Standard of Honor

NINE

The night had passed relatively peacefully, once the first chaotic arrivals and dispersals had been over- come, an event that lasted throughout the entire day and well into the hours of darkness. But the furor died down eventually, and the strident, heckling voices of the marshaling sergeants had dwindled and faded slowly as the last remaining units of the incoming forces were received and led away to where they would set up their encampments for the next few weeks at least.

André St. Clair had plugged his ears with fine white candle wax and spent more than four hours, two of them by candlelight, reading and then rereading the contents of the two wallets he had transported across the seas for his cousin. He now felt he understood most of what was required of Alec, and of himself, but what he had yet to learn could now come only from Alec, and he was impatient to return to their interrupted discussion. He contrived to miss matins that day, surmising accurately that the activities of the previous day and night might have resulted in a general lapse of enthusiasm for midnight prayers, and he made his way to the horse lines to select a mount more than an hour before the sky began to show the first hint of the coming day.

He then made his way out into the desert, riding by the pale light of the last, lingering stars until he reached the rendezvous, where he dismounted and off-saddled his horse, then tethered the beast to a dragging iron tent peg so that it would not wander far, and slipped a nose bag containing a handful of oats over its head. That done, he left the animal to munch contentedly and fashioned himself another seat in the sand.

An hour later, the sun long since risen, it was evident that something had happened to detain Alec, and André resolved to wait another half hour before returning to his own tent. It was pointless even to think of going in search of his cousin, for he had no vaguest idea of where to begin looking, and he could not even guess at what kind of changes would have been wrought in the general camp layout by the overnight addition of a hundred thousand men. But he had no desire to remain here alone for much longer, for the sun was growing measurably stronger and he had not thought to bring any kind of shelter against it, reasoning that their business there would be concluded in short order and that the two of them would then return to do whatever needed to be done.

He smoothed a rectangular area of sand with one hand and stuck a poniard, hilt first, into the center of it to create a sundial. Then he sat back to watch the shadow creep slowly towards the line that he had traced as marking half an hour. When shadow and line crossed, he waited a few minutes longer, then rose up and sheathed his blade, moving to saddle his patient horse. He had thrown the saddle across its back and was tightening his girths when he heard an approaching noise and looked up to see Alec, his face solemn.

“Well, welcome to you, Sir Knight of the Mournful Face. You took your time arriving. Where have you been?” He was still working beneath the horse’s withers, tightening the straps, but when he heard no answer to his gibe he straightened up and looked across to see no warmth in his cousin’s face. “Alec? In God’s name, man, what’s wrong? You look as though you have lost all you value. What’s happened? Is it de Sablé?”

Alec Sinclair managed to shake his head, but strangely, as though he were numb or impaired in some manner. Then he swung his leg over the cantle and slid loosely to the ground, collecting himself fluidly and with ease. But still his eyes were unfocused.

“De Sablé is well. I left him only a short time ago. Come and sit down.” He moved past André on stiff legs and lowered himself to the depression in the sand where André had waited for him. André felt apprehension coiling strongly in his gut, and he patted the horse’s flank and left it standing there as he went to sit on the sand beside his cousin.

“Alec, tell me what is troubling you. You went to look for de Sablé yesterday, so why did you have to meet him today?”

“Couldn’t find him yesterday. He had too much marshaling to attend to. But I remembered what you had told me about his joining the Temple, and so I left word at the commandery that if Sir Robert were to appear, he should inform him that I had come seeking him. He sent for me this morning and I’ve been with him ever since.” Alec sat up straight and drew a great breath, and André could see that his cousin was in some kind of torment, his eyes haunted with awareness. Before he could say anything, however, Alec bent forward quickly and seized a double handful of the fabric of André’s surcoat, pulling him close and into an embrace.

“André— Your … your father is dead.”

The words, emerging choked and close to indistinguishable, washed over and through André with no effect. He heard them, and a tiny portion of his mind may have absorbed their meaning, but their significance had absolutely no effect upon him. He was highly aware of the discomfort caused by the position into which Alec had pulled him, and he could feel the links of his cousin’s mailed shoulder digging painfully into the skin of his face. He even felt slightly embarrassed about the intimacy of this unexpected embrace, thinking they might be compromised were anyone to see it, but the words he had heard held no meaning for him. His father was dead. He knew that must be important, but his face was pressed against his cousin’s clothing, against his armor, and he realized that Alec Sinclair bore the same aroma as his father, the same beloved, unmistakable tang that marked Sir Henry St. Clair, and in that instant, in the space of half a heartbeat, the barriers fell and he heard what Alec had said.

Afterwards, much later, he would recall Alec gazing at him solemnly, his eyes wide and concerned as he told him how Sir Henry had been waylaid and struck down, with two of his junior officers, as they made their way back one night from a popular hostelry towards their quarters in Famagusta, where they were coordinating the details of a mixed strike force, horse and foot, that was to be led by Guy de Lusignan against Isaac Comnenus’s forces the next day. Their assailants had not been identified, let alone captured, but there was ample evidence that the attack had been carried out by one of several well-organized guerrilla groups operating out of the foothills to the north of the city.

Sir Henry St. Clair had fully discharged all his responsibilities to the liege lord whom he had served so faithfully throughout his life. He and the two officers with him had received full military honors in their funerary rites, Alec Sinclair said, and the King himself was in attendance, accompanied by an entourage of some of the senior lords and barons of his holdings throughout Christendom, including Sir Robert de Sablé. The Archbishop of Auxienne had offered prayers for the souls of the slain heroes, and Richard of England himself had spoken highly of his Master-at-Arms and how he had learned much of what he knew about fighting under Sir Henry’s tutelage.

All of these things, André knew in moments of lucidity over the course of the following few days, might be cause for pride and pleasure at some unknown date in the future, but for the time being, while he was feeling the cavernous emptiness that had filled him, it was all meaningless.

