Assassin's Creed: Revelations (21 page)

Altaïr bent over the bier. He stooped and took the old man’s body in his arms. “Let me handle it.”

He stood erect, his robes flowing about him. “Are you fit to travel?” he asked the captain.

“Well enough, yes.”

“I have asked Malik Al-Sayf to ride to Jerusalem with the news of Al Mualim’s death. Will you ride to Acre and do the same?”

“Of course.”

“Then go, and God be with you.”

The captain inclined his head and departed.

Bearing the dead Mentor’s body in his arms, his successor strode out to confront his fellow members of the Brotherhood.

At his appearance, there was an immediate babel of voices, reflecting the bewilderment in their minds. Some asked themselves if they were dreaming. Others were aghast at this physical confirmation of Al Mualim’s passing.

“Altaïr! Explain yourself!”

“How did it come to this?”

“What has happened?”

One Assassin shook his head. “My mind was clear, but my body . . . it would not move!”

In the midst of the confusion, Abbas appeared. Abbas. Altaïr’s childhood friend. Now, that friendship was far less sure. Too much had happened between them.

“What has happened here?” asked Abbas, his voice reflecting his shock.

“Our Mentor has deceived us all,” Altaïr replied. “The Templars corrupted him.”

“Where is your proof of that?” Abbas responded, suspiciously.

“Walk with me, Abbas; and I will explain.”

“And if I find your answers wanting?”

“Then I will talk until you are satisfied.”

They made their way, Altaïr still bearing Al Mualim’s body in his arms, toward the funeral pyre that had been prepared for it. Beside him, Abbas, unaware of their destination, remained testy, tense, and combative, unable to disguise his mistrust of Altaïr.

And Altaïr knew with what reason and regretted it. But he would do his best.

“Do you remember, Abbas, the artifact we recovered from the Templar Robert de Sable, in Solomon’s Temple?”

“You mean the artifact
you
were sent to retrieve but
others
actually delivered?”

Altaïr let that go. “Yes. It is a Templar tool. It is called the Apple of Eden. Among many other powers, it can conjure illusions and control the minds of men—and of the man who thinks
he
controls
it
. A deadly weapon.”

Abbas shrugged. “Then better, surely, that we have it than the Templars.”

Altaïr shook his head. “That makes no difference. It seems to corrupt all who wield it.”

“And you believe that Al Mualim fell under its spell?”

Altaïr made a gesture of impatience. “I do. Today, he used the Apple in an attempt to enslave Masyaf. You saw that for yourself.”

Abbas looked doubtful. “I do not know
what
I saw.”

“Listen, Abbas. The Apple is safe in Al Mualim’s study. When I am finished here, I will show you all I know.”

 

 

They had arrived at the pyre, and Altaïr ascended the steps to it, placing the body of his late Mentor reverently at its top. As he did so, Abbas looked aghast. It was his first sight of the pyre.

“I cannot believe you really intend to go through with this!” he said in a shocked voice. Behind him, the assembled Brotherhood of the Assassins rippled like corn in a breeze.

“I must do what I must do,” Altaïr replied.

“No!”

But Altaïr had already taken one of the torches that stood ready lit by the pyre and thrust it into the base of the woodpile. “I must know that he
cannot return
.”

“But this is not our way! To burn a man’s body is forbidden!”

A voice from the crowd behind him cried out suddenly, in rage: “Defiler!”

Altaïr turned to face the restive crowd below him. “Hear me out! This corpse could be just another one of Al Mualim’s
phantom
bodies.
I must be certain!
”

“Lies!” Abbas yelled. As the flames took hold on the pyre, he stepped in close to Altaïr’s side, raising his voice so all could hear him. “All your life you have made a mockery of our Creed! You bend the rules to suit your whims while belittling and humiliating those around you!”

“Restrain Altaïr!” yelled an Assassin in the crowd.

“Did you not hear what he said?” a comrade next to him responded. “Al Mualim was bewitched!”

The first Assassin’s reply was to fly out with his fists. A general fight ensued, which escalated as rapidly as the flames rose.

