Malik was worried. And for once the cause of his disquiet was not that irritating man, Altair. Nor was it the question of the Templar treasure. No, it was Majd Addin and the city of Jerusalem that caused his discomfort these days. The situation for the Assassins in the city was becoming untenable. The death of Talal and the subsequent thorough search of the city had nothing to do with making life miserable. Malik had wiped any signs of Assassin presence from under Majd Addin’s nose. His men had lain so low a scythe could not find them. Something far worse had happened. A week after Altair’s successful comletion of the task al Mualim had set him, Majd Addin had named himself regent of Jerusalem in Salahadin’s absence. His criers ran all over the city shouting the tidings. Many citizens had been shocked to hear them. Things had rapidly gone downhill for the Assassins.

Majd Addin had announced the death of the last candidate to the regency. He had blamed the Assassins for doing it, heretics that they were, unafraid of God’s Law. There had been riots and arrests and executions galore of the “Assassins” who’d killed the man. The city had run with blood. Malik had watched helplessly as the innocent and the poor were dragged to the execution plaza near the al Aqsa mosque and brutally murdered.

Malik stared out the window at the afternoon streets. Majd Addin’s usurpation of the regency had not been entirely unexpected. Malik had known for months that someone was planning to take the regency as all the other potential – legitimate, he reminded himself – candidated had died under highly suspicious circumstances. Malik had done everything he could to find out who had done it and how. The why was obvious: the Sultan was preoccupied with the Crusader movements after Acre and trying to prevent their moving on further, closer to Jerusalem, their goal. For a man of ambition this presented the perfect opportunity to seize power in the most important city of the land. And so the murders had begun.

Now Majd Addin was regent and his hold on the city tight. He had poured more armed men to patrol the streets in the aftermath of the riots over the executions of the “Assassins” of the last regent. He frightened the populace into obedience with daily exhibitions on the execution platform of his “justice” and “mercy”. He performed the bloody deeds himself and then strutted the stage puffed up with his own importance. He exhorted the people to give up to him any who behaved in “depraved, craven, subversive ways”. He was their protector now that Salahadin was preoccupied on the coast with the Crusaders. Malik had stood in the back of the crowd watching the cold blooded murders and heard the frightened whispers. He knew that no one would stand up to Majd Addin, not while his soldiers roamed the streets in packs picking on anyone simply because they could. They claimed to be carrying out the regent’s orders as they stole food or raped women. The people hid in their homes, afraid to come out. No one wanted to end up as Majd Addin’s “criminal”. The miasma of fear permeated the city.

Malik watched a patrol come into view from a side street, hands on swords, heads on a swivel, sniffing for trouble. They passed by the Bureau without a second glance. Malik was tense till they were out of sight. He sighed as he returned to his table and the letter he had started to write. Al Mualim had to be informed of the doings in Jerusalem. Malik wanted his advice on what to do. He recommended Majd Addin be killed. Malik could not carry out his work with the city on edge. He had pulled all but the most experienced men back from their duties to keep the chances of discovery to nil, he wrote. His spies in Salahadin’s camp informed him that the Sultan was harassing the Crusaders with constant barrage of arrow fire as they marched from Acre to Haifa. The Sultan appeared to be indecisive as to what to do so he kept pressing the Crusaders but avoiding a pitched battle where the knights’ charge could prove fatal to his men and their morale. Salahadin’s orders were to shoot the horses as resupplying was hard for the Crusaders to do. The Crusaders themselves were at loggerheads with one another, Malik went on. Conrad of Montferrat refused to help King Richard in his campaign and was sitting in Tyre, the city he had saved by courage, with his troops while his father was at Acre as a “guest” of the King’s. No one was fooled though. Richard kept him there to ensure Conrad did not turn traitor and backstab him as he went deeper into the Sultan’s territory.

