AN: Here, take this mass of words.

I lost a good month of writing time to moving (the worst thing) but now I am settled and happy and never moving again I swear to God.

When I started writing And When the Earth way back when I never thought it would leave me finding parallels between Abbas and Maria. Maria will never be my favorite character, but I think there are interesting things they could have done with her. Which makes it all the more frustrating that she was given the Heroic Baby-Maker Love Interest role and then left to Bowden's ill-written whims.

Scar and Strength and Shadow

The Apple says: They are coming.

Altair is unsurprised to find himself in this dream, or this waking delusion. Whichever. They are the same thing, ultimately, and they are more frequent by the hour. "Who is coming?" he asks.

The Apple answers: The ones who will send you fleeing from what you have built like a thief from the marketplace.

Altair says, "There is no such man."

The Apple says: But there are such men.

The Apple says: They are coming. No! They are already here.

Altair opens his eyes, and straightens in his seat. He takes in the room before him, the books and stone stairs and sunlight streaming off the main hall. His desk here is kept clean, because the Grandmaster isn't a white-lined scholar dipping his beard into the books. He keeps his searching secret.

Even so.

He was dreaming of the Apple again: not a pure dream because he wasn't sleeping, would never sleep in public, but a dream of some other kind. A snatch of memory from the last time he held the Piece of Eden. Lately it has only had this one thing to tell him, whether he holds the orb or not.

"You should let Malik know," says Kadar, sitting on the lip of the massive window, swinging his feet.

Altair looks to his left, where a guard stands, and says, "Bring me every scroll you can find on the Mongols. And do it fast."

-i-

Maria Thorpe's arrival is heralded by rain clouds, a boiling scrum of them set low over the village. It's early in the season for rain, and the clouds promise cooler temperatures but also an unprepared-for dousing that sets the farmers worrying. Malik wonders, and frowns at himself for wondering, if their timing isn't some sort of sign.

When he receives word that she's in the main hall, he puts down his quill and fetches his son, and they go to greet her and Sef.

He sees her before she sees him, so caught up is she in a conversation with her husband. Maria looks travel-worn, overheated in the European-style riding getup she insists on wearing, down to the chain mail usually only seen on Templars. Remnants of her other life. Her skin is equally foreign, burned from the sun, but somehow it matches the highlights in her hair, which she keeps cropped at a sensible man's length. Maria is nothing like any woman Altair had ever seen before; Malik has never wondered why he loves her.

Although the words 'love' and 'Altair' don't really belong in the same thought. Presumably there is some word for Altair's feelings towards his wife, just as there is some word for his feelings towards his sons and his second-in-command. What that word is, though, is something other than love. Malik loved Kadar, and it was that simple, and there were no asterisks hanging after the word.

Regardless. Altair cares deeply for Maria, and it's obvious why. With one woman he both can rile the peasantry and have an unruly duel. With one woman he can curse and plot and sneer, just as he would with any man. Maria, practical Maria, who wears European armor because she will never fit in regardless, and so why shouldn't she be comfortable and dress as she likes?

Determined Maria, who carries her own type of loyalty. Has she any inkling at all…?

Tazim babbles, and Sef, standing off to one side with his older brother, spots Malik first. "Hello!" he says brightly. "Safety and peace! Is that the baby Mother told me you got?"

Malik's chest tightens at Sef's chatter. In looks he is nothing like that other younger brother, as stout as Kadar was lean, as fastidiously dressed as Kadar was a walking flurry of torn robes and stains. But Sef is still a child. He's traveled with his mother for a year, and must have seen much during it, yet he knows so little of the world.

Darim frowns and crosses his arms. If it were my brother back from a journey, I would hold him, Malik thinks. If it were my brother I would never have let him leave.

Here they stand before him, then, the La'Ahad family. Malik dips his head.

"Safety and peace," he says. "I trust this year has treated you two well."

"More than well," says Maria with satisfaction, in fluent but accented Arabic. It will never not be strange to hear a woman address him so directly, though strange is not always bad. Altair already wears his veil; at least Malik can look one of them in the eyes.

"Acre will stay loyal," she continues, "and so will fifty hamlets between it and here. I've made sure of it."

"Acre is no easy city to work in. I'm impressed."

"There were slavers," says Sef, "and arms dealers, and a lot of drug peddlers, but Mother told them all to—"

"Sef," says Altair, and gives Darim a look that says quite clearly, Take your brother elsewhere.

Darim does so, dragging Sef off down the hall, and as he passes Malik can hear him scolding, "If you kept your mouth shut they would've let us stay."

"I'm not awed by Acre, really," says Maria, and tosses her head. "For a city ruled by warlords it was easy to manage."

"Again, I'm impressed," says Malik. "The Templars, the Saracens, I can never keep track of who supposedly controls it when."

Maria shrugs. "It makes no difference. Men are men. Either they're taken by a strong handshake and a helmet, or they're distracted by their dicks."

"I can see you playing the mysterious knight. Not so much the temptress."

"Who said anything about playing?" she shoots back, and smiles at him. He tries to read the emotion in it and isn't sure what he sees. Has he ever, in all these years, had a conversation with Maria that lasted longer than five minutes?

Altair says, "Acre is an important city. I did well to send you there."

"I did well to send myself there, thank you. It was my idea to go."

"Whichever." Altair looks at Malik, and his expression Malik can easily understand. He might as well be a puppy wagging his tail, hoping for a pat on the head.

