![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
communi_kateFandom: Assassin's Creed
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Violence, spoilers
Summary: Postgame fic. The Brotherhood has a new leader...and it's not Altair. Disaffected, Altair decides to leave Masyaf and search for the remaining Eden fragments. However, he's got one more job to complete before he leaves, and a rather unwilling companion....
The Favour of Heaven
An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99
The ambassador stood at attention. Large beads of sweat rolled from the brim of his turban and vanished in the high collar of his robe. There was a glass of water in his left hand. He did not dare drink.
"Haroun al-Nisri, my lord," a white-robed fidai announced. "Emissary of Sayf al-din, the Magnificent, the Merciful, Governor of Aleppo, regent of Egypt, and," he paused, "brother of Saladin."
Haroun touched the tips of his fingers to his forehead and bowed in respect to the man seated at the desk in front of him. The Grand Master of the Syrian Assassins wore a plain white robe with the hood pulled forwards over his face. He sat silhouetted against a great arched window which opened onto the Syrian hills behind the castle. Light and shade flickered as a pigeon beat its wings against the glass.
"My Lord," Haroun said smoothly. His right hand shook minutely, rocking the glass of water. He willed himself into motionlessness. An ambassador could not afford to show weakness. "Most honored ruler of Masyaf. My master sends his greetings and humbly begs a favour."
The Master frowned. "What does Sayf al-din want with the Assassins?" he asked bluntly.
Haroun would have found the Master's directness refreshing if he hadn't been so scared.
At least, he thought, I don't have to face the old man.
Al-Mualim had commanded respect despite his position. His replacement was not quite as formidable. However, any ruler would be formidable with the fidai'in of Masyaf at his back. The new Master was still a force to be reckoned with.
The ambassador cleared his throat. "My lord Sayf al-din," he said, "requires the assassination of the lord Conrad of Montferrat."
He paused for a moment to let the Master absorb the information. He had expected more of a response, but the man's face was impassive beneath his severe Assassin's robe. The ambassador continued. "Only Saladin's army faces the Crusader hordes. There is none in the lands of Islam who will help us."
The Master steepled his hands. "Why, then should we fight for you?"
A good point, Haroun thought. "Conrad son of William rules Jerusalem," he said. "He serves the French. Sayf al-din has made a pact with King Richard of England. Richard must leave the Holy Land to quell revolt in his own country, but he will not go until he believes Jerusalem secure in English hands. When Conrad dies, Richard's man Guy of Lusignan will take the throne. Richard will believe Jerusalem safe and so he will leave. Guy will be a weak ruler who cannot hold Jerusalem alone."
"You will lay siege to the city," the Master said in his faint Persian accent.
"Exactly. Richard cannot travel quickly. Even if he does return, we will have time to prepare for his attack. The Holy Land will remain under Muslim control."
The Master smiled grimly. "We have no love for Saladin."
"Rest assured that he will be extremely grateful." Haroun said.
The Master did not reply. In the silence, Haroun glanced around the hall. Its dimensions were impressive, certainly, but the interior was plain to the point of asceticism. The only luxuries on display were a scattering of cheap Persian rugs such as any merchant might use to adorn his home. The room would have been bare if not for the books.
Haroun had heard that the previous Master had rarely left the castle, devoting his time to the study of sacred texts and grimoires. He could hardly believe his eyes. Hundred of volumes covered the walls from the floor to the high vaulted ceiling. A one-armed Assassin cataloguing the texts regarded Haroun curiously as he stared. The ambassador hurriedly turned his attention back to the Master.
"Do you know of any weak points in Montferrat's armor into which my men might strike?" the Master asked casually.
Haroun's voice sounded shrill even to his own ears. "No, my lord. His men are armed and always vigilant. It will not be easy to catch them unawares. Will this be a problem?"
"I will send my most able men."
"Indeed. You will of course be rewarded for your trouble." Haroun said. "The freedom of Jerusalem was mentioned. I believe you have no men in that city at present."
"You believe wrongly," the Master snapped. "Do not presume."
