The man smiled bleakly, raising a hand in greeting. Though he was dressed in clothes more closely matched to this region, he spoke perfect Turkish. “Hello, sultan’s dog. Have you lost your master?”
Radu narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar in the man’s face. And then he realized—he had seen this man’s portrait, altered now by the brushstrokes of age.
Skanderberg.
Radu looked over his shoulder. The wagon that carried Kumal sat like a fat beetle, unwieldy and vulnerable. Though their forces were evenly matched, Radu had seen too many caravans attacked to doubt for a second that the advantage was always with the attacker. He had something to protect—they had nothing to lose.
With a heavy sigh, he turned back to Skanderberg. “My friend is ill.”
Skanderberg looked into the distance, eyes soft and out of focus. “My whole country is ill.” His gaze fixed itself on Radu, taking in his clothes, his cap, his horse. “What is your name?”
“Radu.”
“Simply Radu? No family?”
Radu smiled darkly. “My father sold me as collateral against the throne of Wallachia. You will understand why I do not claim him.”
Skanderberg nodded. “I do. We must claim ourselves, sometimes. You should pick a new name.” Skanderberg’s name was a perversion of the name he had been given by the Ottomans—Iskander—and the bey title he had been given and then defied.
Skanderberg’s mouth twisted playfully. “Perhaps Radu the Handsome.”
“I was considering Radu the Overwhelmingly Weary.”
“Hmm. Yes.” Skanderberg rubbed his cheeks, examining the men behind Radu. “Who are you escorting?”
“His name is Kumal. He is vali of a provincial area half a day’s travel from Edirne. He owns very little, is no particular favorite of the sultan’s, and has no living relatives other than a younger sister who has nothing if he dies. And he will probably be dead before a ransom can be demanded.”
Skanderberg laughed. “I see. So why are you risking your life escorting a corpse of no value?”
“He showed me kindness when there was no advantage to him for doing so.”
With a grunt, Skanderberg pulled a beaten metal flask from his saddlebag, took a drink, and then wiped his mouth. There was no tension in his body, no sense of imminent attack. Looking at Skanderberg’s men, Radu saw that their shoulders were turned inward, away from the potential fight. They looked, instead, over the ravaged and burned countryside. Radu wondered if they were the ones who had set the fires.
“You do not seem to be taking much joy in your victory,” Radu said.
“Ah, yes, my victory.” Skanderberg bared his teeth, holding his arms wide. “I remain lord of a broken and burned land, my coffers empty, my people sick, my fields destroyed. And yet my pride remains intact! My damnable pride and my people’s freedom will not fill their bellies this long coming winter. Some victories are merely defeat wearing the wrong clothing.” He spat on the ground. “How many men would you estimate we will lose if my pride demands one last gesture of defiance against our sultan?”
“I will certainly lose the wagon. Even if you do not take Kumal, delay and hardship will mean his death. My men are tired but angry at their humiliation. Yours are bitter at the forces that cost them so much. I suspect you will ride away, as you always manage to, but with nothing gained other than Janissary blood mingling with your own men’s to water your dead fields. I do not think I will survive, which will be disappointing.”
Skanderberg nodded thoughtfully. “He is a kind man, you say?”
“The kindest I have ever known.”
“Well then. We are late for our afternoon meal. Give Murad my regards, Radu the Handsome.”
Radu tried his best to keep the relief flooding through his body from showing on his face. He merely inclined his head in respect, then urged his horse forward as Skanderberg moved to the side, signaling his men to do the same.
For the next mile, Radu tensed, waiting for an arrow to find the center of his back, but none came. He said a silent prayer of gratitude for the kindness of Kumal, which had once again saved his life.
Murad had not ceased drinking. Everyone was so constantly consumed by avoiding remarking on it that they may as well have spoken of nothing else.
Radu walked through the streets of Edirne late one night. The winter chill had settled deep into the stones of the city, radiating outward and stealing the warmth from his bones. People imitated the buildings, huddling into themselves, peering out through shuttered eyelids, suspicious and bitter with cold.
He stopped in at every gathering place he could—the mosques, the inns, the markets. Everywhere the tone was the same. The Janissary barracks, normally boisterous at mealtime, were as silent as the frost-covered trees. Radu slipped in wearing a Janissary cap and sat at the end of a table, head bent over his food.