Altair: Son of the Creed

Jaffa to Caesarea: 1185 C.E.

The man in white passed through the crowds of Jaffa. No one paid him heed. There were a lot of armed men around these days and so long as they did not draw their weapons in public they were treated as part of the general populace. The only thing that might have made the white-robed man noticeable was his height. He towered by head and shoulders above the average citizens as he walked. This allowed him to keep eye contact with his prey. On his face was written an intense concentration, which nevertheless did not ignore his surroundings. His five senses registered everything and stored the information for later persusal. He was aware of the merchants shouting their merchandise, the long lines of jar carrier women who swayed their paths with their burdens balanced on their heads or shoulders. He stepped aside for the carts and the burning piles of refuse in the streets. He ignored the smells as much as he could. Jaffa was a very fragrant city with all the different peoples in it: Jew, Muslim, Christian, Arab, Persian, and many others. It was a port, and the ships at anchor held their own particular aroma.

The man he was trailing walked in the direction of the docks. He was dressed as a Christian would be who wanted to remain unnoticed in a dark cloak that surely was too hot for the heat of the city. There was a breeze in off the sea but that hardly sufficed to cool his sweat. The man was inept as a spy if that’s what he was, the Assassin reflected, stepping to a wall to let a cart led by a donkey pass. The cart was full of cabbage, his mind observed. The carter’s appearance too was put away: a middle aged man in a smock of the countryside which he’d ridden through many times.

His attention never wavered from his target. The man was not walking with the swaying walk of a sailor. He was not conscious of being tracked. Put together with his cloak, he surely could not be a good tool for whoever was using him. Unless…
Something tickled in the back of the Assassin’s mind. It could be a trap. The real target could know he was here and be leading him to a ship where he’d die. No one would ever know. The Assassin was alone here. He was sure enough of his ability to carry this through to disregard the offer of help from the Rafiq in Jaffa. His victim could be waiting in that ship for him. He closed the distance some more, gently pushing past people.

The dark cloaked man continued to walk with a certain step towards a bulky looking ship which had what looked like platforms fore and aft. The Assassin could not be certain but unless his eyes were deceiving him, those contraptions on the platforms were catapults. Were the Crusaders that stupid? Did not they know how much strength and tension a catapult released back into the planking of the ship as it shot its missile forward? The flag was hanging limp. The Assassin could not see the colour. Not that it mattered. He knew his goal.

The Crusader ship was anchored between two similarly big ungainly ships. It was a wonder they floated, he thought. The ships looked more like cargo boxes than something that could sail from Europe to the Holy Land. But sail in this tub he would have to. He saw the sailors preparing for cast off. His victim no longer wished to stay on land so he had to adapt his plan. On a ship any body is easily discovered since the space for hiding it is practically non-existent unless he threw it over the rail into the water. He’d studied the ship crew’s habits. There was a watch day and night since the distinguished visitor to Jaffa had returned to it a week ago. He needed to disguise his white robes – they stood out too much. Later when there was no longer need, he’d reveal them again.

He watched as the man he’d followed from the market went up the plank ladder and inside the ship. Good. All the birds were in a cage now. A little patience and he’d carry the matter through.

He stepped aside into an alleyway where honest folk did not wander if they could help it. Hmm, he thought wryly, he was not an honest man though. With a slight smile on his face, he walked along the alley and out into another wider street. He stopped and looked around until he saw what he needed. A door to a small ill-favoured tavern. No doubt about the clientele there. The raucous shouts and snatches of drunken songs floated out in the evening air as the sun settled down behind the minarets at his back. Someone was lying in the dirt of the street as the door was slammed by whoever had kicked him out. The man stumbled to his feet and turning shouted something incoherent at the deaf closed door. His clothes were dirty and torn – he’d spent all his coin, the Assassin guessed. He’d been in a brawl or two over his losses by all appearances. The white-robed man approached him as the drunk shuffled off in the direction of the docked ships. He’d never find his own ship though, not if he was as far gone as the Assassin suspected. He himself never drank but had seen and been shown enough drunks to know the effects of alcohol on any man of any constitution. This man was tall like himself. So he’d probably downed quite a lot of seaside watered beer and wine. He reeked of beer and many months’ dirt and sweat. That’s why some strange diseases had appeared in the Holy Land, the Assassin thought in passing. These people from overseas had no idea of hygiene. They feared baths. He smiled again.

