Al Mualim watched Altaïr’s face closely for a moment, then smiled, and nodded. Together, they started to walk toward the castle gate. “Altaïr,” Al Mualim began, “I have watched you grow from a boy to a man in a very short time—and I have to say that this fills me with as much sadness as pride. But one thing is certain: You fit Umar’s shoes as if they had been made for you.”
Altaïr raised his head. “I did not know him as a father. Only as an Assassin.”
Al Mualim placed a hand on his shoulder. “You, too, were born into this Order—this Brotherhood.” He paused. “Are there ever times when you—regret it?”
“Mentor—how can I regret the only life I have ever known?”
Al Mualim nodded sagely, looking up briefly to make a sign to an Assassin lookout perched high on the parapet wall. “You may find another way, in time, Altaïr. And if that time comes, it will be up to you to choose the path you prefer.”
In response to Al Mualim’s signal, the men in the gatehouse were winching up the castle gate again.
“Come, my boy,” the old man said. “And ready your blade. This battle is not won yet.”
Together, they strode toward the open gate, into the bright sunshine beyond.
Bright sunshine, a white light so strong, so all-encompassing, that Ezio was dazzled. He blinked to rid his eyes of the multicolored shapes that appeared before them, shaking his head vigorously to escape from whatever vision had him in its grip. He squeezed them tight shut.
When he opened them, his heartbeat had begun to settle to its normal rhythm, and he found himself once again in the subterranean chamber, the soft light returned. He found that he was still holding the stone disc in his hand, and now he was in no doubt at all about what it was.
He had found the first key.
He looked at his candle. He had seemed to be away for a long time, yet the flame burned steadily and had eaten up scarcely any tallow.
He stowed the key with the map in his pouch and turned to make his way back to the daylight, and to Sofia.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Excitedly, Sofia put down the book she’d been trying to read and ran over to him, but drawing the line at taking him in her arms. “Ezio! Salve! I’d thought you were gone forever!”
“So did I,” said Ezio.
“Did you find anything?”
“Yes, I did. Something that may interest you.”
They walked over to a large table, which Sofia cleared of books as Ezio produced the map he’d found and spread it out.
“Dio mio, how beautiful!” she exclaimed. “And look—there’s my shop. In the middle.”
“Yes. It’s on a very important site. But look at the margins.”
She produced a pair of eyeglasses and, bending over, examined the book titles closely.
“Rare books, these. And what are the symbols surrounding them?”
“That’s what I hope to find out.”
“Some of these books are really extremely rare. And a few of them haven’t been seen for—well—more than a millennium! They must be worth a fortune!”
“Your shop is on the very site of the trading post once run by the Polo brothers—Niccolò and Maffeo. Niccolò hid these books around the city. This map should tell us where if we can find out how to interpret it.”
She took off her glasses and looked at him, intrigued. “Hmmn. You are beginning to interest me. Vaguely.”
Ezio smiled and leaned forward. He pointed to the map. “From what I can see, from among the twelve titles, I need to find these three first.”
“What of the others?”
“That remains to be seen. They may be deliberate red herrings. But I am convinced that these are the ones to concentrate on. They may contain clues about the locations of the rest of these—”
He produced the round stone from his satchel. She donned her glasses again and peered at it. The she stood back, shaking her head. “Molto curioso.”
“It’s the key to a library.”
“Doesn’t look like a key.”
“It’s a very special library. Another has been found already—beneath Topkapi Palace. But, God willing, there is still time to find the others.”
“Found—by whom?”
“Men who do not read.”
Sofia grinned at that. But Ezio remained earnest. “Sofia—do you think you could try to decipher this map? Help me find these books?”
Sofia studied the map again for a few minutes, in silence. Then she straightened and looked at Ezio, smiling, a twinkle in her eye. “There are plenty of reference books in this shop. With their help, I think I can unravel this mystery. But on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“May I borrow the books when you’ve finished with them?”
Ezio looked amused. “I daresay we can work something out.”
