Assassin's Creed Novelization Part Twenty: Death of a Knight

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Part Twenty: Death of a Knight

At dawn the next morning, Altair took a precious sip from his waterskin and ate some bread. He would have to work very quickly to finish his investigation. He knew where Sibrand would be but he needed to figure out the best route in getting to the ship. The docks were all but crawling with patrols, and he would have to be most careful.

"Master, a moment."

Altair turned to see Stephen, still wan but looking but better than he had the day before. "Here is something for you. I don't know how I got it, but I am sure it will help you fight other 'demons' that populate Acre."

The assassin unrolled the parchment to see a map of the docks, and more importantly, guard locations and patrol routes. He looked up, trying to ascertain how the boy had managed to pilfer this in his poisoned state unless... the reason the patrol was after him. He grinned, nodding his thanks.

Stephen grinned as well. "Now I must go back to Masyaf to cleanse my soul," he said. "You've given me much to think on, and while my face is forgotten here I will be making good use of my time."

"Safety and peace, then, brother."

"Safety and peace, Master."

Altair left the Bureau, mindful to look for unwanted eyes before taking to the streets and blending into the crowds. There was a fortress to the northeast, past the stage and cross overlooking the port, by a city gate. It was likely the Teutonic base, and Altair wanted to see what he could learn from it. He walked slowly into the Venetian district, taking one of the main roads and letting the crowds take him to the gate.

The sun had just crested the city walls when he heard a distinctly familiar voice.

"Did they let you into the city or did you fight your way in?"

Altair had come to know that snide, judgmental tone. He turned and stepped into the shadow of a small alley, looking at the journeyman whose name he still could not recall. He had little time for veiled insults and flag runs and vague hints of minimal help. The assassin glared at the journeyman, waiting.

To his surprise, the journeyman lowered his eyes and his tone change. "Ah... Perhaps I should be more respectful as I, myself, now require your help."

"... What?" Altair demanded, uncertain his ears were working.

The journeyman glared, puffing himself up for another snide comment but quickly deflated, sighing. "I spent much time in the harbor brothel last night and insulted a Teutonic Knight's wife - or so I am told," he added, rubbing the side of his head. "Now there is a group of them after me."

"Were you drunk?" Altair asked. Another case of drugging, like Stephen? The informant seemed well, though, healthy.

"Do not treat me like a novice," the journeyman said, pride filling his eyes. "I am not so stupid."

"And yet you were in a brothel."

"I have a contact there," he hissed, defensive. "I would ask another if I could but these three are good. Now, could you give me a hand or a blade?" He crossed his arms, once more looking arrogant. "If you return before I leave the city, I will give you the benefit of my wisdom."

Altair took a deep breath through his nose don't do it, let the bastard cook in his own fire, stupid prick and grit his teeth. The third tenant of the Creed: Do not compromise the Brotherhood. "Come with me," he said.

The informant balked. "What?"

"I do not know what these three look like. You will identify them for me."

"I must prepare to leave the city."

"No," Altair said, "You must help a brother." He would be damned if he let this man just dump his problem upon the assassin and then escape without giving whatever threadbare hint he could. Altair had paid his debt, had groveled and taken the abuse as he was supposed to, but he would not kill for this man without knowing his back would be covered. It was the least the journeyman could do for him.

He watched as the journeyman flinched at his presence, before sighing and nodding. Altair would only admit to himself that he felt some pleasure in it. The thought gave him pause, but he pushed it aside for reflection later.

Together, the two exited the alley and entered the square in front of the gate, and Altair began his work. "What is your name?" he asked in a low voice, walking through the throngs of people looking for Teutonic guards.

"Even after all of this you still do not remember?"

"I apologize," Altair said, spying one guard. The journeyman gave confirmation and Altair danced his way around a beggar before sliding his blade into the guard. The two walked away as the dead man stumbled, groaning, as he fell. "I have tried several times but cannot remember your name."

"What happened here?"

"Damn, where are you?"

Guards had already found the body. The two quickly ducked into the front courtyard of the fortress Altair had initially been trying to get to. It was silent, but for one knight walking toward them. The assassin saw his companion stiffen and Altair ran at the man, full tilt, leaping up and plunging his blade into the man's neck, but not without a startled cry. Snarling, he beckoned the journeyman to follow, darting deeper into the narrow courtyard and then leaping over a wall. To their luck, a haystack lay beyond, and the two ducked into it, waiting.

"Motaz," the journeyman said.

Altair nodded; glad to at last have a name. Motaz shook his head, looking away.

They waited perhaps twenty minutes before leaving the haystack. Altair peaked over the stone wall to see the body had been removed. That meant their work had been discovered, they would have to be quick or the third guard would run. They worked their way back to the front of the fortress and the large square in front of it, trying to assess where to go. They worked through several streets, circling around slowly, before once more reentering the square in front of the fortress.

"There," Motaz said, "coming up the main steps."

Altair nodded and departed, circling around until he was behind the man, his hidden blade doing its job. When he returned, the journeyman was nowhere in sight, and it took over an hour to find the man. When he did, he discovered that the informant had a satchel with him and bound for the city gate. He had intended to leave without Altair's knowing?

Worse, he was utterly unapologetic.

"You are a lucky man," he drawled, "You are alive and I am still in Acre."

"In spite of your best efforts, no doubt," Altair said in cold tones.

Motaz shrugged. "Here is what I have to tell you: The only thing more dangerous than a drunken sailor is one who is also angry. I know it does not seem like much," he added, his tone once more condescending, "but with your wisdom, I'm sure it will help."

