Part Three 2 страница

‘An excellent kill, ’ he said breathlessly. ‘Fortune favours your blade. ’

‘Not fortune, ’ boasted Altaï r, ‘skill. Watch a while longer and you might learn something. ’

As he said it he watched Malik carefully, seeing the Assassin’s eyes flare angrily, jealous, no doubt, at the respect Kadar afforded Altaï r.

Sure enough, Malik turned on his brother. ‘Indeed. He’ll teach you how to disregard everything the Master taught us. ’

Altaï r sneered once more. ‘And how would you have done it? ’

‘I would not have drawn attention to us. I would not have taken the life of an innocent. ’

Altaï r sighed. ‘It matters not how we complete our task, only that it’s done. ’

‘But that is not the way …’ started Malik.

Altaï r fixed him with a stare. ‘My way is better. ’

For a moment or so the two men glared at one another. Even in the dank, cold and dripping tunnel, Altaï r could see in Malik’s eyes the insolence, the resentment. He would need to be careful of that, he knew. It seemed that young Malik was an enemy in waiting.

But if he had designs on usurping Altaï r, Malik evidently decided that now was not the right moment to make his stand. ‘I will scout ahead, ’ he said. ‘Try not to dishonour us further. ’

Any punishment for that particular insubordination would have to wait, decided Altaï r, as Malik left, heading up the tunnel in the direction of the Temple.

Kadar watched him go, then turned to Altaï r. ‘What is our mission? ’ he asked. ‘My brother would say nothing to me, only that I should be honoured to have been invited. ’

Altaï r regarded the enthusiastic young pup. ‘The Master believes the Templars have found something beneath the Temple Mount. ’

‘Treasure? ’ gushed Kadar.

‘I do not know. All that matters is the Master considers it important, else he would not have asked me to retrieve it. ’

Kadar nodded and, at a wave of the hand from Altaï r, darted off to join his brother, leaving Altaï r alone in the tunnel. He looked down, pondering, at the body of the priest, a halo of blood on the sand around the head. Malik might have been right. There had been other ways of silencing the priest – he hadn’t had to die. But Altaï r had killed him because …

Because he could.

Because he was Altaï r Ibn-La’Ahad, born of an Assassin father. The most skilled of all those in the Order. A Master Assassin.

He set off, coming to a series of pits, mist floating in their depths, and leaped easily to the first crossbeam, lithely landing and crouching catlike, breathing steadily, enjoying his own power and athleticism.

He jumped to the next and to the next, then came to where Malik and Kadar stood waiting for him. But rather than acknowledge them he ran past, the sound of his feet like a whisper on the ground, barely disturbing the sand. Ahead of him was a tall ladder and he took it at a run, scampering up quickly and quietly, only slowing when he reached the very top, where he stopped, listening and sniffing the air.

Next, very slowly, he raised his head to see an elevated chamber, and there, as he’d expected, stood a guard with his back to him, wearing the outfit of a Templar: padded gambeson jacket, leggings, chainmail, sword at his hip. Altaï r, silent and still, studied him for a moment, taking note of his posture, the dip of his shoulders. Good. He was tired and distracted. Silencing him would be easy.

Slowly Altaï r pulled himself to the ground where he crouched for a moment, steadying his breathing and watching the Templar carefully, before moving up behind him, straightening and raising his hands: his left a claw; his right ready to reach and silence the guard.

Then he struck, snapping his wrist to engage the blade, which sprang forward in the same instant that he rammed it into the guard’s spine, reaching with his right hand to smother the man’s scream.

For a second they stood in a macabre embrace, Altaï r feeling the tickle of his victim’s final muffled shout beneath his hand. Then the guard was crumpling and Altaï r lowered him gently to the ground, stooping to brush his eyelids closed. He had been punished severely for his failure as a lookout, Altaï r thought grimly, as he straightened from the corpse and moved off, joining Malik and Kadar as they crept beneath the arch that had been so poorly guarded.

Once through, they found themselves on an upper level of a vast chamber, and for a moment Altaï r stood taking it in, feeling suddenly overawed. This was the ruin of the fabled Solomon’s Temple, said to have been built in 960 BC by King Solomon. If Altaï r was correct they now stood overlooking the Temple’s greater house, its Holy Place. Early writings spoke of the Holy Place as having its walls lined with cedar, carved cherubim, palm trees and open flowers embossed with gold, but the Temple was now a shadow of its former self. Gone were the ornate wood, the cherubim and the gold finishing – to where, Altaï r could only guess, though he had little doubt the Templars had had a hand in it. Yet even stripped of its gilding it was still a place of reverence, and despite himself, Altaï r found himself filled with wonder to see it.

