Part Four 3 страница

She shifted. ‘And you propose to fly into Kantara, sting him and exit unnoticed? He surrounds himself with devoted worshippers. ’ Her voice echoed in the stone prison.

‘Kantara … that’s to the east? ’ said Altaï r, picking up on her inadvertent slip.

‘Yes, it’s the best defended … You’ll see for yourself. ’

Altaï r did indeed see for himself. Kantara Castle was guarded by Crusader soldiers and Moloch’s fanatics. Scaling the walls, then making his way across the ramparts, he stopped occasionally to hear them talking, gleaning the odd bit of information about the man they called the Bull. He learned that he was a religious zealot who attracted like-minded followers, fanatics who either worked as his personal bodyguard, his servants, or who trod the streets of Kyrenia, spreading the word. He was attached to the Templars. His devotion to their leader, Bouchart, was almost as devout as his religious faith, and Kantara Castle was his personal citadel, given to him, presumably, by the Templars. He was known to spend most of his time worshipping at the castle chapel.

Which was where Altaï r hoped to find him.

Moving through the fortress he saw fanatics as well as guards. The fanatics looked … well, exactly as he would have expected fanatics to look: jumpy, wide-eyed and zealous. They were held in open contempt by the Christian guards who patrolled in twos and clearly thought it beneath them to be stationed at the castle. As Altaï r pressed himself into a recess two wandered past, one complaining to the other. ‘Why do the Templars tolerate this madman? The Bull and his fanatics are more dangerous than the citizens of Cyprus. ’

‘The Templars have their reasons, ’ replied the other. ‘It’s much easier for them to rule by proxy, you see. ’

‘I suppose so. But how long can it last? The Bull and the Templars do not exactly see eye to eye on matters of faith. ’

‘Ah, the less you say about that the better, ’ rejoined the first.

Altaï r let them go past, then moved on, the corridor darkening. Maria had said the castle was well defended, and it certainly was if you had raised an army and planned to storm its walls. For a lone Assassin, though, penetrating the fortress by stealth was an easier task. Especially when you were the Master. When you were Altaï r.

Now he found himself in a vast banqueting hall. At the opposite end stood two guards and he took out two throwing knives. He flicked them: one, two. In moments the men lay twitching on the stone and Altaï r stepped over them, knowing that he was near now, that Moloch couldn’t be far away.

He wasn’t. Altaï r came to what looked like a dead end and turned, checking behind him – why had this been guarded? Then he saw a trapdoor. Bending to it, he listened, then smiled. He had found the Bull.

Very gently he lifted the trapdoor and lowered himself into the roof beams below. He was in the rafters of the castle’s place of worship, a large empty room lit by the fire of a large brazier near the altar.

Kneeling before the fire, tending it, was Moloch.

Maria’s description of him had been accurate. He was a bear of a man: bare-headed, drooping moustache, bare-chested, apart from a medallion, and with the tree-trunk arms she’d described. Sweat glistened on him as he stoked the fire, chanting an incantation that sounded as much like a growl as it did pious devotion. Absorbed in his work he didn’t move from the fire, didn’t look away from it, bathing his face in the heat of the flames, oblivious to anything else in the room, even – especially – his killer.

Good. Moloch looked strong, easily more powerful than Altaï r, who had no desire to engage him in combat. Not only did he have the muscular advantage but it was said that he wielded a weapon like a meteor hammer, with a deadly weight attached to a chain. It was said that he used it with unfailing accuracy, and was ruthless with it.

So, no. Altaï r had no desire to engage him in combat. This was to be a stealth kill. Quick, clean and silent.

Noiselessly, Altaï r made his way along the beams, then dropped silently into the centre of the room behind Moloch. He was slightly further away than he would have liked and he held his breath, tensing. If Moloch had heard him …

But no. The brute was still engrossed with the brazier. Altaï r took a few steps forward. Silently he engaged the blade and raised it. Orange light danced on the steel. The Bull now just a heartbeat away from death. Altaï r dipped slightly, his leg muscles bunching, then launched himself, blade about to strike.

He was in mid-air when Moloch spun, far more quickly than his size should have allowed. At the same time he grinned and Altaï r realized that he had known he was there all along; that he had merely let Altaï r come close. Then the Assassin was in the embrace of those huge arms, raising him off the ground, feeling a hand go to his throat and squeeze.

