36
TURNING
He fell asleep again, at some point, curled up on the rug like a dog, and when he woke next it was morning, and the head was gone. Fresh tears burned his eyes, but he didn’t ask after it. Constantine was dead; there was nothing he could do, and carrying around a skull seemed…too delusional, even for him. Nestor would tell him later that it had been returned to the city – that he’d seen to it personally. So that what Romans remained in the city might be able to bury their emperor.
A useless mercy.
They’d moved their camp inside the city walls by this time, filling up the streets with a whole army of Ottomans and their things.
Val stood at a window in the Palace of Blachernae, hand braced on the ledge, gazing out across the city. Black smoke rose from a dozen different fires; he heard the din of humanity as a low roar, louder than the waves that slapped against the sea wall, and the occasional shriek or shout that rose above the others. In the nearest streets, he could see the detritus of the initial invasion: bits of torn cloth – ladies’ dresses, mostly; there’d been rape in the streets, and the houses, and in every alley. Bits of broken crockery, forgotten tokens that had spilled from thieves’ pockets, gold coins glinting in the late sunlight.
“Those cultureless fools,” Mehmet said behind him. He was sorting through crates of books that had been brought to him, heavy tomes with illuminated pages and jewel-encrusted covers, many of them damaged during the ransacking. “The way they tore this place apart like fucking jackals…” Hetsked.
Val didn’t turn away from the window. The chains were gone, as were the heavy silver cuffs and collar he’d worn in the tent, but his slender collar remained, the one that looked like jewelry, but was always pulling at him, draining his energy and his mental gifts. He wouldn’t have cared if the chains were still there. He didn’t care about anything.
“You wanted Rome,” he said, flatly, “and apparently so did your men.”
“I wanted to lay claim to it, not raze the fucking place! Those idiots raped every woman and girl, even the elderly ones, and they’ve stolen uncountable valuables! Pulled down the relics in St. Sophia…damn them! This isn’t how you conquer a place!”
Perhaps, if he hadn’t fallen asleep staring at the head of one of his oldest friends last night, Val would have howled with laughter at the irony. That the man who’d raped a boy hiding in a tree would find fault with his own men for doing the same…
“Radu.”
He finally turned. Mehmet was frowning at the stacks of books, but he was overall in a good mood, exuding productive energy and a scent of clean sweat.
But something else, too. Now that Val took the time to notice it, he detected something…somethingoffabout the sultan’s scent. As he watched, Mehmet rubbed absently at a wrist – one thicker than it had been a few years ago, fleshier.
“Come help me sort these,” Mehmet said. “My joints ache so.”
“Must be all that conquering,” Val quipped without any emotion, and walked forward toward the books. “Or gout. You should eat less.”
“Watch it,” Mehmet said, and they set to work.
~*~
That evening, Val plead an upset stomach, locked himself in his quarters, and sent the guards after his two favorite slaves. “To comfort and attend me,” he said.
He didn’t have to name them; his preference was well-known at this point. A few minutes later, Arslan turned up, Nestor in tow. The Russian wolf was, technically, the sultan’s scribe, but that was a formality. Everyone knew he was a particular favorite of the Wallachian prince.
Arslan led the way, while Nestor ensured the door was soundly shut. “Your grace,” the boy said, hurrying forward, expression worried. “They said you were ill. What can I do?”
Val sat upright. “I’m not ill.” Not physically, anyway. “But there is something you can do for me. Both of you. You can let me help you escape.”
~*~
They didn’t like it. Of course they didn’t.
“Your grace,” Nestor said, panting he was so anxious. He stank of nerves.
“Nestor-Iskander.” Val squeezed his shoulder. “You are not bound.” He shifted his hand up, so he cupped the side of the boy’s neck, thumb pressed over his galloping pulse; not a threat, but a way to ground him, and the young wolf leaned into the touch, eyelids fluttering. “You are no one’s Familiar. You are strong, and swift, and if you flee, you can outpace any man, outlast any horse. The sultan owns you as a king owns a servant, but he does not own you as a vampire owns a wolf. Do you understand?”
He nodded, throat jumping under Val’s thumb as he swallowed. But said, “He’ll hunt us down, though. He’ll never allow this.”
“How will he hunt you?” Val countered, gently. “With dogs? With men? He and I are the only two immortals in his empire – at least that he knows of. He will be furious, yes, but not forever. Forgive me, dear, but you aren’t that important. Not to him, anyway. But I want you safe. Both of you.”
Arslan cried openly, but silently, shiny tears tracking down his face.
“Arslan, darling,” Val said, turning to him.