Behind him his two companions were even more awestruck.

‘There – that must be the Ark, ’ said Malik, pointing across the chamber.

‘The Ark of the Covenant, ’ gasped Kadar, seeing it too.

Altaï r had recovered, and glanced over to see the two men standing like a pair of foolish merchants dazzled at the sight of shiny baubles. Ark of the Covenant?

‘Don’t be silly, ’ he chided. ‘There’s no such thing. It’s just a story. ’ Looking over, though, he was less sure. Certainly the box had all the properties of the fabled Ark. It was just as the prophets had always described: plated entirely with gold, a golden cover adorned with cherubim, and rings for inserting the poles that would be used to carry it. And there was something about it, Altaï r realized. It had an aura …

He tore his eyes away from it. More important matters needed his attention, namely the men who had just entered on the lower level, their boots crunching on what had once been fir-board flooring but was now bare stone. Templars, their leader already barking orders.

‘I want it through the gate before sunrise, ’ he told them, referring no doubt to the Ark. ‘The sooner we possess it, the sooner we can turn our attention to those jackals at Masyaf. ’

He spoke with a French accent, and as he came into the light, they saw his distinctive cape – that of the Templar Grand Master.

‘Robert de Sable, ’ said Altaï r. ‘His life is mine. ’

Malik rounded on him angrily. ‘No. We were asked to retrieve the treasure and deal with Robert only if necessary. ’

Altaï r, tired of Malik’s constant defiance, turned on him. ‘He stands between us and it, ’ he hissed angrily. ‘I’d say it’s necessary. ’

‘Discretion, Altaï r, ’ urged Malik.

‘You mean cowardice. That man is our greatest enemy – and here we have a chance to be rid of him. ’

Still Malik argued: ‘You have already broken two tenets of our Creed. Now you would break the third. Do not compromise the Brotherhood. ’

Finally Altaï r snapped: ‘I am your superior – in both title and ability. You should know better than to question me. ’ And with that he turned, climbing quickly down the first ladder to a lower balcony, then to the floor where he strode confidently towards the group of knights.

They saw him coming and turned to face him, their hands on the hilts of their swords, their jaws set. Altaï r knew that they would be watching him, watching the Assassin as he glided across the floor towards them, his face hidden by his cowl, his robes and red sash flowing about him, the sword at his hip and the hilts of his short swords showing over his right shoulder. He knew the fear they would be feeling.

And he in turn watched them, mentally assessing each man: which of them was a right-handed swordsman, which fought with his left; who was built for speed and who would be strongest, paying particular attention to their leader.

Robert de Sable was the largest of them, the most powerful. His head was shaved, and etched into his face were years of experience, every one of which had contributed to his legend, that of a knight as famed for his skill with a sword as he was for his cruelty and ruthlessness – and this Altaï r knew above all: that of the men present he was by far the most dangerous; he had to be neutralized first.

He heard Malik and Kadar drop from the ladders and glanced behind to see them following his lead, Kadar swallowing, nervous, Malik’s eyes flashing his disapproval. The Templars tensed further at the sight of two more Assassins, the numbers more even now. Four of them surrounded de Sable, each man alert, the air thick with fear and suspense.

‘Hold, Templars, ’ called Altaï r, when he was close enough to the five knights. He addressed de Sable, who stood with a thin smile upon his lips, his hands hanging at his sides. Not like his companions, ready for combat, but relaxed, as though the presence of the three Assassins was of little significance to him. Altaï r would make him pay for his arrogance. ‘You are not the only ones with business here, ’ he added.

The two men weighed each other up. Altaï r moved his right hand, as though ready to grasp the hilt of the sword at his belt, wanting to keep de Sable’s attention there when in fact death would snick smoothly from the left. Yes, he decided. Feint with the right, strike with the left. Dispatch Robert de Sable with the blade and his men would flee, leaving the Assassins to retrieve the treasure. All would talk of Altaï r’s great victory over the Templar Grand Master. Malik – that coward – would be silenced, his brother wonderstruck afresh, and on their return to Masyaf the members of the Order would venerate Altaï r; Al Mualim would honour him personally and Altaï r’s path to the position of Master would be assured.