Malik paused, flexing his fingers. He was coding this letter because if an enemy were to read this the third tenet would be broken. Unlike Altair, Malik lived the tenets to the letter. HE would not allow the Brotherhood to be discovered in Jerusalem. He picked up his pen again and continued. Malik saved the most startling news for last. His men had also given him some surprising news. A contingent of the knights Templar was on its way to Jerusalem. On Majd Addin’s request. Malik had been stunned. Why would Majd Addin, a Muslim qadi and regent, ask for the enemy’s knights? He had questioned the man who’d brought the news. He’d been assured that it was indeed so. A hundred Templar knights in full panoply and with all their attendants were on their way to reinforce the guards. So the rumour in the Templar camp ran. To Malik this was inexplicable. Majd Addin served Salahadin or so he claimed to legitimize his authority. Templars were Crusaders. He wondered if the Master could offer any light on this matter.
The Templar presence created a problem for Malik. He had still not entered the Temple. According to the man’s report the knights were only a week away. He had to find a way in NOW. He had no doubt where the Templars would be staying: the Solomon’s Temple, their main residence, the origin of their name. For now Majd Addin’s men were guarding it in force. With the Templars there would be additional eyes on it as well as on the streets and the citadel. Malik groaned, rubbing his face. More chances of the Bureau being found, he thought. Allah, his life was nothing but trouble. It had been so ever since the night when Kadar had died. He rubbed his left shoulder where an arm had been at one time. Guilt consumed him now. He was as responsible for his brother’s death as Altair. He should have protected him but instead had placed him in harm’s way. And not for the first time. He’d left Kadar when he’d ran from home to become an Assassin. He had left him to face their father’s anger. He had never forgiven himself for it. His anger with Altair lost a lot of its edge as a result of his guilt. How could he be angry if he was as much to blame? His rage turned in on himself, eating him, gnawing at his heart. There were nights he could not sleep. He’d kept busy with work: novices, spies and Majd Addin occupied his waking thoughts these days. However, one fact was inescapable: Allah, he was was a fratricide! The thought frightened him. But he faced it with resolve. Malik would not run. Not anymore. Such was not in him. He was no coward. He was an Assassin. Assassins did not run or hide behind flimsy excuses. They did not fear.

Placing all the responsibility at Altair’s feet was so much easier, he realized, than accepting his own role in Kadar’s demise. He had known he’d have to face this sooner or later. He was not an effective Rafiq or leader until he’d dealt with his demons. He had spent days thinking, facing up to his abrogation of duty to his brother who’d loved him and trusted him. Malik had killed him by allowing Altair to get under his skin. He should have maintained control. The thing was, that he had not. And THAT hurt him most. He’d hidden away from his own failure in rage at Altair, his one-time friend. It had been so easy to shift that burden onto his rival’s shoulders. Altair had failed the mission. Attaching his brother’s death in addition to that had been so easy. Kadar had deserved better of him…

Malik shook himself. There he was again, moping. Yes, he was guilty. Yes, he had been wrong. He had met the guilt head on. Malik realized there was nothing he could do. The past could not be undone, no matter how one might wish for such a thing to happen. He felt more himself again. And with the troubles in the city he had found the strength to let his brother go at last. Kadar would never come back. He. Was. Dead. Malik had repeated the words until they reverberated in his head like bells. He would always grieve but he could not – must not – allow it to be in the way of duty. He was a Rafiq with men under his command. He had to protect them and the Brotherhood as he had not Kadar. His brother had looked up to him. His men believed in him. His brother’s memory would not let him shirk his obligations. He would not fail the Brotherhood. He would never forgive himself for bringing destruction on the Brotherhood because his mind was not his own. That was a promise he’d made to Kadar’s ghost.

