And then he realized they were not masts. The wooden poles reaching up to the sky to greet the dawn were stakes. And on each of them, slowly revealed as the light touched them, an Italian sailor was impaled. In the middle, on the highest stake, Radu recognized Coco himself.

On the hill above them, surrounded by Janissaries, a white-turbaned figure in a purple cloak sat on a horse.

Radu could not understand the scene in front of him. The Ottomans had won! They had decisively defeated the sneak attack. There was no reason for this, none, except to torment the city. It felt needless.

It felt … cruel.

Troubled, Radu watched the bodies as though his vigil could bring them peace. Or bring him peace. This seemed less like war and more like murder. And it was all because of him.

A commotion farther down the wall finally drew his attention away from the stakes. He leaned out just in time to see the first battered Ottoman prisoner dropped over the side. A length of rope secured around the prisoner’s neck went taut, and the body swung limply.

Before Radu could shout, another prisoner had been hanged. And then another. And then another. He watched in horror as Ottoman prisoners were dropped like decorations, a tapestry of terror along the wall in response to the brutality across the horn.

Unable to stand it, he ran toward the hanging men. Someone had to end this. These soldiers would be held accountable for such cruelty to prisoners.

He stopped, though, when he saw the line of Ottoman prisoners waiting their turn. They were on their knees, some praying, some weeping, some too bloody and broken to do either. And standing behind them, staring out as tall and still as a pillar directly across from Mehmed, was Constantine.

Radu had been wrong. There were no good men in this city.

And there were no good men outside of it, either.

36

Mid-April

LADA EMERGED FROM her tent to find her fire already lit and a pot of water boiling. She had forced Oana to stay behind to help run their base at Toma’s estate, in part because she trusted Oana to do it well, and in part because she did not want anyone fussing over her wretched hair. Since then, Lada had not woken to a fire.

“What are you doing?” Lada asked Daciana.

Daciana pointed to the pot. “Your options are weak pine tea or weak pine tea. You really need better provisions.”

“You know what I meant.” Lada sat, taking a cup of blisteringly hot pine tea. It was weak, as promised. “I am not riding through the country, charitably adopting all those who want to join my merry band. I am taking men who can fight. Besides, it is important that the land be tended to.”

“Why do you care so much about the land?”

“Because it is mine. I have no desire to be prince of a country with no crops. People need to eat.”

Daciana laughed. “You will be prince, then?”

Lada did not share her mirth. “There is no other title. I will be vaivode, prince of Wallachia. And I will make the land into the country my people deserve.”

Daciana eased herself down, moving awkwardly with her swollen belly. “Very well, then. You take the men for soldiers and you leave the women to plant so that we do not all starve. And what will you do with the boyars?”

As though summoned, a letter from Toma Basarab was delivered at that moment by a smooth-faced boy.

Lada read the letter with a scowl. Nicolae sat next to her, trying to read over her shoulder. “What does he say?”

“He disagrees with my negotiating tactics.” Her temper bubbled hotter than the tea. “And he says he is joining us to make certain I do not negotiate like that with any more boyars.”

She threw the letter to the ground, standing and pacing. “Who is he to tell me what to do? You saw Silviu! You saw his land, what he was doing. Was I not right?”

Nicolae read over the letter with a resigned expression. “I am not saying you were not right. But … perhaps more thought and care should be taken with future boyars.”

“Why?” Daciana said.

“We need them.”

Lada snorted. “We need them? No one needs them. They are maggots, feeding on my land and doing nothing for it!”

Nicolae wore a long-suffering expression. “They are necessary for organization. They collect taxes. They run the farmlands. They muster troops from the men living in their provinces.”

Lada leaned forward. “Tell me, Nicolae. Does it look like they are doing a good job?”

Nicolae smiled. “The roads are impassable with thieves. The fields are fallow or untended. The boyars are fat and wealthy while the people starve. The prince has no military support unless they decide to give it—which they never do. But the fact remains, that is how the country runs. Figure out how to use them better. Control them better. But you cannot get to the throne without them.”

Lada sat in disgust. “Why not?”

“You are already using Toma Basarab. Trust that he knows what he is doing.”

“I do not trust him at all.”

Nicolae rubbed his scar. “Did you think he could just hand you the throne? You need allies. You need the boyars. You cannot skip past them, and to get them, you need him.” Nicolae put an arm around Lada, drawing her close. “Make a deal with the devil until you are both over the bridge.”

“Am I the devil, or are they?”

Nicolae laughed again, but he did not answer.

Bogdan sat on Lada’s other side. His eyes lingered on Nicolae’s arm around her shoulder. He offered her the inside of his bread. It was the softest part, her favorite. He took the crusts without expecting thanks. He simply did it, as he did everything for her. As he always had.

It sparked an idea.

“What if I take land—if I give the land to the people who deserve it, like Daciana’s mother? I get their loyalty. The boyars claim things based on centuries of blood. The land is theirs by birthright. So I take it from those who oppose us. I give it to people whose vision for Wallachia matches my own. They have nothing to claim other than my favor, and they owe all allegiance to me.” She met Bogdan’s approving stare and offered him a smile. He ducked his head, a pleased flush spreading across his cheeks.

“You cannot kill all the boyars.” Nicolae helped himself to some tea.

“Oh?”

Nicolae looked up sharply, narrowing his eyes. “They did not ask for their birthright. They have done nothing to you, and you have no guarantee that they ever will. I do not think you were wrong to kill that last pig, but slaughtering every noble in the country will have repercussions even you cannot handle.” When Lada did not respond, he threw his hands up in exasperation, spilling his tea. “They are related to nobility in other countries. You will draw too much attention and too much ire. Someone will retaliate. Besides, they have families. They have influence. And they are people.”

Lada gazed into the flames, letting them fill her vision. “Of course. I will listen to Toma Basarab and accept allegiance from those who offer it. But no one keeps anything without meriting it. That goes for every Wallachian.” She blinked, spots of light dancing in front of her eyes. “Including you, Daciana. So I ask again: why are you here?”

“You have no lady’s maid.”

Nicolae snorted. “You are mistaken. Our Lada is no lady. She is a dragon.”

Bogdan growled low and angry in his throat. Lada laughed, patting Bogdan’s knee. Then she tossed a handful of dirt and dry evergreen needles at Nicolae. “No one asked for your opinion.”

“My opinions are gifts I distribute freely, asking neither permission nor payment.”

“Take your gifts elsewhere,” Bogdan grumbled.

Lada waved her hand. “Nicolae is right. I need no lady’s maid, because I am not a lady. I am a soldier.”

Daciana smiled, smug and self-satisfied. “Precisely. A soldier does not have time to wash her monthly courses from her clothes.”

Lada’s cheeks burned, and she looked at the ground rather than at Nicolae and Bogdan. Daciana’s stomach loomed in the edge of her vision. And then she had a thought.

A terrible thought.

Lada stood, nearly falling into the fire. She grabbed Daciana’s hand. “Come with me.” The girl yelped, struggling to her feet. Lada dragged her away from the camp and into the trees.