Hunyadi laughed, wheezing and gasping until he was so pale he looked dead already. Lada helped him drink. He choked, spitting most of the water out, but managed to swallow some. Finally, he closed his eyes. “No rest for the wicked. But this wicked soul will have some now, I think.”
“Sleep.” She wanted to give him assurances that he would get better, but she could not bring herself to lie to him. Not again.
“Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you will watch out for my Matthias. Be his ally.”
“I swear it.” She did not mention that she already intended to be just that.
“Your father is dying,” Lada said as she sat in a private room with Matthias. It came out as an accusation, though she knew Matthias was not to blame. She was, at least in part.
“I never understood him,” Matthias said, toying with a goblet of wine. “I never even really knew him. He sent me away as soon as I could talk. When he visited, he watched me with this look—this look like he could not believe I was his. All I heard of him was stories of his conquests, his bravery, his triumphs. And when he visited, I recited poetry for him. I asked him, once, to teach me to fight. He had never lost his temper with me, never been around long enough to, but that day I feared he would strike me. He told me he had not fought his whole life so his son could learn to swing a sword.” Matthias touched a worn hilt at his side. “Now I have his sword and no idea how to use it. That is his legacy to me.”
“You do not need a sword. All you need is to work with people who know what to do with them.” Lada leaned forward, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You want to be king.”
Matthias smiled slyly. “I am loyal to our blessed king, long may he rule.”
Lada brushed his false sentiment from the air with a wave of her hand. “If I wanted shit, I would have visited the privy, not asked for an audience with you.”
Matthias laughed. “I think you have been living with soldiers for too long.”
“And I think you and I have something to offer each other. You want Hungary. I want Wallachia. I will do whatever you need to secure your throne. And, once you have it, you will help me to mine.”
Matthias raised his eyebrows. “Will I? Tell me, why would I want that?”
“A strong Wallachia means a more secure Hungary. We both know the current prince has given the sultan rights to move through the country. They walk straight to your borders without so much as a blade to bar their way. If you help me gain Wallachia, I promise no Ottoman army will make it through alive.”
Matthias’s hand traced the air above his head, lingering on something Lada could not see. “Do you know, Poland has the crown? They took it for ‘safekeeping.’ No one can be a legitimate king of Hungary without that crown.”
“What does that matter? It is an object.”
“It is a symbol.”
“Dependence on symbols breeds weakness. If you are king, you do not need a crown.”
“Hmm.” Matthias dropped his hand and looked Lada up and down in a way that made her feel more like livestock than a person. “My father has left you in charge while he is on the mend.”
How little did Matthias know of his father’s condition? Lada was not equipped to break the news gently to him. He should have already been told. “Your father will never mend.”
Matthias shook his head. “No, that will not do. My father is in seclusion for his health, but while he rests, he has entrusted you with his most private concerns and important charges.”
Lada caught his meanings like the beginning of a cold. “Yes,” she said. “He has left me in charge.”
“And he tasked you with rooting out threats to the throne. Such as treason.”
“Treason.” Lada had expected to argue with Matthias, to convince him of her utility. She had underestimated his willingness to grasp at any advantage.
“Yes. It would appear that Ulrich, the protector of the king and my chief rival, has been committing treason. You and your men will go to his home and find all the evidence you need.” Matthias smiled, teeth stained dark with wine. “And then you will execute him on behalf of my father.”
Lada raised an eyebrow. “Without trial?”
“You are Wallachians. Everyone knows how vicious you are.” He watched Lada for her reaction. Balking at being asked to commit murder. Taking offense at being called vicious. He would get no such reactions from her. She met his look with a hint of a smile. He seemed to think she would dislike her people being spoken of this way. Instead, it filled her with pride.
Satisfied with her lack of objections, Matthias continued. “After Ulrich is dead, the king will need a new protector and regent.”
Lada nodded. It was simple enough. “And then?”
“And then the king will succumb to his weaknesses, and the protector will be the most obvious choice for king. A king who can connect you with those who will secure your own throne.” Matthias held out his hand. It hung in the air between them like a chain. The chain was weighted with the deaths of two innocent men. Ulrich, whom Lada did not know, but whose reputation was one of fairness and morality. And the child king, who had done nothing wrong but be born to power he could not wield.
Two deaths. Two thrones.
Lada took his hand.
29
April 9
RADU CREPT INTO the kitchen, a knife in his hand. The noise that had awakened him in the middle of the night was revealed by a candle, which threw the room into sharp relief. A few golden glows, a multitude of black shadows.
One of the glowing points was Cyprian’s face, but it did not have its usual light. “What is wrong?” Radu crossed the room to him and felt his forehead, fearing Cyprian was ill.
Then he smelled the alcohol, and Cyprian’s malady was explained. “Come on.” Radu took Cyprian’s elbow to steady him. “You should go to bed.”
“No. No! I cannot sleep. Not now. I fear what dreams will dance before me after tonight’s meeting with my uncle.”
The withered part of Radu that still hoped to make some difference jolted alert. “Then we should go for a walk. The night air will help sober you.”
Cyprian mumbled assent. Radu found the other man’s cloak discarded on the floor and helped Cyprian fasten it. Cyprian stayed close to Radu, one hand on his shoulder. The weight of it suggested Cyprian could not quite stay upright without Radu’s support. “What about Nazira?”
“She will not miss me.” Radu opened the door and helped Cyprian navigate the short distance to the street. They walked in silence for some time, Cyprian leaning against Radu for support. The night was bitterly cold and as still as the grave.
“You love Nazira,” Cyprian said.
“Yes.”
“Like a sister.”
Radu stopped, causing Cyprian to stumble. Radu forced a quiet laugh. “You have never met my sister if you think I could ever adore her as I do Nazira.”
Cyprian gestured emphatically. “But there is no passion.”
Radu began walking again, his mind whirling. Cyprian saw too much. They should never have agreed to live with him. If someone suspected Nazira was anything other than his beloved wife, they were in more danger than ever. She had come to sell his story beyond doubt. But if people doubted the marriage itself … “She is my wife, and my concern. And now you are my concern, too. What is wrong? I have never seen you like this.” In the weeks that they had known him, Cyprian had never been drunk. Even when he had learned of the deaths of his fellow ambassadors, he had remained focused and collected in his grief. Something must have happened tonight to effect such a change.
“Eight thousand,” Cyprian said, his voice a whisper.
“Eight thousand what?”
“Eight thousand men. That is all we have.”
Radu paused, causing Cyprian to stumble again. Radu caught him and held his arms. “Eight thousand?” That was fewer than Radu had suspected. He had seen how bleak the city was, but not even that was enough to indicate just how few men they had to call on.
“Eight thousand men for twelve miles of wall. Eight thousand men against sixty thousand.”
“But surely more help will come.”