“Who’d have thought it? After so long.”
“What brings you back?”
“A dog returning to its vomit.”
“You talk too much,” said Altaïr. With the economical movements an old man must learn, but with none of an old man’s slowness, he unleashed his hidden-blade as he stepped forward and lunged—once, twice—with deadly accuracy.
He moved on toward the gates of the inner bailey, still wary, and his caution paid off. He saw a third captain standing by them and was just in time to duck out of sight before the man could notice him. As he watched, he heard a faint yell behind him, and, from the darkness, a young Assassin came sprinting toward the officer. He whispered something to him, and the captain’s eyes went wide in surprise and anger. Clearly, the bodies of the corrupt Assassins Altaïr had just dispatched had already been discovered, and his own presence would doubtless no longer be a secret. Swiftly, Altaïr exchanged his hidden-blade for the spring-loaded pistol, which he had developed from designs during his studies in the East.
“Send him a message, quickly!” the captain was ordering his young henchman. He raised his voice. “Assassins of the Brotherhood of Abbas! To me!”
Altaïr had stood, quietly weighing his options, when from close to his elbow a friendly voice said: “Mentor!”
He turned to see Cemal and Tergani. With them were half a dozen fellow Assassins.
“We could not prevent the discovery of those captains you killed—two of the cruelest in the band, who would never has risen to rank under anyone save Abbas,” Cemal explained quickly. “But we have brought reinforcements. And this is only a start.”
“Welcome.” Altaïr smiled.
Cemal smiled back. Behind him, the little detachment of true Assassins raised their hoods, almost in unison.
“We’d better shut him up,” said Teragani, nodding toward the blustering third captain.
“Allow me,” said Altaïr. “I need the exercise.”
He stepped forward to confront the rogue Assassin officer. By then, a number of the man’s own renegade soldiers had rushed to his aid.
“There he is!” yelled the captain. “Kill him! Kill all the traitors!”
“Think before you act,” said Altaïr. “Every action has its consequences.”
“You pathetic miser! Stand down or die!”
“You could have been spared, friend,” said Altaïr, as his supporters stepped out of the shadows.
“I am not your friend, old man,” retorted the captain, and rushed Altaïr, slicing at him with his sword before the old Mentor seemed fully ready.
But he was ready. The conflict was short and bloody. At the end of it, the captain and most of his men lay dead under the gates.
“Follow me to the castle keep,” cried Altaïr. “And spill no more blood if you can help it. Remember the true Code.”
But now, at the portal to the inner bailey, another captain stood, in his black and dark grey robes, the Assassin emblem glinting on his belt in the torchlight. He was an older man, of perhaps some fifty summers.
“Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad,” he said in a firm voice that knew no fear. “Two decades have passed since we last saw you within these walls. Two decades which, I see, have been kinder to your face than they have been to our decrepit Order.” He paused. “Abbas used to tell us stories . . . About Altaïr the arrogant. Altaïr the deceiver. Altaïr the betrayer. But I never believed these tales. And now I see here, standing before me, Altaïr the Master. And I am humbled.”
He stepped forward and extended his arm in friendship. Altaïr took it in a firm grasp, hand gripping wrist, in a Roman handshake. A number of Assassin guards, clearly his men, ranged themselves behind him.
“We could use your wisdom, great Master. Now, more than ever.”
He stood back and addressed his troops: “Our Mentor is returned!”
The soldiers sheathed their drawn weapons and raised their hoods. Joining forces with Altaïr’s existing group of loyal Assassins, they made their way toward the dark-towered keep of Masyaf.
FIFTY-SIX
But hardly were they within the confines of the inner bailey than Abbas himself appeared, behind a detachment of rogue Assassins. Abbas, recognizable still, but an old man, too, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks—a haunted, frightened, driven man.
“Kill him!” bellowed Abbas. “Kill him now!”
His men hesitated.
