Urbana frowned. “No. But I wonder about the practicality of continuing on a course that is yielding no results. What about the maid?”
Radu panicked. Apparently they had underestimated Urbana’s perceptiveness. “Fatima?” he asked, stalling. How would he explain this? What if she told someone?
“She is your servant. I am not unaware of customs here. If she bore you a son, he would be an acceptable heir. And it would be a nice thing for her, too. She would have legal status and you would not be able to sell her to someone else. I like Fatima. You should consider it.”
Radu’s voice came out strained, both with relief that Urbana did not realize the truth of his marriage and embarrassment that this was a conversation she thought appropriate. “I prefer to remain faithful to my wife.”
“Is that why you have not tried to join my bed? I would have rebuffed you, violently if necessary, but it has puzzled me.”
“I want to talk about your cannons!” Radu said, desperate to wrestle the topic away from babies and beds.
Urbana’s face fell; then she brought her thick eyebrows together as though bracing for pain. “If you would just let me talk to your sultan, I can—”
“I want you to make them.”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “What?”
“I want you to make them. All of them. Your Babylon crusher, yes, but also every cannon you have time and dreams for. I want you to create the greatest artillery the world has ever seen.”
Urbana’s delight quickly shifted to tired disappointment. “I want that, too, but neither of us has a foundry or materials or the money to acquire them.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
She licked her lips, pulling them thoughtfully between her teeth. “No, not really.”
Radu laughed drily. Urbana might become invaluable, but not if he was unable to keep her hidden from Halil Vizier. Nothing could be easy in his life, apparently. He rubbed his forehead beneath his turban. “Well, that is a problem, then. Tell me, would it be possible to create these cannons without drawing a lot of attention?”
“Not with the amount of ore we will need. And we will need men—lots of men. I cannot do it alone. And I cannot do it just anywhere. That is why I came here—Edirne and Constantinople have the only foundries big enough for me to make my cannons in.”
Radu had too many secrets. They were overflowing. And he did not know how he could build an artillery without being noticed. Besides which, the weight of secrets was wearing on him. He doubted everything now. Even Mehmed, which hurt. If Mehmed hid his dealings with the Wallachian prince, hid Lada’s plight, what else might he be keeping from Radu?
Secrets gave everything more power, more potential for devastation and destruction.
Radu stood and walked to the window. Nazira and Fatima lay on a blanket in the garden, whispering and laughing. If he had seen them without knowing the truth of their relationship, he would have assumed they were very dear friends. No one questioned why Fatima was always with Nazira, why they were happy to live out in the countryside with no one else around.
They hid their love in plain sight.
“Urbana,” Radu said, an idea forming that he liked the shape of, “how do you feel about parties?”
“I hate them,” she said.
“What if I said that going to a lot of parties is the price you will have to pay to make your cannons?”
Her voice was flat but determined. “What should I wear?”
THE TREK BACK FROM interrogating the governor of Brasov was a frigid and lonely one. Lada looked for Matei on the way to camp. At every sound she whipped around, expecting to find him.
He did not appear.
She was nearly there, the fires in the distance promising rest and warmth, when a horse whinnied in the darkness to her right. She dropped into a crouch, cursing her generosity with the little girl that left her with only one knife out of the three she had brought. Why had she felt compelled to give the brat one?
The daughter of Wallachia wants her knife back.
She shuddered at the distant memory. Her father had given her a knife, and it had changed her life. She only hoped her own gift would change that little girl’s life, because Lada might very well die for the gesture.
“Quiet, boys,” a man whispered exaggeratedly, his voice carrying through the night. He spoke Hungarian. “We seem to have found a small predator. They are very dangerous when cornered.”
Lada backed up against a tree so at least she could face whatever was coming. Her muscles were tight with the cold. She flexed her hands rapidly, trying to work some blood back into them.
She heard someone dismount. He made no attempt at hiding his footfalls as he approached. He sat close enough for Lada to see him, but too far for hand-to-hand combat. She would not throw her last knife. If she missed, she would be weaponless.