With new resolve, Malik rolled up the letter and went down with it to get a pigeon to carry it, his mind clear and focused for the first time in weeks. He attached a cylinder to the bird’s leg with the missive in it. The winged messenger waited patiently, blinking at him steadily. He smiled slightly as he met the bird’s eye. He felt better. He did not know why. Maybe laying Kadar’s ghost to rest had helped. Possibly admitting his own part had lifted a little of the emotional burden he’d borne since that fatal day. Perhaps… Malik watched the bird fly out of the rooftop entrance and into the sun. He had decided. He would to into the Temple tonight to have his answers.


The party slipped through the dark city to the gate. The guards stood there in the light of the torches in the brackets above their heads. Malik and his men stood in the shadow of a large church fronting the gate. Ten guards, he counted. He had a dozen men with him, all skilled with the blade. In spite of his own reduction, he was still a good sword hand. They wore dark clothes and cloaks to lessen chances of discovery. Clouds obscured the moon, which served them well – not many wandered about at night. If any did, it meant they were up to no good, and the guards would pick them up. After a night in Majd Addin’s prison, they’d be let go with a warning that many took to heart.

His men had many exits from the city. Some went underground from the Bureau. Others were surface routes: over the wall, through the cemetery in the south end, in the inns lining the walls. This night they were using the underground passage under the north wall, that began in an empty stable of the city guard, which led to a deserted village a little to the north east of the city. From there they would go towards a ruined tower Malik had found. He’d scouted the place beforehand and found a well dug deep down. It had been a watchtower at some other time, now abandoned due to lack of men and provisions to stock it. The well went straight down and was ten or more feet wide. That told Malik there’d been a fairly large garrison stationed since such a well could supply lots of water. He had not been able to tell if there was any still at first. He’d thrown a stone down and heard the splash one hundred and twenty heartbeats later. He had ropes with him now. Yusuf had them slung over his shoulder and around his waist under the cloak.
The stable was a large, wooden-roofed building, where horses were kept for the messengers that set out by the governors’ commands carrying news and instructions to whoever needed them. Most of the time now it was empty since the centre of the action had switched to the west. All the horses were need in the war. Malik had watchers stationed near the stable on rooftops to give signal as soon as the patrols had passed by. On the roof above Muhammed waited. He’d tell Malik when all was clear. The men at the gate were not looking in the stable’s direction. In fact Malik thought they looked both bored and tired. Well, no one said night duty was easy or eventful. That could work to their advantage: the men would not be watchful. He saw as one of the guards pulled a flask from the bag behind him. Malik knew it was not water he drank. The man held the flask out to his comrade after he’d finished. So it went around. Soon Malik saw them walk to the guardhouse beside the closed gate. There was a light in the single window. The opening was too small to see what they were up to. Or for the men safe inside to see what went on beyond. Five men remained now to watch this side of the gate. More were on the outside, Malik knew. One thing at a time, he told himself.

Then Muhammad leaned down over the edge of the building.

“Dai, Ali signals – we can go in.”

Malik could no see the man in the dark as there were no torches on this side. “All right. Stay there till we get back.”

“Yes, dai, as you will. Safety and peace upon you.”

“Safety and peace, Muhammad.”

With those words, Malik led the men out into the square before the gate. This side was dark, but all twelve men kept their hands on their weapons. Malik had told them to mind the Creed – no unnecessary killing. The guards never saw them. They melted away into a side street, then another, and so made their way to the back of the stable. The door was open, and Azzam waited, swathed in a black cloak.

“Dai, safety and peace this night,” he greeted them.

“Upon you as well, Azzam. Where is Ali?” Malik asked.

“He awaits outside with the horses, dai. He will lead them to the village as you ordered.”

Malik nodded his assent. Without another word, Azzam turned and led the way to the middle of the stable where some boards had been ripped away to expose a pit with a staircase leading down. The stable had not been cleaned recently, given that much more important things were going on elsewhere, Malik reflected, amused. So much the better for them this night. Azzam went down first, carrying a torch wrapped in oiled rags, and Malik followed, and the rest of the men behind him. He smelled earth all around. It was also cooler down here after the heated night up above. They were all slightly sweaty by now.

