the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

He reached below his desk and retrieved Al Mualim’s marker. A
feather from one of the Master’s beloved birds. He placed it on the desk
between them. ‘Let Al Mualim’s will be done,’ he said, as Altaïr took the
marker, stowing it carefully within his robe.
Soon after sunrise he left the Bureau and made his way back to the
Souk al-Silaah. When he arrived at the market all eyes seemed to be on a
sunken ceremonial courtyard in its centre.
He soon saw why: there stood the merchant Tamir. With two
glowering bodyguards at his rear, he commanded the courtyard,
towering over a trembling man who stood before him. He wore a
chequered turban, smart tunic and leg wrappings. His teeth were bared
beneath a dark moustache.
As Altaïr made his way round the outside of the crowd he kept an eye
on what was happening. Traders had moved from behind their stalls to
see too. The Damascus that either hurried between destinations or stood
lost in conversation had come to a temporary standstill.
‘If you’d just have a look …’ said the man cringing before Tamir.
‘I’ve no interest in your calculations,’ snapped Tamir. ‘The numbers
change nothing. Your men have failed to fill the order – which means I
have failed my client.’
Client, thought Altaïr. Who might that be?
The merchant swallowed. His eyes went to the crowd looking for
salvation. He found none there. The market guards stood with blank
expressions and unseeing eyes while the spectators simply stared, agog.
Altaïr was sickened by them, all of them: the vultures watching, the
guards who did nothing. But most of all Tamir.
‘We need more time,’ pleaded the merchant. Perhaps he realized that