('Altair' and 'puppy' are also words that don't fit together, but Malik figures he's allowed some amusement in life.)

Altair is still talking, telling Maria of new novices and new bureau leaders and new emissaries, all of which require her input. That she is a woman, and a former Templar, and that maybe not all of those novices and bureau leaders and emissaries want anything to do with her, never crosses his mind. That she needs to handle these people because he is too busy with his Apple and Malik too overworked to find the time, he neglects to mention. Maria must know something of the Piece of Eden, Robert de Sablé being her former leader, but not the truth of what it does. Malik doubts Altair has told her much.

Altair spins his lists of orders and Maria begins to look disgruntled. He hasn't once reacted as normal humans might to the arrival of sons and wives after a long absence; perhaps Malik missed the romance, but he doubts it.

Finally Malik interrupts. "It can all wait until tomorrow," he says, ignoring Altair's incredulous glare. "The trip from Acre is long. You and Sef must both be tired." A moment's consideration, and then he adds: "I'll introduce you to some of the new faces tomorrow, if you'd like. The ones who might prove…difficult."

Maria looks at him, grateful, but not fully. She wears something else on her face, mixed in with the respect due one fighter towards another. Malik wishes he had the time to parse through this woman once and for all. Oughtn't he hate her? She rode with de Sablé once. She celebrated the man's successes. She praised him for his slaughter.

"Why wait until tomorrow? I'm not tired, we can start now. Only let me make sure Sef is settled in."

"Darim must be happy that he's home."

"They're brothers," Maria says with a lift of her trim shoulders. "They fight. As long as one doesn't stab the other."

Malik smiles, lets the comment pass. "It really won't hurt to wait until tomorrow to get to work. The emissaries will keep a night."

"Are any of them actually important? The Order doesn't have time to waste on hangers-on. If they aren't loyal to our cause and don't have anything to offer, we shouldn't give them the honor of a meeting." Maria, in switching sides, brought with her the sometimes-startling vehemence of a convert. She also brought the inborn snobbery of a nobleman's daughter. Altair has somehow found the one woman in the world who thinks as little of, and tries as hard to save, the illiterate peasants as he does himself.

"Vetted thoroughly," Malik promises. "By Darim for experience, and then by myself."

"Darim did a bearable job," says Altair.

"I'm sure Darim did as decent a job as his father would have done." Maria flicks her enigmatic smile at Malik again. "But that might not be saying much. How crucial it is that the Order has Malik here." She looks at Tazim. "Hopefully his new turn as father won't be too distracting."

"It won't be," Altair says.

"He's adorable, Malik. He looks very happy."

"Your wife's an expect flatterer," says Malik. "No wonder she did so well in Acre."

"There, we've said our compliments." Maria stirs in her armor. "Back to running the Brotherhood. These new novices, are any of them worth noting?"

"Not particularly. Unless you count your husband."

Maria has the good grace to smile.

-i-

The men are training in a side courtyard, two of them, swarthy types with scars burnt into their skin. They'd be mercenaries if not assassins, mercenaries or bandits or soldiers, if there is a difference between the three—but they are assassins, and skilled ones, religious in that half-hearted way that even Altair has been unable to stamp out. Between the two of them they have killed twenty men and injured a score more. Frightened countless. They serve Altair as they served Al Mualim.

Their dedication is not a promise. The stock they put in honor is not small. They are what the Assassin's Order is made out of, these two men. They are its past and present. To look at them is to see the future, as well.

Ali Ibn Berkant approaches the two wearing his brightest smile. Abbas trails after, nonplussed. Ali is so friendly! He's introduced himself to half the Brotherhood already, from Rafiks gone creaky in the mind with age to novices who don't know how to hold swords. Half of both groups will be death within five years. Why bother?

"Salaam, Brothers," chirps Ali, heedless of the interruption. "Safety and peace."

The two men stop sparring, stare at him, at his mismatched outfit and strange hair. "Safety and peace," says one of them. "Who are you?"

"A new convert! Thanks to Abbas here, my teacher."

Abbas turns his head towards the men, not very willingly. He doesn't know them, but he's sure they know his sullied name.

Fortunately, all that is said in response is, "Indeed?"

"Oh yes! But to be explained the Order in some dusty nowhere is nothing like to be here, in the heart of it. Such an organization! Every person with his role."

"And yours is...?"

"I guess you'd call me a novice," laughs Ali. "You'll see me training with the ten-year-olds."

The expression on the faces of both men suggests otherwise. Why should they watch him at all? Abbas loathes being condescended to, wonders if Ali isn't the slightest bit dim, and is about to suggest that they move on when Ibn Berkant says, "But you two looked very impressive. Master Altair must heap praise on your shoulders."

Neither man says anything, at first. Then the one of them lifts his shoulders in something a little more aggressive than a shrug. "I've never spoken with the Master myself."

"Nor have I," adds the other.

"But he must mention you to others," Ali insists. "There must be rumors, like, oh, 'This one accomplished his mission without flaws,' and, 'If you send him you know the job will be done.' I can tell from your swordwork that you are both accomplished. And if I have the uniform correct, high-ranked, right?"

"Assassins don't care for rank," says one of the men. "Nor praise. And the Master isn't one for gushing."

"Still," says Ali. "If I were Master I would want my men to know I was watching. A Brotherhood is nothing without Brothers, right?" He laughs, merry. The assassins exchange glances.

