Something in Lada’s chest loosened, made it easier for her to breathe in the cloying atmosphere.
Huma looked at where Sitti Hatun’s father was talking with inebriated passion to several pashas who stared over his shoulder at where they would rather be.
“Did you know Murad welcomed a son two months ago?” Huma asked. “Such a blessing to have produced yet another boy.” In the pause, Lada heard a horrible grinding noise she suspected came from Huma’s teeth. “And such timing, staging a marriage so soon after, so that everyone can learn of the new heir from Murad himself. Who is to say that, with the heavy encouragement of his trusted Halil Pasha, Murad has not decided to wait out another decade or two in favor of a more pliable heir?”
“None of this is for Mehmed.” Lada leaned heavily against the wall, seeing the celebration for what it was. She knew she ought to feel sick, worried for Mehmed, angry on his behalf, but all she could feel was overwhelming relief. This world, this glittering poem of power that contained no words for her…none of it was his. Did he know?
“No. Murad is reminding us all that he is strong and virile and going nowhere. That Mehmed belongs to him and—” Huma was cut off by a fit of coughing, something rattling deep inside her. It was the same cough she had had when she visited them in Amasya, but grown much worse.
Huma wiped her face with a cloth pulled from her sleeve. A layer of powder came off, revealing dark circles beneath her eyes and hollows where her cheeks had once been full. Her lips pulled back over her teeth, all sensual fullness stretched back to grim hatred. “Everything I have built, all that I have worked toward, is being ripped from me. I cannot bear it. I took everything I could from him, and still he took more.” Her eyes tracked Murad as though she were sighting prey too far off to kill.
And, in that moment, Huma was no longer threatening to Lada. She was her sister. Murad had taken both of them, forced them into a country and a life neither had wanted. “We will kill him,” Lada whispered.
“I have tried.”
“I could do it.”
Huma tilted her head, considering, then sighed. “No. I do not doubt you could get a knife into the chasm between his ribs, but you could not get out alive. That is not a real victory for you. Stay with Mehmed, help him. He is our best hope. We must protect our investment.” She put a dry, cold hand on Lada’s cheek, her face almost tender. “Marry him, too, if you wish. I was wrong to warn you away. Carve out a life for yourself however you can. No one will do it for you.”
She nodded toward a group of turbaned and caped young men standing in a cluster near Mehmed’s enclosure. Radu stood in the center, laughing, sharply outlined even amid the incense haze. “Your brother, though. People will pluck out their own hearts to create a place for him. He will never have to get his hands dirty.”
She held her hands beside Lada’s and smiled. “But hands painted red are hands that do what needs to be done.” She straightened, letting the mask of playful sensuality fall back onto her face, though it did not fit as well as it had the last time Lada saw her. Then, in a whisper of crimson, she drifted away.
Mehmed was inaccessible as the weeks dragged on. They were now four weeks into the wedding and Lada did not know how they had not all died of excessive enjoyment. Even Radu would have been an acceptable distraction at this point, but he was always at the center of gatherings or simply gone. She did not know where he disappeared to. Probably celebrations of the celebration, where even more glittering people would fawn over him and his clever, beautiful mouth.
Huma’s words had stuck with her. Mehmed’s position was as precarious as it had ever been, if not more so. And Lada could not forget what had happened the last time they were in Edirne. She still awoke with the taste of blood in her mouth sometimes, the memory of bone beneath teeth, her hand curled around a dagger that was not there anymore.
Nicolae, recently off duty, sighed as he walked with her. The barracks were dark, and they stopped to lean against a wall. Floral perfume hung heavily in the night, but at least out here Lada could breathe. She liked the dark better than all the forced, false light of the wedding nonsense.
Nicolae took off his white Janissary cap and rubbed his sweat-slick hair. “I understand why you are concerned about Mehmed’s safety, and I agree. But there is a difference between the last time Mehmed was here and now.”
“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.”
The other man laughed, not turning around, and Radu directed a pained and panicked look at Lada, jerking his head toward the servant staircase.
She was through it before Radu and his friend reached the painting, then outside and off Halil Pasha’s grounds before humiliation finally came crashing down around her. She had found nothing. Worse, she had been caught. By Radu. What was he doing there? Why did he act as though he knew the house? As though he belonged there?
She returned to the palace. Instead of going to her own room, she went to Radu’s, where she paced like a caged animal. Alternate rounds of fury and embarrassment warred within her, suspicions rising and then summarily dismissed. Finally, when she thought she would go mad, Radu came back. He closed the door behind himself and then leaned against it, rubbing his head wearily. Lada opened her mouth to berate him, but he beat her.
“What were you thinking, Lada?”
“What do you mean, what was I thinking? I was thinking that Halil Pasha threatened Mehmed once before, and he may very well do it again!”
“Yes! But what were you trying to accomplish sneaking around his home at night?”
“I—I thought, if I could catch him before…if I could discover something, so we would know…” She stopped. She did not know what she had hoped to accomplish. She had simply wanted to act, wanted to do. Wanted to do something other than stand in a room full of glittering strangers, watching Mehmed with another woman.
“Did you take note of Halil Pasha’s inner circle?” Radu raised his eyebrows, began pacing around her. “Who was at the gathering, who talked to whom, who lingered in conversation with Halil?”
Lada scoffed. “I could never have seen that much and remained hidden.”
“No, you certainly could not. You would need an invitation. You would need to have befriended all the pashazadas, especially Halil Pasha’s son Salih. You would need to be liked and trusted well enough to be welcomed into the rivers of influence that flow around Halil Pasha.”
“So you are his friend now, are you? Have you forgotten what he tried to do?”
