Assassin's Creed - Altair/Adah


He was home for a day and a half when the message came. He unfolded the paper and read the information. Walking over to the table, he held the paper to the candle flame and watched it ignite. His coin had been well spent.

The next day he planned to set out early. As he was preparing to leave, Malik approached him. "Leaving again? Don't you think it wise to inform someone of your plans?"

"It does not concern you."

"It concerns me when you shirk your responsibilities to dally with a woman," Malik replied, drawling out the word.

Malik knew Adah. That he would refer to her in such a derisive manner rankled him, but he would not rise to the bait. "I shirk nothing and you know it well. It is I who have kept the fortress in harmony while the Master is away."

"Harmony. Huh," Malik sneered. "You've had your face buried so far between Adah's legs you cannot see anything else, much less-"

Quickly grabbing Malik by the robes, he drew his fist back, prepared to introduce his nose to the back of his skull. His arm quivered like an arrow set to fly, but he hesitated. He was ever aware of the prohibition against striking a brother, and it was the only thing that stayed his hand now. He shoved Malik away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of running to tell the tale to the Master when he returned. "If you are half as smart as you think yourself, you will stay away from me."

"One day, Altair. One day we will find ourselves away from Masyaf, and then we shall settle this," Malik said, pointing at him as he turned and departed.

"I look forward to it," he replied, scowling.



                                                  * * *  


  
His thoughts had been troubled and gloomy for the duration of his ride, and remained so as he approached his destination. He thought back to Malik's crude accusation that his mind was elsewhere, and had to admit there was some truth to it.

There had been too much upheaval lately. It came from Adah, mostly, and it was that which drove his actions. She would not be pleased if she knew, but she would not learn of it.

Malik. He sighed and shook his head. It stung him greatly that they had fallen out. He should just accept that the friendship they'd shared since boyhood had ended. It was weakness to let it perturb him so.

Then there was the constant parade of brothers who seemed to feel obligated to challenge him in one way or another like they were all roosters competing for a hen. He knew his position was envied, but he had earned it and worked hard to maintain it. Conversely, with his position came harsher punishment when the Master thought he had erred. They seemed to forget that aspect, though they took great delight in witnessing it.

If his brothers were as diligent with their training as he was, they would not have the time or the need to gossip and complain like women. Nor would they grow fat and useless like Abbas, who was more like an abomination than a brother. The only one who honed their craft as fervently as himself was Malik. It was a shame that what was once friendly competition had turned to bitter rivalry on his part.

He casually circled the rooming house once, marking the windows and exits before dismounting. He took a deep breath, banishing distraction and focusing on the task before him. When his senses had sharpened and his mind centered, he entered the building.

He took a seat in the corner of the dining and drinking area. Soon a serving woman approached.

"What can I get you?" she purred, leaning over to display her abundant cleavage.

He smiled, amused by the spectacle. "What do you have?"

She went over the less than appealing menu choices, but he wasn't particularly hungry anyway. He ordered a bowl of rice and water.

"All's we have is ale today." She leaned in further and whispered to him. "You don't want the water. Trust me," she said, her eyes flaring with the warning.

He chuckled. "Ale, then."

"Smart man." She winked at him and left for the kitchen.

He picked at the rice when it arrived and discreetly poured small quantities of the ale out under the table now and then.

The serving woman came to check on him. "More ale, dearie?"

"Not right now, thank you. I would like to know your name, if you don't mind."

"Mind? Why no, I don't mind. It's Sadie," she replied. "Sadie Rothschild, at your service."

He nodded. "Would you care to join me, Sadie?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" she said with a hearty laugh as she took a seat across from him.

"How does an English woman end up in a place like this?"

"Oh, well… I was married when I arrived, to a soldier…"

He peppered her with questions about herself while he kept an eye on the door. Sadie had led a tragic and difficult life and was anxious to share her stories. He felt pity for her, but she was a survivor. A stab of guilt for using her twisted within him, but it couldn't be helped. He would leave her a few extra coins.

The door opened and closed several times over the course of the next two hours, but none delivered his mark. Maybe the informant had been mistaken.

He noticed that Sadie had gone quiet. It seemed that she had finally come to the end of her long and colorful recounting of her life and now she looked at him curiously.

"So, what's your story, handsome?"

The door opening again drew his eyes. The one he had come for entered and walked to the bar. Sadie looked over at him and sighed. "Work calls," she said and rose to see to it.

The man spoke with Sadie for a moment, and then ordered an ale. He was drinking it quickly.

Sadie rejoined him. "So where were we?"

The man finished his ale and plunked the empty tankard down.

He shifted in his seat and smiled. "Could I impose on you to bring me one of those pastries you mentioned? I find myself craving something sweet."

"Sure, love. Be right back," she said and went off to the kitchen.

He threw some coins on the table, rose from his seat and followed the man up the stairs, pausing at the top until he heard a door open and begin to close. He quickly rounded the corner and stuck his foot in the door, then seized the door and popped the man in the head with it as he looked down to see what had blocked its progress.

He closed and bolted the door behind him. The man held his hands to his forehead, his confusion apparent. "Who…who are you? What do you want?" he stammered.

The man was average and dull in every way, from his clothing to his physique and weapon. Even his voice was average. As he stared at the man, he felt his composure slipping, a small fissure of anger rapidly expanding across the surface of his mind. Kind and gentle. It fractured.

He took two steps and laid Dhiren out with a quick jab to the jaw. He knelt, his knee pressed into the man's solar plexus.

Dhiren struggled and frantically reached for his weapon at his waist.

The metallic cha-ching from his hidden blade rang out as he leaned down, grasping Dhiren's jaw. He pressed the blade to his throat. "Who am I? One dear to me calls me angel, yet many more call me the angel of death."

"Assassin? B-but why?"

"You will live for now, Dhiren, but know this. You have been marked, and I will be watching. Should you dare approach Adah again, I will swiftly deliver your death. Do you understand?"

Dhiren nodded carefully.

He disengaged his blade and went to the window. He opened the shutters and looked back over his shoulder at the man still lying on the ground. He pointed at him, then jumped out of the window and disappeared.  

He flicked Ashara's reins and trotted away. The anger still roiled within him, barely sated by the fear he'd seen in Dhiren's eyes.

He knew that should the Master learn of this, he would suffer for it. It was wrong; against the Creed, said the voice inside his head. He hadn't killed an innocent, though, only delivered a message. Sometimes such messages were necessary. The inner argument ceased.

He gave Ashara a kick and whistled. He could still make it back to Masyaf by nightfall if he hurried.