When they returned to camp, Alec Sinclair, fretful over his cousin’s condition, set about seeking the best in medical aid that he could find, for André had fallen into a state of deep melancholia and refused to be shaken out of it. And as was not unusual among the Frankish populace of Outremer, many of whom had now lived there for generations, he chose to engage the services of a celebrated Muslim physician whose acquaintance he had made several years before, although he would tell no one where or how. The truth was that Saif ad-Din Yildirim, reputedly a first cousin to one of Saladin’s most trusted associates, was in fact Shi’a and an associate of the Assassins.

Yildirim promptly set André St. Clair upon a regimen of liquid foods and powerful opiates, designed to keep him abed and asleep most of the time. There was no logical explanation, he said, for Sir André’s reaction to the death of his father, but he had seen similar cases among men of his own religion and was quite sure that the effects would soon pass, aided by sleep and rest. And sure enough, Alec discovered, so it was.

Yildirim suspended the administration of the opiates on the morning of the fourth day following the onset of André’s strange symptoms, and André St. Clair awoke at his usual time before dawn the next day with no memory of having been ill. When Alec questioned him, he remembered receiving the tidings from Alec, and he was subdued and saddened, but he now behaved as any other young man would on losing a well-loved parent.

A little later that same day, André came seeking his cousin in the knight’s new quarters close by the Templars’ tent, the great, bannered pavilion that served the Templars in the field as a mobile commandery. Although Sir Alexander Sinclair would have refused to place himself so close to the heart of the Temple Command a mere week earlier, the reason for his profound change of heart was simple: Sir Robert de Sablé’s personal pavilion now stood squarely beside the Templars’ tent. Scarcely less elaborate than its imposing neighbor, de Sablé’s pavilion had been erected several days earlier, after Sir Robert had formally resigned as King Richard’s Fleet Master and accepted his new posting as Grand Master Elect of the Order of the Temple of Solomon. Alec had sought out de Sablé as soon as he heard that the veteran had arrived, and had offered his personal services immediately and without reservation, for the two of them had known each other for more than two decades and had been Raised to the Brotherhood of Sion in the same ceremony, on a warm August night near the ancient town of Carcassonne. De Sablé had embraced Sinclair enthusiastically, and instantly appointed him to his personal staff. And that, very markedly, had been the end of Alec’s loss of popularity.

André found Alec working diligently when he arrived, frowning over a letter he was writing. He sat quietly until his cousin had completed what he was doing and sat back in his chair.

“I owe you a great deal, it seems, Cousin. I have been told that there is no better or more renowned physician in these parts than Saif ad-Din Yildirim.”

Alec flicked his fingers in a gesture of dismissal. “Nonsense. You owe me nothing. You are all the kin I have out here, and selfishness insists I look after you, since you are a mere child. Yildirim is an old friend and was happy to oblige me in this. How are you feeling now? Any ill effects from the opiates he fed you?”

André smiled. “None. But I seem to remember dreams that I would enjoy examining more closely now.” His face sobered. “Let me ask you this again, Alec, but one more time and for my own satisfaction, simply so I can be sure that my memory is serving me correctly. Am I correct in believing that my father was struck down at night, returning to his quarters from a hostelry where he had eaten with two friends?”

“Two associates, both his subordinates. All three of them were killed, the assailants unknown. We have to believe there were multiple assailants, since otherwise the odds would have militated against all three being killed. Your father’s age might have worked against him in a long struggle, but the men with him were both serving officers, both experienced veterans, and both at the top of their profession of arms. Those two would not have gone down easily. Ergo, multiple assailants and most probably from ambush. But we have no way of knowing how many or who they were.”

“And this was when, do you know? How long after I had left Cyprus?”

“Hmm. De Sablé said you would ask that. Three days after you left Limassol. Your father had been shipped to Famagusta that same day, the day you left, before daybreak, and had arrived there that same night. He had been in Famagusta for two days when the incident occurred.”

“So I was still at sea … I understand the King himself was there to speak for my father at his funeral?”

“He was. He traveled to Famagusta for the funeral rites. He and several others, including an archbishop.”

“Aye, well the King’s presence would have pleased the old man. I am grateful to you, Cousin, for this courtesy.” He inhaled loudly and straightened his stance. “I really came here this afternoon because you and I have unfinished matters to discuss. We never did talk about the material you gave me, and I had spent the entire night absorbing it all. I have since spent another hour, today, reviewing what I remember, and I am now ready to discuss these matters further with you, if you so wish.” He paused, but for no more than a moment. “I recall you were to meet with the imam, Rashid, the day the tidings of my father’s death arrived. Was that meeting a success?”

“It did not take place. As soon as I found out what had happened to your father, I sent a message explaining that I had been rendered unable to attend upon Rashid al-Din at that time and requested that we might arrange another meeting. He was courteous enough to agree, although in fact he had little choice, but that is neither here nor there. The meeting yet lies ahead and nothing has been lost, other than a few days of time which is not pressing.”

“I see. Then I regret that my personal woes had to interfere in your duties. Accept my apologies for the inconvenience I have caused you. It was not deliberate.”

“What?” Alec’s face broke into a grin as he stared at his earnest cousin. “Are you twitting me? You expect me to believe you know nothing at all of what has been going on here these past few days? André, I love you dearly, but you ask too much of me in this.” He stopped, then hesitated again on the point of speaking, and then the grin faded from his lips. “You really don’t know what has been going on, do you? André, my failure to meet with Rashid al-Din had nothing to do with you. Even had you been in perfect health, he and I would not have met … Do you remember the eclipse? No? Nothing at all? Well then, we had one, on the afternoon of the day following your … indisposition. In the middle of a heavy skirmish between a large contingent of their cavalry and an equal one of ours, God drew a curtain over the face of the sun. Three hours it lasted, from start to end, and it put the fear of Christ into our soldiers. We of the brotherhood knew what was happening, of course, because our savants know how to predict such events, and the Saracens were unsurprised by it, but our ordinary soldiers and sergeant brothers knew nothing, and they were panic stricken, convinced that God Himself was hiding His light from them.

