Chapter Text
The red pennants of Masyaf flapped in the breeze, held aloft under the afternoon sun. It warmed the stones of the fortress, the heat reflecting onto Malik’s face through the window of the Master’s study, soaking into his new, black over-robes.
In the distance a pale shape was outlined against the sky – hood shifting with the wind, crimson sash a flutter against the bright blue. A man, standing alone at the very edge of the eastern tower’s rooftop, poised above the sheer drop of the valley far below; body both firm against the pull of air and almost seeming to give to it, becoming one with it.
Malik’s eyes traced over the familiar shape of him, of Altair returned once more to Masyaf. It was a sight he had become attuned to in the recent weeks, had grown to watch for… and one that he’d been missing.
“– De Burgundy has been seen returning to Jaffa, we should remove this crusader Duke, before he can gather greater influence and cause more damage.” The voice pulled Malik out of his thoughts, dragging his eyes from the window to the middle aged scholar in front of him. Not alone, a few of the Order’s more experienced Da’i sat around the open space of the Master’s study, opposite the aged, map-strewn table that now served as Malik’s desk.
At the scholar’s words, another – Da’i Hashem Al-Kufa – leant forwards over his walking stick and lifted a small, clay message tube in agreement, “The reports from the Da’i of Jaffa indicate what is at stake. The pressures of the encamped crusader army lie heavy on the citizens, and Duke Burgundy has already proven himself a callous and dangerous leader.” The old man’s mouth thinned as he continued, “Too much of Jaffa’s produce is seized under tariff, and the traders and fishermen are forced to raise their prices in order to survive – the port town cannot last much longer under such a man.”
“The threat to Jaffa is undeniable,” Malik agreed after a moment, “With the English King marching south to Ascalon, the Duke’s power within the port city lies unchecked.”
He let his gaze rest on the elder for a second. It felt like only yesterday their positions had been reversed, when Malik had worked beneath him – and indeed most of these Da’is in various bureaus across the Holy Land. Apparently earning himself a reputation as an intelligent, dutiful, and above all rational assassin.
It was that, along with his and Altair’s actions during the Master’s betrayal, which had somehow earned him the title of Grandmaster in the quiet election following Al Mualim’s death. He hadn’t expected it… but perhaps he could understand it; the council of Da’i in confused disarray after the betrayal, and the position of Grandmaster volatile and uncertain. So a less obvious choice had been made. A master assassin elevated instead.
An honour of course, but Malik had seen it for the test it was, the unenviable task set on his shoulders alone… but the burden of responsibility was one he’d gladly bear if it meant sparing Altair the weights and fetters of the position, its invisible chains. So he’d accepted the offer, and then had carefully selected and recalled various senior Da’i to Masyaf; advisors to complete the gaps in his knowledge… and one or two dissenters to be kept close under his eye.
Another of the old Da’i shifted in his seat, voice creaking slightly, teeth yellowed with age but eyes bright and thoughtful. “The succession of leadership is not yet confirmed, but the one known as Henry of Champagne is considered a likely candidate; allegiance recently turned to the Lionheart – his uncle. He is known to be a more thoughtful, more logistically minded man.” He paused, knuckled hand smoothing over the edge of his black and white djellaba, then added, “If we wait a short time for the pieces to move, he will almost certainly be confirmed as successor when Burgundy falls.”
“Stability will serve Jaffa well,” Malik nodded. He leant forwards, tapping a finger to the largest and most carefully detailed map laid out across the desk, “Since the battle at Arsuf, the war has become more complicated, more fractured.” His finger skirted the lines of sea, then inland across the plains and mountains, dragging from Acre to Damascus then down to Jerusalem, “Soldiers spread further afield, harrying the common citizens. Mercenaries descend from the northern principalities; Usama Ibn Munqidh's company from Shayzar and those of Al Mansur from Homs. Both are ambitious, looking to gain influence where they can.” He felt the weight of the words as he spoke them, the strife that existed just beyond their borders, threatening to expand and swallow them too.
The scholar gave a quick nod, adding on, “Indeed. Ibn Munqidh’s company attacked Afamiyya not long ago; burnt its surrounding townships to the ground and took its citadel. His men alone have been seen as far south as Acre, and our informants have reported difficulties travelling on the main roads. These are dangerous times, with so many soldiers afoot; on edge and paranoid.”
Malik let his gaze linger over the map, frown deepening on his brow. The other, perhaps more insidious threat they had been tracing remained in his mind. “The Templar’s position along the coast should also be noted. Altair’s latest report on their movements was concerning.” – He resisted the urge to look back out the window, yearning for another glimpse – “They seem to be gathering their forces, though for what we do not yet know. Have we any further accounts on their activities?”
“Our Eagle has given us an edge,” The scholar leant in a little further, a soft awe-like glint lingering behind his eyes before he blinked and continued, “But I am afraid few other of our Fida’i have been able to move as easily within our enemy’s walls.”
And that was something else that had changed… Altair’s position shifting alongside Malik’s, though no vote had been involved; the Asāsiyyūn knew who had truly saved Masyaf in the wake of Al Mualim’s betrayal, and who had held the most to lose in doing so. Those who had before seen Altair simply as the blade in Al Mualim hand; a mere object of their Master’s will – now saw him as something different, a leader. Someone worthy of a different kind of fealty.
