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"Drop him."

The beating had continued, even when Jameel had gone limp in his brother's grip. Blood saturated his face from his nose, lip, a burst vessel above one eye that discolored the skin to blue and the purple-black of blood welling up from it and slipping down his brow; dragging open his eyes was nearly impossible with the swelling around them.

He didn't so much lift his head as allow it to loll back a ways, breathing ragged and wet as he brought in air through his swollen, split lips and battered chest into his lungs.

There he was, that little idiot, that stupid waif of his. That damned Novice! It was the boy who'd spoken, spoken with more authority in his voice than his looks allowed. Blood had turned the sleeves of his tunic red, the leg of his pants almost black with the stuff. He was panting from the run, or from the pain of his gaping wounds. Jameel couldn't tell which, and he didn't expect his battered brain to figure it out either.

"E-emshi," he wheezed, tongue fat from the bite he'd given it after one of the initial punches from Kadin. "Yallah, ahbal! Emshi..." He choked as the hand around his throat tightened considerably, vision tunneling.

"Drop him?" He could hear the sneer in his brother's voice, the obvious sense of triumph. "If you say so." Finally, he was released. A gasp of air flooded his lungs, but relief was short-lived. Water--wound-stinging salt water--closed over his head. Jameel flailed with his good arm, struggling to bring his head above water, but his arm and ribs weighed him down better than any anchor. He ceased moving, feeling the air seep from his lungs as he started to sink.

Lex sprang into motion as the Assassin fell, the Templar freeing his mace and bringing it around toward him. Two strides carried him just to the edge of the weapon's arc. What happened next could only in his mind have been put down to instinct, if his mind had realized what his body was doing.

His foot hit the deck as the man's hands brought the mace around like a baseball bat. He registered the swing, moving in slow motion as everything seemed to be at this moment. Then he jumped, arms outstretched, curling his stomach and legs up and over the weapon. The Sparrow ducked his head down as he finished the somersault, letting himself roll back up onto his feet. Another stride and he was planting his foot at the edge of the dock.

He felt his heart jerking against his ribs as he threw himself out into the air, hung for a split second, then dove beneath the water.

Lex felt his ears pop as he pushed himself downward after the sinking man. His lungs began to burn as he reached out, catching the man's sleeve with his fingertips. Twisting around beneath his good arm, he circled his arms around the man's middle and kicked toward the surface. The boy clenched his teeth down on the insides of his cheeks, removing one arm away to hold his nose shut and avoid drawing any water into his own lungs. He swallowed as he tugged Jameel up against his side when the light grew brighter around them in the water, all but shoving him up ahead of him as his head broke into the sweet, open air.

Dragging in deep lungfuls of air, he took Jameel's good arm quickly and pulled it around his neck, his other still at his middle as he swam. How do you drown in ocean water? My God...ocean water, salt, bigger body. Bigger body, lean back, salt in water, water floats, salt makes float more. Water floats Jameel. Simple math.



The German knight working on the docks glared out at the sea. What the hell had made him apply for this career? Oh, yes, he remembered, it was his cousin Gebrant who put this flea in his ear. "Become a Templar, see foreign lands, go through adventures. Do something good for to save your soul." Whenever I see that b*****d again I will kill him with these two hands of mine and a wooden spoon, the docksman, Gilbert, vowed.

He'd regretted coming here since the day they'd arrived; this land with the stinging hot sun simply could not find a place in his heart of hearts. But that wasn't the worst of it. The Teutonic Grandmaster, Sibrand, was the greatest plague of all, greater even than those set upon them by the carcasses the Saracens had hurled in the siege. Calling him a pestering, paranoid madman was too friendly a description. His imagination had only ramped up its hysteria with the recent death of some French Hospitalier medic.

But what does it matter to me who dies and by what means? For two weeks, Gilbert had to stand here as a guard with nothing more to do than scare away the poor women that came begging from time to time. He scared them all right--a little coin was all it took and they ran off like there were hell-bats on their heels. He gave the sea another somber glare. "Scheiss Meer, scheiss Moeven..."

