AN: Aw yeah, got this in before the end of March. Of course I wanted to finish it two weeks ago but eh. Social life.
Headcanon: Malik is incredibly turned on by Altair calling him Dai.
Familiar-sounding sentences were either taken directly from or heavily inspired by game conversations.
EDIT: name corrections and typos.
Jerusalem
Before
Malik has heard before that bad luck comes quickly, and in threes. In the tally of his life there has been no reason to doubt this.
The first bit finds him at one night's twilight, as he deigns to sit in the outer room and join his men at their evening meal. It isn't anything fancy, hummus and dates, but usually Malik is too busy with his maps or his plans to take even this small rest. His men know this, which is why they often invite him but rarely expect him—and on this night it is a pleasure to sit with his back against scarlet pillows and reach for a branch of grapes, and let their conversation damper the many stresses swirling in his thoughts.
He is reclining thusly when the news arrives, brought to him by an assassin who falls blood-smeared and panting from the roof. The assassin says that one of their Brothers has been captured, alive, in an unexpected raid in the poor quarter; they were on their usual rounds when out of nowhere soldiers thronged and shouted. The messenger escaped by means of a group of scholars just then passing through, but in truth the soldiers seemed less interested in finding him than they did in hustling their prisoner off.
Ill news: a live capture means they will torture the man for information and then kill him when they're done. City guards wouldn't bother, and their employers wouldn't dare…though the rulers of Jerusalem might pretend otherwise, they know well the powers of the men in white. This attack must be a Templar one, after some months of blessed quiet.
Malik returns to his office, the pillows scattered, the food forgotten. No rest for him tonight. He sends spies to discover which Templar they are dealing with, and by morning break he has his answer and his second touch of bad fortune both. "They were Majd Addin's men," the spy reports. Malik curses and throws an inkpot.
The city leaders wouldn't dare? Hah! Wishful thinking, it appears!
Malik knows of Majd Addin; he has hidden himself in crowds to listen to the man in turban and quilted robes rave. Addin has been Jerusalem's regent for some time now, appointed in (some say stole) that role at the latest outbreak of war. He had been Saladin's scribe once, though no one knew him then, but with the Saracen leader gone for the battlefields Majd Addin became the interim leader and promptly lost his mind. He is religious as Abbas is religious, lacking humor, lacking sympathy. But at least Abbas suffers his own burdens. Jerusalem's regent insists his theology becomes the world's. As the war winds on, as Saladin goes farther and farther away, Majd Addin forgets himself amid dictatorial flourish.
Malik has long suspected the man to be a Templar; he rants so often of fear and order. But to assassinate the acting leader of Jerusalem is no easy task, even for the Brotherhood. Addin is a bigot, but a clever one, and he knows how to work an audience. He has his guards round up crowds, then in front of them stages mass executions, half-vengeance and half-spectacle, for crimes major or minor or undeclared. He becomes a vengeful god to people who know that sort of god best, and whips the city into a dumb, screaming lather.
Saladin, it may be said, had been a tolerant leader, for his part. Majd Addin will hang a man for going without a beard, will stone a woman for going without a scarf, will exile other religions at whim and then, at some other whim, demand they all come back. He has ordered the spires of churches knocked down. He has brought dissidents up for mock trials which inevitably end in hanging, and the bodies thrown to the dogs. Malik has watched all this carefully, has seen how the people fear him and are manipulated by him. Now he will have an assassin for one of his grotesque performances, and the people will think that the Order is weak.
"He has announced there will be another execution held at the end of next month," says the spy. "What will we do?"
Malik sends the man off so he doesn't have to admit he isn't sure. Addin is the city's regent. He is well-guarded, and in some circles well-liked. Monsters don't fall out of the sky, but are formed from the sludge of the lands they rule. How many powerful fundamentalists might look at Addin's assassination as an affront?
But the man must die, he is too bold now. Malik writes a letter to Al Mualim.
And gets his third bit of bad luck back on messenger pigeon's dirty wings.
Al Mualim agrees that Majd Addin's hubris cannot go unpunished, regent or no. But where Malik had expected one of his better men charged with the assassination—had even expected to be charged with it himself—the Master says instead that he will send Altair. Altair, still flicking from city to city on his search for salvation. Altair, who rumor suggests has reached journeyman rank again, a glimmer of the past brought into the present. Haughty, long-limbed Altair in his greys, a churlish teenager throwing himself off ledges. It will be strange to see him dressed that way again, with extra scars and extra damage. He is often thoughtful these days, rumor says, and it's disconcerting.
Not that Malik ever listens to rumor where Altair is concerned. Still, sometimes he thinks he is the only one who remembers that past…a backwards prophet, doomed to old memories instead of new ones. Which is the worse fate? Who can say?
Malik reads Al Mualim's letter three times, touching his tongue to the back of his teeth. Then he takes quill and parchment, gets a fire going in the grate, and settles in his chambers to respond.
This is wrong, he writes. You act like a boy training his dog.
And there is more, after that: Malik writes that as leader of the Jerusalem bureau he disapproves of the plan to send Altair after Addin. It is his official opinion, as one who has risen to the challenges of his rank and place, that the death of a city leader and the rescue of an assassin are too important to be left to a journeyman, even this journeyman. Especially this journeyman. Altair, Malik writes, has little experience saving his Brothers.
