I know you're tired from the violence of the storm

[communi_kate]

Title: After This Age (6/7)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Mild violence.
Rating:12
Summary: Malik's first mission is not quite what he expected.

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Six

Damascus, 1183.

"A man will come out of the east!" cried Abu Firas as he stalked the room. The scholar's face was purple with passion. His boots struck stone with cold force and sent dust flying into the faces of those students who had been stupid enough to sit in the front row. "He will preach in the name of the family of Muhammad, though he is the furthest of all men from them. He will hoist his banners, flags which begin with victory and end with unbelief."

Malik, who had prudently placed himself at the back of the crowded hall, studied Abu Firas with interest. He had wondered several times whether the scholar would be so considerate as to die from a seizure and save Malik the trouble of a threat, but Abu Firas, in this as in so many things, showed no thought for other men.

Abu Firas rolled his eyes towards the heavens. "This teacher will be followed by the discards of the Arabs, the lowest of the mawali." He leant forwards and shook his finger at the crowd. A drop of spittle flew from his mouth."They are slaves and runaways, outcasts who have no religion. They clothe themselves in white, and most of them are mutilated."

Malik resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

It is not a mutilation, he thought. It is a mark of honour.

He shifted on the mat and pretended to take notes with the stylus in his right hand, keeping the fingers of his left hand curled into his palm to hide his missing finger. He was not much concerned. The other students came to the madrasa to hear Abu Firas teach. Malik learned about the man himself. He had found that Abu Firas had written over a hundred books, some contradicting themselves. He had an immoderate temper, and he never noticed anything that did not admire him or else owe him good coin.

"I name them Assassins," continued Abu Firas. "They are cursed, because they kill the innocent for a price and care nothing for either life or salvation. Like the devil, they transfigure themselves into angels of light by imitating the customs of many people." He took a deep breath and his face paled from indigo to scarlet. "Thus, hidden in sheep's clothing, they suffer death as soon as they are recognised."

Which is why, Malik thought, we do not reveal ourselves until the last moment.

He had to admit that Abu Firas's last moment had taken much longer to come than he had expected. Most men would have written Al Mualim's warning in Abu Firas' blood by now.

Malik was not most men. He rolled his stylus between his fingers and tried his best to ignore Abu Firas's ranting.

"They call him Al Mualim," raged the scholar. "He is their teacher, and upon his command all the men of the mountain come out or go in. They are believers of the words of their elder, questioning nothing. And everyone fears them, because they even kill kings."

Malik's stylus snapped in his hand. Not only kings, he thought.

He tucked the broken stylus into his sleeve and fought the urge to stand up and walk out, or better yet, stand up and slash Abu Firas' throat from one ear to another.

I should be charitable, he thought. He does not only hate Assassins, but also heretics, atheists, Jews, Christians, fire-worshippers, women, boy-lovers, children who speak during prayers and people who short-change him at the market.

I'm getting tired of him. I'm getting tired of this.

Malik had been in Damascus for a month without receiving his signal to strike. It had been the longest month that he had ever known. Sometimes he thought that Al Mualim had forgotten about him; sometimes he thought it was a test of his initiative. More often he considered his test a trial of patience.

A good Assassin must learn when to stay his blade. One man who can choose the right time to strike is worth more than a hundred times a hundred thousand fighters.

Al Mualim's speech had seemed profound in the peace of his study, but the words rang hollow in the halls of Abu Firas's madrasa. If nothing else, Malik was beginning to understand why some Muslims hated the Assassins. How could they fail to, when men like Abu Firas spread poison like a scorpion into their minds?

Sometimes Malik wondered whether that was the real reason why he had been sent to Damascus. Perhaps Al Mualim meant him to understand why some Muslims so hated the Assassins.

He was still considering the question when Abu Firas dismissed the class. The best thing that could be said for the scholar's lectures were that they were short-lived, if frequent. No man could sustain that much venom for so long.

