He raised the key high. It began to glow. He closed his eyes, lost in concentration.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Ezio once more became aware of where he was. The light in the cabin resumed its normal comfortable dimness. He smelled the cedarwood of its walls and fittings, saw the dust motes in the sunlight coming through the porthole, and heard the sounds of running feet on the decks, the cries of the sailors, and the creak of the yards as the sails were hoisted.
They were under way.
Out at sea, they once saw the sail of a Barbary pirate, which made both Ezio and Piri think of their old friend Al-Scarab, but the pirate ship stood off and did not attack them. For most of the fifteen-day voyage they were alone on the wine-dark, mackerel-crowded water, and Ezio spent his time vainly attempting to decipher the symbols on the key, wishing Sofia were there to help him, worrying about her safety, and becoming increasingly impatient to reach their goal.
But at last, the day dawned when the domes, the cloud-capped towers, the walls, bell towers, and minarets of Constantinople appeared low on the horizon.
“We’ll be there by midafternoon,” said Piri Reis.
“The sooner the better.”
The port was as crowded as ever, though it was a humid and oppressive day, and siesta time. There was a particularly dense mob around a herald, who stood on a podium at the shore end of the main quay. He was attended by a squad of Janissaries in their flowing white robes. While the red dhow was unloading, Ezio walked over to listen to what the man had to say.
“Citizens of the Empire, and travelers from foreign lands, take heed! By order of the Janissaries, new restrictions now apply to all who travel to and from the city. I hereby give notice that a reward of ten thousand akçe will be given without question to anyone who brings in information that leads to the immediate arrest of the Assassin Auditore, Ezio.”
Ezio looked back to Piri Reis and exchanged a glance with him. Piri came over discreetly.
“Make your best way out of here,” he said. “Have you your key with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then take your weapons and go. I’ll take care of the rest of your gear.”
Nodding his thanks, Ezio slipped discreetly through the crowd and into the town.
He made his way by an indirect route to Sofia’s shop, checking every so often that he had not been followed or recognized. When he was close, he started to feel both relief and pleasurable anticipation. But when he turned the corner of her street, he was brought up short. The shop door stood wide open, a small crowd was gathered nearby, and a group of Yusuf’s Assassins, including Dogan and Kasim, stood on guard.
Ezio crossed to them quickly, his throat dry. “What is going on?” he asked Kasim.
“Inside,” said Kasim, tersely. Ezio saw that there were tears in his eyes.
He entered the shop. Inside, it looked much as it had been when he last left it, but on reaching the inner courtyard, his heart all but stopped at the sight which confronted him.
Lying across a bench, facedown, lay Yusuf. The hilt of a dagger protruded between his shoulder blades.
“There was a note pinned to his back by the dagger,” said Dogan, who had followed him in. It’s addressed to you. Here it is.” He handed Ezio a bloodstained sheet of parchment.
“Have you read it?”
Dogan nodded.
“When did this happen?”
“Today. Can’t have been long ago because the flies haven’t really gathered yet.”
Ezio, caught between tears and rage, drew the dagger from Yusuf’s back. There was no fresh blood to flow.
“You have earned your rest, brother,” he said, softly. “Requiescat in Pace.” Then he unfolded the sheet. Its message, from Ahmet, was short, but its contents made Ezio seethe with rage.
More Assassins had entered the courtyard now, and Ezio looked from one to the other.
“Where is Sofia?” he said, through his teeth.
“We don’t know where he has taken her.”
“Anyone else missing?”
“We cannot find Azize.”
“Brothers! Sisters! It seems as if Ahmet wishes the whole city to rise against us while Yusuf’s murderer watches and waits in the Arsenal, laughing. Fight with me, and let us show him what it means to cross the Assassins!”
SIXTY-NINE
They made their way en masse to the Arsenal and there, in no mood to trifle, made short and brutal work of the Janissary guard loyal to Ahmet, who stood watch. Ahmet could not have been expecting such a sudden surprise attack, or he had underestimated both the fury and the strength of the Assassins, whose power had grown steadily under Yusuf’s command.
