The western wall was also covered with detailed technical drawings, expertly accomplished-but these were, as Ezio saw at a glance, designs for bombs. He was able to read enough, as he passed through the room toward where Piri sat, to see that the bomb drawings were divided into categories: Lethal, Tactical, Diversionary, and Special Casings. An alcove in the wall was big enough to contain a worktable, and behind it, arranged with precision, a number of metalworkers’ tools were placed on shelves.
This was quite a contrast to the chaos in which Leonardo loved to work, Ezio thought, smiling to himself at the memory of his friend.
Yusuf and Ezio found Piri himself at work at a large drafting table directly under the windows. Six or seven years younger than Ezio, he was a tanned, weather-beaten, healthy, and robust figure of a man, wearing a blue silk turban, under which a strong face, currently bearing an expression of intense concentration, looked out at the work through piercing, clear grey eyes. His luxuriant brown beard was neatly trimmed, though worn long, covering the collar of the high-necked, silver brocade tunic he wore, with baggy blue trousers and plain wooden clogs.
He gave Ezio an appraising glance, which Ezio returned, as Yusuf made the introductions.
“What’s your name again?” said Piri.
“Ezio. Ezio Auditore da Firenze.”
“Ah yes. I thought for a moment Yusuf said ‘Lothario.’ Didn’t hear the difference.” He looked at Ezio, and Ezio could have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye. Had Ezio’s reputation-in one department at least-preceded him?
He thought he was going to like this man.
“I have seen your work-your maps, anyway,” Ezio began. “I had a copy of the one you made for Cyprus.”
“Did you?” replied the sailor, gruffly. Clearly, he didn’t like having his work interrupted. Or at least that was the impression he wanted to give.
“But it is another aspect of your expertise I have come to seek your advice about today.”
“That was a good map, the one of Cyprus,” said Piri, ignoring Ezio’s remark. “But I’ve improved it since. Show me yours.”
Ezio hesitated. “I don’t have it anymore,” he confessed. “I gave it-to a friend of mine.”
Piri looked up. “Very generous of you,” he said. “Do you know what my maps are worth?”
“Indeed. But I owed that man my life.” Ezio hesitated again. “He’s a seaman, like yourself.”
“Hmn. What’s his name? I might have heard of him.”
“He’s a Mamluk. Goes by the name of Al-Scarab.”
Piri suddenly beamed. “That old rogue! Well, I hope he puts it to good use. At least he knows better than to try anything on us.”
Then he turned his eye on Yusuf. “Yusuf! What are you doing still standing there? Don’t you have anything better to do? Take yourself off and leave your friend with me. I’ll see that he has everything he needs. Any friend of Al-Scarab is a friend of mine!”
Yusuf grinned and took his leave. “I knew I’d be leaving you in safe hands,” he said as he left.
When they were alone, Piri became more serious. “I know who you are, Ezio, and I have a pretty good idea why you are here. Will you take some refreshment? There’s coffee, if you like it.”
“I have acquired a taste for it at last.”
“Good!” Piri clapped his hands at one of his assistants, who nodded and went to the back of the workshop, to return soon afterward with a brass tray holding a serpentine pot, with minute cups, and a dish of soft amber-colored sweetmeats, which Ezio had never tasted before.
“I remember Al-Scarab from my own privateering days,” Piri said. “We fought side by side at both battles of Lepanto a dozen years ago or so, under the flag of my uncle Kemal. No doubt you’ve heard of him?”
“Yes.”
“The Spaniards fought us like tigers, but I didn’t think so much of the Genoese or the Venetians. You’re a Florentine, yourself, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re a landlubber.”
“My family were bankers.”
“On the surface, yes! But something far more noble underneath.”
“As you know, banking does not run in my blood as seafaring does in yours.”
Piri laughed. “Well said!” He sipped his coffee, wincing as he burned his lips. Then he eased himself off his stool and stretched his shoulders, laying down his pen. “And that’s quite enough small talk. I see you’re already looking at the drawings I’m working on. Make any sense of them?”
“I can see they’re not maps.”
“Is it maps you’re after?”
“Yes and no. There is one thing I want to ask you-about the city-before I talk about anything else.”
Piri spread his hands. “Go ahead.”
Ezio took Niccolo Polo’s book, The Secret Crusade, out of his side wallet, and showed it to Piri.
“Interesting,” said the seaman. “Of course I know all about the Polos. Read Marco’s book. Exaggerates a bit, if you ask me.”
“I took this from a Templar at Masyaf. Yusuf knows of it and of its contents.”
“Masyaf? So you have been there.”
“It mentions the five keys to Altair’s library. From my reading of it, I see that Altair entrusted the keys to Niccolo, and that he brought them here and concealed them.”
“And the Templars know this? So it’s a race against time.”
Ezio nodded. “They’ve already found one, hidden in the cellars of the Topkapi Palace. I need to recover it and find the other four.”
“So-where will you begin?”
“Do you know the location of the Polos’ old trading post here?”
Piri looked at him. “I can tell you exactly where it was. Come over here.” He led the way to where a large, immensely detailed map of Constantinople hung on the wall in a plain gold frame. He peered at it for an instant, then tapped a spot with his index finger. “It’s there. Just to the west of Haghia Sofia. No distance from here. Why? Is there a connection?”
“I have a hunch I need to follow.”
Piri looked at him. “That is a valuable book,” he said, slowly.
“Yes. Very valuable, if I’m right.”
“Well, just make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”
He was silent for a long moment, thinking. “Be careful when you find the Polos’ old trading post,” he said. “You may find more than you bargain for there.”
“Does that remark beg a question?”
“If it does, it is a question to which I have no answer. I just ask you to be wary, my friend.”
Ezio hesitated before taking Piri further into his confidence. “I think my quest will start in that place. I am sure there must be something hidden there that will give me my first clue.”
“It is possible,” Piri said, giving nothing away. “But heed my warning.”
Then he brightened, rubbing his hands vigorously, as if to chase away demons. “And now that we’ve settled that matter, what else can I help you with?”
“I’m sure you’ve guessed. I am here on an Assassin mission, perhaps the most important ever, and Yusuf tells me you would be prepared to show me how to make bombs. The special ones you’ve developed here.”
“Ach, that Yusuf has a big mouth.” But Piri looked serious again. “I cannot compromise my position, Ezio. I am Senior Navigator in the Sultan’s Navy, and this is my current project.” He waved his hands at the maps. Then he winked. “The bombs are a sideline. But I like to help my true friends in a just cause.”
“You may rely on my discretion. As I hope I may on yours.”
“Good. Follow me.”
So saying, Piri led the way to the spacious alcove on the west wall. “The bombs are actually part of a naval research project, too,” he continued. “Through my soldiering, I have gained an appreciation for artillery and explosives. And that has served the Assassins well. It gives us an edge.”
He waved his hand at the technical drawings. “I have developed many kinds of bombs, and some are reserved for the use of your Brotherhood alone. As you can see, they are divided into four main categories. Of course, they are expensive, but the Brotherhood has always understood that.”