10 August 1257 4 страница

But only if the young Malik was as good as his word. And standing there, feeling the excitement and expectation of the crowd like a weight he must bear upon his back, Mukhlis hovering nearby, he began to wonder. His eyes fixed on the citadel, he waited for the gates to open and the men to appear. Malik had said there would be at least twenty, all of whom supported Altaï r with the same fervency he did. Twenty warriors and, with the support of the people, Altaï r thought it was enough to overcome the thirty or forty Assassins still loyal to Abbas.

He wondered if Abbas was up there now, in the Master’s tower, squinting to make out what was happening below. He hoped so.

Throughout his life, Altaï r had refused to find gratification in the death of another, but Abbas? Despite the pity he felt for him, there were the deaths of Sef, Malik and Maria to take into account; there was also Abbas’s destruction of the Order. Altaï r had promised himself that he would take no pleasure – not even satisfaction – from Abbas’s death.

But he would take pleasure and satisfaction from the absence of Abbas when he had killed him. He could allow himself that.

But only if the gates opened and his allies appeared. Around him the crowds were becoming restless. He felt the confidence and assurance with which he’d awoken slowly ebbing away.

Then he became aware of a buzz of excitement among the villagers and his eyes went from the gates of the castle – still resolutely closed – to the square. A man in white seemed to materialize from the crowd. A man who walked up to Altaï r with his head bent, then removed his hood, grinning at him. It was young Malik. And behind came others. All, like him, appearing from within the crowd as though suddenly becoming visible. At his side, Mukhlis gasped. The square was suddenly full of men in white robes. And Altaï r began to laugh. Surprise, relief and joy in that laugh as each man came to him, inclining his head in respect, showing him blade or bow or throwing knife. Showing him loyalty.

Altaï r grasped young Malik by the shoulders and his eyes shone. ‘I take it back, ’ he said. ‘You and all your men – your stealth is unmatched. ’

Grinning, Malik bowed his head. ‘Master, we should leave at once. Abbas will soon become aware of our absence.

‘So be it, ’ said Altaï r, and he climbed to the low wall of the fountain, waving away Mukhlis, who had come to his aid. Now he addressed the crowd: ‘For too long the castle on the hill has been a dark and forbidding place, and today I hope to make it a beacon of light once again – with your help. ’ There was a low murmur of appreciation and Altaï r quietened them. ‘What we will not do, though, is welcome our new dawn through a veil of Assassin blood. Those who remain loyal to Abbas are our enemies today but tomorrow they will be our companions. Their friendship can only be won if our victory is merciful. Kill only if it is absolutely necessary. We come to bring peace to Masyaf, not death. ’

With that he stepped down from the wall and walked from the square, the Assassins and villagers forming up behind him. The Assassins pulled their cowls over their heads. They looked grim and purposeful. The people hung further back: excited, nervous, fearful. So much depended on the outcome.

Altaï r climbed the slopes that, as a child, he had raced up and down, he and Abbas together. As an Assassin, he had run up and down, training, or on errands for the Master, leaving for a mission or returning from one. Now he felt the age in his bones and in his muscles, struggling a little up the slopes, but kept going.

A small party of Abbas’s loyalists met them on the hills, a scouting party sent to test their mettle. At first those men with Altaï r seemed reluctant to engage them: these were comrades they had lived and trained with, after all. Friends were pitched against each other; no doubt, if the fighting continued, family members might find themselves face to face. For long moments the outnumbered scouting party and Altaï r’s supporters faced off. The scouting party had the advantage of being on higher ground but otherwise they were lambs sent to the slaughter.

Altaï r’s eyes went up to where he could just see the peak of the Master’s tower. Abbas would be able to see him now, surely. He would have seen the people coming up the hill towards him. Altaï r’s eyes went from the citadel to the scouts, sent to fight in the name of their corrupt master.

‘There is to be no killing, ’ repeated Altaï r, to his men, and Malik nodded.