Azzam lighted the torch with his flint and steel. Yusuf took it. Azzam stayed behind to close up the hole and wait for them. Malik was taking no chances. He’d get back same way he’d come. With Yusuf leading the way they went down the passage. The earth hissed underfoot. It was dead quiet except for the clink of their weapons and swish of cloth as they walked.

Some time later they reached the cellar exit that lay in one of the houses in the abandoned village. Ali was there already and informed Malik that he’d tied the horses tied outside across the street at the railing of an inn. The shovels and picks were stowed on the packhorses. He had not forgotten food either: water, cakes, bread and dried meat enough for a dozen men who’d intended hard work. Malik commended him and asked if the way was free. Ali assured him it was.

They mounted and rode through the moonless night. They rode carefully to avoid breaking their horses’ legs. Ali and Malik rode in front. The night was quiet. The only noise came from their horses’ hooves. The outside stillness made it seem all the louder.

Malik rode in thought. Tonight he could have his answers. His reading had given him little: most information came from either religious or mystical books, and Malik had no patience for that – his deeply practical nature rejected the absurdity of a river separating because a box was carried into it. He was an Assassin who dealt with things in this world. He could see no reason for the Templars to be interested in the treasure unless it contained some power or wealth that they could use for the Crusades. Perhaps that is why they were coming here – to try and devise a plan at recovering it, while serving Majd Addin’s will. If they needed the treasure to continue the wars, then he understood why al Mualim might want it. The old man could use it against them. Yet he had not done so. Instead he had hidden the thing away and kept silent about it. Did al Mualim know something about it that he could not or would not tell? Malik rather thought he did. The man kept secrets, a lot of them. Malik shifted his seat in the saddle.

If on the other hand the Templars’ intention had been to simply possess it or use it for other purpose, then al Mualim’s motives became less clear. Had he sent the three of them just so the treasure would not fall into enemy hands? Possibly, and this troubled Malik, the old man knew what the thing was exactly and had chosen to lie to them. If he was lying about this important matter, then the possibility of his fallibility opened up. Malik was not quite sure he was ready to face that yet. He needed some hard evidence about the treasure’s nature first.

At that moment Ali broke in, pointing ahead.

“Dai, we’re here.”

Malik peered into the darkness barely illuminated by a sickle moon. Indeed he could just make out a dark shape against the darkness surrounding it. The tower was a tumbled down collection of big stone chunks that were strewn all about. The stone had looked weathered to Malik on his previous visit. Now it simply was a black tower-shaped mass. They dismounted before reaching the first blocks of rock. There was no need to injure their horses riding through it. They untied the shovels and picks from the horses and shouldered them. Sahir and Thabit stayed behind with the horses. Malik and his men took most of the food with them. Malik also took the small cylinder container with his maps. He’d drawn a passage on a separate sheet of paper from this tower to the underground parts of the Temple. He had maps of the inside of the Temple where he’d marked the room of the Ark as well as the library and the Templar quarters. He’d had to go with the old maps he’d come across as well as the old descriptions in books. He had no idea how exact the maps he’d done were. They would have to serve.

The party entered the tower and lit their torches, placing them in the sconces on the wall, most of which were still intact despite being rusty. Malik motioned to Yusuf to let down the ropes and secure them to the hooks protruding from the stone walls about them. Ali went down first with an unlighted torch to check for any water and its depth. He had oiled rags in his belt and flint and steel to light them. Malik watched the pinprick of light that was the torch flame move and waver far down. Much further than he’d thought on his previous visit but maybe it was the darkness of the well making it seem longer than it really was. Then the torch moved from side to side as Ali gave the signal that all was well down there.
Malik glanced over his maps one more time. There was a possibility that the maps might prove wrong and they’d end up outside the Templar residence of Solomon’s Temple. The exterior of that building was guarded by Majd Addin’s men, most of them left there by Salahadin to garrison the city. What they would make of the Templar presence Malik could only imagine too well. But this was not his concern at present – the future would decide his actions regarding the Templars. He rolled up his maps and put them back in the cylinder, slinging it over his hear so it hung off his left side. He climbed onto the rim of the well and grabbed a rope to go down. His men followed suit. He left two behind to look after the torches and the food. He had nine men remaining. The party was not large enough to attract any attention if someone were inside the Temple but was not so small that they could not cover a lot of territory in the Temple if they needed to.

