Nasir slipped through the trees, alert for any sound or movement
that came not from the leaves stirring in the slight breeze nor from
the animals of the forest. He had left camp early to perform Salaat
at the lake and now he enjoyed the sense of peace his solitary
morning had given him.

He liked the company of his friends, but there would be time enough
for that in the winter months, when the nights closed in early and
the campfire became a haven of warmth. They would spend plenty of
time gathered there together. Now, while the light came early and
the days were warm, he preferred to roam and spend his time in his
own company.

He had been following a hare run and now had found the source of it.
He knelt and carefully parted the long grass that grew around the
opening of the burrow. A narrow channel was clearly marked, the
earth rubbed bare beneath the grass where a hare had exited and
entered its home.

He drew a knife from his belt. It was a heavy handled dagger,
similar in shape and weight to the one that he had given Robert some
time ago. The wooden handle held a burnished sheen, the grain of the
wood darkened where it had been worn smooth by use. Mother of pearl
glimmered against the wood, forming the characters of a name in his
own tongue. The dagger had belonged to Sarak and Nasir had taken it
from him on the day that he had killed him.

He ran his finger over the letters, remembering the first time he
had met Sarak. He had travelled far from Enfeh by that time, taking
work as an outrider for the great caravans that traded across the
land. Outcast and alone in a world become suddenly vaster since his
banishment, the wandering life of the Bedouin traders had suited
him.

By day he would ride out to scout the land around the train of
camels and horses, keeping watch for bandits or for the barbarian
Crusaders who found such wealth irresistible and sometimes attacked
the caravans. By night he had joined the Sheik's family beside the
goat hair tents that flapped and cracked in the grainy desert wind.
There he had listened quietly to the tales of the great leader Salah
al-Din who had raised an army to push the conquerers back into the
Western sea from whence they had come.

At last, the great caravan reached the city of Aleppo, the home of
his tutor, and Nasir had wondered that a city, as yet unexplored,
could feel so familiar when he came to wander its streets. He had
walked, jostled by the crowds, entranced as Aleppo ebbed and flowed
around him.

At every corner, he had heard Maliq's voice, describing the mosques
and the crowded bazaars filled with pungent spices and gleaming
gold. The calls of the muezzin had resonated from the slender
minarets, weaving their prayers over the city. The cries of the
vendors who sold their goods from the cavern like stalls of the
covered bazaar had mingled with languages he had never heard on
Enfeh's docks.

With some sadness in his heart, he had said farewell to the Sheik
and his family and resolved to stay in the city until he could raise
money to buy the weapons he would need to offer himself in service
to Salah al-Din. As his money had dwindled, he had taken to sleeping
outside of the city limits, among the ancient tombs that lay to the
west of Aleppo.

One early morning, still half asleep as the dawn light had tinged
the sandstone tombs a soft pink, he had felt his bundle of
possessions tugged lightly from beneath his head. He had snapped
open his eyes and grabbed the thin hand that was stealing from him.
A boy several years younger than himself had grinned back at him,
not the least bothered at having been caught in such a way.

"You should be more careful of your belongings, effendi," the boy
had said, his narrow face full of mischief.

Nasir had sat up, gripping the boy's wrist tightly, so that he could
not wriggle free. The boy had light skin, with the grey eyes of the
northern tribes. His faded robes hung dusty and torn from a scrawny
body and between the rips, Nasir had made out the thin ribcage of
one who knew hunger well.

"And you should be more careful of your hands boy," he had
replied. "You'll be a worse thief without them."

The boy shrugged as though the threat had been repeated to him often
enough to have lost any meaning. "Have you anything to eat," he
asked.

Nasir had shrugged off the temptation to cuff him around his ear and
send him on his way and had pulled his almost stolen bundle into his
lap. He had untied it, aware that the lad gazed at it longingly and
in anticipation. He had drawn from within rounds of flat bread and a
pot of spiced pickle. Some battered figs had spilled to the ground
and the boy snatched up two of them eagerly, taking small bites from
the purple flesh, savouring each mouthful and licking the dark,
sticky juice from his fingers.

Tearing a round of bread in half, Nasir had handed some to the boy,
opening the pickle pot and placing it between them.

"What are you doing out here alone?" he had asked after a moment.

The boy swallowed his mouthful. "I'm not alone," he gestured around
at the tombs. "Many people sleep out here. It's safer than in
there." He nodded his head at Aleppo, crouching behind its walls,
the citadel looming over them like a brooding sentinel.

Nasir had glanced about them and could make out dark shapes
beginning to stir within the tombs. Aleppo's gates would soon open
for the day and he could only imagine that these people would trail
towards it in search of food and a livelihood.

"You're not poor. Why are you here?" the boy said through a mouthful
of bread. His eyes had travelled covetously over Nasir's robes, the
horse resting beside him, the knife at his belt and the bundle on
his lap. Nasir had closed it hastily, tying a tight knot at the top.
His uncle had not spared him much and the Sheik had paid his wages
in food and clothes. He had little enough gold in his possession,
but he had had no doubts that this light-fingered boy would find it
given the chance.

"What is your name," he had asked the lad. The boy grabbed up
another piece of pitta and used it to scoop a generous portion from
the pickle pot.

"I am called Sarak," he said as he stuffed the food into his mouth
greedily.

"An apt name," Nasir had said wryly, for it meant thief in his
tongue. He had wondered if the boy had chosen it for himself or been
given it as a nickname by others.

Sarak had followed at Nasir's heels as he had made his way into the
city that morning to look for work and it amused Nasir now to
remember his high flown thoughts of taking the boy under his wing,
teaching him a different – a better – way of life than begging on
the streets and stealing what he needed. As it had turned out, it
had been Sarak who had done much of the teaching in those early
days, as he showed Nasir how to survive on the harsh streets of the
city.

Nasir turned the dagger in his hand. Their fates had intertwined
since that morning in the City of the Dead and there had been no
escaping the outcome, when Nasir had become the hunter and Sarak the
hunted. All had led, he thought sadly, to the day Philip Mark had
come to Nottingham and Nasir had found himself in a fight to the
death with the man he had once called brother.

He finished setting a snare of twine against the mouth of the
burrow. As he rose, he heard a loud scuffling from the trees behind
him. He listened to the rhythm of the movements – not four footed,
but two. A person – and not a quiet one. He slipped to one side, out
of sight behind a tree as a man came into view and towards his
hiding place.

The man thrashed his way noisily through the undergrowth, his
breathing harsh from exertion as he swung his head this way and that
to stare about him. Nasir let him pass, then slipped out behind, his
hand grabbing at the man's chin, forcing his head up and back as his
blade whipped up to rest against the exposed throat.

The man jerked back against him with a choked cry of fear, holding
his hands up to show that they were empty of weapons. Nasir studied
the sharp nose and square, stubbled jaw. The face was familiar and
after a moment he placed it. The man was from Maybury. He released
him, thrusting the man forward so that he fell to his knees. A
sunburned face filled by scared eyes turned towards him. The fear
changed to a look of wary relief.

"Nasir! I was looking for you…well, for any of you."

Nasir sheathed his dagger, his ears attuned to the sounds of the
forest about them, making certain that the villager came alone. He
said nothing, waiting for the man to continue.

"I have a message from Geoffrey. For Robin…" the man panted. He
turned himself about to sit on the forest floor, rubbing at his
throat, as though he still felt the blade pressing there.

Nasir crouched near him. "Tell me," he said.

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