One of the scouts grinned nastily. ‘Then you won’t get far, old man. ’ He darted forward with his sword swinging, coming for Altaï r, perhaps hoping to strike at the roots of the rebellion: kill Altaï r, stop the uprising.

In the flap of a hummingbird’s wings, the Assassin had spun away from the attack, drawn his sword and rolled around the forward impetus of his assailant’s body to grab him from behind.

The scout’s sword dropped as he felt Altaï r’s blade held to his throat, and he whimpered.

‘There will be no killing in the name of this old man, ’ murmured Altaï r, into the scout’s ear, and propelled him forward to Malik, who caught him and wrestled him to the ground. The other scouts came forward but with less enthusiasm, no heart for the fight. They all but allowed themselves to be captured; in moments they were either captive or unconscious.

Altaï r watched the short skirmish. He looked at his hand where the scout’s sword had nicked it, and surreptitiously wiped off the blood. You were slow, he thought. Next time leave the fighting to the younger men.

Even so, he hoped Abbas had been watching. Now men were gathering on the ramparts. He hoped also that they had seen the events on the hill, the scouting party treated mercifully.

They continued further up the slope, coming to the upland just as the gates to the fortress finally opened. More Assassins poured through them, yelling and ready for the fight.

Behind him he heard the villagers scream and scatter, although Mukhlis was urging them to stay. Altaï r turned to see him throw up his hands, but he couldn’t blame the people for their loss of resolve. They all knew of the fearsome savagery of the Assassin. No doubt they had never seen two opposing Assassin armies fight and neither did they want to. What they saw were marauding Assassins come howling from the gates with bared teeth and flashing swords, their boots drumming on the turf. They saw Altaï r’s supporters crouch and tense, readying themselves for action. And they took shelter, some running for cover behind the watchtower, others retreating down the hill. There was a great shout and a crash of steel as the two sides met. Altaï r had Malik as his bodyguard, and he kept an eye on the ramparts as the battle raged – the ramparts where the archers stood, perhaps ten of them. If they opened fire the battle was surely lost.

Now he saw Abbas.

And Abbas saw him.

For a moment the two commanders regarded one another, Abbas on the ramparts, Altaï r down below – strong and still as rock as the battle whirled around him – the best of childhood friends turned the bitterest of enemies. Then the moment was broken as Abbas yelled at the archers to fire. Altaï r saw uncertainty on their faces as they raised their bows.

‘No one must die, ’ called Altaï r, entreating his own men, knowing that the way to win over the archers was by example. Abbas was prepared to sacrifice Assassins; Altaï r was not, and he could only hope that the hearts of the archers were true. He prayed that his supporters would show restraint, that they would give the archers no reason to open fire. He saw one of his men fall, howling, his throat open, and straight away the loyalist Assassin responsible was attacking another.

‘Him, ’ he instructed Malik, pointing in the direction of the battle. ‘Take him, Malik, but be merciful I urge you. ’

Malik joined the battle and the loyalist was pushed back, Malik swiping at his legs. When his opponent fell, he straddled him and delivered not a killing blow but a strike from the hilt of his sword that knocked him senseless.

Altaï r looked up to the ramparts again. He saw two of the archers lower their bows, shaking their heads. He saw Abbas produce a dagger – his father’s dagger – and threaten the men with it, but again they shook their heads, lowering their bows and placing their hands to the hilts of their swords. Abbas wheeled, screaming at the archers along the rampart behind him, ordering them to cut down the defectors. But they, too, were lowering their bows and Altaï r’s heart leaped. Now he was urging his men forward, to the gates. Still the battle continued but the loyalists were slowly becoming aware of events on the ramparts. Even as they fought they exchanged uncertain glances, and one by one they stepped back from combat, dropping their swords, arms held out, surrendering. The way was clear for Altaï r’s party to advance on the castle.

He led his men to the gates and rapped on the door with his fist. Behind him assembled the Assassins – and the villagers were returning, too, so the upland was thronged with people. From the other side of the castle gate there was a strange stillness. A hush descended over Altaï r’s people, the air crackling with expectation, until suddenly bolts were thrown and the great castle gates swung wide, opened by guards who dropped their swords and bent their heads in deference to Altaï r.

