And I Darken
Page 112
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Kazanci Dogan bowed deeper in an actual show of respect. “I look forward to serving you when you are our sultan.”
“Your father.”
“Yes. Our father.”
Mehmed nodded. “I trust that you will keep our meeting in confidence. I am not ready to declare my presence here yet. I would like more time in privacy to mourn my father’s imminent passing. Should anyone discover me, I would know who had betrayed me.”
Kazanci Dogan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Yes, my father.”
Mehmed smiled, opening his arms generously. “I look forward to watching you lead. As soon as my father dies, we will agree upon the terms of pay increase, and you can announce it to your men.”
Bowing again, Kazanci Dogan was escorted out by Matei.
“Do you think it worked?” Mehmed asked, a worry line between his brows.
Radu collapsed onto a chair, relieved of the tension his body had been holding since the Janissary leader had arrived. “He is no fool. He knows you can offer him more than Halil Pasha could. And he was sincere about his men being tired. He will want to avoid fighting in the streets and a protracted civil war. He has more to gain now from an alliance with you.”
“I agree.” Mehmed stood, stretching. “As soon as I am secure on the throne, we will kill him.”
Radu blinked in shock, but Lada simply nodded, tightening the noose.
“What now?” Petru asked.
“Now we wait for my father to die and Ilyas to arrive.”
Both events happened the next day. Amal brought word from the wall that Ilyas had arrived en force and simply marched through the gate when the guards tried to deny them entry. Mehmed watched from the tower above his father’s room, the procession of white caps making a tremendous show through the streets.
“Is it done?” he asked.
Radu did not know what he spoke of, but Petru nodded. “Your father is dead.”
“Then I go to meet my people.” He turned away from the window, turban glittering with metal threads woven throughout. His clothes were deep purple, the traditional color of the Roman emperors. A heavy gold necklace, glimmering with rubies, hung from shoulder to shoulder, and a cape draped down his back.
They rode out. Kazanci Dogan’s Janissaries met them, gathering more as they went until they came to the great square in the center of the city and joined Ilyas. Mehmed rode at the front, sword raised, bells pealing as news of his father’s death spread. After a parade around the whole city, he returned to the palace.
Halil Pasha was waiting in the throne room, murder on his face. Mehmed strode straight up to him and clasped his shoulders. Lada stood with sword drawn, directly behind Mehmed. Naked fear quickly replaced the violence on Halil Pasha’s face. This had been Radu’s idea, the grand plan behind all their secret maneuvers.
“Halil Pasha, my father’s most trusted advisor, the wisest man in our great empire.” Mehmed turned to the crowd of nobility gathered, some still hastily adjusting their finery. “Halil Pasha will serve as my grand vizier, to help guide me in ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity for the glory of the Ottomans!”
The crowd cheered. Halil Pasha’s terror was replaced with incredulity, and then the sly, triumphant smile of a fox that had stolen another beast’s prey. But the fox failed to notice Radu’s hounds surrounding him, driving him exactly where they wanted him.
Poor fox, Radu thought.
MEHMED WAS GIVEN THE sword of his ancestor Osman Gazi. He held it reverently in front of him before sheathing it and girding it about his waist. He now wore the dreams of his entire country’s history.
Lada did not know how to feel as she watched it happen. This was not the Mehmed who had spoken so passionately about that dream when they were alone. This Mehmed was wrapped in silk and girded in armor, a turban obscuring his head, his face as sharp as steel and as untouchable. He stood on a dais, separate from all others. There was a man whose only role—complete with royal title—was to carry around a stool for Mehmed’s feet should he require it. There was a man who had stewardship over Mehmed’s turbans. There was a man who stood to the left of Mehmed, ready with perfume and a fan should some noisome scent dare approach the unapproachable.
Because that was what Mehmed had become.
Through the endless ceremonies, the naming of viziers, the acknowledging and receiving of gifts, Mehmed stayed in the same spot and moved further and further away.
