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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.
