“You delude yourself! Altaïr’s secrets are not for you! And you will never find the Grand Temple!”
“We’ll see.”
Ezio noticed that Ahmet was looking past him, and, turning, he saw a number of Byzantine troops edging toward where he stood on the jetty.
“In any case, I am not interested in arguing morals and ethics with you, Assassin. I am here for the Masyaf keys.”
Ezio smiled mockingly and produced the key he had just taken from Manuel, holding it up. “Do you mean to say there are more than just this one?”
“So I have heard,” replied Ahmet, urbanely. “But perhaps I should ask someone who may be even better informed than you. Sofia Sartor. Have I got the name right?”
Ezio was immediately troubled though he tried not to let it show. “She knows nothing! Leave her be!”
Ahmet smiled. “We shall see.”
He motioned to his men, who started to steer the raft away.
“I will kill you if you touch her.”
“I know you’ll try, my dear Ezio. But I doubt if you’ll succeed.” He raised his voice, addressing the men onshore. “Kill him now and get the key. Then bring it to me immediately.”
“Won’t you stay and watch the show?” said Ezio, coldly.
“I have far too much respect for my own safety,” replied Ahmet. “I know your reputation, and I’ve seen an example of your work here today. Cornered, as you are, I imagine you’re doubly dangerous. Besides, I detest violence.”
The raft sailed off, leaving Ezio to face the Byzantine troops ranged against him. He considered his options.
But there were no options.
He was at the end of the jetty, with no means of retreat, and there was no way he could make an escape by swimming. There must have been twenty or thirty of them. Some carried muskets that had escaped his destruction of the warehouses. The captain of the detachment came close.
“Give us the key, kyrie,” he said sarcastically. “I do not believe you have a choice.”
Musketeers flanking him raised their weapons.
Ezio looked at them. This time he knew he was beaten. He had his pistol, capable of two shots at most, his hidden-blade, and his scimitar. But at the very moment even he could make his quickest move, the muskets would send their balls straight through him. Perhaps they’d fire anyway. It would be the simplest way to get the key. Maybe he’d have time to hurl it into the lake before he fell.
Ezio could only pray that Yusuf would never let the other four keys fall into Templar hands and that Sofia would be spared needless torture, for he had kept her ignorant of their whereabouts for safety’s sake.
But he had clearly not been careful enough.
Well, everyone’s road had to end somewhere.
The captain raised his hand, and the musketeers’ fingers curled around their triggers.
SIXTY-FIVE
The muskets fired. Ezio threw himself flat on the jetty.
Arrows from behind and above them fell on the Byzantine soldiers like rain. In seconds, all Prince Ahmet’s soldiers lay dead or wounded by the lake’s edge.
One ball had seared Ezio’s hood, but otherwise he was unscathed, and he thanked God that age hadn’t slowed his reactions. When he got to his feet, it was to see Dilara standing at the other end of the jetty. From vantage points at the top of the stairway that led down to it, her men were descending, and those who’d already reached ground level were moving among the Byzantines, checking the dead and tending the wounded.
“Can’t leave you alone for a minute,” said Dilara.
“So it would seem,” said Ezio. “Thank you.”
“Get what you came for?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’d better get you out of here. You’ve raised hell, you know.”
“Looks like it.”
She shook her head. “It’ll take them years to recover from this. If they recover at all. But there’s enough kick left in them to send you flying if they find you. Come on!”
She started back up the stairs.
“Wait! Should I take a boat out of here?”
“Are you mad? They’ll be waiting for you where the river comes out into the open. It’s a narrow gorge. You’d be dead meat in a moment, and I don’t want to see my work here wasted.”
Ezio followed her obediently.
They climbed back up through several levels, then took a street winding away to the south. The smoke there had cleared somewhat, and the people who were about were too preoccupied with putting out fires to pay them much attention. Dilara set a very brisk pace, and, before long, they’d arrived at a gateway similar to the one Ezio had opened on the west side of the city. Dilara produced a key and opened the ironclad wooden door.
“I’m impressed,” said Ezio.
“So you should be. Tell them in Kostantiniyye that they can rest easy that their people here are doing a good job.”
Ezio squinted against the sunlight that poured in through the door, which seemed blinding after the dimness of the underground city. But he saw a road winding away to the south, with the dismal little village of Nadarim hunched in its path.
“Your horse is saddled and freshly fed and watered in the stables there. Food and drink in the saddlebags. You can pick her up without danger. The village has been liberated, and they’ve already started whitewashing the buildings—Allah knows it needed cheering up, and now it’s broken free of its oppressors,” said Dilara, her nostrils flaring in triumph. “But get out of here now. It won’t be long before news reaches Ahmet of what’s happened. He won’t dare come back himself, of course, but you can be sure he’ll send someone after you.”
“Has he got anyone left?”
Dilara smiled—a little tightly, but she did smile. “Go on, go. You should be able to make Nigde by the end of the week. You’ll be back in Mersin by the full moon if nobody cuts you down on the way.”
“Ahead of schedule.”
“Congratulations.”
“What about you?”
