the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

20
The festivities were already in full swing as Altaïr made his way around
the palace courtyard, feeling conspicuous in his robes. They seemed
dirty and shabby compared to the outfits of the guests. Most wore finery,
their robes intricately embroidered with expensive threads, and unlike
the majority of Damascus residents, they looked healthy and well fed,
talking loudly over the music, laughing even more loudly. Certainly
there was no shortage of refreshments. Servants moved through the
guests offering bread, olives and delicacies on golden trays.
Altaïr looked around. The dancers were the only women present: six
or seven of them, gyrating slowly to the sounds of al’ud and rebec played
by musicians stationed below a grand balcony. The Assassin’s gaze
travelled up to where a guard stood with his arms folded, looking out
dispassionately over the frivolities. This was Abu’l’s perch, decided
Altaïr. Indeed, as he watched, the tempo of the music seemed to
increase, the al’ud all but drowned by heavy drumming that began to
excite the partygoers, a sense of anticipation building. The dancing girls
were forced into faster movements and were glistening with perspiration
below their sheer silk outfits as around them guests raised their hands,
cheering the drums on to a crescendo that built and built until the very
air seemed to vibrate – and suddenly he was there above them: Abu’l
Nuqoud.