Malik had become their head, but the Eagle had become something more – a symbol of the freedom the Asāsiyyūn fought for. The heart of their creed.
The scholar seemed to shake himself, tone of voice levelling out again, “We do know this however, since Garnier de Naplouse’s death, the Templar’s relationship with the Hospitaliers weakens – but their association with the Teutonics is only being reinforced. They sponsor their bid to form a full papal order, and so negotiate their support.” He paused, then added, “Master Fida’i Akeem should return to Masyaf today; escorting an informant from Jaffa. I trust we will have more information then.”
Malik let his eyes pass over the shelves of letters and reports, the racks of message tubes, the sweeping lines of ink below his hand. “After De Sablé’s betrayal was revealed, Richard would have appointed the position of Grandmaster to someone he believed unconnected. This Gilbert Horal seems to have none of the same ambitions of his predecessor,” he said, frowning down at the map. “Even so, he recalls many of their number to Jaffa, consolidates their possessions in France and Apulia, and now makes a bid to King Richard for the isle of Cyprus.” His finger tapped the parchment, sharp and deliberate “They are consolidating power.”
There was a quiet murmur amongst the gathered Da’is, broken only by a sudden, soft shuffle at the edge of the open space. Malik turned his head to see Rauf, the sword master still a little sweaty and dusty from the training yard with the new novices.
“Grandmaster,” he lifted a fist to his chest in a quick salute.
Malik gave a nod at the title, ignoring the remnants of the odd, un-balanced feeling it still sometimes left in his chest – the long shadow at his back, “Go ahead, Rauf.”
“The Eagle has returned,” Rauf bowed briefly to the rest of the gathered company, before his eyes landed back on Malik, his expression easing into something less formal, “I believe he waits in the Masters’ quarters.”
The other Da’is and scholars in the room relaxed back into their chairs, the air losing tension as they shuffled, waiting for the expected dismissal. Malik stood, steadfastly ignoring his own predictability.
“Thank you,” he turned to acknowledge the assembled, “We can return to this matter in the evening. Burgundy must be dealt with. I will send a master assassin to Jaffa to strike once Henry of Champagne’s position is more secure – this at least is decided.”
He gave a final nod, and left the study, striding quickly out along the great hall mezzanine. The dark cloth of the Grandmaster’s over-robe swished around his calves as he moved, only subtly more ornate than those worn by the Dai’s. It was not quite as heavy as the dark colour made it appear, though it held a different weight – one that Malik was still growing accustomed to.
Out of habit, his feet took him on a short detour down to the keep’s kitchens, the cool, dim space half empty at this time of day; a moment of peace as he gathered a small plate then selected some of the ripe mandarin and persimmon from the basket near the garden door. Letting his hands work as his mind turned. Altair had returned sooner than expected, that at least had been a reassurance, his latest target – a Templar spy poised to murder a number of citizens and sow seeds of disruption, removed successfully from Ascalon. They’d been making some progress, it was true, but too often it felt like smothering embers rather than dousing a flame…
He tucked his offering close and headed back up through the castle, footsteps quickening until he found himself at the door to the small set of rooms that overlooked the gardens. These were the Master’s quarters, and though they had once belonged to Al Mualim, the man had rarely used them in the later years, instead spending the majority of his time in the spartan set of rooms close to his study.
Altair too, Malik had discovered, had slept in one of the small, bare rooms at that end of the castle. Though of course that wasn’t where he’d lived; he’d lived bound tight to Al Mualim’s arm, one step behind the old man’s shoulder – a weapon always ready to be drawn. Held to an impossible standard and punished bitterly for any weakness; for any failure or injury.
The metal edge of the plate bit into Malik’s palm, and he breathed out, slow and steady until his fingers loosened again. That time was over. Altair had torn free of his binds and Al Mualim was gone; nothing more than dust and memory.
He shook himself and pushed open the door. Eyes immediately alighting on the figure nestled into the small window alcove, pale robes a focal point amongst the cushions, leg pulled up so he could turn and gaze out through the decoratively carved wooden screen. A pattern of soft, warm sunlight fell across Altair’s face; tiny stars and triangles that shifted as he moved; highlighting the curve of his cheekbone beneath his hood, the line of his jaw and the edge of the small, pale scar over his lips.
Something he hadn’t even been aware of eased in Malik’s chest at the sight of him near, and he let his eyes track over Altair’s form, held with his usual grace and poise. A hunter at rest. Still, a shadow of tiredness could be seen beneath his eyes, the light dirt and the grain of hard riding lingering around the edges of his neck and hairline, where they had been missed by whatever quick wash he’d had on his return.
Despite it, the light his golden eyes was bright and clear as he shifted to face Malik, the leather blindfold that had once covered them burned to ashes alongside the old Master’s body. The sight of those sharp, unbound eyes still filled Malik with a unique warmth, an emotion he could not fully place.
“You made good time,” Malik shook himself to speak, and drawn as always closer crossed to Altair’s side. “I only received Da’i al-Ruwallah’s pigeon yesterday, you had no trouble on the roads?”
“None of significance,” Altair’s voice was soft under the warm afternoon light, fingers brushing Malik’s he accepted the plate of fruit, corners of his mouth turning up slightly at the now familiar offering. He was still wearing his hidden blade, but the glove on his right hand had been removed, leaving skin bare. “How went the meeting with the Da’is?”