The man ahead stumbled and went down. The street was mostly empty so there was no risk of him being noticed. He flicked his left arm and a blade bloomed past his hand. If anyone had been watching him they might have noted that this man’s left hand lacked the fourth finger. The blade slid into its place. The man’s stance did not change: he kept the same loose-limbed walk that ate up the distance without tiring him unnecessarily. The sailor got up again with many grunts and slurred mutters. His pursuer quickened his pace slightly, every sense on alert.
There was a turn in the street along the docks. It was too open a place. He had to reach his victim before he’d made it. This was his only chance. He ran lightly the last few steps, put his arm around the unsuspecting man’s neck and rammed his blade up into the small of his back. It did not penetrate the drunk’s mind that he was dead for a long time. The Assassin did not waste time waiting. He dragged the man into an empty doorway of a closed tavern and took off his clothes. They smelled horribly of sweat, fish, vomit and Allah knew what else. He just hoped there were not too many bugs in them. He undid his belt to which were attached a number of knives and pouches containing his flint and steel as well as oil and rags for his weapons. He pulled off his robes and put one the man’s shirt over his own. He smudged some dirt on his face. He did not look anything like a Crusader. The sleeves of the shirt he’d acquired fell to his wrist and covered his Hidden Blade perfectly. There was the small hole in the back where his Blade had gone in but that could not be helped now. He hoped that the sailors would not notice one extra pair of hands and so not look at him too closely.

Carrying his weapons openly onto a ship would look suspicious. He needed a bag. This man he’d killed did not have one. Perhaps he’d gambled it away in some hole for more cheap bad beer. His belt he cinched about his waist under the shirt, which was so voluminous it would not give away his pouches. The pants he pulled on over his own. They were so old that he heard the seams creak. He thought maybe he could put the sword down the pants leg if he tied the belt over the hilt. Then came the short blade. This he put down the other leg secured by his wide leather belt across his stomach. He quickly checked himself over to make sure all was in place.

He found a small bag that some one had thrown out of one of the one-story houses lining the docks. It had a hole in the bottom but not big enough for his things to fall out. It would do. Hopefully, the victim did not intend to sail all the way to Marseilles without a stopover in the ship. He’d need supplies. And sailors need rest. The seas were not quiet this time of year – the storm season was almost upon them. The Crusaders were certain to keep to the coast if they did not want to be blown all the way out to deep water. He did not fancy swimming back to Masyaf and al Mualim. He could not swim. That was the only failing of his. After his initiation he’d sworn never to set so much as a toe into water. And he had stuck to that promise.

He made his way out to the open docks and headed for the ship of the Master Spy of His Majesty the King of France. The man was reticent and did not show himself much. That had made him easy to track. All the Assassin had to do was listen to his sailors talk in the inns and brothels and drinking places. That he had done, buying drinks all around but never drinking himself. Not only was it forbidden by his Creed but he hated the taste of the swill sold in the dockside drinking holes. He’d visited many on his manifold missions. It was always the same: the sailors were men of habit. Probably to make up for the adventures at sea, he mused as he approached his destination.

He walked up the gangplank as if he belonged there, his sack slung over his shoulder. He slouched as much as his height allowed. He’d trained in the sailor walk as he’d investigated his target. It was easy to pick up. He’d walked behind a fair number of sailors observing and imitating. He even made an effort to learn their speech – the rough profanity laden slurred patois of the sailing folk was similar the world over. Once you knew it you could pass anywhere, whatever nation’s sailor you happened to talk to.

His first check was the first mate who saw him from the forecastle. He was a big man who could move fast across the deck of a rolling ship. He strode up to him and glowered, hands on hips.

“Where have you been?” a rasping voice issued from his throat. “The ‘all-gather’ rang an hour ago.”

The Assassin did not blink an eye. He lowered his head and mumbled:
“Los’m’ wa’, sa.”

