Now I Rise

  She belonged with her men. Even if it was freezing. She shivered behind the blanket she had hung to give herself some privacy. She nearly had the binding cloth right, but her cold fingers fumbled the knot. She threw the cloth to the ground and shrieked in rage.

  “Lada?” Bogdan asked. He hovered on the other side of the blanket. “Do you need help?”

  “Not from you! Leave me alone!” After a few more infuriating minutes, she finally had everything in place. She pulled on a tunic—clean, which was a novelty—and rejoined her men.

  “You need help,” Bogdan said, his voice low so no one would overhear.

  “I do not need help.”

  “You are a lady. You should not have to do these things for yourself.”

  Lada gave him a flat, angry stare. “Bogdan, when have I ever been a lady?”

  He returned her angry look with a soft, shy smile. “You have always been a lady to me.”

  “Maybe you do not know me very well after all.”

  Bogdan put one rough hand out, holding it palm up to show the scar from when they had “married” as children. “I know you.”

  Before Lada could decide how to respond—or how to feel—Petru drew her attention.

  The last caravan they robbed had been filled with fine clothing, pieces of which were strewn about their camp. Trousers hung from trees, shirts danced in the breeze. The bright colors on bare branches gave everything a festival air.

  Petru wrestled with an intricately brocaded vest, struggling to get it across his shoulders. He spun in one direction and then the other. Nicolae watched, lips a single straight line but eyes dancing with mirth.

  “That would fit better if it were designed for a man,” Matei said as he walked by. Matei’s purse was full now, but he still looked hungry.

  Petru stopped spinning and ripped off the vest in horror. Nicolae burst into laughter. “You could have told me!” Petru said.

  “But it set off the color of your eyes so nicely.”

  Petru glared murderously. Then he looked over at Lada and held the vest out. She raised a single eyebrow at the delicate colors and needlework. Muttering to himself, Petru threw the vest at Nicolae’s head and walked away.

  Lada wore a long tunic over trousers, all black except for a red sash tied at her waist. A thick black cloak, lined with glorious fur, kept her warmer than she had been in months. Her boots—finely tooled leather decorated with delicate patterns—were the only women’s clothing she wore. She had grown accustomed to wearing her hair tied in cloth, but instead of Janissary white, she used black. Over that, she wore a fur cap.

  They had all ceased wearing the Janissary caps and uniforms long ago. But some kept a few reminders of their lives as slaves: a sash here, a knife there. Bogdan used the white cloth from his cap to clean his weapons. Many of the men used theirs for much less savory cleaning.

  “Has Stefan returned?”

  Nicolae finished buttoning his vest, then drew his cloak closed. “Not yet. Must we wait for him before having any fun? We have plenty of men.”

  “Tonight is not a night for plenty. Tonight is a night for speed and secrecy.”

  Bogdan shifted closer to Lada. “I will come.”

  “Not you.”

  His face fell. Gritting her teeth, Lada continued, “I need to leave you in charge of the camp.”

  He shrugged and stomped away. She did not know if he stomped because he was angry, or simply because he was large. The truth was, she could not bring Bogdan tonight because he would object to what she had in mind. Nicolae might as well. Petru, she did not know. But Matei…

  “Matei, just the two of us.”

  “What are you going to do?” Nicolae asked.

  Lada sheathed her knives. One at either wrist, one at her right ankle. A large container of lamp oil hung from a strap slung over her shoulder. “I am going to visit the governor of Brasov.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “He betrayed me. Why promise me aid and then try to have me killed? He must have been gathering information. And when he passed that information along, the return instruction was to eliminate me. Either he is working for Hungary or in league with the Danesti prince. I want to know which one. If it is the Danesti prince, we have nothing to fear. We already know he wants us dead. If it is the Hungarians, we have a new problem.”

  “How are you going to get to him? The city will be well guarded.”

  Lada met Matei’s eyes. He nodded grimly. He would be up for the task. And Lada knew she was up for anything, always.

  They slid through the night-black streets of the Wallachian section. It was a rambling warren of shacks pushed up to the very edge of the walls. Some of the homes were built against the wall itself, using the stones as an outer wall. A few times Lada and Matei heard patrols, but it was a simple matter of altering course to avoid detection.

  The shacks built against the wall provided a benefit. Bracing against two homes within spitting distance of each other, they pushed their way to a roof. Matei boosted Lada up onto the wall itself. After a few tense breaths to make certain she was undetected, she lowered a rope so Matei could follow.

  Within the walls of the inner city, even the air felt different. Cleaner. Wealthier. More privileged, with fewer desperate mouths pulling at it. But the scent of charred wood lurked beneath everything. It filled Lada with something like peace.

  Lada knew exactly where to go, but it took two hours for them to make a journey of a dozen streets. They skirted the now-cold ruins of the homes that had burned, hiding in them when necessary. It was good that Lada had dressed in black, because the char would have ruined anything else.

  Patrols tromped through the streets with aggravating consistency. Finally making it close to the governor’s house did not simplify things, though. Three guards were stationed at the door, while others ringed the perimeter. Lada had counted on breaking in through a first-floor window, but that was not possible.