Malik shrugged, “Jaffa grows restless, as expected. With the kings of England and France both gone, the remaining crusader lords bicker viciously amongst themselves, and the Duke continues to pressure the citizens who remain.” He stretched out his stiff shoulders, then leant more comfortably against the window-frame, “I have agreed to send an assassin for him.”
Altair nodded seriously, pausing for a second as he balanced the plate on his lap, fingers beginning to part the skin of a mandarin, “His removal will be good for Jaffa. The port cannot hold with him in power. Not without more pain and bloodshed.”
This close, the shadows beneath Altair’s eyes were clearer, and for just a second Malik was brought back to the weeks following Al Mualim’s death; how often he’d found Altair secluded in these rooms, curled against the window and staring blankly out at the ragged mountains. Malik hovering in his periphery – then closer, a hand to hold as Altair had revealed shards of loss in short, stilted sentences, pain and anger threatening to shake him apart.
Whatever else Al Mualim had been, whatever else he’d done, he’d been the closest thing Altair had known to a father – and the foundation of his entire life up until Altair’s blade had pierced through his chest.
Malik watched Altair press a piece of mandarin free of the skin, then added carefully; “And your mission? The Dai’s letter reported your success of course, but I gather there were no… complications?” He trailed off, letting his eyes search over Altair for any sign of injury. Salah ad-Din’s army had destroyed Ascalon’s defences in an attempt to keep it from crusaders hands. It left it a dangerous place as the outpost scrambled to re-establish itself, soldiers angry and forceful.
Altair straightened, leaving the half-peeled fruit on the plate, “The city still stands, though its outer walls and mangonels have been disabled. Many of its citizens have fled south to Egypt or north to Jaffa and Jerusalem, but some still remained to hide my movements. William L’Estang was easy enough to find amongst them. I checked he bore the Templar signet ring, then killed him as he left to meet with one of his allies in the old market square – his guards were dealt with and I escaped to the bureau without alerting the encampment to my presence.”
“That is… that is good,” Malik held himself back from pushing for further details, mouth pulling into a frown at how easily Altair still sometimes slipped into a formal, dutiful tone as he reported on his missions.
As Grandmaster, Al Mualim had demanded absolute obedience, total control of Altair, and perfection and efficiency in all things. Malik knew that even now, some habits were more ingrained than others, would take longer to shift… but he worried, sometimes, that Altair might believe such remnants of strict obedience still necessary. Or perhaps much worse… that Malik’s care – his friendship – was dependent on Altair’s continued usefulness…
Malik glanced away, pushing those circling thoughts back from his tongue. “Richard’s army will soon reach Ascalon, and our informants suggest he will spend resources to rebuild the fort’s defences. A move to strengthen his hold along the coast and secure a steady supply line for his ships.” He focused on the map drawn out behind his eyes, “and we have reports that Salah ad-Din now marches inland with the bulk of his men.”
Altair nodded, picking up the fruit again, “His army heads for Jerusalem, ranging outwards as they raze their own towns and fortifications behind them. When I passed through Ramla and Latrun, their fortresses still burned.”
“Leaving nothing that the crusaders might make use of,” Malik agreed. He looked across the room to the desk, pushed up against the wall and scattered with papers and letters he’d mostly – but not completely – found the time to go through. With a sigh, he added, “Reports mention the refugees fleeing the area, many heading north.”
“It is true. Those roads were busy on my return.” The glimmer of sunlight caught in Altair’s eyelashes as he followed Malik’s gaze to the desk, “Al-Ruwallah had little information on the other cities, but I overheard my target speaking to his ally, talk of movement. The Templars still have plans.” He looked up at Malik, a question behind his eyes.
“There is…” Malik paused for a second, then shook his head, “There is more news of their actions. They consolidate their assets, and show interest in acquiring the island of Cyprus. It is doubtful they have good intentions for it.”
Altair’s hand stilled on the edge of the plate, “They remain close to the port towns along the coast. In Acre and now in Jaffa.”
“It was always too much to hope their plans died with Robert,” Malik said. He hesitated, then pressed on, “…with Al Mualim. There are few reports on their exact movements, but we cannot ignore them.”
Altair let out a breath, shifting slightly on the bench as he adjusted his position – and Malik’s fingers twitched in response, the familiar urge to reach out, to lay a hand on the other’s shoulder or take Altair’s hand in his own. He wavered, then held back. The small twist of warning in his chest, that he might be pushing too far, too close… that Altair might simply let him.
“They will be searching for the Piece of Eden,” Altair said.
“And we have no reassurance they do not know of its location,” Malik reached up to pinch the bridge of his own nose, massaging the tension there for a moment, “We can’t stand idly by in Masyaf, always one step behind as we wait for their next move.”
“Then, you would have me head to Jaffa next?” Altair asked. He’d straightened again, head tilted up, eyes clear and calm on Malik’s. Awaiting direction. An order.
The warmth of the sun diminished slightly behind Malik’s shoulder, the feeling of someone else’s shadow looming over him again, a spectre.
He looked away, deflected, “Akeem and his informant will arrive soon with further news. We will know more then.”
