PART THREE

Tortosa Slave Gallery, Tripoli – 1185

The tables were dripping with spilt alcohol, splattering as tankards scraped against wood and banged together. Men stood or sat, all yelling at one another. The viewing pit had been emptied for the night, with the day's parade of slaves either bought or sent back to their merchants. The viewing balcony above was still swollen with patrons; half were too drunk to make their way home, the others were just getting started.

The door to the outside had reinforced latches, impossible to breach once locked for the night. A sensible thief would have taken one look at those steel hooks and bars and decided to move on. No sense risking your neck for such a place, though the lucrative slave trade in Tortosa made any gallery a tempting target.

Despite its menacing outward appearance, tonight the door was unlocked. Men stumbled out of the gallery at odd intervals, flooding the surrounding street with the sounds of the drunken festivities inside. Sometimes this beacon would draw in another man off the street, curious to see what all the fuss was about. They would venture to the entrance and try the handle to no avail. Given enough struggling, a hidden panel would slide away into the door's face to reveal a hard pair of eyes and an instruction to abandon further attempts at entry. Only when the eyes bobbed in recognition did the door open.

Mohammad Kouri's palm nearly slipped off the handle when he approached the door. He made three attempts at an entry before the eyes revealed themselves. The look lasted only a moment before the door swung open to allow him inside. Light and laughter poured forth, and the harsh shadow cast by Mohammad's bulky form in the doorway cut like a dagger across the road. Someone in the deep recesses of the gallery yelled out to him, "I thought we'd lost you to that whore!" but he didn't shift to address the speaker. Rigid, only his mouth moved. If anyone had been standing with their ear pressed to his lips, they may have heard him whispering. Behind me. Behind me.

Mohammad Kouri, once a successful landowner, was notoriously cruel to the peasants who worked his fields. Malik thought back to the notes he'd read in Kouri's own hand, only a small portion of the documents presented to the Brotherhood as proof of his misdeeds. Malik had read them all, and thought of them as he pushed his sword smoothly into the man's back and out his chest. It was the last thought he allowed himself as he felt the life fall away from Mohammad Kouri's body; he thought of all the free citizens that this man had tricked into slavery.

One voice had already risen to a scream.

Malik raised a foot to Kouri's back, kicking the crumpled body off his blade and revealing himself to the room. He kept his cowl down, his expression neutral. There was no need to make a spectacle for dead men.

Only a few of the patrons had yet to understand the danger, and even those too drunk to count their own toes had picked up on the change in atmosphere. Malik wasn't going to wait for them to catch their bearings. He swiveled to his left and buried his hidden blade into the neck of the doorman. Blood warmed his fingers and he pulled away before it could reach the gearing. Then right and two steps forward to reach the barman. His sword severed the man's shoulder, then retreated. A short man came sprinting towards the door, his head just high enough for Malik's elbow. The crunch of the man's nose sinking upwards into his skull seemed to drive a few of the other men out of their stupor. Bold and stupid, Malik thought, and cut down four men as they fumbled to defend themselves.

He caught the eye of one man, burly and on the verge of attacking. Malik could see it in the clenching of his jaw, the twitching in his fingers. Malik held his gaze as he buried his sword to the hilt in the man's stomach, pushing the blade and body away to impale another. The man's indecision had cost him, and Malik watched as this terrible truth dawned on his dying face. The man behind was clearly a merchant, who hadn't even thought to draw his own bejeweled weapon in all of the chaos. Malik, caught in the euphoria of his assured victory, abandoned his sword and reached instead for the sculpted pommel at the merchant's waist. The blade was in prime condition; no doubt it had never been used.

Malik pulled it free in time to strike at the man behind him, catching him in the arm, then at the neck. The cuts were deep but did not sever. Heavier than I thought. He tossed the spattered blade aside and reached for the daggers at his waist. Enough time had passed for even the drunkest of men to feel the base instinct to flee, and Malik buried three of his daggers before the first man could turn around. They fell over tables and chairs, dead before hitting the floor. Only a few remained after that, scrambling under the bodies of their dead fellows and huddled in the corners. Malik made short work of all but one, ignoring their words of protest and hasty prayers. He had been watching this gallery for three weeks; he knew exactly what each had done to deserve the Brotherhood's attention.