Abbas is confused, but his confusion is a thin layer under which other, more dangerous, emotions are stirring. He knows that if he were to slip his fingers under the lip of his uncertainty and glance beneath, he would see something...would see Ali smiling as he's smiled to everyone they've met from novice to Rafik, would hear Ali gushing as he's gushed to strong fighters ("Oh! The Master must be proud of you. No? He's never said?") and encouraging as he's encouraged the new ones ("Does the Master really yell at the novices the way he yells at Dais? But you're so young! He can't expect so much of you yet. The Master is a reasonable man, I'm sure.")

Abbas's confusion is a gauze bandage, wrapped around darker things. Nameless suspicions. He watches Ali sculpt his face into grin or gasp and wonders all the while.

"I'll stop bothering you," says Ali to the two other assassins. "I shouldn't keep Abbas standing out in the sun doing nothing."

"From what I hear that's all he's done for years," mutters one of them. Color rushes to Abbas's face. What do these men know of nothing? Would either of them have put up with what he's survived? No, they'd turn back into mercenary-soldiers and be done with it, the Order and its capriciousness, the Order that demands and doesn't offer.

Abbas survived. Abbas is loyal. Abbas believes in the Brotherhood, because the Brotherhood told him he wasn't worthless, no matter what his father or his father's wives said. Because throughout the world there are only either the kingdoms of murderous Christians or the sultanates of men who insult Islam, pretending to be Allah's next Prophet while cutting out the tongues of old imams, shutting the cream of Islam's youth in secret prisons for their godly rabble-rousing. Abbas believes in the Brotherhood because it is a third option, and though it ignores God it doesn't demand that he ignore God.

Abbas believes in the Brotherhood, even when it embraces Altair, who for all his changes is still a self-centered prick. The Order is all Abbas has.

So what do these assassins know? Not a thing. And yet before he might tell them that, Ali is speaking, and what Ali says is enough to give all three of them pause, the assassins and Abbas both:

"I always thought the Brotherhood believes in redemption," he says, mildly. "That's what Abbas said, what I loved. The beauty of it. Even the Master himself needed that. He isn't perfect either, is he? People have doubted his allegiances before."

No one says anything.

Ali continues, "The beauty of the Brotherhood is that even a man called a traitor can be made Master. Although I guess he made himself Master. I'm sure it's the same thing."

The four of them are quiet, considering it, in the heat that is trapped and writhing under the thickening clouds.

-i-

Maria is…awkward, with the other assassins. Malik studies her as he takes her about Masyaf, early in the morning, showing her the changes just as someone (Altair?) must have first shown her the Order when she went from prisoner to confidant. She acknowledges everyone well enough. She brushes off whatever doubts they give her over her sex, religion, origin, allegiances, she shrugs her shoulders in a rippling motion and lets their concerns fall.

But Malik can tell she isn't comfortable. Something in the way she stomps about, mashing her heels, an exaggerated man's strut aped from the soldiers she's spent her life around. Something in the way she never smiles.

He leads her past the inner gates of the fortress, pointing out the new fortifications. Maria nods. He takes her as far as the village gates, noting where the wood beams have been replaced and where the guard increased. A needful task even with the war quieting down, he adds before she can say much. Rafiks come up to them, and lesser-ranked assassins, and the occasional villager. Malik absorbs their greetings and accepts their complaints. Maria stops trying to join in the conversations at about the third one. She watches Malik instead.

Then he takes her towards the back of Masyaf, where the cliff is swallowed by sand. And by sea, a long way down. "While you were in Acre we reinforced the passage to the bottom," he says. "It's the only path of escape for the people who live this far from the main gate, should the fortress itself fall. The stairs have always been so slippery."

"Yes," says Maria, "I remember walking them with Altair and—"

"Even in the summer they're slick with mist. So we've tried to remedy that."

Maria walks down a step or two. "They feel sturdy. But shouldn't we still try to keep it more hidden?"

"There are extra guards on the cliffs. There," Malik points, "and over there. Across the river as well."

"Across the river is new, although Altair did mention it in a letter. It's not technically within our territory, is it?"

"We have our arrangements."

"Obviously."

"We need those extra sets of eyes. It's too vulnerable otherwise, it's always been. We can't trust the river to keep us hidden."

"Nothing about the assassins is hidden," Maria says with some exasperation. "Malik…"

"Come, at the bottom I'll show you the cliffs we've carved out along the beach. They aren't used much yet but in a desperate situation—"

"Malik!" Maria's heels click once against the stone stairs and refuse to lift again. Malik, who is a few steps ahead, turns to look upwards at her. "Stop rushing. You've dragged me from one end of the village to the next and haven't stopped to answer half of my questions. Or let me answer any on my own. Riding from Acre was less exhausting."

"My apologies. What questions can I answer?"

"For starters, you are aware that I've kept in contact with my husband over the last year? He's told me half of what you've told me already, in great detail."

"Altair will go on about his schemes, but he'll leave out the boring bits. And the boring bits are usually important."

"Secondly, why are you leading me around like a farmer with a goat?"

"I offered yesterday. You accepted." Malik arches a brow. "Here we are."

"You said you'd show me what was changed! Not take me on some forced march. I might be a soldier but you aren't my general."

Malik murmurs, "Were you a soldier? I didn't think the Knights Templar let women in their ranks."

Maria's eyes flash and her chest swells, but Malik holds up his hand. "That was impolite," he says. "And stupid. My temper escaping me. Forgive it."

"It's forgiven."

"Then shall we continue? You really should see the caves."

