Later that afternoon, he leaned against the entrance and watched a small caravan approach. Urbana had told him they were expecting a delivery, but Radu did not anticipate the grizzled woman who showed up with the gunpowder.
She climbed down from her cart, her back arched like a crescent moon. Radu moved to help her, but she waved him away. “I can manage, you young fool.”
A bit stung by her dismissiveness—older women usually loved him—he directed two men to begin unloading the barrels of gunpowder. The woman watched warily. Another cart pulled up behind hers. A man jumped out to aid the unloading process.
“How many, Mother?” he called.
“All of it.” She shook her head. “That ass cannot keep a number greater than three in his head.”
Radu frowned at her lack of maternal softness. She turned her critical eye on him, taking in his robes. He had taken to wearing jewel tones lately, bright and bold colors to combat how he felt on the inside.
“Who put you in charge of so much gunpowder?” she asked.
Radu tried on his best smile, but it slid off his face. It would make no difference with this woman. “We are building the largest cannon in the world. It could take down the walls of Babylon itself.”
The woman snorted. “Nothing quite so useful as an imaginary cannon to defeat a city that no longer exists. I can see all my work and travel has been useless. One of these days I will be asked to do another stupid thing, and I will finally hit my limit on idiocy. I have a husband and three sons, so my limit is very high, but even I cannot bear all things. And on that day, there will be an explosion to take down the walls of every actual city in the world.”
Radu shifted on his feet, wishing the men would hurry up so this horrible woman would leave.
“You are not Turkish,” she said.
Radu shook his head. “Wallachian.”
She nodded, toying with several long white hairs on her chin. “Not a lot of Wallachians in the empire. Too stupid to be useful. But I met a good Wallachian a few years ago. Made an impression on me. I never forgot her.”
With a shock like a cannon burst, Radu tuned in to the woman’s words. “‘Her’?”
“Mean little bitch.” The woman smiled with tenderness, an emotion that looked out of place on her. “Clever as anyone. It was out in— Where was it? I forget.”
“Amasya,” Radu said softly.
“That was it. You know her?”
“Lada. My sister.”
Her gaze grew even more critical as she looked him up and down. “You do not seem like siblings.”
Radu smiled tightly. “I am aware of that.”
“Well. I always wondered what she might do, a bright, vicious mind like that. And those men followed her without question. She made me feel younger.”
A sprig of affection rose in Radu’s chest. It was strange, talking to someone who had known Lada and admired her. Not in the way Mehmed admired her. That did not ever make Radu happy. But this gnarled old woman’s memories made Radu miss his sister.
“Where is she now?” the woman asked.
“In Hungary, I believe.”
“What is she doing there?”
“That is anyone’s guess.”
“Well, whatever it is, it will not end well for anyone who gets in her way. The world will destroy her in the end. Too much spark leads to explosions.” She patted a barrel of gunpowder that had not yet been unloaded. “But your sister will destroy as much as she can before she goes out.”
The old woman’s eerie prophecy rubbed at Radu like an ill-fitting collar. “Perhaps she will find a balance.”
“No. She will go down in flames and blood.” The woman smiled fondly. “If you write her, tell her Tohin sends her regards.” Then, her eye catching something else, she shouted at her son, “Timur! Did you check the way they are storing them?”
“Yes, Mother,” Timur said.
Tohin stomped toward the storage building. Timur shook his head, giving Radu a long-suffering smile. “I have three children of my own, and she would still dress me if she could. You know how mothers are.”
Radu’s return smile was reflexive. He did not, in fact, know how mothers were. But he knew what it was to have someone watching out for him. He stared at the remaining barrels, wondering. Lada was already playing with fire, taking up with Hunyadi. She might respect the man, but he had never shown kindness to their family. Who knew what purpose he had in taking her in?
Radu had been flattered and angry when she demanded he come help her. But perhaps he should have been afraid. For Lada to ask for help, surely she was teetering on the edge of the destructive end the old woman saw for her. And though she had never asked for Radu’s help growing up, he had helped her. He had worn away her edges, talked their way out of trouble she would have welcomed. Maybe … maybe she had always needed him. And he always chose Mehmed.
Someone shouted his name, and he hurried back to his duties.
His duties to his God. His duties to the Ottoman Empire. His duties to Mehmed. Lada would have to figure it out on her own. He owed her nothing.
But the promise of the guilt he would carry if she died without his help clung to his skin like a shadow.
10
February
LADA TRACKED A group of fifty Janissaries. They were a long-range frontier group, used for enforcing the empire’s will in vassal states. Hunyadi had no particular reason to attack the Janissaries, but he demanded no reason to kill Turkish forces.
Up until now they had only fought more Bulgars, brief flashes of blood and screaming and swords breaking up monotonous riding, camping, sleeping outside.
Lada was proud of her men. They were as good as or better than any that Hunyadi rode with. And he noticed. After their canyon victory, Hunyadi frequently consulted with Lada and asked her advice.
She had studied his tactics, but only on paper and in theory. Watching him in the field was something else entirely. He always thought three days ahead—food, water, defensible locations. But he was not so set on plans that he could not respond with lightning-fast force to an unexpected threat or opportunity.
This Janissary group was one such opportunity. Lada looked uneasily at Nicolae next to her.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think they could have been me.”
She looked back at the men they stalked. He was right. They were the same—boys stolen and turned into soldiers who served another land and another god.
“We let them go, then,” Lada said. She could not help imagining Nicolae on the other side of the meadow. Or Bogdan. Or Stefan, or Petru, or any of her men. She did not want to feel this companionship with the Janissaries, but it could not be avoided.
The Janissaries came to a sudden stop. Lada tensed, fearing they had discovered her ten men tracking them. Instead, they shifted direction and started heading straight for Hunyadi’s camp.
Lada gestured sharply. Her men ran, silent and low to the ground. She pantomimed drawing crossbows. Still running, they fixed their bolts. If the Janissaries did not already know the camp was there, they would in a few minutes. Hunyadi would be caught unaware. Lada gestured to her men to head back to the camp.
“Go warn them,” Lada whispered to Nicolae.
“What are you going to do?”
“Delay them, idiot. Now go!”
Nicolae disappeared into the woods. Lada stood. “The sultan is the son of a donkey!” she shouted in Turkish.
The Janissaries turned as one, arrows already nocked to bows and pointed in her direction. She had cover, but it would not take them long to find her. She darted to another tree. “I am sorry. I should not have said that about the sultan. It is an offense to donkeys, which are perfectly serviceable creatures.”
Lada peeked around the tree. Their weapons still at the ready, the Janissaries were searching the dense foliage for threats. Lada laughed loudly, the sound ringing through the trees. “Are you Janissaries? I have heard that Janissaries are not fit to lick the dust from spahi boots.”
“Who is there?” an angry voice shouted, while another cursed her. Their leader barked an order for them to be quiet. Then he called out, “Show yourself, woman!”
“Why do Bulgars make terrible farmers?” she answered.