“Since then, we have all been waiting on the edge of the abyss. Acre is tottering, Cuz, on the verge of falling. It has been common knowledge for more than a month now. There is only so much that flesh and blood can withstand, and then it all collapses, and the garrison of Acre has been subsisting on nothing at all for months now, defying all the odds. Anyone with a brain in his head knows the siege is over, in all but fact. And since the eclipse, for the past four days, Richard has been negotiating with Saladin’s envoys, and no one expects the status quo to last for more than another day or so.

“You may think you have been sick for a spell, but you have barely been inconvenienced. Richard, on the other hand, has been deathly ill. The doctors call what ails him leonardia and have all kinds of high-sounding explanations for it, but the truth is they have not the slightest idea of what is wrong with him. His hair is falling out in clumps, his gums are rotting, and his teeth are loose enough to wobble with a fingertip. He is a mess. And yet, throughout his illness, he has been involved in discussions with Saladin, seeking a resolution to this war. They bargain back and forth and neither is really inclined to surrender anything to the other. But at least while they are negotiating, no one is dying. What point was there in speaking, in the interim, to Rashid al-Din? That would have been vanity piled upon vanity. Thus, we have both waited to see what will transpire in Acre.”

“And what will happen, think you?”

“Once the city falls, you mark my words, the situation will return to prewar levels. The Hospitallers will re-man their hospital, the Templars will repossess the Templar Castle, and the King’s administrative crew will resume their occupation of the royal basements.”

“And what of Saladin? Don’t ask me to believe he might offer himself as hostage for his people’s behavior.”

“I would not dream of it. Saladin will do as leaders always do—he will negotiate an honorable outcome for himself and his closest associates, and he will leave his minions to their fates … or those of them, at least, who cannot help themselves.”

“You are being harsh, are you not? Nothing that I have heard of Saladin indicates that he would simply abandon the people of Acre, after their heroic defense of the city for so long.”

Sinclair shrugged. “He may, he may not. Much of it will depend upon the demands that Richard makes. If he digs in his heels, then Saladin will have little option but to humor him. It does not make for heroic behavior, but it is not uncommon in war for the losers to die. Look what happened to us at Hattin.”

“Hmm. I suppose you are right, and only time will tell us what the leaders have decided. Would this be a good time for us to talk further about what was in the dispatches you gave me to read?”

“Aye, it would, Cousin. There is no time like the present, for when you arrived, I was preparing for the next step in what needs to be done. How well do you feel, in truth?”

André almost smiled. “Well enough for anything you might throw at me. I felt a twinge of weakness earlier today, but now I feel as well as I have ever felt.”

“So be it then.” André stood up. “Come with me. We’ll stop at the stables and from there—” He stopped and looked André up and down from boots to helm. “I think I will have everything you need. But first, horses, and some food from the field kitchens. You pick out two good, stout mounts and I’ll collect the food.”

“And drink. Don’t forget to bring water.”

“I’ll pretend I did not hear that. Get the horses. I’ll rejoin you in a few minutes.”

“How long will we be gone? Shouldn’t we leave word with someone?”

“Aye, with de Sablé. I told him where I was going. I’ll send him word from the kitchens that I’ve taken you with me.”

“I’VE BEEN HERE BEFORE. This is the road Harry and I took when first we went to meet you, in the desert of stones.”

“Correct, Cousin. It is the self-same route, and we are going to the self-same place. The outer edge of the stone field should be coming into view at any moment.”

“Why would we go there, Alec?”

“Because I have good reason to go there, one that will make perfect sense to you, too, once I have explained it. Do you remember when you were here that first day, how intrigued you were by how I had been able to approach you unheard?”

“Aye, I remember it well. You said it was because we were making so much noise that we could not have heard you. You also said that you had been standing for hours.”

“I did? Did I really? That was …”

“Careless is what it was, for it set me to thinking. I would be prepared to wager that you have a hiding place nearby. You looked me up and down moments ago and told me that you had everything I would need, but we have not stopped moving since then and your saddlebags appear to be empty. The food and drink you brought is the only burden you carry. Therefore whatever else you have that I might need must be located where we are going. And there is always the additional consideration that, while the location there might suit you for any number of reasons, all of them would be greatly increased if you had a convenient hiding place nearby from which you could spy upon those who come to meet you.”

Alec Sinclair grinned. “Well done, lad. We’ll be there soon and you can see it for yourself.”

They rode in silence after that until the high pinnacle of the monolith in the center of the clearing where they had first met came into view, and as they approached it, Alec pointed out how the natural elevation of the little rock-crowned hummock made it easy for any watcher to see clearly what anyone on the summit was doing. Before they came too close to the central clearing, however, Alec led them aside, following a trail so faint it was barely discernible among the boulders, and it led them out and around towards the back of the knoll. Alec stopped in the shadow of a particularly large clump of stones, then turned his horse towards it and moved forward to where it seemed his horse must walk straight into the side of the stone. But then he dismounted, and taking hold of his horse’s woven leather bridle, he led the animal sharply around to his left and downward, following the abrupt edge of what appeared to be a large hole in the ground.

Following close behind him, André saw that it was indeed a hole, its sides smoothed by ages of use by people following a narrow but manageable path that wound downward in a tight spiral to vanish some distance below. He advanced carefully, following Alec, and soon found himself in a natural atrium, a wind- or water-worn hallway in the living rock, open to the skies. They were perhaps ten paces below the level of the ground above, and the blue sky over their heads was almost circular in section. Behind André, hidden in shadow, was the entrance to a cavern that turned out to be the first in a progression of caves culminating in a large, high, well-lit space with a dry, sandy floor. A fire pit in the center of the floor appeared to have been used for centuries, and the entire space was crisscrossed with beams of light that shone directly in as though from windows.