He nodded in return, stepped over the threshold, under the arch, and walked across the courtyard to the Master’s tower. Behind him came his people; they spread out and flowed around the edges of the courtyard; archers descended the ladders from the ramparts to join them, and the faces of families and servants were pressed to the windows of the towers overlooking the grounds. All wanted to witness Altaï r’s return, to see his confrontation with Abbas.

He climbed the steps to the platform, then moved into the entrance hall. Ahead of him, Abbas stood on the steps, his face dark and drawn, desperation and defeat all over him, like a fever.

‘It is over, Abbas, ’ called Altaï r. ‘Order those who are still loyal to you to surrender. ’

Abbas scoffed, ‘Never. ’ At that moment the tower opened and the last of the loyalists came from the side rooms into the hall: a dozen or so Assassins and manservants. Some had skittering, frightened eyes. Others were fierce and determined. The battle was not over yet.

‘Tell your men to stand down, ’ commanded Altaï r. He half turned to indicate the courtyard, where the crowds were gathered. ‘You cannot possibly prevail. ’

‘I am defending the citadel, Altaï r, ’ said Abbas, ‘to the last man. Would you not do the same? ’

‘I would have defended the Order, Abbas, ’ snarled Altaï r. ‘Instead you have sacrificed everything we stand for. You sacrificed my wife and son on the altar of your own spite – your blank refusal to accept the truth. ’

‘You mean my father? The lies you told about him. ’

‘Isn’t that why we’re standing here? Isn’t that the wellspring of your hatred that has flowed through the years, poisoning us all? ’

Abbas was trembling. His knuckles were white on the balustrade of the balcony. ‘My father left the Order, ’ he said. ‘He would never have killed himself. ’

‘He killed himself, Abbas. He killed himself with the dagger that you have concealed within your robe. He killed himself because he had more honour than you will ever know, and because he wouldn’t be pitied. He wouldn’t be pitied as you will be, by all, as you rot in the citadel dungeon. ’

‘Never! ’ roared Abbas. He pointed a trembling finger at Altaï r. ‘You claim you can retake the Order without loss of Assassin life. Let’s see you try. Kill him. ’

And suddenly the men in the hall were surging forward, when …

The sound of the explosion echoed around the hall and silenced everyone – the crowds in the courtyard, the Assassins, the loyalists. All stared in shock at Altaï r, who stood with his arm held up as if pointing at Abbas – as though he had been engaging his blade in the direction of the steps. But instead of a blade at his wrist there was a curl of smoke.

From the steps came a short, strangled cry, and all watched as Abbas stared down at his chest, where a small patch of blood on his robe was gradually spreading. His eyes were wide with shock. His jaw worked as he tried to form words that wouldn’t come.

The loyalist Assassins had stopped. They stared open-mouthed at Altaï r who moved his arm, pointing at them so that now they could see the wrist mechanism he wore.

It was a single shot, and he had used it, but they didn’t know that. None had ever seen such a weapon before. Only a few even knew of its existence. And seeing it turned in their direction the loyalists cowered. They laid down their swords. They moved past Altaï r and to the door of the tower to join the crowd, their arms held out in surrender, just as Abbas was pitching forward, tumbling down the steps and landing with a messy thud in the hall below.

Altaï r crouched over him. Abbas lay breathing heavily, one of his arms at an odd angle as though it had snapped in the fall; the front of his robe was wet with blood. He had moments left.

‘You want me to ask forgiveness of you? ’ he asked Altaï r. He grinned, looking skeletal all of a sudden. ‘For taking your wife and son? ’

‘Abbas, please, don’t let your dying words be malicious. ’

Abbas made a short scoffing sound. ‘Still he tries to be virtuous. ’ He lifted his head a little. ‘The first blow was struck by you, Altaï r. I took your wife and son, but only after your lies had taken much more from me. ’

‘They were not lies, ’ said Altaï r, simply. ‘In all these years, did you never doubt? ’

Abbas flinched and squeezed his eyes shut with pain. After a pause he said, ‘Did you ever wonder if there is a next world, Altaï r? In moments I shall know for sure. And if there is, I shall see my father, and we will both be there to meet you when it is your time. And then – then there will be no doubt. ’

He coughed and gurgled and a bubble of blood formed at his mouth. Altaï r looked into his eyes and saw nothing of the orphan boy he had once known; saw nothing of the best friend he had once had. All he saw was a twisted creature who had cost him so much.

