Assassin's Creed: Revelations (12 page)

Ezio looked reflective. “When I first set out, violence was far from my mind. I sought merely wisdom.” He looked at his new lieutenant. “The contents of Altaïr’s library.”

Yusuf laughed again though less certainly. “Not realizing that it’s been sealed shut for two-and-a-half centuries?”

Ezio laughed a little himself. “No. I assumed as much. But I admit that I never quite expected to find Templars guarding it.”

Yusuf now became serious. They were reaching less populous streets, and they relaxed their pace. “It is very troubling. Five years ago, Templar influence here was minimal. Just a small faction, with dreams of restoring the throne to Byzantium.”

They’d reached a small square, and Yusuf drew Ezio to one side to point out a knot of four men crowded in a dark corner. They were dressed in dull grey armor over rough red woolen tunics and jerkins.

“There’s a group of them now,” Yusuf said, lowering his voice. “Don’t look in their direction.” He glanced around. “They’re growing in number, day by day. And they know what we all know, that Sultan Bayezid is on his way out. They’re watching, waiting for their moment. I believe they may try something dramatic.”

“But is there no heir to the Ottoman throne?” Ezio asked, surprised.

“That’s the trouble—there are two of them. Two angry sons. It’s a familiar pattern with these royals. When the sultan coughs, the princes draw their swords.”

Ezio pondered this, remembering what the young man on the ship had told him. “Between the Templars and the Ottomans, you must be kept busy,” he said.

“Ezio,
efendim
, I tell you in truth that I barely have time to polish my blade!”

Just then, a shot rang out, and a bullet embedded itself in the wall inches to the left of Yusuf’s head.

EIGHTEEN

Yusuf dived behind a row of spice barrels, with Ezio close behind him.

“Talk of the devil, and there he is!” Yusuf said, tightlipped, as he raised his head just enough to see the gunman reloading across the square.

“Looks like our Byzantine friends over there didn’t take kindly to being stared at.”

“I’ll take care of the guy with the musket,” said Yusuf, measuring the distance between himself and his target as he reached back and plucked one of his throwing knives from the scabbard at his back. In a clean movement he threw it and it hurtled across the square, rotating three times before it found its mark, burying itself deep in the man’s throat, just as he raised his gun to fire again. Meanwhile, his friends were already sprinting toward them, swords drawn.

“Nowhere to run,” said Ezio, drawing his own scimitar.

“Baptism of fire for you,” said Yusuf. “And you’ve only just arrived.
Çok üzüldüm.
”

“Don’t think about it,” replied Ezio, amused. He’d picked up just enough Turkish to know that his companion in arms was saying sorry.

Yusuf drew his own sword, and together they leapt from their hiding place to confront the oncoming foe. They were more lightly clad than their three opponents, which left them worse protected but more mobile. Ezio quickly realized, as he joined with the first Byzantine, that he was up against a highly trained fighter. And he had yet to get used to using a scimitar.

Yusuf kept up his banter as they fought. But then he was used to this enemy, and a good fifteen years Ezio’s junior. “The whole city stirs to welcome you—first the regents, like me—and now, the rats!”

Ezio concentrated on the swordplay. It went against him badly at first, but he quickly attuned himself to the light, flexible sword he was using and found its curved blade improved the swing incredibly. Once or twice, Yusuf, keeping an eye on his Mentor, shouted helpful instructions, and ended up casting him an admiring sidelong glance.

“
Inanilmaz!
A master at work!”

But he’d allowed his attention to falter for a second too long, and one of the Byzantines was able to slice through the material of his left sleeve and gash his forearm. As he fell back involuntarily and his assailant pressed his advantage, Ezio shoved his own opponent violently aside and went to his friend’s aid, getting between Yusuf and the Byzantine and warding off with his left-arm bracer what would have been a fatal follow-up blow. This move wrong-footed the Byzantine just long enough for Yusuf to regain his balance and, in turn, fend off another mercenary who was closing in on Ezio’s back, dealing the attacker a mortal blow at the same time as Ezio finished off the second man. The last remaining Byzantine, a big man with a jaw like a rock face, looked doubtful for the first time.

“Tesekkür ederim,”
said Yusuf, breathing heavily.