For a moment or so he was held that way, Moloch lifting him one-handed into the air as though he were a trophy to be displayed on the castle steps, and he choked as he struggled. His feet kicked at thin air and his hands scrabbled at Moloch’s gauntlet, desperately trying to loosen the monster’s grip. His vision began to cloud, blackness closing in. He felt himself losing consciousness. Then Moloch was tossing him backwards and he was sprawling on the chapel floor, his head rebounding painfully off a flagstone, wondering why he had been allowed to live.

Because the Bull wanted more sport. He had produced his meteor hammer and, with a single looping swing above his head, launched it at Altaï r, who only just managed to roll clear as it came smashing down, opening a crater in the flagstone and showering him with stone shards.

Altaï r scrambled to his feet, dazed, shaking his head to clear it. He drew his sword. Blade in one hand, sword in the other. He was darting to the side as the Bull retrieved his hammer and launched it again.

It crashed into a pillar beside Altaï r and once again he was hit by a hail of stone fragments. With Moloch’s hammer unspooled, Altaï r had a chance and darted in, jabbing with sword and blade. But, faster than seemed possible, Moloch had retrieved the chain and held it two-handed, blocking Altaï r’s sword, then swinging the hammer again and sending the Assassin diving for safety once more.

Altaï r thought of Al Mualim – the Al Mualim who had trained him, not the traitor he had become. He thought of Labib and of his other swordskills tutors. He took a deep breath and backed off, stepping to the side, circling Moloch.

The Bull followed him, knowing he had the Assassin worried. When he smiled he revealed a mouthful of jagged, blackened teeth, most worn down to diseased stumps. From the back of his throat he made a growling sound as Altaï r came closer, needing to coax Moloch into throwing the hammer. The Assassin had an idea. It was a good idea but it had a flaw. It would be fatal if he got it wrong. He needed the Bull to release the hammer – but every time that happened it came dangerously close to caving in Altaï r’s skull.

It came. Looping through the air. Smashing into the stone. Altaï r only just leaped clear but he landed on his feet and, instead of taking cover, dashed towards the hammer. He stepped on the weight and ran up the taut chain towards Moloch.

Moloch stopped grinning. He had a second to comprehend the sight of the agile Assassin running up the tightrope of his chain before Altaï r’s sword sliced through the front of his throat and exited at the neck. He made a sound that was halfway between a shout and a choke, the sword protruding through his neck as Altaï r let go of the hilt and twisted to straddle the Bull’s shoulders, driving his blade deep into the man’s spine. Still the Bull fought and Altaï r found himself hanging on for grim life. He grabbed the chain and dragged it up to loop around his victim’s neck with his free hand, grunting with the effort of pulling it hard. Moloch twisted and pushed backwards and Altaï r saw that he was being manoeuvred towards the fire.

He felt the heat at his back and redoubled his efforts. The beast would not die. He smelt something burning – the hem of his robe! Yelling with pain and effort, he pulled hard on the chain with one hand, digging the blade deeper with the other until at last something gave, some last life force snapped within Moloch and Altaï r was riding his bucking shoulders as the brute folded to the floor where he lay, breathing heavily, syrupy blood spreading across the stone, slowly dying.

At last his breathing stopped.

Altaï r heaved a huge sigh of relief. Moloch would not be able to turn the people against the Resistance. His reign of tyranny was over. However, he couldn’t help but wonder what might replace it.

He was to get his answer very shortly.

Maria was gone. Taken by Crusaders. While Altaï r had been battling at Kantara Castle, soldiers had attacked the safe-house and, despite a battle, had made off with some prisoners, Maria among them.

Markos, one of the few who had escaped capture, was there to greet the Assassin, worry etched into his face, fretting as he babbled, ‘Altaï r, we were attacked. We tried to fight them off but – but it was no use. ’ He dropped his eyes, shame-faced.

Or was he feigning it?

Altaï r looked at the door to the drying room. It was open. Beyond, the door to the barred cell hung open too and he pictured her there, watching him with her almond eyes, her back against the wall and boots scuffing in the rushes strewn on the stone.