"Does the rafiq know of your departure?"

"No, if you would be so kind as to tell him?" he said, sneering.

Altair reminded himself not to punch the man. The assassin could remember all too well the consequences of the time he had left with no word to the rafiq, and even now he was still paying for it. That Motaz held the same level of arrogance, holding himself above those who knew the city best... and he did not even see it. Altair wondered how anyone had managed to put up with him when he had been like that. He once more reminded himself not to punch the man. "The least you could do, brother, is help Stephen as he makes for Masyaf as well."

Motaz frowned. "Stephen? What happened to him?"

"He was poisoned, and he was compromised. He is still recovering, he will need help in the journey back to Masyaf." It was late morning now; he did not have the time for this! "Believe me or not, but at least have the decency to let Jabal know he is down yet another man. Will you go?"

Motaz gave a long, calculating glare. "I will go," he said.

"Good, then I will not keep you," and Altair spun on his heel and made his way back to the cross overlooking the docks.

The map Stephen had received proved to be accurate - Altair's biggest worry, the patrol routes were exactly as listed, and the assassin sighed in relief that it was not a fake. It did, however, raise another worry, because as he watched he saw the northern end of the docks were virtually unmolested by the troops, and he did not know why. Was it a trap, set up by the paranoid Sibrand to lure out the assassin? The German did not seem to have that level of foresight, but then the last time Altair was able to easily access a target was Talal, and that had turned into a disaster. Frowning, he decided to head down to the docks and see for himself.

He ate some trail mix as he walked, and took another small sip of his precious water. The heat was pressing down on everyone in the early afternoon light, and the humidity made everything sticky and uncomfortable. The closer he got to the gates the more and more merchant stands appeared, buyers and sellers yelling at each other for attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've gone mad! For today only, I've decided to reduce prices on everything! By half!"

"Fresh fish, brought in just an hour ago!"

"The finest wares in all the land!"

"Come, come, see what I have to offer!"

"You are wise, which is why you've come to me. I've the best deals in all the land!"

"You tell him I said no! I won't have you damn soldiers poking about in my business."

Altair perked, turning to find the source of the bitter voice. He saw an old man, balding with a snow-white beard, gesturing violently to a Teutonic Knight, another standing at his shoulder. At his feet was a small cloth covered in plates, likely his wares. A merchant then.

"Listen here old man," the guard said in a menacing tone.

"No, you listen to me! This is my property, not his! I don't care if Christ himself put the man in charge."

"He isn't asking," the soldier said, the other at his shoulder till reticent. "It's an order."

The old man's response was to laugh. "Oh, that's rich. The man couldn't order his way out of a burlap sack! I've seen the mess he's made of the docks." He chuckled again. "I won't let him ruin mine!"

The guard took one menacing step forward, and the defiant old man held his ground. The guard didn't seem to quite know what to do, so he said, "Just read the letter. You'll see his terms are quite generous."

"I grow tired of this," the bald merchant said, stroking his bear. "Look, I'll consider what he has to offer, but I doubt it'll change my mind! Now go on! Get out of here!"

Altair decided he liked the old man; there were few indeed that could, let alone would, stand up to one of Richard's soldiers, and to have that kind of cheek was worthy of respect. In deference to that, he decided not to simply pick the man's pocket. Instead, he walked up to the merchant and studied his wares.

"What would you like friend?" the bald man asked.

"The letter you were just ordered to read," Altair answered, never looking up from his examination of plates. Their designs were cheaply painted, but the clay used was good quality.

"You've bad eyes, friend, if you think what's in front of you is a letter."

Altair dropped several coins into one of the plates. "The letter."

"As you wish, my Lord," the man said, after biting the coins and checking their weight. He fished the parchment out of the purse on his belt and held it to the assassin. "Now I can say I never got the chance to read it."

"Safety and peace, friend."

"Aye, wherever a body may find it," the man nodded, before turning and beckoning for another customer.

Altair took to the roofs, very weary of the ludicrous amount of archers adorning them, before darting his way to a sky garden and opening the letter. German was not his best language, and it took time to translate it.

Occupant of the Northern Docks,

This will serve as your final warning.

Under the order of the King, the Teutonic Knights have been given jurisdiction over Acre's Port and all immediate surroundings. "ALL IMMEDIATE SURROUNDINGS!" You have refused to relinquish the Northern Docks, denying access to my men, time and again. Such disobedience will not be tolerated.

Accept the coin that's been offered to you in compensation and be on your way. Refuse and you will leave us no choice but to seize your property and bring charges for conspiring against the King. Such a crime is punishable by death!

When next we come, there will be no letters - only irons.

All at once the lack of presence on the northern docks made utter sense, and Altair knew exactly how his assault would go. Excellent. He pulled out his map and made some quick outlines and sketches. It was late afternoon now, and he doubted the ship would be docked tomorrow. He would have to hurry to the Bureau and collect his feather. Satisfied, he exited the garden after a guard passed and darted across the shadows of the rooftops, making his way back to the Bureau.

"Greetings, brother," Jabal said easily. He was leaning over another tome. "How fairs your search?"

"I've learned all there is to know about my target," Altair replied.

"Share your knowledge with me, then."

The assassin nodded. "Sibrand is said to be consumed by fear, driven mad by the knowledge that his death approaches. He has sealed the docks district, and now hides within waiting for his ship to leave."

The rafiq frowned. "This will make things dangerous," he said. "Fear often heightens one's senses, his vigilance will make it difficult. I wonder how it is he learned of your mission."

