which she could have used. Instead of accusing you kids for dirtying my butchery, I'm letting you use the waste pot and a cloth!"

"We're your customers. It's only natural that you would let us use your waste pot in this situation. It's not as if there was anything of value in that disgusting pot!"

"Maher," Esma spoke in a heeding tone and while she wanted to say more, she held her tongue to prevent embarrassing her belligerent cousin before the butcher. "Please don't make such a fuss. It is I who will be using the cloth, not you, and I'm grateful for it. So please hand it back."

"No, dear cousin," Maher answered as he narrowed his eyes and tossed the cloth into the waste pot to make his message clearly known to Achmed. He turned to Esma with a haughty gleam in his eyes, "I will not allow you to use that thing to wipe your face with."

In a sudden slip of his hand, Maher cupped Esma's dirtied cheek with a firm grip in his fingers before drawing his sleeve across her lips. Without warning or her consent beforehand, Esma was caught by surprise and her breath hitched in her throat. Maher's unexpected gesture of tenderness made her stomach churn uncomfortably as unease pricked the walls of her already tender stomach. Esma blinked in a daze before realizing what Maher was trying to do. In a snap she pushed Maher's hands away in disturbance, but she could not help the heavy blush that spread over her face.

"What are you doing?" she hissed angrily to her cousin, barely able to contain her voice from yelling. With trembling fists from anger she momentarily forgot the environment they were in. The butcher's sudden voice made her stiffen in shock and quickly release the tension in her hands. It was one thing to be humiliated by Maher in public, but causing a scene herself after that would only further escalate the problem.

"How disgusting is that: wiping up saliva and barf on your sleeve," Achmed remarked, a mocking tone that was probably directed towards Maher, but Esma felt equally addressed and shot Maher an accusing glare. Achmed shook his head in disbelief and turned back to cut up the sheep, muttering, "I have better things to do then watch a bunch of kids quarrel".

"Bunch of kids?" Maher repeated in disbelief, his tone so full of contempt that it was obvious he was provoking Achmed to turn around and face him again, but Esma instantly shut him up by jabbing a fist in his chest and drawing his attention back to her, an action that resulted from her sheer frustration.

"What was that?" she snarled and bore her teeth while biting down hard on the vulnerable flesh of her cheek to keep herself from drowning in the rush of embarrassment and anger that had flooded her veins. Speaking in a low growl, "Do you enjoy soiling my integrity in front of other men? You jerk!"

Maher scowled and leaned in on her, trying to intimidate his cousin, but Esma was too angry to care about it. When Maher realized this, he stepped back and threw his arms in the air like he was dealing with a hopeless child. "Look at yourself, cousin," he jeered and pulled up his nose as if he were talking about something distasteful, "You started this ordeal by barfing all over the place. Then this ahbal man comes with a cloth soaked in blood to wipe your face with! Isn't that a shame to our family name? You expect me to idly sit by and let that happen?" His eyes flared up in intensity and Esma would be lying to say she did not cower at the sight.

"He...he gave me the cloth with good intentions!" she stammered as she unconsciously took a step back from Maher. Regaining a bit of her previous resolve by increasing their distance, she shot him another angry glare. "How could you treat him like that?" Esma clenched fists before her abdomen. This was not the time to be fighting, not in the butchery. Once they returned back to the saloon, they could shout all they want, but having a fight here was a sincere insult to her father's reputation. She glanced at Maher, who seemed equally heated up by their short, but intense debate. "Maher," she spoke in a low voice, "let's stop this; there is no gain in making fools out of ourselves in someone else's shop."

Maher crossed his arms before his chest and shrugged. "Anyone who lashes out to me will have to face the consequences, even you, my dear cousin. That's the way it works." Before Esma could object to his statement, Maher cut her off by saying, "I will tell Uncle Maghrub that he must see to it you marry soon," a wide grin spread over his face, "because men can't help themselves from making indecent passes at you."

Esma looked at him in shock, but when the surprise slowly diminished, it was replaced with anger. "That's none of your business," she retorted, but immediately regretted her hasty reply as she felt like she had baited her cousin's taunt. "Whatever," she quickly added, trying to feign disinterest, "I don't care what you do. Do your worst."