On the ledge next to Altaïr, Abbas pushed him violently down from it, into the midst of the melee.

As Abbas then made his way furiously back to the castle, Altaïr struggled to find his feet among his clashing fellow Assassins, standing with their swords drawn. “Brothers!” he shouted, striving to restore order. “Stop! Stay your blades!”

But the fight continued, and Altaïr, who had just risen to his feet in time to see Abbas returning to the fortress, was forced to struggle among his own men, disarming them where he could and exhorting them to desist. He did not know for how long he battled, but the strife was suddenly interrupted by a searing flash of light, which caused the combatants to stagger back, shielding their eyes.

The light came from the direction of the castle.

Altaïr’s worst fears were realized.

There, on the parapet of a tall tower, stood Abbas, and the Apple was in his hand.

“What did I tell you, Altaïr?” Abbas yelled down to him.

“Abbas! Stop!”

“What did you think would happen when you murdered our beloved Mentor?”

“You loved Al Mualim less than anyone! You blamed him for all your misfortune, even your father’s suicide!”

“My father was a
hero
!” Abbas screamed defiantly.

Altaïr ignored him and turned hastily to the Assassins grouped questioningly around him.

“Listen!” he told them. “This is not the time to quarrel over what’s been done. We must decide—now!—what is to be done with
that weapon
!” He pointed to where Abbas was standing, holding the Apple aloft.

“Whatever this artifact is capable of, Altaïr,” he cried, “you are not worthy to wield it!”

“No man
is
!” Altaïr hurled back.

But Abbas was already staring into the Apple’s glow. The light, as he looked, intensified. Abbas seemed entranced. “It is beautiful, is it not?” he said, only just loudly enough to be heard.

Then a change came over him. His expression was transformed from a smile of amused triumph to a grimace of horror. He began to shake, violently, as the power of the Apple swept into him, taking him over. Assassins still sympathetic to him were running to his aid when the unearthly instrument he still held in his hand threw out an all-but-visible pulse wave, which threw them savagely to their knees as they clutched their heads in agony.

Altaïr raced toward Abbas, scaling the tower with supernatural speed, driven by desperation.
I have to get there in time!
As he approached his former friend, Abbas began to scream as if his very soul was being ripped out of him. Altaïr made one final leap forward, disabling his former friend and knocking him down. Abbas crumpled to the ground with a despairing cry, as the Apple tumbled from his grasp, sending a final violent shock wave out from the tower as it did so.

 

 

Then there was silence.

The Assassins spread out below gradually pulled themselves together and got to their feet. They looked at one another in wonderment. What had happened continued to resound in their bodies and their minds. They looked up to the ramparts. Neither Altaïr nor Abbas was visible.

“What was that?”

“Are they dead?”

And then Altaïr appeared alone on the parapet of the tower. The wind blew his white robes about him. He raised his hand. In it, secure, was the Apple. It crackled and pulsated like a living thing, but it was under his control.

“Forgive me . . .” Abbas was gasping from the flagstone floor behind him. He could barely form the words. “I did not
know
. . .”

Altaïr turned his gaze back from the man to the Apple, resting in his hand. It sent curious sensations, like shocks, the length of his extended arm.

“Have you anything to teach us?” said Altaïr, addressing the Apple as if it were a sensate thing. “Or will you lead us all to ruin?”

The wind then seemed to blow up a dust storm—or was it the return of the swirling fumes of cloud that had heralded the vision? With it came the blinding light that had preceded it, growing and growing, until all else was blotted out. And then it dimmed once more, until there was just the gentle glow of the key in Ezio’s hand.

Exhausted, Ezio lowered himself to the floor and rested his back against the stone wall of the chamber. Outside, dusk would be falling. He longed for rest but could afford none.

After a long moment, he raised himself again and, carefully stowing both the key and the copy of Empedocles in his satchel, made his way to the streets above.

THIRTY-FIVE

At dawn the next day, Ezio made his way to the Grand Bazaar. It was time he saw for himself what talk there might be among the Janissaries, and he was impatient to be on the trail of their captain, Tarik Barleti.