Using his feet to kick off the wall, he rappelled down to Ali’s torch. He landed with a soft squelch. Mud, Malik thought. That meant there was water after all. Good thing the leather boots they all wore were thick so no water would get through. He waited for his men to get down as he looked around for any opening. If there were not any, then they’d have to dig. Unpleasant prospect and time consuming but sometimes one had no choices left, Malik mused with a bitter half-smile to himself. All his choices had been taken away that fateful day…

Malik dragged his mind away from that direction. He had a task ahead of him now. He needed his wits about him. His men lighted their torches with many a dry crackle of flint. The bottom of the well became lighter and the party took stock of the circumstances. The well had been laid with stone all along its length. The stones here were slippery and green with vegitation that grew in damp places. Most of it was dry now though. The water had gone into the ground on which they were standing. The mud sucked at their feet as they moved about searching for the opening of the passage Malik knew had to be here. The dirt was soft and that led Malik to thinking that walking would be a chore and running impossible in case they were pursued. He reminded his men to be careful and keep the second tenet firmly in their mind. They must not be seen. By anyone. He did not believe there’d be servants in the Temple since all the Templars were in the field pushed out by Salahadin when he’d taken Jerusalem four years ago. But why take chances? His men nodded their understanding. They’ll be quiet as mice.

Suddenly one of the men called. He’d found an indentation in the well wall. Malik and the rest trooped over. Malik saw by light of torches a man-high aperture, set deep into the stone overgrown with slimy green. They had not seen it at first because of the shadows down here. As Malik stepped closer he distinguished an iron rusted grate of crossing beams. Ali stood beside him, eyes scanning the rusty iron for a way in. Finally he pointed to a bent pole. What sort of impact had caused this Malik could not guess. But blessed his luck nonetheless. This night he’d need all the luck he could get.

“We could break that, dai. Pull it out and perhaps some others would go easier.”

Malik nodded and signing to some of his men to come forward stepped away with the others.

It took his men the better part of two hours to unclog the grate from its stone fittings. The workers who’d built this tower and dug the well had been experts at their craft. Eventually the way was clear and Malik led the way in, torch held over his head. The interior of the tunnel they were in smelled damp but the ceiling was dry. All the wetness was on the ground. In single file the party made their way along it in silence, each with his own thoughts. Malik strenuously kept his on the task at hand. From his maps the passage appeared to go into the Temple residence itself. Not into the chamber where the treasure had been. He just hoped there was a way out, a ladder or some hatch. Another dead end would bring despair.

They walked as the torches spluttered, coughing from the smoke. The only sounds came from the clink of their weapons and tools carried in sacks and stuck in belts. Their steps squelched in the mud. The farther they went, the drier the floor became, the less vegitation was visible in the light. Whatever spring had fed the well was dry long since. The mud in the well itself Malik could only explain by some underground water source under it. The passage ran this way and that, twisting and turning. Malik did not know how long they walked but at last when time seemed to drag on forever, his torch showed him a stair and a room around it. He stopped immediately, his men doing likewise. Ali came to stand beside him. They exchanged looks. Ali nodded, hand on sword. The chamber what they could see of it anyway seemed empty and lifeless. Malik’s senses tingled nonetheless. They were in enemy territory now. Expect the unexpected.

