Standard of Honor (74 page)

“And what will happen, think you?”

“Once the city falls, you mark my words, the situation will return to prewar levels. The Hospitallers will re-man their hospital, the Templars will repossess the
Templar Castle, and the King's administrative crew will resume their occupation of the royal basements.”

“And what of Saladin? Don't ask me to believe he might offer himself as hostage for his people's behavior.”

“I would not dream of it. Saladin will do as leaders always do—he will negotiate an honorable outcome for himself and his closest associates, and he will leave his minions to their fates … or those of them, at least, who cannot help themselves.”

“You are being harsh, are you not? Nothing that I have heard of Saladin indicates that he would simply abandon the people of Acre, after their heroic defense of the city for so long.”

Sinclair shrugged. “He may, he may not. Much of it will depend upon the demands that Richard makes. If he digs in his heels, then Saladin will have little option but to humor him. It does not make for heroic behavior, but it is not uncommon in war for the losers to die. Look what happened to us at Hattin.”

“Hmm. I suppose you are right, and only time will tell us what the leaders have decided. Would this be a good time for us to talk further about what was in the dispatches you gave me to read?”

“Aye, it would, Cousin. There is no time like the present, for when you arrived, I was preparing for the next step in what needs to be done. How well do you feel, in truth?”

André almost smiled. “Well enough for anything you might throw at me. I felt a twinge of weakness earlier today, but now I feel as well as I have ever felt.”

“So be it then.” André stood up. “Come with me. We'll stop at the stables and from there—” He stopped and looked André up and down from boots to helm. “I think I will have everything you need. But first, horses, and some food from the field kitchens. You pick out two good, stout mounts and I'll collect the food.”

“And drink. Don't forget to bring water.”

“I'll pretend I did not hear that. Get the horses. I'll rejoin you in a few minutes.”

“How long will we be gone? Shouldn't we leave word with someone?”

“Aye, with de Sablé. I told him where I was going. I'll send him word from the kitchens that I've taken you with me.”

“
I
'
VE BEEN HERE BEFORE
. This is the road Harry and I took when first we went to meet you, in the desert of stones.”

“Correct, Cousin. It is the self-same route, and we are going to the self-same place. The outer edge of the stone field should be coming into view at any moment.”

“Why would we go there, Alec?”

“Because I have good reason to go there, one that will make perfect sense to you, too, once I have explained it. Do you remember when you were here that first day, how intrigued you were by how I had been able to approach you unheard?”

“Aye, I remember it well. You said it was because we were making so much noise that we could not have heard you. You also said that you had been standing for hours.”

“I did? Did I really? That was …”

“Careless is what it was, for it set me to thinking. I would be prepared to wager that you have a hiding place nearby. You looked me up and down moments ago and told me that you had everything I would need, but we have not stopped moving since then and your saddlebags appear to be empty. The food and drink you brought is the only burden you carry. Therefore whatever else you have that I might need must be located where we are going. And there is always the additional consideration that, while the location there might suit you for any number of reasons, all of them would be greatly increased if you had a convenient hiding place nearby from which you could spy upon those who come to meet you.”

Alec Sinclair grinned. “Well done, lad. We'll be there soon and you can see it for yourself.”

They rode in silence after that until the high pinnacle of the monolith in the center of the clearing where they had first met came into view, and as they approached it, Alec pointed out how the natural elevation of the little rock-crowned hummock made it easy for any watcher to see clearly what anyone on the summit was doing. Before they came too close to the central clearing, however, Alec led them aside, following a trail so faint it was barely discernible among the boulders, and it led them out and around towards the back of the knoll. Alec stopped in the shadow of a particularly large clump of stones, then turned his horse towards it and moved forward to where it seemed his horse must walk straight
into the side of the stone. But then he dismounted, and taking hold of his horse's woven leather bridle, he led the animal sharply around to his left and downward, following the abrupt edge of what appeared to be a large hole in the ground.