But it was impossible, once there, entirely to avoid the importunate traders, who were all past masters of the hard sell. And Ezio had to pass himself off as just another tourist for fear of arousing suspicion, either among Ottoman officials or Byzantine Templars.

“You see this rug!” A merchant accosted him, plucking at his sleeve and, as Ezio had found to be the case so often there, getting too close to him, invading his body space. “Your feet will love you more than your wife does!”

“I am not married.”

“Ah,” continued the merchant, seamlessly, “you are better off. Come! Just feel it!”

Ezio noticed a group of Janissaries standing not far away. “You have sold well today?” he asked the merchant.

The man spread his hands, nodding to his right at the Janissaries. “I have not sold a thing! The Janissaries confiscated most of my stock just because it was imported.”

“Do you know Tarik Barleti, their captain?”

“Eh, he’s around here somewhere, no doubt. An arrogant man, but—” The merchant was about to go on but interrupted himself, freezing up before reverting to his sales patter, his eyes focused not on Ezio but well beyond him. “You insult me, sir! I cannot take less than two hundred
akçe
for this! That is my final offer.”

Ezio turned slightly and followed the man’s gaze. Three Janissaries were approaching, not fifty feet away.

“When I find him, I will ask him about your rugs,” Ezio promised the merchant quietly as he turned to go.

“You drive a hard bargain, stranger!” the merchant called after him. “Shall we compromise at one-eighty? One hundred eighty
akçe
, and we part as friends!”

But Ezio was no longer listening. He was following the group, shadowing them at a safe distance, hoping they might lead him to Tarik Barleti. They were not walking idly—they had the look of men going to some kind of appointment. But he had to be vigilant—not only to keep his quarry in sight but to avoid detection himself, and the crowded lanes of the souk both helped and hindered him in his task. The merchant had said the captain would be somewhere in the Bazaar, but the Bazaar was a big place—a confusing labyrinth of stalls and shops, a small city in itself.

But at length his patience paid off, and the men he was following arrived at a crossroads in the lanes which broadened out into a little square with a coffee shop on each corner. In front of one stood the big captain with the grizzled beard. The beard was as much a mark of his rank as his resplendent uniform. He was clearly no slave.

Ezio crept as close as he could, to hear what was being said.

“Are you ready?” he asked his men, and they nodded their assent. “This is an important meeting. Make sure I am not being followed.”

They nodded again and split up, disappearing into the Bazaar in different directions. Ezio knew they would be looking for any sign of an Assassin in the crowds, and for one heartstopping moment one of the soldiers seemed to catch his eye, but then the moment passed, and the man was gone. Waiting as long as he dared, he set off in pursuit of the captain.

Barleti hadn’t gone far before he came to another Janissary, a lieutenant, who to the casual eye would have just seemed to be window-shopping in front of an armorer’s establishment. Ezio had already noticed that Janissaries were the only people not to be badgered by the traders.

“What news?” Barleti said as he drew level with the soldier.

“Manuel has agreed to meet you, Tarik. He’s waiting by the Arsenal Gate.”

Ezio pricked up his ears at the name.

“An eager old weasel, isn’t he?” Tarik said flatly. “Come.”

They set off, out of the Bazaar, and into the city streets. It was a long way to the Arsenal, which was situated on the north side of the Golden Horn, farther to the west, but they showed no sign of taking any kind of transport yet, and Ezio followed them on foot. A matter of a couple of miles—and he would have to be careful when they took the ferry across the Horn. But his task was made easier by the fact that the two men were engrossed in conversation, most of which Ezio managed to catch. It was not hard to blend in, in the streets of Constantinople, crowded with people from all over Europe and Asia.

“How did Manuel look? Was he nervous? Or cagey?” Tarik asked.

“He was his usual self. Impatient and discourteous.”

“Hmn. I suppose he has earned that right. Have there been dispatches from the sultan?”

“The last news was a week ago. Bayezid’s letter was short and full of sad tidings.”

Tarik shook his head. “I could not imagine being at such odds with my own son.”