Malik leaned forward to bring his torch closer to inspect the stone. What he saw was indeed the bottom stair of a stone staircase leading up into darkness. He counted ten steps before the rest disappeared in shadows. As his men clustered around him, he went up. There was grit on the stone which was cracked in places. His head met a hatch before he had gone far. Twenty steps in all. He raised his head to look at the hatch. In the torchlight he discerned wooden boards tighly nailed together. He called back to Ali to come up and hold his torch. The disadvantages of being one armed, he smiled bitterly.

Malik touched the hatch gingerly, alert for any danger from above it. The hatch gave easily. He raised in a few inches so he could get a look without being seen. Too dark, he decided. All seemed still in wherever it was they’d come to. He risked opening the hatch more so that his shoulders were level with the floor. As he prepared to head out and inspect the place which appeared to be a storage area, Ali laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Dai, maybe I should go. You’re too much to risk.”

Malik felt a moment’s annoyance as if Ali were questioning his manhood and not trying to help. He was the leader. He was too valuable to lose. Without turning he said reassuringly, “I will be fine, Ali. Trust in me.”

Ali’s hand gripped his shoulder for an instant longer as if unsure of the Rafiq’s will or sanity. Finally Ali sighed and let him go. Malik was out and crouching, hand on the hilt of his sword protruding over his shoulder. His eyes darted everywhere but the darkness was so complete he could not see anything. An enemy could be there watching them. He hissed at Ali to give him a torch. When he had it, he made a thorough inspection. He found barrels, sacks of grain, iron packed in boxes of oil. Supplies, he grinned. For the Templar knights in times of trouble. The new contingent will undoubtedly use these. So could the Assassins. He made a mental note to take some of this before they arrived. Taking from an enemy was not stealing.

The storage area was empty of anything but goods. Once satisfied of that Malik allowed his men to come up. He had one man stay behind to keep watch on the hatch as it could only be open from the underground. There was no ring on it. A wise precaution to keep the tunnel secret. The Templars were as good at keeping secrets as the Assassins, Malik was impressed. They left all but two torches behind. There was no need to attract attention by carrying too much light. Malik pulled off the map case and got out the plans of the Temple. He spread them out on the barrels. He would split his men into groups of four. Ali would lead one, he the other. Ali’s men would inspect the Templar quarters as much as they could. Malik knew that the chambers were extensive. HE would go to the library. It was on the third floor and according to the plans it was immense. How many books it contained he had no idea. Malik hoped the books he needed would be there. They would meet here before the watch changed. Malik judged they had three hours at most. Little time but that was all they had left of the night. The grate had taken too much time to move.

They emerged from the storage room and went up the stairs to the first floor of the Temple as soflty as feathers settling on a pillow. To Malik this was unfamiliar territory as the last time he had not gone through here but underground as now. Carefully he made his bearings. A huge central stair case greeted the party. The floor of the lobby was marble with a mosaic in the centre depicting the Templar Cross in red. The Templar motto was laid out in coloured letters around it. Malik reflected that the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple had enough riches for such grandeur. This was ill gotten.

On the second floor were the Templar quarters. Ali’s party went their way along the marble tiles. Their leather boots made no sound. Good. Less chance of someone hearing them.

As Malik’s men went up to the third floor they admired the rich decorations of the place. Despite the dust on most of the furniture, Malik saw it was well crafted. The designs were all of a piously religious nature. Reflecting the nature of the beast, he mused, chortling to himself. The military monks in his opinion were anything but. In fact the whole of the Crusader clergy were hypocrites to a man, preaching peace with one side of their mouths and exhorting the soldiers to kill the innocent with another, simply because the innocents believed other than they. They and Majd Addin were the same ilk, Malik mused. Self righteous hypocrites. They cared nothing for the souls of the people. Only their own power. Peace was the last thing on their minds. Focus, Malik chided himself. You’ve work to do here. He felt tired. He had not slept for weeks, since the only time he had to look for the answers to his questions was now, the city being in a jitter. He rubbed his eyes. He would sleep for a week after this, he vowed. Majd Addin or no, if he was not rested he would not function. His body was screaming for relief.

