the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

56
There had been fights in which Altaïr had had to intervene, disputes
between traders that had required his moderation, land arguments
between neighbours, but none had been as thorny as that of the two
women who appeared to be fighting over a man. The man in question,
Aaron, sat on a bench in the shade, cowering as the two women argued.
Mukhlis, who had walked the village with Altaïr as he went about his
business, was trying to intercede, while Altaïr stood at one remove, his
arms folded, patiently waiting for a break in hostilities so that he might
speak to them. He’d already decided what to say: Aaron would have to
exercise free will in this instance, whether he liked it or not. Altaïr’s real
concerns lay with the boy, whose fever had yet to break and to whom he
had administered a potion, its recipe, of course, gleaned from the Apple.
Or with the basket weaver who was creating new tools for himself to
specifications given to him by Altaïr, who had transcribed them from the
Apple.
Or to the blacksmith, who had cast his eye over the drawings Altaïr
had given him, turned them upside down and squinted at them, then
laid them out on a table so that Altaïr could point out exactly what
needed forging. Soon the Assassin would have new equipment; new
weapons, the like of which had never been seen.
Or to the man who had been watching him these past few days, who