It's a farce, what Al Mualim suggests. It needlessly complicates matters. Don't Malik's men know this city best of all? Don't they know the kidnapped man best, and his kidnapper? What on earth does Altair know? Certainly not the assassin's name.
It's disrespectful, Malik writes, to leave a man's fate in the hands of a fool on a redemption quest. Do you think otherwise, Master? If Altair fails, and one should always presume that Altair will fail, but if Altair fails then my man will die. And you will shake your head and fold his arms and use his name as an example. A lesson. We are worth more than that, Grandmaster. We are not all interested in bending over so that Altair may climb up over our backs.
The captured man's name is Samir. He is twenty-three, and jovial, and he's always the first one at any meal. Altair doesn't know that. But I forget myself: neither do you.
At that Malik lowers his quill, reads over what he has done. He uses a paperweight to keep the paper steady, and his handwriting is clean but for an ink blot or two. It is a good letter. He has written a version of it in his mind every day since Solomon's Temple.
Then, because he's no fool, Malik throws it into the fireplace. He watches it burns to cinder, then pulls his black robes across his shoulders—Altair may be a journeyman again but Malik is Dai and he will be respected—and goes to prepare for the Son of None's return.
-i-
The assassins are restless. One of their own has been captured, and they look to Malik to help him, but Malik must wait for Altair to arrive. All the way from Al Masyaf he's supposedly coming, on a road which winds through contested territory several times. Altair manages to bumble into a Templar den every time he breathes. It will be an eternity, and meanwhile a part of Malik is still hoping he'll drop dead in some forgotten valley between Masyaf and here.
To want Altair alive and able to fight, and at the same time want him killed…
A week goes by, and there is neither sign nor word of Altair. All the while the assassins in the bureau mumble.
"You think I should ignore Al Mualim's orders," says Malik to Raed one morning. It is early and hellishly bright, and the air that wafts through the roof grate and into the main room is gritty. Raed is replacing the ink in Malik's pots. Left long enough it clots in the pot, but the act of pouring fresh ink from one heavy jar to another, without spilling, is one of the many tiny things Malik finds it hard to do on his own.
He doesn't remember when Raed started changing the ink, first mixing the lampblack in with the bundles of gum arabic he brings from the market, then adding the boiling water, bottling the final product for later. Perhaps from the moment they arrived, when Malik was still too numbed by rage and heartsick to notice such trifles as ink and sword polish and food. They never talk about it.
"You think I should kill Majd Addin myself."
"I would never presume to tell you to ignore our Master's orders," says Raed smoothly. Smooth as the ink he pours from jar to jar.
"Ok. So you won't tell me you think it. But you do think it. You and all the others."
"The men think a lot about a lot of things, really."
"Come on, Raed. I won't call you a traitor for thinking the same as me."
Raed pauses. "Samir is our Brother," he says, "and our friend. He should be rescued as quickly as possible…the longer Addin has him the more he will suffer. You know this. Master Al Mualim must know this. Altair…"
"Altair will do his job," Malik says, though he doesn't know why he's so moved to defend the man. "If he arrives."
"If he arrives," Raed agrees. "The if worries me. Samir's life rests on an if."
"If he isn't here before Addin's next execution, I'll rescue Samir myself. I swear to you."
"You need swear nothing to me, Dai," says Raed, and pops the stopper back into the ink pot. "I trust you in this as in everything else. As do the rest of your men. It's about Altair we wonder."
Malik plays with the feathers of his quill. "Well, if he doesn't arrive in time, then he has failed his task. By failing he kills his Brother, however indirectly. And the punishment for that is death. Should be death." He drops the quill. "Will be death, and I'll be glad to take on the assignment."
"Mm. But…I do think he will come," Raed says, thoughtful as he studies Malik's frown. "I think he will come here quicker than he would anywhere else."
"Why would you think that?"
"You're almost out of oil for the lamps. I'll send someone to buy more today."
"Raed! Answer me, why would he come here any faster than anywhere else? Altair's not that stupid. He knows the greeting that awaits him. Last time I made him scrub my floors." He adds, glowering, "I'm sure the Rafiks of other cities fawn over his every word."
"No doubt. But still I think he will hurry here."
"That doesn't make any sense, Raed."
"He takes comfort in your castigation. That is what I think. That he would welcome any sentence you gave him as deserved."
"Don't be an idiot," Malik huffs. "Nothing you say sounds like Altair at all."
"Oh, I don't think he's realized it." Raed is in the doorway when he turns back, looking a little too amused for his own good: "Of course, neither have you."
Malik throws the refilled ink pot at him, but he's gone before it reaches. "Idiot!" Malik bellows. "Now there is ink all over my floor! And I am running out of ink pots!"
Raed doesn't answer, so he settles down to fume at a map. His quill is too dry to use, though. He can only glare at the lines he's already drawn, the lines of a map from Jerusalem to Masyaf, as if he might see Altair trudging along it, a black mark all his own.
-i-
The Son of None arrives the next day, during an afternoon as boiling as yesterday's morning. "Safety and peace, Malik," he says, with less than half of his usual smarm.