Haroun bowed. "No, my lord," he said. He drew a velvet pouch from his sash and held it up. "A gift for the time that you have wasted on this most humble of meetings," he said as he slid it across the desk towards the Master. There would be more gifts later, he knew, land and titles as well as currency.
The Master weighed the pouch in his hand. "My thanks," he said. "The brotherhood accepts."
Haroun bowed. "Peace be with you."
"And with you, peace," the Master said. "You may drink the water."
Haroun swallowed. To refuse the water would be tantamount to refusing the Brotherhood's hospitality. It would be an unpardonable sin. He could not afford to insult the Assassins.
But everyone knows the Assassins are poisoners...
Haroun's hand shook as he raised the goblet to his lips and swallowed. The water was bitter and metallic in his mouth.
The Master smiled slightly. It was not a large or particularly threatening smile, but it lingered in Haroun's memory as he finished the water, lowered the goblet to the desk and hurried down the stairs with as much dignity as he could muster.
He waited until he was outside the compound to stick his fingers down his throat and vomit.
Malik al-Sayf watched the Egyptian retching from the battlements of the castle. He shook his head as the Egyptian mounted his horse and rode away. The ambassador's face was pale. His body trembled. The water had not been poisoned, of course. Not even the Master would dare provoke the brother of Saladin in such a way. It was just another one of Nasr's games.
The old Master would not act in such a way, Malik thought as he descended the ladder. And neither would I.
Nasr al'Ajami had succeeded Al Mualim a few weeks after the old Master's untimely death. Masyaf had always been under the nominal control of the Persian Assassins of Alamut, the fabled Eagle's Nest. The Grand Master of Alamut, a wily old Turk called Muhammad, had seized the chance to gain control of the Syrian Assassins by sending his own da'i kabir from Alamut. Altaïr had stepped down with good grace, and the Brotherhood had continued.
Still, things were not as they had been.
Nasr possessed none of Al-Mualim's political astuteness. Under his rule the Assassins had become little more than knives for hire. Uniquely skilled knives, it was true, but still weapons. And Nasr had no reason to trust the weapon which had killed his predecessor.
Altaïr.
Malik could guess exactly who Nasr would choose to assassinate Conrad of Montferrat. Acre was a fortress of a city. The Crusaders had consolidated their hold on the city in the previous months. They ruled with an iron fist. No Assassin would escape the town alive.
Malik felt a chill run down his spine.
He grabbed the sleeve of a fidai as he passed. "Will you take a message for me, brother?"
An expression of surprise crossed the Assassin's face, but he relented. "Of course."
"Find Altaïr. Tell him we meet at noon at Eagle's Landing."
'Eagle's Landing?"
"Altaïr will know what I mean," said Malik.
He reached the narrow ledge below the castle just before the sun climbed to zenith. Masyaf's watchtower loomed to Malik's right, an impressive fusion of cut stone with natural rock. Crimson Assassin banners fluttered from its walls. Malik watched the arrow-slits carefully, searching for movement, but he saw none. The view to his left was less martial. The gorge of the Orontes wound between the scrubby hills. A natural fortification, it blocked all access to Masyaf to the north and west. He breathed in the dry air, redolent with the scent of dry straw from the piles at his feet. The ravine yawned in front of him.
Malik bent down and brushed stalks of straw away to reveal a pebble of red sandstone, warmed to the touch by the sun. He dropped the pebble into the gorge and counted to three before he saw it splash into the river far below.
When he looked up, Altaïr was standing at his elbow.
"Greetings, brother," Malik said.
"Greetings."
"How goes it?" Malik enquired. He would get around to broaching the subject of Conrad's assassination eventually, but there were certain proprieties that must be observed first.
"Not well."
Malik waited for Altaïr to confess his concerns, but the other Assassin said nothing. Finally he lost patience and enquired himself. "Something troubles you?"
Altaïr shrugged. His face was impassive, but then it always was.
"Not that accursed artifact?"
"It is a hard thing to forget."
"Indeed." Malik admitted." I too have found my mind wandering to its last illusion."