Altair seemed to accept that, nodding and settling back a little into the alcove. Comfortable quiet lingered for a moment, and Malik let his eyes drift across the room, lit with the muted yellows and oranges of afternoon. The remnants of his own early lunch still on the low table to the side, the shelves of letters and parchments in the corner, the delicate shapes carved into the partition screen that marked the shared sleeping space. Shared in theory, two beds now set on either side, though these days Altair flew across the Kingdom in hunt more than he stayed in Masyaf.
Malik hoped the other thought of the space as more than just somewhere to sleep and store his handful of possessions. These rooms might have been Malik’s by station, but they were Altair’s by right, and if he’d wanted the title of Mentor, then Malik would have done more than support him – he’d have fought any to dare challenge him. Altair’s true fortitude, his quiet sharp intelligence, and his strength of will were more than enough to earn him the position in Malik’s eyes, but… Altair deserved to fly truly free now that he’d been released from Al Mualim’s cage.
Altair reached out, fingers slipping over Malik’s hand, grip gentling as he lightly tugged him closer. Malik let himself be pulled onto the window bench beside him, and for a long moment the other’s bare, ungloved touch simply rested there, warm across the back of his knuckles. Malik’s fingers twitched again… before turning to curl around Altair’s – protecting the little layer of air between their palms. He let the breath gently escape his lungs, watching the glimmering shift of patterned light across Altair’s face, feathering out over his expression.
Golden eyes slipped sideways, back out towards the window.
“Their goal was total control,” Altair’s fingers squeezed slightly, “We cannot allow them to succeed.”
“No,” Malik agreed, “I’ll make sure of it, as Grandmaster it is my duty.”
Altair’s gaze settled back on him, clear and unafraid as he inclined his head. “Our duty.”
***
The breeze was growing cool as it shifted across the stones, Malik’s gloves creaking gently as he climbed the side of Masyaf fortress. He pulled himself onto the roof as the last of the sun began to disappear into the west, the horizon painted in faded purples and deep grey-blues as dusk settled like a blanket across the sky.
Masyaf lay stretched out before him, the village dropping away down the hillside while the surrounding ring of mountains cast their shadows long across the landscape. This always felt like Altair’s true domain; the rooftops and towers. The open expanse of air on all sides.
After a moment Malik’s eyes wandered to the eastern tower, easily visible from this position, the familiar planks jutting out above the steep cliffs of the valley where journeymen took their final leap of faith; marking their ascension to master assassin. That was another place Altair had frequented in the previous months, the pale shape of him like a ghost hovering alone at the edge of the drop-plank, high above the small safety of hay below. A spirit two steps away from fading into the clouds.
Before, when Malik had simply been another assassin dedicated to their Master’s will, he had sometimes caught glimpses of him – of the Eagle standing at the tip of Masyaf’s highest towers, white robes shifting with the wind, red sash fluttering. Had watched in the same kind of detached awe as his rank-mates when they’d nudged and pointed.
They’d all known; when Al Mualim had un-bound Altair’s eyes and set him loose, that the blood of the order’s enemies would follow. He’d been Al Mualim’s hunting bird, the dagger he used to threaten his opposition, and the executioner he’d sent for their throats; whether crusader, saracen or the mercenaries and factions to the north. A bound weapon, a tool. Raised apart from the rest of the order… and though none had realised it then; trained to breaking-point, then moulded to know nothing but unwavering loyalty and obedience, or to be punished harshly for any misstep.
But then things had changed. As he’d hunted the nine Templar conspirators he’d slowly become aware – painfully aware – of the limits of his Master’s love. Altair had realised, and then fought to come to terms with how he’d been caged; with the ideas, the simple choices, that had been kept from him.
Then, at the moment Al Mualim had betrayed the assassins, he’d turned from his Master, and done what no-one else in the order had been capable of. Fighting against the Mentor, their leader, to free Masyaf. Malik had been witness to it, beheld the burning light in Altair’s eyes as he’d taken down Robert De Sablé on his own terms, and then returned to Masyaf to drive his blade through Al Mualim’s chest. Fighting back against the Templar plan to destroy, to control and subjugate.
Malik closed his eyes for a second. Altair was skilled beyond words, more intelligent than other’s tended to give him credit for, but above perhaps all that he still cared. He had a will, a drive to protect, a drive to act that had never been broken by Al Mualim’s treatment, but had only grown stronger despite it.
In the distance, tiny pinpricks of lamp-light began to appear along the village windows, glowing peacefully in the gathering dimness. Down below, assassins moved about in the training yard, the evening guard shift changing over – Malik was pretty sure he could hear Kadar’s voice among them, laughing with the other journeymen. The sound was raucous but cheerful, his younger brother’s noise still bringing a slight relief to his lungs, even these months on from the Apple’s influence.
Some of the men were returning to homes and wives in the township; those of Master rank given allowance to marry, along with leave to pursue more… general relations with women – to rid themselves of unclean urges, and keep their minds sharp in the field. Malik himself had never partaken, preferring to keep himself centred by the creed, no reason to inflict himself and his needs on some poor, long-suffering woman.
For those low ranks forbidden even that, it was a well-ignored truth that some found their comfort closer to home; amongst others of the order. That was something Malik had never managed to understand, and generally tried not to think about – how one could debase their own comrades just to indulge self-centred, base urges.
