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 tossedthe 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.

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. Hey 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.

They had not been watching the roof. Malik had time to rise and draw his sword before they circled him. His breath came in painful hitches. The brightness of the firelight after the relative darkness of the rooftops made his pupils constrict painfully. It illuminated the Crusaders' faces, and for a second Malik could have believed himself in hell.

"Saracen dog!" one soldier shouted. He spat on the floor at Malik's feet.

Another man was more practical. "To arms!" he called. "The Assassins are here! We have caught one."

Not yet. Malik thought. Besides, if you have caught but one Assassin, then Altaïr is still free.

He shifted against the stone wall and tried to breathe shallowly. He realized that he was in the Street of the Blacksmiths. The Crusaders had left their horses to hunt him down. A dozen destriers were tied up against the wall. They shifted nervously from hoof to hoof in the torchlight.

One of the Crusaders took a step forwards. Malik held his sword at guard and readied himself for their attack.

"Stop!"

The cry came from the left, beyond the line of waiting horses. A knight pushed forwards through the crowd. He wore a white tabard marked with the Kingdom of Jerusalem's golden cross. "Let me!" he cried. His voice was young and harsh with sorrow. "They killed my lord."

It was the first time Malik had had cause to thank the Crusaders' chivalry. The soldiers exchanged glances and made way for the young man rather than charging Malik outright and hacking him down where he stood. It was not a mistake Malik would have made. Still, he was not ungrateful.

Malik stood in the circle of Crusader blades. He watched the man who would kill him walk closer.

The Crusader readied his sword and stabbed. Malik turned his blade away in a clash of steel. The attack told him all he needed to know about his opponent.

He is young. And not unskilled. But he lacks experience. That, at least, is one thing in my favor.

As the young knight swung his sword back for a second blow Malik pivoted his wrist and caught the blade. He beat his opponent's weapon down, stepped in and stabbed the Crusader in the throat with his short sword. His second thrust slid through the eye socket of the young knight's helmet and withdrew slick with blood.

The Crusader collapsed. As Malik yanked his blades free the other Crusaders howled and rushed him.

Malik went to meet them.

Halfway across the alley, he kicked; jumped, crouched, beat back every blade. He had almost reached his destination when a mailed hand wrenched at his shoulder and spun him round. As Malik raised his sword, the Templar swung at him with an ugly iron flail.

It was brutal but undoubtedly effective. The chain of the morningstar wrapped around Malik's sword. He winced as the weapon was torn from his hand. The Templar stepped underneath Malik's guard and slammed the Assassin to the ground with the rim of his shield. Malik tasted blood. He smelt the Templar's harsh, meat-laden breath as he dropped the shield and grabbed Malik by his collar. As Malik automatically raised his hands to push the Templar away he felt the familiar outline of a dagger's hilt. He snatched the poniard from the Crusader's belt and buried it point-first in his attacker's gut.

A horse whinnied, shocked out of silence by the harsh tang of human blood.

The Templar gasped and died. Blood ran over Malik's hands. He pushed the Templar away and staggered to his feet, the knife still clutched in his fist. A warm trickle of sweat ran down his cheek.

He took the next guard with a vicious upward slash that entered through the soft tissues underneath the chin. The blade grated on bone as Malik yanked the dagger free and sheathed it in his belt. The dead man's torch toppled to the ground. Malik snatched it up. It was a simple thing; a stick with a pitch-soaked rag wrapped around the end, but it would suffice for his purposes.

"Conrad is dead!" somebody shouted from behind him in a tone that made Malik shiver. He didn't bother to look around. Crouching over the torch, he ducked under the first mount's lead rope. The horses were already uneasy. The appearance of a naked flame amongst them maddened even battle-trained stallions.

Malik flattened himself between the first horse's muzzle and the wall. He uncovered the torch and hoisted it high; playing the flames over the knot that tied the destrier's lead rope. Already under tension from the sheer strength of the panicked beast, the tether burned through easily. The horse reared and galloped off, fleeing the smoldering remnants of the rope that dangled a bare few inches from its muzzle. Its escape scattered the Crusaders.

The beasts do have their uses, Malik thought as he burned through the second rope. There were ten mounts tethered to the rail, and it took him less than a minute to release all but the last. When the alley behind him was a burning Hell of men and terrified horses he slashed the last horse's lead with his dagger.

