I fought the law, and the law won...

[communi_kate]

 

Haroun al-Misri returned to his house well after sunset. He ate a light meal, dismissed his servants, and retired to his study. Like the rest of his house, the study was Spartan in its architecture. Its furnishings were more luxurious. Haroun collected antiquities. He owned a carpet woven by the virgins of Isfahan and a set of intricately carved rock crystal vases decorated with vines.  His newest acquisition; a small and ugly figurine purchased from a man who swore that it had come from the pyramid of one of the great Egyptian kings, sat on his writing-desk. 

Haroun settled himself at the desk.  The servants had prepared a cup of wine for him, as was his custom after a hard day's work.  Forbidden by the prophet, the wine was another one of Haroun's little luxuries.

He picked up the wine and reached for a volume of Persian poetry.

Haroun was halfway through the second page when he noticed a curious rippling in the pages of his book.  He glanced up and saw the curtains moving in a gentle wind. Clearly some inconsiderate servant had left the windows open. Book and cup in hand, Haroun stood up. He walked across the room, pushed the curtains back and leaned forwards to close the carved wooden mashrabiya screens that protected the room from the noise and dust of the street outside.

Somebody coughed.

Startled, Haroun looked around.

A man stood in the shadows at the corner of the mashrabiya. Patterns of moonlight played across his face so that Haroun could not deduce if he was young or old, Egyptian or foreign. He cleared his throat quietly, as if to introduce himself, and stepped forwards.

Haroun dropped book and cup together.

The stranger reached out his hand without any effort and caught the book. He glanced at the cover, closed the book with a snap and handed it back to Haroun.

"Layla and Majnun?" he said. "A popular choice, but one slightly too romantic for my own tastes."

Haroun took the book automatically. His foot crunched on a piece of glass and he looked down. His cup lay shattered on the floor. Wine spilled across Haroun's exquisite Persian carpet.

Haroun looked at the wine, then at the book, then up at the stranger who wore a nondescript dark robe and carried himself with such confidence that he seemed to belong there. The ambassador wondered if he was a new servant, one his wife had forgotten to tell him about. He would not have put it past her.

Haroun was not usually hasty with servants, but the sight of the ruined carpet and the stranger's irritatingly familiar manner put him on edge.

"Do you know who I am?"

The stranger nodded. "Indeed. You are Abu Kareem Haroun al-Rashid ibn Ahmad ibn Saleh, known as al-Misri, the Egyptian."

Haroun took a closer look at the stranger, who obligingly stepped from the shadows into the room. His left sleeve hung loosely at his side and his face was strangely memorable.

"You-you look familiar." Haroun stumbled. He did not move to pick up the glass. He had an awful feeling that something was very badly wrong.

"My name is Malik al-Sayf," the interloper said politely. "I believe that we have met."

"Where?"

"Masyaf."

Malik al-Sayf, Haroun thought.  He swallowed. "You are an Assassin."

There was no answer.

"Have you come to blackmail me?"

"That," Malik said precisely, "is not what we do."

Haroun's legs gave way. He sank onto the floor, trying not to disgrace himself. He remembered the halls of the Assassins, their rushing river, their insolent leader. He recalled the one-armed Assassin who had stared at him curiously as he stood shaking at the Master's table.

The Assassin crouched beside him. Haroun thought wildly that he should fight. The man only had one arm. He could overpower him, jump from the window, call the servants or summon the guards. But he had no strength. And even if he had, the fidai of Masyaf were most feared. The man in front of him could no doubt disembowel him with his toes if Haroun so much as coughed.

Moonlight glinted from the dagger in the Assassin's belt. The small room was so quiet that Haroun could hear the cats mewing on the walls outside his house.

The Assassin sighed. "Peace,' he said, "You will not die today. I have need of you."

Haroun swallowed. He clutched the book of poetry to his chest and dragged himself to his knees. "Why should I believe you?"

The Assassin's voice held a glimmer of exasperation. "You are not dead yet. Besides, you are the second person to question my honor this day. The first went away satisfied. I hope you will do the same."

"The Brotherhood has no honor," hissed Haroun.

This time the Assassin's voice held more than a glimmer of exasperation. "We- I-are no longer affiliated with the Brotherhood. And if you insult me again, you will suffer for it."

"Nobody leaves the Brotherhood!"  Haroun protested.

"Even so." The Assassin tossed a sheet of parchment at Haroun's feet. "You will return this paper to Sayf-al-din. And you will tell him that we have no intention of endangering his person. Suggest to him that his retainers should be more careful with their plans."

Haroun took the paper. He saw the familiar outline of the citadel scrawled upon parchment. "The map from the bazaar," he breathed. "Where are the rest of the documents?"

The Assassin's hand strayed to the hilt of his dagger. "It is enough to return this one. Act as I have described. If you do not, I will find you.  Your death shall not be fast."