“Amazing, is it not?” Alec Sinclair dropped the bags he was carrying by the fire pit and led his horse over into a far corner of the large cavern, where he began to unsaddle him. “I felt exactly the same as you when I first saw it. It took my breath away and left me mute. It still shakes me when I think about it, but I’ve grown used to it nowadays and it takes someone like you, seeing it for the first time, to remind me how aweinspiring it really is.”

“How did you ever find it?”

“Never did. I had to be shown it, just like you. In my case, by Ibrahim, my main contact with the Old Man.” He swung the saddle off his mount’s back and carried it back to drop it by the fireplace. “Leave that,” he said, waving his hand to take André’s attention away from his own saddle. “Come and see this.”

André followed him as he scrambled up a high incline and thrust his upper body through a hole in the roof. It was larger than it appeared to be, and there was ample room for the two of them to stand up there together, side by side.

“You have to be careful to stay quiet climbing up,” Alec said, “but it is worth the effort, would you not agree?”

André could say nothing, able only to gape in wonder. He was standing with his head projecting through a hole in the ground, almost completely surrounded by the bases of the central cluster of boulders dominating the tiny knoll where he had waited with Harry Douglas for the arrival of Alec Sinclair, and he could see the entire scene perfectly, looking directly through the gaps at the bottom of the boulder cluster.

“You were here all the time. You could hear every word.”

“Every syllable. I was impressed by the charitable way you made excuses for my tardiness.”

André stooped and made his way back to where he had left his horse partially saddled. He completed the job of unsaddling, lugged his saddle and blanket to the fireplace, then crossed to a high wooden bin against the wall.

“What is in here?”

“Dried dung, some of it camel but mostly horse. We hoard it as fuel. It’s the only kind we have … camel dung and horse dung. There is a seam of anthracite— a hard, shiny, hot-burning coal—about ten miles from here, and when time permits, we haul fuel from there, too. But most of the time we burn dung.”

“And in here?” André was standing now in front of two large wooden chests with ornate hasps, and as he spoke Alec was already in the act of bending to open one of them.

“Clothing, for a range of purposes. Which is our next priority. Strip out of your armor. It is time to take on the protective coloration of the landscape.” He pulled open the top of one of the chests, exposing a welter of brightly colored garments. “You should make a fine-looking Muslim. Have you worn Saracen clothing before now?”

“Only twice before, at home and very briefly—you can imagine the notice it would have attracted. I have a basic understanding of what is required and how the various garments fit.”

“Excellent, then let us make a start on it. Quickly now, strip down and I will help you don new finery. Ibrahim should be here very soon.”

“Ibrahim is already here, Almania.”

The words, spoken in Arabic, were uttered close to André’s ear, and he spun around so quickly that he almost fell on the uneven floor. “How came—?” he gasped, dropping his hand to his dagger hilt. He did not finish the thought, for he saw the curling hairs on the back of the brown hand close to his jaw and felt the flat width of a blade pressing firmly upwards against the soft skin beneath his chin and he knew, beyond dispute, that the blade would have a very sharp edge. He tilted his head back, yielding to the pressure of the blade until the skin of his entire neck was tautly stretched, then remained motionless, his eyes focused on the face of the man who had come up so silently behind him and now stood eyeing him askance, smiling sardonically and daring him to move.

The fellow wore a tall, tapering helmet of shining steel, from which hung a facial mask of fine steel links, protecting his face without impairing his vision, and he stood with his own chin elevated almost as far as André’s, his body braced slightly rearward against the tension of the outstretched arm that was forcing André up onto his toes. Beneath the hanging links of his visor, the skin of the stranger’s face was a deep, dark brown, making the lines and shadows on his skin seem black, and his eyes were equally dark beneath bushy brows. His mustache and beard were so black that they appeared to have blue light in them, and although the mouth beneath them was closed now, André had seen the gleam of white teeth shining through as the fellow smiled. This man, André knew, was dangerous; tall, lean, and broad shouldered. He could see little of him below shoulder height, but he surmised that the man would be dressed from head to foot in flowing black.

“Ibrahim! I vow you are improving, in spite of yourself. I barely heard you come in this time.” Alec’s Arabic was flawless and betrayed no indication of surprise.

“You did not hear me at all, Almania.” The dark eyes did not leave André’s for an instant, even as the knifewielder spoke to Alec. “I was already here when you named me. Who is this ferenghi?”

“My cousin, André St. Clair.” He looked at André and switched back to their tongue. “André, say hello to Ibrahim al-Khusai, my liaison with the forces of Rashid al-Din Sinan.” Another swift switch and he was speaking to Ibrahim in Arabic again. “André is the one for whom I summoned the services of Saif ad-Din.”

Alec had made no reference at all to the dagger being held beneath André’s chin, and now André saw Ibrahim’s eyes narrow to slits. “The one who lost his father?”

“The one.”

Ibrahim blew a small snuffing noise through his nose and lowered his blade. He took a step backward and returned the dagger to its sheath. “That is an affliction no man should have to bear but, by the will of Allah, all men do. I lost my father less than two months ago, may Allah smile upon his memory, and the grief has barely left my bones.” He turned to Alec. “But you did not hear me coming, Almania, be truthful.”

André took the opportunity to scan the Assassin now from head to foot, seeing that he had been right in assuming the fellow would be completely robed in black, but over his long outer garment, Ibrahim wore a knee-length tunic of the finest open-link chain mail André had ever seen. Over that, he also wore a cuirass of shining steel to match his helmet, and a magnificent long-bladed scimitar hung from the belt at his waist.

He was still glaring defiantly at Alec, but Alec merely dipped his head slightly, dismissing the point as unimportant. “I was not listening, in truth, because I had no need to hear you coming, my friend. But truthfully, I smelled your presence the moment we entered the main cavern. I have told you before, you may recall, that cinnamon, in the amounts by which you consume it, is a highly recognizable aroma. You are inured to it and therefore unaware of how strongly you smell of it, but in your kind of work, it could get you killed.”