“Our work here isn’t finished. In any case, we don’t move without a direct order from Kostantiniyye. Give my regards to Tarik.”
Ezio looked at her in grim silence for a moment, then said, “I’ll tell them at the Sublime Porte how much they owe to you.”
“You do that. And now I’ve got to get back to my men and reorganize. Your little fireworks display wrecked our headquarters, among other things.”
Ezio wanted to say something more, but she had already gone.
SIXTY-SIX
The journey back to the coast was fast and mercifully uneventful.
“You’re early,” said Piri Reis, when Ezio appeared at the foot of the gangplank of the red dhow.
“And it’s good that I am. We must return to Kostantiniyye as soon as possible.”
“Do you have the fifth key?”
Ezio smiled and patted the pouch at his side.
“It is well,” said Piri, returning his smile. “And Manuel?”
“Manuel will trouble us no more.”
“Better and better. They will make you a sövalye at this rate.”
“But the battle is far from won. We must make haste.”
“The ship has to be victualed, and we must wait for a favorable tide. But we can deal with one while we attend the other.” Piri turned and issued terse orders to the ship’s master, who had joined them. “The crew will have to be rounded up as well. We did not expect you to finish your business at Derinkuyu quite so fast.”
“I was fortunate in having extraordinarily good assistance.”
“I have heard of the chief of spies put in place there by the Sublime Porte. Her reputation goes always before her,” said Piri.
“Then I have reason to thank the Ottoman government.”
“Under Bayezid, the Sublime Porte has become a model of practical administration. It is fortunate that it continues to operate unhindered by the squabbles of the Royal Family.”
“Speaking of them, I think we must keep a
careful eye on Ahmet,” Ezio said quietly. “I have discovered that he has some very undesirable friends.”
“The Assassins should not meddle in Ottoman affairs.”
“These friends of Ahmet’s make those affairs ours, too.”
Piri raised an eyebrow but said no more on the subject. “Your cabin is ready for you,” he said. “No doubt you will wish to rest until we are ready to sail.”
Once alone, Ezio divested himself of his equipment and cleaned and honed his arms. Then, when all was in readiness, he secured the cabin door, took out the fifth key, and placed it on the foldaway table, seating himself before it. He was curious to see whether it would behave in the same way as the others. He needed to know what more of Altaïr it might impart, especially as he had no means of telling whether it had performed any kind of mystical revelation to the Templars who had first discovered it. What knowledge might it already have imparted to them? Or had it some power to know, as it were, when to speak and when to be silent?
His mind was troubled, too, by thoughts of Sofia, and he was impatient to be back in Constantinople. To protect her and to ensure the safety of the other four keys. But for the moment he had to force himself to be patient, for he was at the mercy of the sea and the wind.
This key was similar to the others—the exact diameter and proportion of its fellows, decorated, as they were, with strange, indecipherable symbols and rutted with precise but mysterious grooves. He braced himself and reached out to touch it. It did not disappoint him. Soon, the soft light of the cabin seemed to sink into further gloom, and, by contrast, the glow that began to emanate from the obsidian disc grew greater and greater . . .
SIXTY-SEVEN
As he was drawn into the scene—at one with it, and yet not part of it at all, Ezio knew that ten more years had passed since last he was at Masyaf. He watched and, as he watched, was lost in the events that unfolded . . .
The men stood in the sunlit inner bailey of Masyaf, under the shade of a spreading cinnamon tree of great age.
Altaïr, his skin like paper and his gaunt frame so shrouded in his clothes that only his face and his long, pale hands were visible, stood with two stocky Venetians in their early thirties. The older of the two wore a crest on his sleeve—a blue shield on which, in yellow, was a jug surmounted by a single chevron, over which three pentangle stars were set in a row, the whole topped by a silver helm. A little way beyond where they were standing, a large number of Assassin warriors were in the process of preparing for battle.
The Mentor touched the man’s sleeve in a familiar, friendly way. His movements were performed in the careful and precise manner of the very old, but there was nothing of the feebleness you might expect in a man of ninety-one winters, especially one from whom life had exacted so much. “Niccolò,” said Altaïr. “We have long held the Polo family—you and your brother here—close to our hearts, though our time spent together was, I know, brief enough. But I have faith that this Codex, which I now place in your hands, will answer the many questions you have yet to ask.”
Altaïr gestured to an aide, who stepped forward to place a leather-bound volume in Niccolò Polo’s hands.
“Altaïr,” said the Italian. “This gift is . . . invaluable. Grazie.”
Altaïr nodded in acknowledgment as the aide handed him a small bag. “So,” he said, turning back to the elder Polo brother, “where will you go next?”
“Maffeo and I will return to Constantinople for a time. We intend to establish a guild there before returning to Venice.”
Altaïr smiled. “Your son Marco will be eager to hear his father’s wild stories.”
“At three, he is a little young for such tales. But one day soon, indeed, he will hear them.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of Darim, who came rushing through the inner gate toward them.
“Father! A vanguard of Hulagu’s Mongols has broken through! The village is threatened!”