"Would that the city was possessed of either," Malik grumbles. It still sounds so wrong for this man to speak to him. "Why do you trouble me today?" he asks, though of course he knows.
"Al Mualim has marked Majd Addin for death. What can you tell me about him?"
Malik plots his stylus along the paper on his desk. This isn't his map but one of the older ones, and he is checking the calculations and finding many of them off. Shoddy work is frustrating; it is enough for others but see how it condemns him.
"Saladin's absence has left the city without a proper leader, and Majd Addin has appointed himself to play the part," he tells Altair with a cursory glance up. Yes, grey-clad Altair is a strange sight to see again. But look at the shadow of stubble on his chin. Look at how pale he stays despite the sun. Quickly Malik looks back at the map.
"Fear and intimidation get him what he wants. He has no true claim to the position."
"That ends today."
Malik looks up again. It is a little thing, a throwaway bit of pride compared with all of Altair's greater faults, but Samir's life depends on this strutting cock of a man. "You speak too readily," he snaps. "This is not some slaver we're discussing. He rules Jerusalem and is well-protected because of it. I suggest you plan your attack carefully." He leaves off the for once, because it isn't needed: it's spoken in every stab of his stylus to paper. "Get to better know your prey."
But here is a shock: Altair not only doesn't rise to the unspoken-spoken insult, he accepts it. "With your help I will," he says. "Where would you have me begin my search?"
"What's this? You're actually asking for my assistance instead of demanding it? I'm impressed."
"Be out with it," growls Altair, and Malik relaxes. There, that is the man he can comfortably despise. That nicer one just now, well, what is he to do with that? The world that's embittered the Dai should not also soften the Son of None.
(Malik has never considered what might happen should Altair learn humility. He cannot believe it possible, not in any sense.)
He says, "Here's where I would look. First, to the southwest, near the grand mosque. After that, head south of here. There are two locations that might interest you—the southernmost church is one. The other is in the streets, near a synagogue."
"Thank you for your help, Dai."
Again, Malik's head snaps up. Altair has never called him Dai. They stand here in Jerusalem, the both of them wrecks of what they were, and Altair thanks him for his help and calls him by his title. He draws the end of the word out a little longer than Raed. Malik shifts, uncomfortable. The itch along the back of his neck he can blame on the heat, on his bulky robes, but the sudden tightness in his groin is harder to explain.
Last time Altair was here Malik was too furious even to think it. Has he calmed down? Has he forgotten? What is wrong with him?
Thank all the gods that ever were, his voice doesn't give him away. "Don't foul this, Altair," he warns, and sends the novice off.
He keeps himself too busy to think of it, for a while, but every day has an ending like treacle: his future spread out before him like a map but this one without ink he can easily correct. He will be Dai until he is dead, and who knows what Altair will be, and…
I think he will come here quicker, Raed said, but Malik cringes, sinks to the floor. Hides behind the counter like a scolded child. I think he will come here quicker, but all Malik can hear is Kadar rattling his words in his throat, He'll come back to help us, he'll come back for you.
Malik holds his hand over his ear. "Go away," he says, and no one listens, and no one does.
-i-
It is only after he's regained his self-control that he realizes Altair never mentioned knowing anything about Samir.
-i-
Malik's bureau has, almost despite his best efforts, become cluttered over the long time of his reign with bits of his life. It's shaped to him, much as he would prefer to get through the rest of his days without leaving any mark. In a corner is a chess board where he will sometimes play a fast, unforgiving game with Raed. Strewn about are letters and trinkets sent from Sayyid Hamid, his old friend and neighbor in Damascus. Hamid has over the years become one of the Order's greatest suppliers, despite his settling into grumpy old age.
(One day not so far off, Malik supposes that Hamid will die. And then? The King of Swords considers again his future, the endless flat future which he has fallen into, awaiting no wife nor children, no final rank, no great task. One day Hamid will die, and then who will ever have known that once there was a nameless village, hidden in the hills?)
The bureau is for all assassins, but the bureau is Malik's. The men who stay here are Malik's. The city of Jerusalem is Malik's.
Altair is not Malik's. It would be dangerous to think otherwise.
But there are times when even he risks forgetting.
For near a week he sees little of Altair, and hears of his hunt for information on Majd second- or third-hand. It should be better this way, but it's no less distracting having him elsewhere. Malik finds himself pacing his bureau, taking down books of maps only to put them away. No good. No good having Altair here. No good knowing that an assassin will live only at Altair's whim. If it were any other assassin tasked to save him Malik would trust in his skills and keep quiet counsel but this—he has done this. In Solomon's Temple he yelled at Kadar for thinking Altair would come back, but even as he yelled he scanned the entrance and waited…
Altair has always maintained that the rockslide kept him away. That he would have come back if he could. Malik has heard him say as much and can only imagine if their places had been switched. If he had been thrown from the hall and blocked from Altair and his brother. He would have thrown himself at the rock until he shattered every bone, he would have found another way in if it took the rest of his life. Malik would have saved them.
Malik did not save him. And after a day's pacing finally he gives up and climbs to the roof and runs. The buildings under his feet turn from solid stone to rusted tin. The tent-shanties of other roof-dwellers sometimes block his path. Once he even sees one of his assassins jumping the gap between roofs in the distance, out on a mission. Malik runs until a certain church appears and then he hauls himself one-handedly up its iron spire and balances on the tips of its cross and he looks.
