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The rain began pouring in earnest. The shingles were slick; Radu clung to them carefully. He could afford neither discovery nor injury. He allowed himself a few moments of quiet triumph as he watched water stream from the sky onto the roof and through the holes he had created.
Tearing up as many shingles on his way as he could, he crawled to the far end of the building. But he had a new problem.
He could not run to gather momentum. With the roof this slick, he would certainly slip and fall to his death. The drop to the ground was far—three times his height—and if he crashed down with any speed he did not like his chances.
There was a narrow ledge along the edge of the roof. Rain poured around him; the storm was picking up speed and force. He left the lever on the roof and grasped the ledge. Then he lowered himself, hanging on by only his fingertips. Praying silently, he dropped. When he hit the ground, he collapsed, trying not to let any one part of his body absorb too much of the impact. It was a trick he had learned long ago, running and hiding from his cruel older brother, Mircea. He had had to jump from many windows and walls in his childhood.
Mircea was dead now, and Radu did not mourn him. But as he stood, checking his body for injuries, he was momentarily grateful for the lessons. One ankle was complaining and would be sore in the morning. It was a small price to pay. Radu pulled his hood up over his head.
“Hey! You!”
Radu turned in surprise. It was too dark for them to see his face, but Orhan’s men had circled back on their patrol. And Radu was standing right next to the door of the storage warehouse. If they looked inside, all his work would be for nothing.
He quickly pulled a flint from his pocket and dropped it. Then, cursing loudly in Turkish, he ran.
“He was trying to burn the food! Spy! Sabotage!” The cry went up behind him, followed by the pounding of footsteps.
Radu ran for his life.
Bells began clanging the warning, chasing him with their peals. Radu cut through alleys and streets. He jumped over walls and kept to the darkest parts of the city. Soon he was in an abandoned area. But still he heard the sounds of pursuit. It was like a nightmare: running through a dead city, pursued in the darkness with nowhere to hide.
Desperate, Radu considered the outer wall. If he could make it to the wall, he could make it outside. He could find Mehmed.
But if he disappeared the same night a saboteur had been spotted in the city, it would not take much thought to connect the events. Nazira would be left in harm’s way. Radu turned and ran into an empty stable. Rain poured in from the collapsed roof. He huddled in the corner of a stall.
Once, he had hidden with Lada in a stable. She had promised no one would kill him but her. Please, Radu thought, please let that be prophetic.
After he had waited for so long that his heart no longer pounded and he shivered with cold rather than fear, Radu stood and crept through the night. The rain was tapering off as he slowly found his way from the abandoned section of the city back to a part with life. He left his long black cloak on a washing line and combed his hair into a neat ponytail. Then he walked, unhurried, hunched against the rain.
His hand was on the doorknob when someone grabbed his shoulder roughly from behind. He was spun around—and embraced.
“Radu!” Cyprian said, holding him tightly. “I have been looking everywhere for you. There is a saboteur in the city. They caught him trying to light a fire. I was so worried about you.”
Radu took a deep breath, trying to calm his voice. “I heard the bells and went out to see what was wrong. I feared the Ottomans had finally arrived. But why would you worry about me?”
Cyprian lingered in the hug, then pulled back, his hands still on Radu’s shoulders. “If the sultan’s man had discovered you…” His eyes were wrinkled with concern. “I feared for your safety.”
Radu embraced Cyprian again, both because it was warm and comforting against the weariness of this long night, and because it was the only way he could hide how touched and sad he was that Cyprian’s first fear had been for Radu’s traitorous life.
A CLOUD OF DUST HUNG in front of the window, where musty drapes had been hastily tugged aside. The room was in the back of the house, on the second floor. Lada could see across a fallow field to the hedge where she had watched for her mother. But it was not clear enough to make out where her men waited for her.
She hoped they were still waiting for her. She felt so cut off. What if they left her, too? Radu was lost to her. Mehmed was a traitor. She had separated herself from Hunyadi. She could not lose her men.
The maid cleared her throat. Lada expected the girl to leave, but she just stood there next to the steaming bath she had filled.
“Well?” Lada snapped.
“I will help you undress?”
“No!”
The girl recoiled as if struck. “I am supposed to.”
“You are not supposed to.”
“But— I was to wash your hair, and plait it for you after, and help you into one of her ladyship’s dresses.” The girl frowned worriedly, looking at Lada’s thick waist and large chest.
Lada laughed, the absurdity of it all finally getting to her. Here she was, seeing her mother for the first time in fifteen years, and her mother wanted to brush her hair and dress her up. No—her mother wanted someone else to do it for her. That made sense. At least Oana was not here. She would have been thrilled to volunteer.
