The Secret Crusade

13

‘Garnier de Naplouse is dead,’ he had told Al Mualim, days later.

‘Excellent.’ The Master had nodded approvingly. ‘We could not have hoped for a more agreeable outcome.’

‘And yet…’ started Altair.

‘What is it?’

‘The doctor insisted his work was noble,’ said Altair. ‘And, looking back, of those who were supposedly his captives, many seemed grateful to him. Not all of them, but enough to make me wonder… How did he manage to turn enemy into friend?’

Al Mualim had chuckled. ‘Leaders will always find ways to make others obey them. And that is what makes them leaders. When words fail, they turn to coin. When that won’t do, they resort to baser things: bribes, threats and other types of trickery. There are plants, Altair – herbs from distant lands – that can cause a man to take leave of his senses. So great are the pleasures they bring that men may even become enslaved by them.’

Altair nodded, thinking of the glazed patients. The crazy man. ‘You think these men were drugged, then? Poisoned?’

‘Yes, if it truly was as you describe it,’ Al Mualim said. ‘Our enemies have accused me of the same.’

Then he had given Altair his next task, and Altair had wondered why the Master smiled when he told him to complete his enquiries then report to the Assassins’ Bureau rafiq in Jerusalem.

Now, walking into the Bureau, he knew why. It was because it amused him to think of Altair once more crossing paths with Malik.

The Assassin stood up from behind the desk as Altair entered. For a moment the two regarded each other, neither hiding his disdain. Then, slowly, Malik turned, showing Altair where his arm had once been.

Altair blanched. Of course. Damaged in the fight with de Sable’s men, the best surgeons in Masyaf had been unable to save Malik’s left arm – and so had been forced to amputate.

Malik smiled the bittersweet smile of victory that had come at too high a price, and Altair remembered himself. He remembered that he had no business treating Malik with anything but humility and respect. He bowed his head to acknowledge the other man’s losses. His brother. His arm. His status.

‘Safety and peace, Malik,’ he said at last.

‘Your presence here deprives me of both,’ spat Malik. He, however, had plenty of business treating Altair with disdain – and evidently intended to do so. ‘What do you want?’

‘Al Mualim has asked -’

‘That you perform some task in an effort to redeem yourself?’ sneered Malik. ‘So. Out with it. What have you learned?’

‘This is what I know,’ answered Altair. ‘The target is Talal, who traffics in human lives, kidnapping Jerusalem’s citizens and selling them into slavery. His base is a warehouse located inside the barbican north of here. As we speak, he prepares a caravan for travel. I’ll strike while he’s inspecting his stock. If I can avoid his men, Talal himself should prove little challenge.’

Malik curled his lip. ‘ “Little challenge”? Listen to you. Such arrogance.’

Silently Altair rebuked himself. Malik was right. He thought of the orator in Damascus whom he had misjudged and who had almost bested him.

‘Are we finished?’ he asked, showing none of his thoughts to Malik. ‘Are you satisfied with what I’ve learned?’

‘No,’ said Malik, handing Altair the feather, ‘but it will have to do.’

Altair nodded. He looked at where Malik’s sleeve hung loose and was about to say something before he realized that no words would atone for his failures. He had cost Malik too much ever to hope for forgiveness from him.

Instead, he turned and left the Bureau. Another target was to feel the kiss of his blade.