"Listen," Malik told it as he swung aboard." I detest your kind and I am sure you detest mine. But if you do not run like you had wings on your legs I will cut your throat and feed you to the infidels."

He crouched over the horse's mane and kicked it in the ribs. The horse snorted. It spun sharply, nearly unseating Malik. Pricking its ears, it followed the cooler air and the hoof beats of its fellows away from the Crusaders and the fire into the mazelike streets to the north of the tradesman's quarter.

Malik knotted his hand into the horse's mane. He clung tightly.

The night was alive with the screams of frightened horses and the cries of guards. Malik's horse slowed to a canter. As the buildings around them changed to the mud-brick dwellings of the Muslim quarter it jerked to a trot. Malik kneed it in the side. The horse jogged around a corner and halted, sweating and shaking, beside a wagon filled with hay.

Malik slid from its back. The horse snorted as he stroked its neck. It stood wide-legged and gasped for breath. Its sweat-soaked flanks heaved. "You are truly a steed of the prophets." Malik told it. "I hope your Crusader master does not treat you too harshly when he finds you."

The horses snorted. Foam flew from its nostrils. It turned its head and began to nibble on some hay.

Malik turned and walked away. He found a ladder around the next corner and climbed it to the roof. Once he reached the top it was relatively easy for him to get his bearings. The garden was not far.

Malik whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks.

He picked his way across a long plank that jutted over an alley. Half-demolished buildings rose around him. There was an archer silhouetted against the light of a brazier several houses away, but he faced west, towards the walls, and he did not look at Malik.

Malik jumped to the roof of a nearby building and used his one good hand to scramble to the flat roof. Orange branches brushed at his legs as he lowered himself down the other side and jumped to the floor.

Altaïr was not there.

Malik drank from the fountain without noticing the brackishness of the water. Satisfied, he washed his face, hands and feet. Traces of blood swirled in the water before the current carried it away. Ablutions performed, he settled himself beneath the concealing branches and waited for Altaïr.

He did not have to wait long.

The sun had passed the first stages of dawn when Malik heard a scuffling noise on the roof. He withdrew to the corner of the small space and loosened his sword in its sheath. There was a flash of tattered cloth. Altaïr landed in the centre of the courtyard.

Malik relaxed. "Safety and peace, my brother."

Altaïr scowled. "Safety and peace, Malik. I have wasted half the night searching for you."

"You need not have bothered."

"It seems that I need not."

"You are well?"

"Well enough. And you?"

"The same." Malik said. He touched two fingers to the split the Crusader's shield had made in his lip.

"Then our hunt was successful."

"Indeed. But we must still leave the city."

Altair walked over to the fountain and began to rinse his hands. "As for that, I heard some information while searching for you. The murderers of Conrad have been captured."

Malik blinked. "They have?"

"So it seems. The execution is scheduled for midday." Altaïr wiped his hands upon his robe.

"The Crusaders have found themselves some victims." Malik said.

"They hold no Assassins in custody."

"They are likely prisoners from the condemned cells. We should go. Learn what we can of the Crusaders' plans."

"We have some time," Altair agreed. "I'll steal beggar's robes for us before we leave the city."

The crowd that gathered in the cathedral square at noon was a loud and raucous one. The scaffold had been hastily hammered together. Its joints creaked in protest as the bishop of Beauvais marched up and down, exhorting the people to greater fury. His scarlet satin vestments gleamed in the bright sunlight as he stabbed a finger at the two hooded figures that stood silently on the platform beside him, ropes noosed around their necks. Their bound hands dangled in front of them.

"These men have been duly found guilty of the murder of our most revered lord Conrad of Montferrat!" His voice carried well from the scaffold to where Malik and Altaïr sat on a bench, shoulder-to shoulder with the townsfolk of Acre. "These men, Assassins of the castle of Masyaf, have been found guilty of regicide! Sentence is passed! The murderers must be hanged, according to the law. May God grant them no mercy!"

"Hang the cowards!" a fat woman in a yellow velvet dress screamed.

Malik winced. "May our God grant them salvation where theirs does not," he said matter of-factly. "Who are they?"

"I do not know. But they are not Assassins."

"They are missing their fingers."

"So they are. But the wounds are fresh."