  Matei waited in silence, but she could feel the question pulsing off him. What now?

  Lada raised her eyes to the night sky to curse the stars, but the lines of the roofs caught her attention. The houses were built close together, elbowing each other for space. Sometimes the alleys between them were so narrow one had to turn sideways to make it through.

  She did not need to break into the governor’s house. She just needed to break into one of his less-protected neighbors’ homes.

  “How do you feel about churches?” she whispered.

  Matei frowned at her in the dark.

  “Did you notice how, in the countryside, all the churches are fortified? They provide shelter for everyone during an attack. But here in the heart of the city, the church is beautiful and cold. They do not let any of the Wallachians in to worship. I think we should warm up the church.” She held out her container of oil. Understanding lit Matei’s face as he took it from her.

  He disappeared into the darkness. Though Lada had more men now, she always trusted her first few above all others. Matei would do the job. Nicolae and Bogdan might have balked at setting fire to a holy building, but how could something be holy if it was denied to Wallachians?

  She slid from her shadowed nook and raced through an exposed alley. Four houses from the governor’s was a three-story home with large windowsills, perfect for flower boxes in the spring.

  Lada stepped onto a windowsill and pulled herself up to the second story, then the third. The roof had an awkward angle and jutted out too far for her to catch hold. Above her, tantalizingly out of reach, was a small attic window that would give her easy jumping access to the next roof.

  The window in front of her was not sealed shut. One corner was lifted enough to slide a knife in. Lada worked it open, each tiny creak or protest of the wood making her certain she would be discovered. When it was wide enough, she pushed herself in feetfirst.

  A girl sat in bed, staring directly at Lada. She could not be older than ten, her hair pinned beneath a cap, her nightshirt
white.

  “If you scream,” Lada said, “I will murder your whole family in their sleep.”

  The girl was solemn—and silent—in her terror.

  “Show me how to get into the attic.”

  The girl climbed out of bed, shivering, her small feet soundless on the wood floor. She eased open the bedroom door, looking both ways before gesturing for Lada to follow. At the end of the hallway was another door. Lada braced herself to face a foe, but the room was empty save for a jumble of old furniture and a ladder.

  The girl pointed up.

  Lada put one hand on the ladder, then paused. She turned back to the girl, who watched her in the same wide-eyed silence she had maintained since Lada first entered her bedroom.

  Lada reached into her boot and pulled the small knife free. She turned it hilt out and bent down. “Next time someone comes into your room in the middle of the night, you should be prepared. Here.”

  The girl took the knife, staring at it like it was a puzzle. Then she gripped the hilt and nodded.

  “Good. I am leaving now. Go back to sleep.” Lada climbed up the ladder and eased open the trapdoor to the attic. The attic window, though, would not open. Cursing her luck, Lada grabbed a chair with a broken leg and smashed the window. She hoped Matei’s work had begun in earnest, distracting anyone who might raise an alarm.

  After pushing the jagged remnants of glass free, Lada climbed out and crouched on the sill. Beneath her the night waited, dizzying and dark. She jumped.

  The roof slammed up to meet her faster than she had anticipated, and she nearly rolled off before she caught herself. Then she ran. Up and over the peak, gaining momentum before launching herself across the void yearning to claim her. Another roof. This one was angled the opposite way, and the roof after that was several feet higher. Lada ran along the peak, put on a burst of speed, and jumped.

  Her hands found the edge of the next roof. Her legs dangled, her weight threatening to drag her down. Swinging from side to side, she hooked a knee onto the roof and pulled herself up.

  One more.

  This time she crept carefully across the tiles. Though the air was icy, her body itched with sweat. The governor’s roof was higher than the one she was on, but it was not her goal. She prowled along the edge between the houses until she found what she was looking for—a window with a small ledge beneath it. She had planned on breaking in, but luck was finally on her side.

  The casement window was flung wide, and a balding head leaned out, looking down toward the city center and the shouts echoing from that direction. There was a faint glow, and the distant sound of shattering glass.

  For the eternal space between one breath and the next, Lada paused. He looked old and soft and vulnerable in his baggy nightshirt. He was a husband. A father. Then he cleared his throat with that same phlegmy rattle he had made while promising to help her and already planning to betray her.

  Lada jumped the distance, slamming into the governor. They rolled together into the room. Lada recovered immediately and knelt on his chest, her knife to his throat.

  “Who wanted me dead?”

  He trembled, eyes crossing when they tried to focus on the knife.

  She pressed her knife, drawing blood. The governor whimpered the words to a prayer.

  “God is not here tonight,” Lada said. “It is only you and me and my knife. Who wanted me dead?”

  “The prince!” he said. “The prince of Wallachia.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are a threat.”

  Lada smiled. She knew that should not please her, but it did. The prince thought her a big enough threat to warrant an assassin. She still had a chance. Where there was fear, there was power.

  She withdrew the knife and placed it next to the governor’s head. He did not move. “A gift for the prince. Tell him I send my regards, and I will see him soon. And tell your god to make less flammable churches.”

