‘Then I’m afraid I have an appointment.’

‘Oh?’

‘Certainly I would welcome a diversion from my studies, Niccolo. However, an extension of them I don’t desire.’

I grinned. ‘Surely you want to hear the tales I’ve been told by the Master.’

‘That all depends. Your pitch makes them sound less than invigorating. You know you say my tastes run to the bloodthirsty when it comes to your stories?’

‘Yes.’

Maffeo gave a half-smile. ‘Well, you’re right, they do.’

‘Then you shall have that, too. These are, after all, the tales of the great Altair Ibn-La’Ahad. This is his life story, brother. Believe me, there is no shortage of event, and much of it, you’ll be happy to note, featuring bloodshed.’

By now we had made our way up the barbican to the outer part of the fortress. We passed beneath the arch and through the guard station, climbing again as we headed towards the inner castle. Ahead of us was the tower in which Altair had his quarters. For weeks I had been visiting him there, spending countless hours by him, rapt, as he sat with his hands clasped and his elbows on the rests of his tall chair, telling his stories, his old eyes barely visible beneath his cowl. And increasingly I had come to realize that I was being told these stories for a purpose. That for some reason yet unfathomable to me, I had been chosen to hear them.

When not telling his stories, Altair brooded among his books and memories, sometimes gazing for long hours from the window of his tower. He would be there now, I thought, and hooked a thumb under the band of my cap and shifted it back, shading my eyes to look up at the tower, seeing nothing but sun-bleached stone.