The priest raised one hand to the sky, as if pleading for divine intervention. "May God curse the Assassins! Their blades are thirsty for human blood. They care neither for life nor for salvation. Like the devil, they hide themselves among you, good people of Acre! They kill our kings! We shall end their heathen lives on this very scaffold!"

A man walked on the platform. He was dressed in black. The bishop greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks.

"Hang them!" a soldier shouted. "Sinners!"

The executioner knelt and kicked away the bolts that held the traps. He worked methodically, first the right, then the left. There was an audible snap as the fall broke the first man's neck. His fellow was not so lucky. He spun, kicking and flailing at the air, until his groans gurgled into gasps and then to silence. The crowd hushed. A mutter passed over it like wind over the reeds.

A heavyset man in the centre of the crowd broke the silence. "God bless the Bishop!"

The crowd cheered. Malik slouched against the wall, arms folded. A soldier sheltering under the awning of a nearby stall swiveled his head, perhaps noticing the Assassins' silence.

"We should leave." Altaïr said.

"Agreed. I've had my fill of this."

They rose and separated themselves from the rejoicing throng. The soldier's gaze returned to the happy throng. Altaïr and Malik walked together towards Acre's northern gate.

"At least their death came swiftly." Malik said.

Altaïr nodded. He had tucked his hands in his sleeves to hide his missing finger.

"We would not have done such a thing." Malik said. "It would be against the Creed." He glanced slyly at Altaïr. "Of course, some of us respect the Creed more than others."

Another nod.

"Is that not right, brother?"

Altaïr grunted in assent. Malik had thought Altaïr distracted: now he was sure of it.

"Of course, we should assume that the Templars hunt us in secret."

"Indeed."

"And then the virgins will descend from paradise and scatter us with flowers and heavenly wine." Malik said sarcastically.

Altaïr nodded.

Malik rolled his eyes. "Have you been struck dumb?" he enquired.

'Stay your tongue for once, Malik." Altaïr snapped. "I have a plan."

"Dare you tell this lesser mortal?"

"I'll speak more once we have escaped these crowds."

Malik rolled his eyes.

Men and women hurried past, dispersing once the execution had finished. The Assassins mingled with the townsfolk, unremarkable in their shabby robes. They saw a group of scholars up ahead and Malik moved to intercept.

"Safety and peace to you, brothers," he said politely as he reached them. "We seek to leave the city. Would you honor two students by accepting them as fellow travelers?"

The lead scholar, a tall ascetic man with the hooked nose and stooped shoulders of a starving eagle, looked at Malik with suspicious eyes. "You did not lose that arm in the library, I am sure."

"That is true, brother," Malik said easily.

"Why should we help you?"

"We study in Masyaf." Malik told him

The scholar blinked. "That is a great library indeed," he said slowly.

"It is. My silent friend studies there also. You may remember him." He leaned closer. "He killed Sibrand of Acre."

"Sibrand the Teuton?"

"The very man."

The scholar snorted. "Sibrand the Teuton? Sibrand the Crazy, more like. Sibrand the Paranoid." He glanced up at Malik. The Assassin saw a glint of very real anger flash behind his rheumy eyes. "Sibrand killed my teacher."

"I am sorry," Malik said diplomatically.

"Then you will help?" Altaïr asked.

"Of course. Were it not for the fact that you are heretics and murderers, I might even admire you. As it is, I did not help you. I did not even see you. You were never here."

"I understand, brother." Malik said.

"I am not one of your brothers," the old man snapped. "Conrad was a good man."

"Conrad's murderers are dead."

"Of course they are." The old scholar clasped his hands as if seeking divine guidance and began to walk towards the gate. "Of course they are."

Malik followed. "Do not doubt it, old man."

"Oh, I do not," the scholar said. "But whoever did the deed, the Muslims of Acre will suffer these next few days. Or did you not think of this?"

"They will not suffer for long." Altaïr interjected. "With Conrad dead, Richard will choose his own king. With Jerusalem secure, he will leave the Holy Land. Acre will be freed."

"I will believe it when it happens. But not before," the scholar snapped. He pushed past a gate guard. Altaïr and Malik followed. The rest of the scholars clustered around them. Malik felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as the nearest soldier swiveled his head in their direction. The man yawned and looked back into the city, and Malik knew that they were safe.