Al Mualim had not shared what he knew with the rafiq? Any of them? Even Ibtisam seemed ignorant of the facts hidden behind these men. Why would the master hold back from those that did his work? Altair, he had a lesson to learn, there was logic in that, but what had Jabal or Ibtisam or especially Malik done to make him decide to withhold such information? He hesitated, choosing his words carefully out of deference to his master, but unable to leave the wizened old man guessing. "The men I've killed, they are all connected. Al Mualim warned me that word of my deeds had spread among them." He hoped that would be enough.

Jabal frowned; he, too, seemed concerned that he had not been told this as he reached under the desk to get the record book and pull out the feather.

"Be on your guard, Altair," Jabal said as he took the feather, his face worried.

"Of course, rafiq," the assassin said, "but I think it will be to my advantage. Fear will weaken him."

"That is also true, but be careful none the less."

"I will. I suspect his ship leaves tonight, and so I must go."

Jabal nodded, and Altair once more ascended to the roof. The sky was ablaze in the evening light, clouds streaking across the golden-orange sky as yellow tongues of fire. It was beautiful, if Altair was not so focused on reaching the docks.

Given the number of people that flowed in and out of the actual docks and the markets, it was simplicity to get down to the low stone structure that jutted out from the city's cliff-wall that held goods as they were unloaded from ships to the wooden docks. The sun was sinking closer and closer to the water out to the west, washing everything in gold. Altair eased through the crowds, hoping to get to the northern docks where there were fewer guards so that he might then swim to the only large ship in port where Sibrand was no doubt hiding.

To his irritation, however, the crowds were getting thicker as he got closer to the northern docks. Indeed, they seemed to be circled around something. This might be worrisome, so Altair eased through the crowds, wondering what spectacle was drawing the citizenry's eyes.

"Liar!" came a crazed cry that Altair recognized as Sibrand. He stiffened, pushing further forward but keeping hunched and low so that none would see him.

"That's Brother Phillipe!" was the familiar voice of Brother Jacob, the kindly priest who had sought to help him find Stephen.

Altair cursed. He hadn't sent word that he'd found the young apprentice and Brother Jacob had said that he would start searching if he did not hear.

He ducked through the crowds to his left and grabbed Jacob's arm, preventing him from going forward. "Hold," he said quietly. "There is nothing you can do. The madman has your Brother and going forward will only ensure our death. I have seen such paranoid deviants before, and they cannot be reasoned with."

Jacob looked over, his old face twisted in horror. "What? I don't understand!"

"You are mistaken, Master Sibrand," Phillipe was saying, head bowed in respect, even as his knees shook clearly despite his long robes. "I would never propose violence against any being, c-c-certainly not against you!"

"So you say," Sibrand replied, the two sticking to Latin, the only language they seemed to share in common. He walked swiftly, constantly circling the white-clad priest, gesturing expansively. "And yet no one here will vouch for you! What am I to make of this?"

Jacob tried to move forward, but Altair held firm.

"Don't move unless you wish to die as well!" he hissed.

"But I can vouch for him!"

"And that will convince him that you are a villain as well," Altair replied. "He has so convinced himself and not even an act of God can change his mind."

"I-I-I lead a simple life, my Lord, " Phillipe replied, bowing again and trying to turn and keep an eye on the dizzying circles Sibrand kept walking, "as do all men of the cloth. It is not for us to call attention to ourselves."

"Bad answer," Altair whispered.

"Perhaps," Sibrand said, stopping in his circling. For just a moment, he seemed sane and reasonable. Just a moment. He shoved Phillipe. "Or perhaps they do not know you because you are not a man of God but an assassin!"

"Phillipe!" Jacob strained against Altair as the crowd gasped and pulled back.

"Never!" the priest replied, still on his knees and looking bewildered and shocked.

"You wear the same robes!" Sibrand accused.

"Is he blind!" Jacob gasped. "I do as well! The same as the other Brothers here!"

Altair glanced around the crowd and indeed; he did see other whites from Jacob's chapel. He shook his head. This man was too kind and generous, and it would result in this innocent Phillipe dying.

"If they cover themselves as we do," Phillipe pleaded, "it is only to instill uncertainty and fear! You must not give in!"

"Worse answer," Altair whispered, shaking his head. "Madmen will never hear reason."

"No!" Jacob moaned.

Sibrand's pale face turned red. "Are you calling me a coward?" he screamed, spittle ejecting from his mouth. "Challenging my authority?" He shoved the kneeling priest again. "Or are you, perhaps, trying to turn my own knights against me?"

"No! No, no! No!" Phillipe pleaded again, raising his hands in defense. "I-I don't understand why-why you're doing this to me, I've done nothing wrong." Altair noted that despite the overpowering fear, Phillipe struggled to remain calm.

Sibrand was once more circling, and he gave an odd chuckle. "I don't recall accusing you of any wrong doing," he said calmly, once more appearing reasonable. "That makes your outburst rather odd." He lunged forward with another push. "Is it the presence of guilt that compels a confession?"

Jacob was trying to struggle forward again, seeing that Phillipe was not going to escape this, and Altair held firm once again. He pulled and shook the kind-hearted priest. "Be still," he hissed. "Be still or the madman will kill you and all in your chapel as part of his deluded paranoia."

"But...!"

"Would you have more die?"

"No, but...!"

Altair thought of the Bible, the words within that were similar, yet not, with the Quoran, and sought to provide some sort of sense for Brother Jacob, before the kind old man made other innocent men die.