Ibrahim had stopped listening, having obviously heard and been bored by this before, and was staring now at André, his eyes moving up and down the length of his body. Now he nodded to himself and held up his hand. “I will help this one to dress like a man.” He turned his head back towards Alec. “Tell him to take off his clothes.”

“Tell him yourself. He speaks your tongue.”

Ibrahim straightened in surprise. “You speak Arabic?”

“Not well, but I do,” André replied in the same tongue. “I learned it before I ever left our homeland to come here, because our brethren there, who are the allies of your imam, Rashid al-Din, considered it wise to have me learn your language early, taught by a number of your finest scholars who live among them today, sharing common knowledge with our brethren.”

“So be it. Now, to our task. Disrobe, if you will.”

André removed his armor and his clothing, and Ibrahim instructed him thoroughly thereafter in the wearing of Muslim clothes, showing him the manner of applying and properly adjusting each separate garment, so the overall effect was one of loose and unrestrictive comfort. He ended by showing the Templar how to don the flowing headdress called the kufiya, and how to fasten it into place, tugging the securing band firmly into position, and then examining his own handiwork with a critical eye before nodding in satisfaction. “Thus it should hang,” he grunted. “You have the feel of it?”

“I have it now, but whether it will stay with me, I know not.” He could not have said why he had decided to say nothing about knowing the clothing already, nor why he chose to continue feigning ignorance.

“I will attend you from now until we meet the people we must meet. By then, you should know how to wear your clothing. It is not difficult. Our children can do it.” He glanced at Alec, who had been watching. “Come, Almania, we should be on the way already.”

As they saddled their horses, André spoke to Alec again in French. “What is that name he called you? Almania?”

“It’s the name of a tribe of Germans, the Alemanni. He thinks it means Englishman and he has called me it for years. I’ve tried to tell him different but he pays no heed, so now I simply accept it. And apparently there is no name for Scotland or for Scots in Arabic.”

“Where are we going now?” he asked. Ibrahim was leading the way out of the caverns.

“We are running errands, delivering messages to certain interested parties and to one in particular. There is no real need for you to come along, save that I think it is time we showed your face to the people with whom we have to work. That may or may not include the Old Man himself, for that is where we are ultimately going, but whether or not he will consent to receive you is something we will not know until the moment arrives. So think of this as an orientation journey, to meet these people, see where they live, and take note of how they deal with us.”

Ibrahim had ridden ahead and vanished among the boulders soon after they set out, but now they glimpsed him coming back towards them, and he drew rein about a hundred paces ahead, waiting for them to catch up to him. Alec continued, “You should find it interesting, because it will be like nothing else you will ever encounter out here. They would as happily slit our throats as look at us, but they do not dare, because they know we are under the protection of the imam, Rashid al-Din. They do not know why that should be so, but they accept that it is, and so since we are not Sunni, yet are People of the Book, they tolerate us, irrespective of how much or how little they understand of the reasons for our presence here. They know, too—and I have no idea how or how much they know of that, or where they came to learn of it—that even although we appear to be Templars, we are nonetheless different from the other Templars with whom they have dealings. Some things we are simply not meant to know or understand, and that is one of them.”

He waved to Ibrahim as they began to draw level with him, but continued talking to André in French. “Thus, you will find most of them courteous, if not exactly friendly, but never, ever forget who these people are, André, and never think to trust them. They are the Hashshashin. The Assassins. Our brotherhoods may have arcane commonalities, but we, as brothers, have nothing in common with them. Beware of them at all times.” He switched smoothly into Arabic again, for he had seen Ibrahim’s shoulders straighten on hearing the name Hashshashin. “Forgive me, Ibrahim my friend, for my lack of courtesy in speaking our ferenghi tongue, but my cousin here still finds it easier to listen and learn in our own tongue than in yours. I was explaining to him the history of your brotherhood and its successes since the advent of Rashid al-Din to Syria, more than forty years ago, but it strikes me now that you are far more qualified than I to speak of your brotherhood’s intentions and ambitions, and listening to you speak of such things in your own tongue would be a great benefit to him. Will you not honor us both by educating my cousin from your own point of view?”

Ibrahim, it transpired, was more than willing, despite his lingering air of disgruntlement. For the next two hours he talked without pause and surprised both his listeners by being articulate and well informed, with clearly defined opinions and beliefs amplified by analytical and even philosophical observations on what he and his Shi’a people had been able to achieve in their campaign against the Sunni caliphate, personified at this time by Saladin himself, who had called for the extermination of the Assassin brotherhood. In retaliation, he told them, Saladin had been marked for death three times, and on the first two had escaped by sheerest blind chance. But the third attempt, carried out by Ibrahim in person and according to the specific instructions of Rashid al-Din, had achieved what failure could not. On that occasion, the Sultan had awakened to find warm hotcakes and an Assassin’s dagger lying on the pillow by his head. There could be no mistaking the message: Saladin’s life was safe nowhere, not even in his own tent, under the care of his personal bodyguard, among the legions of his army.

Since that day, Saladin had taken to sleeping in a secure wooden pavilion that he had specially made and took with him everywhere, and he had never again called for action against Rashid al-Din and his followers.

Long before Ibrahim’s commentary ran out, they left the boulders and their surrounding plains far behind them and struck up into the mountainous terrain of the northern region, arriving at a high mountain village as the shadows began to darken late in the afternoon. It was a large village and unusually prosperous, according to a grunted aside from Alec, who suspected that its wealth came solely from banditry. André was formally introduced to the headman and his council by Ibrahim, before sitting down to dine with them. The men talked openly enough throughout the meal and showed no overt signs of hostility to the strangers in their midst, but Alec would tell André afterwards that he had been highly aware of the differences between the men of this village and those who lived in the village ruled by his friend and former captor Ibn al-Farouch. There was no humor here, he noted, at any stage of the proceedings. Everything was deadly dull and serious, tinged with overtones of hardship and tragedy. No one laughed, and he did not remark a single smile around the fire pit or around the dining table.