Altaï r looked into the eyes of his opponent. Imperceptibly he flexed his left hand, testing the tension of the blade mechanism. He was ready.

‘And what is it you want? ’ asked de Sable, with that same unconcerned smile.

‘Blood, ’ said Altaï r simply, and struck.

With inhuman speed he leaped at de Sable, flicking the blade at the same moment, feinting with his right hand and striking, as fast and as deadly as a cobra, with his left.

But the Templar Grand Master was quicker and more cunning than he had anticipated. He caught the Assassin mid-attack, seemingly with ease, so that Altaï r was stopped in his tracks, unable to move and suddenly – horrifyingly – helpless.

And in that moment Altaï r realized he had made a grave mistake. A fatal mistake. In that moment he knew that it was not de Sable who was arrogant: it was himself. All of a sudden he no longer felt like Altaï r the Master Assassin. He felt like a weak and feeble child. Worse, a bragging child.

He struggled and found he could barely move, de Sable holding him easily. He felt a sharp stab of shame, thinking of Malik and Kadar seeing him brought low. De Sable’s hand squeezed his throat, and he found himself gasping for breath as the Templar pushed his face forward at him. A vein in his forehead throbbed.

‘You know not the things in which you meddle, Assassin. I spare you only that you may return to your Master and deliver a message: the Holy Land is lost to him and his. He should flee now, while he has the chance. Stay and all of you will die. ’

Altaï r choked and spluttered, the edge of his vision beginning to fade, fighting unconsciousness as de Sable twisted him as easily as though handling a newborn and tossed him towards the back wall of the chamber. Altaï r crashed through the ancient stone and into the vestibule on the other side where he lay stunned for a moment, hearing beams fall and the huge pillars of the chamber crash in. He looked up – and saw that his entrance to the Temple was blocked.

From the other side he heard shouts, de Sable crying, ‘Men. To arms. Kill the Assassins! ’ He scrambled to his feet and dashed to the rubble, trying to find a way through. With shame and helplessness burning him, he heard the cries of Malik and Kadar, their screams as they died, and finally, his head low, he turned and began to make his way out of the Temple for the journey to Masyaf – there to bring the Master the news.

The news that he had failed. That he, the great Altaï r, had brought dishonour upon himself and upon the Order.

When he finally emerged from the bowels of the Temple Mount it was into bright sunshine and a Jerusalem that teemed with life. But Altaï r had never felt so alone.

Altaï r arrived at Masyaf after an exhausting five-day ride, during which he’d had more than enough time to reflect upon his failure. And thus it was with the heaviest of hearts that he arrived at the gates, was allowed in by the guard and made his way to the stables.

Dismounting and feeling his knotted muscles relax at last, he handed his horse to the stable boy then stopped by the well to take some water, sipping it at first, then gulping and, last, splashing it over himself, gratefully rubbing the dirt from his face. He still felt the grime of the journey upon his body, though. His robes hung heavy and filthy and he looked forward to washing in the shimmering waters of Masyaf, hidden away in an alcove of the cliff face. All he craved now was solitude.

As he made his way through the outskirts of the village, his gaze was drawn upwards – past the stable huts and bustling market to the winding paths that led to the ramparts of the Assassins’ fortress. Here was where the Order trained and lived under the command of Al Mualim, whose quarters stood in the centre of the citadel’s Byzantine towers. He was often to be seen staring from the window of his tower, lost in thought, and Altaï r pictured him there now, gazing down upon the village. The same village that bustled with life, bright with sunshine and loud with business. To which, ten days ago, Altaï r, leaving for Jerusalem with Malik and Kadar, had planned to return as a triumphant hero.

Never – not in his darkest imaginings – had he foreseen failure, and yet …

An Assassin hailed him as he made his way across the sun-dappled marketplace, and he pulled himself together, pushing back his shoulders and holding up his head, trying to summon from within the great Assassin who had left Masyaf, rather than the empty-handed fool who had returned.

It was Rauf, and Altaï r’s heart sank further – if that were possible, which he sincerely doubted. Of all the people to greet him on his return it would have to be Rauf, who worshipped Altaï r like a god. It looked as though the younger man had been waiting from him, wiling away the time by a walled fountain. Indeed, he bounded up now with wide and eager eyes, oblivious to the nimbus of failure that Altaï r felt around himself.