Then he spotted something, something white just edging into the periphery of his vision. He turned his gaze toward it and was rewarded with a monotony-breaking dose of confusion. "Gelehrte?" Sure enough, plain as the boards beneath his feet, two scholars were in the water. One was obviously an apprentice from his fresh face, the other a teacher held up by the boy's thin arms. The man sighed. No doubt they'd run afoul of someone higher up on the chain of command, if not the leader of the Knights Teutonic himself, to be struggling and wounded in the water.

"Junge." He knelt, reaching out a hand toward the scholars. A cold, trembling hand grasped onto his own before the knight hauled the pair out. Several breaths later, the boy was whispering "Danke, danke" feverishly and pressing on his companion's belly. Drawing back his fist, he punched down heavily. The man shuddered violently and gagged, spewing water onto the docks.

"Dankeschoen," the boy rasped again, whether to himself or some higher power, the knight wasn't certain. He smiled, the expression hidden by the scruff that bristled around his lips and jaw at being addressed in his mother tongue in a friendly manner for once.

"Ja, ja, verschwindet jetzt," he said gruffly into his beard, keeping a lookout for the lad in case whoever roughed the sages up came back to finish their fun. Hefting the taller one up onto his shoulders, the little fellow scurried on down the docks, through the gates, and was gone.



Desmond ran ahead of Jabal, Acre's Rafiq, as he spotted the two moving up the street.

"What took you so long?" he asked, then stared as he saw the blood coating the other Assassins. He took the Owl from the boy, carrying him on his back up to the roof entrance as Jabal followed the Sparrow up the ladder to the roof. He shut the door and climbed down, watching Lex as he slumped down to the floor.

"Do you know anything about medicine?" asked Jabal.

"Just cuts and scrapes," the barkeep murmured, touching his own bound wounds.

"Then stay out of the way." He set to work. Desmond sighed as he sat down and watched. Jameel was still out cold. With his robes removed to set his ribs and arm, he saw that Kadin had dented him in with almost no effort. No wonder Jameel was freaking out about Lex following him.

He turned his gaze to the other Novice, who sat on the rug the two men had set Jameel on. Desmond had no clue why a rug and some pillows was thought to be a good bed, but he didn't question it either. The Rafiq was saying something to the kid, who nodded and bared his wounds for inspection. His leg had started to bleed again once he got out of the water, as were his arms and the jagged cuts on his back and shoulder.

The old man told Desmond to go into the other room as he went to his desk and grabbed something. Moments later, a muffled scream reached the man's ears. Returning to the room, he found Lex lying pale and quiet beneath the Rafiq's hands as his wounds were double checked for glass shards and bound.

Desmond linked his fingers and set his chin on them. You two better not die. He looked at Jameel. I'm not explaining your death to anybody. He looked at Lex. And don't you dare make me explain your death to that guy next to you!

The Novice took a seat in the main room of the Bureau with Jabal, listening absently to the fountain at the entrance. It reminded him of how much he needed a bathroom. God, I need a drink, too.

"Explain to me what happened," said the old man suddenly.

"To the best of my knowledge, a Master Assassin met a wrecking ball," replied the barkeep, annoyed at being jarred from thoughts of copious amounts of alcohol. "Can you explain to me when these two will wake up?"

"The Master will awaken when he's ready." He stood and went to Jameel's side, lifting the Hidden Blade and its bracer. "This was nearly broken. One more blow and the blade would have been in pieces. Do you not think that this also transfers to the one who wears this weapon as an extension of his arm?" He set it down again and moved back to his seat.

Lex settled himself down on Jameel's good side as the man who looked like a Middle Eastern Gandalf left the little space where the bed-rug was. While Desmond continued recounting what events he could for the Rafiq, the boy reached over and took hold of his friend's hand gently. He shut his eyes and opened them again in a slow blink, the pain of sealing off his cuts still blazing in his skin, and waited.