The big man gave him a suspicious look, but the Assassin affected the drunk’s speech and body language so perfectly down to the drunken leery sway of the head that the mate only slapped him across the back of the head and barked at him to get to his place or he’d do double duty next day. The false sailor made his obedient way down into the cargo bay where the sailors housed in hammocks hung up to the sides of the ship with hooks. Darkness ruled down there. His eyes took a little while to adjust.

He observed his environment as a good Assassin did upon entering an unfamiliar environment. Like everything to do with Crusaders, the place was smelly of human waste and vomit. There were belongings scattered without apparent order. He’d heard one had to fight for one’s bed on a big ship like this. He was more than up to the task. In the whole of the Brotherhood there were none better than Altair Ibn La-Ahad when it came to the deadly arts. He’d mastered them all: from hands and feet to sword and dagger. But being an Assassin was more than just killing. One had to know the art of socialization such that one remained unnoticed until the victim was dead. He knew how to keep out of sight and be a blade in the crowd. He could push past someone who a moment later would be a corpse with no one the wiser as to how he’d died. He never let any interrogation victim live – he cleaned up after himself. He stayed in the shadows gathering information. He hid in plain sight. He never failed. And he was not to fail this time. The Spy Master carried information that could threaten the fragile peace of the Holy Land in the last years of the reign of Baldwin IV, the “Leper King”, who was being eaten away by that terrible disease.

The Assassin did not care about politics. His mission took up all his mind and talents. Politics was for his Master, al Mualim, who manipulated events as much as any man of influence did in such troubled times. He did not want anymore Crusader armies here. If the Kings of Europe did not know of conditions here – of the intrigues and the backstabbing – then they’d not be likely to come and bring the hordes of their knights over. That was why Altair had been sent. Al Mualim knew his best man would not fail him.

Altair put down his sack beside one of the hammocks at the back of the cargo hold. The less of him seen, the better. There were enough thick shadows here to keep him out of sight and mind. He’d just hidden his sword under the blankets piled on the floor and sat down in the hammock to think about his next step when there was a voice beside him.

“That’s my place. Get off. Now.”

The tone was gruff and self-assured. The man it belonged to was a wiry sailor, all muscle, no fat. His brows were drawn in a frown across the bottom of his forehead as his deeply set eyes took in the intruder into what he thought of as his personal space. Altair had dealt with his type before. Without speaking, he grabbed the man’s throat and slammed him up against the side of the ship. The man’s breathe wheezed out in one big sigh. He stared at Altair with wide eyes. He’d never seen anyone this fast. The Assassin’s right arm dug into his wind-pipe preventing anymore air access. His left fist was an inch from the man’s temple, ready to punch him out should he make a false move. The sailor breathed in small gasps, his face turning red, then blue.

“I took that place. I am not leaving because some scum dock rat like you says so. And you can tell your buddies that if you try to beat me during the night, none of you will see light of dawn tomorrow.” He put his fingers around the man’s neck and tightened slowly till man’s face was pushed up. “Am I clear?”

The sailor grunted assent. Altair threw him to the floor. The man got up to his feet rubbing his sore neck and watched the Assassin warily, ready to run should the other make a hostile move. Altair ignored him and lay down on the hammock. It moved with the ship’s dockside sway. He resumed his interrupted flow of thought.
Before coming on board he had a map drawn of the ship and its amenities: the cabins, the catapults, the watches. He’d memorized the map. He’d also gone one step further – he believed in being thorough. One night he’d actually sneaked aboard and explored the ship from castle to poop, cargo hold to top-mast. He marked the cabin in his mind. It was under the aft castle, a small cramped space where the captain had lived. He’d been forced out by the arrival of his illustrious passenger and was none too happy about it. However, he was a practical man who recognized when to give ground so he’d roomed with his men down here. Altair had seen him sleep. He had no quarrel with the crew. He’d only come to kill one man. Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent. Such was the first tenet of the Brotherhood. Spilling the blood of such men as these – riff raff of the prison and street – was not necessary or worthy of his skill as an Assassin. Altair Ibn La-Ahad was a skilled Assassin above all. Common brawling he kept to a minimum unless there was need as with that sailor just now. He allowed no interference in his plans.