‘Altaï r – you’ve returned. ’ He was beaming, as pleased as a puppy to see him.

Altaï r nodded slowly. He watched as behind Rauf an elderly merchant refreshed himself at the fountainhead then greeted a younger woman, who arrived carrying a vase decorated with gazelles. She placed it on the low wall surrounding the waterhole and they began to talk, the woman excited, gesticulating. Altaï r envied them. He envied them both.

‘It is good to see you’re unharmed, ’ continued Rauf. ‘I trust your mission was a success? ’

Altaï r ignored the question, still watching those at the fountain. He was finding it difficult to meet Rauf’s eye. ‘Is the Master in his tower? ’ he asked at last, tearing his gaze away.

‘Yes, yes. ’ Rauf was squinting as though to divine somehow what was wrong with him. ‘Buried in his books, as always. No doubt he expects you. ’

‘My thanks, brother. ’

And with that he left Rauf and the chattering village folk at the fountainhead and began to make his way past the covered stalls and hay carts and benches, over the paving, until the dry and dusty ground sloped sharply upwards, the parched grass brittle in the sunshine, all paths leading to the castle.

Never had he felt so much in its shadow, and he found himself clenching his fists as he crossed the plateau and was greeted by the guards at the fortress approach, their hands on the hilts of their swords, their eyes watchful.

Now he reached the grand archway that led to the barbican, and once more his heart sank as he saw a figure he recognized within: Abbas.

Abbas stood beneath a torch that chased away what little dark there was within the arch. He was leaning against the rough dark stone, bare-headed, his arms folded and his sword at his hip. Altaï r stopped, and for a moment or so the two men regarded each other as villagers moved around them, oblivious of the old enmity blooming afresh between the two Assassins. Once they had called each other brother. But that time was long past.

Abbas smiled slowly, mockingly. ‘Ah. He returns at last. ’ He looked pointedly over Altaï r’s shoulder. ‘Where are the others? Did you ride ahead, hoping to be the first one back? I know you are loath to share the glory. ’

Altaï r did not answer.

‘Silence is just another form of assent, ’ added Abbas, still trying to goad him – and doing it with all the cunning of an adolescent.

‘Have you nothing better to do? ’ sighed Altaï r.

‘I bring word from the Master. He waits for you in the library, ’ said Abbas. He ushered Altaï r past. ‘Best hurry. No doubt you’re eager to put your tongue to his boot. ’

‘Another word, ’ retorted Altaï r, ‘and I’ll put my blade to your throat. ’

Abbas replied, ‘There will be plenty of time for that later, brother. ’

Altaï r shouldered past him and continued to the courtyard and training square, and then to the doorway to Al Mualim’s tower. Guardsmen bowed their heads to him, affording him the respect a Master Assassin rightfully commanded, and he acknowledged them knowing that soon – as long as it took word to spread – their respect would be a memory.

But first he had to deliver the terrible news to Al Mualim, and he made his way up the steps of the tower towards the Master’s chamber. Here the room was warm, the air heavy with its customary sweet scent. Dust danced in shafts of light from the great window at the far end, where the Master stood, his hands clasped behind his back. His master. His mentor. A man he venerated above all others.

Whom he had failed.

In a corner the Master’s carrier pigeons cooed quietly in their cage and around him were his books and manuscripts, thousands of years of Assassin literature and learning, either on shelves or stacked in tottering, dusty piles. His sumptuous robes flowed about him, his long hair lay over his shoulders, and he was, as usual, contemplative.

‘Master, ’ said Altaï r, breaking the thick silence. He lowered his head.

Wordless, Al Mualim turned and moved towards his desk, scrolls littered the floor beneath it. He regarded Altaï r with one sharp, flinty eye. His mouth, hidden within his grey-white beard, betrayed no emotion until at last he spoke, beckoning to his pupil. ‘Come forward. Tell me of your mission. I trust you have recovered the Templar treasure …’

Altaï r felt a trickle of perspiration make its way from his forehead and down his face. ‘There was some trouble, Master. Robert de Sable was not alone. ’

Al Mualim waved away the notion. ‘When does our work ever go as expected? It’s our ability to adapt that makes us who we are. ’

‘This time, it was not enough. ’

Al Mualim took a moment to absorb Altaï r’s words. He moved from behind his desk, and when he next spoke, his voice was sharp. ‘What do you mean? ’

Altaï r found himself having to force out the words. ‘I have failed you. ’

‘The treasure? ’

‘Lost to us. ’

The atmosphere in the room changed. It seemed to tense and crackle as though brittle, and there was a pause before Al Mualim spoke again. ‘And Robert? ’

‘Escaped. ’

The word fell like a stone in the darkening space.