From here he can see Solomon's Temple, way off at the city's edge. It hulks in sullen ruin, half a mountain turned to crumbling caves. Raed asked once why he never went back for Kadar's corpse, because Raed expects so much of him. The Temple knows him better than that.
Malik saved no one. Malik is still looking for a way back in.
What will he do with himself if Altair standing before him sounding contrite is all it takes to forgive? What will he do if it turns out his anger at the Son of None is just leftover anger at himself? If it turns out he really is too weak to bear his lot? If he is that despicable? It shouldn't be possible to forgive when Kadar's grave is within these same ancient walls.
Malik stares at the Temple until it grows too dark to see. There aren't answers here (there have never been answers here, no matter how often he comes), but he makes a decision nevertheless. If the Jerusalem bureau is his bureau, and its assassins his men, then Samir's life is his burden. Altair cannot be trusted, for reasons that Malik sees now have little to do with what he did or didn't do before. As skilled as he is, as determined, the Son of None isn't meant for certain things. The role of hero and the role of victor and the role of kings: these are Altair's. But these roles are not everything.
Altair is the hero. Malik is the one who goes back.
Malik returns to the bureau grimly resolved. If Samir dies because of Altair it will still be Malik's fault. So Samir mustn't die.
There is an informant waiting for him in the antechamber, his notes rolled up and shoved under his arm. Malik greets him, they discuss things, and then at the end of the conversation Malik says: "Put this aside for now, though. I have another task for you."
"Yes, Dai?"
"I need to you bring me everything you can find on those close to Majd Addin. Find me someone near him who can be bribed. We must get close to his gallows come the execution, without being seen."
"Yes. Did Altair request this help?"
"This is separate from Altair. We need to be in place to rescue Samir even if Altair can't."
"But-…"
"What is it?"
"Your pardon, Dai. But killing Majd Addin is Altair's task. Master Al Mualim will be angry if we do it for him."
"I don't care about Addin. If Altair kills him, if he kills Altair: either way we will rescue our man. That's our only concern. Let other men worry about less important things."
"The Grandmaster might not agree with you. I am just concerned…"
Malik draws himself up to full height. "I did not ask you to be concerned," he blazes, "nor whether Al Mualim agrees. We are assassins, and we follow our Creed. We fail it if we fail Samir, do you hear me?"
"Yes, Dai, yes, please. Forgive me."
"Then go, do as I've said. If I fail then let the old man hang me."
"You won't fail. We trust you," the assassin says with terrible faith, and holds out his report. "Inshallah thanks to you our Brother will be saved."
Malik reaches to take the scroll from his hand, but nudges a dagger into his palm and counts a dozen moments where he could have slit the man's throat in an instant. All the while the man stands placid and unaware. "It's dangerous to trust others sometimes. You should know that."
"But you are our Dai. You would never fail your men."
"Get out of here," Malik says.
-i-
Altair returns the next day. Among other things he brings with him a map of the execution area, filched from one of Addin's lackeys. A crude thing by this mapmaker's view, but it will suffice. Malik takes it from him. "What other news, novice?" he asks.
The older man scowls. "I am not a novice."
"A man's skill is defined by his actions, not the markings on his robes."
"We can trade barbs or do Al Mualim's work. It's your decision."
Malik's eyes flash. "Then be out with it." He pulls out a book to slide the map inside, and is childishly pleased when the dust off the counter makes Altair cough.
"There's nothing to say that you don't already know. Jerusalem's regent Majd Addin is holding a public execution not too far from here. It's sure to be well-guarded, but it's nothing I can't handle. I know what to do."
For a long moment Malik only looks at him with distaste. "And that is why you remain a novice in my eyes," he observes. "You cannot know anything, only suspect. You must expect to be wrong, to have overlooked something. Anticipate, Altair. How many times must I remind you?"
"As you wish," says Altair, surly. "Are we done?"
"Not quite. There is one more thing." Malik pulls Al Mualim's letter from under his counter, lets it flutter to the tabletop. "I see our Master neglected to tell you the true point to your mission."
"He told me to kill this Templar. More than that it isn't my business to know."
"Keep practicing that sentence and one day you might sound as if you believe it. Well, your ill-informed bumbling will cost us more than your honor. Listen carefully, Altair. One of the men to be executed is a Brother—one of us. I wish-…Al Mualim wishes for him to be saved. Do not worry about the actual rescue, my men will take care of that. But you must ensure Majd Addin does not take his life."
"I won't give him the chance."
"So I hope." Malik won't meet his eye as he offers him a feather for the mission. He expects Altair to take it and leave. But instead he stands there, twirling the feather between his left hand's four fingers, and Malik might almost call him tentative. "Do you need something?" he asks, not without impatience. The longer he must look at Altair the more his stomach churns. "Is that why you continue to stand before me?"
Altair speaks slowly, staring the feather as though it could look back. "Earlier today," he says, "while I was eavesdropping. There were two men talking about Addin's execution. One of them was the father of one of the captives. He sounded distraught."
"This surprises you?"
"No. But he means to rescue his son. He plans to charge into the execution with a sword."
