nothing is true, but everything is permitted...well, almost....

[communi_kate]

 
The Favour of Heaven, part 2

Malik arrived at the palisade early the next morning. The sun was a dim glow below the horizon. It was dark enough that the oil-lamps already burning in some houses cast a warm light. The air was pleasantly cool, although it would grow much hotter later. It was very quiet.

Altaïr waited just outside the gates.  He rode a grey horse and held the reins of a smaller, spotted grey. "You are ready?" he asked.

Malik nodded.  He took the reins from Altaïr and turned to his new mount. The horse rolled its eyes and snapped at Malik with yellow teeth like tombstones. The Assassin regarded it warily. He gathered up the reins in his good right hand and grabbed the saddlebow.  The horse attempted to bite him again as he tightened its girth, but Malik had faced fiercer foes. He dodged easily, fitted his left foot in the stirrup and dragged himself aboard the horse. It quieted immediately as he gathered up the reins. 

They turned the horses and set off along the narrow gorge that led from Masyaf. Their horses' hooves splashed through a narrow stream that would become a river in winter time.  Crows swooped from the towering cliffs on either side.  Malik thought he saw a movement high up in the rock, but he ignored it. At least the new Master had continued the tradition of guarding the pass.

"You ride well." Altaïr said.

"I was riding horses before you had slain your first victim." Malik told him. It was not exactly true; he had always been an indifferent rider.  He kicked the horse in the ribs, using more force than strictly necessary. The horse whipped around and sank its teeth into the toe of Malik's right boot.

"I detest it all," he said once he had stopped cursing. "The stink, the loss of control, the flighty nature of the beasts." He yanked the horse back as it snatched at an oleander twig. "They are stupid beasts. If Crusaders were horses, Sayf-al-din could sit back and let them eat themselves to death."

"It is a pity," Altaïr agreed. His steed ambled placidly along on a loose rein. The Masyaf stables had not wasted valuable animals on men whom nobody expected to return.   As his horse coughed bronchitically and hacked up a gobbet of hay-stained phlegm, Malik wondered cynically if it would move faster than a walk. He doubted it.

He brooded until their horses passed under the ruined arches that marked the end of Masyaf's road, wrapped in a black mood that refused to lift.

If my faith was stronger, he thought, I would not fear death. He looked down at the shabby coat of his mount. And if I was more loyal to the Order, then I would not be aboard this thrice-damned horse... 

He sighed. "Do you think we will succeed?

Altaïr frowned beneath his hood. "The Christians would say that God will decide the truth of it. I remember Richard speaking of their trial by combat the day I killed de Sable.  They say that God chooses the victor."

"Does God wish Montferrat to die beneath our blades?" Malik asked curiously.

"You ask the wrong man." Altaïr said. "It is the Master who desires Montferrat's death." He snorted. "Nasr knows nothing."

"He is not wise. Not yet. But he is still the leader of the Brotherhood."

"And I am loyal to the Brotherhood!" Altaïr protested. "Save your doubts, Malik. I know the Creed. But the best way to preserve the Assassins is to keep the Templars from the Eden pieces."

"And the best way to convince Nasr of that is to do his bidding well."

"This I do."

The horse stumbled. Malik cursed, lost his reins, gathered them up and urged the horse on with more force than was strictly necessary. "If Nasr was a stronger leader I would have turned you in."

Altaïr, as usual, had the last word. "And if Al Mualim was still our Master he would have cut both our throats by now!"

Malik shrugged. He hunched aboard his horse and held his tongue.

They reached Acre three days later, approaching with a group of monks towards the eastern gate.

The midday sun was a test of endurance. The air shimmered with heat and sweat streaked the ragged necks of their horses.  They halted a few village-lengths from the city and left the horses with some peasants for a few copper dirhams.  

"You'll treat him well?" Malik asked as he took the saddle packs from his mount.

The peasant nodded vigorously. "A horse such as this one, master? Of course?"

"Don't bother." Malik said. He tossed the man a coin and aimed a kick at the horse, which it dodged. 