"Observe how the Devil works in the world. How he twists men's words and then closes their minds. You seek to learn and accept all, and Sibrand wishes to control and deny. You work for God, he, the Devil. Even in moments of powerlessness, God provides a lesson for all."

"But I confess nothing!" Phillipe was pleading again from the circle Sibrand was walking.

"Ah!" Sibrand offered a cruel smile. "Defiant until the very end."

Phillipe paled. "What do you mean?"

Sibrand shrugged. "William and Garnier were too confident."

"Garnier?" Jacob hissed. "That madman!"

"And they paid for this with their lives," Sibrand was still speaking. "I won't make the same mistake!" He was leaning forward over the helpless priest, all intimidation and screams of paranoia. "If you truly are a man of God, then surely the Creator will provide for you!"

"God doesn't work like that!" Jacob hissed, tears leaking down his withered face.

"No, He does not," Altair agreed. "He gave us free will that we might learn the wisdom He teaches. Some, clearly, chose not to study."

"Let Him stay my hand!" Sibrand challenged.

Phillipe finally succumbed to fear. "You've gone mad!" He looked to the crowd, shouting for aide. "Will none of you come forward to stop this! He is clearly poisoned by his own fear! Compelled to see enemies where none exist!"

Sibrand pulled out his sword, the blade glinting gold in the setting sun, looking out to the crowd with cruelty and power.

Jacob struggled again, but all others ducked their heads, looking away.

"Most chose not to fight evil," Altair continued his whisperings in Jacob's ear. "They trust that others will so that they may not need to sacrifice. They chose to suffer through it to keep what they believe they have. They live their own lives without looking to the bigger world around them. So they bear not the courage to do what is just. You bear the courage to step forward, from God's grace, but you do not yet see a whole. You see one man whom you care for about to die."

"We can stop it," Jacob hissed back.

"And where will that lead? Sibrand would see you as an ally to one he calls enemy. Doubly so for one such as me. And if his knights learn of your chapel, what then?"

"But this is not right!"

"In this we agree," Altair nodded, pulling Jacob back further. "Sibrand will pay."

"I do not seek revenge," Jacob replied automatically. "But..."

"But you see that if Sibrand continues to live, others will suffer."

" 'Thou shalt not kill.' "

"And what are people doing in the Holy Land other than killing? And in God's name, no less."

"I..."

"Nothing is true," Altair replied. "For all we see and hear as truth is distorted by the lens of our own experience and belief. Everything is permitted if we use the wisdom we have learned to temper ourselves and study what is right and what is wrong."

"What I do," Sibrand shouted in German with his sword held high, "I do for Acre!"

The sword came down in a swift clean strike. At his feet, Phillipe gave a low moan and lay still. Sibrand ran his glove along the blade, wiping off the blood and then sheathed his sword. He turned to crowds once more. "Stay vigilant, men. Report any suspicious activity to the guard. I doubt we've seen the last of these assassins!" he gestured to the downed priest. "Persistent bastards! Now get back to work!"

Sibrand grabbed a helmet from another Teutonic knight and donned it, its face almost a complete sheet of iron with six slits for sight and breath, with two curved horns above reaching to the sky. As he stalked off, two Teutonic knights lifted Phillipe's body by his hands and feet and dumped him into the harbor. Around them, the crowds hurriedly scattered in the golden light. Altair dragged Jacob with him to the northern docks, the Brother crying and almost limp.

Altair pitied him. Likely he had never seen what this war had caused, had never seen such a violent death before, serving the masses calmly from the chapel. It was amazing that a man of his age was taking the shock well enough to still be able to move. Once he was under the stage that the herald had been shouting from, Altair settled into the shadow of a building, blocking Jacob from sight.

"I... I... Oh Phillipe," Jacob sobbed again, rubbing at his face and eyes. "You..." he looked up. "You are an assassin."

Altair said nothing.

"You killed that crazed doctor Garnier, you killed the traitor William. Now you seek Sibrand."

He remained silent.

Jacob gave a bitter laugh. "Am I to die now? Now that I know your secret?"

"My quarrel is not with you or any who, like you, merely wish for people to accept one another and live in peace."

The old priest didn't seem to hear him. "Does this mean Stephen as well?"

Altair nodded. "He was poisoned. That was why we could not find him. I have been helping him through the fever and he will leave the city once he is able."

"The poor boy."

"What will you do, Brother Jacob?"

Fresh tears welled in his eyes as the priest sat on the ground, rubbing at his face again. "I don't know. I can't go to the chapel now. Not after seeing Phillipe die. I just can't."

Staying here would do him no good and if Sibrand's men found him sobbing here, their paranoia might make bizarre connections.

With a quiet sigh, Altair knelt down. "Do you trust that we assassins mean you no harm?"

"Ha! I don't know what to believe! You and young Stephen saved my life and asked for nothing in return. Yet you are killers! Yet..."

Altair waited.

Jacob shook his head. "Yet I've nowhere else to go..."

Altair nodded. That was likely all Jacob could process at this point. So he gave out a long, high whistle, almost like a screech of an eagle. Just as the sun was starting to touch the waves, Omar, a journeyman Altair had brought with him to Acre, slipped into the lengthening shadows.

"Safety and peace, Altair."

"Safety and peace," he replied, then nodded to Jacob. "He has seen much today and questions all. He has discerned that Stephen and I are part of the Brotherhood, and he has nowhere to go."

"Might I see young Stephen?" Jacob asked quietly. "He was always so in earnest. I'd like to hear his young enthusiasm again. Something that has hope for a future brighter than what I've seen this night."

