Finoriel

       "Ibn La'ahad, you insufferable idiot," Malik complained as he cleaned the fresh wound on the assassin's left arm. "How many times do I have to stitch you back together before you learn to avoid the guard-posts south of the bureau? They're always on high alert whenever someone is wearing white. I've noticed scholars don't even walk through that street anymore."        Altair chuckled, "I took care of them, didn't I? They're-" his sentence was cut short by Malik's hand slapping him across the left side of his face.        "The guard

The tired Dai blinked his eyes open and groaned. Malik pushed himself off the counter and looked down at the maps that had engraved themselves into his mind. A hallway here, an exit there… there was never something new in these maps, nothing his eyes didn't catch before. He picked up the inkwell and peered inside. Just barely enough for a few words. That fool Altair had to rush in and knock his new one over the other day before he was able to dip a pen in. Idiot. As if on cue, the master assassin jumped in and Malik almost dropped the inkwell. He glared as Altair turned to him, a small smile playing on his face. What could he be so happ

 He was gone. Malik knew deep in his heart, that there was no way his friend was coming back. Knew the instant he saw Altair’s beloved grey stallion standing as if lost in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded, at a respectful distance, by assassins. But he just couldn’t bring himself to believe it. It just seemed impossible. Only the other day they joking about how, by the time he saw his 30th birthday, Altair would be suffering from so many old injuries that he might have to retire. He had survived so many appalling injuries, most of which would have killed any lesser man, that it didn’t seem impossible for him to def