Altaïr frowned. Even with the walkway unguarded it was impossible to drop into the courtyard unseen. He moved to the entrance wall of the hospital, so that he was able to look into the street outside. On stone painted white by the sun, ailing cityfolk and their families begged the guards to be allowed inside. Others whose minds had gone wandered among the throng, casting their arms into the air, shouting gibberish and obscenities.
And there – Altair smiled to see them – was a group of scholars. They were moving through the crowd as if it wasn’t there, heedless of the suffering and tumult around them. They seemed to be going in the direction of the hospital. Taking advantage of the disorder, Altaïr lowered himself into the street unnoticed, joined the ranks of the scholars and lowered his head to concentrate his gaze on his shuffling feet. Every now and then he risked a surreptitious glance to check their bearings and, as he’d hoped, they were heading towards the hospital where the guards stood aside, admitting them to the courtyard.
Altaïr wrinkled his nose. Where the street had held the scent of the city, of baking and perfumes and spices, in here was the stench of suffering, of death and human waste. From somewhere – through a set of closed doors – there came a series of pained cries, then low moaning. That would be the main hospital, he thought. He was proved correct when, suddenly, the doors were flung open and a patient careered madly into the courtyard.
‘No! Help! Help me!’ he screamed. His face was contorted with fear, his eyes wide. ‘Help me, please! You must help me!’
After him came a guard. He had a lazy eye, as though the muscles in his eyelid had once been cut. He ran after the escaping crazy man, catching him. Then, joined by another guard, he began punching and kicking him until the crazy man was subdued and on his knees.
Altaïr watched. He felt his jaw tighten and his fists clench as the guards beat the man, other patients moving forward to get an improved view of the spectacle, watching with faces that registered only mild interest, swaying slightly.
‘Mercy!’ howled the crazy man, as the blows rained down on him. ‘I beg mercy. No more!’
He stopped. Suddenly his pain was forgotten as the doors to the hospital swung open and there stood a man who could only be Garnier de Naplouse.
He was shorter than Altaïr had expected. He was beardless and had close-cropped white hair, sunken eyes and a cruel, downturned mouth, which gave him a cadaverous look. The white cross of the Hospitalier was on his arms and he wore a crucifix around his neck – but whatever God he worshipped had deserted him, Altaïr saw. For he also wore an apron. A dirty, blood-stained apron.
Now he looked darkly at the crazy man prostrate before him, held by Lazy Eye and the other guard, Lazy Eye raising his fist to punch him again.
‘Enough, my child,’ ordered de Naplouse. ‘I asked you to retrieve the patient, not to kill him.’
Lazy Eye lowered his fist reluctantly as de Naplouse came forward, closer to the crazy man, who moaned and pulled away, like a skittish animal.
De Naplouse smiled, the hardness gone. ‘There, there,’ he said to the crazy man, almost tenderly. ‘Everything will be all right. Give me your hand.’
The crazy man shook his head. ‘No – no! Don’t touch me. Not again …’
De Naplouse furrowed his brow, as though slightly hurt by the man’s reaction to him. ‘Cast out this fear, else I cannot help you,’ he said evenly.
‘Help me? Like you helped the others? You took their souls. But not mine. No. You’ll not have mine. Never, never, never … Not mine not mine not mine not mine …’
The softness was gone as de Naplouse slapped the crazy man. ‘Take hold of yourself,’ he snarled. His sunken eyes flared and the other’s head drooped. ‘Do you think this gives me pleasure? Do you think I want to hurt you? But you leave me no choice …’
Suddenly the crazy man had pulled away from the two guards and tried to run into the watching crowd. ‘Every kind word matched by the back of his hand …’ he screeched, passing close to Altaïr as the two guards rushed after him. ‘All lies and deception. He won’t be content until all bow before him.’
Lazy Eye caught him, dragged him back before de Naplouse, where he whimpered under the Grand Master’s cold gaze.
‘You should not have done that,’ said de Naplouse, slowly, then to Lazy Eye, ‘Return him to his quarters. I’ll be along once I’ve attended to the others.’
‘You can’t keep me here!’ shouted the crazy man. ‘I’ll escape again.’
