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“What?” Mehmed’s hands hovered in midair, on either side of Lada’s hips.
She turned to face him, carrying the fire in her eyes as a burning shield against everything she saw. “Also, I want to lead my own contingent of Janissaries.”
RADU HAD NEVER IMAGINED how deeply lonely being well liked would be.
At tonight’s feast, he sat only three people down from Murad. A position of honor, one that made him highly visible—and desirable—to all the attending pashas, their pashazada sons, visiting valis, local spahi leaders jockeying for position against rival Janissary leaders, even several powerful beys. People who were, by virtue of their birth, all more important than he was.
But he was here, and they were not, and they all wanted to know why.
Radu smiled, eyes wide and guileless, looking as though he were innocently delighted with everything before him. Halil Pasha sat immediately to his left, though, and it was hard to be aware of anything else.
Halfway through the course of roasted game birds with a delicate, creamy sauce, Halil spoke. “You have not been to visit my son Salih since your dear friend Mehmed left last month.”
Radu swallowed the piece of meat threatening to choke him. There were so many traps in that sentence, so many things to avoid or spin in the right direction. He had no doubt that Halil Pasha viewed him with suspicion, and Halil Pasha was the deadliest man in Edirne. Radu shrugged, offering an embarrassed and pitying smile. “I found that Salih and I do not…share the same interests.”
Halil Pasha’s eyes hardened knowingly as he glanced in Salih’s direction. He was at the far end of the table, barely visible. At every event they had attended together, he had tried to catch Radu’s eye, and he had sent him several invitations to visit, but Radu felt it kinder to do this than to let him think there could be something real between them.
“Yes, Salih’s interests are rather peculiar.” Halil Pasha resumed eating, then, his voice as casual as a knife in the dark, asked, “And what of your friend Mehmed? Do you hear much from him?”
Radu sighed, letting guilt play across his face as he looked over in Murad’s direction. “My comportment with Mehmed does not reflect well on my character. It is a source of shame for me.”
Halil Pasha leaned closer. “Oh?”
“When he left, he accused me of using his friendship to get closer to his father, and…I fear he was not wrong. I am grateful for the kindness Mehmed showed me, but I never agreed with his tolerance for radical views on Islam, nor his misguided militaristic ideas. Though,” Radu said, tilting his head thoughtfully, “he has softened considerably on those. I think his time in the country has much improved his temperament. But our sultan is a scholar and a philosopher of the highest order, and it has long been my dream to be near enough to absorb some small portion of his wisdom.”
Halil Pasha made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, though he frowned as he digested Radu’s words. Radu went back to his meal as if the information he had just given Halil Pasha was not carefully constructed and entirely false.
From across the table, a conversation grew more heated, loud enough for Radu to pick up a few words. One, Skanderberg, kept being repeated. “Who is this Skanderberg they speak of?” Radu asked, leaning close to Halil Pasha.
“Have you not heard? He was once a favorite of Murad, though back then he was Iskander Bey. An Albanian Janissary who rose through the ranks until Murad made him bey of Kruje. And Skanderberg repaid Murad’s generosity by betraying him and claiming that section of Albania as his own. Twice now we have made attempts to reclaim it and been repulsed.” He paused to give Radu a poisonous smile. “Favorites can fall far.”
Murad shifted in his chair, face deepening to red. If Radu could hear the talk of Skanderberg, surely Murad could. It had to be a source of tremendous embarrassment for him.
Seeing an opportunity to insinuate himself further into Murad’s good graces, Radu stood.
All eyes turned to him, but he bowed toward Murad. “If it pleases you, my father, I have written a poem about the glory of your rule.”
It was one of the many weapons in his arsenal, one he had hoped to keep sheathed for a while longer. But Murad was primed for a strike. The sultan beamed, gesturing for Radu to stand on a platform in the corner of the room.
Radu had practiced the poem so often he could recite it in his sleep. He had stolen shiny bits from famous Arabic poems, gathering them like a raven to line his own nest. The language was dense and flowery, hyperbolic in the extreme. Murad listened, enraptured, as his reign was li
kened to the ocean and his posterity a mighty river.
While Radu performed the many long stanzas, he watched as the meal was finished and men began to move around the room. While Murad sat, untouchable, nearly everyone of any importance eventually followed the pull to Halil Pasha to pay their respects. He sat in the center of a vast web of influence.
Radu smiled and spoke in brighter tones to cover the despair he felt watching his enemy, the spider, and wondering how he ever thought he could hope to defeat him.
Lately, prayer brought Radu little comfort. Even joining five times a day at the dizzyingly beautiful mosque, surrounded by his brothers, Radu felt alone. Heart heavy and head hanging, he trudged out onto the steps of the mosque, evening already eating away the blue of the sky. If he lost his faith, what was left to him?
“Radu?”
He looked up to find a man staring at him, arms open, face wide with wonder. “Can this be the lost little boy I prayed with so long ago?”
Recognition dawned on Radu, warming him like the sun. “Kumal?”
With a laugh, the older man threw his arms around Radu, drawing him into an embrace. It was the first sincere physical affection Radu had had since that horrible night with Salih. Something in his chest broke free, and he hugged Kumal too tightly, clinging to him.
Kumal’s voice was as tender as his touch on Radu’s back. “Are you still lost, then?”