"Really?" Maher raised one brow, making it very clear that he did not believe one word his cousin had just said. Then, a lopsided smile drew across his handsome face and he added, as if he were doing Esma a favour, "Well, that's nice anyway. I'll be sure to keep that in mind then."

الله أكبر

Not one word had been exchanged between the cousins when they arrived at Maghrub's Saloon. Two customers sat quietly at a table; a man and probably his wife. Their presence was enough to keep Esma's frustration over Maher quiet for a while longer. Maghrub smiled when he saw them return with the awaited supply of meat. "Welcome back, my two delivery employees! Peace upon you," he exclaimed in enthusiasm as he went out to meet them and take Esma's load. "Were there any difficulties along the way?" He momentarily paused in his movements to wait for their answer. Usually Maghrub wouldn't show such precaution, but since the incident at the execution plaza with Majd Addin's assassination, he had been keeping an extra eye out.

Were there any difficulties? Esma couldn't help but shoot an accusing glance in Maher's direction, but she kept quiet nevertheless. As a follow-up on her silence, Maher spoke. "No, Uncle, there have been no difficulties on the way to Achmed's. Praise the Lord". Esma cast her eyes down and settled with the lie, but Maher wanted to involve her into the statement and pressed, "Isn't that right, Esma?"

Esma huffed and quickly shot an annoyed look towards Maher. "Yes," she confirmed reluctantly, "everything was fine, Father." The reason for her cooperation was because she didn't want her father to know about her throwing up in the butchery for she wouldn't want to cause him reason to question her. For someone who had never been deterred by such sights, it would probably be suspicious to have developed a weak stomach now.

Maher seemed smug after hearing her answer and smiled at Maghrub. "Praise the Lord. I will always see to it that nothing happens to my dear cousin, Uncle," he ensured Maghrub. However much of a jerk Esma thought he was, she could see a twinkle in his eyes that she couldn't quite place, but nonetheless, he seemed to be speaking in earnest about looking after her. Maghrub was pleased to see his nephew's good-willed intentions and returned the smile, making Maher laugh and put a hand to his side. "Well then, I will bring the meat to the garden to prepare it for drying. Please excuse me."

"Of course! Praise the Lord, Maher. We are blessed to have you among us!" Maghrub exclaimed as he watched Maher leave in satisfaction. As soon as the young man had closed the door behind him, Maghrub put the box down on the counter and leaned towards Esma. "Did you have another fight with Maher?" he murmured, making sure his voice was low enough so that the customers wouldn't be able to overhear his words.

Esma blushed in embarrassment and quickly glanced to the door which Maher had disappeared through, confirming he was still on the other side. She lowered her voice and whispered a little in disappointment, "Was it that obvious?"

"You were glaring daggers at the poor man," Maghrub answered.

Her father's good-natured empathy towards Maher ticked her off. With a frown, she refuted, "Maher isn't the poor man here. Butcher Achmed was the poor one. Maher and he had a pretty bad discussion while we were there. It was really embarrassing…"

Maghrub's brows furrowed in thought and he looked over his shoulder to see if Maher was coming back, but he wasn't. "Was there a good reason for the discussion?" he asked as he turned back to Esma.

Was perceiving a bloody cloth as an insult a good reason to pick a fight? Esma shrugged, "It was probably a misunderstanding. Butcher Achmed didn't mean for this to happen, that much was clear. I found it very hard to face him after we were finished there."

"What a pity." Maghrub shook his head. "This is why you are still children."

Esma found herself more annoyed by the remark than she should be. Thoughts of her father's dishonesty about his 'secret' immediately popped up in her mind and she could feel an unsettling feeling rise in the pit of her stomach. Was she…apprehensive of her own father? She quickly blinked the frightened look away from her face and muttered "I'm going to my room, Father." Without waiting for his reply, she fled to her room, but when she opened the door, someone suddenly grabbed her arm. Instantly, she recognized Maher's inconsiderate, tight grip. Esma jerked her arm back and glared at her cousin. "As you can see, I'm going to my room. Goodbye, Maher." She quickly slipped inside her room and slammed the door close right before his face. Maher gasped in surprise, but immediately pushed against the door, trying to keep her from locking him outside. "Go away!" Esma yelled as she held the door tightly, preventing Maher from opening the door. Her heartbeat accelerated and she felt sheer anger rise within her. Why is he like this? She didn't understand his obtrusive behaviour at all.