De Naplouse stopped. ‘No, you won’t,’ he said evenly, then turned to Lazy Eye. ‘Break his legs. Both of them.’
Lazy Eye grinned as the crazy man tried to pull away. Then there were two sickening cracks, like kindling being snapped, as the huge knight stamped first on one leg, then the other. The victim screamed, and Altaïr found himself moving forward, unable to contain himself, seething at the wanton cruelty.
Then the moment had gone: the man had lost consciousness – the pain, no doubt, too much to bear – and the two guards were dragging him away. De Naplouse watched him. The sympathetic look had returned to his face.
‘I am so sorry, child,’ he said, almost to himself, before turning on the crowd. ‘Have you people nothing better to do?’ he barked, and stared darkly at the monks and patients, who slowly drifted away. As Altaïr turned his back to join them he saw de Naplouse scanning the throng carefully, as though looking for one who might have been sent to kill him.
Good, thought Altaïr, hearing the door to the hospital close as the Grand Master left the courtyard. Let him be afraid. Let him feel a little of what he inflicts on others. The image warmed him as he joined the scholars, who were moving through a second door. This one led into the main ward, where straw matting did little to hide the reek of suffering and human waste. Altaïr found himself trying not to gag, noticing several of the scholars move the fabric of their robes to their noses to block it out. From in here came the moaning and Altaïr saw hospital beds that contained men who groaned and occasionally cried out with pain. Keeping his head bent, he peered out from beneath his cowl, seeing de Naplouse approach a bed in which an emaciated man lay restrained by leather bindings.
‘And how are you feeling?’ de Naplouse asked him.
In pain, the patient wheezed, ‘What have you done … to me?’
‘Ah, yes. The pain. It hurts at first, I won’t lie. A small price to pay. In time you’ll agree.’
The man tried to lift his head from the bed. ‘You’re … a monster …’
De Naplouse smiled indulgently. ‘I’ve been called worse.’ He moved past a wooden cage that enclosed another bed, peering in at the … no, not a patient, Altaïr realized. These poor wretches were subjects. They were experiments. Again he fought to control his anger. He glanced around. Most of the guards had congregated at the other end of the ward. Just as in the courtyard, several disoriented patients were stumbling about, and he saw the same cluster of monks, who seemed to hang on de Naplouse’s every utterance while remaining at a respectful distance, talking among themselves as the Grand Master made his rounds.
If he was going to do it – and he was going to do it – then it had to be soon.
But then de Naplouse moved over to another bed, smiling at the man who lay there. ‘They say you can walk now,’ he said kindly. ‘Impressive.’
The man looked confused. ‘Been … so long. Almost forgot … how.’
De Naplouse looked pleased – genuinely pleased. Beaming, he said, ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘I don’t … understand. Why did you help me?’
‘Because no one else would,’ answered de Naplouse, moving on.
‘I owe you my life,’ said the man in the next bed. ‘I am yours to command. Thank you. Thank you for freeing me.’
‘Thank you for letting me,’ replied de Naplouse.
Altaïr faltered a moment. Was he wrong? Was de Naplouse not a monster? Then just as quickly he cast his doubts away, thinking instead of the crazy man’s shrieks of agon
y as they had snapped his legs, the lifeless patients roaming the hospital. If there were indeed examples of healing here, then surely they were outnumbered by the acts of barbarism.
Now de Naplouse had reached the final bed in the ward. In moments he would leave and Altaïr’s chance would be gone. Resolved, the Assassin cast a look behind him: the guards were still occupied at the end of the hall. He moved out of the assembly of scholars, coming up behind de Naplouse as the Grand Master bent to his patient.
Altaïr’s blade sprang forth and he rammed it home, reaching for de Naplouse and stifling his cry as he arched his back in pain. Almost gently, the Assassin lowered the skewered doctor to the floor. ‘Let go your burden,’ he whispered.
De Naplouse blinked and looked up at him – into the face of his Assassin. But there was no fear in those dying eyes: what Altaïr saw was concern. ‘Ah … I’ll rest now, yes?’ he said. ‘The endless dream calls to me. But before I close my eyes, I must know – what will become of my children?’