Once they had reached the small group of shops that clustered around the walls of Acre like chicks under the wing of a hen the old man paused. "And now you have left the city," he said.

"Indeed. We thank you for your help." Malik said.

"Do not thank me, Assassin," the scholar said. "But go in peace."

Altaïr inclined his head. "We will remember you."

The old man smiled with a flash of yellow teeth. "I hope not."

They walked up the hill in the bright, blinding glare of the sun. The palm trees planted either side of the path blew in the gusty April wind. Malik halted at the entrance to the path that led to the peasant's village with whom they had left their horses. Altaïr trudged past.

"The horses?" Malik shouted after him. Or do you wish to walk back to Masyaf?"

Altaïr shook his head, but he continued walking up the hill. Malik followed him, confused. He reached Altaïr and caught him by the shoulder to spin him around. He had no success. Altaïr was as solid and immovable as a rock.

"The horses?" Malik repeated.

Altaïr sighed. "I am not going to Masyaf," he told Malik.

"What do you mean?"

"Nasr thinks us dead," Altaïr pointed out. "He will not search for us."

Malik sighed. "The scholar knows different."

"You should not have told him we were Assassins!"

"He would not have helped us otherwise!" Malik retorted.

"We should have killed him." Altaïr said practically. "But it is too late now, brother." He turned and trudged on up the hill.

Malik followed him. Anger had replaced confusion in his heart." Remember the Creed, Altaïr!" he snapped.

"I do not betray the Brotherhood!"

"You betray our Master! It is the same thing!"

"You know that it is not."

"I know that it is!"

"I do not understand your surprise, Malik. I told you that the best way to save the Brotherhood was to race the Templars to the Eden pieces. Why do you not understand?"

"And I told you that the best way to make the Master understand is to do his bidding!"

"Which I have," Altaïr said.

Their argument was an old one by now. Malik felt that he was chipping away at a stone wall with his fingernails. "How do you intend to find the fragments?"

Altaïr reached into his robes and pulled out the wooden globe. Its varnished surface gleamed in the sunlight. "This."

Malik took the globe from him. He wished that he possessed the strength of purpose to hurl it into the sea, but he doubted that even the loss of his map would stop Altaïr. "You are a fool," he said. "You copy these marks from memory on a ball the size of a...an orange, and expect them to show you the way? How will you travel without horses?"

"I will steal them. Ride to Tyre, then take ship." Altaïr said. He did not even pause.

"Tyre is also a Crusader port! Or have you forgotten?" Malik hurled his words like knives. "I think you need the services of Garnier de Nablus...at least he could cure madmen."

"I am not mad."

"That," said Malik, "is a matter of opinion. You know nothing of those lands."

"That does not matter."

"I'll think you find it does. How will you eat?

"I shall live off my wits."

Then you shall starve!"

Altaïr shook his head, as if ridding himself of a particularly annoying mosquito. "Enough talk, Malik. You know I speak truth. You know I serve the Brotherhood. Why not travel with me?"

"Many reasons." Malik said, although at that very moment he could admit that he was hard pressed to think of one.

Altair said nothing.

They kept on walking, in silence and in mutual solitude, until the two of them reached the crossroads at the top of the Mount of the Plovers. Altaïr did not falter. He took the coast road down the slope to Tyre, his gaze already scanning the hills for horses he could steal.

Malik stood for a moment at the crossroads. He gazed at the hazy desert mountains, their peaks rising higher and barer as they marched easterly into the austere hills and the gorges of the Orontes.

He sighed, turned and followed Altaïr west, towards the sea.

"From their devoted obedience they never hesitate to set out as they are commanded; nor do they pause until they have reached the prince, or tyrant who has been pointed out to them; and they remain in his service until they find a favourable opportunity for accomplishing their purpose, believing that by so doing they shall gain the favour of heaven."

From a description of the murder of Conrad of Montferrat by the Assassins of Syria, attributed to the Crusader Ambroise d'Evreux.

Author's Note: This story is set after the events of the game, and like the game, it contains elements of history with a great deal of poetic license. Conrad of Montferrat was indeed killed by two Assassins in Acre on the 28th of April 1192. The Assassins, according to history, were immediately executed. There may be a sequel pending if I can find out much about medieval Cairo, so if you liked this, please review.