‘As you wish, my friend. Go in safety.’
Altair went to the docks, slipping through Sibrand’s cordon as easily as breathing. Behind him rose the walls of Acre, in various states of disrepair; ahead of him, the harbour was filled with ships and platforms, hulks and wooden carcasses. Some were working vessels, others left behind from the siege. They had transformed the gleaming blue sea into an ocean of brown flotsam.
The grey stone sun-bleached dock was its own city. Those who worked and lived there were dock people – they had the look of dock people. They had an easy manner and weathered faces accustomed to smiling.
Though not today. Not under the command of Sibrand, the Grand Master of the Knights Teutonic. Not only had he ordered the area to be sealed but he had filled it with his guards. His fear of assassination was like a virus that had spread through his army. Groups of soldiers moved through the docks with roving eyes. They were twitchy, their hands constantly flitting at the hilts of their broadswords. They were nervous, sweating under heavy chainmail.
Becoming aware of a commotion, Altair walked towards it, seeing citizens and soldiers doing the same. A knight was shouting at a holy man. Nearby his companions watched anxiously, while dock workers and merchants had gathered to view the spectacle.
‘Y-you are mistaken, Master Sibrand. I would never propose violence against any man – and most certainly not against you.’
So this was Sibrand. Altair took note of the black hair, deep brow and harsh eyes that seemed to spin wildly, like those of a sun-maddened dog. He had armed himself with every weapon he could, and his belts sagged with swords, daggers and knives. Across his back was his longbow, arrow quills peeking over his right shoulder. He looked exhausted. A man unravelling.
‘So you say,’ he said, showering the priest in spit, ‘and yet no one here will vouch for you. What am I to make of this?’
‘I-I live a simple life, my lord, as do all men of the cloth. It is not for us to call attention to ourselves.’
‘Perhaps.’ He closed his eyes. Then they snapped open. ‘Or perhaps they do not know you because you are not a man of God, but an Assassin.’
And with that he shoved the priest backwards, the old man landing badly, then scrabbling to his knees. ‘Never,’ he insisted.
‘You wear the same robes.’
The holy man was desperate now. ‘If they cover themselves as we do, it is only to instil uncertainty and fear. You must not give in.’
‘Are you calling me a coward?’’ shouted Sibrand, his voice breaking. ‘Challenging my authority? Are you, perhaps, hoping to turn my own knights against me?’
‘No. No. I-I don’t understand why you’re d-doing this to me… I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I don’t recall accusing you of any wrongdoing, which makes your outburst rather odd. Is it the presence of guilt that compels a confession?’
‘But I confess nothing,’ said the priest.
‘Ah. Defiant till the very end.’
The priest looked horrified. The more he said, the worse it got. ‘What do you mean?’ Altair watched as a succession of emotions passed across the old man’s face: fear, confusion, desperation, hopelessness.
‘William and Garnier were too confident. And they paid for this with their lives. I won’t make the same mistake. If you truly are a man of God, then surely the Creator will provide for you. Let him stay my hand.’
‘You’ve gone mad,’ cried the priest. He turned to implore the spectators, ‘Will none of you come forward to stop this? He is clearly poisoned by his own fear – compelled to see enemies where none exist.’
His companions shuffled awkwardly but said nothing. So, too, the citizens, who gazed at him dispassionately. The priest was no Assassin, they could see that, but it didn’t matter what they thought. They were just glad not to be the target of Sibrand’s fury.
‘It seems the people share my concern,’ said Sibrand. He drew his sword. ‘What I do, I do for Acre.’
The priest shrieked as Sibrand drove the blade into his gut, twisted, then removed it and wiped it clean. The old man writhed on the dock, then died. Sibrand’s guards picked up his body and tossed it into the water.
Sibrand watched it go. ‘Stay vigilant, men. Report any suspicious activity to the guard. I doubt we’ve seen the last of these Assassins. Persistent bastards… Now get back to work.’
Altair watched as he and two bodyguards made their way to a rowing-boat. The priest’s body bumped against the hull as it cast off, then began to float through the debris in the harbour. Altair gazed out to sea, seeing a bigger ship further out. That would be Sibrand’s sanctuary, he thought. His eyes went back to Sibrand’s skiff. He could see the knight pulling himself up to scan the water around him. Looking for Assassins. Always looking for them. As though they might appear from the water around him.
Which was exactly what he was going to do, decided Altair, moving to the nearest hulk and jumping to it, easily traversing boats and platforms until he came close to Sibrand’s ship. There he saw Sibrand make his way up to the main deck, eyes raking the water around him. Altair heard him ordering the guards to secure the lower decks, then moved across to a platform near the ship.
A lookout saw him coming and was about to raise his bow when Altair sent him a throwing knife, mentally cursing himself for not having time to prepare the kill. Sure enough, instead of falling silently to the wood of the platform, the sentry fell into the water with a splash.
Altair’s eyes flicked to the deck of the main ship where Sibrand had heard the splash too, and was already beginning to panic. ‘I know you’re out there, Assassin,’ he screeched. He unslung his bow. ‘How long do you think you can hide? I’ve a hundred men scouring the docks. They’ll find you. And when they do, you’ll suffer for your sins.’
Altair hugged the frame of the platform, out of sight. Water lapped at its struts. Otherwise, silence. An almost ghostly quiet that must have unnerved Sibrand as much as it pleased Altair.
‘Show yourself, coward,’ insisted Sibrand. His fear was in his voice. ‘Face me and let us be done with this.’
All in good time, thought Altair. Sibrand fired an arrow at nothing, then fitted and fired another.
‘On your guard, men,’ shouted Sibrand, to the lower decks. ‘He’s out there somewhere. Find him. End his life. A promotion to whoever brings me the head of the Assassin.’
Altair leaped from the platform to the ship, landing with a slight thump that seemed to resonate around the area of still water. He waited, clinging to the hull, hearing Sibrand’s panicked shouts from above. Then he began to climb. He waited until Sibrand’s back was turned then pulled himself on to the deck, now just a few feet away from the Grand Master of the Knights Teutonic, who was prowling the deck, shouting threats to the empty sea, hurling insults and orders at his guards, who hurried about below.
Sibrand was a dead man, thought Altair, as he crept up behind him. He had died as much from his own fear, though he was too stupid to know it.
‘Please… don’t do this,’ he said, as he folded to the deck with Altair’s blade in his neck.
‘You are afraid?’ asked the Assassin. He withdrew his blade.
‘Of course I am,’ said Sibrand, as though addressing a dolt.
Altair thought back to Sibrand’s callousness before the priest. ‘But you’ll be safe now,’ he said, ‘held in the arms of your God…’
Sibrand gave a small wet laugh. ‘Have my brothers taught you nothing? I know what waits for me. For all of us.’
‘If not your God, then what?’
‘Nothing. Nothing waits. And that is what I fear.’
‘You don’t believe,’ said Altair. Was it true? Sibrand had no faith? No God?
‘How could I, given what I know? What I’ve seen. Our treasure was the proof.’
‘Proof of what?’
‘That this life is all we have.’
‘Linger a while longer, then,’ pressed Altair, ‘and tell me of the part you were to play.’
‘A blockade by sea,’ Sibrand told him, ‘to keep the fool kings and queens from sending reinforcements. Once we… Once we…’ He was fading fast now.
‘… conquered the Holy Land?’ prompted Altair.
