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Lada kicked him in the stomach. “I am no girl. Who is next?”
The other Janissaries, gathered in a loose circle around Lada and Nicolae, shuffled their feet and avoided eye contact. Nicolae pushed himself up on an elbow. “Really? Cowards!”
“I still have bruises from the last time.”
“I cannot sit without pain.”
“She fights dirty.”
Ivan did not even respond, having never forgiven Lada for besting him when they were introduced. He refused to fight her and rarely acknowledged her presence.
Lada laughed, showing all her sharp teeth. “Because when you are on the battlefield, honor will mean so much. You will die with a blade between your ribs, secure in the knowledge that you fought with manners.” She picked up her dull practice sword, abandoned on the edge of the circle, and swung it through the air, sweeping it across the line of the Janissaries’ collective throats.
“I would rather die in this ring at your hand than on the field in the name of the little zealot,” Nicolae said. The other Janissaries grumbled in assent. They had become more and more vocal in their complaints about Mehmed, about their work, about their pay. Lada did not fail to notice that their grievances were aired without regard for who could hear, indicating little fear of reprisal or reprimand.
“What is going on here?” A short man with piercing dark eyes, one ear a mangled, scarred stub, strode into the practice ring. The Janissaries snapped to attention.
“We were practicing, sir.” Nicolae stared straight ahead, as though if he did not look at Lada, the commander would not notice her.
She met the man’s gaze without batting an eye. “I train with these Janissaries.”
“Since when?”
“For months now. I traveled with them from Amasya.”
“We are not so lax in Edirne as they are in the outer regions. You will remove yourself.” He turned, effectively dismissing her.
“No.”
He cocked his head. “No?”
“No. I am doing no harm, and your men can certainly use the challenge.”
The man turned toward Nicolae. “Show this girl that she has no place on a field with Janissaries.”
Nicolae grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do I have to, Ilyas?”
“Did it sound like a request?”
“But I just fought with her. Make someone else go.”
Disbelief coloring his face, Ilyas gestured at one of the other Janissaries. He was a Wallachian, so Lada automatically liked him. With a beleaguered sigh, Matei stepped forward, picking up a practice sword. Lada had not fought him yet. The Edirne Janissaries always hung back, confused and wary, while the Amasya Janissaries were used to her.
Matei had decent form, his precise movements backed by a compact, powerful body. Lada had him disarmed and on the ground in six moves. The next Janissary took four. The third Janissary was more difficult, and it was a full minute before he, too, was beaten.
“Enough!” Ilyas took up a sword and strode into the center of the practice ring.
Lada attacked first—she always attacked first. He anticipated it, blocking her strike with bone-jarring force. He seemed to know what she would do before she did it, reading her as easily as Radu read people’s emotions.
After several of her failed attacks, Ilyas caught the edge of Lada’s sword, ripping it from her hands. Instead of backing away, she screamed and spun herself into him, past his sword, a dagger pulled from her wrist sheath at his neck.
He slammed his head into hers, knocking her to the ground.
The bright blue sky spun above her. Ilyas leaned into her view, holding out a hand. She took it, and he pulled her up. She refused to sway on principle, though her head complained bitterly.
Ilyas regarded her. “Carry on.” He walked away.
“I lost,” Lada said, hand against her head.