"He is desperate. I can't blame him. He may make things more complicated for you, though, so keep an eye out—"
"He's a fool," Altair bursts out. "How can one old man with a dull sword think to challenge Jerusalem's regent and all his soldiers? He'll only get himself killed along with his son."
Malik raises an eyebrow. "The blind hopes of the people have never bothered you before. This is Jerusalem, Altair. This is what the world looks like when you aren't around to play hero."
Altair can only mutter: "I heard him beg. It isn't right."
"Many things aren't right. We survive them."
"Maybe that's enough for you. But I won't settle for…"
"I've nothing more to say to you," Malik interrupts. "Attend to your task." But he stands frowning at the shoddy map, lost in thought, long after the Son of None leaves.
-i-
At some point he remembers to eat. He clears a space for himself in the bureau, using his chess board as a table, and sets out a simple spread of bread and olives and cheese. A heavy mug of well-water. Basic fare but satisfying, and in healthy amounts, after all those months when he could hardly bring food to his lips without becoming nauseous. A year and another year and Malik comes closer and closer to his old self, until he might reach out and touch that other Malik, a reflection in a dirty puddle. Closer and closer but never quite.
Malik scoops a bit of the soft cheese onto a crust of bread and lifts it to his mouth. But before he can take a bite a rustling at the main room's entryway alerts him to someone else's presence. Annoyed, he looks up.
"What news, Altair? Do you bring word of Majd Addin's death?"
"No, he still lives." It isn't a surprise, no city regent would be that easy to kill, but it does mean Altair belongs elsewhere. Of course, Malik usually feels that way.
"I'll give you the benefit of assuming you have good reason for returning. Be quick about it, though."
Altair smiles from under his hood. In the dim light of the bureau he fades into his strange, grey robes. "Will you?" he asks. "Give me that benefit?"
Malik drops the bread. "No. Does this look like the site of an execution? Get to work!" After a moment he adds, "And stop bothering me during my meal."
Altair doesn't move. He just stands in the doorway, the very picture of brooding. Malik, who has done his fair share of brooding, wants to turn his head and ignore the man's histrionics, but it's hard. Harder than last time. I have not stopped being angry, Malik reminds himself. Whatever demons chase him today should catch him and eat him, if there is any just god in the world.
Altair says, "You are so calm about it."
"About what? About you?"
"Not about me."
"Don't mistake disinterest for acceptance, idiot. I've only grown tired of throwing things at your head. It seems you never learn no matter what cracks your skull!"
"I'm talking about the execution. Majd Addin has one of your men and yet you sit here calmly with your meal."
It is only the reassuring feel of the throwing knife in his hand that keeps him from throwing it. "And what good would it do me to panic?" he demands. "Shall I throw myself blindly into the situation and condemn us both to death? I would hate to steal your tactics when they've worked so well for you before."
"That isn't what I meant."
"I don't care what you meant. I told you, Altair, the rescue isn't your concern. And how I run my bureau and how I serve my men—a man twice your worth has no right to comment on that. Not even if he were Al Mualim himself. So you of all people, ya kanith, you swallow your forked tongue. Go back to throwing yourself off roofs in Damascus, pester the Acre Rafik, be anywhere but here where you always make things worse-…"
"Malik." Altair steps further into the room, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. "Peace, Dai. I didn't mean it as a scolding."
If hearing Altair say his title was unsettling the first time, it's worse now, and curdles the sight of food. Malik twists his lips and says, "Don't call me that," but too soft to hear, and pushes his plate away.
"I meant it with admiration," Altair says. "You stay calm and you do what you must."
Malik scoffs, "As if you'd admire anything but your reflection."
"I admire those who can accomplish—"
"Who can accomplish what you can't. Samir would die if I trusted his fate to you. Assassin, you don't know what it is to save a life."
Altair drops his hands. "You turn everything around," he mutters. "Everything is worse off with you."
"What were you expecting? Did you think you could come in here with some weak compliment and expect to fix everything? Expect me to fawn over you like the silly novices in Masyaf?" He taps his folded sleeve. "Next will you regrow this? As long as you are working miracles."
Altair says, "I don't want to fight with you. But maybe that doesn't matter."
"You're right, it doesn't. Maybe you want those poor people to be executed while you whine at me like a kicked dog. Because that's what will happen if you don't leave now."
But Altair lifts his chin and smirks at him, and whatever softness was in his voice drowns in his derision. "Bray all you'd like. It never changes. Even if I come here with respect."
"Respect? Is that what you think this is?"
"I think you should be honest. You'd gladly let those people die, including your assassin, if their deaths were on my head. My failure's worth more to you than their lives."
"Shut up."
"Am I wrong?" He steps quickly to the chess table and presses his hands flat against the stone. Malik stares up at him, at those eyes that haven't changed, damn it, in all the years gone past. "But you won't admit it. No, not Malik the holy man. You never could admit that there was more to you than the Creed and the rules, that you are every bit as selfish as I am. We are the same greedy animal but only I will say so."
"I won't listen to this shit in your mouth. Rouh ya ayr! Get lost, you prick…"
"You just want to use your men as a weapon against me, you want to hurt me any way you can, no matter what it costs you—again and again you will lose them, so that you can have another wound to nurse. You thrive on our bad blood."