The breeze picked up a little, and he shifted on the cooling stone. The noise from below fading as more men headed out, until eventually a shadow nestled against the opposite rooftop crenelation moved. With a quiet rustle of cloth Altair appeared, the dim cloud-scape resolving itself into his figure. Malik still didn’t know how the other managed that; to fade so perfectly into the background he was near invisible, right until the moment he felt like being seen.
“It is not common, for you to come here,” Altair spoke softly as he lowered himself to the rooftop edge, left thigh and hip resting lightly against Malik’s own, shoulder-to-shoulder. His body was a point of warmth in the cooling night air, eyes catching the first glimmers of starlight in a way that called Malik: hard to look away from. A comfortable silence lingered on the breeze between them as Altair stretched out slightly, half-lidded gaze sweeping over the land below.
In some ways he was so changed from when Malik had first seen him, truly seen him. Far more relaxed with Malik then the closed-off, expressionless thing he’d been when he’d first appeared in Malik’s room, those many months ago. Searching for medicinal supplies as he’d attempted to conceal his wounds from their Master; either to avoid punishment or because Al Mualim would not let him be treated.
Still there were times when Altair would fade, a veil slipping into place, and an impenetrable wall rising behind his eyes, concealing all thoughts and reactions even from Malik.
He thought it might be instinct; a lingering fear woven into his bones; of showing weakness, of being punished or cast aside as a failing weapon…
“There is much still to be done,” Malik said finally, eyes resting briefly on the curve of Altair’s shoulder, then to the space below his ribcage where he knew old scars lay, “Our enemies are not defeated, merely… delayed. Distracted with each other, but their sights may yet turn back on us.”
Altair nodded, “That crusader woman was right in her warning, both her and De Sablé.”
“Yes,” Malik agreed, the sigh escaping his lips before he could contain it, “Our actions this past year have certainly brought attention onto us, from both the Ayyūbids and the crusaders.”
He looked down to his lap, fingers flexing under the gauntlet of his hidden blade. After a moment he unstrapped it, resting the weapon in his lap as he withdrew the scrap of cleaning cloth from his belt-pouch. Though it had received less use these last few months, he still kept the blade sharp and ready. He was still an assassin.
“Our old adversaries in Hama and Shayzar will look to profit from us,” Malik added as he ran the cloth over the weapon’s edge, around the locking mechanism and its join, “The emirates and factions to the north have seen a chance to grasp for influence; the Munqidhites and their ambitious Mercenary Lord in particular will look to rebuild their power after the destruction of Shayzar’s citadel.” He shook his head, “The Imam in Alamut will give more support than before, but those hands are far.”
Altair’s gaze followed the quiet movements in the courtyard below, and for a moment, the shadows beneath his eyes seemed to take up space within them, a concealing umbra. “The Piece of Eden cannot fall into enemy hands,” he said at last, head tilting so that his hood fell slightly forwards, sheltering the upper part of his face.
“Perhaps we should have destroyed the Apple after all,” Malik said quietly. He leant back, allowing a sliver of space to return between them.
Though destroying it was easier said than done, Malik was forced to admit. The orb held strange properties, couldn’t be parted along its groove lines or pried open, and seemed not to react to a forge fire’s heat. It was a weapon, one that had enslaved the minds of their fellow assassins, if only for a short while – Malik still shuddered at the memory of Kadar’s fervoured, glazed eyes. Much too dangerous to allow to fall into the hands of any who might be swayed by its power, so they’d hidden it away, locked and sealed in a secret compartment behind the bookshelf in the Master's study.
“Perhaps one day we will be able to use it as it was intended,” Altair said eventually, “Not to control, but to inspire.”
“Such power is dangerous, it corrupts all,” Malik warned… though he thought perhaps Altair had the strength to resist it. He had reacted to the Apple differently than others, and Al Mualim had not been able to control his mind with it.
Altair hummed quietly, and Malik glanced over to find the other’s eyes already resting on him, locking him in that steady golden stare for a second. Despite the softness of Altair’s voice, there was certainty there, unwavering in his next words. “Not all,” his head tilted slightly closer.
Malik swallowed, then glanced away, a small shake of his head. “The use of such a thing must be carefully considered, its wielder always held accountable, always on guard against the potential they would bear. It cannot fall into un-thinking hands.”
“Hmm,” Altair’s lip quirked into a tiny smile at Malik’s words, but he said nothing further, letting the matter slip away again.
Malik mentally shook himself. Despite the way it itched at his mind, the Piece of Eden was not actually their greatest concern at the moment, not while it remained safe at Masyaf, beyond the Templar’s hands. No, it was the armies that marched across the Holy Land. The sudden upheavals and the violent unpredictability of war. Usama Ibn Munqidh’s destruction of Afamiyya had been a notably brutal example, according to Malik’s reports, but he had hardly been the only smaller power to seek advantage within the chaos. Crusaders, Ayyūbids, and mercenaries… all were soldiers growing weary and losing discipline – ordinary civilians caught in between the closing lines of battle.
Whether or not those armies turned their gazes on Masyaf directly, the stability of the land was fractured; volatile and dangerous. Still, the Asāsiyyūn’s fight was not one of sieges and armies, but of precision, their Fida’i striking the true enemy wherever they thought themselves safe. Their reputation perhaps as much a weapon as their blades.
