‘Pagan blood,’ came a voice – a jagged singsong voice straight from a nightmare. He wheeled in the direction of the sound, but then it came again and seemed to have moved. ‘I know your name, sinner,’ she cackled, ‘I know why you’re here. God guide my claws. God grant me strength to snap your bones.’
Altair just had time to think, Claws? Did she really have – She appeared, whirling like a dervish from the darkness, black hair whipping about her, screaming as she came. What she had weren’t quite claws: they were long, sharp nails – and just as deadly. He heard their whistle as they sliced in front of his face. He jumped back. Then she was crouching like a cat, looking at him and snarling. He was surprised: he had expected an aged crone, but this woman… she had noble looks. Of course. It was the woman Barnabas had told him about, who had once lived in the castle. She was young and had been attractive once. But whatever the Templars had done to her, imprisonment had seemingly sent her mad. He knew that when she grinned, suddenly not so noble as she revealed rows of rotting teeth and a tongue that threatened to loll from her mouth. Giggling she struck once more.
They fought, the Oracle attacking blindly, swinging her nails, slashing Altair several times and drawing blood. He kept his distance, coming forward to launch counter-attacks until eventually he managed to overwhelm her and pinned her to a pillar. Desperately he tried to hold her – he wanted to reason with her – but she writhed like a wild animal, even when he pushed her to the ground and straddled her, holding his blade to her throat as she thrashed, muttering, ‘Glory of God. I am his instrument. God’s executioner. I fear neither pain nor death.’
‘You were a Cypriot once,’ Altair told her, struggling to hold her. ‘A respected noblewoman. What secrets did you tell those devils?’
Did she know that by helping the Templars she’d betrayed her own people? Did she still have enough reason to understand that?
‘Not without purpose do I deal in misery,’ she rasped, suddenly becoming still. ‘By God’s command I am his instrument.’
No, he thought. She didn’t. Her mind was gone.
‘Whatever the Templars have done to you, my lady, they have done you wrong,’ he said. ‘Forgive me this.’
It was an act of mercy. He killed her, then fled that terrible place.
Later, back at the safe-house, he opened his journal and wrote,
Why do our instincts insist on violence? I have studied the interactions between different species. The innate desire to survive seems to demand the death of the other. Why can they not stand hand in hand? So many believe the world was created through the works of a divine power – but I see only the designs of a madman, bent on celebrating death, destruction, and desperation.
He mused also upon the Apple:
Who were the Ones That Came Before? What brought them here? What drove them out? What of these artefacts? Messages in a bottle? Tools left behind to aid and guide us? Or do we fight for control over their refuse, giving divine purpose and meaning to little more than discarded toys?
44
Altair decided to follow Shalim. Now they were both hunting Maria, and Altair wanted to make sure he was around if Shalim found her first.
Not that Shalim was looking especially hard at the moment. Markos had told Altair that all Shalim had in common with his father was the fact that he served the Templars and had a fierce temper. In place of religious fervour he had a taste for wine and enjoyed the company of prostitutes. Following him, Altair saw him indulge in both. He kept a safe distance as Shalim and two of his bodyguards stalked the streets of Kyrenia like a trio of little despots, angrily upbraiding citizens and merchants, abusing them, taking goods and money in preparation for a visit somewhere.
To a brothel, it seemed. Altair watched as Shalim and his men approached a door where a drunk was pawing one of the local whores. Either the man was too stupid or too inebriated to recognize that Shalim’s mood was dark, because he lifted his leather flask in greeting to the tyrant, calling, ‘Raise a mug, Shalim.’
Shalim did not break stride. He rammed the flat of his hand into the drunk’s face so that his head rebounded off the wall behind him with a hollow clunk. The leather flask dropped and the man slid down the wall to a sitting position, his head lolling, hair matting with blood. In the same movement Shalim grabbed the prostitute by the arm.
She resisted. ‘Shalim, no. Please don’t.’
But he was already dragging her off, looking back over his shoulder and calling to his two companions, ‘Have your fun, men. And round up some women for me when you’re finished.’
Altair had seen enough. Shalim wasn’t looking for Maria, that much was certain, and he himself wasn’t likely to find her by following Shalim to wherever he was going with his whore: bed or a tavern, no doubt.
Instead he returned to the market district, where Markos was aimlessly wandering between the stalls, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for news from Altair.
‘I need to get close to Shalim,’ he told Markos, when they’d repaired to the shade, looking for all the world like two traders passing the time of day out of the hot sun. ‘If he is as stupid as he is brash, I may be able to get some secrets out of him.’
‘Speak to one of the monks near the cathedral.’ Markos chuckled. ‘Shalim’s wayward lifestyle demands frequent confessions.’
So it was that at the cathedral Altair found a bench beneath a flapping canopy and sat watching the world go by, waiting until a lone white-robed monk passed him, inclining his head in greeting. Altair returned the gesture, then said in a low voice, so that only the monk could hear, ‘Does it not trouble you, brother, to suffer the sins of such a vile man as Shalim?’
The monk stopped. Looked one way then the other. Then at Altair. ‘It does,’ he whispered, ‘but to oppose him would mean death. The Templars have too much at stake here.’
‘You mean the archive?’ said Altair. ‘Can you tell me where it is?’
Altair had heard about this archive. Perhaps it held the key to the Templars’ activities. But the monk was shaking his head and moving away as, suddenly, a small commotion erupted. It was Shalim, Altair saw, with a start. He was mounting an orator’s platform. He no longer had the prostitute with him and he seemed a good deal less drunk than he had been previously.
‘Men and women of Cyprus,’ he announced, as his audience assembled, ‘Armand Bouchart sends his blessing, but with a stern provision that all who foment disorder with their support of the Resistance will be caught and punished. Those who seek order and harmony, and pay obeisance to the Lord through good work, will enjoy Bouchart’s charity. Now, let us work together as brothers to rebuild what hate and anger have torn down.’
This was most odd, thought Altair. Shalim looked rested and fresh-faced, not how Altair would have expected him to appear in view of his recent activities. That Shalim had had all the makings of a man who planned to spend the rest of his day drinking and whoring. This one? He was like a different man – not just in looks but in his manner, his bearing and, judging by the content of his speech, his entire philosophy. And this Shalim had no bodyguards with him either. This Shalim Altair could easily overcome, perhaps in one of the alleyways off a main avenue of Kyrenia.
When Shalim stepped down from his platform and moved off, leaving the cathedral behind him and taking to the golden streets, Altair followed in pursuit.
He wasn’t sure how long they’d been walking when suddenly the giant St Hilarion Castle was looming over them and he saw that Shalim was heading inside. Sure enough, when he reached the huge castle gates he stepped inside a wicket door, disappearing from sight. Altair cursed. He had lost his target. Still, the castle was a hive of activity, and even now the doors were opening, both gates swinging back to allow a palanquin carried by four men to come out. It was clearly empty – they were able to jog along quickly – and Altair followed them to the sun-dappled harbour where they set down their burden and stood waiting, their arms folded.