They concealed their weapons beneath scholarly robes and washed their faces and hands in the horses' water-trough before rejoining the monks.  

Acre squatted on the seashore before them.

The remnants of palisades clung to the rocks on either side of the path. Stakes jutted menacingly into the air, relics of the previous year's siege where Richard the Lionheart had slaughtered over two thousand men.  The fields gave way to raw and ravaged earth studded with rubble and thick with ash.  Malik muttered a prayer beneath his breath as they walked with clasped hands amongst the monks.

They followed the scholars into Acre, and the guards made way for them to pass.  The gate yawned above them, wide as a demon's maw.  Two guards flanked the inner wall, their gazes passing disinterestedly over the monks' bowed heads. They wore black tabards over chain mail, and sweated nearly as much as the horses.

"Crusaders." Altaïr muttered. "Dangerous."

"At least there is no Eden orb for them to steal this time."

"Nevertheless."

They navigated their way to Acre's heartland, following Altaïr's knowledge of the city and Malik's recollection of a map that he had found in one of Nasr's books.   As they travelled deeper into the wealthy quarter the old Arabic buildings were replaced by brand-new Norman homes.  Malik did not like the style.

Jerusalem, he thought, is more harmonious and pleasing to the eye.

He ran his hand over a massive stone block as they walked past. The stones were as tall as Malik himself and unclimbable, even to a man with both arms.  The houses gleamed grey in the harsh sun rather than soft mud-brown, and they were sharp-edged where Jerusalem's buildings were pleasantly curved. Piles of discarded mud bricks lay to each side of the path in testament to the dwellings that had been replaced.

"I do not like this town," he told Altaïr. He kept his voice low, so as not to be detected. Even the Arabic voices around him were tainted with a strange accent.  It was the language of the Crusaders.  

"It is a Crusader city," Altaïr said. "We are not welcome here." He brushed past a Frankish maiden, her blond hair carefully coifed in nets of gold filigree.

"Our women are more beautiful," Malik whispered.

 Altaïr wrinkled his nose as a soldier clanked by in full chain mail. "And we do not smell so strongly."

"There is always an exception, my brother." Malik hissed. He caught a snatch of muttered conversation from a guard across the street and slid to an abrupt halt."Wait..." He dug a hand into a merchant's sack of grain and let it trickle through his fingers as if testing the quality.

The guard carried on his conversation, oblivious to the Assassins' scrutiny."...custards and comfits, I'll be bound! The lord Bishop boasts the best table in Acre. Feasts almost every night.'

"And tonight?"

"No exception.  They'll hold the accolade tonight, in the cathedral. The squires will kneel at prayer all night while the Bishop dines with Conrad in his palace."

"He does not stint himself," his companion said disapprovingly.

"Would you, given the opportunity?"

"I am not a man of God!"

"You missed your vocation, then! Wine and woman every night, if I had my way..."

"As if you ever will!"

The conversation degenerated into insults. Malik held a hand up to dismiss the stallholder and the Assassins walked hastily in the opposite direction to the guard. They climbed a ladder to the rooftop and rested in the shade of a deserted roof garden. Light the color of gold dirhams cut its latticed walls into sharp patterns of sun and shade relief.

"The Bishop plans a feast," Altaïr said thoughtfully.

"It appears that our quarry enjoys his food."

"The guards should have their hands full with the ceremony. They will not detect our presence." Altair said. He glanced at the busy street below them. It resembled the lowest circle of Hell, but it was merely the domain of Acre's blacksmiths. The stink of warm steel mingled with the scent of burning hoof-horn. Steam billowed from the fountains as the smiths tempered their weapons. A dozen horses tethered to long hitching-posts at either end of the street patiently awaited their turn.

"They forge their swords to cut our throats." Malik muttered.

"Not just swords." Altaïr gestured at the horses. "Horseshoes, too. They did not ride in this city last time I was here."

"There is no point." Malik said. "The streets are too narrow. They would gallop through the town until they reached a blind alley, and then they would gallop back. They will not be a problem if we keep to the roofs."

