Radu wondered what that would be like, a friendship with nothing else—no fears, no tangled and unwanted emotions. Kumal was more of a mentor than a friend, too much older to be a true peer. Radu trusted Lazar, but there was always a note of discomfort there, a hint of desire on Lazar’s part that left Radu constantly on the defensive. He kept his other men at a distance for fear they would see in him what Lazar had, what Huma had, what Lada had. What Mehmed had not.
Radu did not know whether it was a relief or another dagger to his heart that Mehmed could not see how he felt merely by looking at him.
“What now?” Mehmed looked to Radu.
Radu felt his chest swell, his shoulders straighten to fill more space. “Now I send for the captain of the Janissaries.”
Lada shook her head. “Too risky.”
“It is a risk, but it is a bigger risk to leave the city’s Janissaries in Halil Pasha’s pockets. If he sees us today, he might betray us. But if we do not persuade him to support Mehmed, we will be fighting him in the streets.”
“I agree,” Mehmed said.
It was a simple matter to summon the Janissary captain to Murad’s chambers. Radu did not tell the servant who was requesting his presence. Kazanci Dogan was impassive upon seeing Radu, having interacted with him enough during the siege to be familiar. Radu smiled, waving for him to follow.
To his credit, Kazanci Dogan betrayed only the slightest amount of shock upon opening the door to find Mehmed sitting on an elaborately gilded chair, wearing deep purple robes and a dark red turban. He held a sword as casually as a breath.
“Come in,” Mehmed said.
Kazanci Dogan dipped his head in acknowledgment and entered the room, eyes flicking to either side as he took in the grim-faced men lining the walls. Lada still sat in the corner, one leg up on the bench, the other swinging lazily. She finished pulling a knot tight, then dropped the noose, letting it hang toward the floor as though she had forgotten it was there.
Radu felt a surge of affection for her that overcame even his anger. She really was magnificent sometimes.
“I was not aware you had arrived in the city,” Kazanci Dogan said to Mehmed.
“Yes, odd that no one saw fit to tell me my father was dying. But with things poised on the brink of change, I thought you and I should come to an agreement.”
Kazanci Dogan said nothing.
“During my last rule, we had discipline problems with your men. Have you been able to get them under control since then?”
Kazanci Dogan’s face betrayed a flush of red. “My Janissaries do more for the empire than any other soldiers. It is my job to make certain they are taken care of.”
“Of course. Remind me about the structure of the corps.”
Frowning, Kazanci Dogan explained that he was the head of all the soldiers and reported to by the leaders of each division and garrison. Mehmed nodded thoughtfully.
“And you owe allegiance to the sultan and none else?”
Kazanci Dogan’s voice slid out easily. “Yes.”
“But the sultan is not the commander. You are.”
“Yes.”
Mehmed nodded. “It is good that you are separate from the spahis and their endless politics. I value my Janissaries above all else. Tell me, then: What can I do to help you lead your men?”
Kazanci Dogan’s face turned shrewd. “We are tired, sir. The siege against Skanderberg was long and disheartening. Many of my men returned ill and have only recently regained their health. There is some concern that…” He paused, as though choosing his next words carefully. “…that when you take the throne, they might be thrown into another ill-advised, protracted siege.”
Mehmed tilted his head in surprise. “I have no desire to go against Skanderberg. That was my father’s quarrel, not mine.”
“Not Skanderberg.”
The intelligent confusion on Mehmed’s face almost made Radu smile. “Whom would I besiege? I already have an empire that needs attention, and I will need help and time learning how best to rule. I would depend on my Janissaries to be my hands in that. That is my only plan for their future.”
Kazanci Dogan made an uncommitted noise in the back of his throat.
“Tell me, do you think my father has run his empire well?” Mehmed smiled at the look of alarm on Kazanci Dogan’s face. “Come now. He is dying. It is not treason to examine what we can do better. For example, how do your men feel about their compensation?”