Maher immediately stopped pushing when he heard Esma's outraged cry and worriedly took a few steps back from the door, hoping his uncle would not have caught on to the scene. "Why you," he muttered to the door, making an effort to keep his voice low, "you're being unusually rude, cousin." While cursing under his breath he left.

Esma heard him go the kitchen and exchange words with her father, but she couldn't catch their low-voiced conversation. She let out a puff of relief and dropped her head against the door. Was Maher's behaviour getting worse lately? He had always been insistent, but not to an extent where she would actually feel frightened by his actions. Perhaps her anxiety was increased by the recent incidents revolving around the Assassin? Her eyes automatically drifted towards the window.

Altaïr.

Esma sat herself down on the bed and closed her eyes. Was it strange for her to not feel fear towards Altaïr, but instead feel…a desire to get to know him better? Whether it was strange or not, it was definitely outrageous. Her father had personally met him under a circumstance without any pretensions and that meeting did not go well at all. If there was any hope of her getting on good terms with the Assassin it was of utmost importance that her father at least got along with him. But as things were now, that wasn't going to happen. Esma stared at the closed shutters of her window in thought. How did her father know of The Brotherhood? Wasn't that an outrageous fact as well? This sort of knowledge should not belong to outsiders. Even Salah'Al-Din's guards weren't always aware of how an Assassin of The Brotherhood looked like. Only after personal encounters did they start to become aware of what they had to look out for. But even after Majd Addin's assassination did not all soldiers know how or what Assassins exactly were. But her father, who hadn't even witnessed the assassination, knew at once that Altaïr was an Assasssin. How much did her father know? Esma drew her knees closer to her body, hugging them to her chest.

Outsiders would not know of The Brotherhood…outsiders would not know. Something suddenly clicked in her mind. Her eyes grew large in shock and her lips parted in a chocked gasp. In one movement she was off her bed, but without a destination to go to, she simply stood by her bedside in a daze with her heart pounding viciously in her chest. If he were not an outsider, he had to be an insider. Her head felt numb at the incredulous possibility of her father being an Assassin of The Brotherhood. But wait…her father had ten fingers, which meant that he had not been mutilated by any tradition of The Brotherhood. Did absolutely all Assassins have one finger removed? Esma bit down on her lip. Probably. The tradition seemed to be of too much importance to let anyone join The Brotherhood without undergoing the mutilation. Esma's hands trembled and she realized that drawing this conclusion did nothing to ease her mind.

Why did her father know of them?

الله أكبر

Altaïr ate the last bit of the flatbread as he led his walking horse to a narrow stream nearby. He dismounted the white coated animal and patted it on its neck. It had been exactly one day since he left the city of Jerusalem and the abundant package the saloon girl had gifted him was almost empty by now. He reached inside the pouch and pulled out the last bit of cheese and held it before the horse's mouth. His amber eyes watched the noble animal gratefully take the bit from his hand, soiling his bracer with foam. The hot sunlight reflected on its golden, right eye as if it were made of glass, but only dully fell against the animal's left eye, in which it was blind. Altaïr drew his hand across the horse's nose and patted its neck again. "Good job, Alawra," he spoke. However strange it would sound, the horse reminded him of himself: their common silent nature, their fateful names and the mutilation that bared much suffering, but which they both carried with pride.

The relaxing sound of the streaming water tempted him to sit down and take a break, but with delay already on his hands, Altaïr knew he had no to time to waste. He led Alawra by its rein to the stream so it could drink and pulled out his own leather pouch to fill it for later use. Dropping the empty bag Esma had given him, he mounted Alawra again to continue his journey to the Fortress in Masyaf.

It did not take long before he reached the Assassins' hideout. He could already see the hilltop where their Fortress was situated, standing proudly on top of the compact town. The wound he had taken in his side was in a stage where he paid no heed to it anymore. It was still an ugly wound, but heavy, physical activities need not be ceased because of it no longer. Altaïr felt relieved by that fact, because standing before his mentor in that pathetic state was much more humiliating than being caught at the window of the saloon owner's daughter by the owner himself. Though the man had misunderstood the situation, it was a scene Altaïr could not appreciate. But because of that incident, the man did reveal movements which piqued his interest. If the saloon owner turned out to be a Templar, he would kill him.