So soon? Altaïr stiffened. His tone when he spoke again to Niccolò was urgent. “Niccolò—your cargo and provisions are waiting for you by the village gate. We will escort you there. Then you must make all speed.”
“Thank you, Mentor.”
Altaïr then turned to two Assassins who had detached themselves from the larger group, all now in full readiness for the battle ahead and already riding out.
“Prepare the catapults,” he ordered, “and watch for my signal.”
They bowed their assent and ran off to do as he bid.
“Stay close,” Altaïr commanded the Polo brothers.
“We must make our way to the village immediately, Father,” Darim said. “I think you had better remain with Niccolò and Maffeo. I will clear the path ahead.”
“Take care, Darim. And keep an eye on the trebuchets.” Altaïr looked over to where the massive sling-mounted catapults were being pulled into place by their crews.
Darim smiled. “If they hit me, they will hit a dozen Mongols at the same time.”
“Khan Hulagu is not an enemy to be trifled with.”
“We are ready for him.”
Altaïr turned to his guests. “Come,” he said.
They mounted the horses that had been readied for them and rode out of the fortress at an easy pace, taking a route well clear of the main battle, which had been joined on the slopes of the nearby foothills.
“Will you hold them?” asked Niccolò, unable to disguise the nervousness in his voice.
“For as long as necessary,” Altaïr reassured him, calmly. “I envy you your journey,” he continued. “Byzantium is a splendid city.”
Niccolò smiled—a bit tightly, for he was more than a little aware of the danger they were in, however little mind Altaïr seemed to be making of it. But he’d been in tough corners before, and he knew what Altaïr was trying to do—make light of it. He played the game: “You prefer the ancient name, I see. Have you ever been there?”
“Long ago. When you Venetians diverted the Frankish Crusaders to attack it instead of Jerusalem.”
“Constantinople was Venice’s greatest trade rival then. It was a great coup.”
“It opened Europe to the east in more ways than one.”
“The Mongols will never get that far,” said Niccolò, but his voice was nervous.
Altaïr didn’t pick him up on that. Instead, he said, “That little conflict in 1204 prevented me from bringing the Creed to Europe.”
“Well, with luck—and patience—we will finish what you started.”
“If you have the chance, the view from the top of Haghia Sofia is the best in the city.”
“How does one get to the top?”
Altaïr smiled. “With training and patience.” He paused. “I take it that, when you get away from here, you won’t try the overland route there? That you’ll be sailing to Byzantium?”
“Yes—as the saying goes. We’ll ride to Latakia and get a ship there. The roads in Anatolia are fogged by memories of the Crusades.”
“Ah,” said Altaïr, “the deepest passions can be the most deadly.”
“Do visit us if you are able, Altaïr. We will have plenty of space for you and your entourage.”
“No,” said Altaïr. “Thank you, but that is no country for old men, Niccolò. I will stay here, as I always must now.”
“Well, should you change you mind, our door is always open.”
Altaïr was watching the battle. The trebuchets had been brought into play and found their range. The stones they were hurling into the Mongol ranks were wreaking havoc.
A rider detached himself from the main body of Assassin cavalry and came toward them at a gallop. It was Darim.
“We will rest briefly at the village,” said Altaïr to him as he rode up. “You seem to have the enemy in check.”
“But for how long, Father?”
“I have every faith in you. After all, you are not a boy any longer.”
“I am sixty-two years old.”
“You make me feel quite ancient,
” Altaïr joked. But Darim could see the pallor on his cheeks and realized how tired his father really was.
“Of course, we will rest, and see our friends off properly.”
They rode round to the village stables, and the Polo brothers made haste to transfer their belongings to the packhorses provided for them, together with the two fresh mounts for their journey westward to the coast. Altaïr, finally able to rest, slumped a little and leaned against Darim for support.
“Father—are you hurt?” asked Darim in a voice of concern.
He escorted him to a bench under a tree.
“Give me a moment,” panted Altaïr, reluctant to give in to the pain he felt. He sat heavily and took a breath, looking back to the castle. An aged man, he thought, was nothing but a paltry thing, like a tattered cloak upon a stick; but he had at least let his soul clap its hands and sing.
“The end of an era,” he whispered.
He looked at his son, and smiled.
Then he took the bag the aide had handed him earlier and removed its contents. Five obsidian discs, intricately carved. He stacked them neatly. “When I was very young,” he said, “I was foolish enough to believe that our Creed would bring an end to these conflicts.” He paused. “If only I had possessed the humility to say to myself, I have done enough for one life. I have done my part.”
With an effort, he rose to his feet.
“Then again, there is no greater glory than fighting to find the truth.”
He looked across the village, and beyond it, to the battle. Niccolò Polo came up. “We are ready,” he said.
“A last favor, Niccolò,” said Altaïr, giving him the stone discs. “Take these with you and guard them well. Hide them, if you must.”
Niccolò gave him a quizzical look.
“What are these—artifacts?”
“They are indeed artifacts of a kind. They are keys, each one of them imbued with a message.”
Niccolò examined one closely. He was puzzled. “A message—for whom?”
Altaïr took the key in his hand. “I wish I knew . . .”
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