‘How was Masyaf left?’
‘Altaïr put Malik in charge in his place. He left Sef behind also, to help take care of affairs. Sef had a wife and two young daughters by then, Darim did not, and they were gone for a long time.’
‘How long?’
‘He was absent for ten years, brother, and when he returned to Masyaf everything there had changed. Nothing would ever be the same again. Do you want to hear about it?’
‘Please continue.’
49
From a distance all looked well with Masyaf. None of them – not Altaïr, Maria or Darim – had any idea of what was to come.
Altaïr and Maria rode a little ahead, side by side, as was their preference, happy to be with one another and pleased to be within sight of home, each undulating with the slow, steady rhythm of their horses. Both rode high and proud in the saddle despite the long, arduous journey. They might have been advancing in years – both were in their mid-sixties – but it would not do to be seen slouching. Nevertheless they came slowly: their mounts were chosen for their strength and stamina, not speed, and tethered to each was an ass, laden with supplies.
Behind them came Darim, who had inherited the bright, dancing eyes of his mother, his father’s colouring and bone structure, and the impulsiveness of both. He would have liked to gallop ahead and climb the slopes of the village to the citadel to announce his parents’ return, but instead trotted meekly behind, respecting his father’s wishes for a modest homecoming. Every now and then he swatted the flies from his face with his crop and thought that a gallop would have been the most effective way to rid himself of them. He wondered if they were being watched from the spires of the fortress, from its defensive tower.
Passing the stables, they went through the wooden gates and into the market, finding it unchanged. They came into the village, where children rushed excitedly around them calling for treats – children too young to know the Master. Older villagers recognized him, though, and Altaïr noticed them watching the party carefully, not with welcome but wariness. Faces were turned away when he tried to catch their eye. Anxiety bit into his gut.
Now a figure he knew was approaching them, meeting them at the bottom of the slopes to the citadel. Swami. An apprentice when he’d left, one of those who was too fond of combat, not enough of learning. He had collected a scar in the intervening ten years and it wrinkled when he smiled, a broad grin that went nowhere near his eyes. Perhaps he was already thinking of the teachings he would have to endure with Altaïr, now that he had returned.
But endure them he would, thought Altaïr, his gaze going past Swami to the castle, where a vast flag bearing the mark of the Assassins fluttered in the breeze. He had decreed that the flag be removed: the Assassins were disposing of such empty emblems. But Malik had evidently decided it should fly. He was another who would endure some teaching in the time ahead.
‘Altaïr,’ said Swami, with a bow of the head, and Altaïr decided to ignore the man’s failure to address him by his correct title. For the time being at least. ‘How pleasant it is to see you. I trust your travels proved fruitful.’
‘I sent messages,’ said Altaïr, leaning forward in his saddle. Darim drew up on the other side of him so that the three formed a line, looking down at Swami. ‘Was the Order not told of my progress?’
Swami smiled obsequiously. ‘Of course, of course. I asked merely out of courtesy.’
‘I expected to be met by Rauf,’ said Altaïr. ‘He is most accustomed to meeting my needs.’
‘Ah, poor Rauf.’ Swami peered at the ground reflectively.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Rauf, I’m afraid is dead of the fever these past few years.’
‘Why was I not informed?’
At this Swami merely shrugged. An insolent shrug, as though he neither knew nor cared.
Altaïr pursed his lips, deciding that somebody had some explaining to do, even if it wasn’t to be this cur. ‘Then let us move on. I trust our quarters are prepared?’
Swami bowed his head again. ‘I’m afraid not, Altaïr. Until such time as you can be accommodated I have been asked to direct you to a residence on the western side of the fortress.’
Altaïr looked first at Darim, who was frowning, then at Maria, who gazed at him with eyes that said, Beware. Something was not right.
