Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(33)
“We will not. Not this time.”
Mara Brankovic sat straight-backed in her tightly structured dress. Radu could not sympathize with her reluctance to embrace the far more comfortable—and beautiful—flowing robes and layers of the Ottomans. Even Urbana, seated next to Mara at the table, had finally converted to entaris and slippers. Joining them were Aron and Andrei Danesti, who were still living in Constantinople as guests of Mehmed; Ishak Pasha and Mahmoud Pasha, older pashas who had distinguished themselves at the walls of Constantinople; and the Janissary leader Ali Bey. They all regarded Mara’s and Urbana’s presences with curious disapproval.
“It is Wallachia,” Ali Bey said. Though a Janissary, he was also a bey, and had a carefully trimmed and styled beard appropriate to his status. He was younger than the pashas, in his mid-thirties. Sometimes Radu forgot he himself was not yet nineteen, Mehmed only twenty-one. Had they really lived so many lives in so few years?
Ali Bey crossed his arms and continued. “I hardly think we need worry.”
“It is not Wallachia we are worried about,” Radu said. “It is my sister. She trained with Ilyas Bey, and then with Hunyadi.”
“Ilyas?” Ali Bey scoffed. “The traitor?”
“She killed him.” Radu pushed away the memory of that night, when Ilyas Bey—their friend—had tried to assassinate Mehmed. Lada had killed Ilyas, but Radu had killed the coconspirator, Lazar. His own friend. It had felt unavoidable at the time, but how many unavoidable choices of his had resulted in unforgivable consequences?
Ali Bey appeared slightly cowed. “Very well. The Janissaries will lead the assault, taking the Danube and securing the river passage. After that, we will scout and clear the roads. We should take Bucharest easily, as well as Snagov. That is less strategic and more to send a point. My scouts tell me she has paid patronage to the monastery on the island. We should make certain to take everything that matters.”
Ishak Pasha leaned forward, tapping his notes. Radu mistrusted most of the pashas who had served under Murad, but Ishak Pasha had always been devout and committed to Mehmed’s plans. Kumal had trusted him, too. Radu listened with a sharp stab of mourning, wishing Kumal were here instead.
“My spahis will be in charge of finding supplies,” Ishak Pasha said. “It is still early, but there is a good amount of farmland between the Danube and Tirgoviste, so the logistics of the campaign should not be too taxing on our resources. I would prefer late summer or early fall, but we can manage. We will plan for a short siege.”
Mehmed nodded. He was seated in an elevated chair at the head of the room, separated from their table. “Radu Bey will be in charge of four thousand mounted troops. He knows his sister and the land.”
Radu supposed he should be grateful for such a show of confidence. He did his best at faking it with a somber bow. This conflict felt so personal—like it was really between Mehmed, Lada, and Radu. It felt wrong to be planning it out on fields with tens of thousands of men. How had this happened?
“Get me a detailed schematic of Tirgoviste.” Urbana ran her fingers idly along the smooth, shiny scar that covered half her face, a token of her time at the greatest siege in history. “I can have the walls down in a day.”
Aron Danesti turned to Urbana. “We do not have a schematic, but we can draw one and fill you in on any details.” Andrei pulled over a piece of parchment and started drawing, with Aron watching over his shoulder and whispering guidance.
Mara Brankovic was writing a list in an elegant hand. “Obviously we can count on the support of the Bulgars. Lada is known as the Lady Impaler there, and they are agitating for vengeance. Serbia will contribute men. I will write my Italian contacts with advice that they stay out of it, but I doubt even that will be necessary.”
“The Saxons?” Mehmed asked.
“Oh, they loathe Lada. Have you seen any of their woodcuts? Just horrible.” Mara bit back an amused smile. “She will have no help from them. But neither will we. The only person they hate more than the Lady Impaler is Your Grace.”
“What about Hungary?” Ali Bey asked. “If she trained with Hunyadi, surely they are allied.”
Mara pursed her lips, tapping her quill against the sheet and leaving a series of dots. “Perhaps. But Matthias Corvinus is nothing like his father. He is a statesman, not a warrior. I am certain there are cracks that could be widened with the right amount of applied pressure.” She paused in thought and drew a circle. “He recently received a large sum from the Catholic Church for crusading.”
“I thought we were finished with the damn crusades,” Mahmoud Pasha grumbled. He was the oldest in the room, black hair gone almost all gray. He, too, bore scars from the siege and decades of sieges before. “We already have their precious Christian capital. What will they crusade for now?”
“Lada has the support of the Catholics, then?” Ali Bey interrupted. “Should we worry about the Italians?”
Mara shook her head. “Her conversion is viewed with an appropriate amount of skepticism. The Catholic connection goes through Matthias. If we can get to him in any way, we should. But we cannot count him out of the fight yet. I will think of something.”
“What about Moldavia?” Mehmed asked.
Mara consulted her list. Radu wondered if there was a single country in Europe she did not have connections to. “Their young king, Stephen, is a force to be reckoned with. And allegedly very charming and attractive, or so my sister receiving proposal offers is told.” Mara paused, smiling benignly at Mehmed. “She will, of course, reject him as recommended by her most trusted older sister.”