the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

More guests began to splutter. Some were holding their stomachs. Of
course, thought Altair. Poison. Around him some guests had fallen to
their knees. He saw a corpulent man in golden robes frothing, his eyes
rolling up in their sockets as he lurched to the ground and lay dying. The
archers had readied their bows now. At least half of the partygoers were
in the death throes, but there were plenty who had not supped the wine
and were scrambling for the exits.
‘Kill anyone who tries to escape,’ ordered the Merchant King, and his
archers opened fire.
Leaving the carnage behind, Altaïr scaled the wall to the balcony and
crept up behind Nuqoud. There was a guard at his side, and Altaïr
dispatched him with a slash of his blade. The man fell, twisting, his
throat opening, spraying blood across the tiles of the balcony. Nuqoud
spun to see Altair and his expression changed. Watching the massacre in
the party below, he had been smiling, enjoying the show. Now, Altaïr
was gratified to see, he felt only fear.
Then pain, as Altaïr sank the blade into his neck above the clavicle.
‘Why have you done this?’ gasped the huge man, sinking to the
smooth stone of his balcony.
‘You stole money from those you claim to lead,’ Altaïr told him. ‘Sent
it away for some unknown purpose. I want to know where it’s gone and
why.’
Nuqoud scoffed. ‘Look at me. My very nature is an affront to the
people I ruled. And these noble robes did little more than muffle their
shouts of hate.’
‘So this is about vengeance, then?’ asked Altaïr.
‘No. Not vengeance, but my conscience. How could I finance a war in