“Salah ad-Din is losing favour with the Emirs, he will try to consolidate his forces,” Altair said after a while. He pressed his shoulder against Malik’s, a moment of quiet as the gentle breeze passed by.
“It’s likely,” Malik considered, “We have heard that no new reinforcements will be coming from Damascus. With winter on the approach his strategy has turned to one of position.”
“Hmm,” Altair made a noise of agreement, “Yes, the bulk of his forces remain near to him for now. I faced some difficulty passing through their lines north of Latrun.” He shifted slightly as he spoke, hand lifting to adjust the edge of his waist armour to a more comfortable position, features smooth like stone, though there was a small pinch to his brow.
Malik tried not to watch him too closely, to read into the tightness around his eyes, at the edge of his mouth.
Above them the night gathered closer, inking darkness across the sky. After a moment Altair’s hand moved, reaching out to collect Malik’s hidden blade from its position resting forgotten in his lap. Fingers idly running over its shape.
Malik’s eyes followed the movement, “We would be foolish to think none of Robert’s people survived within the Templars. They will look first to stabilise themselves, then to eliminate our interference.”
“Yes,” Altair agreed softly. He fiddled with the fitting that joined the blade to the mechanism, then looked up again, voice still quiet, “We know less about them now, without…” he trailed off, thigh pressing a little closer to Malik’s, warm and solid, even as that shadowed wall rose again behind his eyes, a veil as he looked away, a slight stiffness to the movement.
Malik’s eyes followed the rigid line of Altair’s neck, then nodded. Without Al Mualim. Before everything, he’d been the one to set them on their path against the Templars, against their schemes of control and domination. Whatever knowledge their former Mentor had held of that order had died with him.
“We’ll find our way.” Malik said quietly.
Beside him Altair looked down, a sharpening stone appearing from his belt pouch. The soft rasp on metal slipping into the air as he began to run it carefully up the angle of Malik’s hidden blade.
Malik watched for a moment, indecision in the tips of his fingers. The action felt a little too much like a service, like Altair was trying to return some kind of favour, to appease… but it was also true that Altair enjoyed taking care of his own weapons and equipment. Not just a careful respect for the items that served him in battle, but finding something clearly meditative in the process.
Malik wavered, then let him be, instead leaning back to rest his weight on his hand, feeling the steadiness of Altair at his side as he let time gently stretch over them. The closeness and trust was something he didn’t take for granted, Altair choosing to let Malik in, more deeply than perhaps anyone else in his life.
The thought was a pull deep in his chest, a spark that warmed him despite the cool evening, until eventually a tiny cloud of dust rose up between the buildings in the distance, behind a horse and rider.
Altair tilted his head, the glint of starlight catching in his eye. “The Jaffa informant.”
He passed the blade back, and Malik stood, reaching down to offer a hand to Altair. The other took it easily, letting Malik pull him to his feet.
… and it was only because Malik was watching that he caught the sudden echo of a wince behind Altair’s eyes – the brief favouring of ribs on his left side, the slight stiffness in the movement – before Altair was straightening. Expression smoothing quickly and any sign of pain neatly erased.
The night air was suddenly cold, creeping over Malik’s skin. The weight of dark robes heavy on his back.
Altair was hiding an injury.
***
Candles had been lit in the Master’s study, shifting amber light against the night-time shadows. The chairs used by the senior Da’is were pushed back into their usual positions, and a twist of incense trailed through the air, the scented smoke wafting from the clay pot in the corner.
Malik’s gaze dragged briefly over Altair’s form. The other had leant against the bookshelves; arms crossed over his chest and golden eyes half closed as he watched the room’s other occupants. He didn’t hold himself as though injured, though of course he never really did – body a tightly governed instrument, no cracks ever laid bare before a potential enemy.
Malik cleared his throat, and tried to convince himself that whatever wound the other carried couldn’t be serious, was surely simply not worth mentioning… and turned his attention back to Akeem and the informant – gesturing for the short, dusty-robed man to continue speaking.
The cold, hard pit in his stomach remained.
The Jaffa informant pressed a fist briefly to his chest, “Gilbert Horal, The Templar Grandmaster was injured, there is no doubt there was an attempt on his life.”
Malik let the news sit briefly under his skin, absorbing it, “Then it is not unreasonable to assume there is disruption within their ranks,” he decided with a frown. “We expected this; that whoever Richard placed as head of their order would face opposition if De Sablé’s allies yet survived. But to move so boldly so soon…”
The informant gave a quick nod, “Duke Burgundy claims the attack was simply from unruly citizens… there is enough dissent amongst the people of Jaffa that this is believable…”
Behind him Akeem made a face, “Believable but unlikely,” the other Master assassin had taken up a position at one side of the study, shoulder propped casually against the wall, booted foot hiked up against the stone. His expression was contemplative, if not a little derisive, “The attackers may not have worn an indication of their faction, but they were crusaders, not local citizens.”
“A competitor looking to weaken the Templars? The Hospitaliers perhaps,” Malik pressed his lips together in thought.
The informant shook his head, “They vie for precedence, but the Hospitaliers hold good favour with the crusader kings since the battle of Arsuf. The Templar Grandmaster’s death would do little to further their aspirations now.”
“Then… you think Burgundy is covering for someone within the Templar Order itself?” Malik asked, “or that he might be personally involved.”
