Radu thanked him, though he was still left in the dark as to his own problems. Should he pursue good for himself, or good for others? What if Halil Pasha thought he was doing good by preventing Mehmed from taking the throne? Mehmed’s idea of the future was in direct opposition of, say, the citizens of Constantinople’s idea of a good future. Whose had more value? Whose was right?
And could he ever be generous enough to wish his sister happiness with the man they both loved?
Radu’s time at Kumal’s home was too short, but after a few blessed days of peaceful respite, he was no closer to solving any of his problems. Edirne beckoned him back.
With a promise to visit soon, he returned to the city to find that Murad, still pleased with his poem, had waxed generous and given Radu command of a small group of frontier Janissaries. Bemused, Radu went to the barracks to meet with his men. He was a good rider, excellent with a bow and arrow, and skilled enough with a sword, but he had never aspired to commanding men. He thought it odd that Murad would think a poem qualified Radu—so young—to lead soldiers.
A familiar figure greeted him.
“Lazar,” Radu said. He still did not know how to feel about the other man, knowing that Lazar knew the deepest secret of his heart.
Lazar saluted Radu with brisk formality, then bowed, popping back up with an infectious grin. “I knew I was right to stay in Edirne. I have requested to be assigned to your frontier group.”
“I have no idea what I am doing,” Radu admitted.
“That is why I am here.” Lazar introduced him to the fifty men at his command, and Radu’s fears about the other man disappeared. Lazar dropped the familiarity he normally held with Radu, speaking in crisp, commanding tones and showing the proper amount of deference when addressing Radu. Radu stood straight, nodding seriously, trying to commit names to memory.
After the tour was done and the men were dispersed, Lazar walked with Radu out into the larger Janissary headquarters on his way back to the palace. “You will do well. I can take care of day-to-day organization and training. These positions are more ceremonial than anything, but you are liked. The men are happy to have you.”
Radu nodded. “I am glad.”
Lazar leaned in closer as they walked. “I am happy to have you, as well.”
Radu cleared his throat, wondering if there was more meaning there, when a sweep of a cape around a corner ahead of them caught his eye. He sped up, turning in time to see Halil Pasha clasp hands with another man before they entered a room together.
“Who was that with Halil Pasha?” he asked Lazar.
“Kazanci Dogan, the commander of all the Janissary corps. You will meet him at some point, I am certain.”
“Is Halil Pasha here often?”
Lazar shrugged. “I have seen him on occasion.” He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Would you like me to keep track of how often he visits?”
“Yes. And of anyone else Kazanci Dogan meets with outside of the Janissaries.”
Lazar put a fist to his chest, then left.
Radu walked back to the palace, deep in thought. Halil had strings of his web everywhere. Viziers, pashas, beys, both major branches of the military, with the native spahi leaders and their regional forces, and the Janissaries with Kazanci Dogan. And at the center, fat and lethal, sat the spider Halil Pasha.
If they killed him, as Huma wanted, the web would remain. All these lines of power, tugged together, aligned against Mehmed. And who knew if another, more dangerous spider, would take Halil Pasha’s place?
No. Huma was wrong. First, they needed to destroy the web. Then the spider would be powerless.
LADA AND NICOLAE LAY on their stomachs, peering over the ledge at the city laid out beneath them. Wood homes stretched above the river, jostling for space as they lined its banks, growing straight up from the water. Amasya was a fairly recent addition to the Ottoman Empire, its long, storied history evident in the Roman tombs casting shade on Lada’s legs. The last time she was up here, she had been with Mehmed and Radu, staring up at the sky and dreaming of stars.
Now, she looked down and plotted flames.
“We could use the river,” Nicolae mused, speaking Wallachian as required by Lada. “Travel down it by boat in the middle of the night, setting fire to the homes. That would keep the locals busy, and many of the soldiers.”
“Who is in charge of the spahi forces here?”
Behind her Petru, a young Wallachian only recently released from training, spat in derision. “Spahi! Lazy, fat pigs. Why should we worry about them?”
Lada had picked him because he had been pulled from Wallachia at a relatively late age—he was already fourteen by the time he came to the Ottomans. But he was arrogant and thickheaded, with a mean streak that reminded her of her older brother Mircea. Sometimes it made her like him more.