He shook his head to rid himself of the image. There was more at stake than his feelings for the English woman: he had no business thinking of her before the concerns of the Order. But … he had.

‘I wanted to stop them, ’ Markos was saying, ‘but I had to hide. There were too many. ’

Altaï r looked at him sharply. Now that he knew of Barnabas’s duplicity he was reluctant to trust anybody. ‘This was not your fault, ’ he said. ‘The Templars are crafty. ’

‘I’ve heard they harness the power of a Dark Oracle in Buffavento. That must be how they found us. ’

Was that so? Altaï r thought about it. Certainly the Templars seemed to know their every move. But maybe that was less to do with an oracle and more to do with the fact that the Resistance was infested with Templar spies.

‘That is a curious theory, ’ he said, wary that Markos might be trying deliberately to mislead him. ‘But I suspect it was Barnabas who tipped them off. ’

Markos started. ‘Barnabas? How can that be? The Resistance leader Barnabas was executed the day before you arrived. ’

Of course. Altaï r cursed himself. There had been a Barnabas who was loyal to the Resistance but the Templars had replaced him with their own man – a false Barnabas. Altaï r thought of Jonas, executed by him on the orders of the spy, and he hoped one day to be able to make recompense for that. Jonas hadn’t deserved to die.

Altaï r left for the harbour district, found where the Resistance prisoners were being held and slipped past the guards to discover them huddled in a cramped, filthy cell.

‘Thank you, sir, may God bless you, ’ said one, as Altaï r opened the door and allowed him out. He wore the same look of gratitude as the others. Altaï r hated to think what the Templars had planned for them.

He searched the gaol in vain for Maria …

‘Was there a woman with you when you were taken? ’

‘A woman? Yes, until the Bull’s son Shalim took her away in chains. She didn’t go quietly. ’

No, thought Altaï r. Going quietly wasn’t Maria’s style. But who was this son, Shalim? Would he take over the Bull’s reign of tyranny?

So it was that Altaï r found himself scaling the walls of the fortress at Buffavento, making his way into the castle, then downwards into its dark, damp and dripping depths where the stone glistened blackly, where the lights from flickering torches barely penetrated the forbidding darkness, where every footstep echoed and there was the constant drip of water. Was this where the Templars kept their famous oracle? He hoped so. All he knew so far was that they were keeping one step ahead of him. Whatever they had in mind, he knew he wouldn’t like it: he didn’t like the idea of the archive he kept hearing about, or that they kept coming so close to crushing the Resistance. Anything he could do to halt their progress needed to be done. And if that meant a spot of witch-hunting, then so be it.

Now, edging along the corridors in the bowels of the castle, he found himself coming closer to what he assumed was the dungeon. Behind him lay the bodies of two guards he had encountered on his way, both with their throats slit, the corpses hidden from view. Just as with Moloch’s castle, he had been able to work his way to its heart using a mixture of stealth and killing. Now he heard voices, one of which he recognized immediately. It was Bouchart’s.

He was talking to a man on the other side of a steel gate pockmarked with rust.

‘So the girl escaped again, did she? ’ snapped the Templar.

The other man wore sumptuous fur-lined robes. ‘One minute she was chained up, the next she was gone …’

‘Don’t insult me, Shalim. Your weakness for women is well known. You let your guard down and she walked away. ’

‘I will find her, Grand Master. I swear it. ’

So this was Shalim. Altaï r paid him special attention, faintly amused. Nothing about him – not his looks, his build and certainly not his attire – was reminiscent of his father, Moloch.

‘Do it quickly, ’ Bouchart was snapping, ‘before she leads the Assassin directly to the archive. ’

Shalim turned to go, but Bouchart stopped him. ‘And, Shalim, see that this is delivered to Alexander in Limassol. ’

He handed Shalim a sack that the other man took, indicating his assent. Altaï r felt his jaw clench. So Alexander was working with the Templars too. The enemy seemed to have a hand in everything.

Now, though, the two men had moved off, and Altaï r resumed his progress towards the Oracle’s cell. Unable to pass through the gates, he clambered on to a balcony and worked his way round the outside of the fortress, then downwards again until he came to the dungeons. More guards fell beneath his blade. Soon the bodies would be discovered and there would be a general alert. He needed to move quickly.

