the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

‘I expected to be met by Rauf,’ said Altaïr. ‘He is most accustomed to
meeting my needs.’
‘Ah, poor Rauf.’ Swami peered at the ground reflectively.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Rauf, I’m afraid is dead of the fever these past few years.’
‘Why was I not informed?’
At this Swami merely shrugged. An insolent shrug, as though he
neither knew nor cared.
Altaïr pursed his lips, deciding that somebody had some explaining to
do, even if it wasn’t to be this cur. ‘Then let us move on. I trust our
quarters are prepared?’
Swami bowed his head again. ‘I’m afraid not, Altaïr. Until such time
as you can be accommodated I have been asked to direct you to a
residence on the western side of the fortress.’
Altaïr looked first at Darim, who was frowning, then at Maria, who
gazed at him with eyes that said, Beware. Something was not right.
‘Very well,’ said Altaïr, cautiously, and they dismounted. Swami
gestured to some servant boys, who came forward to take the horses,
and they began their ascent to the citadel gates. There the guards
inclined their heads quickly, as though, like the villagers, they were keen
to avoid Altaïr’s eye, but instead of proceeding up the barbican, Swami
led them around the outside of the inner curtain. Altaïr regarded the
walls of the citadel stretching high above them, wanting to see the heart
of the Order, feeling irritation build – but some instinct told him to bide
his time. When they reached the residence it was a low building sunk
into the stone with a short arch at its doorway and stairs leading down
to a vestibule. The furniture was sparse and there were no staff to greet