THE ROYAL CLERK’S INK-STAINED fingers drummed nervously on his legs. His voice was halting and garbled, as though unused to speaking. “You want to see the tax records?”
Mehmed’s face was a mask of patience. “Yes. I want to see accountings for the tax revenues.”
Radu pitied the clerk, whose brow was beaded with sweat. He suspected the man had never before been called in front of a sultan.
“Which taxes?”
Mehmed did not smile. “All of them.”
“All—all of them?”
“All of them. I want to trace every coin that comes into the treasury, and every coin that leaves it. I want to see what every state and city is making, who is in charge, how they are spending my gold, and what there is to show for it. Wages. Allowances. Payments to foreign countries. Payments made by vassal states.”
“But—it will be weeks before I can gather enough information for us to go through, and it would be a massive undertaking.”
“Then you had better start. Now.”
The man scurried from the room as though Mehmed’s declaration were whipping his heels. Mehmed sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We have lost so much time. It will take me months, years perhaps, to get everything in order. When I think of how far I could be if my father had not taken back the throne, if I had not been banished again to Amasya…”
Radu tasted Mehmed’s anger, and his tongue dried in his mouth. Though they had never spoken of it, Radu often wondered if Lada, too, regretted what they had done. Maybe there had been another way. A way that would have let Mehmed keep the throne the first time he inherited it. They had been scared. They had been children. And they had made a decision that impacted Mehmed’s future without consulting him.
“Are you well?” Mehmed asked.
“Yes! Yes. I am simply nervous. I meet with Kumal and Nazira today.”
“Why would that make you nervous?”
Radu realized with a pang that although he and Mehmed were together nearly every day, they had not fallen back into their comfortable ease of telling each other everything. Radu had too many secrets he could not afford to reveal, and so he spoke as little as possible. It was easy. Mehmed always had people around him. Even now there were two guards in the room and a squat, thick-fingered man who held a stool for Mehmed’s feet. Their presence did not lend itself to intimacy, which might have hurt Radu before, but now seemed a tender mercy.
“Did I not tell you? Kumal wants me to marry Nazira.”
Mehmed sat back as though struck. The stool-carrier jumped forward, but Mehmed waved him away. “Marry her? You would leave me?”
Radu felt a flutter of something—not quite hope, but its darker, more desperate cousin. Perhaps the disbelief and hint of anger from Mehmed was jealousy. “Am I not allowed to marry? I know the Janissaries cannot, but I am not clear on what, exactly, I am here.”
Mehmed’s face softened. “You are my friend. You are certainly not a slave. If you want to marry her…” Mehmed trailed off, his eyebrows lowering as he examined Radu with an intensity that made it difficult for Radu to breathe.
“I do not love her.” The words tumbled from his mouth like pebbles in a stream, cold and clacking together. He did not know where they would land, but he kept talking. “I care about and for her, and Kumal has been very kind to me. I am not certain I am a good match for Nazira, though. I think she could marry higher and be better off. And my first duty—my only duty—will always be to you. No one could take me from that.”
No one could take me from you.
Please, Radu thought, please know what I am saying.
Mehmed’s eyes widened, pupils dilating almost imperceptibly. Then a smile shifted the intensity and sincerity away from his eyes. “I will leave it up to you, then. Kumal Vali is a good man. I will make him Kumal Pasha. You are free to do whatever you wish, as long as Nazira knows I require you by my side.”
Radu clasped his hands together behind his back, away from Mehmed, so tightly they ached. “There is no place I would rather be.”
The words caught in his throat, trying to pull more out. Radu knew if he started, he would never be able to dam the flow of honesty that would pour forth, drowning him in its wake.
So he bowed and walked from the room, breath shaking and pulse pounding.
Love was a plague.
He was meeting Nazira and Kumal in the same garden where he had first seen Mehmed.
They found Radu standing in front of the fountain, staring at ghosts, wondering: If he had not met the crying boy here, would he be able to love Nazira?
“Radu!”
He turned, still tangled in the past, and embraced Kumal. His friend was thinner than he had been. A lingering shade of death’s touch deepened the shadows beneath his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks. But he was alive.
“I am so glad to see you well.” Radu hugged him tightly before releasing him.