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With his back to the other men, Radu mouthed a benediction in Arabic that only he and Timur could see. Timur’s face relaxed, and he closed his eyes. Radu pulled out a knife and drove it into the base of Timur’s neck. He slumped to the floor, dead. There was very little blood. Whatever had been done to him before Radu arrived had already drained him of most of his blood.
Cyprian exclaimed in surprise. Radu pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his knife clean. His hands looked steadier than he felt. “I promised him a quick death in exchange for the information. He upheld his end of the bargain.”
“But we might have needed him for something else,” Giustiniani said, frowning.
Radu feigned his own look of surprise. “I am sorry. You told me to do whatever it took to get him to give us what he knew. That was what it took.” He avoided Cyprian’s eyes and bowed to Constantine. “Unless you have further use for me, I am due at the walls.”
Constantine scratched at his beard. This close, Radu could see that the skin beneath his beard was red and irritated. “May we all meet such mercy at the hands of our enemies,” he said, his voice so quiet he might have been speaking to himself.
The sound of boots racing down the stairs drew their attention to the door. A soldier burst into the cell, out of breath. “The boats,” he said. “The boats we sent out. They have returned.”
“And?” Constantine stepped toward the soldier.
The soldier shook his head, his face devoid of hope. “No one is coming.”
Constantine dropped to his knees, hanging his head in the same pose Timur had been in when Radu arrived. There were no chains on Constantine, but he had only the same option of release as Timur. Radu watched as though from a great distance, and time seemed to slow, the space between heartbeats stretching out to eternity.
If Lada were here, Radu asked himself yet again, what would she do?
The door was right there. Giustiniani and Cyprian had turned away out of respect for Constantine’s grief. Radu could jam the knife into the emperor’s neck the same way he had into Timur’s. He could end Constantine right now. The emperor held Constantinople together through sheer force of will. With his death, the walls meant nothing. The city would surrender immediately.
Lada would do it. She would have already done it instead of standing around, wondering. Radu was certain she had never in her life asked herself what he would do in her situation. He closed his eyes, despair washing over him. Mehmed had sent the wrong sibling into the city. Because he could end it all, right here, right now, and maybe even get out alive. Even knowing Constantine, even respecting him, Radu could do it. He had killed Lazar, after all. He had stuck his knife into his best friend to save Mehmed.
If he did the same now, it would end the siege. It would be almost a kindness to a man suffering under a burden too large for anyone to bear. The city would surrender and fall without looting or further damage.
The broken body of the child in the street loomed before him. Accusing. Pleading. If he killed Constantine, no one else had to die.
But as Radu ran through what he could do, what he should do, he kept pausing on another image—the gray eyes that would never look at him the same if he did it. Radu was looking at Constantine, but all he could feel was Cyprian’s presence.
Maybe if Cyprian were not here, maybe if Cyprian were not Cyprian, Radu could have done the right thing. Instead, he watched, impotent and useless.
The emperor wept, the innocent died around them, and Radu was incapable of offering anyone mercy. It was with this guilt looped like a noose around his neck that Radu followed the other men out of the dungeon and into the palace.
A visibly trembling servant shuffled up. “There is someone here for you, my lord.”
Constantine waved them all to accompany him. It was doubtless the captain of the boat, ready to make a full report of his findings. Radu did not want to go. But there might be important information he could pass to Amal to atone for not killing Constantine when he had the chance.
The door opened to reveal no weary sailors. Instead, Halil Pasha stood in the center of the room.
TOMA BASARAB LOOKED THROUGH letter after letter, smiling or humming thoughtfully depending on the contents. “Sit down before you pace a hole into that rug. It is worth more than anything you own.” He paused for effect. “But then again, you do not own anything, do you?”
Lada glared at him, but she stopped prowling. “Well?”
Toma leaned back in his chair. They had taken residence in another Basarab family boyar’s home. The study might as well have always belonged to Toma. His letters covered the desk, his wine next to his hand. Only Lada’s sword was out of place.
They were close to Tirgoviste. So close Lada could not stand being cooped up in this house with these people, knowing how near her throne was.
Toma held up a letter. “The prince knows what we are up to.”
“And?”
Toma smiled, the expression transforming him from a well-mannered boyar into something Lada understood far better: a predator. “And it does not matter. We have all the support we need. More than half the boyars are on my side.” He paused, his smile shifting generously. “Our side. Most that are not will do nothing until they see where the advantage falls. He will not be able to draw a significant force in time to save himself. His sons and all the men he could ask for help are fighting at the walls of Constantinople at the sultan’s request.”
Lada closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “I can go to Tirgoviste.”
“Yes, my dear, you can,” Toma answered, as though she had been asking permission. “I will follow.”
“But not too closely.” She opened her eyes and raised a knowing eyebrow.
