RADU WAS NOT SITTING as far from Mehmed as he had in Edirne, when they had pretended Radu was out of favor. But no one sat next to Mehmed here. He lounged at a table on a dais, at the head of the room and separate from everyone.
Radu was grateful he had not spent much time in the palace under Constantine, so this room was new to him. Dazzling blue and gold tile covered the walls in floral patterns growing up to the ceiling, which was ringed with gold leaf. A heavy chandelier hung overhead. It, at least, looked original. But Radu suspected that beneath the tile were the more Byzantine-favored religious murals. Mehmed was claiming every inch of the city, one mosaic at a time.
Radu had come in late—his detour into the city had made him miss the beginning of the meal—so after washing, he took a spot next to his old friend Urbana and a woman he vaguely recognized from Murad’s court. It was unusual for this many women to be at a formal dinner. Murad had excluded them entirely. But Radu was comforted and pleased to sit by Urbana. She had not been changed by the siege, other than the shiny burn scar that disfigured half her face. She smelled faintly of gunpowder and had black scorch marks on all her fingers.
Unchanged also was Urbana’s distaste for Ottoman food. She kept up a steady stream of complaints in Hungarian to the other woman. Radu stared determinedly at his plates, avoiding looking at Mehmed. Why had Mehmed called him back to the city? What would it feel like to talk to him again? When Radu had left six months before, Mehmed had been so busy with planning and rebuilding that they had scarcely seen each other. Had Mehmed missed him?
Had Radu missed Mehmed?
Glancing up, his stomach clenched and his pulse raced to see the other man. Yes, he had missed him. But it was not the same easy longing he had experienced before.
Mehmed was swathed in purple. His turban, gold and fastened with an elaborate gold-and-ruby pin, haloed his head. He was twenty-one now, and his features had settled into adulthood. His eyes were sharp with intelligence, his eyebrows finely shaped, his full lips static and expressionless. Radu longed for them to curve in a smile, for Mehmed’s solemn eyes to wrinkle in delight.
But Mehmed his friend had become Mehmed the sultan. It was like looking at a drawing of someone beloved. He both recognized Mehmed and felt that something was disturbingly altered and lost in the process of being captured on paper.
A servant knelt beside Radu. “Allow me to deliver the sultan’s welcome. After the meal, I will show you to his reception room, where you can await your audience.” The servant bowed, then backed away. Radu was startled. He had never had audiences with Mehmed. Particularly ones scheduled by servants.
This was nothing like how Murad had run his court. Favorites had always been allowed to swirl around him, to sit next to him. He had been at the center of everything, reveling in parties and close relationships. But even this meal was evidence that Mehmed ruled in a much more formal capacity. No absconding to the countryside to dream with philosophers. No allowing advisors like Halil Pasha—publicly executed months ago in a demonstration Radu had not attended—and his ilk to gain favor and therefore power.
Radu wondered whether the distance Mehmed had created in public would continue even in private. Or would he simply communicate with Radu through messengers, remaining forever separate?
“How is your sister, Radu Bey?”
Radu looked up, surprised. The woman who had been part of Murad’s court had spoken. She was a paradox of harsh elegance. Everything about her was precisely fashionable by European standards, her elaborate dress and hair acting as a barrier between herself and the world. She sat up straight, her skirts awkwardly pooled around her, rather than leaning on an elbow like many of the other diners.
“I am sorry, I do not remember your name.” Radu smiled in apology.
“Mara Brankovic. I was one of Murad’s wives.”
“Ah, yes! You negotiated the new terms of Serbia’s vassalage.” It had been her parting move, using an offer of marriage from Constantine to negotiate her own freedom and better rights for her country. Mehmed had admired her for it.
Without conscious thought, Radu found himself staring again at Mehmed. He dragged his eyes back to Mara. “What brings you to the empire?”
She turned her gaze toward Mehmed. Her look was affectionate. “A leader who recognizes my value. I am here as an advisor on European issues. I help with handling the Venetians. The Serbians, obviously. And a troublesome little country you are quite familiar with. And familial with.” She laughed lightly at her own joke.
“So you are not asking after my sister as a social courtesy.”
“Oh, I am! Social courtesy is the heart of my role here.” Her tone was pleasantly wry. “It is amazing what one can accomplish through polite inquiry. Besides, I quite liked Lada. Though she was foolish to pass up a marital alliance with Mehmed. She would have done quite well.”
Radu looked at his plate, now filled with tiny pieces of flatbread he had torn apart. “Quite well would never have been enough for her.”
Mara laughed. Urbana snagged her attention to point out how much worse unleavened bread was, and Radu was again left to his own thoughts. Which, to his surprise, did not linger on the person on the dais. “Mara,” he interrupted. “Do you have any contacts in Cyprus?”
She frowned thoughtfully. “Not personally, but I am certain I know someone who will. Why?”
“I am looking for news of my wife and my…friends. They fled during the fall of the city, and I have had no word of them since.”
Mara put a hand on his. Her dark eyes were sympathetic and serious. “Write down their names and any details that matter. I will set all my resources on it.”
“Thank you,” Radu said. “I have been searching, along with Kumal Pasha, and—”
“He is very handsome.” Urbana said it in the same tone she would use for talking about the quality of metal for casting cannons, or remarking on the weather. “He does not seem like he would ever be violent. And he has been a widower for some time.”
Radu could not quite follow the change in conversation. “Are you…courting him?”
Urbana gave him the same glare of disgust she directed at the spiced meat. “I meant for Mara. I have neither use nor time for a husband.”
Mara shared a long-suffering look with Radu. “Urbana worries that my childbearing years are dwindling quickly. She speaks of it often.” She sighed heavily. “Very often.”