Haroun stared, hypnotized, at the dagger. "Uh, yes."

"Very well. I hope for your sake that we do not meet again. Do not call for your guards. They will be no use. And do not speak of this."

Haroun shook his head, realized that the gesture might be misinterpreted, and nodded instead.

The Assassin left the paper in Haroun's hand.  He shoved the curtains aside and climbed onto the open sill of the mashrabiya. Instead of jumping down like Haroun had expected, he went upwards, towards the roof.

There was a scrabbling sound above Haroun's head, then silence.

It was several moment before Haroun plucked up enough courage to peer out the window. He saw nothing. He had not expected anything else.

He sighed and did as he was bid.

 

Do not call the guards, Malik thought as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. Ha.  I was fortunate that he was too scared to think.

He had done no physical work during their two weeks' sojourn in Cairo. The knowledge pulled at his legs and arms like a leaden weight.

I am getting old, Malik thought. He felt a sharp pang of longing for the days when he would have leapt from rooftop to rooftop without even thinking about the process (not as smoothly as Altaïr, maybe, but he would have died rather than admit it). Losing his arm had taught him guile and cunning, true, but there were always days when he considered it an unfair trade.

He climbed down to the streets as soon as he could and headed back to the house, walking slowly, because only criminals and children ran. The streets were almost empty. Twice he saw guards, but they passed without noticing him. Altaïr was waiting when he reached ben Ishaq’s shop in the cool hours of early morning. An arsenal of newly sharpened blades lay around the room in silent testament to his vigil. Altaïr did not look happy, but then he rarely did.

"The guards on the streets run thick as lice," he said, as soon as Malik walked in the door. "What has happened?"

Malik sighed. "I spoke with ben Ishaq when you were out. The soldiers belong to the general of all Cairo. He knows that we are in the city. He believes that we plan to kill him."

Altaïr shrugged. "A logical assumption. But it will cause us trouble."

"I have already dealt with it," said Malik. He kicked a few tiles across the floor and sat down.

Altaïr's expression changed for a single second before his customary mask slipped back into place. "How?" 

Malik allowed himself a small smile. "The folder you stole contained a map of Sayf-al-din's quarters." he explained. "No doubt some other scholar more astute than I recognized this. They have added two and two together to number five. The conclusion of the sum is, of course, that we visit Cairo to assassinate the General."

Altaïr scowled. "I should have killed the guard," he observed.

Malik nodded. "Indeed you should," he said, "were it not against the Creed."

Altaïr picked up a knife. He began to whet the steel with more than usual force. "What would you have done in my place?"

"I would not have called attention to us. I would have-oh does it matter? I cannot move as fast as you, and you know it. I could not have stolen the texts."

"So what was your plan?" Altaïr asked. "Whatever it was, it does not seem to have worked so well. The guards are everywhere."

That is because, no doubt, they search for a two armed man in a white Assassin’s robe, Malik thought, what you give them is exactly what they desire, "Give it time," he said.

"That does not answer my question."

"I am coming to that. Anyway. Ben Ishaq called upon me this afternoon, ready to throw us out."

"He dared threaten an Assassin?" Altaïr asked curiously.

"It was not a threat." Malik said hastily, forestalling any attempt on ben Ishaq’s life as a result of Altaïr's sense of honor.  "He might consort with tomb robbers, but he has honor of his own. I think he was..." he paused, "...disappointed. We have been friends for years, he and I. Luckily he did not believe that we could have deceived him. He drew my attention to the document and I returned it to its rightful owner."

"You called upon the General?" Altaïr’s voice, for once, held a trace of respect.

"I am standing before you, am I not? No. I left the document with the ambassador that visited Masyaf a season ago. He seemed an honest man. Quick to follow instructions."

"Will he deliver it?"

Malik nodded. "He will."

"Then let us hope he does it quickly," Altaïr said practically. "We leave Cairo tomorrow, at noon. It is lucky for us that the grave robbers ben Ishaq spoke of are used to evading the guards. And if the soldiers are guarding their general while we are crossing the Nile, so much the better. Your mistake may work in our favor."

"It was not my mistake." Malik muttered. "So we have guides, do we? What about camels? A route into the temple?"

"We have all that."

"Fortune willing, we shall find the artifact." Malik said.

"Not fortune -skill."

Malik smiled ruefully. "We will need good fortune. The tombs have already been robbed. The Eden fragment will not be easy to find...if it is even there."

"It is there. Where else would it be? The Temple of Solomon, the great monuments: these fragments have a liking for grand buildings. They are not buried in the ground like beggars. The Templar’s fragment marked the location of the other pieces itself!"

"The Templar’s fragment marked Egypt." Malik retorted. "Possibly even Cairo. The pyramid is a powerful object, that is true, but I myself would not hide an object of great value there. I would hide it," he paused, thinking, "In a hole in the desert, with no markers for a hundred paces, and make sure that even I did not know the location to return."