Following close behind him, André saw that it was indeed a hole, its sides smoothed by ages of use by people following a narrow but manageable path that wound downward in a tight spiral to vanish some distance below. He advanced carefully, following Alec, and soon found himself in a natural atrium, a wind- or water-worn hallway in the living rock, open to the skies. They were perhaps ten paces below the level of the ground above, and the blue sky over their heads was almost circular in section. Behind André, hidden in shadow, was the entrance to a cavern that turned out to be the first in a progression of caves culminating in a large, high, well-lit space with a dry, sandy floor. A fire pit in the center of the floor appeared to have been used for centuries, and the entire space was crisscrossed with beams of light that shone directly in as though from windows.

“Amazing, is it not?” Alec Sinclair dropped the bags he was carrying by the fire pit and led his horse over into a far corner of the large cavern, where he began to unsaddle him. “I felt exactly the same as you when I first saw it. It took my breath away and left me mute. It still shakes me when I think about it, but I've grown used to it nowadays and it takes someone like you, seeing it for the first time, to remind me how aweinspiring it really is.”

“How did you ever find it?”

“Never did. I had to be shown it, just like you. In my case, by Ibrahim, my main contact with the Old Man.” He swung the saddle off his mount's back and carried it back to drop it by the fireplace. “Leave that,” he said, waving his hand to take André's attention away from his own saddle. “Come and see this.”

André followed him as he scrambled up a high incline and thrust his upper body through a hole in the roof. It was larger than it appeared to be, and there was ample room for the two of them to stand up there together, side by side.

“You have to be careful to stay quiet climbing up,” Alec said, “but it is worth the effort, would you not agree?”

André could say nothing, able only to gape in wonder. He was standing with his head projecting through a hole in the ground, almost completely surrounded by the bases of the central cluster of boulders dominating the tiny knoll where he had waited with Harry Douglas for the arrival of Alec Sinclair, and he could see the entire scene perfectly, looking directly through the gaps at the bottom of the boulder cluster.

“You were here all the time. You could hear every word.”

“Every syllable. I was impressed by the charitable way you made excuses for my tardiness.”

André stooped and made his way back to where he had left his horse partially saddled. He completed the job of unsaddling, lugged his saddle and blanket
to the fireplace, then crossed to a high wooden bin against the wall.

“What is in here?”

“Dried dung, some of it camel but mostly horse. We hoard it as fuel. It's the only kind we have … camel dung and horse dung. There is a seam of anthracite— a hard, shiny, hot-burning coal—about ten miles from here, and when time permits, we haul fuel from there, too. But most of the time we burn dung.”

“And in here?” André was standing now in front of two large wooden chests with ornate hasps, and as he spoke Alec was already in the act of bending to open one of them.

“Clothing, for a range of purposes. Which is our next priority. Strip out of your armor. It is time to take on the protective coloration of the landscape.” He pulled open the top of one of the chests, exposing a welter of brightly colored garments. “You should make a fine-looking Muslim. Have you worn Saracen clothing before now?”

“Only twice before, at home and very briefly—you can imagine the notice it would have attracted. I have a basic understanding of what is required and how the various garments fit.”

“Excellent, then let us make a start on it. Quickly now, strip down and I will help you don new finery. Ibrahim should be here very soon.”

“Ibrahim is already here, Almania.”

The words, spoken in Arabic, were uttered close to André's ear, and he spun around so quickly that he
almost fell on the uneven floor. “How came—?” he gasped, dropping his hand to his dagger hilt. He did not finish the thought, for he saw the curling hairs on the back of the brown hand close to his jaw and felt the flat width of a blade pressing firmly upwards against the soft skin beneath his chin and he knew, beyond dispute, that the blade would have a very sharp edge. He tilted his head back, yielding to the pressure of the blade until the skin of his entire neck was tautly stretched, then remained motionless, his eyes focused on the face of the man who had come up so silently behind him and now stood eyeing him askance, smiling sardonically and daring him to move.