Either that, or Ahmet believed he still held the trump cards, for when Ezio cornered him, he showed little sign of alarm.
Ezio, swept along by his rage, only managed to stop himself from killing the Ottoman prince at the very last moment, throwing him to the floor and gripping him by the throat, but then driving his hidden-blade furiously into the tiles, inches from Ahmet’s head. With Ahmet dead, he’d have no means of rescuing Sofia. That much had been clear from the note. But for an instant, blood had clouded Ezio’s judgment.
His face was close to the prince’s. Ezio smelled the scent of violets on his breath. Ahmet returned his livid gaze calmly.
“Where is she?” Ezio demanded sternly.
Ahmet gave a light laugh. “Such wrath!” he said.
“Where—is—she?”
“My dear Ezio, if you think you are in a position to dictate terms, you may as well kill me now and be done with it.”
Ezio did not release his grip for a moment, nor did he retract the hidden-blade; but seconds later, reason got the better of him, and he stood up, flexing his wrist so that the blade shot back into its harness.
Ahmet sat up, rubbing his neck, but otherwise remained where he was, still with a laugh in his voice. It was almost as if the prince were playing an enjoyable game, Ezio thought with a mixture of frustration and contempt.
“I am sorry it had to come to this,” said Ahmet. “Two men who should be friends, quarreling over—what? The keys to some dusty old archive.”
He got to his feet, dusting himself off, and continued: “We both strive toward the same end, Messer Auditore. Only our methods differ. Do you not see that?” He paused. Ezio could guess what was coming next. He’d heard the Templars’ rationale of their dictatorial ambitions too often before. “Peace. Stability. A world where men live without fear. People desire the truth, yes, but even when they have it, they refuse to look. How do you fight this kind of ignorance?”
The prince’s voice had grown vehement. Ezio wondered if he actually believed what he was spouting. He countered: “Liberty can be messy, Principe; but it is priceless.” To himself, he thought: Tyranny is always better organized than freedom.
“Of course,” Ahmet replied, drily. “And when things fall apart, and the lights of civilization dim, Ezio Auditore can stand above the darkness, and say proudly: ‘I stayed true to my Creed.’ ” Ahmet turned away, bringing himself under control. “I will open Altaïr’s archive, I will penetrate his library, and I will find the Grand Temple. And, with the power that is hidden there, I will destroy the superstitions that keep men divided.”
“Not in this life, Ahmet,” Ezio replied, evenly.
Ahmet snorted impatiently and made to leave. Ezio didn’t attempt to stop him. At the door, the prince turned to him once more. “Bring the keys to the Galata Tower,” he said. “Do this, and Sofia Sartor will be spared.” He paused. “And do not delay, Ezio. My brother’s army will be here before too long. When it arrives, everything will change. And I need to be ready for that.”
With that, Ahmet left. Ezio watched him go, signaling to his men not to hinder him.
His thoughts were interrupted by a polite cough behind him. He turned—and saw Prince Suleiman standing before him.
“How long have you been here?” he demanded.
“Long enough.
Behind that arras. I heard your conversation. But then, I’ve had my dear uncle followed closely ever since he returned from his little trip abroad. In fact, I’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since he tried to have me killed—an attempt you so usefully foiled with your lute shard.” He paused. “Nevertheless, I never expected to hear . . . all this.”
“And what do you think?”
Suleiman pondered a moment before replying. Then he said, with a sigh, “He is a sincere man; but this Templar fantasy of his is dangerous. It flies in the face of reality.” He paused. “Look, Ezio. I have not lived long, but I have lived long enough to know that the world is a tapestry of many colors and patterns. A just leader would celebrate this, not seek to unravel it.”
“He fears the disorder that comes from differences.”
