He was clothed in rags, looking like a beggar. He was emaciated and, through his tattered shirt, Altair could see the lines of his ribs. His cheekbones were sharp outcrops on his face; his hair was long, his beard overgrown.
He had been in the cell for far longer than a month. That much was certain.
As he gazed at Malik, Altair’s fists clenched. He had planned to speak to him to determine the truth, but the truth was there on his jutting ribs and tattered clothes. How long had he been imprisoned? Long enough to send a message to Altair and Maria. How long had Sef been dead? Altair preferred not to think about it. All he knew was that Malik wasn’t spending another moment there.
When the guard opened his eyes it was to see Altair standing over him. Then, for him, the lights went out. When he next awoke he would find himself locked inside the piss-stinking cell, fruitlessly shouting for help, with Malik and Altair long gone.
‘Can you walk, my friend?’ Altair had said.
Malik had looked at him with blurry eyes. All the pain in those eyes. When he had eventually focused on Altair, a look of gratitude and relief had come to his face, so sincere that if there had been the slightest doubt in Altair’s mind it was banished at once.
‘For you, I can walk,’ said Malik, and attempted a smile.
But as they made their way back along the tunnel it had soon become clear that Malik did not have the strength to walk. Instead, Altair had taken his good arm, brought it around his shoulders and carried his old friend to the ladders of the tower, then across the ramparts, eventually descending the wall on the western side of the citadel, avoiding guards along the way. At last they arrived back at the residence. Altair looked first one way, then the other before he let himself in.
52
They laid Malik on a pallet and Maria sat as his side, giving him sips from a beaker.
‘Thank you,’ he gasped. His eyes had cleared a little. He pulled himself up in the bed, seeming uncomfortable with Maria’s proximity, as though he thought it dishonourable to be tended by her.
‘What happened to Sef?’ asked Altair. With three of them inside it, the room was small. Now it became smaller, seeming to close in on them.
‘Murdered,’ said Malik. ‘Two years ago Abbas staged his coup. He had Sef killed, then placed the murder weapon in my room. Another Assassin swore that he’d heard Sef and me arguing, and Abbas brought the Order to the conclusion that it was I who was responsible for Sef’s murder.’
Altair and Maria looked at one another. For two years their son had been dead. Altair felt rage bubbling within him and strove to control it – to control the impulse to turn, leave the room, go to the fortress and cut Abbas, watch him beg for mercy and bleed to death.
Maria put a hand to his arm, feeling and sharing his pain.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Malik. ‘I couldn’t send a message while I was in prison. Besides, Abbas controlled all communications in and out of the fortress. No doubt he has been busy changing other ordinances during my imprisonment, for his own benefit.’
‘He has,’ said Altair. ‘It seems he has supporters on the council.’
‘I’m sorry, Altair,’ said Malik. ‘I should have anticipated Abbas’s plans. For years after your departure he worked to undermine me. I had no idea he had managed to command such support. It would not have happened to a stronger leader. It would not have happened to you.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself. Rest, my friend,’ said Altair, and he motioned to Maria.
In the next room the two of them sat: Maria on the stone bench, Altair on a high-backed chair.
‘Do you know what you have to do?’ said Maria.
‘I have to destroy Abbas,’ said Altair.
‘But not for the purposes of vengeance, my love,’ she insisted, looking deep into his eyes. ‘For the Order. For the good of the Brotherhood. To take it back and make it great once more. If you can do that, and if you can let it take precedence over your own thoughts of revenge, the Order will love you as a father who shows it the true path. If you let yourself be blinded by anger and emotion, how can you expect them to listen when what you teach is the other way?’
‘You’re right,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Then how shall we proceed?’
‘We must confront Abbas. We must dispute the accusation made against our son’s murderer. The Order will have to accept that, and Abbas will be forced to answer for himself.’
‘It will be the word of Malik against Abbas and his agent, whoever that is.’
‘A weasel like Abbas? His agent is even less trustworthy, I should imagine. The Brotherhood will believe you, my love. They will want to believe you. You are the great Altair. If you can resist your desire for revenge, if you can take back the Order by fair means, not foul, then the foundations you lay will be even stronger.’
‘I shall see him now,’ said Altair, standing.
They checked to make sure that Malik was asleep, then left, taking a torch. With early-morning mist swirling at their feet, they walked fast around the outside of the inner curtain and then to the main gate. Behind them were the slopes of Masyaf, the village empty and silent, yet to awake from its slumber. A sleepy Assassin guard looked them over, insolent in his indifference, and Altair found himself fighting his rage, but they passed the man, climbed the barbican and went into the main courtyard.
A bell sounded.
It was not a signal Altair knew. He raised his torch and looked around, the bell still ringing. Then he sensed movement from within the towers overlooking the courtyard. Maria urged him on and they came to the steps leading to the dais outside the Master’s tower. Now Altair turned and saw that white-robed Assassins carrying flaming torches were entering the courtyard behind them, summoned by the bell, which stopped suddenly.
‘I wish to see Abbas,’ Altair told the guard at the door to the tower, his voice loud and calm in the eerie silence. Maria glanced behind, and at her sharp intake of breath Altair turned. He gasped. The Assassins were assembling. All were looking at himself and Maria. For a moment he wondered if they were in some kind of thrall, but no. The Apple was with him, safely tucked into his robe, and dormant. These men were waiting.
For what? Altair had a feeling he was soon to find that out.
Now the door to the tower was opening and Abbas was standing before them.
Altair felt the Apple – it was almost as though a person were prodding him in the back. Perhaps it was reminding him of its presence.
Abbas strode on to the platform. ‘Please explain why you broke into the Order’s cells.’
He was addressing the crowd as much as Altair and Maria. Altair glanced behind him and saw that the courtyard was full. The Assassins’ torches were like balls of flame in the dark.
So Abbas meant to discredit him in front of the Order. But Maria had been correct – he wasn’t up to the task. All Abbas had achieved was to accelerate his own downfall.
‘I meant to establish the truth about my son,’ said Altair.
‘Oh, really?’ smiled Abbas. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t to exact revenge?’
Swami had arrived. He climbed the steps to the platform. He was holding something in a burlap sack that he handed to Abbas, who nodded. Altair looked at the sack warily, his heart hammering. Maria too.
Abbas peered into the sack and gave a look of mock concern at what he saw inside. Then, with a theatrical air, he reached in and paused for a moment to enjoy the frisson of anticipation that ran through the assembly like a shiver.
‘Poor Malik,’ he said, and pulled out a disembodied head: the skin at the neck was ragged and dripping fresh blood, the eyeballs had rolled up, and the tongue protruded slightly.
‘ No! ’ Altair started forward, and Abbas motioned to the guards, who rushed forward, grabbing Altair and Maria, disarming Altair and pinning his hands behind his back.
Abbas dropped the head back into the sack and tossed it aside. ‘Swami heard you and the infidel plotting Malik’s death. What a shame we could not reach Malik in time to prevent it.’
‘ No! ’ shouted Altair. ‘Lies! I would never have killed Malik.’ Pulling at the guards who held him, he indicated Swami. ‘He’s lying.’