Malik shouts, "I don't give a damn about you!" Heat is fast-rising to his face. Altair sounds as he did the night he became a Master Assassin, the night Malik refused the rank. If asked maybe Altair would pin the source of all this bad blood on that night, on that choice. But then what followed as a result, the bickering and Solomon's Temple…if that is what Altair thinks, then is what happened Malik's fault?
"Your men are your pawns," Altair says. "You don't care about them, you care about what they make you."
"I'll cut your throat if you say another word."
Altair, wild, wide-eyed, shouts, "Just as with him. You cared for being the older brother more than you ever cared for…!"
But he stops himself before he can say the name, and it saves him. Throughout it Malik stays in his seat; there'd be no point in standing, Altair is the taller of them. After the battle comes the carrion silence, after the plague comes the maggot hush. They are frozen in their anger and for a moment neither speaks.
In what's as rare as snow in Jerusalem, it's the Son of None who first backs down.
"I didn't intend to fight with you," he says, lifting his hands from the table. "I only came to say I admire your calm. After what I've seen of Majd Addin's crimes, it is…something I lack."
"Lack?" Malik echoes, hoarsely. "I've seen you fight. If you're not beaming at the blood spray you're stoic as stone. I've seen you wring necks like a farmer with an eggless hen."
"This time it is different. That old man willing to die for nothing…"
"It's nice to see you can care about someone besides yourself," Malik says. "I didn't think you could."
"I cared about you," Altair says, voice dropping low as though he's offered some great secret. Malik shakes his head. "It's the truth," Altair says, sounding angry when the Dai rolls his eyes.
"The truth, Altair? The truth is that you left. You left us there, and you can deny it all you wish. The truth is that he said you would come back. He said that you cared."
"I told you. I tried."
"Yes. Well, this time you must try to save Addin's victims. And your old man. I've been wondering if your success with Talal wasn't some happy accident, but you tried…This time, novice—try harder."
Malik stands up, appetite fully lost, but the food is still on his plate and in Jerusalem's heat it won't keep. He looks at Altair, who's stepped back to let him pass. "Hungry?" he asks. "I don't want it now."
Altair looks at the plate. "Is it poisoned?"
He says it with grim eyes and absolutely no mirth. Ridiculous. Malik picks up the dropped piece of bread, puts it to his mouth and bites. In the musty quiet of the bureau the crack of his teeth against the crust is unexpectedly, impossibly vast.
Altair watches him chew. Watches him swallow. The hunger in his eyes has nothing to do with bread.
Malik chews slowly, watching him back. The other Malik, the old Malik of the faded reflection, would sit with him and share the meal. Discuss tactics over dinner. Chat. But this Malik moves away from the table. "Eat," he says. "It won't do Majd Addin any harm if you starve. Don't forget why you have come here, Brother. Find your target and end his life."
"When I'm ready I will." A minute hesitation. "Brother."
It's a good word, even sarcastic. The Son of None sits awkwardly at the chess table, all sharp angles in his low-ranked robes, a step off from his reflection just like Malik. That's a surprise to discover. He pulls the plate back towards him, takes the loaf of bread and begins pulling it into pieces, using his nails like knives. Malik stands in the doorway of his own place and waits for Altair to eat.
-i-
When he wakens the next morning and goes to check on the assassins sleeping in the anteroom, he expects to see Altair there, hunched separate in his corner as always. He even has an insult picked out and ready ("Still here? Are you interested in a staring contest, then?") but when there's no one to use it on he feels oddly off-balance.
Raed, just dropping in from the roof grate, sees him and calls, "The execution is this evening, Dai. Altair's gone and we've got men stationed. We'll be ready to free Samir as long as Altair can distract the guards long enough."
"Shouldn't be hard for him," Malik murmurs, hardly listening. The execution: yes, of course. The very thing on which he was going to harangue Altair. Good, so the novice is doing his job for once. Good, so he's out of Malik's bureau and soon he'll be out of Malik's city, either on a horse or in a box. Either is fine.
Raed steps over a sleeping figure and stands at Malik's side. "You look exhausted. Did you get any sleep?"
"I'm not convinced our preparations are ready," Malik answers. "Show me again where you have men stationed. Walk me through it step by step."
"Of course. Here, the positions are marked on your map…"
They go together into the main room and Malik unwraps the map Altair brought back. X's have been added over certain roofs and in certain alleys, in thick, black ink. The spot for the gallows has been circled as well.
"Majd Addin will rant for a while," Raed says. "Not to stall, just to hear himself talk. We're certain he doesn't expect the assassins. Altair was careful in his spying."
Malik taps a finger to the map. "How do you know that?"
"Oh, well," Raed nods. "He's a very good assassin, isn't he?" At Malik's lifted eyebrow, he allows himself to smile. "But I am the better spy, I think."
"Stalking Altair…there must have been better ways to spend your time."
"To be blunt, Dai, if he fucked up I wanted us to know quickly. Addin knows Samir's an assassin. He might have killed him sooner if Altair gave our plans away."
"Fine. So he didn't fuck up. And now?"
"Now we have men already in their positions, ready to strike. Altair will take this main route here and mingle with the crowd. There are assassins on all sides, but I think our best escape route will be this path. There are guards blocking it but they'll be drawn off by Altair, so we won't engage them. We'll wait for them to pass."