Altaïr soon arrived at the tall, wooden gate of Masyaf where two fellow Assassins of lower rank were watching the gate. The high walls of rocks to his left side blocked the sunlight, causing the area at the gate to be clearly cooler than around it. The dry, sandy terrain grinded under Alawra's heavy hooves as Altaïr led them to the stables.

"Safety and peace, Altaïr," one of the Assassins greeted him politely, "welcome back to Masyaf. Al Mualim must be pleased to see you back so soon."

'So soon'? Altaïr dismounted his horse and turned to the Assassin to observe his stance sceptically, Is he mocking me? But he concluded that the young man was not trying to provoke him and was instead trying to be sincerely considerate. "Safety and peace upon you as well," Altaïr responded with an acknowledging nod, though he paid no further attention to the men as he walked through the gate.

Inside the gate was the town of Masyaf. The citizens of Masyaf did not even look up as Altaïr passed them. They were used to living together with the Assassins. Most of the men and women knew about The Brotherhood as the Assassins' Fortress was situated at the top of the town, a position impossible to overlook. Some of the citizens were actually family members of the Assassin warriors, living closely together was a convenience for them. As Altaïr made his way through the town, he could smell the stews the women made and hear the chattering of the carefree people; people who didn't busy themselves with politics or fighting. Like the girl from the saloon. Altaïr wiped his hand across his mouth and snorted. A few people nodded to him as a manner of greeting, but Altaïr couldn't be bothered to interact with them.

He steadily made his way to the Assassins' Fortress, ascending the stone steps, hidden away between natural hills, while ignoring the people around him. When he closed in on the gate from their fort he suddenly recognized Abbas Sofian, who was just coming out from the fortress. Unlike himself, Abbas was easy to distinguish from the other Assassins because he usually did not wear his hood. His thick beard and scowling expression made him an intimidating sight, for anyone other than himself of course.

No one would believe that Abbas and he had a past of friendship and trust behind them for Abbas' hostile and hateful attitude towards him had strong roots. Unlike the incident with Malik and his brother, Altaïr felt he was sincerely not to blame in Abbas' accusations for defiling his father's name, for Altaïr's knew the truth that only Al Mualim and he were aware of. Though Abbas' anger was understandable, emotions were not an excuse to deny the disgraceful reality.

As Altaïr drew closer to the gate, Abbas seemed to recognize his figure in a shock, visibly tensing in anger upon sighting him. Fist clenching, teeth grinding; the Assassin was making a poor effort to hide his loathing. As Altaïr knew the other could not follow his eyes because of his hood, he secretly kept a watch on Abbas while he closed in.

"So you're back," Abbas jeered, "Sure took your time."

"Ahbal," Altaïr replied with disinterest as he passed the other. His insult made Abbas instantly jump up and lung for him, but Altaïr simply side-stepped to evade his attack, making Abbas miss his target and look like a fool. The humiliating situation enraged the Assassin and without thinking Abbas reached for his dagger, but Altaïr loud voice made him halt in his action. "You are not to draw your weapon within Masyaf, except inside the sparring ring or when the town is in jeopardy."

"Your presence alone is an insult to the town!" Abbas groaned between clenched teeth, his eyes blazing with fury. "I don't see why I should not cut you down here and now."

Altaïr glanced at the other Assassins in the fortress. "I have no time to play along with your games," he said slowly, as if talking to a backward child. "Attack me and be a traitor to The Brotherhood."

Abbas clearly realized the severity of the act, but his mind seemed to have trouble accepting it. He finally dropped his hands to his sides and spat angrily on the ground. "Don't you dare underestimate me, Altaïr. Ignoring me would be a novice's mistake." A grin suddenly spread over his face, "Ah, but I almost forgot. You are novice after all. You should know your place, Assassin."

To argue with Abbas that he was in fact not a novice anymore would be a most wasteful thing to do, so Altaïr decided to simply ignore the man's words and leave.

"Don't act all high and mighty; you have dropped so many ranks that you're not even worthy to be called an Assassin anymore!" Abbas shouted after Altaïr, but his words fell upon deaf ears. With fists trembling from anger, Abbas tried to calm himself down, feeling foolish to lose control over his temper in such way. He glanced at Altaïr's walking figure and could barely contain his envy for the man. The bastard had outright failed the mission facing Robert de Sable and endangered the entire town of Masyaf. Why, why was he offered redemption by the master? Al Mualim had always favoured the poor excuse of a man and this fact angered Abbas greatly.