Radu threw up his hands, then sat heavily on his bed. “He has never spoken to me. I doubt he even realizes who I am. But because of his son, I am welcome in his home. I am invited to his gatherings. I can drift around Halil, I can listen, I can watch, I can trade false secrets for real ones, I can keep my finger on the pulse of life in that wretched man’s plans. You were skulking in his hallway like a thief while I was sitting in his personal study like the adored friend I am to his oft-forgotten middle son.”
“But you never said anything.”
“I tried to. You would not let me.”
It was true. Lada had been so absorbed in her misery, so jealous of how happy Radu seemed, that she had pushed him away that night he wanted to dance and talk to her. But that had been four weeks ago. And how could she have known he would be up to something like this? “You— It does not seem like you. I never thought you could do something like this.”
Radu stiffened. “You may have been the one who stopped the dagger last time, but I am the one who will know before the dagger ever comes close to Mehmed.”
Lada shook her head in numb disbelief. Radu had come to the same conclusion she had—Halil Pasha was still a threat to Mehmed—and instead of running around in the dark, climbing walls, prowling aimlessly through a house, he had figured out a way to protect Mehmed. A way that Lada, for all her training and ferocity, could never accomplish. No wonder he had not involved her in his plans.
“What can I do?” she whispered.
Radu’s voice was strained with exhaustion. “Stay out of my way.”
Lada stumbled to the door, ignoring Radu’s hastily called-out apology. She crossed the thankfully empty hallways to her own room, locked the door behind herself, and curled up on her bed.
She wanted to dream of Wallachia.
She failed at even that.
RADU LOVED DANCING.
The beat, the music, feeling it from his head to his toes as he twirled around the room in perfect synchronization with the other dancers. There was something achingly right about moving together, guided by sound, everyone part of something bigger, giving up individuality to create something beautiful. He did not have to think or feel or be anything other than movement. It was almost like prayer.
As one song blended into another, he danced with nearly every woman in the court. A flattering word, a charming smile, an assurance that they were his most graceful partner. And, of course, when handing them back to their husbands, an acknowledgment of what superior taste and fortune that man had to be deserving of the most stunning jewel in the room.
It was so easy to be liked, and so pleasant.
And so useful, too, he thought as he smiled and accepted an invitation from Halil Pasha’s son Salih to join him for a private supper.
Distractions were many and easy to come by. Most of the time Radu was able to reduce his desperation to talk to Mehmed, to be near him, to be reassured that he would still be part of Mehmed’s new life as a husband and a father. If he had enough to do, he could turn his thoughts of Mehmed from the loudest bleating trumpet to the softest whispering flute.
A woman with a full mouth and a face that shone as soft and sweet as the moon smiled at Radu from across the room. She was young, and though he did not recognize her, there was something familiar about her. He crossed to her, bowing.
“You do not remember me,” she said.
“I should be flogged for forgetting such a face.”
She laughed. “Your words are as sweet as honey, and as lacking in substance. I am Nazira, Kumal’s sister.”
Radu straightened, looking around in excitement. “Is Kumal here?”
“No, he hates the capital. I am here with my uncle, and only for tonight. I wanted to see this.” She gestured to the room, the glittering decadence.
“Ah.” Disappointment tugged Radu’s spirits down. He had long wanted to thank Kumal for his kindness during such a terrible time, for teaching him to pray when he had nothing else. Bowing again, he held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
She nodded, and they joined the dancers. Radu kept Mehmed’s enclosure in view, watching from the corner of his eye, wondering if Mehmed saw him and wished he could join the revelries instead of sitting.
Nazira danced prettily, and at the end she thanked him with a secret smile. Radu saw that she danced with no one else after, instead staying close to a wizened old woman.
He was about to join Salih and several of the sons of prominent pashas when he noticed the one spot of stillness in the enormous room: Lada, slumped against a wall near a towering pair of gilded doors. Beneath her dress Radu saw that she wore not her favorite Janissary boots but a pair of beautifully embroidered slippers.
She did not look like she was secretly hoping to kill someone. She did not look like she was hoping for anything. She looked like Radu had felt when he saw Mehmed’s son.
A knife of pity stabbed into his side. He had tried to soften his words that nig
ht a week ago when she had nearly ruined everything by being caught spying, but she had fled before he could make her feel better. And part of him, a compact, dark lump of meanness buried deep in his chest, had been glad. Let her feel useless. Let her feel like a failure. Let her see that he could do things she never could.
Seeing her now, though, engulfed him in a rush of empathy. He crossed the room, exchanging greetings and promises to dance later, until he reached her. “Lada?”
She blinked, eyes slowly focusing on him. “What,” she said, her tone flat and lacking any inflection.
“Would you like to dance?”
Her forehead shifted, expression sharpening with a hint of the old Lada. “Do you hate me that much?”
He laughed. “It could be fun.”
“Yes, I love humiliating myself in front of hundreds of strangers.”
“You cannot be worse than Nebi Pasha’s wife. She has all the grace of a pregnant sow.”
Lada snorted. “Yes, and I have all the grace of a speared and dying boar.”
“Even a speared and dying boar can still kill a man.”
This, finally, teased a smile, though she quickly bit it back.
“Come on. Remember how we used to dance when we were little?”
“I remember wrestling you to the ground and pushing your face into the hearth’s ashes.”
“Exactly! And remember all the time you spent training with the Janissaries?”
“Yes, training to fight.”
“Fighting is just like dancing! Only I end up with marginally fewer bruises.” Radu held out his hand and, to his surprise and delight, she took it.
Lada was, in truth, an oddly graceful dancer. While there was nothing beautiful about her movements, there was a flow and power to them that was arresting to watch. Her sense of her own body moving through space was instinctive, well honed after so many years of training to fight. And if her expression looked as though she were plotting to murder her partner, well, Radu was used to that.