Probably not. Her mother had not been strong enough to stay with them, much less keep them safe.
Perhaps, though, she would feel stronger walking down these halls with another woman at her side. Halima laughing, or Mara glowering. Maybe they did have something to teach her, after all. Men here either looked right past her as though she did not exist, or looked so hard that she knew they were not seeing her at all. It made her long for a weapon in her hand, for a crown instead of snarled braids, for a beard, even. For anything that would make them see her for what and who she was.
Or perhaps, looking at her and seeing nothing, they understood perfectly well who she was already.
She was not certain the guards would allow her to see Mehmed. She had never come without an invitation. If she was turned away, she did not know what she would do. But after only a few heartbeats of waiting, the guards let her through.
Mehmed looked up from his desk, eyes lighting as he stood. Lada felt the tension and terror of anonymity drain from her body.
She mattered to Mehmed.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked, sweeping his arm back in an exaggerated bow.
“Do not make me knock your turban off.” She pushed past him and sat in his seat, examining the papers so he would not notice how grateful, how glad to be in his presence she was. He did not need anyone else nourishing his ego; Radu did that enough for the entire Draculesti line. Lada lifted several pages, all notes and ledgers and maps. Detailed lists of troops and supplies, Janissary forces, horses, wagons, weapons. Ledgers of various accounts. Maps of…Constantinople.
She tapped a finger on one. “You have been busy.”
He leaned over her, tracing the edge of the map reverentially. “I am the sultan, Lada.”
“I have noticed.”
He grinned, the expression wiping away the regal years he tried to force onto his face by distant scowls. “My father has returned to his retirement. I did not think I was ready, but the throne is mine regardless. And I will be worthy of it.”
Lada shrugged, shifting away from the intensity of Mehmed’s pose, his body radiating energy so near hers. It was only because she had not been around him much these last three months that his presence affected her so. Or maybe it was because she could not help noticing he was growing taller, more handsome, more…No. She needed to focus on something else. Anything else. “Constantinople? This soon?”
He walked away from her, began pacing. “We have a five-year peace treaty with Hungary and Hunyadi. My borders are as peaceful as they ever were. This is why I am here. This is why I was born.”
“Your father started out his rule trying the same thing, and it brought him nothing but trouble.”
A line formed between Mehmed’s fine brows. “He had too many fronts. His brothers trying to claim what was his, trying to steal land. He had to attend to problems at home.”
“And your advisors support you?”
His scowl deepened. “Not all of them, no. But I am sultan. They must follow me.”
“A sultan who summoned his father to fight his first battle.”
Mehmed’s face erupted into a storm. “That was your idea! If you—”
Lada heard the noise before she registered that anything was wrong. An instinct honed by all those days in the forest with Bogdan hunting her, a body trained with focus provided by desperation and loneliness. A sudden sense of wrongness she could have ignored.
She threw herself forward and tackled Mehmed as a dagger flew past where his chest had been. It cut her shoulder before clanging sharply against the wall and falling to the ground. Lada and Mehmed hit the floor hard, with Mehmed letting out a breathless groan. Lada rolled forward, picking the dagger up, then turned and threw it as soon as she spied a moving target.
The man dodged a fatal blow, the dagger glancing off his side. His face was wrapped in black cloth, features hidden; his clothes were plain.
Their assailant pulled out another dagger, crouching defensively and stalking to the side, trying to find a better angle on Mehmed. Lada kicked her friend toward the desk. “Get behind it!” she shouted.
The man passed his dagger from hand to hand, movements lazy and unhurried as Mehmed scrambled behind the desk and shouted for his guards.
The assassin did not seem concerned.