Now Al Mualim came closer to Altaï r. His one eye was bright with anger, his voice barely restrained, his fury filling the room. ‘I send you – my best man – to complete a mission more important than any that has come before and you return to me with nothing but apologies and excuses? ’

‘I did –’

‘Do not speak. ’ His voice was a whipcrack. ‘Not another word. This is not what I expected. We’ll need to mount another force so –’

‘I swear to you I’ll find him – I’ll go and …’ began Altaï r, who was already desperate to meet de Sable again. This time the outcome would be very different.

Now Al Mualim was looking about himself, as though only just recalling that when Altaï r had left Masyaf he had done so with two companions. ‘Where are Malik and Kadar? ’ he demanded.

A second bead of sweat made its way from Altaï r’s temple as he replied, ‘Dead. ’

‘No, ’ came a voice from behind them, ‘not dead. ’

Al Mualim and Altaï r turned to see a ghost.

Malik stood at the entrance to the Master’s chamber – stood swaying, a wounded, exhausted, blood-soaked figure. His once-white robes were streaked with gore, most of it around his left arm, which looked badly wounded, dangling uselessly at his side and crusted with blackened, dried blood.

As he moved into the room his injured shoulder dipped, and he hobbled slightly. But if his body was damaged, then his spirit was surely not: his eyes burned brightly with anger and hatred – hatred that he turned on Altaï r with a glare so intense that it was all Altaï r could do not to shrink away.

‘I still live, at least, ’ growled Malik, his bloodshot eyes brimming with fury as he stared at Altaï r. He took short, ragged breaths. His bared teeth were bloody.

‘And your brother? ’ asked Al Mualim.

Malik shook his head. ‘Gone. ’

For a beat his eyes dropped to the stone floor. Then, with a sudden burst of angry energy, he raised his head, narrowed his eyes and raised a trembling finger to point at Altaï r. ‘Because of you, ’ he hissed.

‘Robert threw me from the room. ’ Altaï r’s excuses sounded feeble, even to his own ears – especially to his own ears. ‘There was no way back. Nothing I could do –’

‘Because you would not heed my warning, ’ shouted Malik, his voice hoarse. ‘All of this could have been avoided. And my brother … my brother would still be alive. Your arrogance nearly cost us victory today. ’

‘Nearly? ’ said Al Mualim, carefully.

Calming, Malik nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips – a smile directed at Altaï r, for even now he was beckoning another Assassin, who came forward bearing a box on a gilt tray.

‘I have what your favourite failed to find, ’ said Malik. His voice was strained and he was weak, but nothing was going to sour his moment of triumph over Altaï r.

Altaï r felt his world falling away from him as the Assassin set down the tray on Al Mualim’s desk. The box was covered with ancient runes and there was something about it – an aura. Inside it, surely, was the treasure. It had to be. The treasure that Altaï r had been unable to recover.

Al Mualim’s good eye was wide and gleaming. His lips were parted, his tongue darting from his mouth. He was entranced by the sight of the box and the thought of what was inside. Suddenly there came an uproar from outside. Screams. Running feet. The unmistakable ring of clashing steel.

‘It seems I’ve returned with more than the treasure, ’ reflected Malik, as a messenger crashed into the chamber, forgetting all protocol as he breathlessly exclaimed, ‘Master, we are under attack. Robert de Sable lays siege to the Masyaf village. ’

Al Mualim was snatched from his reverie, in the mood to face de Sable. ‘So he seeks a battle, does he? Very well. I’ll not deny him. Go. Inform the others. The fortress must be prepared. ’

Now he turned his attention to Altaï r, and his eyes blazed as he said, ‘As for you, Altaï r, our discussion will have to wait. You must make for the village. Destroy these invaders. Drive them from our home. ’

‘It will be done, ’ said Altaï r, who could not help but be relieved at this sudden turn of events. Somehow the attack on the village was preferable to having to endure more of this humiliation. He had disgraced himself in Jerusalem. Now he had the chance to make amends.