Altaïr pulled his hood over his head against the sun. "We'll strike outside the palace and run into the alleys."

"Then I shall move the ladders so we can easily escape along the rooftops."

"You think that will be enough?"

"I hope it will. Some may be missed, but others will remain."

"I know of an abandoned garden in the west quarter."Altaïr said. His face was unreadable underneath his ragged hood. "Without the Bureau, it would be a good place to hide."

"Can it be reached by rooftop?"

"Certainly. I will take you. It's not far away. "

"Let's see it then." Malik said.

He expected the refuge to be barely habitable, but it was solid enough and not a bad place to spend a day or two. A tiny garden, forgotten when two of the buildings to its back were renovated in the Norman style, it was large enough for two men, and not a bad place to hide. The twisted branches of scented orange-trees hid the small space from any vantage point. The fountain still functioned, although its water was brackish. Its drain provided an extra escape-route into the sewers of the city.

"And the Crusaders will not find us there."  Altaïr said.

They stole beggar's robes and bags of dried dates and hung them in pouches from the branches of the trees. The disguises would not stand up to prolonged scrutiny-Altaïr did not make a good peasant, and Malik was easily noticeable with his missing arm- but they might be enough.

 They spent the rest of the hot afternoon moving ladders.   The route they planned was clear enough in the bright sun, but Malik could not help wondering how effective it would be in the dark of night, with a dozen vengeful Crusaders on their tail. He was not frightened of dying, but he feared what might come to him before he died. The knights were not known for their mercy. The graves of Acre's murdered garrison outside the city wall stood in silent testimonial to the Crusaders' ruthlessness.   

Evening found the Assassins sprawled on the roof of Acre's great cathedral. The shadow of the steeple spread over the city like a giant sundial, casting the districts below into premature dusk. The sun sank below the horizon like liquid gold. Acre's reservoirs shaded to amber.  The sky darkened to a deep blue edged with the darker silhouette of the hills that surrounded the city on two sides.

Malik shifted. "These Christian tiles hold the sun's heat well." He tilted his head. Singing sweet as birds drifted up from the vaulted roof below them.  It was completely unlike Arabic music, yet pleasing to Malik's ears. "Did you hear that?"

Altaïr, sprawled on the tiles beside Malik, did not even bother to lift his head. "They worship their God. Have you not heard it before?"

"Never like this. It's beautiful."

Altaïr snorted. "Your books have addled your brain, friend."

Malik turned his head. Altaïr was a pale shadow against the darker slate of the roof. "You call me friend, Altaïr. Will you say the salat-al-janazah for me?"

Altaïr's silhouette was motionless. "You will find Paradise without a prayer if our cause is just."

Malik looked at him. "But I am not sure that it is," he said eventually. The singing had stopped. 

Altaïr shrugged. "Prayer or not, you will not die tonight." He looked down at the Templars that thronged the square below and seemed to reconsider. "But if you do, I will ensure that you die in a state of grace."

Malik felt a sense of peace steal over him. "I do not care if I die."

"Nor I. But we will meet in Paradise."

"You are more likely to find yourself in Hell, my friend."

Altaïr snorted. He rolled over onto his belly and looked down at the crowd that gathered outside the cathedral.  The singing had stopped. The crowds were leaving the young squires to their lonely vigil. "Paradise or no," he said, "the Christians' God resides beneath our feet. The Templars make their knights today."

"You have seen the ceremony?" Malik asked curiously.

"No. You?"

"I have read of it." Malik said. "It is said that they strike their young men with a sword, and tell them that that is the last time they may face such a blow without retaliating."

"Not so different from our own initiation."

"Most do not lack in honor," Malik looked down at his missing limb. "That does not make me like them any more."

"Indeed." Altaïr said grimly. "But wait. I see a movement."

Malik peered over his shoulder. He saw the crowds split down the centre. A figure left the church, flanked by a dozen well-armed knights. As they watched, he swung onto a horse and turned with impressive dignity down the walkway that marked the east side of the cathedral side.

"Montferrat approaches," Malik said. "It is time."

"Good luck, my friend."