"I wonder if it might not be used for good." Altaïr shrugged." And then I wonder if every man who held it thought the same thing, before he turned to evil."
"A paradox, I admit." Malik said briskly. "But it is of no concern to you now. Nasr has locked the fragment in the cellars. No man may look on it and live."
"He does not trust it."
"With good reason! It is dangerous, Altaïr. But enough of this. The Master-"
"He is not my Master!"
Malik let out a sharp breath of dismay. His heart sank deeper than the gorge. "You are lucky he has not asked you to take the leap of faith," he said.
"He would not dare."
It is what I would do in his situation, Malik thought. "You should not speak so lightly of him."
"In this place of all places? Where better? I know that you question his rule."
"But never openly! Do not provoke a confrontation which you cannot win. You are but one man, Altaïr. And so am I. Change will come, but change too fast can be worse than none at all." He hesitated in his tirade. "But I remember why I called you here."
"Enlighten me."
"Sayf-al-din takes issue with Conrad of Montferrat. He seeks to end Conrad's life. The Master has accepted. Nasr means you to take the mission. I'm sure of it."
"What of it?"
"It will be suicide. Conrad hides in Acre with his wife. And Acre...Acre is crawling with Crusaders. You will never escape alive."
Altaïr brushed a fragment of straw from the sleeve of his robe. "Such things do not concern me."
"So you maintain. Only remember, our presence acts a watchword to Nasr. He lives in the shadow of Al-Mualim."
"And searches for a way to make his own name known. Yes, yes, I know of this."
"It is only a matter of time before he decides to use the Master's artifact." Malik said. He had never confessed his fears to anybody else before, and the words seemed to hang in the air, blighting the sunshine and turning the azure waters of the Orontes a deep, foreboding grey.
"We both know this is true." Altaïr snapped. "Why do you waste my time?"
Malik had reached the limits of his own tolerance. It was not a long journey. "Waste your time, do I?" he retorted. "Well then, I will not waste any more of it. If you accept Conrad's murder, it will be your death, Altaïr. Think about what I have said."
"I shall."
"I thought that you were less ignorant than before. It seems that I am wrong."
Altair did not reply. He turned on his heel and walked to one of the beams that overlooked the Orontes. Malik watched as he crossed the river, balancing as quickly and easily as if he walked a line drawn in chalk along the ground rather than a fragile tree branch spanning a wide gorge. He waited until Altaïr's white robe had vanished amidst the hillside scrub before turning and making his own, rather less graceful journey back towards the fortress. It was a road he had taken many times.
He regretted his last words to Altaïr as he went. The fidai doubtless had other problems. Al-Mualim's men were out of favor.
And I have always have been quick to anger.
Altaïr's temper was a measured fuse compared to Malik's. However, the fuse had been ignited the day Nasr al'Ajami arrived in Damascus.
The new Master had arrived with his retinue with the winter rains in early November. The meeting had started in a polite and careful fashion, with the men of Alamut careful to maintain an uneasy truce between themselves and the Masyaf Assassins.
Altaïr met Nasr at the gates of the castle in order to surrender the keys. He had accomplished the handover with considerably more grace than Malik had expected. Nobody had questioned Altair's right to relinquish the keys, not even the senior Assassins. He had earned it.
As Altaïr bowed to Nasr and crossed one hand over his heart, Malik thought that Altaïr had not acquitted himself too badly, after all.
But as Altaïr raised his head and turned to leave, the Persian gestured imperiously with one hand. "The location of the artifact, if you may."
Altaïr turned back to his new lord and bowed his head again. His posture was the very picture of obeisance. It was unfortunate that his voice and expression held an unmistakable arrogance. "It is guarded in the tower, Master. What would you have me do?"
The new Master held the keys to Masyaf in one white-knuckled hand. "I will send my men to lock it away. No man should use that cursed relic."
Altaïr bowed again, more deeply. Malik recognized the gesture as a method of appeasement. "It may teach us much, Master."
His deference was ineffective. The Master frowned. "Teach you? Like it taught Al-Mualim? I fear you have already been corrupted, brother."
