Assassin's Creed: Revelations (29 page)

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 the guards saw him, a hue and cry was raised, and they massed to fall on him. He stood his ground, letting them approach but drawing his scarf closely over his nose and mouth and pulling his hood low over his eyes.

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.

Among them was Yusuf. Looking up, he yelled to Ezio, “Remember—the red dhow! And the ships between you and it are armed—they’ll stop you from sailing if they can.”

“I’ll take care of them,” Ezio called back, grimly.

“And we’ll clear the docks!”

Ezio let the rope take his weight on the hookblade and kicked off from the watchtower, zooming down to the flamethrower emplacement and leaping off just before he reached it, throwing himself at the nearest of the crew, who were preparing to turn their weapon on the Assassins fighting by the tower. The first he knocked into the water, where the man was crushed between the shifting hulls of two moored barges. The others he swiftly dispatched with his hookblade.

He scanned the flamethrower, quickly acquainting himself with its mechanism. It was on a swivel base, operated by a crank at the left-hand side. The cannon itself was made of brass, its mouth in the shape of a lion’s head, from which the end of the bronze tube within projected slightly. On its edge it was a flint that could be sparked by the trigger mechanism, which also released the pressurized oil vapor that would be shot from the heated vat in the base of the weapon.

He heard a voice coming to him from the melee near the broken tower. It was Yusuf. “That’s it! Get the ships with Greek fire,” he was yelling. “I like the way you think, Ezio!”

Across the Horn, on the north bank, the Ottoman Guard were bringing up two cannon, which they trained on the Assassins fighting near Ezio. Soon afterward, as Ezio was cranking round and training the flamethrower on the nearest ships, he saw the puffs of smoke from the cannon mouths, then heard the
crump
of their detonations. The first cannonball fell into the water, short of where he was, but the second smashed into the jetty, making it lurch dangerously.

But it did not collapse.

Ezio steadied himself and pressed the trigger. With a loud roar, a long tongue of flame instantly shot forth, and he played it across the yards and decks of the three ships riding between him and Piri’s dhow. The fire he’d set sprang up in a moment. Ezio kept pressing the trigger until all the oil in the tank was used up, then, abandoning the weapon, he leapt down onto one of the barges riding beneath the jetty, sprinting its length and vaulting from it to catch hold of the outer gunwale of the first burning ship, hauling himself up onto the deck with his hookblade and there managing to fight off two desperate sailors who came toward him with belaying pins. He scaled the foremast from the burning deck and was just in time to zipline down a yard and hurl himself from it onto the second ship in line before the mast behind him snapped in the fire and collapsed in a chaos of flame onto the deck of the ship he’d just left.

The second ship, too, was burning fiercely, and beginning to sink at the after end. He ran toward the prow, pushing aside a handful of panicking mariners, and ran along its bowsprit to leap from there to the third ship, less damaged than the first two, where the crew was preparing to turn their cannon onto the red dhow, now only twenty yards distant. To Ezio’s alarm, he saw Piri shouting orders to make sail, and his sailors were letting out the sheets frantically, in order to catch the wind and get out of firing range.

Ezio raised his voice and called for aid from the Brotherhood, but when he looked around, he saw that a number of his fellow Assassins had already followed his perilous route and were right behind him, ready to pounce.

Between them, they set on the gun crews, and a fierce and bloody skirmish followed, leaving several Assassins and all the mariners on the blockade ship dead. On the red dhow, Piri had raised an arm to halt operations and was bellowing to Ezio to make haste though his voice was lost in the tumult over the cannon.

But at last, Ezio stood at the gunwale of the blockade ship. He used his crossbow to fire a line over to the dhow, which Piri’s crew secured, then he ziplined across the choppy water.

Behind him, the surviving Assassins waved their farewell before taking to the doomed ship’s boats and making for the shore.

Ezio saluted back, catching his breath and wheezing a little. He flexed his joints, which were just a little stiff. Then he was surrounded by a handful of Piri’s men, who checked him over for wounds and conducted him to the wheelhouse, where Piri stood before the now-fully-unfurled foresail.