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Nazira splashed water at them. “No more! If I have questions, I will write you a delicately worded letter. I have faith in Radu’s generosity and abilities.”
Lada choked, and every head whipped around to face her.
“Oh, Lada! I am sorry,” Nazira exclaimed. “We should remember Radu is your brother.”
Spluttering something that resembled an excuse, Lada fled to her mat, her skin not even dry before she tugged her clothing on and gripped the pouch safely back around her neck. She would find out nothing she wanted to in the bath.
But as she ran to her rooms, trousers clinging to her legs, she kept hearing the phrase that was more of a revelation than any political plotting: A woman can be pleased as well as a man.
“He married her? Already?” Mehmed stood, then sat back down, then stood again. “But we spoke of it only three days ago! And he did not even want to marry her! He asked for a modest estate, but when I agreed I did not think…Married?”
“Things change, apparently.” Lada had tried to corner Radu to talk to him before the wedding, but he had barricaded himself behind his big eyes and empty smile, simply saying over and over that Nazira would make a wonderful wife. She had been forced to watch as they were married in Turkish. Radu gave his life away in another tongue sealed by another god.
Nazira had blushed her way through the ceremony, a maid standing by her shoulder. And when it was over, the couple had barely touched, all the passion of two innocent children playing at marriage between them. Lada had been invited to a feast at Kumal’s city house afterward, but she feared she would not be able to be civil. Not to that man. Not ever.
Radu had just nodded and wished her well when she told him she was leaving. And now he was married.
“It makes no sense,” Mehmed said. “What does Kumal Pasha have to gain by an alliance with Radu?”
Lada scoffed. “Is it not obvious? Kumal is a pasha now. Radu has your favor. Kumal wants to be closer to you. We will have to watch him.”
Mehmed shook his head. “Kumal has no ties to Halil Pasha. In fact, I have already gone over all the taxes and accounts from Kumal’s vilayet. He is beyond reproach. He and his men acquitted themselves with honor during the siege of Skanderberg. He already knows I value and trust him, and he is respectful without ever courting favor. This does not benefit him. But Nazira is his youngest sister. Perhaps he spoils her, and let her pick her own match.”
Lada did not want that to be true. She wanted there to be a darker purpose, a reason to hate them, a reason to punish them. But Radu was smart. If he were in trouble, he would have gone to Mehmed, if not Lada.
“Maybe…maybe she really does love him.” Lada knew Radu did not love Nazira. But if it made him happy to focus on a person other than Mehmed, it could be a good thing for him as well.
Mehmed shook his head. “Of course she would love him. Half the city is in love with him. Still, his acceptance makes no sense. He does not love her.”
Lada watched him to see if there was more meaning, more understanding behind his words, but she could not tell.
He stared at the wall, deep in thought. “And she cannot make him happy.”
A bathhouse conversation tugged at Lada. “What about Nazira?”
“Hmm?” Mehmed finally focused on her, still distracted. “What about her?”
“Why is it her duty to make him happy? What will Radu do to make her happy?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Be her husband. Provide for her. Give her…children.” He puckered his lips as though the word was distasteful. As though he had not already done the same.
“And children are her reward for enduring him.”
“Enduring him? She is fortunate!”
“Tell me,” Lada said, her thoughts of snakes and gardens and seeds and duties now muddied with steam-swirled, improbable ideas of pleasure beyond kissing. “What do you do to make your women happy?”
Mehmed’s mouth drew taut, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. “My women? What are you speaking of?”
“Your harem. They exist to serve you. They give you sons.” She spat the word out. “What do you do for them?”
“I do not wish to speak of that with you. You know I have to—”
“This is not about what you have to do! Do you like them? Do you love them? Which of them do you love best?”
“I do not know! They are— It is different. It is like the man who carries my stool. I neither like nor dislike him. He is there to serve a purpose. Why do you want to talk about this?”
“Because I want to know if you have ever, even once, thought of what might bring them pleasure! Or is it entirely a transaction, part of the business of being sultan? Are they as stools to you?”
