Radu looked to the Galata shore and his heart sank. There, astride a beautiful white horse, a tiny figure watched as his navy—more than a hundred ships, the best in the world—was bested by four merchant boats.

Radu’s project. Radu’s navy. He hung his head with shame. Against all odds, they had failed. Mehmed’s horse reared, then he turned it and rode swiftly away. All along the wall the citizens cheered and jeered, ebullient with the miracle of the Italian boats. The chain had been slipped free to allow them through. No galleys could catch up to take advantage before the chain was closed again.

It was over.

For once, Radu was invited to a meeting with the emperor. But this one he wished he could avoid. The humiliation of his navy’s defeat settled in his chest like a sickness. It was a kindness, then, that he was not with Mehmed. He could not bear to think of what Mehmed would say, how disappointed he would be. He had trusted this task to Radu, and Radu had failed utterly.

Though Radu knew he should not, he took some small comfort in Cyprian’s coming with him. He was unmoored, worn down by time and failure. At least with Cyprian he would have to pretend to be okay. That was a good reason. That was the only reason. He would not allow any other reasons to crave Cyprian’s smile or a touch of his hand.

In Constantine’s meeting room, Radu and Cyprian joined Giustiniani, the pretend Ottoman heir Orhan, the Italian commander Coco (whom Radu knew only through Nazira’s stories of the unfortunate Helen), and the emperor. Constantine moved with more lightness than Radu had seen. He was again barefoot, pacing with joyful energy. “Grain, arms, manpower. Two hundred archers! But that is not the true strength. They have brought us hope. More can come. More will come. That wind was the hand of God, delivering a blessing to this city. The first of many.”

Coco nodded, unable to avoid Constantine’s infectious joy. “One good Italian ship is worth a hundred infidel boats.”

Giustiniani laughed, clapping Orhan on the back. “So you see, we Italians can do good things. I hear the sultan is furious. The admiral will pay for his failure.”

“Suleiman?” Radu spoke before he thought better of it. He tried to shift his face into impassivity, but it was impossible. “I knew him. Is he— Will he be killed?” A gentle hand on his back startled him, but he did not turn around. Had Radu’s grief been that obvious to Cyprian?

“He lost an eye in the battle. That alone probably saved him, as testament to how hard he fought.” Giustiniani snorted. “For all the good it did him. Our scouts report he was flogged and stripped of all rank and authority. One of the pashas is in charge of the boats now. Not that it matters. We have nothing to fear from the sea.”

“But do the Venetians know that?” Cyprian asked. “They must have heard of the size of the Ottoman navy. How can we get word to them that they are guaranteed safe passage to the horn?”

Radu wished desperately that Lada were here. She would not be sad; she would not let this failure derail her. She would figure out a way to turn it to her advantage. She would use the enemies’ strength and confidence against them. Just as she had when they snuck into the palace under Halil Pasha’s nose, putting Mehmed in place to take the throne when his father died.

A flicker of delight lit Radu’s soul as he remembered that night, all Lada’s fierce Janissaries dressed in veils and silk robes, trying to walk like women so they could sneak past the watching guard. And then he knew exactly what Lada would do.

“Do you have any Ottoman flags?” he asked.

Everyone turned to him, puzzled. Orhan, a quiet, delicate man who wore a turban along with his Byzantine styles, nodded. “I have a supply of them.”

“What about uniforms?”

Constantine spoke. “We have over two hundred prisoners. They have no use of their uniforms in our dungeons.”

“Send out three boats tonight under cover of darkness. Small, unthreatening ones. I will teach their crews a few common greetings in Turkish. Have them fly the Ottoman flag and sail as close to the Ottoman galleys as they can.”

“Slip by in disguise.” Constantine tugged at his beard thoughtfully.

“Three small boats could get out where one large ship cannot. Task them with finding the aid we need, and then they can return, heralding the ships that will follow so we can be prepared to welcome them.”

Giustiniani stretched in his chair, leaning back. “It is a good plan. Coco, select the men. They leave tonight.”

The Italian captain nodded. Orhan excused himself to get the flags, and Giustiniani went to find suitable uniforms.

“Well done.” Cyprian beamed at Radu.

Radu could not meet that smile full on, so he looked at the floor. He would not have time to send word to Mehmed. He did not need to, though. He wanted the boats to escape. Because if they could escape, they could return.

And when they did, Radu would have first warning of a Venetian force. Then he could warn Mehmed, and find some sort of redemption.

34

Mid-April

THIS TIME, STEFAN did not return alone from scouting. He walked with a peculiar guilt, slinking back into camp with a girl.

“What is this?” Lada barely glanced at the girl. “You were supposed to bring information on Silviu’s land and men.” Toma Basarab had sent them here first. Silviu did not have much in the way of soldiers, but he was a Danesti and in the path of all their future goals. They could not leave a close blood relative of the prince behind. Lada was to negotiate his support. If that was not possible, she was to place him under house arrest and leave precious men here to watch him. Toma Basarab would hear no arguments against it.

“Well?” she demanded.

Stefan shrugged, clearing his throat at the same time, as though he could force the words out. Lada had never seen him like this. Fear seized her—was he injured? She looked him up and down, but he did not appear harmed.

His face flushed a deep red. “She caught me.”

Lada finally looked at the girl. She was Lada’s height, perhaps younger than her, but not by much. She met Lada’s stare with a bold, unflinching one of her own. Her narrow jaw was set and her dark eyes burned. Rough cloth wrapped her hair, and her clothes seemed made for someone else. They hung all wrong on her body, loose in the shoulders and pulled tight across her stomach, which—