Page 188 of Dragon Slayer

32

IMPOSSIBLE

Mehmet’s suite of rooms at the Throat-Cutter – finished early, while the outer walls and towers were still being built – were sprawling and lavish. The building as a whole was a practical military installation, but Mehmet wanted to sleep in his usual style for their short stay here, before they marched down to Galata, and the inevitable skirmish that would take place across the Strait. Val had his own room, all to himself, save for the nights when Mehmet wanted his company – which was often. Still. It was as comfortable and lavish as the sultan’s own quarters, and that was where Val headed now, Halil Pasha huffing and puffing to keep pace with his long legs.

“I thought,” the furious Grand Vizier hissed, voice low though they were alone, “that I could at least depend on you to echo my reasoning. And here you are encouraging his delusions!”

Val halted and turned to face the man, surprised to see that, at some point in the last few years, he’d grown a good head taller than him. He had to look downward now to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry. Were you under the impression that you and I are allies in some way?”

The Grand Vizier bit his lip, visibly holding back a retort. He lowered his voice again; Val wouldn’t have been able to hear it if not for vampiric hearing. “This siege is a fool’s errand. It can’t be done! And he’ll die throwing himself against those walls. Then where will the Empire be? Who will take control? His sons are mere babes at the teat!”

Val shrugged.

“You’re encouraging him!”

“On the contrary. I’m his favorite whore. I have no influence.”

He fumed. “You have his ear–”

“I have his cock,” Val corrected.

The Grand Vizier’s face purpled with impressive speed. “You can’t – can’t justsaythat!”

“Why not?” Val shrugged. “It’s the truth. I’m only trying to be honest.”

The vizier stood up on his toes and thrust his face into Val’s, flecks of spit landing on Val’s cheeks as he spoke. A low, furious whisper, veins standing out along his temples. “You are anabomination. A filthy temptress with a cock swinging between your legs – and you’renot even human. You’ve enchanted him, haven’t you? Bent him to your sick perversions? You’re a creature born of no god, and you’ll drive him, and our whole empire, into ruin to satisfy your lust.” Chest heaving when he was done, body vibrating with barely checked fury.

Val held his gaze, unblinking, until the man’s ankles began to shake and he lowered back down, flat-footed on the stones. And then Val chased him, ducking low, hair swinging forward. He opened his mouth and activated that untouchable muscle in his jaw, that tiny flex, so that his fangs descended, long and proud, so they gleamed in the afternoon sunlight that spilled through the window, unmistakable.

“On the contrary.” He let the growl come into his voice, a low purr that ribbed every word. “My father was born of a very particular god. And if you’re so curious about what’s between my legs, you could always ask to see it. Or grab a handful for yourself.” He made an exaggerated lunge with his own hand, straight for the vizier’s crotch.

The man jumped back with a yelp, and Val pushed out a laugh. “You’re the one who sent that letter,” Val reminded, as Halil Pasha whirled around and went charging back down the corridor. “You wrote to Emperor Constantine and told him to release Orhan! To send the Hungarians! To send all of them!” He chased him around the corner with another loud, braying laugh, and then he was gone.

Val snapped his jaw shut, retracted his fangs; the aftereffect of forced laughter tasted like bile on his tongue, and he swallowed it down.

He whirled and continued on his way.

Nestor and Arslan waited for him, as instructed, in his bedchamber. Arslan sat on a low stool, polishing Val’s spare boots, but Nestor-Iskander sat uneasily on the trunk at the foot of the bed, and leaped to his feet when Val entered.

Arslan looked up with a small smile for Val, silently laughing at Nestor’s nervousness.

“Sit down, sit down,” Val said with a wave, and shut the door. He pressed his ear to it a moment, listening, but could detect nothing out in the hallway. “Arslan, stop working, come sit.”

Both boys settled on the trunk and Val pulled out the bench at his dressing table and sat across from them. Energy coursed through him, and he wanted to pace – but he also didn’t want to make them anxious. And he wanted to be looking at their faces, to really press his point home and judge their reluctance for himself.

“Alright, you two.” Serious glance between them. “I trust this is a given. But. You know what I am, don’t you? What I really am?”

Arslan’s eyes got big, and he bit at his lip, but he nodded.

Nestor’s eyes got even bigger. “Oh. Um. I. Your grace…”

“You’ve suspected, at least? Or there’s been gossip?”

The Russian scribe blushed. “A little, your grace.”

Arslan turned to him. “It’s not like the stories,” he said with uncharacteristic boldness. “He’s not evil. He’s not a demon.” Almost scolding.

“I know that,” Nestor huffed. But he looked at Val with uncertainty. “I know that you drink…I’ve seen it put into cups, and I…” He gulped.

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