"I will see to it," Omar nodded, helping up the exhausted priest. "Come, young Stephen has had much to say about your kindness. I think he'd like to see you as well."

Altair nodded to the both of them. "Safety and peace be upon you."

Omar echoed the greeting. Jacob simply paused and turned. "May God bless your blade."

Once they were gone, Altair turned to the dark waters that would hide his approach. He dived in silently, and started to swim.

"Dammit!" Desmond growled. He had reset back to the docks and it was once again high noon. "You just couldn't be bothered to look at swimming, no, that was just too much to ask."

"Tut, tut, Mr. Miles. Just retrigger the memory."

Right, like he'd be doing that.

Desmond turned and slowly climbed a building, then looked out over the docks. Off in the distance, he could see a rowboat being paddled towards the massive ship out near a stone structure that curved out into the harbor. Some sort of sea wall? Desmond wasn't sure.

Well, what better way to waste time than to explore?

He walked slowly through the crowds, keeping his hands clasped and his head down as he'd seen Altair do countless times, seeming as if in deep contemplation. The guard patrols walked by blankly, swords drawn. They paid no mind to Desmond, but he kept a wide berth, just to be safe. The stone wall looked more like a road, with low barriers on either side and wide enough for a couple horses side by side. There were giant, round, squat towers along it at even intervals, though Desmond didn't have a clue as to their purpose. Seeing no guards in immediate sight, he ambled on down the stone road, liking how it curved out to the ship.

And, unsurprisingly, there was a guard at one of the round towers. So Desmond clasped his hands, lowered his head, and silently walked forward, seeing if he could get past the guard.

Frankly, he doubted he'd be able to.

He was right.

No sooner had his foot passed innocently then the guard started shouting German at him and shoving him before pulling out his sword. The guard on the other side of the tower turned at the commotion and drew his sword as well.

And, since he had a doctor he wanted to piss off, Desmond shouted, "Shit!" before taking off running. And, along the way, he plowed through a patrol, tripping spectacularly and landing and rolling across the cobblestone. More curses were thrown his way in German, French and an occasional English that he actually understood as he ran through the gate and into Acre proper.

Of course, he had nine guards after him and anyone that was just standing listlessly started to block his way. Desmond didn't particularly care to fight them. They were hardly drunkards in a barroom brawl and while Desmond had fought guards to enter Damascus waaaaay back when he was first trying to synch with that Tamir target, he didn't like the odds here for trying to survive.

All around him people were scramming and running as well and Desmond, on instinct, wished to start climbing. Of course, he didn't want to show off any skills at all to whoever was watching these sessions of his, so he stuck to ducking down alleys and side streets.

Turning a corner, Desmond was suddenly on the ground, having run into a crowded market area and was swiftly surrounded by guards.

Great. The one thing he didn't want.

Still, as long as it wasted time...

He pulled the long sword, trying to focus on the fact that this was a broom, not a sharp, pointy object.

Naturally, the fight didn't go well.

Desmond wasn't able to take down any of the - how many guards was this now? Seventeen? - guards that had gathered and followed him, and really, it was no surprise that he took blows almost as soon as he turned to face an incoming sword.

What truly sucked, however, was that it hurt dammit.

This was a freaking construct, so why the hell did it hurt like hell with every damn blow? Was this like the Matrix? Was he going to be just as bruised and bloodied when he got out of the damn Animus? He better not!

"Ow!" Desmond cried out as a sword slashed down his back and for a brief moment, Desmond was thirteen and the patroller got the better of him and he rolled with the blow.

"Watch it, Mr. Miles! Your synchronization ratio is going down with every blow!"

"Fuck you!" Desmond shouted back as a guard grabbed his harness and started to tug.

In this, at least, Desmond had a good idea of what to do. He grabbed the guy's fist, twisted, turning the patroller else the arm would break, and kicked the bastard right in the ass, sending him careening into a wall.

Another slash went down along his back, followed almost immediately by one to his front and Desmond ended up flat on the ground, looking up at the washed out sky and certain he saw stars. But another guard was stepping forward and Desmond stood as quickly as he could but it wasn't enough. A sword appeared in front of him, slashing down, and Desmond, for one terrifying moment, was convinced that he just died.

But he didn't.

Instead, he was in the foggy room of floating symbols. He quickly dropped to his knees and panted heavily.

"No way..." he muttered to himself, phantom pain working it's way all along his torso. "No fucking way!"

He was more than willing to waste Abstergo's time, but he was not going to do it fighting guards.

Looking down at his hands, Desmond was almost surprised to see that his hands were shaking. It still felt like adrenaline was racing through his veins, and he kept trying to gulp down air.

"Calm down, Desmond. It's all right. Your completely fine," Lucy's voice was soft and soothing, but Desmond couldn't quite bring himself to believe her. Despite his shaking hands and rapid breathing, he was tearing at the long robes and many belts his avatar of Altair was wearing to try and see if there were any bruises starting to form, even as every movement seemed to make his body want to scream in protest.

The fog dissipated and he was back in Acre's port. He was still shaking like a leaf, but there was at least no more pain.

"Desmond? Are you okay?"

"Just dandy," he bit back. But he was getting his heart rate under control, and he was breathing steadily. He completely ignored the crowds around him, just trying to focus on the fact that he wasn't in pain, that he was fine, that it was just his mind trying to fill in data or some other comic-book logic or something. Desmond reached up and buried his face into his hands, taking a damn minute to sort out the fact that he had been getting completely thrashed just a second ago and was now pleasantly anonymous again.

"Assassin!" a voice called out from behind him.

