the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

his hood over his head, liking the feel of it and breathing in the scent of
the clean cloth.
He put his hands to his face and felt that his beard had been tended.
Not far away were his boots, and on a table by the side of the bed he
saw his blade mechanism, its new design gleaned from the Apple. It
looked impossibly advanced, and he thought of the other designs he had
discovered. He needed the assistance of a blacksmith to make the
objects. But first …
‘My pack?’ he asked of Mukhlis, who had scrambled to his feet.
‘Where is my pack?’
Wordlessly, Mukhlis indicated where it sat on the stone at the head of
the bed and Altaïr glanced at its familiar shape. ‘Did you look inside?’ he
asked.
Mukhlis shook his head firmly and Altaïr looked at him searchingly.
Then, believing him, he relaxed and reached for his boots, pulling them
on, wincing as he did so.
‘I have you to thank for tending me,’ he said. ‘I would be dead by the
waterhole were it not for you.’
Scoffing, Mukhlis retook his seat. ‘My wife and daughter cared for
you, and I must thank you. You saved me from a grisly death at the
hands of those bandits.’ He leaned forward. ‘Your actions were those of
the Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad of legend. I’ve told everyone.’
‘People know I’m here?’
Mukhlis spread his hands. ‘Of course. The whole village knows the
tale of the hero who delivered me from the hands of death. Everybody
believes it was you.’
‘And what makes them think that?’ asked Altaïr.