“Is there no end to your talents?”

“Well, at least I learned ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’ on board that baghlah.”

“Look out!”

The big Byzantine was bearing down on them, roaring, a big sword in one hand and a mace in the other.

“By Allah, I thought he’d run away,” said Yusuf, sidestepping and tripping him up, so that, carried by the weight of his own momentum, he careered forward and crashed heavily into one of the spice barrels, falling headlong into a fragrant heap of yellow powder, where he lay immobile.

Ezio, after looking around, wiped his sword clean and sheathed it. Yusuf followed suit.

“You have a curious technique, Mentor. All feint and no fight. It seems. But when you strike . . .”

“I think like a mongoose—my enemy is the cobra.”

“Striking expression.”

“I try.”

Yusuf glanced around again. “We’d better go. I think that’s enough fun for one day.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when another squad of Byzantine mercenaries, attracted by the sound of the fight, came boiling into the square.

Ezio was instantly on the alert, whipping his sword out again.

But then the other side of the square filled with more troops, wearing a different uniform—blue tunics and dark, conical felt hats.

“Hang on—wait!” Yusuf cried, as the new arrivals turned to attack the mercenaries, quickly causing them to retreat and pursuing them out of sight, out of the square.

“They were Ottoman regular troops,” Yusuf said in response to Ezio’s questioning look. “Not Janissaries—they are the elite regiment, and you’ll know them when you see them. But all Ottoman soldiers have a special loathing for these Byzantine thugs, and that is to the advantage of the Assassins.”

“How big an advantage?”

Yusuf spread his hands. “Oh, just a little one. They’ll still kill you if you look at them in a way they don’t like, same as the Byzantines. The difference is, the Ottomans will feel bad about it afterward.”

“How touching.”

Yusuf grinned. “It’s not so bad, really. For the first time in many decades, we Assassins have a strong presence here. It wasn’t always that way. Under the Byzantine emperors, we were hunted down and killed on the spot.”

“You’d better tell me about that,” said Ezio, as they once again set off toward the Brotherhood’s headquarters.

Yusuf scratched his chin. “Well, the old emperor, Constantine—the eleventh with that name—only had a three-year reign. Our sultan Mehmed saw to that. But by all accounts, Constantine wasn’t too bad himself. He was the very last Roman emperor in a line that went back a millennium.”

“Spare me the history lesson,” Ezio interrupted. “I want to know what we’re up against now.”

“Thing is, by the time Mehmed took this city, there was almost nothing left of it—or of the old Byzantine Empire. They even say Constantine was so broke he had to replace the jewels in his robes with glass copies.”

“My heart bleeds for him.”

“He was a brave man. He refused the offer of his life in exchange for surrendering the city, and he went down fighting. But his spirit wasn’t shared by two of his nephews. One of them has been dead a few years now, but the other . . .” Yusuf trailed off, thoughtfully.

“He’s against us?”

“Oh, you can bet on that. And he’s against the Ottomans. Well, the rulers, anyway.”

“Where is he now?”

Yusuf looked vague. “Who knows? In exile, somewhere? But if he’s still alive, he’ll be plotting something.” He paused. “They say he was in pretty thick with Rodrigo Borgia at one time.”

Ezio stiffened at the name. “The Spaniard?”

“The very same. The one you finally snuffed out.”

“It was his own son that did the deed.”

“Well, they never were exactly the Holy Family, were they?” “Go on.”

“Go on.”

 

“Rodrigo was also close to a Seljuk called Cem. It was all very hush-hush, and even we Assassins didn’t know about it until much later.”

Ezio nodded. He had heard the stories. “If I remember rightly, Cem was a bit of an adventurer.”

“He was one of the present sultan’s brothers, but he had his eye on the throne for himself, so Bayezid threw him out. He ended up kind of under house arrest in Italy, and he and Rodrigo became friends.”

“I remember,” Ezio said, taking up the story. “Rodrigo thought he could use Cem’s ambitions to take Constantinople for himself. But the Brotherhood managed to assassinate Cem in Capua, about fifteen years ago. And that put an end to that little plan.”

“Not that we got much thanks for it.”

“Our task is not wrought in order to receive thanks.”

