The Secret Crusade

49

From a distance all looked well with Masyaf. None of them – not Altair, Maria or Darim – had any idea of what was to come.

Altair 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 Altair 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 Altair, now that he had returned.

But endure them he would, thought Altair, 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.

‘Altair,’ said Swami, with a bow of the head, and Altair 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 Altair, 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 Altair. ‘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.

Altair 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, Altair. 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.’

Altair 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 Altair, 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 Altair’s eye, but instead of proceeding up the barbican, Swami led them around the outside of the inner curtain. Altair 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. Altair 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 Altair 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 Altair.

‘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.

Altair 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 Altair, 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 Altair. ‘Tell him he has some explaining to do.’

Swami swallowed, wringing his hands a little theatrically. ‘Malik is in prison, Master.’

Altair 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, Altair darkened. ‘With who as its chairman?’

‘Abbas,’ replied Swami.

Altair looked at Maria, whose eyes showed real concern now. She reached to take his arm.

‘And when do I meet this council?’ asked Altair. 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 Altair, 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 Altair 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.’