Kazanci Dogan cleared his throat. “There have been some complaints. We shoulder a heavy burden for the empire and see other men more richly rewarded.”
“I agree. My first act will be to go through my finances, determine where taxes are being misused, and divert all available funds to raising Janissary pay. I want you to think of an amount you feel is fair but generous. It is important to me that your soldiers—and you—know that no one values you or can take care of you as much as I can.” Mehmed’s smile dropped off, his eyes becoming as sharp as his tone. “No one can offer you what I can, and if anyone tried, it would be treason.”
Kazanci Dogan bowed deeper in an actual show of respect. “I look forward to serving you when you are our sultan.”
“Your father.”
“Yes. Our father.”
Mehmed nodded. “I trust that you will keep our meeting in confidence. I am not ready to declare my presence here yet. I would like more time in privacy to mourn my father’s imminent passing. Should anyone discover me, I would know who had betrayed me.”
Kazanci Dogan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Yes, my father.”
Mehmed smiled, opening his arms generously. “I look forward to watching you lead. As soon as my father dies, we will agree upon the terms of pay increase, and you can announce it to your men.”
Bowing again, Kazanci Dogan was escorted out by Matei.
“Do you think it worked?” Mehmed asked, a worry line between his brows.
Radu collapsed onto a chair, relieved of the tension his body had been holding since the Janissary leader had arrived. “He is no fool. He knows you can offer him more than Halil Pasha could. And he was sincere about his men being tired. He will want to avoid fighting in the streets and a protracted civil war. He has more to gain now from an alliance with you.”
“I agree.” Mehmed stood, stretching. “As soon as I am secure on the throne, we will kill him.”
Radu blinked in shock, but Lada simply nodded, tightening the noose.
“What now?” Petru asked.
“Now we wait for my father to die and Ilyas to arrive.”
Both events happened the next day. Amal brought word from the wall that Ilyas had arrived en force and simply marched through the gate when the guards tried to deny them entry. Mehmed watched from the tower above his father’s room, the procession of white caps making a tremendous show through the streets.
“Is it done?” he asked.
Radu did not know what he spoke of, but Petru nodded. “Your father is dead.”
“Then I go to meet my people.” He turned away from the window, turban glittering with metal threads woven throughout. His clothes were deep purple, the traditional color of the Roman emperors. A heavy gold necklace, glimmering with rubies, hung from shoulder to shoulder, and a cape draped down his back.
They rode out. Kazanci Dogan’s Janissaries met them, gathering more as they went until they came to the great square in the center of the city and joined Ilyas. Mehmed rode at the front, sword raised, bells pealing as news of his father’s death spread. After a parade around the whole city, he returned to the palace.
Halil Pasha was waiting in the throne room, murder on his face. Mehmed strode straight up to him and clasped his shoulders. Lada stood with sword drawn, directly behind Mehmed. Naked fear quickly replaced the violence on Halil Pasha’s face. This had been Radu’s idea, the grand plan behind all their secret maneuvers.
“Halil Pasha, my father’s most trusted advisor, the wisest man in our great empire.” Meh
med turned to the crowd of nobility gathered, some still hastily adjusting their finery. “Halil Pasha will serve as my grand vizier, to help guide me in ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity for the glory of the Ottomans!”
The crowd cheered. Halil Pasha’s terror was replaced with incredulity, and then the sly, triumphant smile of a fox that had stolen another beast’s prey. But the fox failed to notice Radu’s hounds surrounding him, driving him exactly where they wanted him.
Poor fox, Radu thought.
MEHMED WAS GIVEN THE sword of his ancestor Osman Gazi. He held it reverently in front of him before sheathing it and girding it about his waist. He now wore the dreams of his entire country’s history.
