“And what is that?”
“Before, he was under the guard of the old Janissary corps. They had been stationed in the city forever. They have their own politics, their own allegiances, none of which were to him, leaving him vulnerable. This time, he is under our guard. We have been with him for years. And he is no longer an insufferable zealot, a brat we cannot respect and care nothing for. We have fought under him, and we will fight for him. You will not find a traitor in our ranks. You know that, Lada.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Let Mehmed worry about pleasing his pretty bride. Let us worry about keeping him safe.”
“And what am I to worry about?”
“Nothing! Get some sleep, little dragon. That is an order.” He walked into the barracks, joining his fellow soldiers, and leaving Lada alone with her worries. They were poor company, nagging and tugging, pulling her hair and whispering in her ear.
Mehmed dead. Mehmed in love. Mehmed forgetting she existed. Everyone forgetting she existed. Continuing to exist in a world that cared not one whit whether or not she did. Continuing to exist in a world where she would never be kissed again.
Caring whether or not she was ever kissed again, damnable Mehmed and his lips and his tongue and everything that came from them!
She needed a job, something real, something she could focus on and channel her energies into. Nicolae did not think Mehmed was in danger, because he did not see how Mehmed could be a threat to anyone. Murad was back, the country was stable, everyone was happy. But as long as Mehmed was alive, there was the promise of him coming to the throne. Who would be threatened most by that?
Halil Pasha.
Halil Pasha! Lada latched onto him as a new goal. He had always been a menace, had probably even been behind the first assassination attempt. Surely he was still a danger to Mehmed. Lada would follow him, shadow him, see any threat before it even approached Mehmed. Energized by her newfound purpose, she had no time to waste. She stopped at the harem building, lit up like a bonfire against the night, and asked the eunuch guarding the gate to speak with Huma. Lada had not seen her at the day’s celebrations, and this late many guests would already be home and in bed.
The eunuch frowned, considering her. “Huma is not well.”
“She will want to see me.”
He shook his head, pale skin gleaming dully in the light spilling out of the windows. “She cannot see anyone. I can take her a message.”
Lada deflated, already delayed. But no. She did not need Huma’s permission or guidance. “Can you tell me where Halil Pasha lives?”
With a passive look that spoke of years of training to show no emotion at any request, the eunuch gave her directions to Halil Pasha’s grand estate.
Lada seeped like a shadow out of the palace grounds and into the nearest quarter, where the wealthiest and most powerful pashas and viziers lived. Halil Pasha’s home was massive, a towering testament to his influence and to his regard within Murad’s reign. Avoiding the gate, Lada found a narrow alley between Halil Pasha’s wall and the next compound where she had enough leverage to climb the rocks and boost herself into Halil Pasha’s grounds. Dropping down, she crouched in stillness, the flagstones beneath her still smelling of sun-warmed dust.
A bright mess of voices drifted from the back of the building. Sliding along the wall, she came around a corner to find a courtyard. Lamps were strung like beads, dangling over a gathering still going strong despite the hour. It was smaller than the wedding feasts and dances, obviously a more intimate affair. Lada had no idea what to do with it. It was a waste of her time. She looked toward the main house, which would probably be nearly empty.
Going back to the side of the building, she found a small door, with piles of vegetable skins and refuse in baskets haphazardly placed near it. Inside was a narrow hallway, the end leading to an overtaxed and exhausted kitchen, still limping along late into the night. To her right was a narrow set of stairs. She took those to the next floor, where she opened a door. This hallway was broad with high ceilings and thick carpets. Lada strode along it, not knowing what she was looking for but desperate to find something.
Low laughter warned her a second too late that she was not alone. She stopped as two men, one facing her and the other looking away, came out of a room.
She locked eyes with Radu.
His face froze in horror, then smoothed into a smile as he put his hand on his companion’s back and pointed at something in the opposite direction of Lada. “Have you ever noticed this portrait of the pasha? It looks as though it were painted by an elephant. A very old, sick elephant.”