The informant hesitated, dark eyes thoughtful in the narrow gap of his turban; the pale cloth still flecked with dirt and grit from travel, “It is true that the Duke sometimes meets with members of the various crusader orders in the city – but the man is well known to be boorish and unlikable. We have no evidence of strong ties between him and any of the other factions within Jaffa; the other lords and barons or any of the papal orders.” He rubbed a hand against his sleeve, then grimaced, “It is more likely he wishes to use the attack to justify increased control on the remaining citizens. More guards and higher tariffs.”
Malik looked down at the map still spread across the table, the ink that marked the port town dark and jagged on the paper, detailing the roads and walls, the various districts grouped between the harbour and the fortress. “Jaffa is in disarray as the crusader lords bicker. If Gilbert Horal is killed, who is set to take his place?”
Akeem answered, straightening slightly from his lean, “That would be Armand Bouchart, a French knight from the province of Touraine. It is said that he and Horal do not normally see eye-to-eye…” he let the words hang in the air.
“You think he is behind the attack,” Malik said, looking between the two men.
At the wall Akeem shrugged, but the informant’s brows drew together, “It is not useful to you if I make assumptions without evidence,” he said slowly. “However, if there is division amongst the Templar’s upper ranks, Bouchart is undoubtedly involved. Though not actively insubordinate, he is loudly outspoken.”
“And we know next to nothing of this man.” Malik let out a sigh, “We will be sending an assassin for Burgundy soon enough; hopefully they can discover more while stationed in Jaffa.”
To his right, Altair shifted slightly against the shelves. Malik’s eyes flicked over to him, followed the subtle adjustment of weight, the sway of cloth as his torso settle back across the timber. The motion was quiet, unobtrusive, and again; if there was a concession for a hidden injury… Malik couldn’t spot it.
A different memory filtered into his mind, one from when he’d been on the other side of the aged timber desk. The Eagle sitting motionless behind Al Mualim; eyes hidden behind the formed leather blindfold, body silent and still. The memory made Malik’s heart ache softly in the cavern of his chest, and he focused instead on Altair’s unbound eyes, on the candlelight glimmering in their clear depths. Those eyes slid over and caught Malik’s, and Malik quickly pulled his gaze away.
The informant had drifted a half-step forward, looking down at the rolled out map, “Whoever you send after Burgundy must be cautious. Nearly every corner of the city crawls with crusaders. They use it now as their main supply port for the next stage in their campaign.”
“We’ve had similar reports,” Malik said, leaning forward over the heavy oak desk as well. “Yet still many ordinary people remain busy within its walls.”
The informant nodded, “Yes. Despite the violence, traders still pass through regularly, as do refugees and even mercenaries on occasion – saracen soldiers who do not ally with Salah ad-Din, and make approaches to the Crusaders instead. The citizens who survived through the sieges have been allowed to stay, but their lives are hard under their new masters.”
He paused for a moment, then added, “The Sultan’s brother, Al-Adil Sayf ad-Din was in Jaffa recently as well, negotiating on behalf of Salah ad-Din following their loss at Arsuf. When the negotiations failed he departed – but the crusaders seem worried he left spies behind, or perhaps was taking too close a note of the city’s defences. Doubtful, but they still maintain a heavy guard presence around the citadel.”
Malik nodded, “Which is where Burgundy is to be found.”
“Yes. The Duke’s own men guard the main gate in and out of the fortress’ courtyard, and archers patrol the rooftops heavily in the area.”
Malik braced a hand against the edge of desk, glancing down to the map again, he tapped a finger against the lines of ink that marked the citadel, thinking. “It sounds like you know it well, what entry points would you suggest? Anything our assassin should know?”
The informant took a moment to consider the question, “Many knights and important crusader nobles come and go, but all are watched. If your assassin cannot gain entry by disguising himself amongst them – which would take time, there are few other ways that one could perhaps enter undetected.” He pointed to one of the roads sweeping up towards the fortress, “I’d suggest attempting the servant’s quarters on the eastern side, there are usually no permanent guards there, only patrols which pass by–”
“No.” Altair’s voice slipped neatly into the air, and the informant startled, almost as though he had forgotten the Eagle was present.
“The Jaffa citadel is on too steep an angle. Any gate guards will have a clear view of the approach,” Altair continued, straightening up from the bookshelves. He glanced over at Malik, a second’s pause before he added, “It would be best to approach from the cliffs, the south wall above will not be watched well. Once on the battlements they could enter the main hall through the upper windows.”
The informant ducked his head, “…I had not considered–” he gave a rueful half-smile, “Yes, now I see it. Any guards posted on that side would be looking towards the port, not for a single man below.” He looked between Malik and Altair, “Once your man is beyond the walls it would be easy enough to find an unguarded way into the main hall or living spaces.”
Malik paused, then let himself straighten, feeling the bones crack in his spine, “In any case I trust Jaffa’s Da’i will help guide our assassin’s movements. It is good this news has reached us quickly and for this you were right not to trust a pigeon. Thank you.”
The man stepped back and pressed his fist to chest. He bowed slightly, eyes bright in the narrow gap of his nondescript head covering, they stayed transfixed on Altair for a second, before blinking back across to Malik. “Thank you Master. I serve the order, as always.”
