“What?” Lada interrupted, confused. “Simply because she entered the harem?”
“Oh yes! That is why we met you here. If you enter the harem building, you are technically the property of the sultan! It has to be that way, you know. To protect the bloodline.”
Mara noted Lada’s look of horror with a bleak smile. When she had finished eating, she primly wiped her mouth. She spoke in Hungarian again. “It is good for you to be with us. Try to be like this beautiful idiot. The sooner you stop fighting, the easier your life will be. This is what your purpose is.”
Lada stood so abruptly she nearly fell backward. “No.”
She turned and fled from Mara’s heavy, knowing gaze, feeling the weight of it on her shoulders for long after.
THE MAN WAS FAT.
Tiny purple veins painted his face, webbing out from around his nose. His eyes were watery, his jaw weak, his fingers strained around too-tight rings.
He trembled with age, illness, or nerves. Lada trembled with rage.
Radu silently prayed to whichever god was listening that she would not get them both killed. He had no idea what set her off on that poor maid, but she had drawn official attention as being a problem. Now they stood in one of the opulent courtrooms of the palace. There was more silk and gold in this single room than in the whole caste at Tirgoviste. Various dignitaries stood nearby, murmuring among themselves, waiting their turn to speak with Halil Pasha, the horrible man who had made Radu and Lada watch their first impalings. Normally Radu would have seized this opportunity to listen in and get a feel for the court, but he was too sick with fear and could look only at Lada. If only Kumal were here, if only he lived in the capital. Radu knew he would help them.
But they had no friends, no allies. No help.
Lada did not look around the room. She stared directly ahead at Halil Pasha, who was finishing the contract that would betroth her to the Ottoman next to her.
“Your father will be pleased,” Halil Pasha said, giving Lada a thin-lipped smile. “It is a great honor to the Draculesti line for you to marry here.”
Radu’s would-be brother-in-law signed his name, the ink scratching out along the paper in blotchy lines like the veins on his face.
Lada spoke with a quiet, clear voice, and the room hushed in surprise. No one expected a girl to speak. She was probably not allowed to. Radu knew Lada would not care either way. “On our wedding night,” she said, “I will cut out your tongue and swallow it. Then both tongues that spoke our marriage vows will belong to me, and I will be wed only to myself. You will most likely choke to death on your own blood, which will be unfortunate, but I will be both husband and wife and therefore not a widow to be pitied.”
Lada’s intended dropped the quill. A single spot of ink bled onto the marble floor. Halil Pasha stared at her, his thin smile transformed into an expression of dangerous consideration.
Radu stumbled toward them, trying desperately to think of a way to ease this situation. Then someone laughed, puncturing the silence of the room. Radu turned, surprised to find the weeping boy from the garden standing near the door beside a gaunt, bespectacled man.
Radu had looked for the boy whenever they went out or were near a court function. In the two months since, he had never seen him again, but it did not stop his eyes from hoping to find a friend.
Now, however, Radu had no hope left to give.
The boy whispered something to his companion, whose brows came down around his glasses. He murmured something back, but the boy shook his head, watching Lada with merriment dancing across his face. She stared coolly back.
Radu wondered whether Lada or himself would be killed first. Would it be worse to watch it happen to Lada and know what was coming, or to…no, it would be worse to be second. He hoped they killed him first. Perhaps that was ungenerous, but this was all Lada’s fault.
The gaunt man motioned to two soldiers who wore cylindrical brass hats with a long flap of white cloth to show their rank as Janissaries. Radu always looked closely at Janissaries, hoping to find Lazar, but this city determinedly refused him friends. Then the man and the boy from the garden turned and left. Radu’s eyes followed them until they disappeared.
Lada’s intended looked like one of the fish they had kept in the fountains circling the castle at Tirgoviste. Mouth open, then closed, then open. He shrugged at Halil Pasha, clearing his throat. “Perhaps the sultan— Perhaps another arrangement could be— I would never question the sultan’s judgment, but—”
He was flustered, a bit outraged, but it was apparent from the faces around them that no one took Lada’s threat seriously.