Altaïr entered the great hall of the fortress. It always smelled of old books and wood which was not surprising seeing as Al Mualim put a lot of emphasizes on knowledge, especially knowledge from books. The main hall and the master's own floor had many bookcases stored and they were well preserved by the fortress' stone build, providing a natural coolness. Despite there were brothers keeping watch and the books were property of them all, it was usually very quiet in the main hall. But Altaïr didn't mind the silence as it would put his mind at ease. He ascended the stairs to Al Mualim floor and was well-aware that the rhythmic pace of his footsteps already announced his presence. Yet when he arrived before his master's desk, the elderly man did not turn around. Al Mualim's hands were folded behind his back, where, just as all other Assassins, the left ring finger was missing. His hands rested comfortably on the smooth, dark blue fabric of his long robe and he gazed thoughtfully into the distance through his large window. The smell of books was stronger on his master's floor, as was expected from a knowledge-seeker. Large bookcases were stored on the right of the room, taking up a good amount of space on their own. Altaïr admired Al Mualim's teachings and values. Without him, The Brotherhood would not have grown to what it was now: well-organized warriors, striving to keep peace and balance in the Holy Land.

After several moments passed, Altaïr decided to announce himself and the success of his mission. Seeing as he had never been praised for his patience, he saw no reason to try and make an effort now. "Master, safety and peace upon you," Altaïr spoke with a clear voice, but he noted that Al Mualim remained still, nonetheless, that did not stop him from continuing. "I have returned and done as you have asked of me."

"Altaïr," Al Mualim acknowledged with a nod, his voice gruff and tired like that of any man who had been plagued by old age. "Safety and peace upon you as well, my child. I expected nothing less of you." When he finished speaking, he turned around. The man was an allegory of authority himself. On his thick-bearded face he carried his usual apathetical expression. Age, worry and wisdom marked the man's visage; the blind, right eye told histories itself. Al Mualim walked around the desk and traced his fingers over the scroll that was spread over it. "Though, I had expected you back earlier. Were there unexpected obstacles?"

Altaïr swallowed; he had not expected this question. Silly, of course. Al Mualim had the right to be suspicious. He stayed longer than he had intended because of the wound and the girl, both reasons which should not have occurred. "No, Master, there were no difficulties. Please forgive my late arrival. I have no excuse…"

Al Mualim took a moment to size up his disciple, but when there was no change in Altaïr's expression, he waved his right hand like he swept the matter away. "You are forgiven, Altaïr. I am certain you know better than to aimlessly maunder about at a place where you have no business." Although said as if it were a matter Altaïr would never give into, both of them knew the words carried a warning in them. Not knowing how to respond, Altaïr gave a nod in agreement. "I have another mission for you," Al Mualim continued undisturbed, the tone in his voice already revealing that he assumed the mission would not be of any trouble for the Assassin. "Have you heard of the Merchant King Abu'l Nuqoud in Damas?"

"I am not aware of this person," Altaïr immediately admitted, urging his master to provide more details.

"Very well. He is one of the nine, one of the corrupted who leeches from his people. Kill him and save Damascus from this war-maker."

Altaïr glanced at his master, seeing how his good eye twinkled at the request. "It will be done, Master," he answered and waited, but when no other words followed and Al Mualim once again turned his back to him, Altaïr took this as a sign to leave. But his mentor's sudden voice made him halt in his movements and turn back.

"I will restore another rank, Altaïr," the man spoke, through his voice sounded approval, "Well done."

Beta reader: Novoux

Author notes: My goodness. Finally this chapter is ready to go. I started with less than 4000 words, and then sent the file to Novoux, who demanded more details, and ended up with a file over the 5000 words again… THANK YOU, NOVOUX. I think the story greatly improved with her input. I hope you readers feel the same way (although you never saw the original text, of course, hehe). I'm so relieved I can finally throw this chapter out; it was a challenge that I needed to get out no matter what. *punches Altaïr* What a pain his part was to write.

Thank you guest, Xxlink03xX and Britanika for leaving lovely reviews. I am not able to reply to you, so I'll just thank you here.