the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

odd angle. One of Tamir’s bodyguards stepped forward to move the
body.
‘No,’ said Tamir, out of breath. He wiped his beard with the back of
his hand. ‘Leave it.’ He turned to address the crowd. ‘Let this be a lesson
to the rest of you. Think twice before you tell me something cannot be
done. Now get back to work.’
Leaving the old man’s body where it was – an interested dog already
beginning to sniff around it – the spectators resumed their day, activity
in the souk gradually building up so that in a few short moments it was
as though nothing had happened. As though the old man was forgotten.
Not by Altaïr, though. He found himself unclenching his fists, letting
out a long, slow breath, controlling and harnessing his anger. He bowed
his head slightly, eyes hidden by his cowl, and stole through the crowd
after Tamir, who was walking through the market, his two bodyguards
not far behind. Coming closer to him, Altaïr overheard him talking to the
traders, each of whom stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, agreeing
fiercely with everything they were told.
‘I can’t sell this,’ snapped Tamir. ‘Melt it down and try again. And if it
comes out just as poorly it’ll be you who gets melted down next.’
Wide eyes. Nod, nod, nod.
‘I don’t understand what you do all day. Your stall is filled with
goods. Your purse should be filled with coin. Why can’t you sell these
things? It isn’t difficult. Perhaps, you are not trying hard enough. Do you
require motivation?’
The trader was nodding before he realized what was being asked and
swiftly amended it to an equally emphatic shake. Tamir moved on. The
crowds swirled around him. His bodyguards … Now, was this an