"Fuck," was Desmond's reply as he felt, once again, searing pain along his back and he went pitching forward into the water below.

He was surrounded by fog and symbols for the briefest of moments before he was back on the dock again.

This time, at least, he was smart enough to clasp his hands.

"Did I mention how swimming might be nice?"

"Shut up, Mr. Miles," Vidic growled.

Desmond silently climbed up the buildings on this lower stone dock and sat down, looking out at the docks and pulling out Acre's map to study.

"Right," he muttered to himself. "Going through guards equals Bad Idea." He used his time to just stare at the map and settle himself down after so much painful activity. He could swear that there was the occasional phantom pain if he thought about it, but deliberate motion and stretches were all normal and pain-free.

"Can we get going?" his warden grunted. "Just retrigger the memory!"

Desmond scowled up to the sky. "In case you didn't notice, doc, that ancestor of mine swam to the boat. And I can't swim, apparently, so I need to figure out a different path. Unless you have one all cued up and ready for me?"

Vidic muttered impolite words in response.

Still, since he was basically calm and steady once more, he started to actually study the map and the dock in front of him. He wanted to dawdle and waste Vidic's time to the extreme, but messing around with guards was clearly not an option. Or at least not one he was going to entertain in any way shape or form.

So.

He couldn't get to the ship by the stone-wall-thing, so he needed a different path.

Staring at the map, Desmond started to notice something. "Hey, Lucy? For this construct, are the boats pretty much stationary?"

"Yes, Desmond. Do you have a plan?"

"Maybe..." He looked down to the docks again and reached for the pouch that held the telescope and tried to pull it out.

"Try" being the operative word.

"Sonofa... Really? You let me use weapons, but not the actual useful stuff?" Standing, Desmond carefully hopped from roof to roof, trying to see the actual wooden docks without having to drop down to were armed patrols were scouring the area in blank-faced circles.

Yup. Sure enough, the first wooden dock one could get to from the gate leading down from the city had four guards posted along it.

Clearly, Desmond wouldn't be going that way.

So he backtracked, continuing to play the clumsy free-runner for his watchers. The second wooden dock he came to was also guarded, this time by two Teutonic Knights.

Not that way either.

But the last dock, the one furthest north, was guard-free.

Perfect.

Desmond eased his way down and happily started walking down. He spied a drunk and, rather than walk around, he ignored him.

Of course, the drunk pushed him aside, and he tripped into the water.

Oh yes. He could definitely waste time this way.

Once Desmond was back on the docks, he clasped his hands and headed north, and proceeded down the unguarded dock once more. He gave a slightly wider berth of the drunk, but was still pushed over the peer, just like he wanted.

Four "tries" later and Desmond finally made it past the drunk and saw a patrol walking down the peer.

Crap. Desmond hadn't expected this, and in his surprise, he dropped his hands.

So, naturally, the guards spotted him, spitting out rude French.

Thus, also naturally, he was once again a human pin-cushion as a sword came down on him and he lost his balance over the edge and into the water.

And once again, Desmond was walking a familiar path up to the northern dock to walk by a drunk and, this time, stay off to the side with his hands clasped tight as the patrol went by.

He reached the end of the peer and made the very easy jump to the fishing boat floating there. Desmond waved his arms quickly, having expected the small boat to actually move with the water and the fact that it didn't meant his arm-waving was throwing him off balance, but he remained standing at least.

"Finally," Vidic growled. "Actual progress."

Right. Time to waste time again.

Desmond looked at the jump to the next boat, which was a larger gap than from the peer to the boat he was currently on. So, with a hidden grin, Desmond took the jump, let his foot slide off, and ended up in the water.

Reset once more, Desmond made his way down the peer. Again. Dodged the drunk. Again. And avoided the patrol. Again. The jump to the first boat was simple and he took a moment to once more gauge the gap to the next boat. Desmond ended up in the water. Again.

"Stop fooling around!" Vidic yelled as Desmond once more emerged from the fog at the same place he always did.

"Hey," he called up to the sky, "I told you I wasn't an assassin. I'm doing the best I can," lie, lie, lie, "it's not my fault that I can't swim here."

"Just get moving!"

So Desmond did.

He had great fun constantly ending up in the water and passing through the foggy room of symbols and ending up back on the stone dock. Once he realized that there were poles sticking up out of the water for boats to moor at, he made the leaps from boat to boat look "easier" as each jump he made from pole to pole always seemed to miss, sending him back to the stone docks to start again.

Vidic eventually started getting nonsensical in his frustration.

"Oh come on, doc, you have to just laugh after a while," Desmond offered. "It is kind of funny."

To this, Lucy, who had remained quiet, gave a small giggle.

"There, you see? Even Lucy can laugh once in a while, why can't you?"

"Just. Get. Moving!"

"If you say so."

Desmond did have one issue, however, with all the resetting and going over the route again and again. That was the archers. Once he had been within sight of one and heard the familiar beep of being watched, he tried to clasp his hands, since that always worked on the streets. It ended up being useless however, since he couldn't pray and keep his balance. The end result had been a substantially painful arrow through his shoulder that sent him careening into the water below.

This resulted in Desmond trying many different paths that avoided the archers, but after several arrows burying themselves in various parts of his body, Desmond couldn't stand it any more. It just hurt too much and he didn't want to think about any sort of science-y implications of what constant pain to his brain would do.

So, with great trepidation and hesitation, he had started to throw knives at the archers. Vidic had laughed, saying something about living up to his heritage, but Desmond kept picturing the targets he would throw at as a child. That those weren't living breathing people, but an image made by a construct to help build nostalgia for a damn machine.

