Lada touched her index finger to the point of her knife. “Distraction so I could accomplish my task. And satisfaction.”
“Hmm. Somehow I doubt that anything here is going to satisfy you. I know you were sent for the Wallachian throne. Are you still in league with the sultan?”
Lada twirled her knife. “Does it look like I serve the Ottomans?”
“So you are not sending updates to him on where you are and what you are doing?”
Lada was glad the firelight covered her flush of humiliation. Write to Mehmed and admit her failures? Never. “No.”
“He has been keeping track of you.” Hunyadi held out a thin sheaf of parchment. It was crowded with spidery writing. One corner was blotted and darkened with a few large splashes of ink.
Lada squinted. Not ink. Blood.
“We found this on a wounded man following you. It is a letter to the sultan, detailing everything you are doing.”
“Matei,” Lada said. So that was why he had not caught up to her. He could not. She breathed something as close to a prayer of relief as she was capable of that she had left Bogdan behind. It surprised her, how glad she was that he was safe. She did not dwell on it. “What did you do with my man?”
“He fought. We killed him.”
Lada nodded numbly. Matei was dead. Wounded in Brasov, finished by Hunyadi. And carrying a letter to Mehmed. How long had he been updating Mehmed on her? How much did Mehmed know? And whom should she be most angry with—Mehmed, for spying on her, Matei, for betraying her, or herself, for trusting Matei?
Or herself, for having so many miserable failures to write of?
Matei’s betrayal cut deep, though. She had chosen Wallachians precisely because she assumed they would be as eager as she was to sever their Ottoman ties. But apparently Matei’s hunger had extended beyond what Lada could provide. “I did not know he reported to Mehmed.”
“I thought as much from the contents of the letter. So you are not working for the sultan. But you call him by his name. You know him, his temperament, his tactics.”
This felt both dangerous and promising. “Better than anyone.”
“In that case, I have another letter for you.” Hunyadi dropped Matei’s letter in the fire. Lada’s fingers reflexively stretched toward it. She wanted to know how her life would read when being looked at by Mehmed. But it was too late.
Hunyadi reached into his vest and withdrew an envelope. He tossed it in front of Lada.
Puzzled, she picked it up. The seal was broken.
“We got this one off a Turk asking around for your whereabouts. It is from your brother.” Hunyadi spoke as pleasantly as if they were discussing the weather over a meal. “He wonders how you fare, and fears for your safety. He even suggests returning to Edirne. He says they are having the most wonderful parties under Mehmed’s rule.”
Lada snorted. “He says that only because he knows nothing could keep me farther away than the promise of parties.” Still, Lada tucked the letter into her shirt, against her heart. Beneath the necklace Radu had given her. Did he know everything, too? Were none of her humiliations private?
Hunyadi stood, holding out a gloved hand. He was close enough to strike. One quick thrust of her knife and she could avenge her father. And her older brother Mircea. Blood for her blood.
For his betrayal, Matei could go unavenged.
“Come,” Hunyadi said. “I have an offer for you.”
Lada’s knife paused. Her father had died doing what he always did—running—and she had never cared for Mircea anyway. She took Hunyadi’s hand.
7
February–March
EVERYONE WHO MATTERED in Edirne was around the massive table: valis, beys, pashas, viziers, and a smattering of their wives. Even a few daughters, hopeful of catching the eye of someone important. One such daughter had been trying to attract Radu’s attention all evening. But he knew her father was already firmly in support of Mehmed, so there was no reason to be cruel and indulge her.
Salih, too, was here. Halil’s second son. The only person Radu had ever kissed. But Salih had long since given up trying to speak to Radu. Radu could not even look at him without feeling a sick twist of guilt, and so he had gotten very good at letting his eyes pass over the other man’s head.
They all reclined on pillows, a sumptuous spread laid out in front of them. Next to Radu, Urbana kept shifting, trying to get comfortable in her stiff European clothing. She stood out terribly, scowling and muttering to herself in Hungarian. If she caught anyone’s eye, it was definitely not in a flirtatious way. She looked like she wanted to strangle someone. It made Radu miss Lada.
“Sit still,” Radu whispered, looking toward the head of the table. He was seated far from where Mehmed lounged on a higher level than anyone else. A servant fanned the sultan, while behind him lingered the lonely stool attendant. And on the sultan’s right, Halil Vizier.
Radu waited, anxious to the point of giddiness.
“What is this?” Urbana complained, dipping a finger in one of the cool, creamy sauces for the meat. “I am tired of these parties. Why do I have to be here when I could be working?”
Radu hushed her as Mehmed stood. “My friends,” Mehmed said, extending his arms to take in the entire room, “this is a night for celebration! Tonight, I honor three of my greatest advisors. Their wisdom gives me strength. Their guidance builds my legacy. And tonight, I dedicate that legacy to the world. Zaganos Pasha. Sarica Pasha.” He nodded at the two men to his immediate left, men Radu knew to be deeply loyal and committed to the cause of taking Constantinople. Kumal was gone, already on-site. “And my most important advisor, Halil Vizier.”
Halil flushed a deep red, his expression that of a child who has gotten away with some feat of naughtiness. He bowed his head and put a hand over his heart.
“To honor you, my three wisest, I am building a fortress with a tower named for each of you. Your might will reach up to the very sky. Your wisdom will watch over our land forever. You three will be my towers of strength, my sentinels.”
The three men bowed even deeper.
“For this honor, I would pay everything I own,” Zaganos Pasha said.
Mehmed laughed brightly. “Well, that is good to hear, because you will each be in charge of financing and constructing your tower. I would not trust your legacies with anyone else.”
Halil Vizier looked slightly less pleased, but displeasure marred his visage only briefly. This was a tremendous honor, and further proof that his hold on Mehmed was tighter than ever. That Mehmed announced it in front of every important person in the empire doubtless did not escape Halil’s notice. Halil nodded. “Of course, my sultan.”
“Yours will be the most vital tower, and the largest.” Mehmed took Halil’s hand, squeezing it warmly. For him to touch another man was a gesture of the highest regard. Halil swept his eyes across the room, exulting in the moment.
Mehmed released Halil’s hand and sat. His tone became less formal. “We begin construction immediately. The fortress will be called the Rumeli Hisari.”
Halil’s eyebrows drew together. “Rumeli Hisari. Like your grandfather’s fortress on the Bosporus Strait, the Anadolu Hisari.”
“Yes, precisely!” Mehmed gestured to a servant to refill his glass. “I have already moved the men into place, and the stones are being brought in as we speak. Kumal Pasha is there to direct construction.”
“Where—” Halil wiped at his forehead, where sweat was beginning to bead beneath his turban. “Where will the Rumeli Hisari be built?”
Mehmed waved dismissively with the flatbread in his hand. “Across from the Anadolu Hisari.”
“Across— But that is Constantinople’s land.”