Waiting... God, waiting sucks.

The shadows lengthened as noon came and went. The Novices ate a little food, enough to take the edge off the aches in their stomachs, and returned to the places they'd been at for the passed several hours.

A nudge woke Jameel, possibly from Jabal tightening the knot on his freshly changed bandages. He felt like a cart of horses had fallen on top of him, broken open, and that they all were stomping on him simultaneously. Allah, give me the will to stop being so stubborn, he thought. I know this is my nature, but I need to ease off on it. It might get me killed. Like it did today...nearly got me killed.

What came from his mouth was another piece of evidence to himself that his mind need to be taken off of stubborn revenge for a while: "Damn, he'll probably have moved again by now..."

Lex blinked as he felt the hand move under his, the words a muttered blur of noise as he snapped himself out of the trance into which he'd fallen.

"Hm? Oh, hey, you're awake. Welcome back to the world of the living." He gave a slim smile, which morphed into a grimace as he moved onto his belly. His stomach threatened to turn itself over and spew its meager contents out of his mouth. Head rush. He sighed and pushed himself up onto his elbows, head pounding.

Jameel pushed him back down gently, careful of the bandages running along his skin.

"Relax. Go to sleep. This isn't the first time this has happened." Lex gave him a disbelieving look, then did as told. Jameel grunted softly as the Novice settled against his side, an arm across his middle. The Assassin had no idea who woke him, fortunately for Jabal, but he was glad for the nudge. This mess he'd made of himself would take a while to heal, longer than getting pierced by an arrow or cut by a dagger. He was in a safe place, so he could let his guard down and speed up the process.

Though the Novice latched onto him did cause him slight discomfort. Jameel chuckled, staring at the ceiling as he absently listened to Desmond and Jabal talk in the other room. What they said didn't matter. The voices were a pleasant white noise, a background music as he drifted once more to be lost in thought, watching the shadows from the latticed entrance overhead.

He sighed as the boy squirmed against him, shooting him a look. Clingy kid, aren't you? If Lex decided to hug his ribs, he'd shove him, have him use one of the actual pillows. Thinking I'm something to hug while sleeping. I'm not something to hug. Jameel ignored that last bit of his musings, settling his arm under the Sparrow's head and around his shoulders, letting himself enjoy the company.

He blinked as he felt Lex's arm drop off of him. After what had felt like hours of intimittent wriggling, finally, the kid was deep asleep. Jameel shifted his arm, bringing the Novice closer as he got the blood flowing again, and went back to sleep.



A man made his way across the rooftops of Acre, a white flash that disappeared into shadows only to blaze to life again once he made his way out of the shelter of broken pieces of wall. Guards scampered across the roofs and along the ground, church bells pealing out an alarm. Catching hold of the lattice-work roof, he lowered himself into the Bureau with a dull thump.

The wounded sleepers caught his eye first. The Assassin gazed at them inquisitively, but let them be and stepped into the building's man area.

Jabal turned his head toward the man and nodded, while a Novice bolted up from the small seat he'd been occupying.

Desmond Miles, hood down, stared into a reflection of his own face shaded partly by the Assassins' trademarked beaked hood. A hand reached up, sweeping back the obstruction and revealing the man in full, something rarely, if ever, done.

Altair ibn La'Ahad took in his eight-times-great-grandson and raised his brows, lips pursed, as if to say, "You're all there is?" The bartender assumed that was the closest to a holy-s**t expression he was going to get at this time.

"Jabal," said the currently-demoted Syrian Master Assassin, eyes never leaving the lookalike. "Jameel is injured, there are two..."--he gestured toward the other man, at a loss--"...Novices in the Bureau, and the city is in a panic. I don't believe that last part is totally caused by the death of William of Montferrat." He set a bloodied feather down on the man's desk. "Tell me what has happened."