the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

them. Altaïr was used to modest accommodation – he demanded it, in
fact – but here in Masyaf, as the Assassin Master, he expected his
accommodation to be in the Master’s tower or equivalent.
Bristling, he turned, about to remonstrate with Swami, who stood in
the vestibule with the same obsequious grin on his face, when Maria
grabbed his arm and squeezed it, stopping him.
‘Where is Sef?’ she asked Swami. She was smiling pleasantly, though
Altaïr knew that she loathed Swami. Loathed him with every fibre in her
body. ‘I would like Sef sent here at once, please.’
Swami looked pained. ‘I regret that Sef is not here. He has had to
travel to Alamut.’
‘His family?’
‘Are accompanying him.’
Maria shot a look of concern to Altaïr.
‘What business did my brother have in Alamut?’ snapped Darim, even
more put out then his parents by the scant quarters.
‘Alas, I do not know,’ oozed Swami.
Altaïr took a deep breath and approached Swami. The messenger’s
scar no longer crinkled as the sycophantic smile slid from his face.
Perhaps he was suddenly reminded that this was Altaïr, the Master,
whose skill in battle was matched only by his fierceness in the
classroom.
‘Inform Malik at once that I wish to see him,’ growled Altaïr. ‘Tell him
he has some explaining to do.’
Swami swallowed, wringing his hands a little theatrically. ‘Malik is in
prison, Master.’
Altaïr started. ‘In prison? Why?’