the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

the Master smiled when he told him to complete his enquiries then
report to the Assassins’ Bureau rafiq in Jerusalem.
Now, walking into the Bureau, he knew why. It was because it
amused him to think of Altaïr once more crossing paths with Malik.
The Assassin stood up from behind the desk as Altaïr entered. For a
moment the two regarded each other, neither hiding his disdain. Then,
slowly, Malik turned, showing Altaïr where his arm had once been.
Altaïr blanched. Of course. Damaged in the fight with de Sable’s men,
the best surgeons in Masyaf had been unable to save Malik’s left arm –
and so had been forced to amputate.
Malik smiled the bittersweet smile of victory that had come at too
high a price, and Altaïr remembered himself. He remembered that he
had no business treating Malik with anything but humility and respect.
He bowed his head to acknowledge the other man’s losses. His brother.
His arm. His status.
‘Safety and peace, Malik,’ he said at last.
‘Your presence here deprives me of both,’ spat Malik. He, however,
had plenty of business treating Altaïr with disdain – and evidently
intended to do so. ‘What do you want?’
‘Al Mualim has asked –’
‘That you perform some task in an effort to redeem yourself?’ sneered
Malik. ‘So. Out with it. What have you learned?’
‘This is what I know,’ answered Altaïr. ‘The target is Talal, who
traffics in human lives, kidnapping Jerusalem’s citizens and selling them
into slavery. His base is a warehouse located inside the barbican north of
here. As we speak, he prepares a caravan for travel. I’ll strike while he’s
inspecting his stock. If I can avoid his men, Talal himself should prove