“What are you waiting for?” Abbas screamed at them, his voice cracking as it strained.
But they were frozen with indecision, looking at their fellows standing against them and at each other.
“You fools! He has bewitched you!”
Still nothing. Abbas looked at them, spat, and disappeared within the keep.
There was still a standoff, as Assassin confronted Assassin. In the tense silence, Altaïr raised his left hand—the one maimed at his initiation into the Brotherhood.
“There is no witchcraft here,” he said simply. “Nor sorcery. Do as your conscience bids. But death has stalked here too long. And we have too many real enemies—we can’t afford to turn against each other.”
One of Abbas’s reluctant defenders doffed her cowl and stepped forward, kneeling before Altaïr. “Mentor,” she said.
Another quickly joined her. “Welcome home,” she added.
Then a third: “I fight for you. For the Order.”
The others quickly followed the example of the three women Assassins, greeting Altaïr as a long-lost brother, embracing their former opponents in fellowship again. Only a handful still spat insults and retreated after Abbas into the keep.
Altaïr, at the head of his troop, led the way into the keep itself. They stopped in the great hall, looking up to where Abbas stood at the head of the central staircase. He was flanked by rogue Assassins loyal to him, and spearmen and archers ranged the gallery.
Altaïr regarded them calmly. Under his gaze, the rogue Assassins wavered. But they did not break.
“Tell your men to stand down, Abbas,” he commanded.
“Never! I am defending Masyaf! Would you not do the same?”
“Abbas, you corrupted everything we stand for and lost everything we gained. All of it sacrificed on the altar of your own spite.”
“As you,” Abbas spat back. “You have wasted your life staring into that accursed Apple, dreaming only of your own glory.”
Altaïr took a step forward. As he did so, two of Abbas’s spearmen stepped forward, brandishing their arms.
“Abbas—it is true that I have learned many things from the Apple. About life and death, and about the past and the future.” He paused. “I regret this, my old comrade, but I see that I have no choice but to demonstrate to you one of the things I have learned. Nothing else will stop you, I see. And you will never change now and see the light that is still available to you.”
“Kill the traitors!” Abbas shouted in reply. “Kill every one of them and throw their bodies onto the dunghill!”
Abbas’s men bristled, but held off their attack. Altaïr knew that there was no turning back now. He raised his gun arm, unleashed the pistol from its harness, and, as it sprang into his grip, aimed and fired at the man who, seven decades earlier, had, for a short time, been his best friend.
Abbas staggered under the blow of the ball as it struck him, a look of disbelief and surprise on his wizened features. He gasped and swayed, reaching out wildly for support, but no one came to his aid.
And then he fell, crashing over and over down the long stone staircase, to come to rest at Altaïr’s feet. His legs had broken in the fall and stuck out at crazy angles from his body.
But he was not dead. Not yet. He managed to raise himself painfully, high enough to hold his head up, and look Altaïr in the eye.
“I can never forgive you, Altaïr,” he managed to croak. “For the lies you told about my family, my father. For the humiliation I suffered.”
Altaïr looked down at him, but there was only regret in his eyes.
“They were not lies, Abbas. I was ten years old when your father came to my room, to see me. He was in tears, begging to be forgiven for betraying my family.” Altaïr paused. “Then he cut his own throat.”
Abbas held his enemy’s eye but did not speak. The pain in his face was that of a man confronting a truth he could not bear.
“I watched his life ebb away at my feet,” Altaïr went on. “I shall never forget that image.”
Abbas moaned in agony. “No!”
“But he was not a coward, Abbas. He reclaimed his honor.”
Abbas knew he had not much longer to live. The light in his eyes was already fading as he said: “I hope there is another life after this. At least then I shall see him, and know the truth of his final days . . .”
He coughed, the movement racking his body, and when his breath came again as he strove to speak, the rattle was already in it. But when he found his voice, it was firm, and it was unrepentant.