Malik crossed the room gingerly, stepping over corpses to retrieve his blade from its flesh-and-bone scabbard. He considered following the men who had fled; there were two of them and they were bound to talk, maybe not that night, but perhaps the next, or in a week's time. Men with quick feet usually have even quicker mouths. Malik wiped his freed steel against the black robes of a corpse and evened out his heartbeat. The silence in the room was deafening.

Or, it was, until the last of the crumpled lumps let out a shuddering gasp, twitching and huffing in unmistakable agony. Malik approached the figure and kicked it over. The barman, whom Malik had left with a fatal shoulder wound, had the yellowing teeth and baggy skin of an opium addict. He would die, but not immediately. Weak and greedy. Malik allowed the tip of his blade to puncture the man's lower abdomen, widening the gash until it split like a rotting orange. The man's hands grasped at the steel, fresh blood sliding out of his palms and onto the blade. "I am already dead, you miserable scum."

Malik lowered himself to a crouch and pulled back his hood. He sunk one finger into the gore of the man's wound. "No, there is life in you yet," He caught some intestine around his finger and tugged gently. "Speak now and I will see it end quickly." The man's choked cries had diminished to barely above a groan, but his eyes were still wide and alert.

"Tell me who brings in tomorrow's shipment."

"I don't know…"

"Tell me! I know there are slaves arriving from the West."

"But those are just rumors-"

"Your friend Kouri has already confirmed that they will be taken here, to this gallery. And that you will receive them. Who is the trader." Malik buried his hand into the man's stomach, growing impatient.

"Please," the wretch managed, "I'll tell you what I know!"

Malik relaxed his grip.

"His name is Malik! He travels with a group of Frenchmen- I cannot tell you the name of their ship! Ah! Please! Please. That is all I know!"

"What harbor does he hail from?"

"Byblos!"

Malik cursed. "Byblos is two week's journey from here," he hissed. The man looked confused. "Ye-yes. Two weeks." Malik pulled his short dagger from its strap on his boot and slit the man's throat. He wiped it clean on the man's trousers and returned it to its rightful place before standing. Two weeks! He had already been away from Masyaf for over a month. He would need to find the nearest Bureau to restock for such a long journey. And perhaps send a letter to Masyaf explaining his delay.

XxXxX

Masyaf - 2 months later

The Christian encampment outside Masyaf had nearly tripled in size over the last three years. The wooden walls that had once been a mere symbolic show of force had been replaced with proper defences. Watchtowers and trenches had been added to the perimeter, as well as permanent guards at every entrance. Nailed to the wall facing Masyaf were the hands of several thieves; a deterrent that did little to endear them to their neighbours. Malik felt the cold twist of fate every time he saw another hand added to the row, remembering his own brush with the cleaver so many years ago.

The soldiers on duty paid Malik no attention as he walked past, and he entered the town with his cowl pulled back. Most of the other Brothers only felt comfortable showing their faces in the fortress, but Malik relished the freedom Masyaf offered. The sun warmed his cheeks and got between his short-cropped hair. He closed his eyes against it. Masyaf was, at the close of every mission, a brief interlude between the shadows of his work and the thick walls of the fortress.

"What an odd sight. A statue in the middle of the road."

Malik smirked, keeping his eyes closed. "How long have you been appreciating the view, Rauf?"

A laugh fell across the road. "Only a moment, though I'm sure if I'd said nothing you would still be here an hour from now."

Malik opened his eyes. "Perhaps."

"When did you return?"

"Only a moment ago."

"I thought you would be back before the snow melted."

"I encountered no problems, only detours."

Rauf nodded, satisfied. He leaned against the wall of the nearest home, looking to the horizon.