"Mm." Malik is having trouble focusing on the map. It's a lousy map, really, and he doesn't need it to see the twisted warren of Jerusalem's backstreets…
"Addin's soldiers at every corner," he says. "Plus the city guard. And our men won't fight any of them."
"Not unless they're spotted. But they will be careful."
"So all those guards will be drawn to Altair. Like a sinkhole in the desert, one grain of sand after the next."
Raed shifts. "Yes, Dai," he says slowly. "Unless you'd rather something else…?" Malik doesn't say anything. Raed keeps his eyes on the map. "Samir will be in bad shape," he says softly. "We should get him out as quickly as we can."
"Right." Malik shakes his head, to clear it, and with his shoulders squared pushes his nagging thoughts aside. "It's Altair's assignment to kill the Templar, and if the Templar has friends with him, so be it. Samir is our only concern."
"Right," Raed nods.
"So tell the men to get him away from the gallows. Don't worry about anything else."
"Right."
"No matter what they see of Altair. No matter how he manages."
"…Right. Dai, he will probably survive. He's, well, he always has before."
"Hm?" Malik, rolling up the map to put it away, shrugs. "Oh, well, if he does so be it. I don't care."
"I remember you cared last time," the other assassin points out. "You were hoping he'd die."
Malik busies himself with his bookshelves so he doesn't have to meet Raed's knowing look. "So dusty in here. And these are completely out of order…Raed? Was there something else you wanted?"
The man hesitates. "Lord…perhaps it isn't my place to say it, but…"
The Dai pulls a book of maps out and shoves it further down the shelf. He couldn't work fast enough with both hands, much less one. "But what?" he snaps.
"But no one here would think ill of you if you forgave him. No one in this bureau. We would understand."
"Who the hell is saying I'll forgive him?" Malik grabs another book, and after than a third, slamming them so hard into the shelf that it rocks. "Who says I have anything to forgive? Like a pebble under my shoe, that's all he is, I hardly think of him except when I have to dig him out and throw him away. Who is saying otherwise? Who gave any of you permission to speak?"
"What he did he should be punished for. But I think…I would not want to watch you suffer, Dai, and I've been at your side without complaint all this time, and I…I think when you hurt him it's only to hurt yourself worse. It would be better if you truly didn't care about Ibn La'Ahad. He isn't worth your anger."
"You're right," says Malik.
Raed blinks. "I am?"
"Yes. It isn't your place to say this to me."
With his back to his books Malik looks at the informer, his face hard, his tone unquestionable. A large leather-bound book is heavy in his hand. "Lives hang in the balance, Brother," he says, for he will say it to someone today. "You are supposed to be helping Samir. Are you sure this is where you should be?"
"No," says Raed, "forgive me, Dai." He bows and leaves, hiding his hurt well, but Malik is an expert at all the layers and shades of disappointment. Raed's is clear to him. Something else is clear, too: the snapping ache in his wrist. With a curse he drops the book and it breaks its old spine against the ground. Malik holds his wrist to his chest and stands brooding. Some things are harder than they should be.
-i-
No news comes to him for some hours. He is restless as only a delegator can be restless, knowing that somewhere out there a fight is happening, and it is happening to his but not to him. The air in the bureau is apprehensive, those assassins not involved in Samir's rescue finding reasons to be elsewhere. Malik waits for word, sketching a map to keep his hand busy, and wonders what it is he's really waiting for.
Your men are your pawns. Is it true?
When Altair killed Talal half the city erupted. A dozen of Jerusalem's guards lost their lives to the assassin in the resultant chase, not even counting the handful who slipped off slick stone roofs. Altair's always been dramatic, so Malik expects more drama: more church bells ringing in warning, more panicked crowds, more idiot novices knocking over market stalls. But the first he hears of the mission's outcome is from Altair himself, who drops in through the roof grate late that evening with bloody hands and a bloody feather, and his precious cowl torn.
Malik looks at him with surprise. Majd Addin is—was—regent! He should have been guarded like a king. Yet somehow Altair has escaped. "Jerusalem needs a new ruler," the bloodied man says.
"So I have heard," the Dai lies. Why give the novice a chance to gloat at being faster than Malik's spies? He nods distractedly at Altair's feather and tries to concentrate on drawing a straight line.
"What's this? No words of wisdom for me?" Altair stalks closer to the counter, his words a clear challenge. "Surely I have failed in some spectacular fashion."
"You preformed as an assassin should: no more, no less. That you expect praise for merely doing as told, however, troubles me."
The pause is fraught and unhappy. Altair says, "It seems everything I do troubles you."
"Reflect on that," Malik tells him with a certain manic cheer. Here, he has not forgiven. See, Kadar? See how loyal your brother is? "But do so on your way back to Masyaf. Your work here is done."
Altair pulls his cowl over his face and turns to leave. But he only gets a few steps in before Malik calls him back: "Wait," he hesitates to say. "Before you go."
"What is it?"
"I've had no word yet from my men. How went the execution itself? Did you prevent it?"
"Yes, the captives were alive when I attacked. Majd Addin admitted his crimes were done out of bloodlust and greed. Al Mualim was right to want him dead."
"Al Mualim is always right, so they tell me." Malik waves that away. "But the assassin. Did you see him? Was he…?"
