As they journeyed for Sultan’s Keep, Altair saw the results of his actions throughout the decades. The villages he had destroyed in Demenhur. The shops he had burned to soot in Sarasin. He had sacrificed much to garner the sultan’s favor. If only he had known it was his daama father he was slaving for.
“At last,” Kifah shouted as they raced across the final stretch of Sarasin’s darkness, the morning light of Sultan’s Keep brightening with each heave of their horses.
Arawiyans waded the sandy streets and loitered in the shadows. Date palms swayed in the idle breeze as children ran around their thick trunks. Women hoisted baskets of clothes and fruit, and merchants carted wares. To them, the new king was not an affliction; he was no calamity.
Not yet.
Altair noted the sun’s position. By now, the imposter of a caliph should be lying in a pool of his own black blood.
There was a time when he envied hashashins. He’d seen Nasir meander through a crowd and casually perch atop a roof before his marks fell one after the other. There was grace to a hashashin’s movements, but an extra level of it when it came to the prince.
It was strange, how differently they viewed death. Nasir saw the many pieces that made one person. Altair saw the many people that made a contingent, and it was a contrast he could appreciate.
His palms slickened with anticipation. “Do you remember the way?”
“You didn’t even see Aya’s house,” Kifah said, casting him a look. “What if I take you to a morgue?”
“Always so morbid,” he said. “The house belongs to me.” “I didn’t know it was your house.”
“Akhh, One of Nine. There is much about me you’ve yet to uncover,” Altair crowed. “I can recount every room, and every bed, and every time—”
Kifah cleared her throat. “You know, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
The streets were tame, people going about as if nothing were amiss, swarming stalls of fresh vegetables and fruits, and even if the city had been as dark as Sarasin, the smell of baked goods would have been a clear enough indicator that it was just after dawn.
Altair paid a boy for a fold of pita lathered with labneh, passing half to Kifah.
“You don’t seem anxious,” Kifah said.
He cut his gaze to her. “I thought we already had this discussion.”
They dismounted and let their horses free. Altair led Kifah down passageways and shortcuts he had discovered and collected along the years, stopping in his favorite alcove fitted in the remnant of space between two merchant houses and his own, with a fountain tiled in blue and red that he had commissioned himself.
“A beauty, isn’t she?”
Kifah didn’t appreciate it. “If you like doing nothing.” Altair sighed and gestured to the alley leading to the house,
but paused when several voices and the hissing of steel against stone drifted to them.
“Is that a grinding stone?” Kifah whispered with a frown, bald head gleaming. “It looks like someone’s made themselves
at home.”
They crept through, footsteps light and breathing shallow. The weight of his scimitars was a reassurance, even if a reminder of his halved eyesight. In the courtyard, a man with a tasseled turban stood with around forty or so others, hands on his hips as he surveyed their progress, readying weapons and securing provisions.
“Khaldun?” Altair guessed.
The man whirled in surprise. It was him.
Altair grinned. “I should have known it was you.”
The half Sarasin clearly looked too pleased for Kifah’s liking, for she leaned forward and said, “Misk Khaldun? I overheard that his wife chased him off.”
Altair’s eyebrows flew upward. “Are we talking of the same girl Benyamin gave you permission to marry?”
Misk floundered. He wasn’t bound by any pact. He could have easily told the girl—he had to trust her enough to want to spend the rest of his days with her.
Altair laughed. “Akhh, now this is a tale I must hear and a girl I must meet.”
Kifah murmured something too low to hear.
“What brings you to Sultan’s Keep?” Altair asked. Misk was one of his better spiders, ambitious and honest. It was because of his quick thinking months ago that they’d secured a trade route with the outlying villages of western Demenhur for the region’s supple wood—though that wasn’t why he’d been stationed there. He had been tasked with uncovering Zafira’s identity, and he’d failed.
He’d returned months later with something else, instead. Altair had seen the look in Misk’s eyes, a look that would overcome Benyamin whenever he’d speak of Aya. Altair still remembered his envy with shame.
“Your note to escape came too late. The western villages are gone,” Misk said, and Altair wished he didn’t feel his pointed words so keenly. “My home. My life. The lives of everyone I knew.” He looked toward the palace. “Vengeance didn’t seem so terrible an idea.”
These were the men Haytham had spoken of, the ones Altair had ventured to find. The rebels. They were all Demenhune, far from their snowy abode.
Altair regarded him. “In that case, marhaba. You may die with us, but at least we will die fighting.”
Misk lowered his head, accepting. Never had Altair expected rallying rebels to be this easy.
“What of your wife?” Kifah snapped, and Misk looked affronted. “Your duty to her precedes your duty to your kingdom.”
Altair held his tongue. She was right, but he wasn’t one to meddle in the affairs of others, especially when it came to wives as fiery as it seemed Misk’s was.
A cry echoed through the morning air and every gaze flew upward as something hurtled past the date palm, diving for them. Hirsi. Altair held out his arm and the bird landed with spread wings.
Altair’s spirits rose. He had reached Sultan’s Keep. The rebels were on his side. His mother would travel for the Great Library now that Hirsi had returned—
“Oi,” said Kifah, full of foreboding. “Is that … your note?” Hirsi chirped proudly.