Malik excused himself and went up to his room. It was customary that students of a particular master stayed in or near his halls, and Malik had been given a small cell on the madrasa's upper floor. It was just large enough for a bedroll and an oil lamp, and it had a wide window with a view of the central courtyard. Malik was grateful for the privacy. It would not have been impossible to conceal his training and his weapons from men housed in the same dormitory, but it would have been considerably more difficult.

He closed the room of his door, crossed to the window in a few steps and stood with his elbows on the sill looking out.

The square outside should have been quiet at this hour. It was not. Malik could still hear the murmur of voices as boys recited Qur'anic verses to their teachers in the square, but the students had been pushed aside by workmen replacing the courtyard's packed-earth floor with glazed zellj tiles of blue and white. Soon the floor of the madrasa itself would be repaired, and Abu Firas's students would sit on tiles rather than dusty stone. It was clear that the scholar was in favour.

Twice Malik had gone to the Damascus bureau to query his mission. He had received the same command to wait each time, and he was too proud to ask again. So he waited, impatient as a hooded hawk, listening to the heretical teachings of Abu Firas and watching as the scholar gained respect throughout Damascus. Late at night, when he would not be missed or noticed, he would take to the rooftops and run across the city under the cover of darkness.

Malik turned from the window in disgust and reached down beneath his bedroll for the handle of his knife. The blade was pared thin from sharpening and had been whetted more often in the last month than it had been since its forging, but Malik had nothing else to do apart from read the writings of Abu Firas. He would have sooner used the knife to cut his own throat.

Malik's fingers touched a smooth tube instead of the leather scabbard that he had been expecting, so he knelt on the floor and rolled up his pallet. His knife was there, and a purse of coins, and a ruffled brown eagle feather.

The feather was the answer to all of Malik's questions. He picked it up and ran the pinions through his fingers. The brown feather signalled intimidation rather than a certain kill, but it was better than nothing. Malik could imagine exactly what Abu Firas's flesh would feel like beneath his fists. He rose from the pallet, smiling, and paused with one hand on the door.

A good Assassin must learn to stay his blade, Al Mualim had said.

Malik shook his head in disgust.

Every fragment of pride he possessed screamed at him to act; and act now. The scholar had provoked him beyond all reasonable restraint. But it was late, and Abu Firas would already have closeted himself with his companions. There would be witnesses. To strike now, he knew, would be unwise.

He turned from the door with a snarl of frustration, sat down upon his bedroll and tried to think, muttering the words of the Creed beneath his breath like a mantra. The hammering from the courtyard drowned out the boys' chanting. Malik closed the shutters and tried to concentrate.

Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent

That did not help him. Abu Firas was not an innocent man.

Hide in plain sight. Let the people mask you so you become one with the crowd.

The second tenet was more helpful. Malik would confront Abu Firas in the guise of an ordinary scholar. He had spent a month studying the man and he knew where and when to strike. Abu Firas seldom left the madrasa. He was surrounded by students and admirers for much of the day, but he took breakfast alone and he walked from his own room to his study every morning without companions.

Never compromise the Brotherhood.

The third tenet urged caution. If he failed, he would dishonour himself. He would dishonour the Assassins, and, by extension Al Mualim.

He told himself that one more night of waiting would make no difference. Then he reached for his knife and slid the whetstone from its place within the dagger's sheath. The asr prayer drowned out the sound of the workmen in the courtyard outside as he spat upon the stone and began to draw the knife across its surface.

The asr prayer gave way to the evening maghrib prayer, and then the isha' night time prayer, and then the fakhr prayer at dawn.

It was the longest night of Malik's life.

After the last echoes of the dawn prayer had died away he took his wax tablet and his blade and walked down to the courtyard as if he meant to study. The workmen had not yet arrived and the courtyard was very quiet. Half the floor was covered with a grid of interlocking ceramic tiles. The tiles were the same colour as the morning sky.

Malik skirted the half-finished floor and made his way along the covered corridor to Abu Firas' apartments. He lingered there a moment before the carved door opened and Abu Firas stepped out. The scholar closed the door behind him and headed along the arcade towards Malik, wiping crumbs from his chin as he walked.

Malik intercepted Abu Firas before the scholar reached the end of the corridor. "I have a question about scripture," he said.