Still, it seemed as though the guards had enough to contend with. He could hear screaming and ranting as he approached what he thought were the dungeons. As he came to the end of a tunnel, which opened into what looked like a gaol area, he realised where Bouchart had been going, because here he was again, talking to a guard. They stood on the other side of a barred partition outside a row of cell doors.

Well, thought Altaï r, at least he’d found his dungeon. He crouched out of sight in an alcove in the tunnel. To a background of shrieks, he heard Bouchart ask, ‘What’s happening? ’

‘It’s that mad woman, sir, ’ replied the guard, raising his voice to be heard over the din. ‘She’s on a rampage. Two of the guards are injured. ’

‘Let her play, ’ smiled Bouchart. ‘She has served her purpose. ’

Yet again Altaï r found the way between himself and Bouchart blocked. He would dearly have liked to finish this now, even with the guard present: he thought he could overwhelm the man first, then take Bouchart. But it was not to be. Instead he was forced to watch, frustrated, as Bouchart and the guard moved off, leaving the area deserted. He came from out of his hiding place and went to the partition, finding a locked gate. Dextrous fingers worked at the mechanism. Then he passed through, and strode towards the door of the Oracle’s cell. If anything, her screaming was louder and more unsettling now, and Altaï r swallowed. He was frightened of no man. But this was no man. This was something different altogether. He found himself having to steady his nerves as he worked on the second lock. As the door swung open, with the high-pitched complaint of rusting hinges, his heart was hammering.

Her cell was vast, the size of a banqueting hall – a large banqueting hall over which hung the pall of death and decay, with rippling mist and what looked like patches of foliage among the pillars, as though the outside was intruding, one day to claim it in full.

As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he looked for her but saw nothing, just heard her infernal screeching. It made the hairs on his arms stand on end and he suppressed a shiver as he trod further into her … cell?

This was more like her lair.

Suddenly there was silence. His senses pricked. He swapped his sword from hand to hand, eyes scanning the dark, dimly lit room.

‘Pagan blood, ’ came a voice – a jagged singsong voice straight from a nightmare. He wheeled in the direction of the sound, but then it came again and seemed to have moved. ‘I know your name, sinner, ’ she cackled, ‘I know why you’re here. God guide my claws. God grant me strength to snap your bones. ’

Altaï r just had time to think, Claws? Did she really have – She appeared, whirling like a dervish from the darkness, black hair whipping about her, screaming as she came. What she had weren’t quite claws: they were long, sharp nails – and just as deadly. He heard their whistle as they sliced in front of his face. He jumped back. Then she was crouching like a cat, looking at him and snarling. He was surprised: he had expected an aged crone, but this woman … she had noble looks. Of course. It was the woman Barnabas had told him about, who had once lived in the castle. She was young and had been attractive once. But whatever the Templars had done to her, imprisonment had seemingly sent her mad. He knew that when she grinned, suddenly not so noble as she revealed rows of rotting teeth and a tongue that threatened to loll from her mouth. Giggling she struck once more.

They fought, the Oracle attacking blindly, swinging her nails, slashing Altaï r several times and drawing blood. He kept his distance, coming forward to launch counter-attacks until eventually he managed to overwhelm her and pinned her to a pillar. Desperately he tried to hold her – he wanted to reason with her – but she writhed like a wild animal, even when he pushed her to the ground and straddled her, holding his blade to her throat as she thrashed, muttering, ‘Glory of God. I am his instrument. God’s executioner. I fear neither pain nor death. ’

‘You were a Cypriot once, ’ Altaï r told her, struggling to hold her. ‘A respected noblewoman. What secrets did you tell those devils? ’

Did she know that by helping the Templars she’d betrayed her own people? Did she still have enough reason to understand that?

‘Not without purpose do I deal in misery, ’ she rasped, suddenly becoming still. ‘By God’s command I am his instrument. ’

No, he thought. She didn’t. Her mind was gone.

‘Whatever the Templars have done to you, my lady, they have done you wrong, ’ he said. ‘Forgive me this. ’

It was an act of mercy. He killed her, then fled that terrible place.

Later, back at the safe-house, he opened his journal and wrote,

Why do our instincts insist on violence? I have studied the interactions between different species. The innate desire to survive seems to demand the death of the other. Why can they not stand hand in hand? So many believe the world was created through the works of a divine power – but I see only the designs of a madman, bent on celebrating death, destruction, and desperation.