‘Very well,’ said Altaïr, cautiously, and they dismounted. Swami gestured to some servant boys, who came forward to take the horses, and they began their ascent to the citadel gates. There the guards inclined their heads quickly, as though, like the villagers, they were keen to avoid Altaïr’s eye, but instead of proceeding up the barbican, Swami led them around the outside of the inner curtain. Altaïr regarded the walls of the citadel stretching high above them, wanting to see the heart of the Order, feeling irritation build – but some instinct told him to bide his time. When they reached the residence it was a low building sunk into the stone with a short arch at its doorway and stairs leading down to a vestibule. The furniture was sparse and there were no staff to greet them. Altaïr was used to modest accommodation – he demanded it, in fact – but here in Masyaf, as the Assassin Master, he expected his accommodation to be in the Master’s tower or equivalent.
Bristling, he turned, about to remonstrate with Swami, who stood in the vestibule with the same obsequious grin on his face, when Maria grabbed his arm and squeezed it, stopping him.
‘Where is Sef?’ she asked Swami. She was smiling pleasantly, though Altaïr knew that she loathed Swami. Loathed him with every fibre in her body. ‘I would like Sef sent here at once, please.’
Swami looked pained. ‘I regret that Sef is not here. He has had to travel to Alamut.’
‘His family?’
‘Are accompanying him.’
Maria shot a look of concern to Altaïr.
‘What business did my brother have in Alamut?’ snapped Darim, even more put out then his parents by the scant quarters.
‘Alas, I do not know,’ oozed Swami.
Altaïr took a deep breath and approached Swami. The messenger’s scar no longer crinkled as the sycophantic smile slid from his face. Perhaps he was suddenly reminded that this was Altaïr, the Master, whose skill in battle was matched only by his fierceness in the classroom.
‘Inform Malik at once that I wish to see him,’ growled Altaïr. ‘Tell him he has some explaining to do.’
Swami swallowed, wringing his hands a little theatrically. ‘Malik is in prison, Master.’
Altaïr started. ‘In prison? Why?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say, Master. A meeting of the council has been called for tomorrow morning.’
‘The what?’
‘With Malik imprisoned, a council was formed to oversee the Order, in accordance with the statutes of the Brotherhood.’
This was true, but even so, Altaïr darkened. ‘With who as its chairman?’
‘Abbas,’ replied Swami.
Altaïr looked at Maria, whose eyes showed real concern now. She reached to take his arm.
‘And when do I meet this council?’ asked Altaïr. His voice was calm, belying the storm in his belly.
‘Tomorrow the council would like to hear the tale of your journey and apprise you of events at the Order.’
‘And after that the council shall be dissolved,’ said Altaïr, firmly. ‘Tell your council we shall see them at sunrise. Tell them to consult the statutes. The Master has returned and wishes to resume leadership.’
Swami bowed and left.
The family waited until he had gone before letting their true feelings show, when Altaïr turned to Darim and with urgency in his voice told him, ‘Ride to Alamut,’ he told him. ‘Bring Sef back here. He’s needed at once.’
50
The following day, Altaïr and Maria were about to make their way from their residence to the main tower when they were intercepted by Swami, who insisted on leading them through the barbican himself. As they skirted the wall Altaïr wondered why he coul
dn’t hear the usual noise of swordplay and training from the other side. As they came into the courtyard he got his answer.
It was because there was no swordplay or training. Where once the inner areas of the citadel had hummed with activity and life, echoing to the metallic chime of sword strikes, the shouts and curses of the instructors, now it lay almost deserted. He looked around him, at the towers overlooking them, seeing black windows. Guards on the ramparts stared dispassionately down at them. The place of enlightenment and training – the crucible of Assassin knowledge he had left – had all but disappeared. Altair’s mood darkened further as he was about to make his way to the main tower but Swami directed him instead to the steps that led up to the defence room, then into the main hall.
There, the council was gathered. Ten men were seated on opposite sides of a table with Abbas at their head, a pair of empty chairs for Altaïr and Maria: wooden, high-backed chairs. They took their seats and, for the first time since entering the room, Altaïr looked at Abbas, his old antagonist. He saw something in him other than weakness and resentment. He saw a rival. And for the first time since the night that Ahmad had come to his quarters and taken his own life, Altaïr no longer pitied Abbas.
