Haras.
Altair had long wondered where Haras’s true loyalties had lain. An Assassin adept, he had never seemed satisfied with the rank assigned to him within the Brotherhood. He was a man who sought an easy route to the top rather than one that rewarded merit. Though a man with a well-deserved reputation as a fighter, chameleon-like, he had always managed to worm his way into other people’s confidence by adapting his personality to suit theirs. His ambitions had clearly got the better of him, and, seeing an opportunity, he had traitorously thrown in his lot with the Crusaders. Now he even dressed in Crusader uniform.
“Stand back, Altair!” he cried. “Another step, and your Mentor dies!”
At the sound of the voice, Al Mualim rallied, stood proud, and raised his own voice. “Kill this wretch, Altair! I do not fear death!”
“You won’t leave this place alive, traitor!” Altair called to Haras.
Haras laughed. “No. You misunderstand. I am no traitor.” He took a helmet, which was hanging from his belt, and donned it. A Crusader helmet! Haras laughed again. “You see? I could never betray those I never truly loved. ”
Haras started to walk toward Altair.
“Then you are doubly wretched,” said Altair. “For you have been living a lie.”
Things happened quickly then. Haras drew his sword and lunged toward Altair. At the same moment, Al Mualim managed to break free of his guards and, with a strength that belied his age, wrested the sword from one of them and cut him down. Profiting from Haras’s momentary distraction, Altair unleashed his hidden-blade and struck at the traitor. But Haras squirmed out of the way and brought his own sword down in a cowardly stroke while Altair was off balance.
Altair rolled to one side, springing back to his feet quickly as a knot of Crusaders rushed to Haras’s defense. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Al Mualim fighting another group.
“Kill the bastard!” snarled Haras, stepping out of harm’s way.
Altair tasted fury. He surged forward, slicing through the throats of two Crusader assailants. The others fell back in fear, leaving Haras isolated and petrified. Altair cornered him where two walls met. He had to make haste and finish the job, to go to his Mentor’s assistance.
Haras, seeing Altair momentarily distracted, cut at him quickly, ripping the cloth of his tunic. Altair lashed back in retaliation and plunged his hidden-blade straight into the base of Haras’s neck, just above the sternum. With a strangled cry, the traitor fell back, crashing against the wall. Altair stood over him.
Haras looked up as Altair’s figure blocked the sun. “You put too much faith in the hearts of men, Altair,” he said, barely getting the words out as the blood bubbled from his chest. “The Templars know what is true. Humans are weak, base, and petty.” He didn’t know he could have been describing himself.
“No, Haras. Our Creed is evidence to the contrary. Try to return to it, even now, in your last hour. I beg you out of pity to redeem yourself.”
“You will learn, Altair. And you will learn the hard way.” Nevertheless, Haras paused in thought for a moment, and even as the light in his eyes slowly died, he fought for speech. “Perhaps I am not wise enough to understand, but I suspect the opposite of what you believe is true. I am at least too wise to believe such rubbish as you do.”
Then his eyes became marble, and his body leaned to one side, a long, rattling sigh escaping from it as it relaxed in death.
The doubt he’d seeded in Altair’s mind didn’t take root immediately. There was too much to be done for there to be time for thought. The young man wheeled round and joined his Mentor, fighting shoulder to shoulder until the Crusader band was routed, either sprawled in the bloody dust or fled.
Around them, meanwhile, the signs were that the battle had turned in the Assassins’ favor. The Crusader army was beating a retreat from the castle though the battle beyond it continued. Messengers soon arrived to confirm that.
Recovering from their exertions, Altair and Al Mualim paused for a moment’s respite under a tree by the side of the gate of the Great Keep.
“That man-that wretch, Haras-you offered him a last chance to salvage his dignity, to see the error of his ways. Why?”
Flattered that his Mentor should seek his opinion, Altair replied: “No man should pass from this world without knowing some kindness, some chance of redemption.”
“But he shunned what you proffered him.”
Altair shrugged mildly. “That was his right.”
Al Mualim watched Altair’s face closely for a moment, then smiled, and nodded. Together, they started to walk toward the castle gate. “Altair,” Al Mualim began, “I have watched you grow from a boy to a man in a very short time-and I have to say that this fills me with as much sadness as pride. But one thing is certain: You fit Umar’s shoes as if they had been made for you.”
Altair raised his head. “I did not know him as a father. Only as an Assassin.”
Al Mualim placed a hand on his shoulder. “You, too, were born into this Order-this Brotherhood.” He paused. “Are there ever times when you-regret it?”
“Mentor-how can I regret the only life I have ever known?”
Al Mualim nodded sagely, looking up briefly to make a sign to an Assassin lookout perched high on the parapet wall. “You may find another way, in time, Altair. And if that time comes, it will be up to you to choose the path you prefer.”
In response to Al Mualim’s signal, the men in the gatehouse were winching up the castle gate again.
“Come, my boy,” the old man said. “And ready your blade. This battle is not won yet.”
Together, they strode toward the open gate, into the bright sunshine beyond.
Bright sunshine, a white light so strong, so all-encompassing, that Ezio was dazzled. He blinked to rid his eyes of the multicolored shapes that appeared before them, shaking his head vigorously to escape from whatever vision had him in its grip. He squeezed them tight shut.
When he opened them, his heartbeat had begun to settle to its normal rhythm, and he found himself once again in the subterranean chamber, the soft light returned. He found that he was still holding the stone disc in his hand, and now he was in no doubt at all about what it was.
He had found the first key.
He looked at his candle. He had seemed to be away for a long time, yet the flame burned steadily and had eaten up scarcely any tallow.
He stowed the key with the map in his pouch and turned to make his way back to the daylight, and to Sofia.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Excitedly, Sofia put down the book she’d been trying to read and ran over to him, but drawing the line at taking him in her arms. “Ezio! Salve! I’d thought you were gone forever!”
“So did I,” said Ezio.
“Did you find anything?”
“Yes, I did. Something that may interest you.”
They walked over to a large table, which Sofia cleared of books as Ezio produced the map he’d found and spread it out.
“ Dio mio, how beautiful!” she exclaimed. “And look-there’s my shop. In the middle.”
“Yes. It’s on a very important site. But look at the margins.”
She produced a pair of eyeglasses and, bending over, examined the book titles closely.
“Rare books, these. And what are the symbols surrounding them?”
“That’s what I hope to find out.”
“Some of these books are really extremely rare. And a few of them haven’t been seen for-well-more than a millennium! They must be worth a fortune!”
“Your shop is on the very site of the trading post once run by the Polo brothers-Niccolo and Maffeo. Niccolo hid these books around the city. This map should tell us where if we can find out how to interpret it.”
She took off her glasses and looked at him, intrigued. “Hmmn. You are beginning to interest me. Vaguely.”