He finished Addin, then closed the tyrant’s eyes. Stained the feather.
‘Every soul shall taste death,’ he said.
And then he had stood up to face the guards – just as a bell began tolling.
A Saracen came flying at him and he parried, grunting, driving the man back. More were scrambling on to the platform, and he found himself facing three at once. One fell screaming beneath his blade, another lost his footing on the slick of blood, fell, and Altair finished him. Seeing a gap, the Assassin jumped from the scaffold, activating his blade and spearing a guard as he landed, the man’s sword swiping at thin air.
On the square now he saw his only escape and fended off two more attackers as he edged towards the entranceway. He took a nick and felt warm blood sluice down his arm; then, grasping hold of a swordsman, launched him into the path of the second. Both tumbled, yelling, to the dirt. Altair darted towards the doorway, arriving as a trio of soldiers came hurrying through. He had the surprise though, impaling one with his sword, slashing the neck of a second with his blade and shoving the two writhing, dying men into the third.
Entrance clear, he glanced behind at the platform to see Malik’s men freeing the Assassin and leading him away, then dashed out into the lane where a fourth guard waited, coming forward with a pike, screaming. Altair jumped clear, grasping the edge of a wooden frame and flipping himself up on to the canopy, feeling his muscles sing. From below there was a shout of frustration, and as he scrabbled up to the rooftop he glanced down to see a cluster of soldiers following him. To give them pause he killed one with a throwing knife, then dashed off across the rooftops, waited until the bell had stopped ringing, and then disappeared into the crowd, listening as word spread throughout the city: an Assassin had killed the regent.
24
There was still something Altair needed to know, though.
And with the last of the city regents dead, now was the time to ask it. He steeled himself as he was ushered once more into Al Mualim’s chambers.
‘Come in, Altair. I trust you are well rested? Ready for your remaining trials?’ said the Master.
‘I am. But I’d speak with you first. I have questions…’
Al Mualim indicated his disapproval by raising his chin and pursing his lips slightly. No doubt he remembered the last occasion when Altair had pressed for answers. So did Altair, who had decided to tread more carefully this time, keen not to see a reappearance of the Master’s blade.
‘Ask, then,’ said Al Mualim. ‘I’ll do my best to answer.’
Altair took a deep breath. ‘The Merchant King of Damascus murdered the nobles who ruled his city. Majd Addin in Jerusalem used fear to force his people into submission. I suspect William meant to murder Richard, and hold Acre with his troops. These men were meant to aid their leaders. Instead they chose to betray them. What I do not understand is why.’
‘Is the answer not obvious? The Templars desire control. Each man – as you’ve noted – wanted to claim their cities in the Templar name that the Templars themselves might rule the Holy Land and eventually beyond. But they cannot succeed in their mission.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Altair.
‘Their plans depend upon the Templar Treasure… the Piece of Eden
… But we hold it now. And they cannot hope to achieve their goals without it.’
Of course, thought Altair. This was the item so many of his targets had referred to.
‘What is this treasure?’ he said.
Al Mualim smiled, then went to the rear of his chamber, bent and opened a chest. He took a box from it, returned to his desk and placed it down. Altair knew what it was without looking, but still found his gaze drawn to it – no, dragged to it. It was the box Malik had retrieved from the Temple, and as before it seemed to glow, to radiate a kind of power. He had known all along, he realized, that this was the treasure they spoke of. His eyes went from the box to Al Mualim, who had been watching his reaction. The Master’s face bore an indulgent expression, as though he had seen many behave in this way. And that this was only the beginning.
For now he reached into the box and took from it a globe, about the size of two fists: a golden globe with a mosaic design that seemed to pulse with energy, so that Altair found himself wondering if his eyes were deceiving him. If maybe it was… alive in some way. But he was distracted. Instead he felt the globe pulling at him.
‘It is… temptation,’ intoned Al Mualim.
And suddenly, like a candle snuffed out, the globe stopped pulsing. Its aura was gone. Its draw suddenly non-existent. It was… just a globe again: an ancient thing, beautiful in its own way but, still, a mere trinket.
‘It’s just a piece of silver…’ said Altair.
‘Look at it,’ insisted Al Mualim.
‘It shimmers for the briefest moment, but there’s really nothing spectacular about it,’ said Altair. ‘What am I supposed to see?’
‘This “piece of silver” cast out Adam and Eve. This is the Apple. It turned staves into snakes. Parted and closed the Red Sea. Eris used it to start the Trojan War. And with it, a poor carpenter turned water into wine.’
The Apple, the Piece of Eden? Altair looked at it doubtfully. ‘It seems rather plain for all the power you claim it has,’ he said. ‘How does it work?’
‘He who holds it commands the hearts and minds of whoever looks upon it – whoever “tastes” of it, as they say.’
‘Then de Naplouse’s men…’ said Altair, thinking of the poor creatures in the hospital.
‘An experiment. Herbs used to simulate its effects… To be ready for when they held it.’
Altair saw it now. ‘Talal supplied them. Tamir equipped them. They were preparing for something… But what?’
‘War,’ said Al Mualim, starkly.
‘And the others… the men who ruled the cities… They meant to gather up their people. Make them like de Naplouse’s men.’
‘The perfect citizens. The perfect soldiers. A perfect world.’
‘Robert de Sable must never have this back,’ said Altair.
‘So long as he and his brothers live, they will try,’ said Al Mualim.
‘Then they must be destroyed.’
‘Which is what I’ve had you doing,’ smiled Al Mualim. ‘There are two more Templars who require your attention,’ he said. ‘One in Acre, known as Sibrand. One in Damascus, called Jubair. Visit the Bureau leaders. They’ll instruct you further.’
‘As you wish,’ said Altair, bowing his head.
‘Be quick about it,’ said Al Mualim. ‘No doubt Robert de Sable is made nervous by our continued success. His remaining followers will do their best to expose you. They know you come: the man in the white hood. They’ll be looking for you.’
‘They won’t find me. I’m but a blade in a crowd,’ said Altair.
Al Mualim smiled, proud once more of his pupil.
25
It was Al Mualim who had taught them the Creed, the young Altair and Abbas. The Master had filled their young heads with the tenets of the Order.
Every day, after a breakfast of flat bread and dates, stern governesses had seen to it that they were washed and neatly dressed. Then, with books clasped to their breasts, they had hurried along corridors, their sandals slapping on the stone, chatting excitedly, until they reached the door to the Master’s study.
Here they had had a ritual. Both passed a hand over his own mouth to go from happy face to serious face, the face the Master expected. Then one would knock. For some reason they both liked to knock, so they took it in