The corridor of the third floor was high and that made it seem longer. The Crusaders had this obsession, Malik thought, of reaching for the sky. Were they so arrogant as to think Allah cared to be worshipped in stone? Their buildings seemed gloomy because of the unrelieved grey of the stone. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows silvering the marble tiles. The library doors were as huge as the rest of the Temple. They were made of oak, carved with the Templar symbols of the Cross and Christ. They were locked. They needed a key. They had none. Asking Yusuf to hold the torch closer to give him more light, Malik got his lockpick and set to work. He worked in silence. In minutes the doors were open with dry screaming of unoiled hinges. Malik cringed slightly at the ear cutting sound. The musty smell of old books assaulted them as they entered. Sticking the torch into a socket near the door, they spread out in the moonlit library. The library was divided into two rings of shelves, one over the other. The upper ring was reached by stairs which creaked horribly. Malik was glad the building was empty. The squealing of the wooden stairs would have given them away for sure. Tables were scattered everywhere on the lower floor. Some amazingly had books on them. Malik busied himself with these. He lighted a candle from the torch and soon had a candelabra burning merrily. He set it on one of the tables and perused the titles of the books. They appeared to be Fathers of the Christian Catholic church: St Augustine, St Benedict, and others. Nothing on the Ark though.

He went to another table and the next. He heard his men taking books and opening them. He’d told them to look for anything connected to the Ark of the Covenant, no matter how remote. He knew some thought this quest of his mad, fearing that his grief and rage had unhinged him. He had brushed such objections aside. He hated pulling authority – that was no way to gain men’s trust and obedience. He was glad he had not had to do so that time either. After tonight he hoped to have some of them convinced. As he wandered over to a table set near the window looking out at the al Aqsa mosque lit with pale light of the moon, he thought Kadar would have enjoyed this adventure in the dark. Ever the romantic he would have appreciated a mysterious object whose origin and purpose were unknown. His little brother had retained an innocence Malik had lost long ago even under their father’s brutal treatment. How Kadar had managed that Malik never knew. Or would discover now. Kadar was gone. Malik had killed him.

Stop it, he told himself. Deal with it later. You have work at hand. He set the candle holder down on the table and looked at the books there. The library fairly overflowed with them. No wonder some were on the tables, he mused. He scanned the titles quickly as time was running out. He wanted to be safely gone before dawn. Some were written in Latin. Some in Arabic or Persian. Templars definitely did not stint at learning Malik concluded. Despite the Church’s prohibition on anything but Latin the soldiers and people here adapted to reality of alien tongues. Templars of course had to do so as well if they hoped to cement alliances and survive here as they had done for over a hundred years at this point.
One book attracted his attention. It was a Persian treatise on ancient objects of power. He leafed through it briefly. Many were mystical almost magical objects he found. Their descriptions were detailed. For some their purpose was easy to discern. Others the author had either guessed or left it up to the reader to draw his own conclusions. Malik put the book aside to take back. Underneath this one lay a Hebrew text – a commentary on the Torah Malik saw by an old rabbi now long dead. He remembered that in one of the surahs of the Hebrew Holy Word, the Ark was specifically mentioned and described. This commentary would be very useful for any additional information it might give. He set it on top of the other one to analyse later.