The cabin was accessed through a wooden door that looked out on deck. It was half a foot thick and wood was warped with time and influence of the elements that the ship was subject to at sea: salt, wind, moisture. There was also a trap hatch in the ceiling in case he needed a quick way out. It gave out onto the steering wheel platform where one of the catapults he’d glimpsed was placed. It had been obvious to him upon his night-time inspection that the catapults were a later addition – they looked newer than the rest of the ship. He’d heard that Crusaders conscripted merchant ships as war ships when they were short of actual warships. That did not say a lot about their organizing skills, he mused amusedly. However they managed to stake out principalities here with such sloppy work he had no idea. And he did not care either. His job was to kill. And mind the Creed and the tenets for without those teachings he was nothing. The Assassin Brotherhood existed because they kept to the Creed as closely as the possible. Their plans never went as they’d been set out. The Assassins learned flexibility early or perished. The tenets and the Creed they upheld permitted adaptability – there was room for interpretation. They were just general enough to allow some free will on the Brothers’ part.

Noises from above distracted him. He listened and heard shouting. The bosun was giving orders for cast off. The sailors’ feet drummed on the planks of the ceiling as they ran to obey, bringing fine dust wafting down onto his head as he set up to avoid it falling into his mouth. The ship shuddered as she moved out of the berth. They were off.

Altair had always known he had a certain amount of luck going for him. No matter how carefully one laid one’s plans something always could and did go wrong. No, he corrected himself, not wrong. Unexpected. One could not cover every contingency – that was simply impossible. That was when luck came in. He tried not to rely on it too much since fortune was a fickle thing like a weather wane: swinging one way or another. This time luck was definitely with him. He was chosen for night watch so his steps would not be commented upon. He had not pretended to be as drunk as to be incapacitated for duty. The night watch was chosen by lot, and he had drawn a short straw.

He left his bag under the blankets on the hammock. He put his sword there too. He’d come back when he’d completed the task. None of the sailors would dare approach his place as most of them had seen his little talk with the wiry sailor and understood its import: he was not a man to be touched. Perhaps he had attracted more attention than he should have but in that kind of situation only one response was possible. Any show of weakness on his part would have earned him a knife in the gut in the dark.

His duty was to walk the deck and mind that all the equipment was in place and not strewn about. He had to put it back to rights if he saw something out of place. No one had remarked that they’d never seen his face before. He was dirty enough as to look like any other sailor. He spoke as little as possible as his accent might be remarked on. There was only so much a man could do to learn a new language and work away his accent. So he walked and watched and waited for his chance.
His escape plan was simple. He’d kill the Spy Master just before dawn when men were least alert and sleepers dwelt deep in the land of dreams. He might have to dispose of the man at the steering wheel but only if he became a liability. He counted on the ship making a stop in Caesarea further north along the coast. They were to take on cargo there for a merchant in Cyprus as they would be passing on the way home. He would disembark in the confusion of the loading. One less sailor would not be noticed on a big ship.

So he bided his time and attracted as little attention as he could. Night passed slowly. The ship’s rigging and planks creaked as if the wood were alive. The sails bellied out with the wind that was pushing them north-east to the coast. The man at the steering wheel corrected the course as needed. Stars shone in the sky, which was cloudless and black. The water lapped at the prow of the ship that cut it like a knife. None of this interested Altair who only waited. He’d mastered the art of patience for it helped him to stay a shadow amid shadows. A jumpy nervous Assassin never got anywhere. He’d long ago accustomed himself to a state of calm. He could meditate and discipline himself in any circumstances, be it a street fight or a roof top race to save his skin. He was focused and driven. He had skill on his side. He was the Son of the Creed.

Now he kept his mind clear of all thought. He centred it on one image: that of an eagle soaring in an updraft of air above Masyaf. His bird. His sign. His guardian. His luck. All his weapons bore an eagle for his name meant “Flying One”. He’d flown with the eagles in his dreams and exercises. He brought his left hand up and regarded the missing finger. He had taken on a responsibility the day when he’d had it cut off. He carried the Creed with him as a Hidden Blade. As his mother had always told him, all  power had the weight of obligation behind it. Such a charge was not to be set aside ever once taken up. He had adhered to it. He did not abuse his power as an Assassin. True, some situations demanded inventive thinking and rash measures but he’d always remembered his mother. She had taught him well, and he would be damned if he betrayed her now.