Lada did not know how to feel as she watched it happen. This was not the Mehmed who had spoken so passionately about that dream when they were alone. This Mehmed was wrapped in silk and girded in armor, a turban obscuring his head, his face as sharp as steel and as untouchable. He stood on a dais, separate from all others. There was a man whose only role—complete with royal title—was to carry around a stool for Mehmed’s feet should he require it. There was a man who had stewardship over Mehmed’s turbans. There was a man who stood to the left of Mehmed, ready with perfume and a fan should some noisome scent dare approach the unapproachable.
Because that was what Mehmed had become.
Through the endless ceremonies, the naming of viziers, the acknowledging and receiving of gifts, Mehmed stayed in the same spot and moved further and further away.
Lada wondered if the poison testers would taste the seething jealousy creeping in her veins as she stood on guard and watched Mehmed’s dream take root.
Lada could not have anticipated that an even more odious and discomfiting task than watching the endless coronation lay ahead. Mehmed, in the outer chambers of Murad’s apartments, met with each of his father’s wives and concubines. As per Lada’s demands, there were two guards stationed at each door, and one of her own men in the room with Mehmed at all times.
Today, that was her role. As woman after woman entered, starting with the lowliest who had only recently moved from servant to full harem member, Lada was forced to acknowledge the reality of this part of the throne. Her hand constantly twitched over her sword. She was not certain what, exactly, she wanted to kill.
A trembling concubine left, to be replaced by a woman Lada knew. Mara still wore clothes unsuited to the courts—a full, intricately embroidered dress with no veil. Her hair was pulled back and elaborately curled. There was no touch of Ottoman style in her entire ensemble. She did not bow to Mehmed, merely raised an eyebrow. “Good morning.” She spoke Latin instead of Turkish.
He smiled, bemused. “Mara Brankovic.”
“My fame precedes me.” Sweeping her skirts out, she sat on a sofa parallel to Mehmed’s chair, rather than cowering in front of him.
“I am glad to see you well.”
“Widowhood suits me.”
Lada snorted a laugh. Mara acknowledged her with a glance, smiling coldly.
Mehmed cleared his throat, trying to regain Mara’s attention. “I am not certain what to do with you.” Most of the other women were being sent to various estates, depending on their rank within the harem and whom they were related to. Daughters of important families were returned, some with marriages already prearranged by Mehmed and their fathers. Radu was, even now, discussing a match with some important pasha on Mehmed’s behalf. Like coins exchanged, the women passed from one hand to another.
Lada’s fingers tightened around her sword hilt.
“I have had an offer of marriage from Constantine,” Mara said.
Mehmed could not hide his surprise. “Constantine?”
“I suspect he thinks it will soften your alliance with my father and Serbia, since it was in large part due to my influence that my father stayed out of the conflict at Varna. Losing Serbia as a vassal state would be a blow to your empire, and an embarrassment to your recent ascension to the throne. Europe does not expect much from you.”
Mehmed nodded, his face now carefully impassive. “I am surprised at his boldness. And his speed. Though I wonder at your wisdom in telling me.”
Lada did not question it. Mara had something behind this. She was too smart to let an opportunity go to waste.
Mara shrugged, tilting her head. “God has freed me. I will never marry again. I have already written Constantine a refusal, which I will sign and send as soon as I am on my way home to Serbia.”
Mara had no sword, but she had effectively used herself as a weapon. Mehmed could not harm her without risking his alliance with her father; and if he angered her, he risked strengthening Constantinople’s chances at more allies. She would not be used in any way other than the one she chose.
A sudden, fierce envy seized Lada. All Mara’s patience had paid off. She had written her own fate, free of the men who tried to engineer it for her.
Mehmed stood and inclined his head respectfully. “I shall make the arrangements immediately. We will have you on your way in the morning with gifts for yourself and your father, and a renewed peace treaty to deliver with my blessing.”
Mara stood, dipping into a graceful curtsy. Her smile for Lada this time was genuine. Then, without expressing gratitude for the escape she had crafted all on her own, she walked from the room.
“I will miss her,” Lada said.
Mehmed laughed. “That does not surprise me. She always was the most fearsome of my father’s wives.”
