The Golden City, page 16
part #1 of Assassin's Creed Series
He stepped out of the shadows and into the room. The man rolled his head to look at Hytham through squinted eyes, as if it was difficult to focus. “You,” he said, sounding almost disappointed. “I’d hoped it would be the other one.”
Basim. Hytham’s disquiet deepened. “What do you want with him?”
The man shook his head, dropping his chin to his chest. “Not me. Someone else wants him.”
“Who? Isaac? Where is he?”
The man smiled, and there was blood on his teeth. “You’ll get nothing more from me. You shouldn’t have come to this city. It’s already claimed. All that’s left is for you to scratch for crumbs.”
He lunged at Hytham, knocking back his chair with the sudden, violent movement. There was no grace in the attack, only a kind of wild desperation. The man hadn’t even bothered to pick up his sword.
Hytham caught him and stabbed him with the Hidden Blade, giving him the quick death he’d been looking for, a release from the agony of the axe wound. He felt a brief stab of regret at not being able to interrogate the man further, but he suspected he’d obtained all the information he could.
When it was done, Hytham guided the man’s body gently to the floor, searched him quickly, and then turned his attention to the tavern around him.
The man had used all of his strength to get back here, though he knew his wound was likely fatal. What task did he come here for, and had he completed it before Hytham arrived?
He began a methodical search of the room, moving furniture, searching on shelves and cabinets, tapping the walls and floor. This place could have many hidden nooks where things might be concealed. Hytham wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he thought he would know it when he saw it.
He moved through the rest of the building room by room, but when he finally found what he was looking for, it was behind a loose stone in the firepit in the building’s rear courtyard, where more tables had been abandoned to gather dirt and bird droppings. Hytham pulled the stone free and reached his hand in the dark space revealed. He pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
His heart sped up as he unfolded the message. He recognized the handwriting at once. He’d seen the meticulous lettering all over the tables in Leo’s study room.
Theodore, the tutor.
The message bore today’s date, and described the time of night when the assassination should take place. Theodore went on to say that he would poison the guards at the south entrance to the children’s wing to clear the way. The letter was unsigned, of course, but it was damning enough without a signature.
Hytham refolded the parchment and started to put it inside his uniform, when he thought he heard a soft sound. He froze, listening, but there was only silence and the faint whistling of the wind through the courtyard, stirring dead leaves into piles around the faded chairs and benches.
But Hytham knew what he’d heard. It was the sound that might be made when the front door to the tavern opened and shut, letting in a soft gust of wind that barely rattled the glasses on their shelves.
It was as he’d told Leo. Sometimes the littlest things could give you away.
And now Hytham knew why the man had prolonged his agony to get back here. It hadn’t been to destroy the message and protect Theodore. The Order cared nothing for him. They had only wanted to lure an Assassin here – Basim, apparently.
Hytham didn’t know how many there were, but he knew he had only seconds to act. He ran to the low wall bounding the courtyard on three sides. He looked beyond it to the street to see if there was a path to freedom, but his heart sank when he saw several shadows converging on the building from that direction, hemming him in.
He’d have to fight his way out. But if he was taken, he needed to leave the letter someplace Basim might find it later. It was a slim hope, but if anyone could follow this twisted trail, it was the Master Assassin.
Hytham crouched by the wall. It was crumbling in places, piles of loose stone everywhere. He stuffed the letter into one of these, stacking the stones on top so the letter wouldn’t blow away. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, but it would have to do.
When he was finished, Hytham stood and went to the center of the courtyard. It was as good a place as any to make his stand.
Two men stepped out of the rear entrance to the tavern, armed with swords. Hytham glanced over his shoulder and saw three more enemies converging on him from the street – two women and another man.
“Only five of you?” he said, feeling an echo of the bravado of the man he’d just killed. He gave a half-hearted salute with his sword, defiance in his smile.
There was still the low wall between himself and the three attackers behind him. In a burst of movement, Hytham grabbed two of the crumbling stones at the base of the wall and threw them at the men in front of him. One stone missed entirely, but the other caught one of the men in the side of the head. He staggered back and dropped to one knee, cursing.
Hytham had no time to celebrate the small victory. He swung round as the first woman was leaping over the wall. He caught her with an arm crosswise at her chest, planting her on her back on the hard stone of the courtyard. The air whooshed out of her lungs and she lay stunned.
The other woman stayed on her side of the wall. “Put him down,” she growled at the others.
“We’re supposed to take him alive,” the man who’d been hit with the stone snapped at her.
“Doesn’t mean he can’t be in pain,” the woman said. She drew a knife and flicked it at Hytham. He batted it out of the air with his sword at the same time the other man in the courtyard came at him. Hytham turned to block his strike, but at the last second the man checked his sword swing and landed a kick to Hytham’s injured knee.
There was no question of staying on his feet. Hytham’s leg buckled, and he went down with a curse and cry of pain. The woman he’d knocked prone took advantage of his position to get behind him, putting a knife against his throat.
“Move and I’ll cut you open,” she said.
Hytham laughed. He had no desire to be taken alive.