Children? ‘You mean the people made to suffer your cruel experiments?’ Altaïr couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice. ‘They’ll be free now to return to their homes.’
De Naplouse laughed drily. ‘Homes? What homes? The sewers? The brothels? The prisons we dragged them from?’
‘You took these people against their will,’ said Altaïr.
‘Yes. What little will there was for them to have,’ gasped de Naplouse. ‘Are you really so naïve? Do you appease a crying child simply because he wails? “But I want to play with fire, Father.” What would you say? “As you wish”? Ah … but then you’d answer for his burns.’
‘These are not children,’ said Altaïr, wanting to understand the dying man, ‘but men and women full grown.’
‘In body, perhaps. But not in mind. Which is the very damage I sought to repair. I admit, without the artefact – which you stole from us – my progress was slowed. But there are herbs. Mixtures and extracts. My guards are proof of this. They were madmen before I found and freed them from the prisons of their minds. And, with my death, madmen will they be again …’
‘You truly believe you were helping them?’
De Naplouse smiled, the light beginning to leave his eyes. ‘It’s not what I believe. It’s what I know.’
He died. Altaïr lowered his head to the stone and reached for Al Mualim’s feather, brushing it with blood. ‘Death be not unkind,’ he whispered.
In the same moment, a cry went up from the nearby monks. Altaïr straightened from the body and saw guards lumbering down the ward towards him. As they drew their swords he leaped up and ran, heading towards a far door, which, he fervently hoped, led to the courtyard.
It opened and he was pleased to see the courtyard before him.
He was less pleased to see Lazy Eye, who barrelled through the open door, his broadsword drawn …
Altaïr drew his own sword and, with the blade at one arm, his sword in the other hand, met Lazy Eye with a clash of steel. For a second the two men were nose to nose, and Altaïr could see up close the scarred skin of the knight’s eye. Then Lazy Eye pushed away, immediately stabbing forward, meeting Altaïr’s sword but readjusting so quickly that Altaïr almost missed the defence. The Assassin danced away, wanting to put space between him and Lazy Eye, who was a better swordsman than he had anticipated. He was big, too. The tendons of his neck stood out, developed from years of wielding the huge broadsword. From behind him Altair heard the other guards arriving, then stopping at a signal from Lazy Eye.
‘I want him,’ growled the giant knight.
He was arrogant, over-confident. Altaïr smiled, savouring the irony. Then he came forward, his blade sweeping up. Grinning, Lazy Eye deflected the blow and was grunting as Altaïr skipped to his left, coming at Lazy Eye from the other side – the side of his damaged eye, his weak spot – and slashing at his neck.
The knight’s throat opened and blood poured from the wound as he sank to his knees. From behind Altaïr there was a surprised cry so he started running, crashing through a collection of crazy men, who had gathered to watch, then sprinting across the courtyard, past the well and under the arch into Acre.
He stopped, scanning the roofline. Next he was vaulting a stall, the angry merchant shaking his fist as he scaled a wall behind him and took to the roofs. Running, jumping, he left the nightmare hospital behind him and melted into the city still mulling over de Naplouse’s last words. The artefact he had spoken of. Briefly Altaïr thought of the box on Al Mualim’s desk, but no. What possible connection would the Hospitalier have with that?
But if not that, then what?
13
‘Garnier de Naplouse is dead,’ he had told Al Mualim, days later.
‘Excellent.’ The Master had nodded approvingly. ‘We could not have hoped for a more agreeable outcome.’
‘And yet …’ started Altaïr.
‘What is it?’
‘The doctor insisted his work was noble,’ said Altaïr. ‘And, looking back, of those who were supposedly his captives, many seemed grateful to him. Not all of them, but enough to make me wonder … How did he manage to turn enemy into friend?’
Al Mualim had chuckled. ‘Leaders will always find ways to make others obey them. And that is what makes them leaders. When words fail, they turn to coin. When that won’t do, they resort to baser things: bribes, threats and other types of trickery. There are plants, Altaïr – herbs from distant lands – that can cause a man to take leave of his senses. So great are the pleasures they bring that men may even become enslaved by them.’
