Page 103 of Dragon Slayer

Mehmet leaned in even closer; his face was the only thing Val could see, the wild light in his eyes, his own terrified reflection staring back. “Like what?” Just a soft huff, more panther than human.

“M-m-my father broke the treaty. My brother has bested you in hand-to-hand combat.”

Mehmet pulled back a fraction, his expression arresting. Brittle. His thumb pressed, just a little, into Val’s throat.

“Don’t you hate me?”

“Do you think I should?” Voice tighter now, flatter.

“Vlad does.”

Another smile, this one humorless. Slowly, Mehmet released him and eased back– he’d been half-falling in order to touch Val. He turned away and reached for his wine. “I am nothing like your brother.” A declaration.

Val searched the crowd for Vlad, but when he spotted his table, his brother was gone.

~*~

Mehmet drank. Cup, after cup, after cup of wine. It took quite a lot of spirits to get a vampire drunk, but it was possible, and Mehmet managed. He didn’t speak for the rest of the meal, and ate only little, brooding over his ever-full cup, a slave always at the ready to top it off from the pitcher. By the end of the meal, when Mehmet tried to rise, he had to brace both hands on the table, and swayed.

“You will accompany me, Radu,” he said, no longer teasing and smiling, but commanding.

Helpless to do anything but comply, Val followed the sultan back to his royal apartments.

It was a long, unsteady journey, Mehmet stopping often to brace a hand against the wall. Sometimes, he muttered under his breath; others he laughed.

When they arrived at his rooms, Val just…stared.

Back home in Tîrgoviste, his parents, and the princess, each enjoyed their own suites, with big four-poster beds draped in furs. His mother had a gold-backed mirror and brush set; a box of jewels that she brought out on feast occasions. But the palace was a new one, constructed at Father’s instruction, and it had been built for functionality more than beauty.

This, though, this suite of the sultan’s…it defied all expectation of sumptuousness. An antechamber fed into a bedchamber and dressing room, all of it a dazzle of complimentary riches.

A bed heaped with pillows, and draped with silk panels. Great tall wardrobes thrown open to reveal enough clothes to suit a small army. Imported Greek and European furniture: dressing tables with mirrors, sideboards with glittering decanters, chests stuffed so full the lids wouldn’t quite close. An archway stood open to the garden, letting in the cool breeze, a wedge of star-studded sky visible beyond the walls, sheer white cliffs that glowed in the moonlight. Mehmet had his own little courtyard in the garden, a bench, and a fountain, and a gnarled apple tree that swayed, the susurrus of leaves like the sound of rain.

A pair of slaves, waiting as they entered, rushed ahead to light the lamps beside the bed, and turn down the coverlet. Movements quick; they smelled of fear.

Mehmet smelled of wine…and of anger.

“Leave us,” he ordered, gesturing sloppily to the door.

The slaves had been approaching him, ready to undress him, but they bowed and backed away instead, and fled.

Mehmet followed them, steps laborious, and pulled a key from an inner pocket. He locked the door, and, despite his unsteadiness, slipped the key away somewhere on his person in a blink; Val couldn’t follow the movement. Then he turned around and put his back to the door; Val could tell it was all that held him upright.

He reached up and dragged his turban off. Some of the pins caught, and the whole elaborate headpiece began to unravel. He let it fall to the floor, careless, wincing as he reached to smooth his hair with his other hand. It was even redder than his beard, shiny with perfumed oils, thick waves that fell past his shoulders.

“Did you know that vampires can become intoxicated?” he asked, and it took Val a moment to realize the sultan was addressing him.

He drew himself up to attention, bells chiming in his hair. “I did, yes, your grace.”

Mehmet smiled with his eyes shut. “And you didn’t think to warn me?”

“I…I didn’t know you would…would drink so much. Your Majesty.” The last was a whisper.

The sultan’s smile spread, slow and lazy in the way of a cat who hadn’t yet decided to pounce. Head tipped back, his hair unbound, drunk and disheveled, he still felt like a threat to Val. “Of course you didn’t. You’d never do such a thing yourself, would you?” He cracked one eye open, a bright slit. “Little golden prince, always so polite. It wouldn’t be mannerly to get sloppy drunk, would it?”

Val bit his lip and didn’t respond.

“Tell me, Radu: whyareyou so well-behaved?”

---