the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

rushed excitedly around them calling for treats – children too young to
know the Master. Older villagers recognized him, though, and Altaïr
noticed them watching the party carefully, not with welcome but
wariness. Faces were turned away when he tried to catch their eye.
Anxiety bit into his gut.
Now a figure he knew was approaching them, meeting them at the
bottom of the slopes to the citadel. Swami. An apprentice when he’d left,
one of those who was too fond of combat, not enough of learning. He
had collected a scar in the intervening ten years and it wrinkled when he
smiled, a broad grin that went nowhere near his eyes. Perhaps he was
already thinking of the teachings he would have to endure with Altaïr,
now that he had returned.
But endure them he would, thought Altaïr, his gaze going past Swami
to the castle, where a vast flag bearing the mark of the Assassins
fluttered in the breeze. He had decreed that the flag be removed: the
Assassins were disposing of such empty emblems. But Malik had
evidently decided it should fly. He was another who would endure some
teaching in the time ahead.
‘Altaïr,’ said Swami, with a bow of the head, and Altaïr decided to
ignore the man’s failure to address him by his correct title. For the time
being at least. ‘How pleasant it is to see you. I trust your travels proved
fruitful.’
‘I sent messages,’ said Altaïr, leaning forward in his saddle. Darim
drew up on the other side of him so that the three formed a line, looking
down at Swami. ‘Was the Order not told of my progress?’
Swami smiled obsequiously. ‘Of course, of course. I asked merely out
of courtesy.’