"Let us hope that our ancestors were less wise."

"Let us hope."

They set off at midday. Altaïr passed the time sleeping, or at least sitting rigidly with his eyes closed.  Malik studied the documents that he had overlooked earlier. Most of them were in Hebrew, a language which Malik had little knowledge of. The strange language only made deciphering the papers more intriguing. Malik had lost himself in the work by the time Altaïr roused him to leave. They collected their tools, locked the door behind them and set off into the city.   

The metropolis of Cairo was within a half-day’s travel of the desert. The pyramids themselves were visible from the flat plains of the city, but they were much farther away than they appeared. The Assassins were already weary by the time they reached the Nile along the long and dusty path that led from the city.

The ferry was already waiting. It was a small and, to Malik’s eyes, not very well maintained boat. It bobbed on the glassy, sluggish river like a leaf in a great stream. Not far away, Malik saw crocodiles basking on the banks. They held their wide mouths open, teeth gaping, as tiny birds picked meat from between their knifelike teeth.

"Crocodiles." Altaïr muttered.

"The Orontes had crocodiles."

"The Orontes at least had the grace to hide its crocodiles."

"It is not the crocodile you see that kills you." Malik pointed out.

Altaïr eyed the swirling brown water balefully. He opened his mouth again as if to speak but said nothing. His hand dropped to the hilt of his long knife at his belt as he stepped aboard.

Malik followed Altaïr onto the boat with as much bravado as he could muster. He touched the hilt of his own dagger, felt instantly better, and then reflected exactly how much use a knife would be in the middle of a crocodile-infested river. Likely, it would only drag him down. As the boat cast off he would have traded most of his weapons for a scroll of swimming lessons and the ability to learn really, really fast.

He looked over at Altaïr and was somewhat relieved to find that the other Assassin looked even more uneasy.

"Are you well?" he asked innocently.

"Assassins do not fear death," Altaïr said dismissively. Malik noticed that he was sweating. There was no glory in drowning under a sinking craft.

"We have had some experience of sail, you and I. In your opinion, does this look like a boat that capsizes easily? I do not think it does. If it puts your mind at ease, I shall ask..."

"I do not wish to know." Altaïr said quickly. "The water seems rough. I do not think this craft will be able to withstand the current."

Malik looked over his shoulder at one of the sailors. "Rough water?" he shouted across.

The sailor shook his head vigorously. "Oh no! A good day!"

Altaïr shook his head mournfully. He sat cross legged at the head of the boat with his head bowed and eyed the river like it would erupt, volcano-like, and swallow him whole.

Amusing though Malik found Altaïr's discomfiture, he turned away. Gazing curiously over the water, he could see outlines of the pyramids, visible behind a thick haze of heat. The river rushed towards the sea with the speed of a hundred horses. It certainly seemed like an easier way to travel to Malik than the small boat they had taken across the Roman Sea.

Their next method of transport was less welcome.

The tomb robbers were waiting for them at the point Altaïr had arranged; a small oasis not far from the necropolis. They were a motley crew, young and old, who gave the impression that they had been indulging in acts of larceny since they could walk. Malik found this reassuring. He found their companions less so.

"Camels." Malik said gloomily.

Altaïr smiled as one of the camels opened its mouth to display its long, yellow teeth. He had the grace to hold his tongue, although Malik suspected that was because Altaïr was no more enthusiastic about camels than Malik was.

They set off at dusk, when the dunes were quiet. Off to the east, Cairo’s lights gleamed against the clouds.

The ride was not as painful as Malik had anticipated.  His camel was a docile beast. It followed its companions lazily, leaving Malik little to do in the way of actual riding. He leaned back, adjusting himself to the rocky gait of the beast. The pyramids loomed to the north, ever closer. It seemed impossible to Malik that they would find one artifact in such a vast expanse of stone.

They left the camels behind in the necropolis, tethered to the trunk-like legs of a massive statue.

Everything was silent. There seemed no point in concealment; after all, the guides were chatting as if they did this every day. Malik touched the nearest man on the shoulder.

"Why are there no people here?""

The guide was a skinny man named Samir who looked as dry and dark as a mummy himself. He sucked his teeth and shrugged. "They say it’s cursed. Also," he added more prosaically, "the weather runs to storms at this time of year. So we better hurry in and hurry back, if you don't mind."

Malik was not a superstitious man, but, as he looked around at the massive blocks of stone, he had to suppress a tingle of fear that ran down his spine. He leaned out and touched one of the blocks as they rounded a massive monument. It was warm with remembered heat. Malik shivered. "Forgive me," he said to the guide, "but you don't seem too concerned."

