Then it was getting the household in order. He had several of his men round up all the servants and inspected them. All of them were holdovers from his father’s days, all of them frightened, shaking, but dissolving quickly into shock when he informed them of his identity.
“You served my father loyally for years. Are you prepared to serve me as well?”
A chorus of “yes, your grace,” and a round of bows and curtsies.
Vladislav had left a single steward behind, a middle-aged man in a ripped coat and the kind of dignity born of terrified defiance. He was, Vlad thought, the easiest sort of person to break. Two of Vlad’s men held him up by the arms, though he didn’t struggle, and he met Vlad’s gaze bravely when Vlad came to stand in front of him.
“Is there anything useful you might tell me of your master?” Vlad asked.
The steward spit on the floor at Vlad’s feet. Several droplets spattered across his dirty boots. “Turkish swine.”
The soldiers tightened their hold, but Vlad stayed them with a gesture. He smiled at the steward. “In your time in the dungeon before your execution, I ask you to think on this: you’re the one who helped a man bent on selling this entire principality to the Hungarian throne. So who’s really the turncoat between us?” He tapped the man in the chest with one finger. “If anything important comes to mind, send for me. Otherwise, make your peace with God.”
He retired then to his father’s – tohis– study, and began sorting through the stacks of paper chaff that Vladislav had left behind. Some of it was scrolls, others dashed-off notes on parchment scraps. He found several journals, half-full, the handwriting so slovenly it was nearly indecipherable. He wondered if Vladislav had written any of it himself, or if it was the work of the steward currently being chained up in the dungeon.
“Tell me about him,” he said, distracted, squinting at what appeared to be a list of either favorite dishes, or an order for the chefs on their way to market.
Eira sat beside him in a second chair, chin propped on her hands, touching the paper Vlad passed her with only the tips of her fingers, nose wrinkled delicately, as if she didn’t want to touch the same parchment that Vladislav had touched. “He is both small and narrow minded,” she said. “I didn’t know such a thing was possible, but now I know better.”
Vlad snorted as he paged through one of the journals. “I know what kind of man he is.” He had a sack of bones and a jar of heart ashes to tell him that much. “I mean what is his routine; what are his habits. I want to know how best to manipulate him when I finally get him in front of me.”
Eira scoffed. “You might be a man now, but you’ve been a hostage all these years, my son, and not among Romanians. You’d do well to listen.” Like all her reprimands from his youth, her voice was light, her words strong. She had a way about her.
He sighed. “Yes, fine. Tell me what I should know, then.”
She nodded. “He is–”
A knock sounded at the door, and it swung inward before he could inquire.Thatwas something he’d need to address soon.
The intruder proved to be Helga, bearing a tray of bread, fresh soft cheese, grapes, wine, and, by its scent, blood. She carried it in with the gait he remembered from childhood, her hips swaying beneath her skirts and tidy apron, her face set with motherly concern. He felt a boy again, for a moment.
“You need to eat something to keep your strength up, your grace, my lady. It’s getting late, and you can’t stay up all night on an empty stomach.”
Vlad turned to the window as she set the tray on the edge of the desk and began unloading platters and cups in front of them. The sun had slipped below the tree line, the sky a dusky rose. There was hardly any light left in the room; he hadn’t even realized he’d been squinting to read.
“Yes, well, thank you.” He eyed the two small cups of blood as Eira moved to light the room’s candles. “This smells like wolf blood, Helga.”
“It is. Fresh from my Fenny.”
“Helga–”
“You’ve been on the march, sir, and haven’t taken a bite all day besides. And if you’ll pardon me saying so, you didn’t smell a thing like a wolf when you got here. I’m guessing those lousy Turks don’t even have wolves to feed you from, and–”
“Helga.”
She froze, hand hovering beside a platter of cheese and fruit. Not just grapes, he saw now, but figs, too. The last of the year that had been crushed into jam.
“Fen can’t afford to give any blood now,” he said, firm, trying not to sound cruel. Cruelty rolled naturally off his tongue; he scowled the way other boys smiled. It frightened him, if he was honest. “There are horses in the stable, and cattle in the field. I need not for blood.”
She studied him a moment. Swallowed. “With all due respect, your grace–”
“Fen’s blood,” he said, even firmer, so that she straightened up with a tiny yelp, clutching the tray to her chest, “stays inside his veins until he’s stronger. Mother and I shall be just fine until then.”
She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Yes, your grace.” Eyes downcast: “Also, I ought to tell you, that fellow with the scar, the one with the Far East look about him, wants to see you.”
He nodded. “Send him up, please. Thank you, Helga.”
She hurried from the room, looking much smaller than she had when she’d entered.