Lada wondered if the poison testers would taste the seething jealousy creeping in her veins as she stood on guard and watched Mehmed’s dream take root.
“Your father.”
“Yes. Our father.”
Mehmed nodded. “I trust that you will keep our meeting in confidence. I am not ready to declare my presence here yet. I would like more time in privacy to mourn my father’s imminent passing. Should anyone discover me, I would know who had betrayed me.”
Kazanci Dogan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Yes, my father.”
Mehmed smiled, opening his arms generously. “I look forward to watching you lead. As soon as my father dies, we will agree upon the terms of pay increase, and you can announce it to your men.”
Bowing again, Kazanci Dogan was escorted out by Matei.
“Do you think it worked?” Mehmed asked, a worry line between his brows.
Radu collapsed onto a chair, relieved of the tension his body had been holding since the Janissary leader had arrived. “He is no fool. He knows you can offer him more than Halil Pasha could. And he was sincere about his men being tired. He will want to avoid fighting in the streets and a protracted civil war. He has more to gain now from an alliance with you.”
“I agree.” Mehmed stood, stretching. “As soon as I am secure on the throne, we will kill him.”
Radu blinked in shock, but Lada simply nodded, tightening the noose.
“What now?” Petru asked.
“Now we wait for my father to die and Ilyas to arrive.”
Both events happened the next day. Amal brought word from the wall that Ilyas had arrived en force and simply marched through the gate when the guards tried to deny them entry. Mehmed watched from the tower above his father’s room, the procession of white caps making a tremendous show through the streets.
“Is it done?” he asked.
Radu did not know what he spoke of, but Petru nodded. “Your father is dead.”
“Then I go to meet my people.” He turned away from the window, turban glittering with metal threads woven throughout. His clothes were deep purple, the traditional color of the Roman emperors. A heavy gold necklace, glimmering with rubies, hung from shoulder to shoulder, and a cape draped down his back.
They rode out. Kazanci Dogan’s Janissaries met them, gathering more as they went until they came to the great square in the center of the city and joined Ilyas. Mehmed rode at the front, sword raised, bells pealing as news of his father’s death spread. After a parade around the whole city, he returned to the palace.
Halil Pasha was waiting in the throne room, murder on his face. Mehmed strode straight up to him and clasped his shoulders. Lada stood with sword drawn, directly behind Mehmed. Naked fear quickly replaced the violence on Halil Pasha’s face. This had been Radu’s idea, the grand plan behind all their secret maneuvers.
“Halil Pasha, my father’s most trusted advisor, the wisest man in our great empire.” Mehmed turned to the crowd of nobility gathered, some still hastily adjusting their finery. “Halil Pasha will serve as my grand vizier, to help guide me in ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity for the glory of the Ottomans!”
The crowd cheered. Halil Pasha’s terror was replaced with incredulity, and then the sly, triumphant smile of a fox that had stolen another beast’s prey. But the fox failed to notice Radu’s hounds surrounding him, driving him exactly where they wanted him.
Poor fox, Radu thought.
MEHMED WAS GIVEN THE sword of his ancestor Osman Gazi. He held it reverently in front of him before sheathing it and girding it about his waist. He now wore the dreams of his entire country’s history.
Lada did not know how to feel as she watched it happen. This was not the Mehmed who had spoken so passionately about that dream when they were alone. This Mehmed was wrapped in silk and girded in armor, a turban obscuring his head, his face as sharp as steel and as untouchable. He stood on a dais, separate from all others. There was a man whose only role—complete with royal title—was to carry around a stool for Mehmed’s feet should he require it. There was a man who had stewardship over Mehmed’s turbans. There was a man who stood to the left of Mehmed, ready with perfume and a fan should some noisome scent dare approach the unapproachable.
Because that was what Mehmed had become.
Through the endless ceremonies, the naming of viziers, the acknowledging and receiving of gifts, Mehmed stayed in the same spot and moved further and further away.
Lada wondered if the poison testers would taste the seething jealousy creeping in her veins as she stood on guard and watched Mehmed’s dream take root.
