The Secret Crusade

19

Altair felt weary of the task. Tired and increasingly vexed. Each long ride exhausted him further but he was commanded to visit Al Mualim after every kill. And on each occasion the Master was enigmatic, demanding details from him yet holding so much back.

So it would prove on the next occasion they met. ‘Word has reached me of your success,’ Al Mualim said. ‘You’ve my gratitude – and that of the realm. Freeing these cities from their corrupt leaders will no doubt promote the cause of peace.’

‘Can you really be so sure?’ asked Altair. For his own part, he was sure of less and less.

‘The means by which men rule are reflected in their people. As you cleanse the cities of corruption, you heal the hearts and minds of those who live within.’

‘Our enemies would disagree,’ said Altair, his mind going to those whose eyes he had closed.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Each man I’ve slain has said strange words to me. They are without regret. Even in death, they seem confident of their success. Though they do not admit it directly, there is a tie that binds them. I am sure of it.’

Al Mualim regarded him carefully. ‘There is a difference, Altair, between what we are told to be true and what we see to be true. Most men do not bother to make the distinction. It is simpler that way. But as an Assassin, it is your nature to notice. To question.’

‘Then what is it that connects these men?’ pressed Altair. The Master had the answers, he was sure of it. All of them.

‘Ah. But as an Assassin it is also your duty to still these thoughts and trust in your master. For there can be no true peace without order. And order requires authority.’

Altair could not keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘You speak in circles, Master. You commend me for being aware and then ask me not to be. Which is it?’

‘The question will be answered when you no longer need to ask it,’ responded Al Mualim, mysteriously.

Altair could see he was getting nowhere. ‘I assume you called me here for more than a lecture,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Al Mualim, and directed him to Damascus once more. The one they called Abu’l Nuqoud. He was to be the next to die. First, though, there was the impertinent Bureau leader to negotiate…

‘Altair, my friend. Welcome. Welcome. Whose life do you come to collect today?’

Altair frowned to see the Damascus Bureau leader, insolent as ever, but not enough so to warrant his fury. It was quite a talent the man had for judging it so well. Perhaps if he had been able to put his skills to better use, he wouldn’t be spending his days behind a desk in the Bureau. One day Altair might remind him of that fact. In the meantime, he had work to do. A new target.

‘His name is Abu’l Nuqoud,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me about him?’

‘Oh, the Merchant King of Damascus,’ exclaimed the leader, visibly impressed. ‘Richest man in the city. Quite exciting. Quite dangerous. I envy you, Altair. Well… not the bit where you were beaten and stripped of your rank… But I envy everything else. Oh… except for the terrible things the other Assassins say about you. But, yes, aside from the failure and the hatred – yes, aside from those things – I envy you very much…’

Altair imagined how his neck would look with a blade sticking from it. ‘I do not care what the others think or say,’ he said. ‘I am here to do a job. So I ask again: what can you tell me about the Merchant King?’

‘Only that he must be a very bad man if Al Mualim has sent you to see him. He keeps to his own kind, wrapped in the finery of this city’s noble district. A busy man – always up to something. I’m sure if you spend some time among his type you’ll learn all you need to know about him.’

Which was exactly what Altair did, going to the Omayyad Mosque and Souk Sarouja, as well as Salah Al’din’s citadel, where he learned that Abu’l Nuqoud was hated by the local populace, that he was corrupt and had been embezzling public money, much of which had been diverted to Jerusalem in payments to William de Montferrat. (Altair smiled grimly about that.)

Passing the Madrasah al-Kallasah he came upon scholars talking, and hoped he might hear something of Abu’l Nuqoud. They weren’t talking about him but Altair hung about anyway, perplexed by their speeches.

‘Citizens. Bring forth your writings,’ the first was saying. ‘Place them in the pile before me. To keep any is a sin. Know and embrace the truth of my words. Free yourselves from the lies and corruption of the past.’

Although he’d been about to move on, Altair continued to linger. There was something about that. Free yourselves from the lies and corruption of the past. Could it have something to do with the ‘new order’ he kept hearing about?

Another scholar was talking now: ‘If you truly value peace – if you truly wish to see an end to war – give up your books, your scrolls, your manuscripts, for they feed the flames of ignorance and hate.’

Altair had heard enough – and he didn’t like what he had heard. Give up your books. Why?

He put it out of his mind, however, continuing to learn about the Merchant King. Nuqoud rarely left his chambers, he heard. However, he would that very evening to attend a party he was hosting – held, many said, merely to rub his personal wealth in the noses of the citizenry. He had even ordered wine – in contravention of his faith – for the event. If it was to be anything like his previous parties then that was when Altair would strike. He had heard of a scaffold left outside the balcony of Abu’l Nuqoud’s quarters. It was, he decided, a perfect time to go to a party.