Without giving himself time to think better of it, Radu raced out of the rooms. He saw a hint of movement around a far corner and ran after it. He turned the same corner and saw the figure—a boy, perhaps sixteen, wearing the plain clothes of a servant, walking with submissive but purposeful posture. It was exactly how Radu would move if he needed to get somewhere without being noticed.
And so he copied the boy’s posture, always keeping him in his line of sight, but staying far enough back not to be noticed. He followed the thief out of the palace grounds, to the nearest street, where opulent, majestic homes bullied the cobblestones for space. The thief joined several people filing in and out of the gates of the first estate. Radu grabbed a basket lying on the stones near the entrance and tucked it under his arm, grateful that he was wearing simple clothes today instead of one of the nicer outfits Mehmed had gifted him with.
The thief entered the home through a side door. He knew where he was going. Radu followed, winding his way through a busy kitchen, nearly losing sight of his prey. They went through a back hallway and then up a narrow flight of hidden stairs for the servants’ use. The walls were close, the steps uneven, the air damp with confinement. In the gloom, Radu only just saw a door swing shut, as he was about to climb another flight of stairs. He pushed through the door into another world. Light spilled with reckless abandon through a wide, high-ceilinged hallway. Thick woven rugs lined the floor, with tile gleaming in the gaps. Statuary and pottery kept the turquoise-hued walls company, reassuring each other of their glorious beauty. Highly polished metal mirrors hung at regular intervals, giving the impression of hallways beyond this one.
All the doors were shut, and there was no sign of the thief.
Radu nearly backed into the stairwell when he noticed that one of the heavy wooden doors was slightly ajar. He crept toward it. If anyone caught him, he would have no excuse for his presence.
“…cleaned up, as you predicted,” said a voice Radu did not recognize but suspected was the servant’s.
“The little swine,” a deeper, older voice growled. There was a rough sound of parchment being flattened, then a few seconds of heavy silence. Radu glanced nervously down the hallway, but he was still in the clear.
“Arrogant devil,” the older man said, followed by some choice curses. “He thinks he can defeat the walls of the city? That it is his divine calling? May God save us from servants such as these.”
There was a swish of parchment, the scratching of a quill. Sweat trickled down Radu’s back. Taking a deep breath, he put his eye to the cracked door. The room was revealed in a single line, and Radu shifted to expand his view. There, the back of the servant. And at a desk, pouring wax onto a folded letter to seal it, the man.
Halil Pasha.
Halil Pasha pressed a ring into the wax, then handed the letter to the servant. “See that this is delivered.”
Radu darted from his perch near the door, back to the stairwell. His breath came in shallow, desperate gasps. He crept into the shadows clinging to the bottom of the next flight of stairs, waiting.
The door opened, and with a terrified rush, Radu launched himself forward against the servant. The boy grabbed at Radu’s shirt, but his fingers found no claim as he fell backward down the narrow stairs, head slamming into the wall as his feet went over and his body thudded before coming to a stop, jammed at an awkward angle.
Radu waited one breath, two breaths, three interminable breaths that filled his lungs with fear instead of air, and then, when the servant did not move or cry out for help, he rushed to his side. The letter was not in his hands, it was all for nothing, Radu had murdered him and now—
The boy’s chest moved and a low groan escaped his lips. Radu prayed his relief to the heavens, then felt in the servant’s clothes for…yes! The letter! He tucked it into his own shirt, then hurried down the stairs, nearly falling over his own feet. Taking a few precious seconds at the bottom, he slowed and entered the kitchen calmly. Every limb screamed at him to run, but he walked at a measured pace, a pleasantly blank look on his face, before he finally emerged into the sunlight of the yard, and then escaped through the gate. Only when he had turned back to the palace grounds did he allow himself to run.
A flash of dark hair and a familiar, aggressive walk caught his eye. Gasping with relief, he changed direction, plowing into Lada and nearly knocking her over.
“What is wrong with you?” she said, grabbing his shoulders to steady them both.
“I have just come from…someone was in Mehmed’s rooms, and they stole…there is a letter here!” He waved it in front of Lada’s face. Scowling in exasperation, she snatched it from him and stalked away. He followed her, checking over his shoulder.
“Stop it,” she snapped. “You might as well be waving a flag that says ‘I am guilty!’?”
He tried to copy her walk, forced himself to stare straight ahead. When they arrived at the harem, a eunuch let them in and they returned to Lada’s room. It was sparsely furnished with a plain bed and a simple chair, the chamber pot tucked into the corner and a small washbasin on a low table.
“My room is nicer,” Radu said, nerves bubbling over.
“Of course it is.” Lada sat on the bed and dropped the letter beside her. “Huma loves you. Everyone loves you.”
Radu itched to find out what was in the letter, to tell Lada how well he had done. It would be important. It had to be. But…what if it was nothing? What if he had attacked a servant over a letter to a distant relative? Halil Pasha had said nothing of the assassination attempt. The servant could have been picking something up Halil Pasha was meant to have.
Terrified to be wrong, terrified to be right, Radu delayed. “What were you doing out?”
“I visited Nicolae. He has heard nothing of an attempt on Mehmed’s life. Ilyas continues to lead his men as though everything is normal.”
“But we were supposed to keep it—”
Lada lifted a hand to silence him. “Nicolae will not spread the news. We can trust him. Though he was surprised at the attempt, he seemed less surprised at my theory it was a Janissary. Dissatisfaction spreads through the men like a disease. Nicolae even heard talk of hating Mehmed from several chorbaji—” She huffed in exasperation at Radu’s confused look. “Chorbaji are the Janissaries’ commanders. I have heard talk among ranking Janissaries, but for chorbaji to be speaking up, things must be serious. But Nicolae does not know who is responsible.”
Radu held up the letter, his hand trembling. “Maybe this has answers.”
Lada cracked the seal and opened the letter. The ink was so fresh Radu could smell it. His eyes went immediately to the signature.
“Halil Pasha.” Lada spat his name like a curse. She did not even elbow Radu away as he leaned against her to scan the letter. “He is writing to Constantinople. Reassuring them that Mehmed will never lead the Ottoman troops against them.”