Altaïr looked around the rest of the table. Just as he’d thought, the new council was made up of the most weak-minded and conniving members of the Order. Those Altaïr would have preferred to be cast out. All had joined this council, it seemed, or been recruited to it by Abbas. Characteristic of them was Farim, Swami’s father, who watched him from beneath hooded lids, his chin tucked into this chest. His ample chest. They had got fat, thought Altaïr, scornfully.
‘Welcome, Altaïr,’ said Abbas. ‘I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that I am looking forward to hearing of your exploits in the east.’
Maria leaned forward to address him. ‘Before we say anything of our travels, we would like some answers, please, Abbas. We left Masyaf in good order. It seems that standards have been allowed to slip.’
‘We left Masyaf in good order?’ smiled Abbas, though he had not looked at Maria. He hadn’t taken his gaze from Altaïr. The two were staring across the table at each other with open hostility. ‘When you left the Brotherhood I seem to recall there being only one Master. Now it appears we had two.’
‘Be careful your insolence does not cost you dear, Abbas,’ warned Maria.
‘My insolence?’ laughed Abbas. ‘Altaïr, please tell the infidel that from now on she may not speak unless directly addressed by a member of the council.’
With a shout of anger, Altaïr rose from his chair, which skittered back and tumbled on the stone. His hand was on the hilt of his sword but two guards came forward, their swords drawn.
‘Guards, take his weapon,’ commanded Abbas. ‘You will be more comfortable without it, Altaïr. Are you wearing your blade?’
Altaïr stretched out his arms as a guard stepped forward to take his sword. His sleeves fell away to reveal no hidden blade.
‘Now we can begin,’ said Abbas. ‘Please do not waste our time further. Update us on your quest to neutralize Khan.’
‘Only once you have told me what has happened to Malik,’ growled Altair.
Abbas shrugged and raised his eyebrows as if to say they were at an impasse, and of course they were, neither man willing to concede, it seemed. With a grunt of exasperation, Altaïr began his story, rather than prolong the stand-off. He related his journeys to Persia, India and Mongolia, where he, Maria and Darim had liaised with the Assassin Qulan Gal, and told of how they had travelled to the Xia province nearby to Xingging, which was besieged by the Mongolian Army, the spread of Khan’s empire inexorable. There, he said, Altaïr and Qulan Gal had planned to infiltrate the Mongolian camp. It was said that Khan was there, too.
‘Darim found a vantage point not far from the camp and, armed with his bow, would watch over Qulan Gal and me as we made our way through the tents. It was heavily guarded and we relied on him to dispose of any guards we alerted or who looked as though they might raise the alarm.’ Altaïr gazed around the table with a challenging stare. ‘And he performed this duty admirably.’
‘Like father, like son,’ said Abbas, with more than a hint of a sneer in his voice.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Altaïr, evenly. ‘For in the event it was I who was responsible for almost alerting the Mongolians to our presence.’
‘Ah,’ said Abbas. ‘He is not infallible.’
‘Nobody is, Abbas,’ replied Altaïr, ‘least of all me, and I allowed an enemy soldier to come up on me. He wounded me before Qulan Gal was able to kill him.’
‘Getting old, Altaïr?’ jeered Abbas.
‘Everybody is, Abbas,’ replied Altaïr. ‘And I would have been dead if Qulan Gal had not managed to take me from the camp and bring me to safety. His actions saved my life.’ He looked carefully at Abbas. ‘Qulan Gal returned to the camp. First he formulated a plan with Darim to flush Khan from his tent. Realizing the danger, Khan tried to escape on horseback, but he was brought down by Qulan Gal. Khan was finished with a shot from Darim.’
‘His skills as a bowman are beyond doubt,’ smiled Abbas. ‘I gather you have sent him away, perhaps to Alamut?’
Altaïr blinked. Abbas knew everything, it seemed. ‘He has indeed left the citadel on my orders. Whether to Alamut or not, I will not say.’
‘To see Sef at Alamut, perhaps?’ pressed Abbas. He addressed Swami. ‘You told them Sef was there, I trust?’
