Oliver Bowden - The Secret Crusade

‘Altair,’ said Swami, with a bow of the head, and Altair decided to ignore the man’s failure to address him by his correct title. For the time being at least. ‘How pleasant it is to see you. I trust your travels proved fruitful.’

‘I sent messages,’ said Altair, leaning forward in his saddle. Darim drew up on the other side of him so that the three formed a line, looking down at Swami. ‘Was the Order not told of my progress?’

Swami smiled obsequiously. ‘Of course, of course. I asked merely out of courtesy.’

‘I expected to be met by Rauf,’ said Altair. ‘He is most accustomed to meeting my needs.’

‘Ah, poor Rauf.’ Swami peered at the ground reflectively.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Rauf, I’m afraid is dead of the fever these past few years.’

‘Why was I not informed?’

At this Swami merely shrugged. An insolent shrug, as though he neither knew nor cared.

Altair pursed his lips, deciding that somebody had some explaining to do, even if it wasn’t to be this cur. ‘Then let us move on. I trust our quarters are prepared?’

Swami bowed his head again. ‘I’m afraid not, Altair. Until such time as you can be accommodated I have been asked to direct you to a residence on the western side of the fortress.’

Altair looked first at Darim, who was frowning, then at Maria, who gazed at him with eyes that said, Beware. Something was not right.

‘Very well,’ said Altair, cautiously, and they dismounted. Swami gestured to some servant boys, who came forward to take the horses, and they began their ascent to the citadel gates. There the guards inclined their heads quickly, as though, like the villagers, they were keen to avoid Altair’s eye, but instead of proceeding up the barbican, Swami led them around the outside of the inner curtain. Altair regarded the walls of the citadel stretching high above them, wanting to see the heart of the Order, feeling irritation build – but some instinct told him to bide his time. When they reached the residence it was a low building sunk into the stone with a short arch at its doorway and stairs leading down to a vestibule. The furniture was sparse and there were no staff to greet them. Altair was used to modest accommodation – he demanded it, in fact – but here in Masyaf, as the Assassin Master, he expected his accommodation to be in the Master’s tower or equivalent.

Bristling, he turned, about to remonstrate with Swami, who stood in the vestibule with the same obsequious grin on his face, when Maria grabbed his arm and squeezed it, stopping him.

‘Where is Sef?’ she asked Swami. She was smiling pleasantly, though Altair knew that she loathed Swami. Loathed him with every fibre in her body. ‘I would like Sef sent here at once, please.’

Swami looked pained. ‘I regret that Sef is not here. He has had to travel to Alamut.’

‘His family?’

‘Are accompanying him.’

Maria shot a look of concern to Altair.

‘What business did my brother have in Alamut?’ snapped Darim, even more put out then his parents by the scant quarters.

‘Alas, I do not know,’ oozed Swami.

Altair took a deep breath and approached Swami. The messenger’s scar no longer crinkled as the sycophantic smile slid from his face. Perhaps he was suddenly reminded that this was Altair, the Master, whose skill in battle was matched only by his fierceness in the classroom.

‘Inform Malik at once that I wish to see him,’ growled Altair. ‘Tell him he has some explaining to do.’

Swami swallowed, wringing his hands a little theatrically. ‘Malik is in prison, Master.’

Altair started. ‘ In prison? Why?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say, Master. A meeting of the council has been called for tomorrow morning.’

‘The what?’

‘With Malik imprisoned, a council was formed to oversee the Order, in accordance with the statutes of the Brotherhood.’

This was true, but even so, Altair darkened. ‘With who as its chairman?’

‘Abbas,’ replied Swami.

Altair looked at Maria, whose eyes showed real concern now. She reached to take his arm.

‘And when do I meet this council?’ asked Altair. His voice was calm, belying the storm in his belly.

‘Tomorrow the council would like to hear the tale of your journey and apprise you of events at the Order.’

‘And after that the council shall be dissolved,’ said Altair, firmly. ‘Tell your council we shall see them at sunrise. Tell them to consult the statutes. The Master has returned and wishes to resume leadership.’

Swami bowed and left.

The family waited until he had gone before letting their true feelings show, when Altair turned to Darim and with urgency in his voice told him, ‘Ride to Alamut,’ he told him. ‘Bring Sef back here. He’s needed at once.’

The following day, Altair and Maria were about to make their way from their residence to the main tower when they were intercepted by Swami, who insisted on leading them through the barbican himself. As they skirted the wall Altair wondered why he couldn’t hear the usual noise of swordplay and training from the other side. As they came into the courtyard he got his answer.

It was because there was no swordplay or training. Where once the inner areas of the citadel had hummed with activity and life, echoing to the metallic chime of sword strikes, the shouts and curses of the instructors, now it lay almost deserted. He looked around him, at the towers overlooking them, seeing black windows. Guards on the ramparts stared dispassionately down at them. The place of enlightenment and training – the crucible of Assassin knowledge he had left – had all but disappeared. Altair’s mood darkened further as he was about to make his way to the main tower but Swami directed him instead to the steps that led up to the defence room, then into the main hall.

There, the council was gathered. Ten men were seated on opposite sides of a table with Abbas at their head, a pair of empty chairs for Altair and Maria: wooden, high-backed chairs. They took their seats and, for the first time since entering the room, Altair looked at Abbas, his old antagonist. He saw something in him other than weakness and resentment. He saw a rival. And for the first time since the night that Ahmad had come to his quarters and taken his own life, Altair no longer pitied Abbas.

Altair looked around the rest of the table. Just as he’d thought, the new council was made up of the most weak-minded and conniving members of the Order. Those Altair would have preferred to be cast out. All had joined this council, it seemed, or been recruited to it by Abbas. Characteristic of them was Farim, Swami’s father, who watched him from beneath hooded lids, his chin tucked into this chest. His ample chest. They had got fat, thought Altair, scornfully.

‘Welcome, Altair,’ said Abbas. ‘I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that I am looking forward to hearing of your exploits in the east.’

Maria leaned forward to address him. ‘Before we say anything of our travels, we would like some answers, please, Abbas. We left Masyaf in good order. It seems that standards have been allowed to slip.’

‘ We left Masyaf in good order?’ smiled Abbas, though he had not looked at Maria. He hadn’t taken his gaze from Altair. The two were staring across the table at each other with open hostility. ‘When you left the Brotherhood I seem to recall there being only one Master. Now it appears we had two.’

‘Be careful your insolence does not cost you dear, Abbas,’ warned Maria.

‘ My insolence?’ laughed Abbas. ‘Altair, please tell the infidel that from now on she may not speak unless directly addressed by a member of the council.’

With a shout of anger, Altair rose from his chair, which skittered back and tumbled on the stone. His hand was on the hilt of his sword but two guards came forward, their swords drawn.