the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Master.’
‘A guard?’ asked Al Mualim, hopefully.
Umar shook his head sadly. ‘He wore the turban and vest of a
nobleman.’
At which Al Mualim closed tired and sorrowful eyes. ‘There was no
other option?’
‘I acted rashly, Master.’
‘But otherwise your mission was a success?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Then we shall see what transpires,’ he said.
What transpired was the exit of Salah Al’din and the visit from
Shihab. And standing tall in his tower, Al Mualim had allowed himself to
believe that the Assassins had prevailed. That his plan had worked. Their
message had warned the Sultan that he should abandon his campaign
against the Assassins, for the next dagger would not be pinned to his
pallet but to his genitals. Simply by being able to leave it they had
shown the monarch how vulnerable he really was; how his great force
counted for nothing when a lone Assassin could outwit his decoys and
guards and steal so easily into his tent as he slept.
And perhaps Salah Al’din was fonder of his genitals than he was of
pursuing a long and costly war of attrition against an enemy whose
interests only rarely came into conflict with his own. For he had gone.
‘His Majesty Salah Al’din accepts your offer of peace,’ said the envoy.
On the tower, Al Mualim shared an amused glance with Umar, who
stood by his side. Further along was Faheem. His mouth was set.
‘Have we his assurance that our sect can operate without further
hostilities, and no further interference in our activities?’ asked Al