Page 195 of Dragon Slayer

“Go with God,” Val murmured, and faced forward again.

~*~

Val woke most nights, in the small hours, to the sound of feverish mumbling, and wandered out into the antechamber to find Mehmet poring over a map, or a scroll, or some dusty old book, eyes glassy, hands trembling, a cup of wine at hand.

The first few times, Val tried to tow him back to bed, but Mehmet bared his teeth, and growled, and swatted him away.

“How can you rule an empire if you don’t get some sleep?” Val tried to reason.

Mehmet shook his head, and his attention went back to his scroll, woeful. “I’m having dreams. Dreams where I’m Alexander…I want to make him proud, Radu…”

Some nights he sketched; designs for walls, for armor, for weapons, all frustratingly fantastic, none of them able to be made by his architects or weaponsmiths. He sketched what he remembered of Constantinople’s walls and battlements, with shocking accuracy. Val felt a jolt when he looked on them, at the precise lines of ink, neatly labeled.

“This is my life’s work, taking this city,” he murmured, like a mantra. “My life’s work.” Then he tipped his head back, gaze both beseeching, and unseeing. Lost in his own fantasies. “Do you think my people recognize the kind of achievement this will be?” he asked Val, and clutched at the edge of his robe.

Val reached to gently, but firmly, dislodge his fingers. “I guess you won’t know until it’s done, will you?”

Mehmet blinked at him a moment. He didn’t smell of wine, and hadn’t been drinking, but he looked intoxicated. Then he sat upright with a jerk, and awareness returned to his gaze. He fumbled across the desk, and its wealth of half-open scrolls.

“Wait,” he said, “wait, wait, wait…”

“Yes, I’m waiting.”

His hand closed over a particular scroll with a small shout of triumph. “I’ve been reading about the emperor Nero.”

“Dangerous topic,” Val said mildly.

“Did you know,” Mehmet pressed on, heedless of the jibe, “that Nero dressed as a commoner and went out amongst the Romans? He asked them about their emperor, to see what they said of him?”

“I thought Alexander was your hero, and he was Greek, dear.”

“ButIam Roman.” Frantic, spray of spittle. “My sire is Roman, and I am the heir to the empire, and I–”

“Yes, yes,” Val said. “Where is this going?”

Mehmet grabbed his robe again, knuckles white. “I want to do that. To disguise myself and go out among my people.”

“That’s…a terrible idea.”

“No, listen–”

“It was a terrible idea when Nero did it, too. What will you do if you find out they loathe you? Or if they recognize you?”

Mehmet didn’t answer, turning away. “You shall come too.”

“I don’t remember asking to come.”

“Too bad.”

It was too late then, too close to dawn, and Val hoped Mehmet would forget it, but of course, he didn’t. The next night, he was presented with rough-spun, dirt-smeared clothes, a cloak with a hood, and dark paint for his face.

“Really?” Val asked, pinching the cloak between thumb and forefinger. Itsmelled.

“Put it on,” Mehmet ordered, his own face unrecognizable. “We’re leaving.”

They went without an escort of the usual honor guards and janissaries, just two men, cloaked, dirt-streaked and unremarkable, shoulders intentionally stooped. Val wasn’t proud of the fact that he held to Mehmet’s elbow, his heart fluttering like a trapped bird in his chest. They were the most dangerous creatures on the streets of Edirne that night, but it didn’t feel like it. Without the safety of palace walls, and guards, and the deference of bowing slaves and court members alike, the city felt like a jungle, beasts round every corner.

One night they came across a group of stumbling, drunken youths, and Mehmet had whispered, “Let’s hunt.”

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