Chapter Text
The sun was hot, the sky was blue, and Malik had blood on his hands.
He withdrew his hidden blade from the base of the arms dealer’s throat, guiding the body down into the shadows of the alley. Blood bubbled up against the fingers the man had clenched over the wound, staining his lips as he gurgled and darkening the collar of his richly dyed vest. It trickled slowly across the ground beneath him, spreading through the dirt.
“Be at peace,” Malik said, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. He thought of the dead merchant left still in the fountain, just beyond the cover of the empty crates he crouched behind. “Your dealings are finished. You will profit from this war no longer.”
“You’ll pay for this,” the dealer rasped, his teeth red with blood behind his sneer, “You and all your kind.” He struggled for a moment as though to push himself up, one arm clenching and sliding against the dirt.
“Yet you pay now, Tamir,” Malik knelt and forced the man back down, reaching with his left hand to swipe a feather through the blood pooling at his neck, staining the plume.
Tamir shuddered, spluttered what could have been a laugh “You think me just a petty death dealer don’t you? Suckling at the breast of war? A strange target for you master, don’t you think hashashin? When so many do the same.” The man’s lips pulled into a sickly bitter grin.
Malik raised a dark eyebrow, skeptical “You think you are something different?” He tucked the feather back into the pouch tied to the side of the thick leather belt.
“Hah!” Tamir coughed, “You think I act alone – but,” – a heaving wet gasp – “I am but a piece of a whole. My brothers will see to your destruction.”
Malik scoffed, “What brothers? You are done. Your hold on the market is gone, the merchant guild and traders freed from your tyranny,” he tightened his grasp and leaned closer until he could smell the copper on the man’s breath.
“Your master hasn’t told you? Don’t fret then pawn, you will know them …” Tamir’s voice was fading “– Know them soon enough.” The man began to cough again softly, breath a damp, sticking rasp.
Malik pushed back onto his heels, watching as those breaths staggered and stopped, Tamir’s eyes going blank.
Many arms dealers had sprung up to profit on the war. The Ayyubids and the Crusader armies both required huge quantities of steel to trade for blood. Tamir had kept his foot firmly in both camps as the war travelled over the Holy Land, profiting no matter which way the battles fell. The man likely had many connections – certainly more than Malik needed to be aware of – but with his death those connections would surely be severed.
The buzz of the Great Souk al-Silaah filtered back in around him, the clanking of wares, and the nervous hum of voices just beyond his shelter. There was a scuff of a boot behind him, a sudden shout and slide of steel.
Malik spun onto his feet, vambrace up to block the approaching soldier’s sword arm. In the narrow alley the soldier had no room to properly draw his weapon, and Malik took advantage, driving his elbow into the man’s face and shoving him into the pile of crates. The man – one of Tamir’s red-coated personal guard – fell backwards, and Malik sprinted past him and out into the Souk’s courtyard.
He dodged between shocked merchants who fell and pushed each other to get out of his way, passed the body staining the fountain red, and leapt up the scaffolding he had earlier marked as his escape route.
Behind him more of Tamir’s guards shouted and drew their weapons, rushing in from their posts around the edges of the courtyard. A pot smashed to the ground as someone yelled, voice commanding and angry. Malik kept his eyes forward as he scaled the wall to the roof, pulling himself up the light timber rails as more shouts rang out behind him. He rolled over the lip onto the sandstone rooftop and in the same movement pushed back at the scaffolding with his boot, kicking the light timber out from the wall to break against the stone tiled ground and anyone trying to climb up after him.
He spared a brief glance down at the clamouring guards below… then he turned and ran, feet pounding against the flat Damascus rooftops, leaping gaps over narrow streets and twisting his way across the market district, keeping out of sight of the occasional rooftop archer patrolling the area. The sun heated the sweat on the back of his neck through the material of his hooded robes, his breath escaping in short controlled pants as his feet carried him across the the stones, sliding up and over the domed arches of the the covered Souk al-Silaah and landing in a crouch on the other side.
On the borders of the Souk he dropped back down to street level, stepping out into the bustling crowds passing in and out of the morning markets. The hood of his robe up to shade his eyes as he let his pace settle into the flow of those around him. Just another man among the many, hidden in plain sight.
