Chapter Text
Acre's walls still stood. They were scarred and scorched from siege and battle, but they rose still over the strand of shore and the barren sweep of land beyond. A hole gaped in the stone curtain on the landward side of the gatehouse, full now with rubble and broken timber. One of the great gates hung broken and twisted, its wooden beams a splintered wreck. To one side, like the bones of some vast dead beast, lay the remains of the ram that had done the splintering, burnt and toppled. Beneath the battered walls boiled an army of tents and soldiery, bright banners snapping in the wind blowing in off the sea, horses and men sweating and stinking beneath the blaze of the sun, and in the broad harbour low ships rode at anchor, flying colours that matched the banners ashore; red and gold, gold and blue … and everywhere, white slashed with red, the Crusader's cross.
"It stinks in there." Nasir slid down into the shade of a broad stone scarp some short distance from the city's walls and the camp that squatted around them. "Franks. Death. Filth. It is no fitting place for a dog." A baring of teeth went with that, and the man spat, deliberately vulgar. "They live like swine. And if they've dug a new privy trench in the last month, I'm a dancing girl."
Dragging his burnous from his shoulders, Nasir cast the garment onto the bundle near his companion's feet and ran a hand through his hair, tossing the sweat-damp black curls into disarray. His companion, who could not have cared less for the state of the Frankish privies, lay down the knife hilt he had been rebinding and regarded him with dark, demanding eyes.
"Were you seen?"
"Of course I was seen, Sarak." Nasir's eyes flashed, daring the rebuke. "I am not a lizard to slither beneath a rock; I'm careful, not invisible. But I wasn't noticed, if that's your concern."
"We are not meant to be here," Sarak pointed out, in a tone that denied debate. "If word gets back to …"
"Word won't. And who would recognise me, in any case? Or you."
Sarak smiled at that. It was not a pleasant expression. "Me? Who can say. And as for you … Ah, Malik Kemal, you're enough your father's son for people to see it in your face."
"People, as you've taught me O Da'i, don't look." The younger man lifted a half full waterskin from the saddle pack that lay nearby and took a healthy swallow, shooting his companion a hard glance. "And don't call me Malik. I've earned my name."
"I know," Sarak said simply. His one-time apprentice was clearly in an argumentative mood; Sarak did not care to indulge him. "I'd not have given it to you, else."
Standing, Sarak turned his back on Nasir and peered out over the scarp at the torn walls and the scurrying Franks. It looked like chaos, but then, most military camps looked like that. As he watched, a rider on a fast horse ploughed through the camp, drawing to a halt outside a large, low tent in a spray of dust. Men eddied like water around a rock; someone in a plain tabard was shouting, the sound beyond faint on the light air. Oh yes, they were up to something. Sarak spoke over his shoulder.
"What did you find out?"
Nasir's brief silence was answer enough. Sarak nodded.
"It's true, then."
"It's true. Salah al-Din has ceded the city to the Franks, and the Franks are turning on each other like rabid dogs when it comes to holding it." Nasir's voice seemed calm, but Sarak knew him well enough to hear the anger and contempt in it. "Salah al-Din and the Frankish commanders agreed to terms, and the Franks have taken hostages to see those terms are held to. Nearly three thousand of them."
"Combatants?" Sarak frowned, glancing at the younger man. The number seemed high for that.
"No. Not all."
"Civilians." Sarak growled in disgust. "These Franks have no honour."
"Malik Rik," Nasir pointed out, "is known for many things. Honour is not always amongst them." The English king had come to these shores with his reputation sailing before him; the man that some called the Lionheart had shown himself a fine warrior, but inconsistent in his loyalties and brutal in his tempers, and that was before he had been given a crown and taken the Cross. Kingship and crusading had done nothing, so far as Nasir could see, to improve him.
"Malik Rik." The name sounded like a curse on Sarak's lips. In the camp, the man with the plain tabard had hauled back his mailed coif and seemed to be arguing furiously with someone. His hair was dark bronze in the sun. "Richard of England. He leads here?"
"So far as anyone can tell." Nasir came to stand at his friend's shoulder, gazing out at the distant mass of men. "They snap at each other like jackals squabbling over carrion. One of their leaders has left their cause already, and the others waver. But the prisoners are Coeur de Lion's, yes."
