temporarily freed by this rare triumph. But Ion pushed through, knowing they must not linger. Soon they were passing those who had been too far back to see, who did not know them.
They mounted stairs to the raised walkway above the equestrian grounds, part battlement to defend the inner city, part passageway above the crowded streets. There were stalls up there, and they settled into the shadows of a juice-seller’s awning, half-hidden by a latticed palanquin that had been abandoned there, its bearers no doubt among the crowd that chattered its wonder and speculation as it looked down upon the field. Sipping pomegranate juice, they looked, too, watched Mehmet being rolled onto his back, then lifted slowly to his feet. He stayed bent over, hands on knees, talking continuously. His men were looking around—Vlad knew who for—shrugging, stooping to report. They saw him strike at one, then draw his hand back slowly in obvious pain.
“It is his slaves I feel sorry for,” said Ion. “There will be some beating at his saray tonight.”
“And fucking,” said Radu excitedly. “The men he’ll beat, the women he’ll fuck. Though it could be the other way around.” He flushed suddenly, remembering how he was nearly the principal in a wager.
“All that fucking!” groaned Ion. “They say he already has five concubines. And he’s only sixteen, like us!” He gave out a moan. “While I can’t even get Brown-Browed Aisha of the tavern to roll over for me once.”
Vlad smiled. “At least you are discriminating, Ion. Mehmet doesn’t need men or women. He’d fuck a wooden post if it had stood long enough in the sun.”
The laugh—deep, rich, from the belly—startled them. Not because it came from the palanquin they’d assumed was empty. Not because it came from a woman. They were startled because they’d been speaking in their native tongue, the “limba Romana” of Wallachia, their language of secrets, and they’d never met anyone in Edirne who spoke it. Until now.
The palanquin was a latticed closet on poles, a seat within, its sides depicting scenes from life—hunting, hawking, feasting. Peering closer now, Vlad could see what he’d missed before—a person within. He lookedbeyond, to the pole-bearers, one trying to urge the others back to their duties. But they resisted, still drawn to the scene below.
“Who are you?” he whispered, leaning close.
Silence, for an age. Finally, a low, unexpected reply in their tongue. “I am a concubine.”
“Whose?” said Vlad.
Again, the reply was long in coming. “The man who the crowd tells me now rolls disgraced in the dirt.”
“Mehmet?”
“Yes. I am his new godze . Or will be tomorrow night. You know this word?”
“Chosen girl.”
“Yes.”
Ion had been growing more alarmed as the whispered conversation progressed. “Come away,” he said, gripping an arm. “Do you know the whipping you’ll get if you are caught talking to a concubine. Especially Mehmet’s. Come away now before—”
Vlad pulled his arm free, leaned closer to the lattice-work. “You speak our tongue. Where are you from?”
“A village near Curtea de Arges. It is—”
“I know where it is,” said Vlad. “My family has lands nearby.”
“And you are?”
“Dracula,” Vlad whispered. “Vlad—”
Her gasp interrupted him. “The Dragon’s son!”
“Yes.”
A huge shout came from the horse grounds. More people pressed to the edge of the walkway, blocking the view. “Radu, go and see what is happening.”
Reluctantly, he rose. “Yes, brother.”
Vlad turned back to the palanquin . “What is your name?”
“My slave name is Lama.”
“‘Darkness of Lips,’” whispered Ion.
“Yes. But I was christened Ilona.”
“Ilona,” repeated Vlad. “It is Hungarian. It means ‘Star.’”
“You speak the tongue?”
“Enough.”
“My father was Hungarian. My mother, Wallachian.”
“And you were taken?”
“In a Turkish raid. I was ten. Sold to a
They mounted stairs to the raised walkway above the equestrian grounds, part battlement to defend the inner city, part passageway above the crowded streets. There were stalls up there, and they settled into the shadows of a juice-seller’s awning, half-hidden by a latticed palanquin that had been abandoned there, its bearers no doubt among the crowd that chattered its wonder and speculation as it looked down upon the field. Sipping pomegranate juice, they looked, too, watched Mehmet being rolled onto his back, then lifted slowly to his feet. He stayed bent over, hands on knees, talking continuously. His men were looking around—Vlad knew who for—shrugging, stooping to report. They saw him strike at one, then draw his hand back slowly in obvious pain.
“It is his slaves I feel sorry for,” said Ion. “There will be some beating at his saray tonight.”
“And fucking,” said Radu excitedly. “The men he’ll beat, the women he’ll fuck. Though it could be the other way around.” He flushed suddenly, remembering how he was nearly the principal in a wager.
“All that fucking!” groaned Ion. “They say he already has five concubines. And he’s only sixteen, like us!” He gave out a moan. “While I can’t even get Brown-Browed Aisha of the tavern to roll over for me once.”
Vlad smiled. “At least you are discriminating, Ion. Mehmet doesn’t need men or women. He’d fuck a wooden post if it had stood long enough in the sun.”
The laugh—deep, rich, from the belly—startled them. Not because it came from the palanquin they’d assumed was empty. Not because it came from a woman. They were startled because they’d been speaking in their native tongue, the “limba Romana” of Wallachia, their language of secrets, and they’d never met anyone in Edirne who spoke it. Until now.
The palanquin was a latticed closet on poles, a seat within, its sides depicting scenes from life—hunting, hawking, feasting. Peering closer now, Vlad could see what he’d missed before—a person within. He lookedbeyond, to the pole-bearers, one trying to urge the others back to their duties. But they resisted, still drawn to the scene below.
“Who are you?” he whispered, leaning close.
Silence, for an age. Finally, a low, unexpected reply in their tongue. “I am a concubine.”
“Whose?” said Vlad.
Again, the reply was long in coming. “The man who the crowd tells me now rolls disgraced in the dirt.”
“Mehmet?”
“Yes. I am his new godze . Or will be tomorrow night. You know this word?”
“Chosen girl.”
“Yes.”
Ion had been growing more alarmed as the whispered conversation progressed. “Come away,” he said, gripping an arm. “Do you know the whipping you’ll get if you are caught talking to a concubine. Especially Mehmet’s. Come away now before—”
Vlad pulled his arm free, leaned closer to the lattice-work. “You speak our tongue. Where are you from?”
“A village near Curtea de Arges. It is—”
“I know where it is,” said Vlad. “My family has lands nearby.”
“And you are?”
“Dracula,” Vlad whispered. “Vlad—”
Her gasp interrupted him. “The Dragon’s son!”
“Yes.”
A huge shout came from the horse grounds. More people pressed to the edge of the walkway, blocking the view. “Radu, go and see what is happening.”
Reluctantly, he rose. “Yes, brother.”
Vlad turned back to the palanquin . “What is your name?”
“My slave name is Lama.”
“‘Darkness of Lips,’” whispered Ion.
“Yes. But I was christened Ilona.”
“Ilona,” repeated Vlad. “It is Hungarian. It means ‘Star.’”
“You speak the tongue?”
“Enough.”
“My father was Hungarian. My mother, Wallachian.”
“And you were taken?”
“In a Turkish raid. I was ten. Sold to a
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