With a groan, he picked up a rock from beneath him and tossed it to the side.
“I have been looking for you, Ladislav Dragwlya. You are terrorizing the Transylvanians. It is in very poor taste.”
Lada lifted her chin defiantly. “I owe them nothing.”
“You were born here.”
“And will I die here?”
The man laughed, pulling something from his vest. Lada tensed, but he leaned forward, striking flint until it caught on a pile of tinder. He fed the fire a few sticks pulled from the frozen forest floor. As the flames grew, the face of her enemy revealed itself. The face of the man who had driven her father from Tirgoviste and into the arms of the sultan, where he had abandoned his children. The face of the man who had returned to kill her father and her older brother.
Lada leaned back. She did not relax her grip on the knife, but it was an odd relief to have a connection to the man who would be her undoing. “Hunyadi.”
His auburn hair gleamed as red as the fire. His forehead was broad, his eyebrows were strong, and his nose bore the evidence of multiple breakings. He did not seem to have grown older since Lada had last seen him in the throne room at Tirgoviste. He was around the same age her father would have been, if Hunyadi had not killed him. It was not fair that Hunyadi had remained unchanged when his actions had altered Lada in unimaginable ways.
Hunyadi dipped his head in acknowledgement. “What mischief have you been up to tonight?”
Lada saw no advantage to lying. “Arson. Threats of death. Gathering information.”
Hunyadi sighed. “You have had a very full night. What did you burn?”
“The cathedral.”
He coughed in surprise. “I paid for the new altar.”
“It was a poor investment.”
He snorted. “I suppose so. I was vaivode of Transylvania for a few years. I have never been so happy to be relieved of power. Saxons.” He shook his head, breath fogging the night in a silent laugh. Then he put an elbow on one knee, reclining to the side. “Tell me, what did burning the church give you?”
Lada touched her index finger to the point of her knife. “Distraction so I could accomplish my task. And satisfaction.”
“Hmm. Somehow I doubt that anything here is going to satisfy you. I know you were sent for the Wallachian throne. Are you still in league with the sultan?”
Lada twirled her knife. “Does it look like I serve the Ottomans?”
“So you are not sending updates to him on where you are and what you are doing?”
Lada was glad the firelight covered her flush of humiliation. Write to Mehmed and admit her failures? Never. “No.”
“He has been keeping track of you.” Hunyadi held out a thin sheaf of parchment. It was crowded with spidery writing. One corner was blotted and darkened with a few large splashes of ink.
Lada squinted. Not ink. Blood.
“We found this on a wounded man following you. It is a letter to the sultan, detailing everything you are doing.”
“Matei,” Lada said. So that was why he had not caught up to her. He could not. She breathed something as close to a prayer
of relief as she was capable of that she had left Bogdan behind. It surprised her, how glad she was that he was safe. She did not dwell on it. “What did you do with my man?”
“He fought. We killed him.”
Lada nodded numbly. Matei was dead. Wounded in Brasov, finished by Hunyadi. And carrying a letter to Mehmed. How long had he been updating Mehmed on her? How much did Mehmed know? And whom should she be most angry with—Mehmed, for spying on her, Matei, for betraying her, or herself, for trusting Matei?
Or herself, for having so many miserable failures to write of?
Matei’s betrayal cut deep, though. She had chosen Wallachians precisely because she assumed they would be as eager as she was to sever their Ottoman ties. But apparently Matei’s hunger had extended beyond what Lada could provide. “I did not know he reported to Mehmed.”
“I thought as much from the contents of the letter. So you are not working for the sultan. But you call him by his name. You know him, his temperament, his tactics.”
This felt both dangerous and promising. “Better than anyone.”
“In that case, I have another letter for you.” Hunyadi dropped Matei’s letter in the fire. Lada’s fingers reflexively stretched toward it. She wanted to know how her life would read when being looked at by Mehmed. But it was too late.