Altaïr spat denial, but the Master's voice slashed over his like the keen blade of a dagger.
"Forget not I am leader of this Order! Altaïr, is it not? The Grand Master's...protégé? Take care that his fate does not befall you too."
"Forgive me, lord. I know not of what I speak."
Malik was not the only one to notice the obvious sarcasm in Altaïr's words. Nasr al'Ajami's bushy brown eyebrows met in the centre of his forehead. "It seems to me you know only too well," the new Master said dangerously.
Malik knew that a new Master could not afford to show weakness. Nasr was ready to make an example of Altaïr for questioning his authority.
However Altaïr had learned some diplomacy in his dealings with de Sable. He met the Master's attack as neatly as he would have parried a sword-slash.
"I am a loyal servant of the brotherhood."
"Then see that you remain that way," the new Master snapped. "You have my permission to leave." He spoke in such a way that it was clear it was not permission, but an order.
Altaïr walked away with as much dignity as he could manage.
Malik snorted as he remembered the expression on Nasr's face as he watched Altaïr go.
He steadied himself with his good right hand against the stone of the mountain and carried on. His body was already beginning to develop a cripple's twist as bones and muscles sought to adjust themselves to his missing arm. After stripping him of the Bureau, Nasr had taken one look at Malik's amputation and demoted him to the relatively lowly post of librarian. Under the Persian, such an office held little prestige. The new Master did not place as much stock in learning as the old. It was just another one of Nasr's faults and had done little to inspire Malik's confidence.
And another thing, he thought as he walked. The old Master. He was insane at the end, but he was a better leader than this one. And what does that make me, for following such a man?
Maybe Altaïr is right. Maybe the time has come.
The sinking feeling in the pit of Malik's stomach was familiar.
To defy Alamut would mean our deaths.
As he sought to place his emotion he realized that it was very close to the sensation he had had towards the end of his tenure of rafiq of Jerusalem under Al Mualim. Something was going badly wrong.
If Altair is not careful, he thought furiously, he'll end up the victim of a petty power struggle. A struggle against an insecure and inexperienced leader who has not the sense to realize that Altaïr has no interest in assuming the Master's mantle.
In fact, if Altaïr isn't careful, we both will die...
Altaïr had not fared as well as Malik under the new leadership. Over the last few months he had been set to train recruits at the castle, without any new missions. At first Malik had thought the Master was holding Altaïr in reserve, and then he realized that the man did not trust him. Altaïr would not rise above the rank of fidai as long as Nasr was Grand Master.
And I would dearly love to know what Altaïr plans to do about this situation.
It was a troubling thought.
He visited the object of his concern later that evening. The cells of the fidai' in were as austere as a Christian hermitage. Stone walled and sparsely furnished, they provided little more than a place to sleep for the Assassins who inhabited them. The rooms were grouped together like an outsize pigeon-loft. Malik found Altaïr's cell without a problem.
As he rapped on the door and pushed it open, he realized how little it had changed. It was the barest chamber of them all. The only light emitted from an arrow-slit in the south wall. Altaïr sat cross-legged on a cot in the corner. The bed was the only piece of furniture in the room, save for a weapons- chest by the door.
Malik closed the door behind him and sat down on the chest. "The Master?" he asked.
"Pacified."
"And the mission?"
"Accepted."
"Who accompanies you?"
'Kamal."
"He is young and inexperienced, but very loyal. Think you he will stand against Montferrat's men?"
"Truly, brother, I do not know." Altaïr said. He held an object cradled in his hands. At first Malik took it for a candle, but as he squinted in the dim light he realized that it was round. "What is that?" he asked.
Altaïr tossed the ball to Malik in reply. For a long, awful moment Malik thought it was the Grand Master's Eden fragment until his fingers touched it and he realized it was only a simple wooden globe. The outlines of land masses had been carefully pasted onto the surface of the sphere. Malik rotated it in his one remaining hand until he found a view that he recognized. The outline of Africa was close enough to those depicted in Al-Mualim's books to be familiar. Malik could name many of the lands of darkness to the west: Spain, France, and Italy. Other land masses were less recognizable.