He mused also upon the Apple:

Who were the Ones That Came Before? What brought them here? What drove them out? What of these artefacts? Messages in a bottle? Tools left behind to aid and guide us? Or do we fight for control over their refuse, giving divine purpose and meaning to little more than discarded toys?

Altaï r decided to follow Shalim. Now they were both hunting Maria, and Altaï r wanted to make sure he was around if Shalim found her first.

Not that Shalim was looking especially hard at the moment. Markos had told Altaï r that all Shalim had in common with his father was the fact that he served the Templars and had a fierce temper. In place of religious fervour he had a taste for wine and enjoyed the company of prostitutes. Following him, Altaï r saw him indulge in both. He kept a safe distance as Shalim and two of his bodyguards stalked the streets of Kyrenia like a trio of little despots, angrily upbraiding citizens and merchants, abusing them, taking goods and money in preparation for a visit somewhere.

To a brothel, it seemed. Altaï r watched as Shalim and his men approached a door where a drunk was pawing one of the local whores. Either the man was too stupid or too inebriated to recognize that Shalim’s mood was dark, because he lifted his leather flask in greeting to the tyrant, calling, ‘Raise a mug, Shalim. ’

Shalim did not break stride. He rammed the flat of his hand into the drunk’s face so that his head rebounded off the wall behind him with a hollow clunk. The leather flask dropped and the man slid down the wall to a sitting position, his head lolling, hair matting with blood. In the same movement Shalim grabbed the prostitute by the arm.

She resisted. ‘Shalim, no. Please don’t. ’

But he was already dragging her off, looking back over his shoulder and calling to his two companions, ‘Have your fun, men. And round up some women for me when you’re finished. ’

Altaï r had seen enough. Shalim wasn’t looking for Maria, that much was certain, and he himself wasn’t likely to find her by following Shalim to wherever he was going with his whore: bed or a tavern, no doubt.

Instead he returned to the market district, where Markos was aimlessly wandering between the stalls, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for news from Altaï r.

‘I need to get close to Shalim, ’ he told Markos, when they’d repaired to the shade, looking for all the world like two traders passing the time of day out of the hot sun. ‘If he is as stupid as he is brash, I may be able to get some secrets out of him. ’

‘Speak to one of the monks near the cathedral. ’ Markos chuckled. ‘Shalim’s wayward lifestyle demands frequent confessions. ’

So it was that at the cathedral Altaï r found a bench beneath a flapping canopy and sat watching the world go by, waiting until a lone white-robed monk passed him, inclining his head in greeting. Altaï r returned the gesture, then said in a low voice, so that only the monk could hear, ‘Does it not trouble you, brother, to suffer the sins of such a vile man as Shalim? ’

The monk stopped. Looked one way then the other. Then at Altaï r. ‘It does, ’ he whispered, ‘but to oppose him would mean death. The Templars have too much at stake here. ’

‘You mean the archive? ’ said Altaï r. ‘Can you tell me where it is? ’

Altaï r had heard about this archive. Perhaps it held the key to the Templars’ activities. But the monk was shaking his head and moving away as, suddenly, a small commotion erupted. It was Shalim, Altaï r saw, with a start. He was mounting an orator’s platform. He no longer had the prostitute with him and he seemed a good deal less drunk than he had been previously.

‘Men and women of Cyprus, ’ he announced, as his audience assembled, ‘Armand Bouchart sends his blessing, but with a stern provision that all who foment disorder with their support of the Resistance will be caught and punished. Those who seek order and harmony, and pay obeisance to the Lord through good work, will enjoy Bouchart’s charity. Now, let us work together as brothers to rebuild what hate and anger have torn down. ’

This was most odd, thought Altaï r. Shalim looked rested and fresh-faced, not how Altaï r would have expected him to appear in view of his recent activities. That Shalim had had all the makings of a man who planned to spend the rest of his day drinking and whoring. This one? He was like a different man – not just in looks but in his manner, his bearing and, judging by the content of his speech, his entire philosophy. And this Shalim had no bodyguards with him either. This Shalim Altaï r could easily overcome, perhaps in one of the alleyways off a main avenue of Kyrenia.