“And with fearsome wives on our minds…” Lada nodded toward the door, where Huma waited, supported by a eunuch.
“Concubine. Never a wife.” Huma spoke with a tremble that had not been there before. Her skin was a shade of yellow that made Lada want to look away, the full body she had been so proud of before now wasted beneath her slack robes.
“Mother.” Mehmed rose to help her sit. “You did not need to come.”
“Of course I came. You are my son. The sultan.”
Lada had expected pride, even exultation, but the words sounded as though they tasted bitter on Huma’s tongue.
“But there is no question of your future,” Mehmed said. “You will stay here, in the palace.”
“It is not my future that concerns me. We need to discuss plans. We got you to the throne; now we must ensure that you keep it.”
Mehmed shook his head, taking her hands in his. “This is not for you to worry about. I want you to concentrate on getting well.”
She continued as though he had not spoken. “We can do nothing about Orhan for now, but there is the matter of little Ahmet, your half brother. He is a threat that must be addressed.”
Mehmed shifted away from her. “I will make arrangements to send him to an estate in the country, where he will be safe.”
Huma coughed, the sound rattling between her shrunken breasts. “Safe? You want to keep your closest rival for the throne safe?”
“He is an infant.”
“He will not always be one. Think of your father, the years he wasted fighting his own brothers. They nearly pulled the empire apart. We cannot allow the same thing to happen with you and Ahmet!”
Mehmed dropped her hands and stood, glowering. “This is not a matter of we, Mother. I am well aware of the perils of the future. I will keep Ahmet safe—safely away from here, safely out of the reach of any who would use him against me, safely separated from poor Halima his mother, or anyone who would put his interests above my own. He will grow up a prisoner. Forgive me if I do not wish to dwell on it.”
Huma’s expression matched his in ferocity, and it struck Lada how alike they looked. There was an intensity to their faces, something about their eyes that pierced whatever they set their sights on.
Then Huma collapsed into herself, giving in to her illness and exhaustion. “At least tell me you have a plan for Halima. Put her to good use.”
Mehmed rubbed the space between his eyes. “Yes, yes. I am meeting with her soon. I think I will marry her to Ishak
Pasha. I am sending him to Anatolia to be the new beylerbey. I want Ishak away from Halil. They are too strong together.”
“Yes, that is wise. Though I still think Halil would better serve you from the top of a stake.” Huma stood, holding out an arm. The eunuch who had escorted her hurried to her side. “And you are wrong about how to deal with the baby Ahmet. But you must do what you think is best.”
“I will.”
After she was gone, Mehmed sighed. “It is hard, seeing her so weak.”
“I think she has never been weak. She frightens me as much as she ever did. And…she has a point.” Lada’s mouth curled down; she hated to agree with Huma. She even felt sorry for Halima. “If Constantinople is leveraging a distant cousin against you, imagine what they could do with access to Murad’s other son. Halil will try to use him.”
“I will keep him away from Halil. And by the time Ahmet is old enough to be useful, we should be done with that wretched pasha.”
“Vizier,” Lada corrected Mehmed, and he stuck out his tongue. “It was Radu’s idea, remember. If you had listened to me, Halil would be dead.”
“I know, I know. But we have to think further ahead. We are building a foundation. Each stone must be considered. We have to dismantle the wall Halil has built before removing him. Otherwise more stones would fill in the gap, and the wall would still be in my way. Radu is right about that.”
“And what does wise, clever Radu think about Ahmet? Is he a stone, or a weakness that threatens the whole building?”
Mehmed did not answer.
THE ROYAL CLERK’S INK-STAINED fingers drummed nervously on his legs. His voice was halting and garbled, as though unused to speaking. “You want to see the tax records?”
Mehmed’s face was a mask of patience. “Yes. I want to see accountings for the tax revenues.”
Radu pitied the clerk, whose brow was beaded with sweat. He suspected the man had never before been called in front of a sultan.
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