Oliver Bowden - Revelations

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!”

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 Altair’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.”

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.”