When Shalim stepped down from his platform and moved off, leaving the cathedral behind him and taking to the golden streets, Altaï r followed in pursuit.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been walking when suddenly the giant St Hilarion Castle was looming over them and he saw that Shalim was heading inside. Sure enough, when he reached the huge castle gates he stepped inside a wicket door, disappearing from sight. Altaï r cursed. He had lost his target. Still, the castle was a hive of activity, and even now the doors were opening, both gates swinging back to allow a palanquin carried by four men to come out. It was clearly empty – they were able to jog along quickly – and Altaï r followed them to the sun-dappled harbour where they set down their burden and stood waiting, their arms folded.

Altaï r waited too. He took a seat on a low harbour wall and sat with his elbows on his knees, watching the palanquin and the waiting servants, the merchants and fishermen, the beautiful ships rocking gently in the wash, hulls knocking against the harbour wall. A group of fishermen wrestling with a huge net stopped suddenly, looked over to one of the ships and grinned. Altaï r followed their gaze to see a number of women appear in the sheer silk and chiffon of courtesans and make their way on to the harbour with self-conscious, dainty steps. The fishermen leered and some washerwomen tutted as the women crossed the dock with their heads held high, knowing exactly the attention they commanded. Altaï r watched them.

Among them was Maria.

She was dressed as a courtesan. His heart lifted to see her. But what was she doing? She had escaped Shalim’s clutches only to step back into danger, or so it seemed. She and the other women climbed aboard the palanquin. The servants waited until they were aboard, then picked it up and turned with it, carrying it much more slowly than before, each man bent beneath its weight, heading out of the harbour and, if Altaï r was right, towards St Hilarion Castle. Where, no doubt, Shalim was already rubbing his hands with glee.

Altaï r turned to follow, scaling the wall of a nearby building, then making his way across the roofs, jumping from one to another, tracking the palanquin, which was below him. As it approached the castle gates he waited, crouching. Then, timing his jump, he dropped on to its roof.

Thump.

The palanquin lurched as the men below adjusted to the new weight. Altaï r had gambled on them being too tyrannized even to look up – and he had been right. They merely shouldered the extra weight and walked on. And if the courtesans inside had noticed, they said nothing either, and the procession crossed safely over the castle threshold and came into a courtyard. Altaï r looked around him, seeing archers on the ramparts. Any moment now he’d be spotted. He dropped off and hid behind a low wall, watching as Maria was taken from the transport and escorted away, leaving the courtyard by a small door.

He scrambled up to the roof of an outhouse. He would have to make his way inside the long way round. But one thing he knew. Now he’d found her he wasn’t going to lose her again.

On a wide, baking-hot balcony, Maria was ushered in to meet the owner of St Hilarion Castle. One of them, at least. Unknown to Altaï r, Shalim had a twin brother, Shahar. It was Shahar whom Altaï r had seen delivering the speech on charity, which would have answered the Assassin’s question as to how a man who had spent the evening drinking and whoring could look so invigorated the next day.

Maria, on the other hand, was acquainted with both twins and, though they were identical, knew how to differentiate them. Of the two Shalim was dark-eyed and bore the looks of a man with his lifestyle; Shahar seemed the more youthful of the two. It was him she approached now. He turned to face her and lit up, smiling, as she crossed the balcony towards him, resplendent in her courtesan’s outfit, fetching enough to catch any man’s eye.

‘I didn’t expect to see you again. ’ He leered. ‘How can I help you, little fox? ’

He walked past her and back into the hall.

‘I’m not here to be flattered, ’ snapped Maria, despite appearances to the contrary. ‘I want answers. ’

She stayed at his heels, and when they reached the hall, he eyed her, bemused yet lecherous. She ignored his look. She needed to hear for herself what Altaï r had told her.

‘Oh? ’ said Shahar.

‘Is it true what I have heard, ’ she pressed, ‘that the Templars wish to use the Apple, the Piece of Eden, for ill? Not to enlighten the people, but to subdue them? ’

He smiled indulgently as though explaining things to an adorable but simple-minded child. ‘People are confused, Maria. They are lambs begging to be led. And that’s what we offer: simple lives, free of worry. ’