"And to you," Malik replied as they began to make their way down to the rooftops.

Down below, beside the walls of the great cathedral, a party of soldiers began their journey in torchlight.  Enthusiastic at the prospect of a good meal in the Bishop's household, they did not tarry.

The warm night was already scented with the aromas of other households' feasts, so juicy and sharp that they made Malik's mouth water from above. As they moved closer, jumping from roof to roof, he could see the glimmer of the flames as they reflected from chainmail and the polished steel of the Templar's helmets. He crouched low as they crept down the steep pitch of a tiled Norman roof. A small merchant's quarter of Arabic buildings separated Conrad and his retinue from the palace. Malik and Altaïr had chosen it as the place to launch their attack.

Malik followed the pale silhouette of Altaïr's robe along a low hanging bridge that joined two shops. The soldiers walked along the street behind them. He listened for the shout that would mark their discovery, but none came.

We shall not fail.

He glanced behind him. Firelight rippled from the coat of Conrad's horse. He was very close.

Their target chatted as he rode, leaning down from his horse to make some comment to one of his retinue. Altaïr crouched beside Malik like a hawk, peering down on the soldiers below as the first helmet passed directly beneath them.

Almost...

Malik turned his gaze back to the street. Three soldiers of Conrad's personal guard passed underneath the bridge.  The pricked ears of Conrad's charger followed.

Malik leapt.

He landed neatly between the mailed back of the last guard and the horse's head. The charger, trained for the battlefield, snorted to a halt as Malik grabbed its bridle but it did not rear. Malik heard the sharp intake of Conrad's breath as Altaïr landed on the horse's rump behind him. Had Conrad been an Arab lord, the impact would have knocked him from his horse and he would have probably escaped. As it was, Conrad's heavy, padded saddle held him in place as Altaïr drew a knife across his quarry's throat.  It was a fine, deep cut. The expression in Conrad's eyes turned to profound surprise. Blood spilled from his mouth.  He gurgled, his eyes turned glassy, and then he toppled from his horse. The horse reared up, whinnying.

It was all over in a few heartbeats. 

The soldiers behind had not yet realized anything amiss by the time Altaïr slid from the charger's back. Once he was clear Malik struck the horse sharply across its sensitive nose. It barreled into the soldiers behind and sent them sprawling.  The single soldier astute or lucky enough to dodge its flailing hooves stood with his back against the wall, sword loose in his hand.  He started at Altaïr and Malik as if they were demons sent from hell.

Conrad's body sprawled limply in the dust. Altaïr crouched over it. His fingers jabbed under the jaw for a pulse. Satisfied, he brushed a hand down the corpse's face so quickly that Malik barely saw the movement.

"To arms!" somebody howled, "To arms! Our lord Conrad has been slain!"

Malik did not wait for more.

He ducked under the sword of a Crusader who had kept rather more of his common sense than his fellows. Altaïr vanished down a narrow alley. Malik followed him.

Behind them a guard shouted for help. The clamor grew as people hurried to assist.  More joined the hunt. As news spread around the district, the great cathedral bell began to toll. A few seconds later, Malik saw the first of the beacons ignite on the great walls. 

"We need to gain the roof!" Altaïr shouted.

Malik gritted his teeth. None of the ladders he had so carefully placed that afternoon were in sight. He jumped onto a pile of merchant's crates without slowing.  The crates were stacked in a triangle pattern, head-high. From the top of the pile it was a short leap to a crossbeam. The lantern tied to the end of the beam bobbed as Malik jumped to another crossbeam, using the momentum to leap onto a hanging bridge that finally brought him to the level of the roof.

He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that the Crusaders had reached the end of the street. Moonlight glinted from their mail. It shone on the tiled roofs in front of the Assassins, and for a few minutes it was as if they raced on water.

"I had forgotten the glory of the hunt." Malik panted.

"Run faster, and you will live to remember it." Altaïr retorted. He did not sound particularly worried.

"It is not I who should be running faster!"