An hour passed that way with shuffling of feet and creak of wood as men moved about the library. Pages ruslted and bindings groaned at being open for the first time in Allah knew how many years. As Malik called his men to go his eyes lit on the floor leading from the door. There were footprints. In the dust. He froze for a moment. Allah, he’d never even thought of this! He’d forgotten about dust. He had been so preoccupied with getting in and out before Majd Addin knew he was here that he’d ignored the fact the place had been deserted for YEARS. It was too late now, he thought bitterly, his men gathered about him, staring too. Majd Addin would know someone was here. But not for what. His suspicion would not light on the Assassins immediately, Malik felt certain. There was no way to conceal this. To cover the tracks would mean dedusting the place and as it was supposedly empty to begin with…

What would his men think of his leadership now? He had failed them. Just as he’d sworn not to do on his brother’s death. Was Allah punishing him for his role in that? How could he have been so careless? This forgetfulness could bring harm to the Brotherhood. The third tenet…

He sighed in exasperation. There was no time for that, his practical side insisted. They had to get out. NOW. They would not be worse off than before. The noose around the city was tight. The levels of peril were not likely to go any higher as Majd Addin had spread his men everywhere and had none to spare until the Templars came. Malik counted on the knights to worry about more important things than books. To overlook the theft of a few of them. Among so many tomes he was sure it would be like looking for a needle in the eye of a camel. He had the library doors closed behind them to detain any search – if the library appeared undisturbed from the outside, the knights would not worry about the inside for a while.

Ali’s party was on the first floor at the foot of the stairs. They had not found anything. The torches were almost gone. Before they went back to the storage rooms they rewound new oiled rags to have light. Silent as shadows the party melted back downstairs and to the hatch. No alarm went off anywhere as they took the tunnel back to the ropes and hauled their books and some of the supplies from the storage rooms up to their comrades. Once the men were out of the well and on horseback, only then did Malik allow himself to relax a little. They had done it. They had gone into the Temple and were returning unscathed. He could not believe the luck. He felt that now he would have his answers. He’d taken a few more books that he thought might shed light on the Templar treasure and al Mualim’s reasons for hiding it.

Azzam was waiting in the stable to welcome them back. The guards at the gate never heard or saw anything as the Assassins slipped past on their way to the Bureau. Malik was glad he had not had to shed blood. Such was useless. Only Altair would revel in it. As Malik prepared for bed that night, the books on his table for the morning, he thought of the letter from the Damascus Bureau describing Altair’s success with Abu l’Nquod. Altair had sneaked into the Merchant King’s quarters as the man never left them, afraid that the people he stole from would kill him for the moster he was. Malik saw no problem with eliminating him. It made sense. Instead of looking after the city Abu l’Nquod was squandering its wealth in lavish gatherings of the nobles of the city. He had alienated the citizens with this. There had been no peace – the man was a tyrant like Majd Addin but at least he was not self righteous and did not excuse his behaviour as correct. After all, he had poisoned his guests at the party Altair attended. Malik agreed with Altair’s remark that poison was for cowards. Finding himself in agreement with that man left Malik speechless. When had been the last time they had talked civilly or were in consensus on anything, he wondered. Long ago. When they had still been friends. When he had been whole and happy to have a friend like Altair. He had grown lonely and bitter with the years as they had drifted apart as missions took them different ways – as Malik became a Rafiq and Altair remained free to go as he pleased untrammeled by duty – and argued more and more about the Creed and its tenets and their meaning. And then Solomon’s Temple had driven them irrevocably apart. Malik sighed as his eyes roamed the ceiling above his bed. Sorrow, guilt, anger, hate, bitterness – all the dregs of human emotions swirled in him. His inner peace had been disturbed as a pebble thrown in the water. When Altair was out of his sight, Malik felt some security of mind. But every time they were together, it seemed, they were like two cats, spitting and hissing, ready to claw each other’s eyes out.

Malik rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. He concluded there was no way back now. Altair and he would never be friends again. Malik would work with him as a Brother should. An Assassin always put duty first, so he believed. Right now his duty was to keep the Brohterhood out of Majd Addin’s sight and mind as much as possible. If that required he work with Altair, fine, he would do so. But he would not trust him. Not again. It was over. He was as alone as he’d ever been. Kadar was lost to him. Altair was gone from his heart. Malik Al Sayr, a lone one armed Assassin, took a long time to fall asleep that night.