The arms dealer had seemed so smug, so certain that he knew something Malik didn’t even as he had choked on his own blood. The thought itched unwelcome at the back of his mind as he slid in between the chattering merchants and market-goers. It was true that Tamir had been more than he seemed at first glance, and until that morning had been one of the most influential men in the Damascus black market, running much of the Souk al-Silaah with an iron fist. That was why Al Mualim had ordered the man’s death – not just because Tamir was cruel and dangerous to the city’s citizens. Malik thought again of the poor merchant in the fountain, his only crime not being able to meet Tamir’s demands fast enough.
He brushed the thoughts from his mind. He was Fida’i. One of the order’s elite assassins; the weapons their Master sent out into the Holy land to tip the fates of those who ruled. To protect the land from harm. He felt the space of the missing finger on his left hand, the weight of the hidden dagger ready to pass through the gap. A wise assassin took heed of his enemy’s words, but it was Al Mualim who would guide his actions.
The crowd was still thick as Malik took his path back towards the assassin’s hide-out, circling and unpredictable. He kept his ears open for any sounds of pursuit as he let his eyes wander across the shoulders of the men and women around him, the bustle of the Damascus streets, busy with the mid morning crowds. The war had not yet reached the city, favoured as it was by Salah ad-Din; the base of the man’s power and support – though the city’s population had swelled with the steady influx of refuges. People fleeing from the impact of the war, the destruction of their homes and fields. It was not so obvious here, in the middle district, but in the poorer areas and near the gates more beggars were visible on the streets than ever before.
Malik’s gaze passed over the crowd again… and caught on the thobe of the over-dressed man two steps ahead. He frowned, and after a moment realised why his attention kept being drawn to him. To the trained eye he didn’t fit in with the other market goers – his clothes slightly too rich, his attention not on the stalls and wares laid around them but on anyone who came too close. He moved with the nervous gait of someone hunted, a glassy strain at the corner of his eyes when he turned his head to glance backwards.
Malik cast a glance again across the shifting flow of people. If he wanted to blend in he should do as Malik was doing, varying his pace and allowing his attention to drift across the landscape. Instead this man hurried forwards, pushing roughly through a group of women, neck jerking nervously back and forth. Malik found himself directly behind the man, close enough to see the beads of sweat running down the back of his neck as he came to an erratic stop, head twisting over his shoulder and up towards the sky.
There was a sudden flash of white cloth. The light thump of armoured feet hitting the ground.
Between one second and the next there was a person in the space in front of Malik. A white robed body dropping from above, seamlessly and impossibly unnoticed into the still moving crowd. Malik barely had time to tense, hidden blade activating with an instinctive clench of his fist before he recognised the shape as another assassin. He bit back the surprise in his throat, taking a half step backwards as the white-robed figure before him turned their head, arm lowering from where it had been placed at the nervous man’s throat. The faint ‘snik’ of a hidden blade drawing back into place just audible to his ears.
Golden eyes shone from beneath the tilt of the other’s hood, and Malik’s breath caught in recognition; Al Mualim’s Eagle. The one assassin trained and crafted solely by the Master’s own hand, and arguably one of his greatest achievements.
Their gazes locked for a single second, and those shadowed eyes were golden – a rich amber that almost glowed with the reflected sunlight. More than just an assassin, the Eagle was the most skilled of them all, the Master’s own hunting bird, released only for the most important or difficult prey. Without a word, the Eagle turned away. Barely a flip of untouched white robes and he was slipping easily between two chatting water carriers, disappearing like a ghost into the moving crowd as if he had never been there.
Malik’s eyes flicked back to the assassin’s target, and the line of red that had suddenly appeared along his throat. Blood swelling and flowing down his brightly dyed thobe, staining it a lurid crimson. The target clutched his neck, eyes wide and shocked, and Malik took another half step back. Above him a narrow wooden support linked the buildings above his head, surely where the Eagle had jumped from, yet no one, not even Malik himself, had seen him up there.
In front of him the Eagle’s target fell face first onto the dusty cobbles, blood spreading from his neck in a growing puddle. Someone screamed to his right, and there was a collective gasp in the crowd, a sudden babble of alarmed voices as a circle spread around the body. Malik stepped back into the frantic rhythm of the crowd, and let it carry him away.