Altaïr nodded, thinking of the glazed patients. The crazy man. ‘You think these men were drugged, then? Poisoned?’
‘Yes, if it truly was as you describe it,’ Al Mualim said. ‘Our enemies have accused me of the same.’
Then he had given Altaïr his next task, and Altaïr had wondered why the Master smiled when he told him to complete his enquiries then report to the Assassins’ Bureau rafiq in Jerusalem.
Now, walking into the Bureau, he knew why. It was because it amused him to think of Altaïr once more crossing paths with Malik.
The Assassin stood up from behind the desk as Altaïr entered. For a moment the two regarded each other, neither hiding his disdain. Then, slowly, Malik turned, showing Altaïr where his arm had once been.
Altaïr blanched. Of course. Damaged in the fight with de Sable’s men, the best surgeons in Masyaf had been unable to save Malik’s left arm – and so had been forced to amputate.
Malik smiled the bittersweet smile of victory that had come at too high a price, and Altaïr remembered himself. He remembered that he had no business treating Malik with anything but humility and respect. He bowed his head to acknowledge the other man’s losses. His brother. His arm. His status.
‘Safety and peace, Malik,’ he said at last.
‘Your presence here deprives me of both,’ spat Malik. He, however, had plenty of business treating Altaïr with disdain – and evidently intended to do so. ‘What do you want?’
‘Al Mualim has asked –’
‘That you perform some task in an effort to redeem yourself?’ sneered Malik. ‘So. Out with it. What have you learned?’
‘This is what I know,’ answered Altaïr. ‘The target is Talal, who traffics in human lives, kidnapping Jerusalem’s citizens and selling them into slavery. His base is a warehouse located inside the barbican north of here. As we speak, he prepares a caravan for travel. I’ll strike while he’s inspecting his stock. If I can avoid his men, Talal himself should prove little challenge.’
Malik curled his lip. ‘ “Little challenge”? Listen to you. Such arrogance.’
Silently Altaïr rebuked himself. Malik was right. He thought of the orator in Damascus whom he had misjudged and who had almost bested him.
‘Are we finished?’ he asked, showing none of his thoughts to Malik. ‘Are you satisfied with what I’ve learned?’
‘No,’ said Malik, handing Altaïr the feather, �
��but it will have to do.’
Altaïr nodded. He looked at where Malik’s sleeve hung loose and was about to say something before he realized that no words would atone for his failures. He had cost Malik too much ever to hope for forgiveness from him.
Instead, he turned and left the Bureau. Another target was to feel the kiss of his blade.
14
Shortly afterwards Altaïr was stealing into the warehouse where the shipment was being prepared, looking around and not liking what he found.
There were no guards. No acolytes.
He took two steps forward, then stopped. No. What was he thinking? Everything about the warehouse was wrong. He was about to spin and leave when suddenly the door was shut and there was the unmistakable sound of a bolt slamming home.
He cursed and drew his sword.
He crept forward, his senses gradually adjusting to the gloom, the damp, the smell of the torches and …
Something else. A livestock smell that Altaïr thought was more human than animal.
Meagre flames from the torches threw light on walls that ran dark and slick, and from somewhere came a drip-drip of water. The next sound he heard was a low moan.
Eyes slowly adjusting, he edged forward, seeing crates and barrels and then … a cage. He moved closer – and almost recoiled at what he saw. A man was inside it. A pathetic, shivering man, who sat with his legs pulled to his chest and regarded Altaïr with plaintive, watery eyes. He raised one trembling hand. ‘Help me,’ he said.
Then, from behind, Altaïr heard another sound and wheeled to see a second man. He was suspended from the wall, his wrists and ankles shackled. His head lolled on his chest and dirty hair hung over his face, but his lips appeared to be moving as though in prayer.
Altaïr moved towards him. Then, hearing another voice from his feet, he looked down to see an iron grille set into the flagstones of the warehouse floor. Peering from it was the frightened face of yet another slave, his bony fingers reaching through the bars, appealing to Altaïr. Beyond him in the pit the Assassin saw more dark forms, heard slithering and more voices. For a moment it was as though the room was filled with the pleading of those imprisoned.
Assassin's Creed Page 7
