the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

barbarism.
Now de Naplouse had reached the final bed in the ward. In moments
he would leave and Altaïr’s chance would be gone. Resolved, the
Assassin cast a look behind him: the guards were still occupied at the
end of the hall. He moved out of the assembly of scholars, coming up
behind de Naplouse as the Grand Master bent to his patient.
Altaïr’s blade sprang forth and he rammed it home, reaching for de
Naplouse and stifling his cry as he arched his back in pain. Almost
gently, the Assassin lowered the skewered doctor to the floor. ‘Let go
your burden,’ he whispered.
De Naplouse blinked and looked up at him – into the face of his
Assassin. But there was no fear in those dying eyes: what Altaïr saw was
concern. ‘Ah … I’ll rest now, yes?’ he said. ‘The endless dream calls to
me. But before I close my eyes, I must know – what will become of my
children?’
Children? ‘You mean the people made to suffer your cruel
experiments?’ Altaïr couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice. ‘They’ll be
free now to return to their homes.’
De Naplouse laughed drily. ‘Homes? What homes? The sewers? The
brothels? The prisons we dragged them from?’
‘You took these people against their will,’ said Altaïr.
‘Yes. What little will there was for them to have,’ gasped de Naplouse.
‘Are you really so naïve? Do you appease a crying child simply because
he wails? “But I want to play with fire, Father.” What would you say?
“As you wish”? Ah … but then you’d answer for his burns.’
‘These are not children,’ said Altaïr, wanting to understand the dying
man, ‘but men and women full grown.’