‘As instructed, Master,’ replied Swami.
Altaïr felt something worse than worry in his gut now. Something that might have been fear. He felt it from Maria, too: her face was drawn and anxious. ‘Say what you have to say, Abbas,’ he said.
‘Or what, Altaïr?’
‘Or my first task when I resume leadership will be to have you thrown in the dungeon.’
‘There to join Malik, maybe?’
‘I doubt that Malik belongs in prison,’ snapped Altaïr. ‘Of what crime is he accused?’
‘A murder.’ Abbas smirked.
It was as though the word thumped on to the table.
‘Murder of whom?’ asked Maria.
And the reply when it came sounded as though it was given from far, far away.
‘Sef. Malik murdered your son.’
Maria’s head dropped into her hands.
‘No!’ Altaïr heard someone say, then realized his own voice had spoken.
‘I am sorry, Altaïr,’ said Abbas, speaking as though he was reciting something from memory. ‘I am sorry that you have returned to hear this most tragic news, and may I say that I speak for all of those assembled when I extend my sympathy to you and your family. But until certain matters are resolved it will not be possible for you to resume leadership of the Order.’
Altaïr was still trying to unravel the jumble of emotion in his head, aware of Maria beside him, sobbing.
‘What?’ he said. Then louder: ‘What?’
‘You remain compromised at this point,’ said Abbas, ‘so I have taken the decision that control of the Order remains with the council.’
Altaïr shook with fury. ‘I am the Master of this Order, Abbas. I demand that leadership is returned to me, in line with the statutes of the Brotherhood. They decree it be returned to me.’ He was shouting now.
‘They do not.’ Abbas smiled. ‘Not any more.’
51
Later, Altaïr and Maria sat in their residence, huddled together on a stone bench, silent in the near dark. They had spent years sleeping in deserts but had never felt so isolated and alone as they did at that moment. They grieved at their lowly circumstances; they grieved that Masyaf had become neglected in their absence; they fretted for Sef’s family and Darim.
But most of all they grieved for Sef.
He had been stabbed to death in his bed, they said, just two weeks ago; there had been no time to send a message to Altaïr. The knife was discovered in Malik’s quarters. He had been heard arguing with Sef earlier that day by an
Assassin. The name of the Assassin who had heard the argument, Altaïr had yet to learn, but whoever it was had reported hearing Sef and Malik arguing over the leadership of the Order, with Malik claiming that he intended to keep it once Altaïr returned.
‘It was news of your return that sparked the disagreement, it would seem,’ Abbas had gloated, revelling in Altaïr’s ashen look, the quiet weeping of Maria.
Sef had been heard threatening to reveal Malik’s plans to Altaïr so Malik had killed him. That was the theory.
Beside him, her head tucked into his chest and her legs pulled up, Maria sobbed still. Altaïr smoothed her hair and rocked her until she quietened. Then he watched the shadows cast by the firelight flickering and dancing on the yellow stone wall, listening to the crickets from outside, the occasional crunch of guards’ footsteps.
A short while later Maria awoke with a jump. He started too – he had been falling asleep himself, lulled by the leaping flames. She sat up, shivering, and pulled her blanket tight round herself. ‘What are we going to do, my love?’ she asked.
‘Malik,’ he said simply. He was staring at the wall with sightless eyes and spoke as though he hadn’t heard the question.
‘What of him?’
‘When we were younger. The assignment in the Temple Mount. My actions caused him great pain.’
‘But you learned,’ she said. ‘And Malik knew that. From that day a new Altaïr was born, who led the Order into greatness.’
Altaïr made a disbelieving sound. ‘Greatness? Really?’
‘Not now, my love,’ she said. ‘Maybe not now but you can restore it to how it was before all of this. You are the only one who can do it. Not Abbas.’ She said his name as though she had tasted something especially unpleasant. ‘Not some council. You. Altaïr. The Altaïr I’ve watched serve the Order for more than thirty years. The Altaïr who was born on that day.’
‘It cost Malik his brother,’ said Altaïr. ‘His arm too.’
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