An image that cried out in pain with every precise kill.

Something inside Desmond squirmed every time this happened, but he buried it deep down, unwilling to even acknowledge it. The sad fact of the matter was, given how many times he had to make his way along the lonely poles and boats of the harbor, he just got used to the sound and that discomforted him.

He also didn't care that it showed off that he was skilled with throwing knives, but he couldn't take the time to show a learning curve without getting plugged with another arrow. So Desmond merely gritted his teeth and commented on aiming software, rather than acknowledging his own skill. He'd have to think about the implications of this later. Preferably after a meal and a nice hot shower. Maybe then when he actually felt a little clean.

After an unknown number of attempts to go across the harbor, Desmond finally made it to a tall pole that was standing tall and proud behind the back (aft?) of the boat, looking at the wood and trying to see where his handholds would be.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, mainly for Vidic. "Last jump, last jump. Should be easy. Lots of things to grab and a long path to go through again if I miss..."

With a deep breath, Desmond jumped and happily dived in the water.

Reset. Again.

Desmond ignored Vidic's livid ravings as he went down the oh-so-familiar path he'd been taking for hours now.

And, just to be coy, he gave a frustrated growl as he missed the very first jump to the boat.

"Desmond!" Lucy shouted, though there was laughter in her voice

"Sorry, sorry," he replied. "I got so used to this part I didn't concentrate."

"Just get moving, Mr. Miles!"

It still took another nine "tries" to get to the ship again, and, admittedly, Desmond was getting a little tired of stalling.

Hanging on the edge of a wooden, Desmond waited.

And waited.

... And waited.

Surely he should be synching with Altair by now.

Cold realization started to settle onto Desmond. He was going to have to kill this Sibrand construct himself.

Oh shit.

Desmond frowned severely as thoughts started racing through his head. He'd already had to kill a guard once, on his first ride to Damascus, and it had felt terrible. This was a construct and he knew he wasn't really doing anything, but that didn't change the feel of it. Of feeling a sword or knife sink into another's flesh. This was why Desmond had left the assassins. He didn't want to kill. It was hypocrisy to claim peace even as you killed others. But having been through Altair's memories like this... He could see the reason why some of these people had to die. That didn't mean he believed in it.

He had left the Farm before he'd ever had to kill anyone and he'd made certain that, for all that he did end up in fights, he didn't take another life.

With this cold realization was another realization.

If he was really going to escape Abstergo, run away, survive, he couldn't hold back.

Not only was he going to have to kill here, in this construct of his own mind, but also in reality.

... He wanted to throw up.

"Fine!" came the muffled voice of the helmeted Sibrand, right above him. "If none of you will lift your hand in defense of your master, I'll take care of this heathen myself!"

Looking up, Desmond watched Sibrand fire off an arrow right over him, then to port, then over him again.

Paranoid indeed if he was wasting arrows like that.

Slowly, Desmond eased himself up to peak between the rails and look around. This back part of the ship was empty, save Sibrand, who was walking down the steps towards the bow.

He couldn't quite hold back a grimace as he dropped back down again.

He waited, trying to think of some other way to synch with Altair. But without knowing what his ancestor's plan was other than Swim To Ship, he wasn't sure how, and experimenting with where might be interesting if it wasn't for the fact that Vidic clearly didn't like his dawdling. As it was, he had wasted as much time as he dared. Vidic was already making growls to just reset Desmond right on the damn ship and he didn't really want to deal with any specialties that Vidic might have in mind.

With a long and deep sigh, Desmond looked up as Sibrand repeated himself again.

Once the Templar's back was turned, he crept up over the railing and stepped as quietly as possible up to Sibrand's back. From there some sort of strange muscle memory took over as he grabbed Sibrand's faceplate and let the hidden blade go straight through the ribs and to the lung.

Altair's face was dripping, as were his robes, despite his best attempts to wring out the seawater one handed as he climbed up the rocks of the seawall. While the sound of water coming in with the tide would mask his approach, Altair did not wish to take chances. Not with a man as paranoid as Sibrand. The climb up the rocks had been arduous and slippery, but he'd managed to climb under the gangplank to the actual hull of the ship, and from there it had been simplicity to edge aft, where Sibrand was keeping watch out over the docks.

The sun was completely set, leaving only the darkening dusk and torches were already lit. The darkness was to his advantage as he ghosted across the deck and plunged his hidden blade into Sibrand's back.

"Please," Sibrand begged as Altair peeled off his helmet. "Don't do this..."

"You are afraid," he replied, stating the obvious, slightly surprised.

"Of course I am afraid," the Teutonic coughed.

"But you'll be safe now. Held in the arms of your God."

Sibrand's cold face twisted. "Have my brothers taught you nothing? I know what waits for me. For all of us."

Altair frowned. "If not your God, then what?"

"Nothing. Nothing waits. And that is what I fear..."

Altair dipped his head. He'd seen men with no belief in any being, and they were always so scared. Altair himself did not know what awaited him in the afterlife, having been born both Muslim and Christian and yet practicing neither. Each religion held contradictory images of what whatever Almighty there was would do to him and his mixed heritage. But one thing Altair had faith in was himself and in his own merits.

This Sibrand was truly pitiful by comparison. He had faith in nothing.

"You don't believe," Altair said, stating the obvious again.

"How could I?" Sibrand coughed. "Given what I know... What I've seen... The treasure was the proof!"

Again with the treasure of Solomon's Temple. Altair truly did not understand what made a simple piece of silver so special.

"Proof of what?"