Samir dropped back to walk beside Malik. He gave the Assassin a gap-toothed grin. "People are ignorant. These tombs were defiled long ago. Their curses hold no teeth. Mind you, we've opened many fresh, and we've not suffered more than any other folk. "

Malik felt obscurely cheated. "So it's just a story."

"Seems so."

"Where do we enter?"

The guide pointed at an indistinct speck on the side of the pyramid. They walked closer, feet slipping in shifting sand. When the missing blocks gaped wide, large as a man, and the pyramid loomed like a mountain above their heads Samir drew Malik and Altaïr aside.

"The others didn't want to ask you this, and in a way I don't blame them. You see, this crew is my family. If it's going to be dangerous, tell us now. That's not to say we won't do it, but," and here he rubbed thumb against his fingers, "the price may go up."

Malik and Altaïr exchanged glances. Altaïr shook his head. "It's not dangerous," he said."But there is one condition. We keep anything that we find in the tomb."

The guide looked skeptical. "Find something? This tomb's been open for hundreds of years. If there ever was anything worth taking in the first place, some other scumbag's got to it."

"Nevertheless," Altaïr insisted.

Samir looked carefully at Altaïr's weapons and the large bundle of tools that he carried. "It's your funeral."

"An unfortunate choice of words." Altaïr said as the guide walked off.

 Malik shrugged. "He will get us in. It's up to us to find the fragment."

They walked to the base of the pyramid and clambered up the five layers of blocks, each as high as a man, separating the entrance from the desert floor. Flakes of polished limestone clung to the higher tiers, slippery as a waterfall. The mass of the pyramid loomed ghostlike and eerie above them.

The pyramid's facing had been destroyed in one area and the entrance clumsily blocked by a single stone slab. Samir and his crew had already loosened the block. Now they applied long metal levers to the gap beneath the block and, grunting, edged it from its place. A gust of cooler air flew out of the confined space. It smelt musty as the wind after a night of sandstorms.  

Samir sketched a bow. "Paying customers first."

Altaïr drew his knife as he ducked into the narrow space. Malik drew his own dagger and followed him. He wasn't sure exactly what he should be on his guard against (ancient curses? demon warriors?) but it seemed best to be prepared. Despite himself, he was relieved when he straightened up and saw nobody but Altaïr inside the tunnel.

Samir crawled through the entrance behind them. He held a torch high in one hand. "See what I mean?" he said.

Malik glanced around at the rough-hewn stone walls. He had read much about the excavation of the pyramid by Haroun-al-Rashid's first-born son in the year eight hundred and twenty, but ink and paper could not encompass the sheer volume of the work. He brushed his fingers against the rock of the passageway and recoiled from the chill. Taking a deep breath, he drew the crumpled map from his sash and handed it to Altaïr. The other Assassin took a quick look and set off uphill towards the King's chamber.

Samir looked taken aback, but he followed with the torch. His voice echoed plaintively along the narrow passage. "There's nothing here!"

They passed through a narrow rock-strewn passageway into a much more impressive hall. Malik straightened his back, wincing, and looked up.

The arched ceiling of the passageway rose above their heads. The apex of the passage roof was lost in darkness despite the torches. The stone was hand-cut and finely carved. Malik could see the marks of chisels in the wall.

Altaïr pointed up at a small aperture visible at the top of the gallery. "Up there." He matched movement to word, climbing the steep hill carefully with the torch held high above his head. Malik followed more cautiously. The air was still cold, but it smelled of nothing more sinister than stone-dust. He looked back at Samir, but the guide motioned him on.

"Go ahead. I'll wait for you here. There's nowhere to get lost. Let me know when you've had enough. It shouldn't take long. I told you, there's nothing up there."

Malik shrugged and continued up the slope. It was steep enough that his boots slipped on the rock, but not so steep he had problems pulling himself up the incline. He passed a smaller opening as he walked, this one leading downwards into the bowels of the pyramid.

And I am glad we do not have to go that way, he thought as he followed Altaïr's pale robe and the rapidly receding torch upstairs into the central chamber.

There was nothing there.

It was not a large room. Like the corridor they had just ascended, its walls were built from huge, heavy blocks. They had been fitted together so tightly that Malik doubted he could have slid a knife-blade into the gaps between the stones.

A sarcophagus lay in the centre of the floor. There was nothing else.

The Assassins unwrapped their tools and got to work.

The metal bar Altaïr had brought fitted neatly under the lid of the sarcophagus, which bore the scars of previous attempts. The night was half over by the time they managed to lever the lid open.

Malik dropped the bar and rubbed his hands. "God's grace that the lid was not as heavy as the casket," he gasped.

 Altaïr looked down into the casket. "God's grace," he echoed. He did not seem entirely convinced. His face was still as stone. 

"What's there?" Malik asked him.

Altaïr's face was unreadable. "See for yourself."