"Why are you here?" Malik asked.

Rauf smiled and pointed into the distance; to the staggered surface formed by Masyaf's cluttered rooftops. Malik spotted a small, white form bounding across the tiles, then another, and another. They were hopping from one roof to the next, jerking and swaying as only novices could.

"They've been at this for hours," Rauf said, sighing, "moving like foals."

"Where have you hidden the flags?"

"I haven't hidden any."

Malik raised an eyebrow. "Then why are they running out here?"

"A lesson in futility," Rauf replied airily.

"You're worse than Labib!"

"Certainly not. Labib would have withheld the flags on purpose."

"And you did not?"

Rauf shrugged, grinning. "I realized, Brother, after sending them out onto the rooftops this morning, that I'd quite forgotten to place any flags last night."

Malik groaned.

"You are lucky to be arriving today," Rauf said, sobering, "and not tomorrow. Al Mualim just gave your brother his orders for the year."

Malik pulled his hood back over his head. "So long? I thought he would be sent to Acre, and no further."

"Much further. Darum."

Darum was twice the distance from Masyaf as Acre. His brother would need a ship to get there and back in only a year.

"By sea?"

"Yes."

Malik grit his teeth. He was not so afraid of the open water as Altaïr, but there were risks taken at sea that no amount of preparedness could protect against. Malik looked back out across the roofs, the bumbling novices still searching for something that wasn't there.

One of the novices landed on a loose tile and didn't correct his posture to accommodate. The tile slid out from beneath him and he disappeared onto the road below. The snap of a broken bone echoed through the streets, followed by a sharp cry of pain. Rauf raised his left arm to the window above him, pulling himself smoothly up onto the roof and setting off towards his charge.

Malik turned away and began his ascent up the mountain in the opposite direction, knowing that he would have time to speak freely with Rauf later. He had more pressing matters to attend to in the fortress.

XxXxX

Malik lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling. His brother had not been in his chambers or in the library, and none of the other Brothers he'd met along the way had seen him. Malik had a sneaking suspicion that Kadar was in Masyaf, lying in a similar position on a bed that wasn't his own. Malik could not fault his brother for seeking comfort before a long mission, though he wished he knew more of the details.

Altaïr shifted and rolled on top of him. The bare skin of nearly every limb pressed firmly into Malik's own. There were certain ways in which a body molds to another; a shape that cannot be replicated. Malik had thought about this during his three months away; the longest he'd ever been separated from Altaïr since their meeting ten years ago. Since then their bodies had changed, legs lengthened, hair grew, voices deepened. So many changes in just the three years since their promotion to Assassins. Altaïr's hand spread slowly over Malik's ribs, his thumb rubbing the skin over each bone. Their bodies had changed, but it was always the other who discovered these differences first. Altaïr's hand rose along Malik's side, eliciting a deep sigh. The thumb, that was the catalyst, snuck towards the nearest nipple, rubbing it gently. Like the pulse point on a target, the effect of such precision was immediate, and practiced. Altaïr had known about this weakness, had stumbled across it and exploited it mercilessly, without Malik's guidance. His body's changes betrayed him. His sigh became a moan.

"Three months," Altaïr said, voice thick.

"I know."

"Later than you said." The thumb's circular motion paused, changing direction.

"I know."

They were lying under a thin sheet, on the bed in the South Tower. Very little of the room had changed since they began using it in their boyhood. Only a drape had been added to the window, during a particularly cold winter.

"I was going to leave. If I was meant to wait even one more day. I would have taken one of the Journeymen horses and ridden out to Tripoli."

"That would have been unfortunate, as I was not in Tripoli for long."

Altaïr lowered his head to Malik's neck, allowing the top of his nose to brush against a particular freckle before biting down. The response was immediate; another spot Malik had been unaware of until Altaïr uncovered its existence, and potential.

"I would have ridden the horse to Tripoli, and to Jerusalem, and all the way to the great open water if such a need arose."

"You would be a fairly poor assassin to go so far awry- ah."