Hours passed and dawn made itself known by a faint outline along the eastern horizon. He did not feel too sleepy. He had conditioned himself so that ordinary fatigue did not affect him as it did others. He glanced at the steering wheel. The man was drooping over it with sleep but fighting to stay awake. Altair admired that. It was not easy after an uneventful night to stay awake another hour.
The time to act had now come. Altair checked his surroundings. The rest of the night watch as he’d expected had played the night away in little nooks and corners about the deck. Some stood guard near the life boats, but as he’d made no hostile move they’d ignored him. The calm was absolute. The sounds of the ship muted by the mystery of the break of day. What a day it promised to be, he smiled.

He’d found out a lot about the habits of his prey before embarking. The man was a heavy sleeper as he used to work late into the night. As such he never had breakfast before noon. Sometimes he did not appear till long after noon. Altair counted on him continuing this habit. They were scheduled to arrive in Caesarea about the same time. But such things were inexact, nature often mudding man’s plans. So he had to kill the man not long before they entered port. Once they were in it would be harder as all the sailors would be expected to help bring her in. So an eye would be on him. He did not want that.

Moreover, if the man decided to take a walk Altair might lose him as he did not know the port in Caesarea well. Additionally, he’d take an escort as was his habit as an important man whose death would hurt his King immeasurably. His men were hard men – well trained in combat. Altair did not want a fight on his hands. That would expose him, and allow the victim to escape while he was so occupied. No, the man had to die before they docked. When the Master Spy was alone was the perfect moment to kill him.

His mind made up, Altair causally walked up to the steering wheel.

“Warm night, mate.”

The man gazed at him with tired eyes and then grunted: “So ‘tis.”

“How long till we make it to port?”

Weary humour glinted in the man’s eyes.

“Woman waitin’?”

Altair chuckled.

“Yes.”

“Ah…” the man gave him a knowing look. Then checked his chart and sky. “I make it four hours.”

Altair thanked the man and went back down to his post by the railing opposite the life boats. He mused. It’d take them maybe an hour to fully dock the ship. She was ungainly and maneuvering was hard. This meant he had to kill the man two hours before they made port. That was the plan then.

The sky got lighter and lighter. Soon the rim of the sun showed itself in the east. The sky was clear of cloud, and wind picked up. The day promised to be a good one. Altair finally permitted himself to admire the more prosaic things in life. Once his decision was made he put aside all thought of the matter until the moment to carry it out came. This was a detachment he had worked hard on. Getting excited about a kill like a raw novice was detrimental to the task at hand. To others it looked like arrogance and cockiness. Let them think what they would. He did not care for their opinion. The technique worked for him and that was enough.
He gathered his mental and physical strength for the task. He checked the feather marker in his belt. Nice and snug. The change of the watch would come soon. Then he’d strike. He flexed his fingers like an eagle about to grip its prey. He smiled slightly at the image. He made his way to the cabin door. The door had no lock and was not closed all the way he saw. Yesterday had been sweltering and the night no better. A little air generated by the ship’s movement and the wind in a close space like the cabin would be welcome, especially without the dirt that fell through the hatch from the steering wheel’s watchman.

The clang of the bell announced the change as he leaned on the railing near the door. He turned as if to go down below. All the other men of the watch were making their way down to the cargo hold and their beds. When all the backs were to him he slid the door open as much as it would go and squeezed in, keeping his head down to keep from hitting the lintel. Once inside he closed the door to same position it had been. He stood for a moment. All furniture was nailed to the floor to prevent it crashing if ship moved too suddenly or ran into bad weather. The cabin was sparsely populated. The captain was a modest man. Table between him and the bunk near the wall. A chest against the left hand wall. On the table were maps and other papers. He glanced at them as he moved towards the bunk where the Master Spy was lying. No sensitive information as far as he could see. The man was clever not to keep his papers out in plain sight.