"What does it matter what I see? You could run the whole Order drunk and blind, without me or half the Rafiks, and probably without the Master. Altair's wife is a superfluous position next to Altair's second-in-command."

"Untrue," says Malik, though he has thought it, a time or two in that first year of their marriage, when it felt like everything that had been repaired was about to be thrust asunder by the risk of the Grandmaster's whims. When it felt as though he had surrendered on good faith only for Altair to take him for granted once more.

"Granted things would be much easier without the Master. But if I were so perfect, Altair's wife wouldn't have cause to scold me."

"I didn't call you perfect," Maria says, and focuses her direct, unsettling gaze on him, boring at him, picking at the cracks. "I said that you knew the Order well. You've always been here. How can any newcomer compare?"

"You're hardly new," Malik points out. "And we aren't comparing."

"Maybe we should. Maybe you should realize how dangerous it is for you, holding all the Master's secrets. I may not know the Brotherhood down to the last chipped rock like you, but I know a thing about royalty. The king likes to be the only one gifted with all-wisdom. He doesn't keep his teachers around for very long."

"Altair would make a terrible king. And I don't think I have much to fear from…" Malik reconsiders with an ache in his shoulder, and an ache further down. "I have a lot to fear from Altair," he allows, "but not betrayal. Not deliberate betrayal, anyway."

"Who says I was speaking of Altair?"

Malik squints up at her. "You and your husband both love to talk in riddles," he complains. "And then he scolds me for doing the same."

(But of course he understands what Maria means. Of course he sees the frustration in her eyes, the lost and lonely look of anyone far from home. Who can blame the woman who's born the heirs for wanting what should be hers? No, she doesn't realize, not yet. But Maria was raised in a noble house, by knights and lords and learned men, and she sprouted up sharp.

The clouds are swelling, ready to burst. But still the heat gathers.)

"Come see the caves," says Malik. And leads her down.

-i-

Abbas considers strangling Ali. Whatever the silly man's aims are, whatever sand it is that clogs his head, why won't he listen to Abbas for even a second? There are plenty of people to bother with his prattling and his exclamations, if bothering the Brotherhood is his new mission in life: why then must they bother these people in particular? Abbas has been wondering (and he will not let himself realize what exactly he has been wondering), but he knows that these two assassins are not likely to listen to what it is Abbas can't name.

Ali simpers over anyway, bobbing and grinning. Rauf at least smiles back. Raed ignores them both.

"So sorry to interrupt," says Ali, in that tone that is just a little too aware for someone playing the role of village idiot. "I wanted to introduce myself to the Order's best. So here I am."

Abbas tries not to groan. The Order's best? These two?

He shifts, sweating. The storage shed they've crammed themselves into is tiny, not meant to hold four people at once, especially not when it's already cluttered with stacks of weaponry. The light is dim and pulses through air heavy with dust. It hurts the throat to breath in deep, the air sharp as swords. This outbuilding is not so far from the hill where Abbas once tried to make his stand.

("Burning the Master's body? This is not our way. You see what he does? All of you! You see how he spits in your face?"

Why wouldn't they listen?)

Ali is still babbling, Rauf attempting to follow the chatter and clean his sword at the same time. Abbas gives up trying to figure out why he's let himself be dragged across Masyaf so Ali can make new friends. He looks instead at Raed, who is sitting cross-legged despite the lack of space, scraping rust off a dagger. Raed looks back, face blank, because Raed is one giant blank. Others may call him still, or reserved. Abbas calls him dull.

They've known each other since childhood, but there's never been any friendship. Abbas isn't surprised that while he's been handed nothing but humiliation after humiliation for his attempts to save the Order, Raed has risen in the ranks for sake of being the lap dog's pet. And how pathetic is that? To grovel at the feet of one who grovels…somewhere else? Yes, Abbas thinks, and can't help but sneer with disgust, definitely somewhere else.

And the Order allows it! And the assassins turn their eye! If Altair thinks he's tempered the rumors by marrying the Templar witch, he's wrong. Abbas knows what he's heard. But the Brotherhood looks the other way, permitting this great sin to happen in their midst. Marrying Christians is at least allowed by God. What god would sanction marrying…?

Abbas, faced with Raed, wants to shake the man. Wants to shake everyone who wears assassin's robes, until they let themselves realize. But no one will listen to a traitor, though they follow one every day.

Rauf says in the background, "Oh, yes? Is that…huh?" He sounds mystified by Ali's surge but, being Rauf, is willing to try and muddle through. Abbas tries to ignore the regretful pang of watching him. They were friends once. Maybe Abbas never liked anyone here: some days it does feel like that. Some days he is jealous watching Ali meet others because he found him first. But Abbas and Rauf were friends, for whatever that word is worth.

Once, they were close. Once. Not now.

That has long been ended, smeared with awkwardness, punctured with treachery. Rauf made his choice. And it wasn't to stand with his friend.

"He talks a lot," says Raed to the air. "What exactly is he saying?" Abbas mumbles something about introducing Ali to his Brothers. "Oh?" replies Raed. "That's interesting. There've been many new faces to come since you left. You must need the introductions as much as he."

Will they never stop reminding him that he is an outsider? This Raed, so quiet, so even-tempered. This Raed who Malik has feted in public. He's like the rest of them, only he covers it with an air of moral superiority. Abbas remembers being a child, remembers how they scoffed at him for fasting at Ramadan and praying when he could. Raed wasn't above the taunting. He wasn't so superior then.