"That this life is all we have."

"Linger a while longer then, and tell me of the part you were to play."

"A blockade by sea," Sibrand replied with a cough. "To keep the fool kings and queens from sending reinforcements once we... once we..."

Sibrand's voice was getting quieter.

"Conquer the Holy Land?" Altair hazarded a guess.

"Freed it, you fool... From the tyranny of faith..."

"...Freedom?" Altair couldn't believe it. "You would work to overthrow cities," he gave Sibrand a shake in his anger, "control men's minds, murder any who spoke against you!"

Sibrand gave a cold smile. "I followed my orders," he said quietly, "by believing in my cause... same as you..."

Altair bit back a growl at such madness and dipped his feather into Sibrand's blood. It was time to go.

"Assassin!"

Or fight, it seemed. Swimming would wash the blood from the feather, so Altair drew his sword. There were only two other guards on the ship and Altair easily slew them. A small patrol coming around the lighthouse however, were coming right at him.

So Altair jumped off the ship to a rowboat down below and began running from boat to pole to archery tower as he raced back to the docks. The patrol behind him were laden down with armor and any that tried to follow him soon ended up in the waters below, struggling to stay afloat with all their gear and chain mail.

Still, the alarm had been raised; he would need to be careful. As such, he stuck to the roofs once he was in Acre proper and out of the docks. Avoiding the archers was simply a matter of waiting for them to pass and using the occasional sky garden or even the edges of roofs to slip by.

It was well past the middle of the night, however, by the time he finally dropped back down into the Bureau. Omar was at the desk and he quickly disappeared to get Jabal.

"Altair," the old rafiq greeted. "You've caused quite a stir."

"I've done as requested," he pulled out the bloodied feather. "Sibrand's life has ended."

"So it is! So it is," Jabal smiled for perhaps the fist time since Altair had first come disgraced to this city. "You should ride for Masyaf and inform Al Mualim of your success. You will travel with Motaz, Stephen, and Brother Jacob. That way, I will know that they are safe."

"They have not left yet? And Jacob comes as well?"

Jabal nodded. "You've not even been here a week. Arranging for safe travel for Stephen has taken time given his illness and now this old priest of yours wishes to go as well so that he might learn. Or at least, get some time away."

Altair had not expected this. Still, it might be nice to have travel companions, though it would slow his journey.

"Yes," Altair agreed. Then he shrugged. "I should return and speak to the Master. Of this and... other things."

Jabal looked at him, concern in his eyes. "Is everything alright, my friend? You seem... distant."

Altair hesitated. His concerns had much to do with things that the rafiq of each city did not seem privy to know. Discussing the detail would be difficult. "It's nothing, rafiq," he said politely. "Just a lot on my mind."

"Talk to me then, let me help."

And it was the first truly sincere offering of help Altair had had in a long, long time.

That felt... nice.

But he shook his head. "I need to make sense of this myself first." He bowed. "But thank you for the offer."

Jabal narrowed his eyes. "It is the men you kill, isn't it?"

Of course a rafiq would be so shrewd.

"You feel... something for them."

"How?" Altair asked.

"Ahh, my friend," Jabal smiled an old, tired smile. "You are not meant to enjoy these grim tasks," he said quietly. "Regret, uncertainty, sympathy, this is to be expected."

Sibrand, like others Altair had slain, was convinced his brothers would bring peace to the land by freeing the people from the shackles of faith. This strange Brotherhood sought the same as the assassins. But their methods were too brutal and imprecise. He had to admit; he was torn. While Altair could appreciate their goals, he viewed with disfavor the way in which they sought to realize them. Still this situation raised questions. If they wanted the same thing, should they not be working together? Was what he was feeling normal? To question everything so closely? Altair did not think the depth of his questions marked his feelings as normal. But the fact that Jabal had seen it so readily implied he was not the first to question.

"I should not fear these feelings?"

Jabal shook his head. "You should embrace them. They are what keep you human."

Still Altair hesitated. "What if I'm wrong? What if these men aren't meant to die? What if they mean well? Misguided, perhaps, but pure in motive?" Because so many of the Templar dreams were exactly what the Order wanted. The methods, however... the methods...

Jabal leaned back, stroking his beard. "I am but a rafiq, Altair, and such things are beyond me. Perhaps Al Mualim can help you to make sense of it."

But that was where a part of Altair still doubted. "Yes. Perhaps." Altair offered another bow. "Thank you, rafiq."

Jabal bowed as well. "It is my pleasure to have served with one as skilled as you. Now rest. You've a long journey tomorrow."

Author's Notes: Hands down the hardest assassination in the game. We cannot TELL you how many times it took us to leap through the docks in order to get to Sibrand. If you didn't have the camera at the EXACT right angle the jump would go to pot and poof, restart. It's somewhat cathartic to take the most frustrating assassination and turn it into a giant comedy with Desmond as he deliberately fails in order to stall. Desmond also performs his first assassination proper, something he will have to do more and more as the games progress - we're waiting for the time when he's doing his own kills in the real world. It's a step along the path for him.

We also get to see Altair recruit a convert: brother Jacob. His role in Sibrand's first cutscene makes the scenario so much more meaningful than the ramblings of a paranoid coward. It also shows how well Altair has learned the Creed: Nothing is true and everything is permitted. Similarly, we also see how he's grown when compared to "him," the bitterly sarcastic Motaz (and he at last gets a name!). He's just about self-actualized now, and one can imagine how this will affect things in Jerusalem. (knowing laughter)

Anyway, next chapter: Desmond stalls some more. And more. And more.