***
The assassin’s refuge in the poor district provided welcome relief from the midday heat, the hidden courtyard shaded by the lattice overhead – its grate pulled back to allow entry. Malik washed the dust from his face with the water trickling from the small fountain against the wall, before entering the cool darkness of the bureau itself.
“Ah Al-Sayf,” the Rafiq, a shorter, bright eyed man close to Malik in age waved away a hovering novice, “How went your mission? The information I provided was useful yes?”
Malik nodded, “It was, thank you Rafiq. Tamir is dead. He had doubled his guard in preparation for an important shipment as the informants said, so was distracted even while he thought himself secure.” He withdrew the proof of bloody feather, and placed it on the aged bench.
“This is a good thing you have done” The Rafiq nodded, leaning behind the counter and withdrawing the thickly bound ledger that lived there. “Any arms dealer profits from war, but that one… he traded heavily to both Ayyubid and Crusader, prolonging the war indefinitely if he could.”
“No longer.” Malik said firmly.
“No. With his death the northern Souk and merchant’s guild will trade freely again. His iron hold destroyed. Ah,” The Rafiq paused, his gaze passing over Malik’s shoulder, “Al Eiqab Tayir, The great Eagle returns.” Malik’s head turned to see the other assassin drop soundlessly into the bureau’s courtyard, boots light on the patterned tiles.
The Eagle’s robes were marked only by a fine layer of the ever-present desert dust, no sign of blood against he pale fabric as he straightened and smoothly approached the Rafiq’s desk. He stepped into place a bare arm’s length away from Malik, a blood stained feather produced from his belt pouch and passed over the counter without a word. Was this from the man in the market? Malik hadn’t seen the other mark his blood, but he had to admit he’d been distracted. He had never seen the Eagle so close before. Never in the bright light of the day, this far from Masyaf castle.
The other was about the same height as Malik, perhaps leaner of build, but there was a sense of danger resting in those sharp eyes, in what was visible of his stern, nearly expressionless features beneath his hood. Unlike Malik, the Eagle had kept it pulled up in the bureau, far enough forward to almost hide his eyes, shadowing over his cheekbones and half covering his face. Yet those eyes were uncovered, unbound by the leather strip they were usually hidden behind in Masyaf.
There was a rustle as Fadal placed the feather onto the page alongside Malik’s, and the Eagle glanced up, his sharp, golden eyes skated briefly over Malik’s face – then just as quickly returning to the Rafiq as the man pulled a pot of ink and a small wax candle from beneath the desk. He scribed a few words beneath the feather before nodding to the Eagle.
“I will inform Al Mualim of your progress.” He lit the candle, and using a few drops of heated wax, carefully affixed the feather to the page, pressing it down with the carved wooden stamping tool.
The Eagle dipped his head in acknowledgement, spun on his heel and moved swiftly and fluidly back out into the sun-dappled courtyard. Each step purposeful, not a single wasted motion
Rafiq Fadal followed Malik’s gaze and sighed, “Certainly he works quickly that one. I gave him his feather but an hour ago, and already the bells ring and he is back with blood. Now he heads straight to Jerusalem to hunt a wolf.”
“Jerusalem. Several days hard ride from Damascus,” Malik mused, watching as the Eagle stood in the centre of the courtyard, robes pale in the bright spot of sunlight as he checked and retied his gear.
“An important mission, I hear, one not to be delayed.” The Rafiq’s eyes sparkled as he leant forward conspiratorially, “Obtaining a grand treasure that the Master has deemed important. It would be a sight to see would it not?”
Malik nodded, eyes still drawn to the Eagle as he climbed swiftly up and out of the bureau, disappearing into the hot, midday sun.
Malik turned back to the Rafiq, “Any birds from Masyaf?”
“Ah none yet regarding your next mission. Perhaps once you report to the Master he will have more for you,” Fadal returned to the ledger, blowing gently on the ink to dry it.
“I am to return to Masyaf now then?” Malik asked.
“Yes, yes. Though take your rest first. Not all of us can fly across the Holy Land without rest or break.”