"And I have no time," Abu Firas replied..

"You have time for this," Malik snapped.

Abu Firas frowned. "Speak, then," he said.

Malik pounced. He leapt forwards and grabbed the scholar by the embroidered collar of his robe, twisting the fabric just tightly enough that Abu Firas could not speak but loosely enough that he could breathe with difficulty. The hidden blade sprang from Malik's left gauntlet. He jammed his knuckle up under the scholar's jaw, letting the barest inch of the metal emerge to prick Abu Firas's throat.

"I have a message from Al Mualim," he said, reflecting as he did so upon the value of revenge served very cold.

Abu Firas gurgled something unintelligible. Malik tightened his grip.

"This is a warning," he snapped. "One which will not be repeated. You are to cease preaching against the Assassins immediately. You know nothing, and your words do more damage than you know. This Al Mualim will not tolerate."

The scholar mumbled something that might have been 'why?' but could have been 'wait!' His face was scarlet with shock. Malik loosened his hold a little.

"You curse the Assassins in every sermon and expect us to do nothing? I have listening to you for months without anyone suspecting me -and the more I have heard the less I like. Other fidai'in can follow in my footsteps."

"What do you want?" the scholar hissed. His eyes flicked to the end of the corridor in search of help. The passageway was empty. Sunlight glittered from the newly tiled floor. "I warn you, I'll be a martyr if you kill me."

"I'm not going to kill you," Malik said. He belied his words with a quick twist of his left wrist. Blood ran in a thin trickle down the scholar's flabby throat.

Abu Firas frowned. "Then-"

Malik released his collar and sank his fist into the other man's soft belly. It was like punching a straw doll. Abu Firas reeled back, gasping, and Malik gripped him by the throat and pushed him back against the wall.

Abu Firas groaned. Malik hit him again, more gently. He had not realised how easy violence could be against untrained men.

The scholar slumped back. "I'll give you anything," he said.

"You will." Malik agreed. He twisted his left wrist, just a little, and the tip of his blade pierced skin. Blood ran in a thin trickle down the scholar's flabby throat.

"How?" The scholar's eyes darted back to the end of the corridor. The courtyard was still empty, but it would not be long before the workmen arrived. "What do you want?"

Malik realised he must finish their conversation swiftly, or risk being caught. He slapped Abu Firas in the face and wondered as he did so if the man recognised the gesture for the insult that it was. "Don't play for time. Stop your slander. Do not speak ill of the Assassins. You may preach on other matters. How you explain your change in heart is your concern. Not mine."

Abu Firas made no move to retaliate. He stared at Malik like a stunned sheep.

"Need I make my argument more pointed?" Malik dug his blade a fraction deeper.

The scholar yelped, attempted to shake his head, and came within an inch of slitting his own jugular. "No," he whispered.

Malik drew back slightly just in case the scholar tried something stupid. Abu Firas did not move. "The Assassins shall be watching," he said."

Abu Firas nodded.

Malik let the scholar go. He flung Al Mualim's purse at the scholar's feet and slunk away along the corridors of the madrasa. He was already on the other side of the building before he saw another man.

Abu Firas's morning lecture started late that day, and the scholar was unusually unprepared once he had arrived. Malik took a seat in the front row; close enough to see the small incision upon Abu Firas's throat, as if the scholar had cut himself while shaving. He sharpened his stylus with a short, curved dagger, but took no notes.

It was fair to say that the scholar's lecture lacked the fury of his previous speeches. He preached a short and moderate sermon about the proper distribution of zakat between the poor, and left early and without taking questions. Malik was a little disappointed. He had thought that Abu Firas might have hired guards to protect him, and had prepared for the eventuality with the dagger in his sash and another pair hidden in his boots. He need not have worried. The dagger and the purse between them were a sure antidote to Abu Firas's poison.

He walked up to the scholar once the lecture was over and said "An enlightening sermon. Safety and peace be upon you."

Abu Firas nodded. His face was pale.

Malik held out his right hand and watched the scholar recoil. He thanked Abu Firas politely for his speech and walked away.

He left the brown eagle's feather behind him on the flagstones.