"And you want to do something about it." That was not a question. Sarak knew this man, had trained him from the time he had first arrived at Masyaf, a well-born young thing barely out of childhood, and sure of himself with his titles and his manners and his noble blood. That had been many years ago. That boy was grown now, with his titles second to his calling. His manners came and went, and his blood had spilled as red as any commoner's, but he was noble still, and still sure of himself. Oh yes, Sarak knew him.
Oblivious to his companion's thoughts, Nasir made a quick, fierce gesture with one hand. "Yes. Something. There are women, Sarak. Children. No man should make his wars against those. It is written."
Ah, there he went again with that odd idealism. Sarak slanted him a glance, eyes shuttered. The Brotherhood made their wars on whatever targets they were given; if he himself had never been called on to show his faithfulness by killing children, it did not mean it could not be. Nasir was a fine fighter, and for stealth and surety of strike he could not be matched, but he was given to thinking too much, prone to too many questions. Sarak supposed that the boy had learned that from him. He had been known to question as well – to do more than question, if truth were told – but at least he had been discreet. Still, a better teacher would have been more careful with what examples he set. There were words – even thoughts – that could get a man killed. Sometimes, Sarak wondered how long either of them would survive.
"Sarak? O Da'i?" Perhaps Nasir had picked up on his thoughts after all. Sarak frowned and hissed.
"Don't call me that. Save it for the Old Man. Your apprenticeship is well over – as you pointed out."
"Perhaps," the younger man nodded thoughtfully, then gave a sudden grin that made him look a boy again. "But you will always be my teacher. You can't help yourself. It isn't in you."
Sarak shook his head. Ah, Malik. There's a lot in me that I never knew. "You think not?"
"You gave me my name, what, five years ago? And still you see to it that I don't trip on my own folly and break my neck."
"Someone has to." Sarak grunted, as if it didn't matter. Nasir wasn't fooled. He quirked one eyebrow, still with that boyish grin; Sarak saw and growled at him, ignoring the coil of pride and shame in his gut
(by my eyes, if he knew what I've done …)
and giving one hand a dismissive flick. "Don't flatter yourself, boy. You know I don't like to see my good work go to waste, that's all." He turned, moved back towards the shade. "And I won't have you getting us both killed out of carelessness. We will do nothing here."
That took the grin off Nasir's face. His eyes hardened; he lifted his jaw to its most regal, most stubborn angle. Noble blood indeed, Sarak thought, not for the first time. His father would have been proud.
"We have to," Nasir insisted. "Whatever ad-Din Sinan says, this is our fight too."
"Ad-Din Sinan will tell you what your fight is, boy, and you'll accept it. Nothing else matters."
"Nothing … of course this matters! The Franks bring war to our land, destruction to our people …"
"Not your people."
"… and we spend our efforts unseating those who could resist them, who could bring the people together to fight, and let these barbarians have their way with our cities, our women and children? How does that not matter?"
Merciful Allah, that was dangerous talk. Sarak did what he had to do to stop it, rounding on the younger man with a sudden snarl. His eyes and voice were like ice in the dry, sun-drenched heat.
"Do you question the Teachings, boy? Have you lost faith?"
Nasir stared. That was an accusation that might have meant blood, had it come from anyone else. His hands, that had turned to fists at his sides, trembled with the force of his denial.
"No!'
"Then turn your dagger where you are ordered to turn it, and leave the thinking to your betters!"
Sarak let his gaze lock to Nasir's until the younger man's eyes dropped, then sighed and took Nasir by the shoulder, drawing him back down into the shelter of their small camp beneath the rock wall. He tried to make his voice gentle. Bad enough that he himself should have strayed so far from the loyalties he should have held; he had not trained this man to see him stray too. No matter what the provocation.
"I dislike this as much as you do, Malik. But this is not our place, my brother. We shouldn't be here at all; we can't act on this."
"But we are here."
"Boy, you nag at me like a woman. I tell you no, do you not hear me?" Sarak made a gesture of finality. "The Old Man won't like it."
"The Old Man won't have to know." Nasir's mouth tightened. "And in any case, the Old Man needs to figure out which side he's on. He's had us roosting with the crows and flying with the eagles for too long."
Sarak's hand, calloused from years of sword and rein, swung like a striking snake, hard and fast. There was a sharp dry sound like a branch breaking and Nasir's head rocked back; for a moment, sparks of light burst behind his eyes. He blinked, stunned. Sarak leaned close, fisting a hand in the younger man's robes and pulling him in. White teeth flashed in Nasir's face.