“And when it is your time, O Altaïr, then, then we will find you. And then there will be no doubts.”
Abbas’s arms collapsed, and his body slumped to the stone floor.
Altaïr stood over him in the silence that surrounded them, his head bowed. There was no movement but that of the shadows stirred by the flickering torchlight.
FIFTY-SEVEN
When Ezio came to himself, he feared that the dawn would have broken, but he saw only the palest shades of red in the sky to the east, and the sun had not yet even breached the low brown hills of Asia, which lay in the distance beyond the city.
Weary, worn-out by his experience, he made his way first to the Assassins’ headquarters, to give the key into the safekeeping of Azize. Then, his legs aching under him, he made his way almost instinctively to Sofia’s shop. It would be early still, but he’d ring the bell until she awoke in her apartment above it, and he hoped she’d be pleased to see him—or at least, the new addition to her library. But he was frankly too tired to care whether she’d be excited or not. He just wanted to lie down and sleep. Later on, he knew, he had a rendezvous with Yusuf at the Spice Market, and he had to be fresh for that.
He was also impatient for news of his ship—the one that would take him to Mersin, from whence he’d journey north into Cappadocia. And that journey, he knew, would require all the strength he could summon up.
The Spice Market was already crowded by the time Ezio reached it, though he had contented himself with a mere two hours’ rest. Ezio shouldered his way through the people milling around the stalls until, a few yards ahead of him, he saw a thief in the act of grabbing a large, stiff bag of spices, giving the elderly trader who tried to stop him a vicious shove as he made his getaway.
By luck, the thief ran in Ezio’s direction, snaking his way through the mob with extraordinary agility. But as he came abreast of Ezio, the Assassin tripped him up neatly with his hookblade. The thief dropped the sack as he fell and glared up at Ezio, but one look from his attacker made him drop any thought of retaliation, and, picking himself up, he vanished into the crowd as fast as a rat into its hole.
“Thank you, efendim,” said the grateful trader, as Ezio handed his bag back to him. “Saffron. You have spared me a great loss. Perhaps you will accept . . . ?”
But Ezio had spotted Yusuf in the crowd, and, after shaking his head and smiling briefly at the trader, he made his way over to his lieutenant.
“What news?” he said as he reached him.
“We have had word—very discreetly—that your ship is ready to sail,” said Yusuf. “I did not know that you planned to leave us.”
“Is nothing I do a secret?” Ezio answered, laughing lightly but glad to hear that Suleiman had kept his word.
“The young prince’s spies are almost as good as our own,” replied Yusuf. “I expect he sent word to me because he knew you were . . . otherwise engaged.”
Ezio thought back to the two hours he had spent with Sofia and was glad that he had managed to have them since now he did not know when he would see her again—if he would see her again. And still he had not dared tell her of the feelings that were growing within him and would no longer be denied. Could it really be that his long wait for love was finally coming to an end? If it was, it would have certainly been worth it.
But he had other, more immediate things on his mind.
“We had hoped to have had your broken hidden-blade repaired by now,” Yusuf went on. “But the only armorer skilled enough to do the work is in Salonica and will not return until next month.”
“Keep the blade, and when it is repaired, add it to your own armory,” said Ezio. “In exchange for my hook-blade. It is more than a fair trade.”
“I am glad you appreciate its qualities. I just watched you deal with that thief, and I think you have more than mastered its use.”
“I could not have done without it.”
The two men grinned at each other, but then Ezio’s expression became serious. “I hope, though, that my intended voyage is not common knowledge.”
Yusuf gave a little laugh. “Not to worry, brother. The captain of your ship is a friend, and already known to you.”
“Who, then?”
“Piri Reis. You are honored.” Yusuf paused, troubled now. “But neither of you is going anywhere just yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Janissaries have raised the chain across the mouth of the Golden Horn and ordered a full blockade until you are caught.” Yusuf paused. “Until that chain is down, nothing sails in or out.”
