Revelations

THIRTY-EIGHT

Far from the shattered gate, deep within the western sector of the Arsenal, Ezio came at last to the place he was looking for. It was quiet there, for most of the fighting men in the Arsenal garrison were engaged in the quadrangle, and the handful of guards he did encounter, if he could not slip past them unnoticed, he swiftly dispatched. He would have to sharpen his hookblade once his work there was done.

He made his way down a long stone corridor, so narrow that no one could enter the chamber at its end with any hope of surprising those within. Ezio approached slowly, soft-footed, until he came to an iron ladder fixed to the wall near the chamber’s entrance, which led to a gallery overlooking it. Strapping his sword scabbard to his leg so that it would not clatter, he climbed up, swiftly, and with as little noise as a flower makes when it opens. From his vantage point, he stared grimly at the scene taking place below him.

Manuel and Shahkulu stood in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by a jumble of large crates, some of them open. A small Janissary guard unit stood at attention just inside the door. If Ezio had tried to enter, he would have fallen victim to an ambush. Softly, he breathed a sigh of relief. His instincts and experience had saved him, this time.

Manuel paused in his examination of the contents of the crates. The angle of vision available to Ezio did not allow him to see what they were, though he could guess.

“Twenty years in this city, living like a cipher,” Manuel was saying. “And now, at last, everything is falling into place.”

Shahkulu replied, a note of menace in his voice: “When the Palaiologos line is restored, Manuel, do not forget who it was that helped you bring it back.”

Manuel looked at him keenly, small eyes glittering coldly amid the folds of flesh. “Of course not, my friend! I would not dream of betraying a man of your influence. But you must be patient. Nova Roma was not built in a day!”

Shahkulu grunted noncommittally, and Manuel turned to the captain of his escort. “I am satisfied. Take me to my ship.”

“Follow me. There is a passage to the west gate by which we can avoid the fighting,” said the captain.

“I hope and expect you will soon have that under control.”

“As we speak, Prince.”

“If one single item here is damaged, the money stays with me. Tell Tarik that.”

Ezio watched them go. When he was satisfied that he was alone, he descended to the chamber and made a quick inspection of the crates, lifting the lid of one that had been unsealed.

Rifles. One hundred or more.

“Merda!” Ezio breathed.

His thoughts were interrupted by a brazen clang-surely the west gate banging shut after Manuel’s departure. Immediately afterward, the sound of boots on stone approaching. The Janissaries would be returning to reseal the opened crates. Ezio pressed himself against the wall, and, as the soldiers entered, cut them down. Five of them. If they’d been able to enter together, instead of one at a time, the story might have been different. But the narrow corridor had turned out to be his friend.

He passed back the way he had come. In the quadrangle, the battle was over, leaving the usual vile aftermath of combat. Ezio walked slowly past a sea of bodies, mostly still, some writhing in their last agonies, while the only sound was the keening of women as they knelt by the fallen, in the pitiless wind that blew through the yawning gateway.

With his head bowed, Ezio strode from the place. The price paid for the knowledge he had gained seemed very high indeed.