Stealthy and fast, he made his way across the rooftops of the sun-bleached city, scuttling catlike across the wooden beams, until he found himself overlooking a courtyard. There below him was Osman. A Templar, he nevertheless had Assassin sympathies, and Altair waited until he was alone before lowering himself into the courtyard.
As he did so, Osman looked from Altair to the wall above them, then back again, regarding his visitor with amused eyes. At the very least he had a high regard for the Assassin’s stealth.
‘Greetings, Osman,’ said Altair. ‘Alexander sends his regards, and wishes your grandmother a joyous birthday.’
Osman laughed. ‘The dear lady, may she rest in peace. Now, how may I help you, friend?’
‘Can you tell me why the Templars purchased Cyprus? Was it to set up another exchequer?’
‘I don’t rank high enough to know for certain, but I have heard talk of an archive of some kind,’ said Osman, as he looked left, then right. If he was seen talking to Altair he would almost certainly be put to death in the market square.
‘An archive? Interesting. And who is the ranking Templar in Limassol?’
‘A knight named Frederick the Red. He trains soldiers in Limassol Castle. A real brute.’
Altair nodded. ‘With the castle guard dead, what would it take to get me inside?’
‘Assuming I’m appointed to his position, I could find an excuse to reduce the castle watch for a short time. Would that work?”
‘I’ll make it,’ said Altair.
Things were moving quickly.
‘Osman is making the arrangements,’ he told Alexander later, back at the safe-house. While he’d been out, Maria had spent much of the day in the storeroom where she had kept Alexander entertained with a string of insults and wisecracks, her infuriation only increasing when he had asked her to repeat them, a fan of her English diction. Now, however, she had been allowed out to eat and sat on an unsteady wooden chair, glaring at Altair and Alexander, who sat talking, and shooting angry glances at any other Resistance men who happened to pass through.
‘Excellent. Now what?’ said Alexander.
‘We give him some time,’ said Altair. He turned to Maria. ‘He also told me about the Templar archive. Have you heard of such a thing?’
‘Of course,’ said Maria. ‘That’s where we keep our undergarments.’
Altair despaired. Turning back to Alexander, he said, ‘Cyprus would be a good location to safeguard both knowledge and weapons. With the right strategy, it’s an easy island to defend.’
He stood. Osman would have had time to clear the castle walls by now. It was time to infiltrate the castle.
37
A short while later he found himself in the courtyard of Limassol Castle, ready for the infiltration. Staying in the shadows, he looked up at the forbidding stone walls, noting the arches that were guarded and timing the movements of the men on the ramparts.
He was pleased to note that there were just a few men: Osman had done his work well. The fortress wasn’t completely insecure but Altair could get in. And that was all he needed.
He scaled a wall to the ramparts, then crept into the castle. A guard screamed and fell, one of Altair’s throwing knives in his neck. Another heard the commotion and came running along the hallway, only to meet the Assassin’s blade. Altair lowered the guard to the stone, placed his foot to his back and retrieved his blade, which dripped blood to the floor. Then he continued making his way through the sparsely inhabited castle, disposing of guards when he saw them. Osman really had done his job efficiently. Not only had there been fewer guards on the walls but there seemed to be an absence of men inside as well. Altair ignored the uncertainty that formed in his gut. The twinge of disquiet.
Up and up he went, further and further into the castle’s inner sections until he came to a balcony overlooking a large courtyard used as a training square.
There he saw Frederick the Red, a huge, bearded giant presiding over a duel between two of his men. The sight of him made Altair smile. The genial spy Osman had been right. Frederick the Red was indeed a brute of a man.
‘No mercy, men,’ he was roaring. ‘This is an island of superstitious heathens. Remember, they do not want you here, they do not like you, they do not understand the true wisdom of your cause, and they are scheming at every turn to cast you out. Stay on your guard, and trust no one.’
Both in full armour, the two knights battled it out, the sound of their swords ringing around the yard. Staying out of sight on the balcony above, Altair listened to the Templar leader as he spurred them on.
‘Find the chinks in your opponent’s armour. Strike hard. Save your celebrations for the tavern.’
Now Altair stood and took a step up to the wall, in plain sight of the three men in the training yard below. Still they remained engrossed in the battle. He gauged the height from where he stood to the stone below, then took a deep breath, stretched out his arms and jumped.
With a soft thump he landed directly behind Frederick the Red, his knees bent, arms out for balance. The bearded leader turned as Altair straightened. Eyes blazing, he roared, ‘An Assassin on Cyprus? Well, well. How quickly you vermin adapt. I’ll put an end to -’
He never finished his sentence. Altair, who had wanted to look into the Templar’s eyes before he delivered the killing blow, engaged his blade and sliced his neck in one movement, the entire action over in the blink of an eye. With a short, strangulated sound, Frederick the Red crumpled, his neck a gaping red hole and his blood flooding over the stone around him, truly living up to his name.
For a second his men stood silent, their helmets robbing them of any emotion so that Altair could only picture the looks of shock behind the steel. Then they recovered – and attacked. Altair drove his blade through the eye slit of the first. From behind the helmet there was an agonized choking noise and blood leaked from the visor as the swordsman fell. Then the second of the two duellists struck, wielding his broadsword more in hope than expectation of finding his target. The Assassin sidestepped easily, palming a throwing knife at the same time, then twisting and, in a single motion, ramming upwards with his knife under the knight’s chestplate.
Battle over, the three corpses settled on the stone, and Altair looked around the yard catching his breath. The castle, being so lightly populated, had its advantages, he thought. He returned to the balcony, letting himself out as he had come in. On his return journey the nagging voice of doubt grew louder. Most of the bodies he passed were those he had left earlier, still undisturbed, and there were no sentries at all now. None. Where was everybody?
He got his answer shortly after he had left the fortress and made his way across the rooftops to the safe- house, already looking forward to resting and perhaps some verbal jousting with Maria. Maybe even a little conversation with her. All he’d been able to glean from her so far was that she was English, that she had been de Sable’s steward (exactly what that meant, Altair hadn’t asked) and that she had become involved in the Crusades after an incident at home in England. That had intrigued him. He hoped to find out soon what had happened to her.
Suddenly he saw smoke, a thick pillar darkening the sky.
And it was coming from the safe-house.
His heart was hammering as he drew closer. He saw Crusader soldiers standing guard and keeping back anyone trying to get near to the building, which was burning. Fingers of flame reached from the windows and the door, dense curls of black smoke crowning the roof. This was why Frederick’s castle has been so poorly guarded.
Altair’s first thought was not for the safety of the Order, Alexander or any of the other Resistance men who might have been inside. His first thought was for Maria.
Fury ripped through him. He snapped his wrist to eject his blade. In one movement he had leaped down from the rooftop and met two of the Templar guards below. The first died shouting, the second had time to turn, with