Malik eyed the courtyard. In Damascus the bureau cushions were brightly patterned and scattered against the wall, a few carpets laid out to keep away the worst of the sand. A couple of plants even managed to grow lushly, protected within the stone walls; the small oasis certainly a welcome relief to travel-weary assassins.
“Of course Rafiq, I will do so.”
He made his way out and settled down, leaning back against the wall, calming his thoughts and breaths into meditation as he relaxed his muscles. The lattice overhead cast its cooling shade over him, the muted sounds of the streets filtering in from outside their walls, the soft scuff as the novice the Rafiq had been speaking to earlier jumped up and out of the courtyard. In the event of a city wide alert the opening above could be locked tight to prevent detection – any assassins outside knew that if the warning bells rang, the bureau would be barred, preventing any from leading pursuers back to them and compromising their location. Now it lay pushed open, enough time having passed since the Eagle had set the city bells ringing. He leant back against the wall, eyes half-closed, but had only been meditating for a short while before two new shapes dropped in from above. Both new arrivals dropped their hoods and splashing water onto their faces from the small fountain. One glanced up, eyes settling on Malik.
“Al-Sayf! It is good to see you friend, I half expected you to be on the move again, that we might have passed each other on the road to Masyaf.” This assassin Malik recognised well. They had trained together, and like Malik, Akeem had also made the master rank relatively recently.
“Peace be on you, Akeem. You travelled well?” Malik stood, clasping the other’s hand in greeting. He nodded towards the second man, “Nadir al-Ashraf, peace be on you as well.”
Akeem shrugged, “As well as one can. I swear above, each horse I ride is worse than the last.”
“Perhaps if you learnt to ride?” Nadir commented idly, inspecting his nails. The darker skinned man still held the slight accent of the Egyptians on his tongue, though it had faded much since Malik had first met him.
“Perhaps if my journeyman friend could keep up?” Akeem shot back, his eyes narrowed playfully for a second but the easy grin on his face couldn’t be budged.
“It is your poor horses I feel sorry for,” Malik laughed, “to have to deal with the two of you. Ah but at least you made it yes? You timed it well, arriving after the bells.”
Nadir nudged Malik in the shoulder, “Good to see our brothers are working hard. That was you, then?”
“Well–” Malik began, but was cut off as the Rafiq appeared in the doorway, “Ah, Master Akeem, Journeyman al-Ashraf, you’ve arrived in good time. I trust you are not too worn from your ride?”
Akeem laughed, pressing his fist to his chest and bowing, “Fresh and at your service.”
“Good, in truth I have a favour to ask. Normally I would get one of the novices to do this, but as you can see,” he gestured around the half empty bureau, “Kalim is off to meet with informants, and I am left short-handed.”
“Of course Rafiq,” Akeem bowed his head, “What is it you need? I will do my best to provide.”
Fadal nodded, “Now that Salah ad-Din’s campaign takes him further from Damascus, his brother al-Adil’s gaze is elsewhere, and the nobles increasingly squabble for power and coin. We have been ordered to gather intel, but I need someone to drop supplies in the rich quarter for our spies, hidden well, of course.”
He sighed, “Truth be told, archer’s patrol that area often, it would be best if it was not left to a novice.” He turned his gaze to Nadir, “Ibn Alaat may flee the city soon, and I must brief you on your assignment as soon as possible, otherwise I might have even asked you to go with him.”
Malik stepped forward, “I can accompany Akeem, Rafiq – with your permission. It will be good to stretch my legs before the ride to Masyaf.”
Fadal’s eyes rested on him for a moment, then he nodded, turning to rummage on the shelf behind the desk, the boards holding drying earthenware pots and other odds and ends, “Good, good. You will do us proud then.” He picked up a pack and handed it to Akeem.
“You are to hide this on the rooftops across from the Azm palace; there is an unused garden box. The archers do not patrol that rooftop, though they often use the one beside it. Be wary, the noble who lives there is gaining power rapidly, and he has a growing number of personal guards as well, look for them in brown tunics.”
Malik nodded easily, “It shall be done.”
