the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

patchwork of carts, stands and merchants’ tables. Sweet scents rose to
Altaïr on his perch high above: perfumes and oils, spices and pastries.
Everywhere customers, merchants and traders were chattering or
moving quickly through the crowds. The city’s people either stood and
talked or hurried from one place to the next. There was no in-between, it
seemed – not here, anyway. He watched them for a while, then
clambered from the rooftop and, blending into the crowds, listened.
Listening for one word.
‘Tamir.’
The three merchants were huddled in the shade, talking quietly but
with all kinds of wild hand movements. It was they who had said the
name, and Altaïr sidled over towards them, turning his back and hearing
Al Mualim’s tutelage in his head as he did so: ‘Never make eye contact,
always look occupied, stay relaxed.’
‘He’s called another meeting,’ heard Altaïr, unable to place which of
the men was speaking. Who was the ‘he’ they mentioned? Tamir,
presumably. Altaïr listened, making a mental note of the meeting place.
‘What is it this time? Another warning? Another execution?’
‘No. He has work for us.’
‘Which means we won’t be paid.’
‘He’s abandoned the ways of the merchant guild. Does as he pleases
now …’
They began discussing a large deal – the biggest ever, said one, in
hushed tones – when suddenly they stopped. Not far away an orator
with a close-trimmed black beard had taken his place at his stand, and
was now staring at the merchants with dark, hooded eyes. Threatening
eyes.