Altair stood over the man whose life he planned to take. The Spymaster to His Majesty the Most Christian King of France was a heavy man with many folds of fat, which told of long sitting and lots of feeding. Well, it was his brain he used, not his sword arm, the Assassin reflected. The sleeper did not move. He was not aware of the danger hovering above him. Altair pulled up his white hood. He was ready. He set the Hidden Blade in motion. It made the satisfying click that he’d loved to hear. He stooped over the obese man.

The man stirred and moved on the narrow bunk, shifting his blankets away as he felt the heat. He had not heard the change-of-watch bell. Heavy sleeper, this one. Altair had straightened, waiting. Now once more he bent over the prone figure. And slid the Blade under the fat chin. He pushed. With his right hand he pinched the man’s nose. The man snorted and woke, eyes set in folds of fat popping open in alarm. When he saw who it was above him and felt the Blade in his neck, he made as if to scream.

“I wouldn’t.”

The Spy Master gulped and shut his mouth. Fear was visible in every trembling fold of fat. His small eyes gazed into the steady eyes of the Assassin and read no mercy there.

”Please….,” he bleated softly.

“Your people would bring war upon the Holy Land. I cannot allow that.”

“I have no choice…. I am loyal to my King.” Truly, the man was pitiful in his fright and cowardice.

“We all have a choice. We have free will,” Altair’s gaze was inexorable. He saw to the soul of the man. This one was used to working in the shadows, unseen. This man brought nations to their knees with his schemes. He pulled the strings. Such men were spiders, unfaithful to any God but blackmail and slander and intrigue. Men like the Assassins made it their task to hunt these men and kill them. There could be no peace unless this man and his ilk were stopped.

“You have chosen wrongly. And this day payment comes due. Prepare to meet whatever God you believed in.”

He slid the Blade home and watched the life leave the man’s eyes. He looked into them and witnessed his soul pass. He took the feather from the belt and dipped it in blood pouring from the neck. He replaced the feather into its holder inside the lining of the belt. Next, he wiped the Hidden Blade on the man’s robe and turned him on his side so that the wound would not be visible on entry into the cabin. He looked up at the hatch. The man at the wheel was a different one. The Assassin did not know him. It did not matter. No one would mark him now. All the men were out on deck engaged in their tasks under the watchful eyes of the first mate. He walked to the door and peered through the narrow slit. No man was glancing this way. They had not missed him apparently. Luck was with him still. He lowered the hood, set himself and opened the door. He did not move furtively – such actions were what attracted attention and only a novice would make so stupid a mistake. Altair was no new recruit to give in to nerves. He walked out as he’d gone in. No one marked him now.

He was at the hatchway to the cargo hold when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. It was the mate.

“What were you doing? The bell rang half hour ago.”

His tone was suspicious, his expression unfriendly. His hand tightened holding the younger man in place. Altair was not afraid. He could talk his way out of this. Altair got ready to reply when he was saved by the man in the crow’s nest atop the mast.

“Land! Land ahoy!”

The mate turned away as everyone jumped to at the news. Indeed Caesarea’s walls were just visible as the sun hit the spires and domes of the city full on. All the crew on the deck could make out other ships in port, their masts thrusting up into the sky like spikes. The mate had duties to attend to and orders to give so he had no choice but to let Altair go. “Go then. I am watching you, though,” he warned menacingly.

The Assassin slipped down into the cargo hold to his hammock. He sat as fatigue took over. His body cried for rest. He refused to listen but promised himself a good rest once he was off the ship. Another hour and a half. All he needed to do was keep out of the mate’s way and then slip over the side of the ship. He checked his belongings. The sack and the sword were still where he’d left them. He lay back with the sword under him to give him enough discomfort so as not to nod off. His bag he put by him, arm over it. He listened to the noises above and below. The usual ship bustle before making landing – that should keep the mate’s mind occupied sufficiently for Altair to get away.