“That is why we make laws to live by—a kanun that applies to all in equal measure.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of a patrol of Janissary guards the Assassins outside had let pass, since this cohort was loyal to Suleiman. But when their lieutenant saw Ezio, he drew his scimitar.
“Stand back, my prens!” said the officer, making to arrest Ezio.
“Hold, soldier,” said Suleiman. “This man is not our enemy.”
The lieutenant wavered for a moment, then ordered his men out, muttering an apology.
Suleiman and Ezio smiled at one another.
“We have come a long way since that first voyage,” said Suleiman.
“I was thinking, what a challenge it would be, to have a son like you.”
“You are not dead yet, friend. Perhaps you will yet have a son worthy of you.”
Suleiman had started to take his leave when a thought struck him. “Ezio, I know you will be under extreme pressure, but—spare my uncle, if you can.”
“Would your father?”
Suleiman did not hesitate. “I hadn’t thought about that—but, no.”
SEVENTY
Ezio made his way to the Istanbul Assassins’ headquarters at all possible speed. Once there, he took the four keys he’d already retrieved in the city and added the one he’d taken from Manuel in Derinkuyu to their number. Packing them safely in a shoulder satchel, he slung it round him. He strapped his hookblade to his right wrist and his pistol to his left, and, in case a quick escape from the top of the Tower should prove necessary, placed Leonardo’s parachute in a backpack.
But before he went to the Tower, there was a quick duty he had to perform. He hastened to the Galata cemetery, where Yusuf’s body had already been taken for burial. It was Dogan who had taken over as acting captain of the Istanbul Assassins, and he stepped forward to greet Ezio.
“Mentor.”
“Mentor,” said Irini, coming up in her turn to salute him.
Ezio addressed them briefly, standing by the coffin. “Now should be a time for remembrance and mourning, I know. But our enemies do not permit us that luxury.” He turned to Dogan. “I know that Yusuf thought highly of you, and I find no reason to question his judgment. Do you have it in your heart to lead these men and women, and to maintain the dignity of our Brotherhood, as Yusuf did with such passion?”
“It would be an honor,” Dogan replied.
“As it will continue to be an honor to work for our cause, and to support the Creed,” said Evraniki, who stood beside him.
“Bene,” said Ezio. “I am glad.” He stepped back and looked over the buildings that surrounded the cemetery, to where the Galata Tower stood. “Our enemy is close,” he continued. “When the obsequies are done, take up your positions around the Tower and there await my command.”
He hurried away. The sooner Sofia was safe, the better.
He came upon Ahmet, flanked by a single guard, on a rampart near the Tower’s foot.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
Ahmet smiled that irritating smile of his, and replied. “I admire you, Ezio; but your bloodlust makes it hard for me to call you a friend.”
“Bloodlust? That is a strange insult, coming from the man who ordered an attack on his own nephew.”
Ahmet lost some of his sangfroid. “He was to be kidnapped, Assassin; not killed.”
“I see. Kidnapped by the Byzantines, so that his uncle could rescue him, and be heralded a hero. Was that the plan?”
Ahmet shrugged. “More or less.”
Then he nodded. At once half a dozen Templar soldiers appeared from nowhere and surrounded Ezio.
“Now, Messer Auditore—the keys, if you please.”
Ahmet extended his hand.
But Ezio made a signal of his own. Behind the semicircle of Templars, a larger number of Assassins materialized, scimitars in their hands. “The girl first,” said Ezio in a cold voice.
Ahmet chuckled. “She’s all yours.”
He made a gesture skyward. Ezio followed the direction of his arm and saw, atop the tower, a woman standing next to a guard, who was clearly poised to throw her over the edge. The woman was wearing a green dress, but her head was covered in a burlap sack. She was bound hand and foot.
“Sofia!” Ezio gasped involuntarily.
“Tell your men to back off!” snapped Ahmet.
Fuming, Ezio signaled the Assassins to do so. Then he threw Ahmet the satchel containing the keys. He caught it adroitly and checked its contents. Then he grinned. “As I said, she’s all yours!”