Despite himself, Malik was intrigued. "What is this?"
"A depiction of the Eden fragment's last illusion." Altaïr said. "You mentioned that it interested you."
"It did, but this...What are these? Islands? Where are they?"
"I know not."
"Fascinating." Malik said. As he spun the globe, he noticed red spots marking many of the continents. "And this paint?"
"The locations of the other Eden fragments."
"There are more?"
"Almost certainly."
Malik stabbed a finger at the globe. "This is the closest."
"That spot marks Jerusalem."
"The Temple of Solomon. Of course. And this, the next nearest?"
"Persepolis. And this next, in Saladin's fief of Egypt. Next, Timbuktu, in the kingdom of Songhai."
"A lifetime's travelling." Malik said. The vivid specks of paint seemed to glow in the semi-darkness of Altaïr's cell. They seemed ominous, like plague sores appearing on unmarked skin. "What secrets do they conceal?"
"Of that, I know not." Altaïr said.
"You did this work yourself?"
"Of course. Preparation makes the victor. As you have told me many times."
"Fascinating." Malik said reflectively. "The allure of far-off continents." His gaze sharpened, pinning Altaïr under his scrutiny like an eagle's talon. "Have you shown this to the Master?"
Altair did not reply. He held up a hand and Malik tossed the globe back to him. He aimed deliberately for the corner of the room, hoping that Altaïr would miss it. Altaïr leaned from the bed. His arm flashed out and he returned to his cross-legged stance, still as a statue, as if nothing had ever happened.
Malik sighed. "The Master will accuse you of betrayal. Were I loyal to the cause, I should cut your throat."
Altaïr regarded Malik impassively. "So why stay your hand?"
"It is not my place. But the Master will call your work evil, Altaïr. He means to destroy you. Conrad's murder will be your suicide."
"Not suicide. It will be difficult, it's true."
"Kamal is your weak link." Malik said. "With a more experienced man, you might stand a chance."
"I would rather go alone."
"Loath to share the glory?"
Altaïr shrugged. "I work better that way."
"You will die that way." Malik told him.
Altaïr shrugged once more. "Then so be it."
"Then the Templars will find the orbs marked on your little globe." Malik said slowly. "Who knows what they will use them for?"
Altaïr seemed unconcerned. "A moment ago you called them evil," he pointed out. "What provokes this sudden change in heart?"
"Some things are better left unhidden.' Malik said. "And if they cannot be hidden, then they must be safeguarded."
"You understand. They are not evil. Men are evil. The Eden fragments are merely tools. They are truth, Malik."
"More's the pity." Malik said bitterly. Altaïr must survive, he thought. He must find the pieces. None amongst us is better suited. And to find the orbs, he must first survive Acre....
I would be a better partner than Kamal.
Allah forgive me.
He rose from the chest. "I will leave you to sharpen your blade, Altaïr. I must go and speak to the Master."
"You will inform him of my plan?" Altaïr said. He did not seem alarmed or even particularly concerned.
"Do not worry." Malik told him, nonetheless. "I shall not talk of you."
"Then what?"
"That is my own business." Malik said as he left.
It was a short and gentle walk to Masyaf's main hall, but the thoughts that accompanied Malik as he walked were far from pleasant. He barely registered the touch of a guard's hand as it grabbed his elbow.
"Your business, Brother?"
"I seek an audience with the Master." Malik said. He wished that the guard were not Persian. There was a subtle but unmistakable rift between the Assassins from Alamut and those from Syria. Malik did not recognize this man.
The guard frowned. "Does he expect you?"
Malik shook his head. "I regret not, but it is a matter of utmost urgency. It cannot wait."
The guard's frown grew deeper. "The Master is in his study. I will request an audience." He turned and started up the sweeping staircase that dominated the castle's main hall. "Wait here."
Malik nodded patiently. It is time to put my tongue to the Master's boot, and hope that he does not kick me in the face, he thought as he waited. May our Lord grant me luck.
It seemed that Allah favored him after all. The guard descended the steps before Malik had time to become bored. "The Master waits within."