He drank some water from his water skin and ate the slop that was ship’s food. He’d made sacrifices like this many a time before so the bad food did not bother him. His body needed it. Additionally, he needed to pass his time somehow so he might as well attend to his bodily needs. No sense in returning to Masyaf half dead.
After breakfast, he cleared his mind once more. He sighed deeply, filling his lungs with the close humid thick air of the cargo hold. His Master would be proud. This task had taken a long time to prepare, and al Mualim had given him that time. Al Mualim was no fool. He knew talent and skill when he saw them. That was why he’d offered Altair this challenge as worthy of his talents. Altair had had to track the Spy Master across the whole of the Holy Land and beyond. The Master believed in him. That thought had sustained the Assassin when the task seemed hopeless. Al Mualim was like father to him, stern, yes, but fair. If Altair performed well, he was rewarded. If not, well… He felt a pang. He had not set foot inside Masyaf for two months. The grim fortress carved out of the very rock of the mountains was his home and shelter. He looked forward to a well-deserved rest.
The only thing remaining was getting off alive and unnoticed in Caesarea. He felt the change in the motion of the craft as she docked and came to a full stop. He gathered his things as many men were doing now. Another piece of luck for him this day. Not all were to load the cargo they were to pick up. The watch of the previous night got the day off. As Altair and the other men made their way up, there was a piercing scream. It came from the direction of the captain’s cabin. All the men turned in that direction curious as to who was making all the noise.
It turned out to be one of the Spy Master’s attendants who’d been forced to bed with the sailors in the hold, the cabin being too small and its occupant too large to fit more than one person. He was a teenage boy, Altair saw, as he ran out of the cabin, his face a picture of horror. He had come to wake his master, he babbled in his agitation, and seen…. The captain and first mate went in and came out a few minutes later ashen faced. They did not attempt to hide the truth: the Lord’s throat had been slit as he slept. the matter was public now.

Altair made his way unobtrusively towards the plank that had been run out. Some other sailors were doing likewise. In a little group they went down to the dock while their superiors were dealing with the catastrophy. The Assassin did not know how quickly the mate would put his disappearance and the death together, but he did not want to be there to find out. His task was done. He had the feather marker to prove it, given to him by al Mualim himself as mark of his respect for Altair’s skill and trust in his ability as an Assassin.

He separated from his companions among the dirty small streets of the port district. They did not even notice him go so set were they on drink and women, even though they’d left them only a day ago in Jaffa. That was as it should be. He was unremarkable, just another sailor on his way to a dingy waterside hole with watered down beer that was the same the world over. He walked till he felt steam on his face. The baths. Yes, he needed one. He counted the coin in his purse. Ten gold pieces, some silver and copper dirhams. He had enough for a good solid meal and a bath if he was careful. He entered the glazed tile establishment of the baths. He was washed and rubbed with oils. He changed back into his robes, feeling renewed. Indeed, he should make it a point to enjoy the pleasures of the baths from now on. It relaxed the tensions of his body wonderfully.

He had the sailor clothes burned – no need to leave a trail behind him. He always cleaned up after himself. A clean Assassin was a skilled one. He hid every trace of himself from people’s minds. The mate of the ship could look for him through the length and breadth of the Holy Land and not find him. He grinned as he exited the baths, clean and scrubbed. It felt good to be alive and full of strength as he was at that moment.

At the Assassin’s Bureau he sent a message ahead to al Mualim to tell him of his success and took a horse from the stable. The Rafiq was extremely helpful, recognizing the Assassin’s skill and mastery. He flattered him outrageously. Altair let it slide into one ear and out the other. He knew how good he was. He’d earned it. Nothing had been given him. Or to the other novices, for that matter. Each novice earned the marks on his Assassin’s robes the hard way or not at all.
He rode out of Caesarea riding east into the sun as the alarm bells pealed in the city behind him, proclaiming to the world what he’d done. They would speculate who’d done it. But there would be some as would know who was responsible. The Man of Masyaf. The Man in the White Hood carrying death on his wings. They would not know his real name, of course. No one did save the Brothers and they would not breathe it even under torture. No Brother would betray another so. That would be to break two tenets at once: expose the Brother to a bitter fate and compromise the Assassin Brotherhood. Such was impermissible.

To himself though, he could say it. “I am Altair Ibn La-Ahad. I am the Eagle of Masyaf. My talon is sharp and swift. I have no peer among men. I wield the Hidden Blade and have paid for it with blood of my body. I am an Assassin. And that means death to those who oppose peace. In all things. Let them beware how they act lest they feel my approach.”

He was going home. The task was done.