“Go then in peace. May your return travels be safe.”
The informant bowed again, before turning and leaving the study. Akeem lingered a moment, eyes flicking across the chairs and the piled reports along the edge of the desk, one eyebrow quirking upwards, “How goes affairs at great Masyaf? I worried I would be digging you from piles of parchment.”
Malik let his shoulders loosen, “Ha, sometimes I think it grows by the day, but… well enough in truth. The old men squabble, but they usually reach agreement without too much prodding,” he admitted. He thought for a moment, then added, “Though… perhaps you could catch Kadar before you head out again, he has been asking about you – and he is nearing his first leap of faith.” Malik knew his own presence had been somewhat lacking as of late.
Akeem’s eyes glinted, “Ah, but of course, I was his best tutor after all – it is only right he would wish to study more from me.” He grinned, then inclined his head, “I will find him before I leave Masyaf tomorrow, do not doubt it.”
“Good,” Malik shifted slightly, “Take your rest too. Da’i Al-Khufa will have details of your next assignment when you are ready – I’ll need your eyes on Jerusalem.”
Akeem flicked an idle salute at Malik, teeth a familiar flash of white, though a new, respectful tilt of his head as he nodded to both Malik and Altair, and headed out after the Jaffa informant.
Malik watched his old friend and rank-mate go, then rubbed his fingers though the short dark hair at the crown of his head. Against the bookshelves Altair’s gaze had turned to the darkened windowsill, and for a moment the candlelight flickered over the edge of his face, the hood shadowing his expression… then he shifted, head raising as he stepped away from the wall to stand at Malik’s side.
Malik watched him approach, “Your thoughts on the informant?” He tilted his head towards the stairs where the man had disappeared, and Altair followed his gaze – eyes keen beneath his hood.
“He speaks the truth. He is loyal.”
From here Malik could just see to the other end of the hall, a last glimpse of the man crossing into the castle’s rest quarters, Akeem not too far behind. Malik watched them disappear, trying to see exactly what it was Altair seemed to detect.
Altair leant his hip against the desk, and Malik’s hand itched to reach out, to slip fingers around the curve of the other’s forearm, or to press a gentle hand against the side of his ribs, a shield across whatever wound might be laying there.
“Is it… the way he spoke? The way he held himself?” He said instead, forcing himself to take a half step back. Despite his distraction, the note of genuine curiosity remained clear in his voice.
Altair returned his gaze, “His intentions, his loyalties. His feelings,” he paused for a second on the words, “all were clear.” Golden eyes watched Malik, intense in the still flickering candlelight.
Malik let the vague answer slip past, shoulders relaxing. Altair, he had come to realise, was good at reading people, at picking a man’s allegiance at a glance. Perhaps it was born from necessity; so long stifled by orders and commands, denied true conversation, that he had learnt body language instead.
Malik let out a hum of assent, and finally moved to collect the map from the table, careful to keep its edges straight as he rolled it into the leather tube, sliding it back amongst its fellows on the shelf. His hand brushed momentarily across the hidden compartment, checking the seal that protected the piece of Eden and all its strange, impossible dangers…
Then he turned back to Altair, and they too left the study, heading out along the great hall mezzanine. Footsteps muffled against stone as they passed between shadowed bookshelves and intermitted pools of candlelight.
“Jaffa grows in importance. It will be pivotal in the conflict to come,” Malik let the tired sigh slip from his lungs, “We’ll have to send someone soon for Burgundy – but the city grows more dangerous by the day.” His lifted his hand again to rub the hair back from his forehead, scratching against his scalp. Ahead, the large window overlooking the castle gardens was a dark archway into the night sky. The hall quiet, nearly emptied as the evening grew late, though somewhere below a lone scholar still scratched reed to paper in late night study.
Altair’s fingers caught Malik’s upper arm. Halting him in his tracks between the shelves. A momentary tug before the other’s hand was dropping away.
Malik turned to him, the dim flickering yellow light brushing over both their shoulders, highlighting the curves and planes of Altair’s face, the fall of his robes against his collar.
“Send me after Burgundy,” Altair said seriously, “I will investigate the Templars while I am there.”
Malik’s mouth formed an instinctual denial, loosed before he could cut himself off; “You’ve only just returned to Masyaf, it’s too soon –” The memory of the shadows beneath Altair’s eyes and the shift of his body to shelter his ribs stuck like tar in Malik’s mind. Stuck on his tongue as he tried to reason the words that might keep the other here, just a little longer. You’ve been gone so often. Don’t leave again just yet. He didn’t let them escape his mouth, afraid not that Altair would argue… but that he would obey.
Altair shook his head, “You need someone skilled in Jaffa. I am the best option.” His gaze was firm as he stepped closer, urging.
Malik looked away; towards the Master’s study at the far end of the paper-filled shadows – that heavy presence lying again across his shoulders as Altair obediently placed himself like a knife in his hands, an arrow ready to be shot across the Holy Land. “There are others who could take this task. It does not always have to be you.”
“I know.”
Malik looked at Altair, then back out across the hall. The small islands of candlelight below them, the soft noises of the scholar and beyond them the occasional voice of a lingering assassin passing through the training yard.
“No.” He shook his head, “I won’t send you.”
Altair opened his mouth to argue again, but Malik beat him to it.
“We’ll go together.”