“Report back as soon as you are finished. Akeem, I will have the information on your target ready for you then. Malik, you will be free to return to Masyaf whenever you are prepared.”
Akeem bounced the parcel in his hand; what appeared to be medicinal supplies and clean clothing bound tightly together. “Ah, I feel I’ve been cooped up in here too long already, like the Rafiq’s birds. Come Malik, let us see the city.” Akeem stretched his shoulders with a grin, and together they climbed up the fountain and out into the sun.
“Did you see the Eagle as you entered the city?” Malik pulled his hood back up as they leapt off the bureau roof and onto its neighbour.
Akeem’s eyes sparkled, “Ah, you saw him too? He passed us by in the stables.”
“He must have only arrived in the city this morning, or perhaps last night, but he didn’t stay in the bureau.” Malik mused.
“Perhaps he sleeps up one of the towers,” Akeem nodded to a tall minaret as they passed it. It was tiled decoratively but narrow, a single plank jutting from the top, similar in a way to the leap of faith planks back in Masyaf. “Or perhaps in a nest?” Akeem laughed to himself.
“You’ve not seen him sleep in a refuge?” Malik’s brows drew together.
“Never.” Akeem shrugged, “He makes the other assassins nervous, but I do not think he notices. He is far above us, and surely does not need the safety of our walls.”
Malik paused, licked his lips in the midday heat, “I saw him hunting his target. A man in the Souk al-Silaah.”
“You did? Then you are a lucky man indeed. I have been in the same city as him three times now, and barely laid eyes on him.”
“It was…” Malik searched for the words, “It is true his skill is unmatched. To kill in the middle of a crowd and remain unnoticed…”
“He is Al Mualim’s chosen for a reason, his Eagle,” Akeem nodded, grinned, “A being made to bring death to our enemies. Perhaps he is a spirit from another realm?”
Malik flicked him in the shoulder, and Akeem jumped to the next roof with a laugh.
“Altair Ibn-La’Ahad; the Son of None. Does it not fit? A wild creature raised by none other than the Master himself.”
“Careful, or your laughter will alert the archers,” Malik rolled his eyes.
Akeem waved a hand, “Damascus is not so bad yet. You should see Acre, soldiers on every street, and archers all over the rich district. A miserable city. Nadir will be posted there next, and I do not envy him.”
“Still,” Malik looked out across the city, over the buildings in front of them.
Akeem grumbled good naturally then hefted the pack, “I hear this new merchant lord has started collecting money for Salah ad-Din’s war effort, but that he keeps it for himself, hoarding it or spending it on frivolities.”
“Then let us hope our spies make good use of these supplies. That the Master may decide his fate.” Malik said, jumping to the next rooftop.
“Hmm,” Akeem agreed, “Perhaps we will get a glimpse of all this finery for ourselves.”
“Perhaps,” Malik agreed as they continued out across the sunlit rooftops towards the rich district, his thoughts straying back to golden eyes, to the Eagle.
***
Malik nodded to the assassin standing guard outside Al Mualim’s study as he approached. The wide mezzanine of the second floor overlooked the the main hall of the keep, allowing the Master to see out across the expanse from behind his large oak desk. Scholars and the occasional novice passed between the shelves spaced widely over both floors, voices hushed amongst the scrolls and books.
The guard saluted him in, and Malik entered the study, not so much a room as an area marked off by the raised floor and a pair of tall, laden bookshelves. Malik rounded the corner, one foot into the space before he pulled up short, eyes on the other man already in front of the Master’s desk.
The Eagle stood in the centre of the space, his white robes coloured with dirt and dust, speckled up over the hem and arms from hard riding… but it was the ragged tear across the shoulder of the uniform – crusted and stained with blood – that Malik’s eyes were drawn to. An obvious bloody swathe across the sleeve of his left arm, down to his wrist. Whatever wound lay across his shoulder couldn’t be terribly deep, but it looked to Malik like the Eagle hadn’t even stopped to clean it, let alone properly bind it in the hard ride he must have taken back to Masyaf, to arrive from Jerusalem before Malik.
The small, ornate chest held in the Master’s hands glinted in the warm light that filtered through the window behind the desk. An odd rounded shape decorated with four gold-plated wings on each corner, surely… this was the prize from Jerusalem Fadal had mentioned.
