“Kill the traitors!” Abbas shouted in reply. “Kill every one of them and throw their bodies onto the dunghill!”
Abbas’s men bristled, but held off their attack. Altaïr knew that there was no turning back now. He raised his gun arm, unleashed the pistol from its harness, and, as it sprang into his grip, aimed and fired at the man who, seven decades earlier, had, for a short time, been his best friend.
Abbas staggered under the blow of the ball as it struck him, a look of disbelief and surprise on his wizened features. He gasped and swayed, reaching out wildly for support, but no one came to his aid.
And then he fell, crashing over and over down the long stone staircase, to come to rest at Altaïr’s feet. His legs had broken in the fall and stuck out at crazy angles from his body.
But he was not dead. Not yet. He managed to raise himself painfully, high enough to hold his head up, and look Altaïr in the eye.
“I can never forgive you, Altaïr,” he managed to croak. “For the lies you told about my family, my father. For the humiliation I suffered.”
Altaïr looked down at him, but there was only regret in his eyes. “They were not lies, Abbas. I was ten years old when your father came to my room, to see me. He was in tears, begging to be forgiven for betraying my family.” Altaïr paused. “Then he cut his own throat.”
Abbas held his enemy’s eye but did not speak. The pain in his face was that of a man confronting a truth he could not bear.
“I watched his life ebb away at my feet,” Altaïr went on. “I shall never forget that image.”
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.”