With that, he disappeared from the rampart, his men following. He boarded a waiting carriage, which sped off through the city, heading toward the North Gate.
Ezio had no time to watch him go. He took a running jump at the Tower and began his ascent.
Anxiety and anger speeded him, and in a matter of minutes he was on the topmost battlement, at the side of the woman. The guard backed away, toward the stairway which led downward.
Ezio leapt forward, wrenched the woman back from the edge of the Tower, and pulled the bag from her head.
It was Azize!
She’d been gagged to stop her crying out any warning, and now Ezio tore the scarf away from her mouth.
“Tesekkür, Mentor. Çok tesekkür ederim!” she gasped.
The guard cackled and rushed away down the stairs. He would meet a grim reception at the bottom.
Ezio was in the process of freeing Azize from her bonds when he was interrupted by a woman’s scream. Turning to look, he saw, on another battlement, not far distant, that a temporary gallows had been erected. On the scaffold, a rope already round her neck, stood Sofia, poised on a stool. As he watched, a Byzantine soldier reached up and tightened the noose with rough hands.
Ezio gauged the distance between the top of the Galata Tower and the battlement he had to reach. Leaving Azize to free herself from the rest of her bonds, he unslung his backpack and swiftly assembled the parachute. A matter of seconds later he was flying through the air, guiding the chute with his weight toward the scaffold, where the Byzantines had kicked the stool from beneath Sofia’s feet and tied off the rope. Still airborne, he unleashed his hookblade and used it to slice through the taut rope inches above Sofia’s head. He landed an instant later and caught her falling body in his arms.
Uttering curses, the Byzantine guards made off. Assassins were racing through the streets between the Galata Tower and this battlement, but Ezio could see Byzantines coming toward them to block their approach. He would have to act alone.
But first he turned to Sofia, pulling the rope from her neck with frantic hands, feeling her breast rise and fall against his own.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, urgently.
She coughed and choked, getting her breath back. “No, not hurt. But very confused.”
“I didn’t mean to drag you into this. I am sorry.”
“You aren’t responsible for other men’s actions,” she said, hoarsely.
He gave her a moment to recover and looked at her. That she could be so rational at such a moment . . . ! “All this will be . . . behind us, soon. But first I must recover what they have taken. It is of primal import
ance!”
“I don’t understand what’s happening, Ezio. Who are these men?”
She was interrupted by a cannon’s blast. Moments later, the battlement they were on shook with the impact of a twenty-pound ball. Sofia was knocked to the ground as shattered stonework flew.
Ezio pulled her to her feet and scanned the area beneath them. His eye lit on an empty carriage guarded by two regular Ottoman troops, who had taken cover immediately when the gunfire started.
He gauged the distance again. Would the parachute take both her weight and his? He’d have to risk it.
“Come!” he said, taking her in his arms tightly and leaping from the battlement.
For a terrible moment, it looked as if the parachute would snag on the crenellations, but it just cleared them, and they dropped—very fast, but still slowly enough to make a safe landing near the carriage. Ezio folded the chute and stuffed it into his pack, not bothering to unclip it, and the two of them made a dash for the carriage. Ezio hurled Sofia onto the driver’s seat, smacked one of the horse’s flanks, and leapt on after her. He seized the reins and drove away at breakneck speed, the Ottoman guards shouting vainly for him to stop as they pursued on foot.
Ezio drove hard, heading through the Galata District north, and out of the city.
SEVENTY-ONE
They were not far into the countryside when, as he’d hoped, Ezio saw Ahmet’s carriage careering along the road ahead of them.
“Is that who you’re after?” said Sofia, breathlessly.
Ezio crouched forward over the reins. “That’s him. We’re gaining on them! Hang on!”
Ahmet had seen them, too, and leaned out of his window, shouting. “Well, well! You have come to see me off, have you?”
The two men posted on the back outer seat of his carriage had turned round, trying to steady themselves as they aimed crossbows at Ezio and Sofia.
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