Now I Rise (The Conqueror's Saga #2)(89)

At least he trusted that Cyprian was not the one who had figured it out. Cyprian wore his honesty painted across his face. If Radu was going to his death, Cyprian did not know it. It was poor comfort, but enough to give Radu the strength to keep moving, keep walking in this precious space before Cyprian found out the truth and never again looked at him with those beautiful gray eyes.

They passed several women and children dragging sacks full of rocks and rubble to repair the walls. When a stone cannonball shattered the wall of a house next to them, Radu and Cyprian ducked instinctively, before they had even processed what caused the noise.

The women and children had no such experience. One of the children lay in the street, broken and unmoving. A woman knelt over the child. She picked up the body and tucked it against the wall. “I will be back,” she said, her hands bloody. Then she retrieved her bag and the bag of the child, and continued on to the wall.

“How can we go on?” Cyprian whispered. “Is this hell?”

Radu took Cyprian’s hand, turning him away from the body of the child. The palace was before them. Radu knew it did not matter what he hoped or feared would happen. Death was unfeeling and random, as likely to strike down an innocent child as a guilty man.

They were met by two soldiers who escorted them past Constantine’s study. They moved deeper into the palace, and then through a courtyard into another building. It was colder than the palace, the rocks leeching warmth from the day. The air smelled of mildew and despair.

“Why are we going to the dungeons?” Cyprian asked.

Radu allowed himself one moment of true sorrow for Nazira. He had failed. At everything, at all of it, but at this one most important thing he had promised himself and God. I am sorry, he thought as a prayer. I am sorry. Save her.

“Prisoners,” one of the soldiers said, as though that explained everything.

When they emerged through a door at the bottom of a winding set of stairs, Constantine turned to face them. His face was hard. Next to him was Giustiniani. Radu took a deep breath, praying for strength. He met their gazes unflinchingly. He might still be able to barter for Nazira’s life.

“There you are. Come on.” Giustiniani gestured impatiently. Radu stepped forward, finally able to see past them.

Kneeling on the floor chained, bloodied, and dazed, was a man Radu had last seen being berated by his mother while delivering gunpowder. Tohin’s son, Timur. How was he here?

“He has been speaking Arabic,” Giustiniani said, “and we cannot understand him. Can you translate?”

“I should be able to. Where did he come from?” Radu asked, trying to control his voice.

“We caught him digging a tunnel under the walls. The rest were killed with Greek fire. Burned alive.”

“I am the lucky one,” Timur mumbled around a bloody, swollen tongue and broken teeth. He looked up at Radu and smiled. Radu did not know if the smile was one of recognition or madness.

Radu was not here to be tortured and killed. He was here to aid in the torture of a man he knew. A man with a family. Two children, he had spoken of. Or was it three? Radu could not remember. It seemed very important now to remember. I am sorry, he prayed again, this time with even more anguish. But Nazira was still safe. He held on to that light as a way to keep out of the darkness threatening to claim him.

Radu cleared his throat. “I know this man. His name is Timur. I met him briefly before fleeing the court.”

Giustiniani grunted. “We need the locations of all the other tunnels. My men have been working on him for a while, but he has not given us any information.” He pointed at a map of the walls. “Do whatever you can think of to get him to talk.”

Blood dripped slowly down Timur’s face, pooling on the stained stones beneath him.

Radu crouched in front of him. He only knew Arabic from the Koran, and he would not bring those sacred verses here. He did not want to use Turkish for fear Constantine and Cyprian would understand. “Do you speak Hungarian?” he asked in that language. He knew Cyprian did not speak it, and he was fairly certain none of the other men did. He looked at them, but they did not seem to understand.

Timur dragged his head up. His eyes widened for the briefest moment in recognition, then he hung his head again. “Yes,” he answered in the same language. “A little. Can you save me.” It was not spoken like a question. A question implied hope. Timur knew there was none.

“I can guarantee you a quick death. And—” Radu’s voice caught. He took a deep breath, then pressed on. “And I will send word to Mehmed of your bravery. Your family will be taken care of forever. I swear it.”

Timur shuddered, the last of the tension in his shoulders leaving. “What do they want?”

“The location of all the other tunnels. Will there be any men in them now?”

“Not now. Tonight.”

“If we give them the information, they will act on it immediately. No more of your men have to die. The tunnels did not work. You tried your best. I am sorry it ended this way.”

A sigh escaped the other man’s lips. It smelled like blood, but it sounded like relief. “I did my part. God knows. You will tell the sultan that.”

“I will.” Radu gestured for the map. Timur pointed to several locations, tracing lines. The blood on his fingers worked as ink.

“He is telling the truth,” Giustiniani said. “I suspected these two. This one we found this morning. But the others we did not know about.” He rolled up the blood-marked map and handed it to a waiting guard who ran out of the cell.