"Thank you, brother," Malik said meekly. Politeness, Altaïr, he thought as he climbed the stairs. It will take you further than violence ever will.
He knew exactly where to find Nasr. Al-Mualim would receive visitors while he wandered around the bookshelves. Nasr received his guests only at his table. Al-Mualim's simple stool had been dispensed with, and in its place sat something closer to a throne.
The Master's dark robe was almost indistinguishable against the stained wood. "Al-Sayf, is it not?" he said as he raised his head from an impressive book. "Come forward."
Malik bowed deeply. "You do me honor."
The Master frowned as Malik raised his head. "It may be more than you deserve," he said in recognition. "You were the Master's disciple, were you not?"
"No, my lord," Malik said carefully."I had the honor to free our people from his tyranny. I am merely a librarian."
"And what do you do among my books all day?" the Master asked. His voice was gentle, but Malik recognized a threatening undercurrent to the words.
The Orontes looks peaceful on the surface, but it too hides crocodiles in its depths. I do not trust this man.
Malik forced a smile. "I serve you, Master. With every drop of blood in my veins." And may I be forgiven, he thought, but I lie in a good cause. "In fact, I wish to serve you more directly."
"How so?"
"I would strike against our oppressor, Conrad of Montferrat."
The Master's brows rose in surprise. "Really? Then you will be disappointed, my brother. I have already chosen my men."
"Altaïr and Kamal. I know. Choose me to accompany Altaïr." said Malik.
"Why?" The Master seemed genuinely interested. "Why on earth should I choose you?"
"I have my reasons." Malik told him. "Conrad was King of Jerusalem. I remember his oppression of the people there too well. I'll sink my knife into his throat."
"Maybe -if you had both hands. But cripples have no place on the battlefield. You have my leave to remain at Masyaf, but nothing more."
"I lost my arm fighting the Templars, my Lord." Malik said indignantly.
"In the service of my predecessor," the Master pointed out.
"In the service of the Brotherhood!" Malik snapped. Yet again he became aware of that dark and dangerous undercurrent to their conversation. He was teetering on a narrow bridge above the river, and there were crocodiles below. He temporized. "Allow me to go, I beg of you. Montferrat's men are vigilant and well equipped, but they will not suspect a one-armed man. As you so rightly say, a cripple has no place in war."
And there, he thought. I have swallowed my pride. I hope Altaïr is grateful.
The Master studied him for a moment. He picked up a small knife from the clutter of books and manuscripts on the desk. He tossed it from hand to hand for a moment.
Showing off, Malik thought.
The Master raised his arm and flung the knife at Malik.
It was not a dangerous blow. Had Malik stood motionless, it would have passed harmlessly over his right shoulder. Instead he sidestepped, raised his hand and plucked the dagger from the air. He flipped the knife over and offered it hilt-first to the Master.
The Master smiled.
He took the dagger from Malik and tossed it carelessly amidst the clutter on his desk. "Very well," he said. "You may go. But remember that I did not ask this of you."
"Very well, my Lord."
"Then we shall speak again in Paradise."
So it is true, Malik thought. He intends this as a suicide mission. He placed his right hand over his heart and bowed. "Safety and peace to the Brotherhood."
Nasr raised his right hand in salutation. "Safety and peace to you, Malik. Go with God."
Malik bowed and withdrew.
The afternoon prayer was nearly over before he reached the barracks for the second time that day. The corridors were deserted. Malik opened Altaïr's door and found the fidai in the same position as he had left him, sharpening a long dagger. He glanced up at Malik as he entered.
"How went your meeting with Nasr?"
"It was successful. I'm to go with you to Acre. The Master himself commands it."
Altaïr's expression was almost worth the prospect of certain death. Malik had rarely seen the Assassin at a loss.
"But you..." Altaïr paused and nearly dropped the dagger before restarting his sentence. "You cannot fight."
"I acquitted myself well in the struggle against Al-Mualim. Or have you forgotten?"
"You cannot climb." Altair said bluntly. The comment reminded Malik of Nasr's remarks.
