Assassin's Creed: Revelations (Assassin's Creed 4)
Page 66“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.
“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.”
“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,” 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.”