He reached up, sliding his hand between the knife and his neck. The blade bit deep into his palm, but Hytham gritted his teeth and wrenched it aside.
It wouldn’t be enough. The men were behind him now too. They seized his arms, yanking them behind his back. His shoulders burned, and his knee was a ball of agony, but still Hytham struggled. He struggled until he felt a blow at the back of his head. The moonlight seemed to brighten for an instant, then everything went black.
Chapter Eighteen
Hytham came to consciousness slowly, in shards of pain lancing through his skull, flickering lights at the edge of his vision, and voices whispering, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He tried to claw his way up out of the darkness, to force his eyes open, but it was too difficult, and the blackness swallowed him again.
When next he woke, he was more alert, but it didn’t matter. Wherever he was, it was pitch black in the room. He was lying on his side on a dirt floor with his wrists shackled behind him. He shifted, rolling to his back to take some of the pressure off his right shoulder. Pain shot up his leg, and Hytham bit back a groan. His mouth was bone dry, and it hurt to breathe, as if someone had kicked him in his already bruised ribs.
Good a time as any to assess his injuries, he supposed.
Carefully, he bent his knees, drawing them up toward his body. This time the pain made gold spots dance across Hytham’s vision, and he realized he was panting, cold sweat dripping down his neck. Possibly a broken knee then, or at least one that was severely bruised. Hard to say until the swelling went down. He could be certain he wouldn’t be running long distances anytime soon. That was probably why his captors hadn’t bothered to tie him at the ankles.
He flexed the fingers of the hand that had taken the knife slash. He felt the stiff cloth of a bandage wrapped around his palm. Of course. His captors hadn’t wanted him to leave a blood trail for someone to track him to wherever they’d brought him.
Lying on his back, he listened for sounds of anyone moving nearby. The darkness was absolute, but distantly, he heard the whistle of the wind outside, the night insects chirruping. He hadn’t been unconscious very long, assuming this was still the same night he’d gone chasing after the assassin that had attacked Leo.
Leo. Hytham let out a breath and allowed himself to feel how thoroughly he’d failed the boy, leaving him alone to chase after a target that had led him straight into a trap.
And Basim. By now, he would have noticed Hytham’s absence, but would he be able to find him? Would he even try? Hytham couldn’t help entertaining the latter thought. Hytham had run off, against Basim’s orders, and been captured. It would be well within Basim’s authority to cut Hytham loose and focus on Leo’s protection. It was the right thing to do.
Basim would no longer have to worry about Hytham watching him either, spying on him for the Hidden Ones.
What Hytham had done couldn’t be changed, and it did him no good to dwell on it. Escape was what he needed to focus on now, and to do that, he’d need to learn more about his captors.
Hytham listened again, lying still in the darkness, keeping weight off his injured knee. Finally, after about an hour or so of nothing, he heard a door open and close somewhere outside the room, and two people’s voices – a man and woman – drifted to him through the thin walls. He thought he recognized the woman from the fight in the courtyard.
The voices stopped outside the room, and finally, Hytham could make out what they were saying.
“We’ll get what we can out of this one until Isaac arrives,” the woman was saying. “Are you ready, Arman?”
The man, Arman, answered in a honeyed voice that made Hytham’s skin crawl. “I’m always ready to serve. How coherent would you like him to be for Isaac’s questioning?”
Sweat broke out on Hytham’s forehead, his heartbeat loud in his ears, but he forced the fear aside. There was no point in being afraid, he told himself. Whatever was going to happen to him in the next few hours was going to happen. He’d brought this fate on himself.
He focused instead on the name – Isaac. The leader of the Order of the Ancients in Constantinople. He was coming here to interrogate Hytham, but why? His captors had made it clear that they were only interested in Basim. Either they were hoping Hytham had his confidence, or they hoped to use him as bait to draw Basim in.
They would be disappointed in either case.
Hytham lay back on the hard dirt floor, staring up into endless darkness. This was not going to be easy.
He remembered that day he and Basim had sparred in the olive grove. He remembered the mist clinging to his skin, wavering like sea foam around his waist. The thrill of sparring with a worthy opponent. He could have learned much from Basim, if he hadn’t been so suspicious of the man.
The door opened. Candlelight poured into the room, and though it was sparse light, it still made Hytham’s eyes sting after the total darkness. The woman and his assumed torturer, Arman, walked in. She was the woman from the courtyard. She was tall, her long dark hair swept back from her face, her expression all business as she regarded him.
“Let’s get him up into a chair,” she said, and Arman nodded and left the room, leaving them briefly alone. She folded her arms, and something like disappointment flashed over her face. “You fell into a trap that wasn’t meant for you,” she said, half accusingly. “Now we’re going to have to make the best of it.”
He lifted his shoulders as best he could while tied. “Life doesn’t always give us the choices or situations we might desire,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Would you like some water?” she asked. “I’d be happy to get you some.”
“Will you untie me so I may drink it?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“Then I thank you, but no,” he said.
Hytham knew the kindness and civility was a facade, all part of the game of interrogation. He was supposed to think kindly toward this woman, to think that she was not responsible for whatever came next and would help him if she could.
His task was not to believe it.