The three visitors slept beneath the open sky, wrapped in blankets against the night chill, and they were up and away soon after daybreak, heading northward again. As he had promised, Ibrahim inspected André’s appearance before they left, and made him presentable with a few sharp tugs and tucks, explaining all the while exactly what he was attempting to achieve. And by the time the next day dawned, their business with Rashid al-Din, the Old Man of the Mountain, was completed and André and Alec were homeward bound, uncaring of what any casual observer might think of the finer adjustments of their dress.

The previous night, just before darkness fell, André had seen, and had been seen by, Rashid al-Din himself, but he had not met the great man, if great was the appropriate word to describe him. He had accompanied Alec to the meeting place under a sunset sky of brilliant golds and burnished browns and orange, and had then drawn aside to wait outside when one of the guards had held up a hand to bar him from entering. This had been expected, and Alec had already explained that he might or might not be summoned to go inside after Alec had informed Rashid al-Din of who he was and why he was there. There was no way, Alec had said, to foretell how the imam might react, for in matters such as this Rashid al-Din took pleasure in being known as a man of whims and varying moods. Either he would summon André to his presence, or he would not.

In the event, the imam did neither. André had been standing to one side of the door, removed by several paces from the orbit of the guards, when his attention was drawn by a minor disturbance of some kind in the doorway itself. It had turned cold as soon as the sun sank beneath the peak at their backs, for they were high in the mountains here, on the pinnacle fortress known as the Eagle’s Nest, and he had just finished wrapping himself in his cloak against the chill of the night air. And then, hearing a surge of movement behind him, followed immediately by complete silence, he had turned around slowly to find himself being watched by a man he knew could be no other than Rashid al-Din.

Part of his certainty stemmed from his instant awareness of the tension gripping the guards as they eyed the man, their entire attitude conveying awe and apprehension so clearly that it seemed to him as though their very bodies were straining backward, away from the man who stood between them. And then he grew aware of the man himself and the air of stillness that hung over him like a shadow. Like most of the Assassin brotherhood, he was dressed completely in black, but this man’s black seemed personal and it transcended darkness; he exuded blackness, and as André looked at him the thought formed in his mind, and icy cold … blackness and icy cold.

He realized then that he did not know how to react or how to behave. He felt a nervous gathering of tension at the base of his neck and thought, for a wild moment, that perhaps he ought to bow, but he dismissed the notion as soon as it occurred to him and willed himself to remain erect and motionless. If he were not to be summoned, but were merely to be looked at and inspected like some inert lump, a faceless prisoner or a slave, then he would give no man the satisfaction of seeing him as submissive, and so he squared his shoulders and gazed stonily back into the cold, basilisk stare of the man watching him. The face was flat and close to featureless, almost completely concealed by a heavy, full beard of wiry iron-gray hair with wide, white streaks running from the outside edges of the nose to come together beneath the chin. Beneath twin, pointed tangles of coarse gray eyebrows, glassy, opaque eyes stared at him emptily, expressionless and unreadable. They reminded him of serpents’ eyes, utterly lacking in humanity or warmth, and he held their gaze resolutely, refusing even to blink as he mentally detailed the impressions this man had already made on him without speaking a word or offering a hint of recognition.

Arrogance was there, above and before all else, clearly discernible in the way al-Din held his head and even in the way in which the trailing ends of his black turban hung down to frame his face, as though positioned by someone who sought to achieve precisely the effect that he had captured. Intolerance was there as well, in the curl of the lip and the dead dullness of the sagging bags beneath the expressionless, unyielding eyes. Pride was there, too, he knew, although he could detect no overt sign of it, and so were monstrous vanity—denied and disavowed, no doubt, but there beneath the facade of faceless humility nonetheless— and sneering disdain for any but himself. André St. Clair decided then and there that he did not like Rashid al-Din Sinan, the Assassins’ Old Man of the Mountain, and that he had no wish to have any dealing with him on any pretext, even in obedience to the Council of the Order of Sion. And as that thought entered his mind, the other man slowly turned and stalked back inside the doors, the guards closing them reverentially and with evident relief at his back.

ALEC EMERGED FROM THE MEETING HOUSE about an hour later, frowning to himself as he tracked down André, who was warming himself by the fire the guards had built in the courtyard, and his first question, asked in French, was about Rashid al-Din. “He came outside to look at you when I told him who you are. Did you see him?”

“How could I fail to? He stood less than five paces from me, staring right at me.”

“And what did you think?”

André looked around him. There were more than a score of people in the courtyard now, and about half of them had gathered around the fire. “Do any of these people speak French?”

“Not that I know of. It is highly unlikely.”

“No more unlikely, surely, than that we should speak Arabic?”

Alec’s answering grin was tiny and brief, accompanied by a shake of the head. “Different thing, Cousin, believe me. You and I learned their language so that we could converse with them for our own purposes. These people have no such incentive. They are simple and unlettered, for the most part, seldom leaving these heights, and atop all that they are zealots. They despise us and everything we represent. They see us as godless infidels, damned eternally for our refusal to accept Allah and His Prophet. Why would they wish to sully themselves by speaking our foul infidel tongue? These men do not speak or understand French, upon my oath.”

“Then I shall tell you what I thought of your Old Man of the Mountain. I thought he was one of your perfect men of God. He is a zealot, but he is also a fanatic on the scale of a Nero or a Tiberius, consumed by self-love and convinced that only through his personal intercession can men ever hope to achieve salvation, and therefore he will do all in his power to foment war for his own purposes and to his own ends. He is filled up with self-righteousness and intolerance and hatred. He preaches bigotry and slaughter in the name of God. He is insane with the need to make other men insane in fighting for their gods and his own ambitions. I loathed him at first sight, and the mere prospect of having to treat with him at any time, for any purpose, makes me want to vomit. Apart from that, I found him quite impressive, in a flat-faced, inhuman kind of way.”

