the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Never – not in his darkest imaginings – had he foreseen failure, and
yet …
An Assassin hailed him as he made his way across the sun-dappled
marketplace, and he pulled himself together, pushing back his shoulders
and holding up his head, trying to summon from within the great
Assassin who had left Masyaf, rather than the empty-handed fool who
had returned.
It was Rauf, and Altaïr’s heart sank further – if that were possible,
which he sincerely doubted. Of all the people to greet him on his return
it would have to be Rauf, who worshipped Altaïr like a god. It looked as
though the younger man had been waiting from him, wiling away the
time by a walled fountain. Indeed, he bounded up now with wide and
eager eyes, oblivious to the nimbus of failure that Altaïr felt around
himself.
‘Altaïr – you’ve returned.’ He was beaming, as pleased as a puppy to
see him.
Altaïr nodded slowly. He watched as behind Rauf an elderly merchant
refreshed himself at the fountainhead then greeted a younger woman,
who arrived carrying a vase decorated with gazelles. She placed it on the
low wall surrounding the waterhole and they began to talk, the woman
excited, gesticulating. Altaïr envied them. He envied them both.
‘It is good to see you’re unharmed,’ continued Rauf. ‘I trust your
mission was a success?’
Altaïr ignored the question, still watching those at the fountain. He
was finding it difficult to meet Rauf’s eye. ‘Is the Master in his tower?’ he
asked at last, tearing his gaze away.
‘Yes, yes.’ Rauf was squinting as though to divine somehow what was