Hunyadi reached into his vest and withdrew an envelope. He tossed it in front of Lada.
Puzzled, she picked it up. The seal was broken.
“We got this one off a Turk asking around for your whereabouts. It is from your brother.” Hunyadi spoke as pleasantly as if they were discussing the weather over a meal. “He wonders how you fare, and fears for your safety. He even suggests returning to Edirne. He says they are having the most wonderful parties under Mehmed’s rule.”
Lada snorted. “He says that only because he knows nothing could keep me farther away than the promise of parties.” Still, Lada tucked the letter into her shirt, against her heart. Beneath the necklace Radu had given her. Did he know everything, too? Were none of her humiliations private?
Hunyadi stood, holding out a gloved hand. He was close enough to strike. One quick thrust of her knife and she could avenge her father. And her older brother Mircea. Blood for her blood.
For his betrayal, Matei could go unavenged.
“Come,” Hunyadi said. “I have an offer for you.”
Lada’s knife paused. Her father had died doing what he always did—running—and she had never cared for Mircea anyway. She took Hunyadi’s hand.
EVERYONE WHO MATTERED IN Edirne was around the massive table: valis, beys, pashas, viziers, and a smattering of their wives. Even a few daughters, hopeful of catching the eye of someone important. One such daughter had been trying to attract Radu’s attention all evening. But he knew her father was already firmly in support of Mehmed, so there was no reason to be cruel and indulge her.
Salih, too, was here. Halil’s second son. The only person Radu had ever kissed. But Salih had long since given up trying to speak to Radu. Radu could not even look at him without feeling a sick twist of guilt, and so he had gotten very good at letting his eyes pass over the other man’s head.
They all reclined on pillows, a sumptuous spread laid out in front of them. Next to Radu, Urbana kept shifting, trying to get comfortable in her stiff European clothing. She stood out terribly, scowling and muttering to herself in Hungarian. If she caught anyone’s eye, it was definitely not in a flirtatious way. She looked like she wanted to strangle someone. It made Radu miss Lada.
“Sit still,” Radu whispered, looking toward the head of the table. He was seated far from where Mehmed lounged on a higher level than anyone else. A servant fanned the sultan, while behind him lingered the lonely stool attendant. And on the sultan’s right, Halil Vizier.
Radu waited, anxious to the point of giddiness.
“What is this?” Urbana complained, dipping a finger in one of the cool, creamy sauces for the meat. “I am tired of these parties. Why do I have to be here when I could be working?”
Radu hushed her as Mehmed stood. “My friends,” Mehmed said, extending his arms to take in the entire room, “this is a night for celebration! Tonight, I honor three of my greatest advisors. Their wisdom gives me strength. Their guidance builds my legacy. And tonight, I dedicate that legacy to the world. Zaganos Pasha. Sarica Pasha.” He nodded at the two men to his immediate left, men Radu knew to be deeply loyal and committed to the cause of taking Constantinople. Kumal was gone, already on-site. “And my most important advisor, Halil Vizier.”
Halil flushed a deep red, his expression that of a child who has gotten away with some feat of naughtiness. He bowed his head and put a hand over his heart.
“To honor you, my three wisest, I am building a fortress with a tower named for each of you. Your might will reach up to the very sky. Your wisdom will watch over our land forever. You three will be my towers of strength, my sentinels.”
The three men bowed even deeper.
“For this honor, I would pay everything I own,” Zaganos Pasha said.
Mehmed laughed brightly. “Well, that is good to hear, because you will each be in charge of financing and constructing your tower. I would not trust your legacies with anyone else.”
Halil Vizier looked slightly less pleased, but displeasure marred his visage only briefly. This was a tremendous honor, and further proof that his hold on Mehmed was tighter than ever. That Mehmed announced it in front of every important person in the empire doubtless did not escape Halil’s notice. Halil nodded. “Of course, my sultan.”
