At least, not yet.
Although one could be forgiven for calling the current situation into evidence.
The Muslim leader sipped his drink and eyed the small chest Tadhg had set at his feet, then looked back to Sherwood. “Who are we negotiating with? Who sends this reward for deeds not yet done?”
“He does not wish to be known,” replied Sherwood.
The man smiled thinly. “He does not trust me?”
“Not you, my lord, the rest of the world.”
“Yet he will know our names, and we will not know his.”
“It is not necessary for you to know,” Sherwood said curtly.
The leader sipped again, appearing not to notice the disrespect, but Tadhg was fairly certain he had very much noticed it, and was simply ignoring it. Biding his time.
That couldn’t be good.
The Nizari leader examined Sherwood a long time before replying. “Clearly he is a Christian.”
“Money is his name,” Sherwood retorted, his tone arrogant and dismissive. “If you must have a name, that is it.”
Sherwood thought himself clever. Tadhg thought he was lucky Rashid ad-Din Sinan did not strike him down where he stood. Sinan was the leader of the powerful Muslim Nizari sect, the Assassins, the feared fida’iyin who executed outrageously bold political assassinations. Only an arrogant fool would accept the hospitality of such a man, then insult him.
Such was Sherwood.
Tadhg shifted slightly, preparing.
The movement drew Sinan’s eye, and his gaze fell on Tadhg. He felt it like a ship sail being yanked on by a strong wind. The man’s clear, dark eyes lanced through the center of him; he would never forget the feeling of being regarded by an Assassin.
Sherwood shifted on his rug. “Irish, give me the money.”
Tadhg pulled his gaze away with effort and handed over the wooden chest. It was so small, it didn’t seem it could contain enough of value to purchase the goodwill of this powerful leader, yet within were more riches than some small kingdoms had seen pass through their coffers. Aligning with the enemy of your enemy was wise, and Rashid ad-Din Sinan had been opposing the crusaders main opponent, Saladin, for many years now. An alliance—sealed with money—made sense.
Additionally, it reduced the likelihood of having an Assassin show up in King Richard’s tent one night, dagger in hand.
Sherwood unlocked the chest and flipped it open. Flat silver coins built up a bed at the bottom, but the coins were not what drew the eye in the light of the oil lamps. What drew the eye, and low murmurs among these men who had seen so much, was the huge, blood-red ruby that sat atop the sea of silver discs. Gleaming, with crimson-black craggy knots and polished sloping sides, it was like a clot of blood spat up from the earth’s veins. Tadhg was shocked to see it. The ruby was King Richard’s prized gemstone, that which he loved above all others. It was, in his own words, priceless.
Except, apparently, it did have a price. And the Assassins had named it,
Sherwood shook the chest gently, so the ruby shuddered and the gems underneath shivered, rippling like steely sea creatures in a pit.
Sinan looked down at it briefly, then nodded.
Sherwood smiled condescendingly and pushed the chest over. “We understand one another then.”
A return smile spread across Sinan’s face, and Tadhg was quite certain Sherwood did not understand this man at all.
The Isma’ili leader got to his feet. All along the tent walls, his guards shifted forward a step. So did Tadhg.
“Tell your moneyed benefactor we accept,” Sinan said smoothly.
Sherwood gave a huge, satisfied grin.
“Remind him also that while allies share in the spoils of their endeavors, they, too, share the risks as well.”
Sherwood’s grin faltered, but he said only, “I will tell him,” and pushed to his feet.