"Do not say such things to me, lest I forget the blood that runs in you and curse you for a fool! Ad-Din Sinan hears a whisper, and your death will come on wings."
"And who will tell him? You?" Nasir's lip curled in almost a sneer in spite of the throbbing in his jaw. He'd had beatings from Sarak before – not for years now, but he knew the strength of this man's hands – and he knew when he was holding back. He even knew why. He was not blind, after all. Sarak had taught him to observe, and to observe well. The man might be surprised what his one-time apprentice had seen. Nasir had always been a good student. "You think the same, you know you do. You've said so yourself."
"Maybe." Sarak's expression as he released him was odd, disgust and regret and pride all mixed together. Nasir wondered briefly what to make of it. "And no, I'll not tell the Old Man. I'd not give you to him – I'd kill you more cleanly than that. But I will see to it that you learn silence, if I have to cut out your tongue to do it. I'll do that if I must, and count it my failure as your teacher that you'd learn no other way. I warn you, Malik Kemal. Don't push me."
For a moment, Nasir neither moved nor spoke. It wasn't the threat that stilled him: Sarak threatened him with death or worse usually on the order of once a week, and yet he lived and breathed. That was only Sarak's way. No, it was what else the man had said, and the respect – the desperation – behind the warning. That was new. That was something Sarak meant – a gift, from one warrior to another. Very lightly, Nasir reached out and touched two fingertips to the other man's wrist.
"You'd give me a cleaner death? Your word?"
"Cleaner than he would. You've seen what he can do." There was a look in Sarak's eyes that might have been pain. "You … Malik, you talk. It'll cost you your life."
Nasir considered that. Then, at last, he lowered his gaze to the sand.
"My apologies, brother. I spoke out of turn." He took a deep breath. "I thank you for your rebuke."
Well, the boy had discipline enough, when he chose to remember it. Sarak nodded, and clasped his hand wrist to wrist in wordless acceptance. He hoped that Nasir would take his caution to heart. Sometimes he wished that his own teacher was alive to have rebuked him when his thoughts got the better of him, before he could have made the choices
(Your information is accurate?
From the Old Man's own scribe.
Good. You'll find the coin is what we agreed.
I'd expect no less)
he had made. Then perhaps he would not have found himself in the position he was in now.
Pushing that from his mind, Sarak reclaimed the worn knife hilt and set about finishing the binding: it would not do for a man's hand to slip when he made his strike, after all. Nasir watched him for a short while, then settled himself cross-legged and turned his face to the cooling breeze, calm and quiet. They sat together in easy silence as the sun made its way down the western slope of the sky. Soon the evening prayer would come, and then they would move on in the darkness that followed. With any luck, the Franks would never know they had been here at all.
It was peaceful, now that Nasir had stowed his perilous talk. The younger man was right, of course – and that was what made his words so dangerous. It was true that Rashid ad-Din Sinan, called the Old Man of the Mountains, had been indiscriminate in naming their enemies of late; it was true too that as many of those that the faithful had slain were good sons of Islam as were infidel aggressors. Sarak preferred not to think about that, just as he preferred not to think about the words that had been said and the money that had changed hands, or about the power that rippled and eddied in the spaces ad-Din Sinan had emptied. It was becoming, though, increasingly difficult to ignore.
There had been a time when Sarak had believed in his Brotherhood and their cause, a time when he had not questioned anything at all. He had been a happier man back then, with no hope or expectation but to lay down his life for his beliefs. Now he had seen more, and knew better. Ad-Din Sinan acted as much for political gain as he ever did for the defence of the Faith, valued his own power above the welfare of his people. He treated, even, with the infidel who sacked the holy places and attacked pilgrims and raided the caravanserai along the trading roads. There was no honour in any of that.
Nasir was right. It was the Franks who were the enemy, more than any Seljuq or Imam or Caliph. And yet where did the daggers of the faithful go in search of blood? It was foolishness, worse than foolishness. Perhaps ad-Din Sinan had lost his straight path as well as his mind – and Sarak had no doubt that the man was mad: no one could be so arbitrary in their nature as the Old Man and still lay claim to sanity – and forgotten the battle that they were meant to fight. That thought had long gnawed at Sarak's mind. If he was being used – if they all were, all the faithful that ad-Din Sinan laid claim to – it should at least be for a cause he believed in.