Alec quirked one eyebrow. “Well, he certainly seems to have made an impression on you. I wonder what thoughts you inspired in him.”

André tried unsuccessfully to cover a quick grin. “I believe in first impressions, Cousin, and they seldom lead me astray. As for what he thought of me, I could not care less. What did you and he talk about?”

Alec was quiet for several moments, as if deliberating whether or not he wanted to challenge André’s opinions, but then he shrugged and answered the question in a voice filled with disgust. “More than I wanted to talk about. First thing I found out was that I had stepped into a mess I didn’t even know was there. I didn’t do what any fool knows you have to do—I did not check my understanding against reality before jumping into the action, and placed myself at a disadvantage by not knowing everything I should have known. And, as it always will, that failure undid me when the last thing I needed was to be undone. Damnation! I’m still angry, but the truth is there’s no one to blame but myself.”

“Like what? I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Conrad and the Templars … De Montferrat and de Ridefort. I thought to distance them from each other, for my own purposes, one of them now being dead, but as soon as I brought the matter up, Sinan became incensed, and I knew I had missed something. Sure enough, he told me all about it, and I was taken completely by surprise. It mattered nothing that I was still a prisoner of war when all of it took place, because I am a dealer in information first and foremost and should know better than to make such errors.”

“I still don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I know. I know you don’t … But I don’t want to discuss it right at this moment. I’m hungry and I can smell roasting goat. Let’s find some food and a place where we can sit and eat it and talk privately, and then I’ll tell you all about the debacle.”

A short time later, fortified by roasted goat and freshly baked bread, washed down with cold water from a nearby stream, the two Franks settled themselves by the side of a dying fire and stirred it into life. No one paid them any attention at all, and eventually Alec Sinclair sat up straighter and brushed crumbs from the front of his robe before starting to speak.

“What I found out was that Conrad crossed Rashid badly, months ago before I was released from my captivity. Rashid is still so angry about it that he would not even allow Conrad’s name to be mentioned, and I ended up looking like a fool. Apparently one of Sinan’s ships, laden with treasures of various kind, was forced to seek sanctuary in Tyre from a violent winter storm early in this new year. I am told there are protocols governing such situations, and that the laws of sanctuary offered by harbors to visiting ships are quite as stringent as those offered to sinners by churches, but for a variety of reasons on this occasion the laws were suspended by Conrad. He had opted some time before, for reasons of his own, to shun the call to arms sent out by Richard of England to all the knights and men of Outremer. We all knew that, but somehow failed to pay it the attention it deserved, for Conrad is German, kin to Barbarossa, and newly named but not yet solidly established as the Count of Tyre.

“The Templars had left Tyre long before this happened, to lay siege to Acre with de Lusignan, and they had taken their war chest with them, which meant that Conrad had lost his largest and most ready source of funds. He was courting the good opinion of Philip of France at the time, too, and that was not an inexpensive endeavor. But he knew there was no love lost between the English and French Kings and he sought to turn that to his own advantage. The primary import of all that at the time, however, was that Conrad was almost bankrupt, and the Arab ship in his harbor was heavily laden with goods and cargo of great value. And so he impounded the vessel and killed its captain.

“Well, when Rashid al-Din learned of what had happened, he sent envoys to Conrad, explaining who he was—a Shi’a prince—and requesting the return of his ship and its cargo and crew on the old basis that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Conrad refused, and the messengers were sent home with fleas in their ears. And needless to say, nothing was ever restored to Sinan.

“It was a loss of great magnitude to the Assassins and they would have gone to great lengths to make sure that no hint of their discomfiture would ever filter back to amuse Saladin. By the time I was released, the story of the captured ship had long since been overshadowed by other events. But I should have known about it nonetheless. I was lazy, and I did not dig deeply enough before committing myself to a course of action I would regret.”

“But what could you have discovered, and how would you have known where to look?”

“I would have looked where I ought to have looked before doing anything else. I would have looked among our own Brethren of Sion here, the few who deal with such matters. And had I done that, I would have found out everything about the episode.”

“So … Apart from the damage to your pride, if what I am hearing is correct, there had been no great setback to what you have been asked to do. Am I correct?”

“Oh yes. Conrad is a dead man. He merely does not know it yet. No one makes a mortal enemy of Rashid al-Din Sinan and survives to talk about it. Conrad is now under fatwa. His death has been decreed, his killers dispatched. All that remains to be finalized is the manner and the timing.”

“Then your duty is fulfilled. You have achieved your objective without even having to do anything. That seldom happens in life today.”

Sinclair cocked his head and regarded his cousin steadily. “Aye,” he said. “I suppose that is true, save that we cannot dictate the timing of any of this, which could be a disadvantage.” He paused. “We never did talk about that aspect of my orders, you and I. How did you feel when you discovered my instructions in the dispatches? Have you anything you wish to say? Anything you would rather not do?”

“Well,” André’s voice was musing. “I must admit I was dismayed that you should be asked, and by our own Council, to arrange an elimination—no, let’s call it what it is—a murder. I did not become either knight or monk to be set such tasks. But then I thought it through, and believe me, Cousin, when I tell you that I thought it through at great length and on many occasions, and I came to an understanding of it from other points of view than that dictated by my own dislike. All of this, of course, long before I caught the smell of Rashid al-Din.