He took his leave. She watched him go, then closed the shop for the day. Returning to the table, after collecting a number of tomes from the shelves nearby to help her, and a notebook and pens, she pulled up a chair and settled down at once to examining the map in earnest.
TWENTY-NINE
The next day, Ezio met Yusuf near the Hippodrome in the southeast quarter of the peninsula. He found him conferring with a group of younger associates over a map they were studying. The meeting broke up as Ezio arrived, and Yusuf folded up his map.
“Greetings, Mentor,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s a pleasant surprise in store. And if I’m not dead by this time tomorrow, we should have some good stories to trade.”
“Is there a chance of your being dead?”
“We’ve had wind of a plan the Byzantines are hatching. Now that the young Prince Suleiman has returned from the hajj, they plan to infiltrate Topkapi Palace. They’ve chosen this evening to make their move.”
“What’s special about this evening?”
“There’s an entertainment at the palace. A cultural event. An exhibition of paintings—people like the Bellini brothers—and Seljuk artists, too. And there’ll be music.”
“So what’s our plan?”
Yusuf looked at him gravely. “My brother, this is not your fight. There is no need for you to ensnare yourself in Ottoman affairs.”
“Topkapi concerns me. The Templars found one of the keys to Altaïr’s library beneath it, and I’d like to know how.”
“Ezio, our plan is to protect the prince, not interrogate him.”
“Trust me, Yusuf. Just show me where to go.”
Yusuf looked unconvinced, but said: “The rendezvous is at the main gate of the palace. We plan to disguise ourselves as musicians and walk right in with the authentic players.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“You’ll need a costume. And an instrument.”
“I used to play the lute.”
“We’ll see what we can do. And we’d better place you with the Italian musicians. You don’t look Turkish enough to pass for one of us.”
By dusk, Ezio, Yusuf, and his picked team of Assassins, all dressed in formal costumes, had assembled near the main gate.
“Do you like your getup?” asked Yusuf.
“It’s fine. But the sleeves are cut tight. There was no room for any concealed weapon.”
“You can’t play a lute in loose sleeves. And that’s what you are—a lute player. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“True.”
“And we are armed. You mark any targets and leave it to us to take them out. Here’s your instrument.” He took a fine lute from one of his men and passed it to Ezio, who tried it, tentatively.
“By Allah, you’ll have to make a better sound than that!” said Yusuf.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Are you sure you know how to play that thing?”
“I learned a few chords when I was young.”
“Were you really ever young?”
“A long time ago.”
Yusuf twitched at his own costume, a green-and-yellow satin number. “I fe
el ridiculous in this outfit. I look ridiculous!”
“You look just like all the other musicians, and that’s the important thing. Now, come on—the orchestra’s assembling.”
They crossed over to where a number of Italian instrumentalists were milling about, impatient to gain entry to the palace. Yusuf and his men were equipped as Turkish musicians, with tanburs, ouds, kanuns, and kudüms, all instruments which, between them, they could play passably. Ezio watched them being ushered through a side entrance.
Ezio found it agreeable to be among his fellow countrymen again, and dipped in and out of conversation with them.
“You’re from Florence? Welcome! This should be a good gig,” one told him.
“You call this a good gig?” a viol player chipped in. “You should try playing in France! They’ve got all the best people. I was there not six months ago and heard Josquin’s Qui Habitat. It’s the most beautiful chorale I’ve ever listened to. Do you know his work, Ezio?”
“A little.”
“Josquin,” said the first musician, a sackbut player. “Yes, he’s a treasure. There’s certainly no man in Italy to match his talent.”
“Our time will come.”
“I see you’re a lutenist, Ezio,” a man carrying a chitarra said to him. “I’ve been experimenting with alternative tunings lately. It’s a wonderful way to spark new ideas. For example, I’ve been tuning my fourth string to a minor third. It gives a very somber sound. By the way, did you bring any extra strings with you? I must have broken six this month.”