"The Order hasn't changed so much," Abbas says. It sounds dumb even to his ears. Behind his empty face Raed is surely laughing.

"It felt changed to me when I came back from Jerusalem," Raed says. "And that wasn't such a long exile."

"Hardly exile if you chose it."

"You chose yours, as well."

"I did not—" Abbas strangles the words in his throat. "I did what I thought best. You weren't there. You don't know what happened."

"You took the Master's weapon and tried to lead a coup against him," says Raed calmly. "That was a choice. He could have had you killed. That was another choice."

"So I should be grateful? So I should kiss his feet the way you kiss Malik's?"

"The Order requires loyalty. If that's too much for you, the problem isn't with Master Altair."

"Altair was wrong then! Burning Al Mualim's body, the shame of it, wasn't he our Master also? Wasn't that a coup?"

"Al Mualim was corrupt. He caused the deaths of many of our Brothers."

"Who was it who killed those assassins that day? Not Al Mualim. I was in the mountain village when it happened. A lot closer than Jerusalem. I saw Al Mualim and…he wasn't himself. I don't know what he was trying to do, I don't argue that he betrayed us. But one betrayal doesn't support another."

Raed turns his back, ending the conversation. Abbas steams. One Master forgot himself, yes. Does that mean everyone must forget the cruelties of the next? All his life Altair has scorned them!

That was why Abbas took hold of the golden orb that day. To make his Brothers see. To make them understand. To show Altair that though people want to forget, want to be led, though Malik tramps on his brother's grave every time he lets Altair touch him—though people are weak Allah is strong, and Abbas is strong through Him, strong enough to fight for the Brotherhood, strong enough to save it.

(He held the orb and it hurt like fire, like acid, like the separation of man from God, it scalded his skin and his bones and ran him through with wicked laughter in his ears, Who are you? Why would we bother with you? and down to the depths of his marrow Abbas was not worthy of even this Templar trick, and he thrashed with it, with the clinging inadequacy that wrenched him from his home.

And he thought, Altair can wield this. He thought, Allah's mercy. Altair is so much stronger than I.)

"Well," says Ali, bringing Abbas back to the dusty room, the heaps of weapons in the close air and Raed's disdain. "I know you're busy. We'll be off."

"Um, ok," says Rauf. He glances at Abbas and reddens: "We should spar soon," he says, which is a surprise. "It's been a long time." It's been a long time because Rauf has been avoiding him, but still, Abbas wishes he'd been paying attention to the banter.

"It's curious about those villages, though. A tragedy," Ali says over his shoulder as he turns to nudge open the door. His hair has frizzed in the wet, close air, making him look a touch ridiculous.

"It's terrible," says Rauf, "but, well, it's a dangerous world."

"Certainly is. There's been a rash of village burnings lately, didn't you say? Although the war is over."

Now Raed is listening too. "The war ended. The Templars didn't," he points out, in a voice very close to a growl. "The Master has done well with the Order. We owe him everything. The whole Levant does."

Such an outburst is unusual for him. Abbas raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, of course, of course!" Ali holds up his hands. "I'm only saying what a shame it is, to be attacked at the end of things. When Masyaf's safety isn't so far away."

Rauf looks distinctly uncomfortable. "They were offered protection…"

"Yes, you explained it all very well. They were offered protection by the Master and they turned it down. The Master can't be blamed. It's their choice to make."

"It is," says Rauf, relieved.

"Even if the villages were then attacked soon after rejecting the offer. It's a shame, is all I'm saying. If they'd listened to the Master no harm would have come to them…" Raed rises at that, but Ali chitters and waves him off. "I didn't mean that how it sounded. Everyone knows it was the Templars. That's what they do, and that's what the Master said. I talk too much. Forgive me!"

Rauf busies himself with his swords. Raed stares them out of the shed.

Ali is whistling as the two of them follow the path towards the fortress. Abbas asks, "What was that?"

"Hm? Nothing more than a chat."

"What were you talking about?"

"You, mostly. I hadn't realized you and Rauf were such good friends. You should have told me!"

Abbas, startled, says, "We were friends. What matter is it of yours?"

"Nothing, nothing, only I told him how thankful I was for your tutelage, and how lucky he was to have your wisdom around growing up."

"Shoo hada? What did you…why did you…"

"He agreed, of course."

"He did?"

"Yes, of course. Looked a little embarrassed, even, to be reminded of good times. I thought that was weird."

Ali is smiling, as usual, looking silly, as usual. Abbas is flabbergasted. "And…and the villages?"

"Oh, that. He mentioned one of the attacks when I asked him where Dai Malik found his son. Since he isn't married. Just curious is all."

"No, he isn't married. Hah!" Abbas curls his lip. "He doesn't even have the wisdom to hide it with a woman like Altair."

"Hide it?" Ali cocks his head. "Hide what?"

"Nothing. Clearly it doesn't matter to anyone here but me."

Ali stops walking. "Tell me," he says. "Brother."

And why not? Nowhere in the Quran is Abbas required to safeguard the sins of others. "I used to think Malik was smart," he says carefully. "Smart enough to see how things really are, if he'd just use his eyes. But I've since learned that he's blind as the rest of them. Only blind in a different way. He must enjoy whoring himself to Altair. Even if it got his brother killed."

"You curse so much, you know. I'm always surprised to hear you speak the way you do, being Muslim."

"It's not cursing, it's description. I've said nothing that isn't true."

"Wait. Do you mean the Dai is…?"