And as Abbas died Altaï r realized that he no longer hated or pitied him. He felt nothing – nothing but relief that Abbas was no longer in the world.

Two days later the brigand Fahad appeared with seven of his men on horseback and was met at the village gates by a party of Assassins, led by Altaï r.

They pulled up at the edge of the marketplace, confronted by a line of men wearing white robes. Some stood with their arms folded, others with their hands on their bows or the hilt of their swords.

‘So it is true. The great Altaï r Ibn-La’Ahad has resumed control of Masyaf, ’ said Fahad. He looked weary.

Altaï r bowed his head, yes.

Fahad nodded slowly, as if mulling this fact over. ‘I had an understanding with your predecessor, ’ he said at last. ‘I paid him a great deal in order that I might enter Masyaf. ’

‘Which you have done, ’ said Altaï r, pleasantly.

‘Ah, yes, but for a specific reason, I’m afraid, ’ replied Fahad, with a cloudy smile. He shifted on his saddle a little. ‘I am here to find my son’s killer. ’

‘Which you have done, ’ said Altaï r, just as pleasantly.

The cloudy smile slid slowly from Fahad’s face. ‘I see, ’ he said. He leaned forward. ‘Then which of you is it? ’ His eyes moved along the line of Assassins.

‘Have you no witness to identify your son’s killer? ’ said Altaï r. ‘Can he not point out the culprit among us? ’

‘I did, ’ sighed Fahad ruefully, ‘but my son’s mother had his eyes put out. ’

‘Ah, ’ said Altaï r. ‘Well, he was a weasel. You may console yourself that he did little to protect your son or, indeed, to avenge him once he was dead. As soon as he had two old men to face, instead of one, he turned tail and ran. ’

Fahad darkened.

‘You? ’

Altaï r nodded. ‘Your son died as he lived, Fahad. He enjoyed administering pain. ’

‘A trait he inherited from his mother. ’

‘Ah. ’

‘And she insists, incidentally, that his name be avenged. ’

‘Then there is nothing left to say, ’ said Altaï r. ‘Unless you intend to make your attempt at this very moment, I shall expect you presently with your army. ’

Fahad looked wary. ‘You intend to let me leave? No archers to stop me? Knowing that I will return with a force to crush you? ’

‘If I killed you I would have the wrath of your wife to contend with, ’ smiled Altaï r, ‘and, besides, I have a feeling that you will change your mind about attacking Masyaf by the time you have returned to your camp. ’

‘And why might that be? ’

Altaï r smiled. ‘Fahad, if we were to do battle then neither of us would give ground. Both of us would put more at stake than the grievance deserved. My community would be devastated, perhaps irreparably so – but so would yours. ’

Fahad seemed to consider. ‘It is for me to decide, surely, the price of the grievance. ’

‘Not long ago I lost my own son, ’ said Altaï r, ‘and because of that I came close to losing my people. I realized it was too high a price to pay, even for my son. If you take up arms against us you risk making such a forfeit. I’m sure that the values of your community differ greatly from mine, but that they are just as prized as they are reluctantly surrendered. ’

Fahad nodded. ‘You have a wiser head than your predecessor, Altaï r. Much of what you say makes sense, and I shall indeed consider it on the ride back. Also I shall endeavour to explain it to my wife. ’ He gathered up his reins and turned his horse to go. ‘Good luck, Assassin, ’ he said.

‘It’s you who will need luck by the sound of it. ’

The brigand gave another of his crooked, cloudy smiles, then left. Altaï r chuckled and looked up at the citadel on the promontory.

There was much work to do.