"In my madness," Altaïr breathed, directly below Malik's ear, "I would not be an Assassin."

Altaïr rocked his hips. Slowly, deliberately. Malik groaned, and Altaïr continued, his voice hushed.

"Simply a man."

Malik gripped Altaïr's arm, shocked at the force of his body's response. Three months without any release, and he could feel the power it had over his mind. Altaïr smiled against his skin, always aware.

XxXxX

Malik threw off the sheet in a huff. The room was stifling, even with only two people sharing the space. Altaïr yawned and blinked up at him, but didn't rise. He had kicked off most of his sheets during the night, leaving most of the remainder on Malik's side. The sight of him, lying there naked, would have been more enticing if Malik wasn't sticky with his own sweat.

Malik left the bed and walked to the window. The drape had been loosened over the small square opening, and he pulled it aside to inspect the outside world.

Down below, in the sun-drenched courtyard, Rauf was frog-marching his novices in a small circle, each boy carrying two pails of water. Malik recognized the activity, and almost laughed at the irony. Rauf had been the worst at that exercise, always spilling his water and complaining about the heat.

Malik turned at the sound of movement behind him, and watched as Altaïr shuffled quietly towards the cabinet in the corner, its wooded panels cut with gold bindings that wound around the exterior in elegant swirling patterns. Malik wondered how such a beautiful piece of carpentry could end up in such a dusty old room, but then Altaïr bent over to open one of the drawers, and all thoughts of furnishings vanished from his mind.

"Look what I found," Altaïr called.

The drawer lay open at an odd angle, the wooden frame had warped over time and the two pieces no longer fit together neatly. Altaïr pulled something gingerly out from inside. It looked to Malik like an old wooden box, until Altaïr blew the dust off the top to reveal a handsome checkered pattern.

"I used to play this with Adha," he said wistfully. "Come, I will show you how it goes."

Malik climbed back on the bed and Altaïr placed the box between them. He opened it and carefully removed a set of black and white carved pieces. Malik picked up an elephant piece and inspected it. The details were exceptional; every toe, every wrinkle, even the beast's expression had been carefully cut into the wood.

"Who made these?"

Altaïr shrugged, taking the piece from Malik's fingers and placing it on the board with the rest. "The Master who lived in these quarters I suppose. Or someone else. It matters little now that its here."

"They must have taken a long time to carve."

"Yes, I imagine so."

Malik listened patiently as Altaïr explained the game. It had simple enough rules, though there were a few that sounded out of place, as though a child had written exceptions to rules they didn't like. Altaïr, in an act of pure selflessness, allowed Malik the first move.

XxXxX

A/N: Another time-skip! Rather serendipitous given the break in updates, though not planned. I have the outline of this story already written out (since the very beginning), and I'm so glad now to be in this time period, where I can start wrapping up some of the loose ends. Thanks to all who sent notes regarding my last chapter. Your support is much appreciated! For you new readers, welcome, I hope you've enjoyed it so far :)

Reviews:

Mykonosparadise: I'm glad you're still reading! As for their PDA, it certainly is a problem… Too bad they will have to learn discretion the hard way :( Thanks for yours review! Cookie Killer: Hello! Thanks for your review. Firstly, I'm not sure where you read that Richard the Lionheart is dead in my fic; he plays a key role in later chapters and in the original AC cannon. Rest assured I take the historical accuracy of such figures seriously when writing. Secondly, though I'm sure in reality that men and women were not treated equally in the 12th century, the AC cannon makes it very clear that both Altair's parents were assassins, and that Altair's first lover was a female assassin in Masyaf. Neither of these women are OCs. The only aspect of Adha's character that I've changed is the nature of her relationship with Altaïr. If you'd like further information, there's plenty to be found on the AC wiki. Cheers! Rueky Mitem: Thanks for your review! I do stay as close to the cannon as possible, but you're right, some minor changes are necessary to keep the story interesting. I try to keep it to minor stuff! :)