Ezio felt rather proud. “You mean they raised the chain for me?”
Yusuf was amused. “We will celebrate later. Here—I have something for you.”
Drawing Ezio into a discreet alcove, he produced a bomb and carefully handed it over. “Treat this with respect. It has fifty times the kick of our usual bombs.”
“Thank you. And you had better gather your people. This will attract some attention.”
“Here are two smoke bombs. You may find them useful, too.”
“Bene. I know what to do.”
“I’m sure. The suspense is palpable,” joked Yusuf.
“I’ll take the tower on the south bank. It’s closer.”
“I’ll join you at the quay and point your ship out to you. Sinav icin iyi sanslar!”
Ezio grinned. “Good luck to you, too, my friend.”
Yusuf was about to go when Ezio stopped him.
“Yusuf, wait. Un favore.”
“Yes?”
“There is a woman running a bookshop at the old Polo trading post . . . Sofia. Look out for her. She is a remarkable lady.”
Yusuf gave him a keen look, then said, seriously. “You have my word.”
“Thank you. And now—we have work to do.”
“The sooner the better!”
Placing the bomb carefully in his side pouch, and hooking the smoke bombs onto his belt, Ezio swapped his left-hand hidden-blade for his pistol and immediately hastened north toward the tower opposite Galata, on the south side of the Horn. The great chain was suspended between the two banks.
There, Yusuf joined him. “My archers are in place. They’ll cover your escape,” he said. “Now—look—there, in the outer harbor. The red dhow with the furled white sail and the silver pennant? That is Piri’s ship. It is crewed and ready. He is waiting for you.”
There was an open area around the tower, surrounded by ramparts and two smaller watchtowers from the tops of which taut haulage ropes led down to jetties and the western and eastern extremities of the area. At the outer point of one of them, Ezio noticed a weapon emplacement. A massive squitatoria, a flamethrower for Greek fire, stood primed, heated, and ready for action, manned by a crew of three.
Around the tower itself stood a number of Ottoman guards. Ezio would have to put all of them out of commission before he’d be able to place the bomb, and he thanked Yusuf silently for the smoke bombs. There was nowhere to take cover, so he moved in boldly and quickly for a frontal attack.
As soon as they were within range, he pulled the pins on both bombs and threw them to the right and left among the guards. They detonated instantly, and dense grey smoke billowed out, encompassing the guards in a moment. Diving into the confusion, Ezio, eyes narrowed against the acrid fumes, drew his scimitar and with it cut down all the defenseless soldiers as they staggered about, disoriented by the unexpected fog that suddenly surrounded them. He had to act quickly, for the light wind blowing in from the Bosphorus would soon disperse the smoke, but he succeeded, and placed the bomb on a ledge at the base of the tower, just beneath the first huge links of the chain, which rose above his head to the winch room inside. Then he took a good few steps back toward the water’s edge and from there unleashed his pistol and fired at the bomb, igniting it, then instantly diving for cover behind a large iron bollard on the quay.
The explosion was immense. Grime and stones were thrown everywhere as the colossal chains snapped free of the tower and whiplashed over Ezio’s head into the water, snapping ships’ masts as they flew past. As Ezio watched, the tower itself shifted on its base. It shifted again, seeming to settle; but then it imploded, collapsing in a mass of broken brick and dust.
Moments later, a platoon of Janissaries rushed into the square, heading straight for Ezio, who by then had broken cover. He dodged past them and used his hookblade to scale the eastern watchtower, knocking out the guard at its top when he reached it and hooking himself to the rope leading from it down to the jetty on which the squitatoria was placed. As he prepared to effect a zipline, he saw the Janissaries fitting arrows to their bows, but before they had time to take aim and fire, they themselves were cut down by a hail of arrows that rained down on them from Assassin bows. More Assassins rushed into the area around the ruined tower, skipping lightly over the debris to engage with the Janissaries who’d survived the first onslaught.
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