“There is far more at stake here than the life of one man. I understand that. What is really at hazard is the continuing existence of Christianity in the Holy Lands … and even should Richard’s host prevail over Saladin’s and uphold Christianity, the very form of that Christianity, its essence, will be disputed between rival factions of Roman and Byzantine Christians just as bitterly as the true way of Islam is disputed between Sunni and Shi’a Muslims. Now, not being a Christian, that should concern me not at all, and it does not, except that our ancient Order requires the mantle of secrecy offered it by Roman Christianity, and most particularly by the Order of the Temple, in order to continue its sacred work. And as a loyal Brother of the Order and a student of its lore, I believe in the importance of that work and have sworn to do everything within my power to assist in its eventual completion, stripping a thousand-year-old veil of lies from the eyes of men and allowing them to see and understand the original Way to the Kingdom of God espoused by Jesus and his companions within the Jerusalem Assembly.

“To that end, I will deal with the Assassins or with anyone else capable of helping us achieve our aims. And that in turn means that I can bring myself to condone, if not to carry out, the murder of the Count of Tyre, because since the death of the Emperor Barbarossa, Conrad of Montferrat now represents the single greatest threat to Roman Christianity in Outremer. If he marries Isabella, even if he does not become King of Jerusalem in fact, he will entrench the Orthodox rites in this part of the world more strongly than ever before, and he will replace the Order of the Temple with the Teutonic Order, emasculating the Western knights, both Templars and Hospitallers, and depriving them of any voice in the future of the kingdom. And in doing that, in dispossessing the Temple, he will disrupt the workings of our Order and interrupt, conceivably for another millennium, the progress of our sacred mission. And of course, he will become King of Jerusalem as soon as he weds Isabella.”

“Then there is naught for us to do but pray he falls to the fatwa before he marries her,” Sinclair muttered.

“Perhaps. But as you say, Cousin, we can exercise no control over that. And Rashid al-Din has no interest in assisting with any designs of ours, am I correct?” He waited for Sinclair’s nod, then added, “But answer me this: is it true that the Assassins see ritual slaughter of public officials in public places as a desirable means of spreading their own brand of terror?”

“It is.”

“And is it true that it will be to Conrad’s great advantage to consummate this marriage to Isabella just as soon as it can be arranged?”

“Yes. What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing yet. And when this wedding occurs, will it be a great gala event?”

“A royal wedding? Of course it will.”

“Well then, tell me why you should not go to Rashid al-Din and inform him of what is happening with Conrad and his overwhelmingly ambitious plan to consolidate all of Christianity under himself as King of Jerusalem? And while you are there, why should you not offer to keep the imam apprised at all times of Conrad’s movements and the development of his plans for the wedding? Thus informed, and when the time is right, Rashid would be able to send in his men to wreak the greatest possible havoc at the most propitious and appropriate moment, killing Conrad just as he is preparing to wed the Queen and take up the crown of Jerusalem. Now, there would be a statement of the power of the Assassin brotherhood, and it would fit our purposes to perfection.”

“What d’you mean, to perfection?”

“Well, if this wedding does not take place, for any reason, well and good and we need not be concerned with any of this.”

“But in that case Rashid al-Din will kill Conrad anyway.”

“He probably will, but at least under those circumstances it will be his decision, not ours.”

Alec sat staring at his cousin in unblinking awe, his right hand frozen in the act of rising to scratch at his nose, but then he allowed his hand to fall against his face, fingertips touching his lips, and shook his head. “That, Master St. Clair, is a stratagem worthy of a pope. It is inspired—utter, uncomplicated brilliance. Perfection!” He slapped his hand on his knees and surged to his feet, towering over André.

“Where are you going?”

“Back. Into the lion’s den. I intend to go and ask that he see me now, immediately, for I have matters of grave import to share with him. He knows we are leaving in the morning and his curiosity will not permit him to let us depart without squeezing every single thing we know out of us. Wait here for me. I should not be long.”

He was back in less than half an hour, and as he came he lobbed a magnificently gaudy dagger for André to catch. “It’s yours, although the Old Man gave it to me in token of his high regard. I neglected to tell him that it was really you whom he now holds in such high regard. Enjoy the weapon, for you certainly earned it this night. The hilt is a stone called lapis lazuli and the metalwork is brass, not gold, but you could clean and butcher a full-grown camel with the blade and never dull it. That is a sheikh’s weapon, my son. Wear it with pride. And now I am sure you must be as tired as I am, and we’re to be on the road in the early morning, so let’s find our bed rolls.”

“I will, I will, but what did he say when you outlined your plan?”

“Nothing, not a word, but the miserable old sodomite actually smiled at me … one of the most frightening things I have ever seen. He listened rapt, and when I had finished he went and brought the dagger for me personally, giving it to me from his own hand. He liked your plan, Cousin. And now we control the reins. We have earned a sound sleep. Come.”

“Gladly, but I cannot accept this.” André held out the dagger, its blue and gold hilt extended towards Sinclair, but Alec crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers flat beneath his armpits. André frowned. “Come, it is yours by any argument, and as you say, it is a weapon fit for a sheikh. Why won’t you take it?”

“Because it is not mine. You earned it with your wondrous idea. I merely passed the bait along to the Old Man. Besides, I have a dagger and I cherish it. See.” He reached to the waistband at the small of his back and brought out a weapon far more beautiful than the one given him by Rashid al-Din. This was a magnificently ornate, sheathed dagger with a hooked blade, its hilt and gilded scabbard chased with silver filigree and studded with polished precious stones in red, green, and blue.

“I have never seen that before.”

“Of course not. I keep it hidden, since otherwise I would have to forfeit it. Its very appearance makes a mockery of any vow of poverty and would excite the greed of anyone laying eyes on it. But I do not keep it for its monetary value, for in my eyes it has none. It once belonged to a young man called Arouf, who was brother to the wife of Ibn al-Farouch, my former captor. I found Arouf dead in the desert, after Hattin, and took the dagger from his body. Later, when I met al-Farouch, he recognized it, and later yet, when I became his prisoner, he took it from me. Then, once we had become friends and he set me free, he gave it back to me, as a memento of our time together, and I keep it in honor of that unexpectedly discovered friendship. So, keep you your dagger, and I will keep mine, both of them hidden from the eyes of acquisitive and avaricious men.”