“Yours will be the most vital tower, and the largest.” Mehmed took Halil’s hand, squeezing it warmly. For him to touch another man was a gesture of the highest regard. Halil swept his eyes across the room, exulting in the moment.
Mehmed released Halil’s hand and sat. His tone became less formal. “We begin construction immediately. The fortress will be called the Rumeli Hisari.”
Halil’s eyebrows drew together. “Rumeli Hisari. Like your grandfather’s fortress on the Bosporus Strait, the Anadolu Hisari.”
“Yes, precisely!” Mehmed gestured to a servant to refill his glass. “I have already moved the men into place, and the stones are being brought in as we speak. Kumal Pasha is there to direct construction.”
“Where—” Halil wiped at his forehead, where sweat was beginning to bead beneath his turban. “Where will the Rumeli Hisari be built?”
Mehmed waved dismissively with the flatbread in his hand. “Across from the Anadolu Hisari.”
“Across— But that is Constantinople’s land.”
Mehmed let out a burst of laughter. “It belongs to a few scrappy goats. There is nothing there. Yet. But soon the foundation of a fortress honoring you will displace those goats! The fortresses will wink at each other from across the water of the Bosporus Strait. Their cannons could meet in the middle, I think.” Mehmed laughed again. “We will have to try it out after your tower has been built.”
This time, the deep flush on Halil’s face was not one of pleasure. His mouth opened and closed as he struggled to find a way out of the trap Radu and Mehmed had set.
But it was too late. He had agreed to the fortress in front of everyone, had shown nothing but support. He had even agreed to pay for it. If he backed out now, he would have to say why. And he could not challenge Mehmed on Constantinople outright. He had no solid proof that Mehmed meant to attack, and he had to keep his own connections to Emperor Constantine secret.
Halil’s options were dwindling, and would dwindle further when his allies in Constantine’s court heard that a tower built on their land bore Halil’s name.
Secrets made information more powerful and suspect. The best way to keep the fortress safe from Halil’s machinations was to make him intimately—and inescapably—involved in its construction. It was the same method Radu was applying to the artillery, inspired by Nazira and Fatima’s relationship. Hiding in plain sight.
“What is so funny?” Urbana
said, scowling. “I did not understand any of that. Why are you smiling?”
“Because I am pleased with tonight’s events.”
She sighed, picking at the bones of the unfortunate fowl on her plate. “I still do not understand why I have to be here. We never even speak to the sultan.”
“You are here so that everyone sees you are my special project. I want the whole city gossiping about how foolish I am, hiring a woman to make the largest cannon in the world to try to impress the sultan. I intend to subject us both to ridicule.”
Her scowl deepened. “Why would you do that?”
“So that no one pays any attention until we succeed.”
For the first time that night, Urbana smiled. She snapped a bone off the chicken.
Radu nudged her with his elbow. “Imagine how surprised they will be when the sultan has the most advanced artillery in the world, built by a woman and the most handsome and useless foreigner in the empire.” He stood. “Come. I need to introduce you to everyone, and tell them how we are designing a cannon so big it could puncture a hole in the bottom of the Black Sea and drain it dry.”
Urbana grimaced but nodded. “Lead on.”
Later that week, Radu pulled aside the tapestry to leave his update on Urbana’s progress and the navy’s readiness. He was so shocked to find Mehmed sitting in the room that he barely stifled a cry.
“Radu.” Mehmed grinned. “You are very late.”
“I— What is wrong?”
“Nothing. I have something for you.” Mehmed held out a letter.
It was addressed to Radu in a hand like someone had taken a blade and dipped it in ink. The part of his heart that was permanently vacant hurt as it beat again. He turned the parchment over to find it had been sealed by a knife tip pressed into wax.
“Lada,” he whispered, running his fingers over the red seal.
“It arrived this morning.” Mehmed’s voice was carefully neutral. “Did you write her?”
“Yes, after I found out she was not on the throne. I had given up hope that the messenger would ever find her.”