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An archer hit the dusty ground below the rooftop, blood splashing onto the dust and the robes of nearby citizens from the stab wound in his back. A white-robed man leapt overhead, ignoring the screams from the people below as they scrambled away from the body, the area emptying temporarily. He sprinted away from the grotesque scene, landing on the next rooftop and making sure that the blood-red feather was still tucked safely away in his large, brown belt. The figure slowed as a wooden, cross-beamed roof came into view. He checked that no prying eyes were watching before dropping down a square opening onto the ledge below.

Master Assassin Altair Ibn La-Ahad paused for a moment to let his honey-gold colored eyes adjust to the darkness. Night had long ago fallen over the great city of Jerusalem, the stars barely lighting the desert landscape. The Assassin's Bureau was empty, save for a novice sleeping, curled, on the pillows that lined a corner of the small room. Sliding off the edge of the fountain, the assassin's silent footsteps carried him to the adjoining room, only for find an empty bench and quill stuck in an empty ink well. Upon seeing that neither the rafiq or the novice were going to wake any time soon, he retreated to a small corner in between the fountain and the wall, crossing his muscular arms and waiting for any sign of movement.

The sun soon replaced the moon in the sky, its light settling on the novice's eyelids. A groan, a stretch, and a rubbing of the eyes later, the sleepy young man sat up. He was met with the sight of the markings on a robe that signified someone whose rank was miles higher than his. The novice jumped up, nearly knocking over a potted plant in the process, sleep replaced with nerve as he adjusted his robes.

"Master Altair, I...um..I'll get the rafiq for you." he squeaked, hastily rushing into the other room.

Altair swiftly stood and followed him, leaning on the wooden counter as he waited for his long-time friend to waken and emerge from his quarters. The novices were as amusing as they were nervous. If you did not steer them on the right path, they would bumble about until you gave them an order or a suggestion. He could hear the young novice doing just that, unsure if he should shake the rafiq or simply call his name until he woke. Miniscule seconds past before a sharp, somewhat sarcastic and cross comment was made. The novice came out of the quarters, his face pale and scared. Malik stumbled out, shrugging his right arm into the black dai's robe.

Malik was an Arabian by birth, his black hair and dark skin signifying his lineage. His eyes were a dark brown that was near black, and they were accompanied by a sharp tongue and heated glare. The dai only had one arm though, his left arm was amputated just above the elbow. In a fight in Solomon's Temple, his arm and brother's life had been claimed. Malik was also not a morning person, had never been a morning person, and never would be a morning person.

"Safety and peace, Brother."

"Upon you as well."

Malik was also not Altair's brother. But, if you were in the Assassin's Order, you were a Brother to the other Assassins. Altair was surprised to have gotten a cordial greeting from the dai, and decided to proceed while he was still in a decent mood. "The task is complete. Abu Al-Khayer is dead, as are his guards."

"Hmph."

A disgruntled Malik snatched the feather from his hand, placing his in a large book that contained information on the Assassin's latest targets. This was accompanied by a frantic scribbling on a piece of parchment, and then promptly followed with a slam of the feather returning to the ink well. The golden eyed assassin sighed and took a step toward the doorway, preparing to flee if his Brother were to overreact at the news that he was about to be given.

"Malik."

The rafiq turned from the book shelf and shot him a nasty glare that would have made any other man quiver in his boots.

"What?!"

"Grand Master Ra'uf wishes for us to return to Masyaf together to train the new novices that have arrived."

Malik stared at him for a second more before slowly lowering his head down until a solid thunk on the wood announced that skull had connected with counter. Altair hastily added, "We leave in a hour." before making a hasty escape, leaving the novice to deal with the wrath of the rafiq. The morning sun was already heating the landscape as merchants set up their stalls for the day of bartering, trading, and selling. Citizens of Jerusalem were beginning to emerge from their homes, women in their traditional burkas, baskets on one arm, children on the other. Men were heading for their work, some still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. The Master Assassin found a ladder and came down from the rooftops, blending in seamlessly with the crowd that was moving for the market.

Preparations for the two day travel would be taken care of quickly. Simple things, such as food, water, and bandages were easily found. The merchants were more than surprised when the items were bartered for harshly, as they had been expecting an easy bidding from sleepy customers. Altair was neither sleepy nor stupid, and he knew what prices to pay for the quality of said items. When purchases had been made and preparations completed, he began to weave in out of crowds to exit the market, taking humor in the way some merchants and traders eyed him with suspicion. Many a time had he leapt through merchant's stalls to escape the guards, and they had begun to recognize the man who could very well leap through their stall at a moment's notice.

When he was free of the crowds, the 25 year old moved swiftly to the outskirts of the city. It had taken him the better part of the designated hour to acquire the supplies needed, and he still needed to ready his horse for the journey. He quickened from a walk to a lope, long legs carrying his six foot-tall frame toward the stables. It only took him a matter of minutes to reach his destination, the braying of horses and foals filling his ears. A young woman was standing in front of the small field that led to opened stable doors. A few horses wandered in and out of the stables, most grazing near hay piles that were piled in corners of the yard. She was washing a short-legged mare, a beautiful bay that seemed to be enjoying the treatment.