Sarak's thoughts strayed to Acre, crouching behind him in its ruined walls. Three thousand prisoners, three thousand Muslim souls held hostage to Salah al-Din's word and the Franks' good faith. Sarak did not like the idea of that any more than Nasir did, but he was damned if he could see what could be done about it. The city's garrison might fight free if their bonds were loosed, but what of the others? Civilians, merchants and traders, potters and painters and poets – they would not fight. And if there were women, with children at their skirts … what could two men do about that?
Something. Anything. Ad-Din Sinan be damned.
"Nasir. Brother." Sarak spoke slowly, almost absently. "May I ask you, what did you intend?"
At first there was no response, but then Nasir stirred from his meditation and gave a brief frown.
"What?"
"When you spoke of … doing something … about the Franks and their prisoners, what was it that you had in mind?"
Silence. Then; "Not much. A message, perhaps. A warning. That we watch, that they are not beyond our reach."
"Not a killing?" Sarak hefted the small knife in his hand and regarded its blade carefully. "Sending Richard of England to his personal God, perhaps?"
Nasir gave his companion a slow glance, then shrugged. "I thought there might be … consequences."
"For the Lionheart?" Sarak gave a quiet snort of laughter and put his blade away. "There would be. The Old Man has not moved against him, and there are reasons for that. The retribution for it would be a hard thing, for one thing …"
"But worth it."
"Maybe." Sarak rolled his eyes at the younger man's bravado. "For another thing, the Lionheart may yet prove useful. You know ad-Din Sinan likes to play our enemies off against each other. I doubt he'd thank you for taking this into your own hands." That was true; the Old Man of the Mountains did not like his faithful veering from his control. "And then you have the hostages to consider. How long do you think they would live, if the camp woke to find an assassin's knife in Malik Rik's heart? A message, though … it might give him pause for thought."
"So, then." Nasir nodded calmly, as if a sudden fierce joy had not just clenched in his gut and lit up his spine. The prospect of battle did that to him. Sarak would let him go. He should have known that he would, once he'd had time to think. Sarak did not make decisions on impulse. "What do you think I should do?"
Sarak surprised himself by laughing out loud.
"What should you do?" he repeated. "What you should do, is leave it well enough alone. But that's not what you're going to do, is it. Whatever I tell you."
"You know I respect your words, my brother," Nasir said mildly, but his eyes sparkled. Sarak shook his head, rueful and resigned. He recognised that look.
"If any other man confounded me half so often as you do, I'd kill him thrice over. You're a fool, Malik."
"Yes, perhaps." Nasir brought his own knife out of nowhere and made it dance in his hand. The blade flared, bright and keen like its master's grin. "But I'm a young fool. I'll learn."
"If you live long enough."
"Allah willing, I'll live a while yet."
"Allah willing." Sarak plucked the knife out his companion's hand and made it spin over his knuckles before flicking it back. "You know, if you did manage to get yourself killed over this, I'm not sure what would be worse. Telling the Old Man you slipped his leash, or facing your father. The Old Man might have me tossed from the walls for letting you go. Your father though …"
"Tell him I joined the martyrs in Paradise, and am feasting in fine company with beautiful women."
"He's always blamed me that you joined the Brotherhood, you know. Cousin or not, he'd have my hide."
"Probably." Nasir inclined his head in that familiar, courtly way, spoiled only a little by his fierce white smile. He tossed the knife into the sand at his feet; it landed between his boots, upright and quivering. "He's like that. Good at holding grudges. It runs in the blood."
"Take care, Malik. Your word?"
"Always, my brother. If I do this right, no one dies." Nasir looked up, a wicked gleam in his eyes. All anticipation, no fear. "Not me, not the Lionheart."
"Good." Sarak threw the waterskin at him. "Now clean up. It's time for prayer. Then, when it's dark, since you must do this thing in spite of good sense, you will go."
"With your blessing, brother?"
"With my blessing." Sarak felt suddenly
(if he knew if he only knew)
hollow. He found he did not want to look at Nasir, fearing what the younger man might see in his face. Fear gave him strength; he looked anyway. "May peace go with you, and may you win glory in the name of Allah and follow in the path of the Prophet, blessings be upon him, for all of your days."
If that blessing was stronger than it needed to be, and if Sarak's voice had caught a little at the end of it as if surprised by its own intensity, Nasir did not notice except to bow his head in acknowledgement.
"My thanks." Setting about his ritual ablutions, the young man sluiced water carefully over his hands and face. "And Sarak?"
"Yes?"
"You've really got to stop calling me Malik."