Arman came back with two chairs and set them roughly three feet apart in the center of the room. Now that Hytham could look around the space by candlelight, he saw it was much smaller than he’d thought. A few empty shelves lined the walls, but the rest of the space had been cleared, though there were indentations left on the dirt floor where heavier objects or furniture had once rested. There were no windows, and the smell of damp earth was strong in his nostrils. Hytham concluded they must be underground. He had no way of knowing if they were still in the city, but he suspected they were. The Order would not risk taking him far. Or maybe that was just a fragile hope on his part.
Arman and the woman came around behind him and lifted him by the armpits, depositing him in the chair with as much courtesy as one could when dealing with a bound man. Hytham carefully bent his injured knee, trying not to draw attention to the fact that it pained him. The woman was still standing behind him, and he felt her uncurl his fingers to get a look at the bandage on his hand.
“This will have to be changed soon,” she said, making a noise of concern that almost caused Hytham to smile. She was very good at playing her part. “I’ll see to it.” She left the room as if to do just that, shutting the door behind her.
Without the light spilling in from the door, the room was now lit only by a pair of candles that Arman had placed on the floor nearby. They were out of Hytham’s reach at the moment, but if he could get free, they would make decent weapons.
Arman sat back in his chair, watching him. He had a dark, well-kept beard and brown eyes, though the right eye was filled with red, and there was a bruise on his temple as if he’d been in a fight recently, though Hytham didn’t remember seeing him at the courtyard. Had he been one of the assassins that had escaped the palace?
Arman caught him staring at the wound. “A small injury. Nothing to worry about,” he said. “I was hunting the boy, but he slipped away from me.” He sounded impressed. “That’s never happened before. Under other circumstances, it would have been a novelty.” He regarded Hytham with interest, the way one would a particularly colorful insect. “Was that your doing? Were you grooming the boy to make him one of yours? Is that your intention?”
Hytham bristled, but he kept his mouth shut. The man’s words were designed to provoke, nothing more.
Arman nodded, as if he hadn’t really expected an answer. “Well, if that is your goal, you’re doing a fine job. If the boy lives, he’ll know nothing but your way of life, and the lessons that you’ve taught him will become sacred. You’re very good at what you do, Hytham.”
Hytham inclined his head at the compliment. Arman smiled, leaving the rest of his thoughts unspoken but clear: I am also good at what I do.
“How is your knee?” Arman asked, and Hytham’s breath caught, just slightly. Still, he didn’t answer.
The blow, when it came, was so quick Hytham couldn’t track it. There was a blur of movement and then white-hot pain. Hytham curled in on himself instinctively, seeking to protect the injury, but Arman grabbed both his legs and forced them back to the floor. Hytham grunted but refused to cry out.
“In these situations, it’s almost not worth going after the injured limb,” Arman said conversationally. “At least not too much. If I overdo these things, eventually, you’ll come to expect the pain, and so it won’t mean anything to you.” He shifted in his seat, turning to Hytham’s uninjured knee. “On the other hand, if you threaten what’s perfectly healthy, dangle the possibility of making you lame, then we may get somewhere.”
He rested his hand lightly on Hytham’s good knee.
The blood roared in Hytham’s ears, and he fought to control his breathing. The weight of the man’s hand on him may as well have been an anvil. But he forced himself to meet the man’s gaze, putting all the coldness of his training into his expression. A mantle of calm settled over him. It didn’t matter what this man did to him. This man was nothing compared to the people he called brothers. He wouldn’t betray them. He wouldn’t betray Basim.
“Answer a question for me, if you wouldn’t mind,” Arman said, tapping Hytham’s good knee with his index finger. “Why did Basim put you in the palace with the boy? Why did he not go himself?”
Hytham hesitated, licking dry, cracked lips as he pretended to contemplate the question.
Arman smiled encouragingly. “This bit of information isn’t a betrayal, Hytham,” he said. “It’s more a matter of opinion than anything else. Give me your opinion about Basim, and afterward we’ll have some water. I can see that you’re thirsty.”
Still that hand resting lightly on his uninjured knee. Not a threat now, but a reassurance. Everything is going to be fine.
Hytham leaned forward slightly as if to speak. Arman waited expectantly.
“Only an opinion,” Hytham said thoughtfully, and then he brought his knees together as hard as he could, crushing Arman’s fingers between them.
It wasn’t as devastating a blow as Hytham would have liked. He didn’t have the leverage from his seated position, so there wasn’t enough strength to break bones, but Arman felt it.
Oh yes, he felt it.
Arman let out an involuntary cry of pain and tried to snatch his hand back. Hytham planted his feet on the floor and sprang up, dragging the chair with him as he plowed into the man and knocked them both to the floor. Hytham landed
on his side, and a fresh wave of pain went from knee to shoulder.
It was not a very elegant showing, but it was all he could manage, and he had the satisfaction of hearing Arman, his cool façade shattered, cursing and yelling as he got back to his feet, cradling his injured fingers and staring down at Hytham with the disbelief of a child stung by a wasp.
Hytham stared back at him.
You thought I wasn’t dangerous. Now you’ve learned better.