"Ahlan, Abida." _Hello, Abida. _

"Ahlan wa sahlan Altair!" _Welcome Altair! _"I have noticed that the guards are more alert. Am I correct in guessing that your work has been successful?"

"Indeed."

Abida began to rinse the mare off, the black mane and tail shining in the sunlight. "Khalil is in the stable behind the house, on the right. He has been washed, fed and groomed. His tack is clean and waiting for you in his stall."

"Shokran." _Thank you. _

She laughed as the assassin walked away with the swagger that caused women to gossip non-stop. He was a man of few words, but she knew that he was passionate about the things he loved. His horse was one of them. Khalil was waiting in the stable area as promised, munching lazily on a piece of hay. The horse was a massive 18 hands tall, weighing in at 2,200 pounds, a beautiful Perecheron breed that he had bought from a traveling merchant as a foal. The horse had a straight profile, clean and muscular legs that created a pristine look. His broad forehead, large eyes and small ears gave him a friendly face that made many guards and other horseman stare. A black mane and tail, a dapple gray coat, and black fur on his fetlocks finished the beautiful horse.

As Altair walked toward his horse he smiled. Many a time had Brothers tried to buy the horse, both when he was a foal and as an adult. But Altair had trained and loved his Perecheron for so long he could not bear to sell him. This love was shown when the big horse's ears perked and his head flew up, eyes alert and forward. A knicker flew from his throat, and he pranced up to the gate to meet his master.

"What a fine horse you have! Oh I wish I could buy Khalil."

The Master Assassin turned to greet Ahearn, an older 35 year old Irish man that was the owner of the stables, along with his wife. He had first met Ahearn when the horse stabler had moved from his home country to Jerusalem and opened a brand new stable with Abida, whom he had recently married. It had seemed odd for Ahearn to move from his country to one so far away, but he was one of the few people that Altair trusted. He always stabled Khalil with the Irish man when in Jerusalem, and with the activity surrounding the assassinations, it had not taken the stabler long to figure out what his job was.

"You say that whenever I stable him here."

"Of course! He is a gorgeous animal!"

The dark haired, blue eyed man sauntered up and stroked Khalil's muzzle smiling with genuine happiness.

"Would like some help with his tack?"

"If you are not too busy my friend." Altair replied smoothly, stroking the Perechone's ears. The two moved toward the entrance to the stables, moving into the cool air to a chorus of knickers and whinnies. The empty stall at the end of the aisle had been freshly cleaned, but on the far wall was the tack that had been cleaned for the journey back to Masyaf. Khalil's saddle, saddle blanket, bridle and saddle bags were always distinguishable from the other's tack. On the back saddle flaps, tan saddle blanket, and sides of the bit in his bridle was the black assassin's symbol. They were all made of the finest leather in Israel and were kept in the best condition, and the saddle blanket was made of cotton, but lined with soft deer hide. Altair's wife had nearly had a heart attack over the price of the tack, but she knew how much Khalil meant to him.

"I must admit, we are the luckiest men alive." Ahearn smiled as he gently took the saddle bags and bridle off the wooden stands. The Assassin chuckled as he grabbed the blanket and saddle, hefting both onto his hip as they exited the stall and the building.

"Indeed." was his simple agreement.

Khalil was damn near panting by the time they returned, shifting back and forth eagerly as he spotted his saddle. To Altair's surprise, Malik was leading a blood bay Arabian out of the stable a few feet away, the saddle and blanket already fixed into place, the bridle swinging on his shoulder. The rafiq did not look happy, but he was in a better mood than he had been in earlier.

"Did you get the supplies?"

The saddle was hefted onto Khalil's back and centered. "When have I ever forgotten the supplies."

A grunt was Malik's reply. Ahearn laughed as he gently slipped the bit into Khalil's mouth, adjusting the bridle to the horse's head. The supplies were placed in his saddle bags, and his cinch tightened. Both assassins mounted their stallions, nudging both into a gentle trot. The other man waved and said his goodbyes from the ground, grinning widely as he watched them ride away. As they merged with the flow of citizens, the people moved aside to let both horses through. No one had a wish to be trampled today. It did not take long for them to reach the main gate leading out of the city. Citizens were waiting in a massive line as the guards stopped anyone entering and leaving Jerusalem, questioning them thoroughly before either rejecting them or grudgingly letting them through. Both assassins sighed as they settled into the saddle, hoping to have little trouble exiting the area. By the time it came their turn to be interrogated, the sun was high in the sky, the heat beating down on their sweaty backs. They were lucky, as the guards on duty were also hot and tired, and were in no mood to severely question the two riders. They were let through with no problems, and the horses were pushed into a trot as the Assassin's turned their mounts heads for Masyaf.