Yusuf bowed his head. “I am schooled, Mentor. But it was a pretty neat coup, you must admit.”

Ezio was silent, so, after a moment, Yusuf continued: “The two nephews I mentioned were the sons of another of Bayezid’s brothers, Tomas. They’d been exiled, too, with their father.”

“Why?”

“Would you believe it—Tomas was after the Ottoman throne as well. Sound familiar?”

“The name of this family wouldn’t be Borgia, would it?”

Yusuf laughed. “It’s Palaiologos. But you’re right—it almost amounts to the same thing. After Cem died, the nephews both went to ground in Europe. One stayed there, trying to raise an army to take Constantinople himself—he failed, of course, and died, like I said, seven or eight years ago, without an heir, and penniless. But the other—well, he came back, renounced any imperial ambition, was forgiven, and actually joined the navy for a time. Then he seemed to settle down to a life of luxury and womanizing.”

“But now he’s disappeared?”

“He’s certainly out of sight.”

“And we don’t know his name?”

“He goes by many names—but we have been unable to pin him down.”

“But he is plotting something.”

“Yes. And he has Templar connections.”

“A man to be watched.”

“If he surfaces, we’ll know about it.”

“How old is he?”

“It’s said he was born in the year of Mehmed’s conquest, which would make him just a handful of years older than you.”

“Still enough kick in him then.”

Yusuf looked at him. “If you are anything to go by, plenty.” He looked around him. Their walk had taken them deep into the heart of the city. “We’re almost there,” he said. “This way.”

They made another turn—into a narrow street, dim, cool, and shadowy despite the sunshine, which tried, and failed, to penetrate the narrow space between the buildings on either side. Yusuf paused at a small, unimpressive-looking green-painted door and raised the brass knocker on it. He tapped out a code, so softly that Ezio wondered that anyone within would hear. But within seconds, the door was swung open by a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped girl who bore the Assassins’ emblem on the buckle of her tunic belt.

Ezio found himself in a spacious courtyard, green vines clinging to the yellow walls. Assembled there was a small group of young men and women. They gazed at Ezio in awe as Yusuf, with a theatrical gesture, turned to him and said, “Mentor—say hello to your extended family.”

Ezio stepped forward. “
Salute a voi, Assassini.
It is an honor to find such fast friends so far from home.” To his horror, he found that he was moved to tears. Maybe the tensions of the past few hours were catching up with him; and he was still tired after his journey.

Yusuf turned to his fellow members of the Constantinople Chapter of the Assassin Brotherhood. “You see, friends? Our Mentor is not afraid to weep openly in front of his pupils.”

Ezio wiped his cheeks with a gloved hand and smiled. “Do not worry—I will not make a habit of it.”

“The Mentor has not been in our city more than a matter of hours, and already there is news,” Yusuf went on, his face serious. “We were attacked on the way here. It seems the mercenaries are on the move once more. So”—he indicated three men and two women—“you—Dogan, Kasim, Heyreddin; and you—Evraniki and Irini—I want you to make a sweep of the area—now!”

The five silently rose, bowing to Ezio as they took their leave.

“The rest of you—back to work,” Yusuf commanded, and the remaining Assassins dispersed.

Left alone, Yusuf turned to Ezio, a look of concern on his face. “My Mentor. Your weapons and your armor look in need of renewal—and your clothes—forgive me—are in a pitiful state. We will help you. But we have very little money.”

Ezio smiled. “Have no fear. I need none. And I prefer to look after myself. It is time to explore the city alone, to get the feeling of it into my blood.”

“Will you not rest first? Take some refreshment?”

“The time for rest is when the task is done.” Ezio paused. He unslung his bags and withdrew the broken hidden-blade. “Is there a blacksmith or an armorer skilled and trustworthy enough to repair this?”

Yusuf examined the damage, then slowly, regretfully, shook his head. “This, I know, is one of the original blades, crafted from Altaïr’s instructions in the Codex your father collected; and what you ask may be impossible to achieve. But if we cannot get it done, we will make sure you do not go out underarmed. But leave your weapons with me—those you do not need to take with you now—and I will have them cleaned and honed. And there will be fresh clothes ready for you on your return.”