They came to a break in the roofs. Malik hurled himself over it. The impact jarred his body as he landed and he staggered to the side just as a crossbow bolt shattered the tiles where he had been standing.

"Archers!"

Altair nodded and raced on, cutting a course parallel to the walls of the great cathedral. Malik followed. He expected a crossbow bolt to bury itself in his shoulder at any minute, but none came.  He caught a movement ahead as quarrels clattered down around him, and angled to the right. Altaïr doubled back and gained on him slowly, his bloodstained robe a white blur in the moonlight. A void yawned ahead. Malik dredged the map he'd stolen from his memories. A small square, he remembered, with a fountain in the centre.

The space was a black pit in front of him. The cries of their pursuers reached a pitch behind him.  They were confident that they had the Assassins trapped.

Malik reached the end of the last rooftop and jumped out into space.

It was fortunate that he had remembered the location of the hanging walkways which the Crusaders used as scaffolding. As it was he barely made it; the platform swung as his body impacted heavily with the planks. It knocked the wind out of him. There was a thud as Altaïr landed to his right. Sinewy fingers locked around Malik's wrist and dragged him onto the precarious platform.

"Hurry!"

Malik made for the rooftop opposite as quickly as he could manage. They dropped from that roof into the alley beyond and took shelter on the overhanging roof of a building, that, to judge from the appealing scent drifting from it, was a bakery during daylight hours.  The sky above was unnaturally bright. Malik knew that the Crusaders had finished lighting the city's beacons.

Altaïr smiled, a grin of pure pleasure in the chase.

"We lost them?" Malik breathed, half question, half-prayer.

"Quiet!" Altaïr hissed. Malik heard another voice behind his, harsher, deeper, and much less welcome.

"We shall catch the murderers. God wills it!"

Malik could smell the stink of a pitch-stained torch. The Crusaders turned the corner, searching every foot of the street below them. Baskets were split open, produce tossed to the four corners of the earth, stalls ransacked. Unsurprisingly, the search failed to reveal any Assassins.

"Nothing will come of this," somebody said below them, "They are long gone."

I wish that we were, thought Malik high above them.

The glow of the torch reached their hideout. The flames licked up, higher than the roof, high enough that Malik could have reached out and touched the flame, had he been extremely reckless. The torch wavered for a second...wavered, and drifted past.

Malik exhaled. Altaïr, crouched behind him, shifted minutely. It was a small movement, but it showered down dust from the roof on the helmets of the Crusaders.

The torch snapped back, closer this time. Malik's pupils contracted painfully.

"There's someone up there!"

They scrambled to their feet, bringing more clay fragments down upon the Crusaders.

"They're getting away!"

The Crusaders could not have heard the Assassins' fleeing footsteps over the noise they themselves were making, but there were enough soldiers that it did not matter.  The very stones of Acre seemed to sprout mailed men with drawn swords, and no sooner had they hidden than they were found again.  Malik was breathing heavily by the time they reached a street they recognized.

"I have been too long in the library, my friend," Malik panted.

"Save your breath." Altaïr retorted. "Now is not the time for apologies. Now is the time to flee."

"I am!"

"Then run faster!"

But running faster, it seemed, was not enough.  Alleys seemed narrower and less inviting, rooftops more slippery. The courtyards came less frequently and each climb to the rooftops was harder than the one before.

They reached the gabled roof of a church, sprinting as they ran closer to the poor quarter and the hidden garden. Malik was already thinking of the best way to reach the garden when he jumped out around the gable.  The next building was further away than he had expected. He hurled himself across the alley. A flat roof stretched invitingly in front of him.

He could not reach it.

Malik hit the wall with the palm of one outstretched hand. He thought he felt the edge of a gutter with the tip of his fingers, but it slid away as if oiled, and there were no other holds. His fingertips skimmed painfully down the rough stone. There was a small window ledge not far below that broke his fall, but he was not expecting it, and it did nothing apart from push him away from the wall. He landed in the street a few feet below and rolled onto his back. The pain in his ribs was agonizing.

The first thing he saw when he raised his head was firelight gleaming from Crusader shields.. To be continued...