Altair studies him, levelly. "He was alive the last I saw."
"Fine. Fine, then." Malik slips out from behind the counter and walks to the anteroom, followed by the other man. The first stars are appearing beyond the roof grate. "They'll be here soon, I'm sure. It must be slow-going if Samir's injured."
There is no answer. It takes Malik a minute to realize he's alone in the bureau with Altair, but when he does something lurches in his gut. The other assassin leans against the wall, brushing against the mosaic tile, still expressionless as he crosses his arms. He looks like he belongs just where he stands, immovable, immutable. Never mind his grey robes and missing hidden blade: he is a Master Assassin to his blood. Dai Malik feels outranked.
"That's all, then. You need to report to Al Mualim. Get out of here and get to it."
No answer. To be honest he wasn't expecting one.
"Altair? What keeps you here?" he asks weakly.
"I have something to do before returning to Masyaf."
"Oh?" he says, trying for disinterested, trying for aggravated, trying for anything. How angry he was last time—no, he is still angry! But this anger is stippled with a different sort of tension. It's as though Altair were a moldy cheese. "It must be important," Malik mentions, "to keep our Master waiting. It is important…yes?"
"You would say so."
"Be out with it. I don't have time for guessing games, or space for loiterers."
Altair tilts his head towards his folded arms. "I'm waiting for our Brothers, too. To see how your man fares."
Malik snorts. "No, you're not."
God damn Altair for that sliver of a grin. "No, I'm not."
"Why, then? Forget the way back to Masyaf? Need a map?"
"I don't trust maps or food from you."
"Indeed you shouldn't. I'd send you to the middle of the sea. You never were smart enough to figure out swimming."
Altair straightens off the wall, with an eagerness he either can't or won't disguise. Malik watches him warily. "I want to talk to you before I go," the Son of None says.
"…I have nothing to say to you."
"Malik, listen."
"No." He turns his back. It helps hide the growing horror on his face and in his strumming heart. If Altair calls him Dai again he is lost.
(He almost says it then: says what will chase after them both for years. Almost, but not quite. Not yet.)
"But I have been thinking about Al Mualim's orders, and the men he's had me kill. It's troubling. You should hear-…"
"I should hear nothing from you. I already know your concern is a farce. If you cared about others I wouldn't be here, dressed like this."
"But today, at the execution, that man out to save his son was there, and—"
A clatter and a shout. Malik is saved by the assassins appearing on the roof. Altair pulls away from them, back into his corner, but the Dai is secretly as grateful for the interruption as he is for the survival of his men.
Raed is one of them. He comes in ahead of the others, says to Malik, "It's done, Dai, Addin is dead and Samir…" His voice trails off when he spots Altair, who only sneers and looks away.
Malik taps Raed on the shoulder. "Fetch bandages and water," he says. "And thread for stitches."
The others have propped Samir up against some pillows: he hunches over broken ribs and his face is horrid, swollen and gashed, his eyes half-shut and his nose bleeding. But the assassin is smiling and conscious. "He wanted the names of my fellow heretics," he says through puffed lips, "but I told him I didn't know any."
"Save the bad jokes for later," Malik admonishes lightly. "Here, lie back. Dream of those virgins you decided to keep waiting. Raed, hurry with the water."
"It's here, Lord."
"Good. And you, clean a space over there—boiling water on the stones, you hear me? Get rid of every speck of dirt. Samir needs a clean spot to rest in until those ribs heal."
In the midst of the hubbub, he hears Altair say, "Malik…" But it's easy to ignore him now.
Raed is pulling off Samir's shirt so Malik can get at the cuts there. It's too tricky to stitch with one hand, but he watches over the assassin he's selected to wield the needle and thread. Messy or uneven stitches are worth a beating in Malik's bureau. Why save a man from Templars only to lose him to clumsy hands? His role is to save his men and so he does…
"Malik," says the Son of None again. Five minutes ago he was a Master Assassin. Now he's as overlooked as any novice half his height. "The old man at the execution...he attacked Majd Addin's guards before I did. They cut him down just as I said."
"Deep breaths," Malik tells Samir, who grits his teeth through the needle's sting. "We'll only judge you a little if you faint."
"Are you listening?" says Altair. "They killed him but not his son. I saved the prisoners. There was no need for him to do anything. There was no need for him to die."
"Ow," Samir groans. "Fuck Addin's fat fingers!"
"Well," says Malik, "we know he didn't break your jaw. You have broken ribs, Samir, where are you finding the strength to yell?"
Altair says, "It was a waste."
"This hurts like the devil, fuck him! Ow!"
"I know," says Malik. "I know."
Samir moans and groans his way through the rest of his stitches, and Malik turning his face to check the bruising there, and the other assassins lovingly dragging him to his corner and dumping him on his ass. They are all relieved, Malik thinks, relieved that Samir is saved. Ribs heal and bruises fade; life is what's important. All assassins know that.
When Samir is settled for the night and the others are tending to themselves, when Malik turns to get the details of the rescue from Raed—that is when he realizes that Altair is gone. Still half-focused on Samir's ribs he breathes in, shakes his head, and he leaves Altair to the lonely road home. Or wherever it is the Son of None thinks he belongs.