He vaulted from the landing behind the Master’s chamber to the smooth stone floor and dashed from the tower. As he ran across the training yard and through the main gates, he wondered whether being killed now might provide the escape he desired. Would that be a good death? A proud and noble death?

Enough to exonerate him?

He drew his sword. The sounds of battle were closer now. He could see Assassins and Templars fighting on the upland at the foot of the castle, while further down the hill villagers were scattering under the force of the assault, bodies already littering the slopes.

Then he was under attack. A Templar knight rushed him, snarling, and Altaï r twisted, letting his instincts take over, raising his sword to meet the Christian, who bore down upon him fast and hard, his broadsword slamming into Altaï r’s blade with a clash of steel. But Altaï r was braced, feet planted wide apart, the line of his body perfect, and the Templar’s attack barely moved him. He swept aside the other’s sword, using the weight of the huge broadsword against the knight, whose arm flailed uselessly for a blink that Altaï r used to step forward and plunge his blade into the man’s stomach.

The Templar had come at him confident of an easy kill. Easy, like the villagers he had already slaughtered. He’d been wrong. With the steel in his gut he coughed blood and his eyes were wide with pain and surprise as Altaï r yanked the blade upward, bisecting his torso. He fell away, his intestines spilling to the dust.

Now Altaï r was fighting with pure venom, venting all of his frustration in his sword blows, as though he might pay for his crimes with the blood of his enemies. The next Templar traded blows, trying to resist as Altaï r pushed him back, his posture instantly changing from attack to defence, and then into desperate defence, so that even as he parried, he was whimpering in expectation of his own death.

Altaï r feinted, wheeled, and his blade flashed across the Christian’s throat, which opened, sheeting blood down the front of his uniform, staining it as red as the cross on his chest. He sank to his knees then fell forward, just as another soldier rushed Altaï r, sunlight glinting from his raised sword. Altaï r stepped aside and buried his steel deep in the man’s back so that, for a second, his entire body tautened, the blade protruding from his chestplate, his mouth open in a silent scream as Altaï r lowered him to the ground and retrieved his sword.

Two soldiers attacked together, thinking perhaps that their numbers would overwhelm Altaï r. They reckoned without his anger. He fought not with his usual cold indifference, but with fire in his belly. The fire of a warrior who cared nothing for his own safety. The most dangerous warrior of all.

Around him he saw more corpses of villagers, put to the sword by the attacking Templars, and his anger blossomed, his sword blows becoming even more vicious. Two more soldiers fell beneath his blade and he left them twitching in the dirt. But now more and more knights were appearing, villagers and Assassins alike were rushing up the slope, and Altaï r saw Abbas commanding them to return to the castle.

‘Press the attack on the heathen fortress, ’ cried a knight in response. He was running up the hill towards Altaï r, his sword swinging as he swiped at a fleeing woman. ‘Let us bring the fight to the Assassin –’

Altaï r slammed his sword into the throat of the Christian, whose last word was a gurgle.

But behind the escaping villagers and Assassins came more Templars, and Altaï r hesitated on the slope, wondering if now was the moment to take his final stand – die defending his people and escape his prison of shame.

But no. There was no honour in a wasteful death, he knew, and he joined those retreating to the fortress, arriving as the gates were closing. Then he turned to look out on the scene of carnage outside, the beauty of Masyaf sullied by the bloodied bodies of the villagers, the soldiers and the Assassins.

He looked down at himself. His robes were splashed with Templar blood but he himself was unharmed.

‘Altaï r! ’ The cry pierced his thoughts. Rauf again. ‘Come. ’

He felt weary all of a sudden. ‘Where are we going? ’

‘We have a surprise for our guests. Just do as I do. It should become clear soon enough …’ Rauf was pointing high above them to the ramparts of the fortress. Altaï r sheathed his sword and followed him up a series of ladders to the tower summit where the Assassin leaders were gathered, Al Mualim among them. Crossing the floor, he looked to the Master, who ignored him, his mouth set. Then Rauf was indicating one of three wooden platforms jutting out into the air, bidding him to take his place on it. He did so, taking a deep breath before he walked carefully to the edge.