"Then you disdain me as a cripple also?" he said furiously.
"I did not say that."
"You have killed the father, Altaïr. Now let us kill the son together. We are just two men, but even pebbles can create a landslide."
"Your arm..." Altaïr muttered. He ran his thumb along the blade. Satisfied, he sheathed the dagger.
"Speak out loud, Altaïr. The Master at least made no secret of his contempt for crippled men." He gestured towards Altaïr with the stump of his missing limb. "Were it not for you, I would still have my arm."
"Maybe." Anger ignited in Altaïr's eyes. "But had you not retrieved the Eden fragment from the Temple of Solomon, it would never have reached the hands of the Grand Master."
Malik's voice did not rise above a whisper, but its edge could have cut steel. "Then the relic would still be in the hands of the Crusaders." He sighed. "And if you had listened to me in the Temple, you would have learned of Al-Mualim's plans too late. Let us not chew over dry bones, Altaïr. The truth is that you and I are tasked with the assassination of Montferrat. Whether it pleases you, or not."
"It does not. You should not have interfered, my brother. "
Malik sank down onto the weapons chest. "Things cannot stay as they are, Altaïr. Nasr will destroy you. With Kamal you have no hope of escaping Acre. With me at your back, you have a chance at least. Gain the Master's trust. Return to the Brotherhood and forget your map! Forget the Eden fragment. You should have thrown it into the gorge while you had the chance." His voice trailed to a halt. "The gorge..."
"You cannot do it, either." Altair said from his seat on the bed. "To me it speaks of power. To you, knowledge. It knows its targets well."
Malik felt a trickle of sweat snake down his spine. "I told you it was dangerous!"
"Indeed. We should protect the remaining pieces. Bring them into our custody."
"Only those accessible to us." Malik said. "If we cannot reach the pieces, they will be forbidden to the Templars. We should start with those nearby." He shook his head. "But I speak nonsense. You should inform the Master."
"You think that he will listen?"
"I know that he will not. But if you slay Conrad, our folk will support you. Nasr will find it much harder to oppose you."
"That is true."Altaïr said meditatively. "Then let us kill the king."
"You make it sound easy."
"It usually is."
'You exaggerate. I though Al-Mualim had stolen some of your arrogance. Now I find it is intact."
Altaïr shrugged. "He is a king, Malik. But first he is a man. And a man we can kill."
"He's an extremely well armed man." Malik snapped. He had been in charge of Altaïr's missions for long enough that it galled him to have the plans taken out of his hands. And he had enjoyed feeding Altaïr little pieces of information, taunting him, making him work for every last shred of respect...
Malik sighed. Maybe it was time to let go of his prejudices. "And extremely lucky, too. Ibn al'Athir was at the siege of Tyre four years ago. He named Montferrat a devil incarnate in his ability to defend a town, and a man of extraordinary courage."
"You have spoken with this man?"
"I have read his book."
Altaïr shrugged. "I have heard of Conrad from men who have met him in person. He has forty-five years, yet is still strong and well favored."
"That is true." Malik agreed. "He resides in Acre with his wife Isabella, a lady of whom he is most fond. He often visits the bishop of Beauvais, who lives nearby"
Altair steepled his hands. "The streets of that quarter are narrow. They lend themselves easily to an attack."
Malik shook his head. "Conrad is heavily guarded at all times. In addition, the Crusaders have driven the Bureau out of Acre. We will have to find shelter where we can. It is an unenviable situation, but it will have to do."
"It will. We leave tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Malik was startled. "So soon?"
"As the Master wishes." Altaïr said sarcastically. "You should leave now, Malik. It grows late." He smiled, a flash of startling white in the darkness of the shabby cell. "Rest, prepare, cry in the corner...do whatever it is you do before a mission. But make sure you do it quietly."
Malik smiled ruefully. "Do not mock me. Remember that your life may depend on my blade."
"I think that your life is more likely to depend on my sword."
Malik withheld further comment. "Safety and peace, my brother."
"We'll meet outside the southern gate at dawn." Altaïr said, as he closed the cell door behind Malik.
Part Two follows...