"Whore, catamite, khawal, akroot, zamel. The Master and his mistress." Abbas throws up his hands. "But it doesn't matter! We are not religious here!"

Ali says, "That's interesting."

"It's disgusting. And these men would raise children. At least Altair is collecting wives. I don't know what Malik thinks he is."

"Does everyone really know?"

"People suspect. If it were made clear even this bunch of atheists would have to react."

"Yes, I guess they would. Very interesting," says Ali again. "I would never have guessed."

-i-

The fortress feels filled with children, with older children sneaking into meetings where they aren't needed, with younger children stealing quills from scribes as a prank, with infants bawling for the sheer joy of working lungs. Altair will not deal with it, and Maria has always acted, probably rightly, as though playing Mother in front of other assassins would dent her reputation. Somehow it falls on Malik to manage the heirs, his own included.

Interspersed with this are what Maria aptly terms war councils. They and a select group of informants cluster around tables choked with maps. The Mongols' every movement is tracked, discussed, prodded at. To call them merely a worthy opponent would be an insult to the Mongols…Malik can't be the only one wondering what their cities must look like, their people and customs. The trouble is that all they can do is wonder. The Mongols leaders are good at catching spies and better at catching infiltrators: Altair sends his best men but few of them return. The Mongols have talented scouts, maybe, or a culture that's difficult to mimic. Or something else.

Malik the assassin knows there's no one who can't be discovered in time. Malik the mapmaker doesn't trust empty spaces. They tend to have dragons in them.

Between the two distractions, children and war, there's little time for anything else. Little time to see how Maria is settling in. Even less to sleep.

Yet somehow Altair finds the time to slip inside Malik's room at some horrid hour of the night…

Malik, tired as he is, should protest, but he's too taken aback. With Maria and Sef back he'd assumed their trysts would trickle off. But here Altair is, panting in a way that only makes him sound more powerful, pressing Malik's shoulders to the bed and shoving his tongue down Malik's throat.

They fuck like the young men they aren't any longer, and when they're done it's a content Malik who shoves Altair from the bed so he can pull off the sticky quilts. Altair curses. The Grandmaster surely looks his best when he's being pushed on his ass.

Afterwards, pouring water from a jug into a basin so he can wash himself, Malik comments, "I'm surprised you're here."

Altair is slouched against a wall, naked, turning his hidden blade's brace over in his hands. "Hmm," he says, not really listening.

Malik turns to face him. "I mean it," he says, louder. "It's a shock."

"It shouldn't be." Altair holds up the brace. "You've never worn one," he says. "Why?"

Malik tries to guess the hidden meaning in the question, but damn it all, it's too late for games. "Hidden blades are for Master Assassins."

"You are a Master Assassin."

"You should stop playing with that thing. Why do you fall in love with your weapons? Sef and Darim could stand to see the same affection."

"Did you hear me? You are a Master Assassin. Why don't you wear one?"

How to tell him that Malik thinks of himself as Dai, not Master Assassin? "I like my arm free," is what he says. "The brace is clunky. If I could wear it on my left wrist maybe I would."

Altair says, "I'm working on a lighter design," and Malik respects his ability to talk over his guilt.

He goes back to washing up. "You shouldn't be here," he says. Running a wet cloth over himself, he sees how Altair stiffens.

"Where should I be?"

"In bed with your wife. You can't be so obvious. She's going to find out."

Altair straightens off the wall. His nude body is all scar and shadow. "Let everyone find out."

Malik drops the wash cloth and raps his hand against the basin's edge. "Don't be an idiot," he snaps. "Think of what would happen, not just to you but to her. And to your children. And to my own."

Altair looks at him, lips tightening with unexpected anger. "I'm tired of thinking of it. Listening to you worry is exhausting. These needless secrets are—"

"Hardly needless! And you should be happiest with secrets, assassin. Allah's sake, Altair, I can't figure out what it is you want."

Altair says, "What I've always wanted: everything I deserve. Everything." Malik doesn't know how to answer that. Altair comes up to him and rubs against him and he is closer than he should be, close enough that they are almost one person, one form alone, and it's almost like it used to be, before. Before Kadar and Al Mualim and Maria. Before Altair traded away his freedom to the Piece of Eden without knowing what he'd done.

"So," Altair breathes in his ear, "then do it."

"Do what?"

"Tell her. Send me back to my wife's bed and keep me there."

Malik gives a slow shake of his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I was here first," he says, and his lost arm hurts, and his head does too. "I was here first, and I have paid my dues."

As Altair drops to his knees he doesn't look happy, or wounded, or anything at all. In the end, it doesn't matter much. "There are more," he says, so quiet Malik almost doesn't hear him. "More Pieces of Eden. The Apple said as much. I don't know where they are, but I remember that map…"

"As do I," Malik says around an indrawn breath. "It wasn't a map of our world. Half those places don't exist."

"Maybe they do. Maybe we haven't found them yet. Maybe the Mongols are looking for them too." Altair is busy then for some moments, too busy with his mouth to talk. Malik closes his eyes and tries not to think.

"I'm going to find the other ones," Altair says when next he can, lips glistening and face flushed. "Before the Mongols, or anyone else. They're too dangerous. They can't be left scattered as they are. I need to know…"

"Need to know what?" Malik wants to know, and then is too distracted to remember he'd ever asked.

-i-

The villagers gather when the assassins arrive.

Assassins are frequent guests here, most for the brothel. But some are stationed here as guards. Several were born in the village itself, several more in the surrounding hills. It isn't Al Masyaf, but it's close enough and small enough that sometimes it forgets. Assassins are not unusual, or unexpected.