  Lada slipped out the window, followed by the relieved sobs of the governor. She carried them with her like a gift as she ran across the rooftops, away from the center of Brasov and toward her men.

  URBANA WAS A DECIDEDLY odd houseguest. In the week she had been living with Nazira and Fatima in Kumal’s city house, she had not stopped talking.

  “If she is a spy,” Nazira said, sitting with an exhausted sigh next to Radu in the garden, “she is the worst spy that ever lived. How can she gain any information if she never lets anyone else talk?”

  “What does she talk about?” Radu had made himself scarce at the house, wary of drawing too much attention before he was certain the risk was worthwhile.

  “Her horrible cannons. Nothing else. She pulls sticks from the stove to draw diagrams—on the walls, Radu, the lovely white walls. And then she expects Fatima to wash them, because we have to pretend that Fatima is nothing but a servant.”

  “I am sorry.” Radu knew it was asking much of the two women to let someone else into their private life.

  Nazira waved a hand. “I do most of the cleaning after Urbana retires for the night. Fatima understands.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think Urbana is insane, but she may also be a genius. I know nothing of cannons, but no one could fake what she is doing. And she is not lying when she says she will build them for anyone willing to fund her. She has been pursuing this her whole life, and rejected at every turn. Her only loyalty is to creating the most stunningly large and effective means of killing people the world has ever seen.”

  Radu tried to temper his excitement. “So you think I should move forward?”

  “She is an incredible find. She may even prove invaluable.”

  Radu could not help his delighted smile. If Radu brought Mehmed something—someone—invaluable that he had found on his own? If Radu was the reason that Mehmed finally realized his dream of Constantinople?

  Nazira put a hand on Radu’s cheek. “Where are you right now?”

  Radu shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “What about the navy? How is that progressing?”

  “As well as can be hoped. Most of the galleys are built and Suleiman has found sailors to hire. I thought it would be difficult, but the men flocked to him. They foam at the mouth for the riches of Constantinople.” Radu sighed. “I hear it among all the soldiers when Constantinople comes up. The golden apple at the center of the city, held by the statue of Justinian. The churches bricked in gold and decorated with jewels. They care nothing for our destiny to have the city, as declared by the Prophet, peace be upon him.” Radu frowned. He also heard much darker talk that focused on the wealth and spoils to be found among citizens of the city. Right now it was spoken half in jest, as no one knew Mehmed meant to go for the city immediately. But it left a bad taste in Radu’s mouth.

  “But that is not why we have to take the city.”

  Radu had not really spoken with Nazira about Constantinople before. He was surprised that she had an opinion. “What do you mean?”

  “People think it is prophesied because it will bring us wealth and fortune. But why would God care about that? I think the city will be ours because we need it to be. As long as Constantinople exists, it will draw crusades. More people who come into our land and kill us simply for being Muslim. I think Constantinople’s fall will bring safety and protection. God will give us the city so we can worship in peace.”

  Radu closed his eyes, lifting his face to the sun. He had been so focused on how to help Mehmed take the city, he had stopped thinking about why. Nazira was right. This was not just for Mehmed; this was holy work. He would do it to help protect the faith that had given him so much.

  “What is the timeline?” Nazira asked, pulling him back to the present.

  “We are getting close. Everything is nearly in order. But Mehmed will not move until he is certain of all his borders. Hungary still troubles him. Hunyadi is a threat.”

  “And the Italians?”

  Radu was glad he had opened up to Nazira. It was su
ch a relief to discuss this openly with someone who understood all the pieces in play and who reminded him of what the actual purpose was. “They are too busy quarreling with each other to defend a city with as much history of animosity as Constantinople. Once we secure the waterways, they cannot send aid even if they decide to.”

  Nazira sighed. “I know it must be done, but I do not look forward to the day that will claim both my brother and my husband for their destinies at the walls of Constantinople. I fear the outcome.”

  Radu drew her close. “You know I will make certain you are taken care of. No matter what.”

  Nazira laughed sadly against his chest. “There you go again, assuming I am worried for myself. You never account for others loving you for you, Radu, rather than what you can do for them. It is my greatest prayer that someday you will know enough of love to recognize when it is freely given.”

  Radu had no answer. Sometimes Nazira offered too much insight. “I am going to speak with Urbana, then. Thank you.” He kissed Nazira’s hand.

  As he walked inside, he passed Fatima. “Thank you for enduring this,” he whispered. “Nazira is in the garden, and I will be occupying Urbana for the next few hours. Go spend some time with your wife.”

  She briefly met his gaze, a grateful smile shaping her kind face. “Good luck,” she said.

  “Your wife may be infertile,” Urbana said as she and Radu sat down for a midafternoon meal.

  Radu choked in surprise. “What?”

  “You have been married more than a year. How often do you copulate?”

  Radu raised his eyes to the ceiling, searching for answers there as he felt his cheeks burning hotter than the furnaces of the foundry. “Are you also an expert in these matters?” he asked, trying for a teasing tone.