He went to Lada’s room first, but it was empty. The vast hallways of the palace were empty as well, ominous with their lack of activity. Radu turned a corner, heading for Mehmed’s chambers, when he nearly ran into Lazar.
He grabbed the soldier’s arm. “Where is Lada? What happened?”
Lazar frowned. “She is in a lot of trouble. You should stay out of it.”
“Where?”
He sighed. “Come with me.”
They hurried down the hallways until they reached one of the rooms that, two days before, had been overflowing with food and drink and light.
Now, it held a trial.
Lada stood, straight and solid in defiance, in one corner. Murad, surrounded by several guards, stood at the other end of the room, nodding as an enraged man dressed in Italian finery screamed and gesticulated in Lada’s direction.
Mehmed stood in the center, watching his father with a mixture of veiled fear and simmering rage. To anyone who did not know him, it would have appeared he was merely bored. But Radu knew every expression, every change of his face.
Radu’s stomach turned, and he crossed his arms over his chest, as though he could keep his heart from eating itself with bitterness and loathing. Lazar put a hand on his shoulder. “We should go,” he whispered. “This is a dangerous time to draw attention to yourself.”
“Not yet.” Radu slid along the wall, disappearing into the milling crowds of whispering people. It looked as though most of the wedding party was here, waiting to see how the evening’s unexpected excitement would play out.
Lada was alone. The hem of her skirts was stained a rusty dark brown. One of her hands, too, bore the proof of her guilt. She made no attempt to hide it or rub the dried blood away. Instead, she stared steadily out at the room, looking as though she would like to continue the work of killing as soon as possible.
In her place, Radu knew he would have been a sobbing waste of a man. And he had seen her, the first time she had killed, how hollow and shaken she had been. He could see a hint of the same displacement in the way her eyes focused on nothing, but, as with Mehmed, no one who did not know her would realize how upset she was.
Radu knew her. He understood.
He still hated her.
“Enough.” Murad waved his hand to cut off the increasingly loud discourse of the Italian. “Mehmed, tell me what happened.”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “I do not know, Father.”
“Why were you in that part of the garden?”
“I needed to breathe. Sitti Hatun’s perfume turns my stomach.”
There was a ripple through the crowd as various people reacted to Mehmed’s cruelty toward his bride. Murad’s eyebrows descended lower. “And why was she in that part of the garden?”
Mehmed’s lips twitched tighter and he raised his eyebrows in a challenge. There was a sudden intake of breath as everyone in the room came to the same conclusion.
Murad’s face purpled with rage. He stalked across the room to stand in front of Lada. Several inches taller, he loomed over her. She did not move. “What were you doing that deep in the garden?”
Radu wondered why Murad would direct his anger toward Lada and not Mehmed, when it was his son
who was embarrassing him.
Radu bitterly wanted the truth, even as he desperately wished for something else. Lada, however, said simply, “Following Mehmed.”
“And why would you do that?”
“To protect him.”
“At his own wedding party? What harm did you think could befall him?”
She finally changed her stony expression, raising a single eyebrow in disgust. “A knife in the dark. The exact harm I prevented.”
“We found no knife on the man you killed.”