Al Mualim set it carefully onto the desk, and Malik caught a glimpse of the plain metal sphere lying inside before the lid was closed again. Hardly an important cultural item, Malik thought, surprised – but perhaps the box itself was the treasure, decorated as it was in an unfamiliar fashion, and clearly constructed with rare woods and precious metals.
Al Mualim straightened and stood tall behind the desk. His weathered hands clasped firmly behind his back as he acknowledged Malik with a tilt of his head. Malik quickly saluted, fist to chest, and ducked his head in a bow. He took a half step back, remaining standing a respectful distance from the pair.
“Thank you, Altair. Once again, you have done well.” Al Mualim’s voice was strong as he rested a hand on the the Eagle’s uninjured shoulder, fingers squeezing the material of his robes. Then he reached back to the desk, picking up a familiar stiff leather blindfold – moulded and formed like the sort you would see on a hunting bird. He dropped the Eagle’s hood, revealing a head of short, messy hair, not quite as dark as most in Masyaf.
“De Sablé may still live, but you have returned to my hand with a prize nonetheless,” The Master’s voice was pleased as he tied the leather around the Eagle’s head. The half-hood covered the assassin’s eyes completely, fitted over the shape of his forehead and cheekbones and cutting off all light and vision. It covered the entire top half of his face, formed to press close to his skin.
When by the Master’s side, the Eagle’s eyes were usually kept covered – the hunter tamed. Those in the castle new what it meant when that blindfold was removed, and the Eagle released from Al Mualim’s hand.
The Eagle straightened and stepped forwards, though blinded he was completely sure as he passed the desk, moving to stand by the large window, face turned to the sunlight. He would surely be used to navigating the Master’s study while blindfolded, but there was still something eery about the certainty with which he moved, the way his face seemed to turned to follow he movements of people in the training courtyard below.
Al Mualim lifted his gaze from the treasure, “Malik Al-Sayf, the birds bring me good news. Report.”
Malik stepped forwards, fist to chest again.
“Tamir is dead. I killed him in the Souk al-Silaah during the morning market. He murdered a man there before I was able to strike.” Malik paused before continuing, “Though before he died, Tamir mentioned he did not work alone. He spoke as though he thought he knew your plans, or your intentions at least. Dying men will say such things, but… this felt like something more, Master.”
“Ah,” Al Mualim turned to face the window. “Do not trouble yourself Malik. I know of those he calls brothers. The Arms Dealer held sway over the Damascus merchants, and had powerful contacts with both Salah ad-Din’s Ayyubids and in the Crusader camps, this you know.”
Malik nodded respectfully, and the Master continued.
“Like others of his ilk, Tamir worked to gain power of the land and its people’s. It is our work to halt such plans. Be assured, the actions of you and your brothers here will see it protected.”
“Under your guidance, Master,” Malik bowed his head, “I am sure it is unimportant, but he implied my work had a larger meaning, that there was more to his death than I thought.”
Al Mualim paused, considering as his fingers tapped against the table, next to the strange treasure, “Significance comes not from a single act, but from the context in which it is performed, and the consequences borne of it. Our actions create change greater than the death of a single man… one death to alter the fates of many.” He lifted an arm in emphasis, “Everything is permitted – This is our creed. Tamir likely believed us to be like him, to have plans on controlling the Holy Land and beyond.”
“I see. Our methods confused him, that we act in the name of peace,” Malik nodded. “He wanted… control then. These brothers he mentioned, they wished to expand their influence?”
Al Mualim waved a hand, “Perhaps, yes, but that is not your concern. You are Fida’i, willing to sacrifice your life for our aims beyond these walls,” his cool eyes settled firmly over Malik, “Do not weigh yourself down with unnecessary questions.”
Malik stood straighter, “Of course. Your will shall guide us on the path.”
“Indeed. Now rest, assassin. You will have a new target soon enough.” Al Mualim said, dismissing Malik with a loose gesture towards the other end of the hall.
Malik bowed again, and quietly left the study, stepping back out onto the mezzanine. Behind him Al Mualim watched him leave for a moment, then turned his attention back to the small vessel still on the table.