Still, this time the villagers gather. There's something beguiling about the man with wiry hair and baggy trousers who peers about with inordinate interest. The man with him, long-faced, thickly bearded, in typical journeyman attire, is less interesting.

The sky looms close and pitted.

The villagers gather, men in striped djellabas, boys fiddling with their prayer caps, even a few women in all-encompassing black. They listen to the man with wiry hair introduce himself as Ali, which is a good name, a strong and familiar name. These are the days of unfamiliar names, after all: leaders named for no father taking wives named for false gods. The villagers trust the Masyaf assassins, but recognition is refreshing.

Ali's business here is unclear. He professes to have no interest in the brothel, is surprised that it exists at all, wonders at pious people – "And I can see," he cries, "that you are all very pious!" – allowing such fecund depravity to exist.

The bearded assassin nods his head. The villagers shrug and mumble. The brothel has always existed here, in some form or another. The assassins like it; the whores bring in good business; the local sheiks are powerless against the will of the Grandmaster.

Ali says that is a shame. He says the Grandmaster isn't a king. He says even Master Altair should not be able to override the will of the people. He says the Master is a great man, though, a wise leader, this is obvious, and maybe he just doesn't realize what the people want. How often does he visit with them? When was the last time he stooped to ask their opinions?

Ali claims to be startled by the answer of almost never, though he doesn't look it with his round eyes and his smile showing all his teeth. The villagers point out that the Master sends his second to tend to disputes quite often. Yes, Ali agrees, the Master does this quite often indeed.

How often, he asks, does Altair send his Templar wife?

There is some minor uproar at this. The woman isn't a Templar. The woman is never sent. To send a woman to treat with men would be the utmost affront. It's rude to all involved even to discuss her in a public setting. It besmirches her honor and theirs.

Ali keeps nodding, and grinning, and later all the villagers will agree that whatever charm he had was in that smile. Ali says he was only curious. He says he wonders if the Master will follow that custom, since he ignores so many of the rest. The bearded assassin says nothing at all.

There's only one moment where Ali is interrupted. An old man, settled in by the horse troughs as if he sprouted from the spot, wants to know exactly what business any of this is to a new assassin. The old man knows ranks and hierarchy. He knows how the Brotherhood operates. He's given to it before.

"Things work here as they've always done," the old man points out. "They work without help from you. Don't you need permission just to leave Masyaf?"

Ali's smile withers at the edges. He doesn't look so mesmeric now. But he's polite to the old man, which is fitting, because the elderly must be respected even if they've outlived their families and friends and (so the villagers comment later) some of their sanity as well.

Everyone in the village knows the old man, and because his voice is so recognizable it flows past them without sticking. Ali is new. His voice has crags, and crevices, and it catches in novel places.

After the two assassins leave the gathering dissolves, the people getting back to their lives. But some of the men stand talking in low voices, their shoulders stiff as barricades to ward off unwanted ears. The old man, still sitting by the horse trough, proclaims himself disgusted by the liberties of the young, but no one's listening to him.

It was only a couple of assassins, and this is a village that is used to assassins, and so Ali's visit can't have mattered much at all…

-i-

Locked away in an old trunk, a shard of gold that gleams like glass begins to glow. Only faintly. Only for a moment. And with the trunk's owner elsewhere, there's no one near enough the shard to see.

Outside it starts to rain. Too early and too heavy, the panic of farmers, but it doesn't last. Doesn't do nearly enough for a world that is sandy scrublands, parched since Creation, thirsty for magics beyond what the clouds can bring.

-i-

They've done it, Abbas thinks. It's been some weeks since he and Ali arrived, the latter's mishmash of clothing replaced by basic white-and-red, and finally he's been introduced to everyone. Ever.

It's almost a relief for Abbas to finish his midday watch (the worst guard shift, which goes straight through the afternoon heat and past the hope of timely supper) and not see Ali beaming at him. The new assassin must actually be training.

Abbas slides off the bulky holster, depositing his sword at his feet, and dips his head into a small fountain cut into the fortress wall. He is pounds lighter without the sword, without the day's sweat; he is lighter in other ways, too. Never mind his insult of a post, the grueling heat-pressed stint usually handed to newly-made journeymen. Never mind all the insults of his life. Allah is with those who suffer. Abbas lets water drip down his neck. He will pray, eat, take an early night's rest.

"Abbas! Good evening, Brother. Safety and peace."

Abbas turns, still dripping, blinking back water and dismay. It isn't that he dislikes Ali's attention—he deserves Ali's attention—but the man's whims are so exhausting. A curse of a gift. Abbas was prepared to lose Ali once he joined the Brotherhood, was prepared to watch him go the way of all his childhood companions. But Ali wanted to join the Order, and the Order always needs new men…and Ali has shown little interest in actually befriending any of the many people to whom he's said hello.

"Safety and peace," Abbas says, then pauses. "What was that you just said? Gude eehvn-?"

Ali tilts his head. Does his smile stiffen just a touch? "Hm? Good evening, it's an English greeting. You don't know it?"

"Why should I learn the Crusaders' tongue? They can learn mine." He stoops to rearm himself. "I never studied English, or French either. The Quran is in God's language, so Arabic is enough for me."

"That's true, that's true, yes." Ali nods. "As for me, my parents traded with anyone who had coin. Sometimes I speak without realizing what I've picked up."

