Page 254 of Dragon Slayer

45

VALERIAN

A heavyset sultan, plump, jowly, richly-dressed, a jeweled ring on each sausage-thick finger, made his ponderous way belowdecks on his royal galley. It was to be a short voyage, but his joints ached so, and he could bear neither standing nor sobriety. He groaned with every step, leaning heavily upon the cane he’d taken to carrying, its head shaped like a horse, gilded, ruby-encrusted. A flock of attendants, slaves as fluttery as birds, hovered above and below, ineffectual small hands reaching out to catch him should he fall. He would crush them, if he did.

Finally, he reached his private cabin, draped in silk, richly-appointed, scented with incense. He waved the boys away, impatiently, all but his favorite: a eunuch boy from Serbia, blue-eyed and golden-haired, mouse-quiet, with a tendency to blush and cry when Mehmet pulled him into his lap. He’d been well-trained, at this point, and went to fetch a cup of wine as Mehmet eased down to sit on the edge of the wide berth with a groan.

Alone, just the two of them, that was when the wardrobe door creaked open, and a figure dressed in black stepped out into the cabin.

Compared to the last few years of his life, sneaking onboard this galley had been child’s play. Hooded, wrapped all in black clothing, no one had noticed him in the pre-dawn gloom. Even if not for his nose, he would have known Mehmet’s cabin by the finery. Then it had only been a matter of waiting.

The eunuch boy made a small sound of distress, and dropped the cup. Wine splashed across the boards, catching the candlelight in jewel-bright arcs.

“Leave us,” Val told the boy, and nodded toward the door. “Tell no one,” he added, catching him by the arm as he fled.

“It’s fine,” Mehmet said with a wave. “Go on. Radu’s an old friend. This is merely one of his games.”

The boy mumbled an agreement and was gone.

Mehmet sat calmly, or appeared to. Val could sense the leaping of his heart, and the sudden quickness of his breath; something in his lungs rattled, low and wet.

“Radu,” he said, and only a faint tremor of alarm betrayed his tone.

Val moved to the door, and barred it.

“You look well.”

Val whipped off his cloak, and hung it from the peg beside the door, leaving himself clad in black breeches, knee boots, and black velvet tunic, belted with gold and rubies. “You don’t,” he said, moving to stand opposite the sultan. “You’ve gotten fat, and old. You grunt like a hog when you move.”

Mehmet chuckled, though his pulse beat like a war drum, the loudest sound in the cabin. “Acerbic as ever. I guess ruling suits you.”

“You know very well that I rule no longer.”

That earned the hint of a mocking smile. “No, you don’t, do you? You Dracula brothers are terrible princes, both of you.”

“Says the man who put us on thrones.”

A sharp grin. “Clearly, I’m a poor judge of character.”

“Yes,” Val agreed. “You tend to underestimate the people around you. Vastly.”

The grin lingered a moment longer…and then faded, when Val said nothing else.

It was funny, he reflected, now that he was standing here, how calm he felt. The moment he’d set foot on the deck of the ship, he’d known a sense of peace. Deeper, colder, more right than the peace he’d known after burying his brother. He’d felt a hint of it then, and in the moments he’d fought with Vlad and Cicero, a tantalizing caress of it, but now it was solidified. Had had time to galvanize, diamond-bright, and just as hard. It was a cold clear-headedness that allowed him to think quickly, and feel little. Perhaps this was how it had been for Vlad, sometimes.

“I’ve heard,” Mehmet began, with that particular air of someone trying to break an awkward silence, “that Vlad’s own people killed him. Spurned boyars armed with torches and pitchforks – a regular mob. But there are rumors, too, that you killed him. Something about a vengeful wolf combing the countryside, calling foryourblood, Radu.”

“Valerian.”

“What?”

“My real name is Valerian. I would hear you use it before I kill you.”

A high, thin laugh. “What?” he repeated.

Val lunged.

Mehmet tried to lift his hands, tried to heave his ponderous bulk from the berth, tried to shout for one of his men. But he was, in fact, old, and fat, and slow. And Val was lean, and strong, and looked no more than twenty-some-odd, and was the grandson of Mars, God of War, besides.

---