“Josquin’s music’s too experimental for me,” said a citternist. “Believe me, polyphony will never catch on.”
“Remind me,” said the chitarra player, ignoring his colleague’s remark. “I’d like to learn a few eastern tunings before we leave.”
“Good idea. I must say this is a great place to work. The people here are so kind, too. Not like Verona. You can hardly cross the street there these days without getting mugged,” a musician carrying a shawm put in.
“When do we go on?” Ezio asked.
“Soon enough,” replied the cittern player. “Look, they’re opening the gates now.”
The man with the viol plucked critically at his strings, then looked pleased. “It’s a splendid day for music, don’t you think, Ezio?”
“I hope so,” Ezio replied.
They made their way to the gate, where Ottoman officials were checking people through.
Unluckily, when Ezio’s turn came, one of them stopped him.
“Play us a tune,” he said. “I like the sound of a lute.”
Ezio watched helplessly as his fellow musicians filed past. “Perdonate, buon signore, but I’m part of the entertainment for Prince Suleiman.”
“Any old gerzek can carry an instrument around, and we don’t remember you being part of this particular band. So play us a tune.”
Taking a deep breath, Ezio started to pluck out a simple ballata he remembered learning when they still had the family palazzo in Florence. He twanged awfully.
“That’s—forgive me—terrible!” said the official. “Or are you into some new experimental music?”
“You might as well be strumming a washboard, as strings, the racket you’re making,” said another, coming over, amused.
“You sound like a dying cat.”
“I can’t work under these circumstances,” Ezio said huffily. “Give me a chance to get warmed up.”
“All right! And get yourself in tune while you’re at it.”
Ezio willed himself to concentrate and tried again. After a few initial stumbles, this time he managed to make a fair fist of a straightforward old piece by Landini. It was quite moving, in the end, and the Ottoman officials actually applauded.
“Pekala,” said the one who had first challenged him. “In you go, then, and bother the guests with that noise.”
Once inside, Ezio found himself in the midst of a great throng. A wide marble courtyard, partially covered, like an atrium, glittered with light and color under the boughs of tamarinds. Guests were wandering about as servants made their way between them with trays loaded with sweetmeats and refreshing drinks. There were plenty of Ottoman gentry present, as well as diplomats and high-profile artists and businessmen from Italy, Serbia, the Peloponnese, Persia, and Armenia. It was hard to detect any possible Byzantine infiltrators in this sophisticated assembly.
Ezio decided that his best course of action would be to try to rejoin the Italian musical troupe he’d been talking with, but took his time about it, getting the lay of the land.
But the royal guards were vigilant, and before long, one of them accosted him.
“Excuse me, sir, are you lost?”
“No.”
“Musician are you? Well, you’re being paid to play, not to mingle!”
Ezio was furious but had to contain his anger in order not to blow his cover. Fortunately for him, he was rescued by a group of wealthy-looking locals, four sleek men and four heartstoppingly beautiful women.
“Play us something,” they entreated him, forming a circle round him.
Ezio ran through the Landini again, remembering some other pieces by that composer and praying that his audience wouldn’t find them too old-fashioned. But they were entranced. And, as his confidence increased, Ezio was pleased that his musicianship also improved. He even dared to improvise a little. And to sing.
“Pek güzel,” commented one of the men, as he finished a set.
“Indeed—quite beautiful,” agreed his partner, in whose deep violet eyes Ezio would quite happily have died.
“Hmn. Technique’s not quite what it might be,” commented one of the other men.
“Oh, Murad, you are such a pedant. Think of the expression! That’s the main thing.”
“He plays almost as well as he dresses,” said a second woman, eyeing him.
“A sound as beautiful as rainfall,” said a third.
“Indeed, the Italian lute is every bit as lovely as our oud,” conceded Murad, pulling his partner away from Ezio. “But now, alas, we must mingle.”
“Tesekkür ederim, efendim,” the women chirruped as they departed.
Ezio, his credentials confirmed, was left unmolested by the guards from then on, and was able to make contact with Yusuf and his team.