"Hmph. Too much knowledge can be a burden if it's in the wrong things."

"I agree." Ali is wriggling again, eyes dancing, tone dancing too. "Why, I was just coming to scold you! But it's really my fault for having asked. I so regret last week's little talk."

"What talk?" Abbas moves toward the front gates, expecting Ali to follow, distracted with thoughts of supper and sleep. But Ali stays put, though he does rock his heels, and he ignores Abbas's impatient finger-beckon. The guardsman is forced to retrace his steps. The sun is strong even at this hour, last week's rain a memory dried to dust. He can feel fresh sweat kissing his spine.

Ali says, "You remember. What you told me about the Master. So shocking."

"Shh! Don't bring it up so casually. You haven't mentioned it to others?" Abbas demands.

Ali's eyes widen. "Oh, no, oh, of course not."

"You have to watch yourself here. This is a village of assassins. You think they won't listen in?"

"Yes, right."

"I shouldn't have told you. I was-…" caught up in his sticky anger, raging at Raed and Altair and most of all Rauf. "Assassins can't gossip about their Master," he says, stiff but sure. "Even if he's going to lead them to the pits of Hell or the Mongols' maw."

Ali says delicately, "The Mongols are disrupting the trade routes. It's causing some concern, I hear."

"It's Master Altair's concern. I will guard my gate. If there's nothing else," says Abbas, "I want to wash up. It's almost time for Maghrib."He hesitates, looks to Ali's boots rather than his face when he asks, "Join me?" It feels more salacious than it should, inviting another to share in a private moment between him and God, and anyway Ali isn't religious so probably he won't—but Islam is about community, really, and wouldn't it be nice not to pray alone for once? Wouldn't it be nice if he and Ali prayed—as friends might pray together anywhere—even in this Brotherhood that has room for all but keeps everyone alone—

"Maghrib?" Ali looks blank. "Oh! Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to say."

"Yes. It's an embarrassment."

"I guess great leaders can be forgiven their sins, even very large ones, so long as they lead well. And no one can say Master Altair isn't a great leader. He has men everywhere. So I guess he can be forgiven."

"So he must tell himself." Abbas looks towards the fortress. "It's not my place to prevent his sinning. He does his duty by the Order—"

"Even if the men never see him. Even if he never spends time with the villagers whose support is so important. Even if…it might not be right to say it, but he always seems distracted. You remember our first day back, how he didn't want to attend any of his meetings. Wanted to send Malik instead."

"He does that too often," Abbas grumbles, then catches himself with a frown. "Ali..."

"Oh, I'm not saying anything negative, don't think it, I'm just pointing out: he's often distracted. By Malik, I suppose, or by empty corners... Everyone I've spoken to has noticed it. He's the Master, he can sequester himself if he likes. But I think other leaders might not be so frivolous with their duties."

"Other leaders? Ali, what are you talking about?"

Ali smiles, pats his shoulder. "You are such a good assassin," he says softly. "You deserve more than what he's given you." Abbas can't work his way to coherency. It's wrong, what Ali is saying, it's treason.

And Allah knows it's true.

"Altair doesn't take me for a threat," Abbas says, and can't hide the wound, doesn't even know if he wants to hide it. "He doesn't take me for anything worthwhile. He never has."

"I think Altair forgets his pieces," muses Ali, who has turned his head away and is gazing off past the training ring. "He can only think on grand scales, but all grand things were small things once."

"Listen, Ali, you've said enough."

"And to think!" Ali all but bellows. Abbas almost jumps. "What he is doing with Malik! It isn't our place to judge it, but I feel for his wife. Think of it, if the one you shared your bed with was committing carnal acts with the wrong sex entirely and everyone knew it. And you had to humiliate yourself, talk with the man in question like he was your friend. Maybe if it was with a woman, men will always want a fresh pair of tits in their bed, but a man? And if you suspected it but couldn't prove it, well, I think it'd drive me mad."

"Inti mafish mukh, Ali, you brainless fool, will you shut your mouth! You'll get the both of us killed." Abbas snares the edge of Ali's sleeve and drags him across the courtyard. Ali lets himself be dragged, the smile still twisting his lips. "I told you. Why would you shout it? For God's sake, idiot, have some sense-..."

Abbas stops mid-word, mid-step, almost mid-breath. His heart should be racing more than it is, his stomach should be entirely knotted. But he feels only confused. It's Maria Thorpe who looks caught in some crime, standing at the winding ramp that leads to the main hall's great doors, eyes darting under thick lashes from Abbas and Ali to the nearest guards, as though trying to gauge from behind their masks what they might have heard. She came from one of the towers, Abbas realizes, from one of the little paths that splices off the main ramp, and he hadn't seen her, and she'd heard.

And Ali, limp in his grip, isn't even trying to hide his smile.

Maria, in her man's armor, with her knives, looks young, almost childish. But she is a soldier, if women can be soldiers, and she arches her shoulders back so sharply it must hurt. She walks past them with every step a furious crack against the dirt. She is the wife of Abbas's Master, she outranks him in every conceivable way, and she stares him in the eye as she passes.

But she looks young, and pale, and very much the interloper. Which she has always been.

Ali pulls himself from Abbas's grip with a little spin no novice assassin should know. "You knew she was there," Abbas says to him. "You saw her. She could have us both split open, you fool, but you knew that. Why...?"

"Small things," says Ali, laughing, "Small things, Brother. You would do much better in his role."

There is nothing left of the fool in him now.