The fellow wore a tall, tapering helmet of shining steel, from which hung a facial mask of fine steel links, protecting his face without impairing his vision, and he stood with his own chin elevated almost as far as André's, his body braced slightly rearward against the tension of the outstretched arm that was forcing André up onto his toes. Beneath the hanging links of his visor, the skin of the stranger's face was a deep, dark brown, making the lines and shadows on his skin seem black, and his eyes were equally dark beneath bushy brows. His mustache and beard were so black that they appeared to have blue light in them, and although the mouth beneath them was closed now, André had seen the gleam of white teeth shining through as the fellow smiled. This man, André knew, was dangerous; tall, lean, and broad shouldered. He could see little of him below shoulder height, but he
surmised that the man would be dressed from head to foot in flowing black.

“Ibrahim! I vow you are improving, in spite of yourself. I barely heard you come in this time.” Alec's Arabic was flawless and betrayed no indication of surprise.

“You did not hear me at all, Almania.” The dark eyes did not leave André's for an instant, even as the knifewielder spoke to Alec. “I was already here when you named me. Who is this
ferenghi
?”

“My cousin, André St. Clair.” He looked at André and switched back to their tongue. “André, say hello to Ibrahim al-Khusai, my liaison with the forces of Rashid al-Din Sinan.” Another swift switch and he was speaking to Ibrahim in Arabic again. “André is the one for whom I summoned the services of Saif ad-Din.”

Alec had made no reference at all to the dagger being held beneath André's chin, and now André saw Ibrahim's eyes narrow to slits. “The one who lost his father?”

“The one.”

Ibrahim blew a small snuffing noise through his nose and lowered his blade. He took a step backward and returned the dagger to its sheath. “That is an affliction no man should have to bear but, by the will of Allah, all men do. I lost my father less than two months ago, may Allah smile upon his memory, and the grief has barely left my bones.” He turned to Alec. “But you did not hear me coming, Almania, be truthful.”

André took the opportunity to scan the Assassin now from head to foot, seeing that he had been right in assuming the fellow would be completely robed in
black, but over his long outer garment, Ibrahim wore a knee-length tunic of the finest open-link chain mail André had ever seen. Over that, he also wore a cuirass of shining steel to match his helmet, and a magnificent long-bladed scimitar hung from the belt at his waist.

He was still glaring defiantly at Alec, but Alec merely dipped his head slightly, dismissing the point as unimportant. “I was not listening, in truth, because I had no need to hear you coming, my friend. But truthfully, I
smelled
your presence the moment we entered the main cavern. I have told you before, you may recall, that cinnamon, in the amounts by which you consume it, is a highly recognizable aroma. You are inured to it and therefore unaware of how strongly you smell of it, but in your kind of work, it could get you killed.”

Ibrahim had stopped listening, having obviously heard and been bored by this before, and was staring now at André, his eyes moving up and down the length of his body. Now he nodded to himself and held up his hand. “I will help this one to dress like a man.” He turned his head back towards Alec. “Tell him to take off his clothes.”

“Tell him yourself. He speaks your tongue.”

Ibrahim straightened in surprise. “You speak Arabic?”

“Not well, but I do,” André replied in the same tongue. “I learned it before I ever left our homeland to come here, because our brethren there, who are the allies of your imam, Rashid al-Din, considered it wise to have me learn your language early, taught by a number
of your finest scholars who live among them today, sharing common knowledge with our brethren.”

“So be it. Now, to our task. Disrobe, if you will.”

André removed his armor and his clothing, and Ibrahim instructed him thoroughly thereafter in the wearing of Muslim clothes, showing him the manner of applying and properly adjusting each separate garment, so the overall effect was one of loose and unrestrictive comfort. He ended by showing the Templar how to don the flowing headdress called the kufiya, and how to fasten it into place, tugging the securing band firmly into position, and then examining his own handiwork with a critical eye before nodding in satisfaction. “Thus it should hang,” he grunted. “You have the feel of it?”