“Brilliant, Mentor,” said Yusuf, when they’d reconnected. “But don’t be seen talking to us—it’ll look suspicious. Try to make your way to the second courtyard—the inner one—through there. I’ll join you.”
“Good thinking,” Ezio agreed. “But what may we expect there?”
“The inner circle. The entourage of the prince. And, if we are fortunate, Suleiman himself. But be on your guard, Mentor. There may be danger there, too.”
THIRTY
It was considerably quieter in the second courtyard, but the decorations, the food and drink, and the quality of both music and art were just that little bit more splendid.
Ezio and Yusuf, keeping in the background, scanned the guests.
“I do not see Prince Suleiman,” Yusuf said.
“Wait!” Ezio prompted him.
The orchestra struck up a fanfare, and the guests all turned expectantly toward a gateway in the center of the rear wall of the courtyard, draped with rich hangings. Costly silk Isfahan carpets were spread on the ground in front of it. Moments later, a small group of people emerged, clustered around the two men who led them—each clad in a suit of white silk, one wearing a turban with diamond pins, the other a turban with emeralds. Ezio’s eyes were drawn to the younger of these, and his lips parted as he recognized him.
“The young man?” he asked his companion.
“That is Prince Suleiman,” Yusuf told him. “Sultan Bayezid’s grandson, and governor of Kefe. And he’s only seventeen.”
Ezio was amused. “I met him on the ship, on the way here. He told me he was a student.”
“I’ve heard that he likes to travel incognito. It’s also a security measure. He was r
eturning from the hajj.”
“Who is the other man? The one with emeralds in his turban?”
“His uncle, Prince Ahmet. The sultan’s favored son. He is grooming himself for the succession as we speak.”
As they watched, the two princes stood, as favored guests were presented to them. Then the princes accepted glasses of ruby-colored liquid.
“Wine?” asked Ezio.
“Cranberry juice.”
“Serefe! Sagliginiza!” Ahmet said, raising his voice with his glass, toasting the assembly.
After the formal toasts, Yusuf and Ezio continued to watch, as both guests and hosts became more relaxed. Though as Suleiman in particular mingled, Ezio noticed that his guards were discreetly but continually attentive. These guards were tall, and none of them looked Turkish. They wore a distinctive uniform of white robes, and their headgear was a high, white, tapering cap, like that of a dervish. All, equally, wore mustaches. None was either clean-shaven or had a beard. Ezio knew enough about Ottoman custom to realize that this meant that they had the status of slaves. Were they some kind of private bodyguard?
Suddenly, Yusuf caught Ezio’s arm. “Look! That man over there!”
A thin, pale young man with fine, light-colored hair and dark brown, expressionless eyes had sidled up close to Suleiman. He was expensively dressed and might have been a prosperous Serbian arms dealer, at any rate someone important enough to have made it onto the guest list for the second courtyard. As Ezio quickly scanned the crowd, he saw four more elegantly dressed men, none of them Turks, by their looks, taking up what could only be backup positions and discreetly signaling to one another.
Before Yusuf or Ezio could react, the thin young man, already at Suleiman’s elbow, had, with the speed of light, drawn a thin, curved janbiyah and was plunging it down toward the prince’s chest. At the same instant, the closest guard to him noticed and sprang into the blade’s path.
There was instantaneous chaos and confusion. Guests were pushed roughly aside as guards ran to assist both princes and their fallen comrade, while the five Templar would-be killers tried to make their escape through the crowd, now milling around in uproar and panic. The thin young man had vanished, but the guards had identified his companions and were now pursuing them systematically, the Byzantine plotters using the confused and disoriented guests as obstacles to put between them and their hunters. Exits were sealed, but the conspirators attempted to climb out of the courtyard. In the confusion, Prince Ahmet had disappeared, and Prince Suleiman had been left isolated. Ezio saw that he had drawn a small dagger but calmly stood his ground.
Revelations Page 14