Page 68 of Dragon Slayer

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When they were alone, Vlad could admit that his stomach was gnawing on itself he was so hungry. The tray, when he approached it, smelled of strange humans, but not of anything harmful. And better: it smelled of meat…and of blood.

Still, he approached it slowly, balanced on his toes, and pulled the lids off the dishes in a quick flurry, jerking back to avoid any kind of a trap.

All that looked up at him was breakfast.

Two platters heaped with soft warm flatbread, and roasted lamb, and cups of water, and tea, and heated sheep’s blood. He wanted to refuse it; to cast the whole tray against the wall and watch the cups break, and the blood spray bright across the floor. But he needed his strength, and so did Val.

“Come eat, brother,” he ordered, and settled down cross-legged on one of the rugs.

Val hurried to sit beside him, pressed tight to his side, shaking, breathing shallow.

Vlad pressed a cup of blood into his hand. “Drink.” And he did.

By the time their bellies were full, another slave had brought a ewer of hot water, and the same janissary as before told them to wash their hands and faces in the little bowls provided for the purpose. Vlad helped Val wash the last sticky residue of blood from his mouth, and finger-combed his hair with damp fingers, but refused to wash his own greasy face.

Fuck what the sultan wanted.

Because during breakfast, he’d begun to form a partial plan. If he played the role of the rebellious boy, the one who talked back and didn’t follow orders, then golden Val would look sweet and obedient by contrast. Vlad would earn the punishments all for himself, because he could endure them…

And because he wouldenjoybeing disobedient.

When the janissary came back – with a friend this time – to cuff them and lead them away, he took a look at Vlad’s messy hair and no-doubt shiny face and shook his head a fraction. “You’ll probably regret that.”

Vlad shrugged.

Their escorts marched them down a long hallway with pale stone walls and more painted tile floors. Open windows let in shafts of morning sunlight, white-gold, heatless. They went down a gentle half-turn of a staircase and then down another hall, a parallel of the one above, in reverse. Vlad twisted his hands, testing the cuffs. They didn’t break the skin, but they would if he twisted any harder, and he could feel the cold, dulling drone of the silver, a soundless buzzing that turned his arms numb all the way down to the bone.

They were led through an open archway out into a patch of garden, down a short, gravel path to an open pavilion, flooded with sunlight, its tile floors laid with more woven mats like the ones they’d used at breakfast. Three rows of rugs, lined up neatly with a view of a courtyard. At the edges: trunks, heaps of scrolls, and stacks of heavy books.

Some things were universal everywhere, and Vlad knew right away that this was a schoolroom.

Two men with gray beards and long cream robes over their kaftans waited for them, and the janissary guards sent the boys forward with firm nudges.

The man on the left raked Vlad up and down with an emotionless gaze and said something in Turkish.

Vlad ground his molars together and shook his head.

“This is your language, yes?” the man said in perfect Romanian.

Vlad thought his teeth might crack if he clenched his jaw any tighter.

Val said, “Yes, sir,” just a whisper.

“What other languages do you speak?”

“Greek, and Latin, and Slavic, and Russian, and a little bit of Italian, if we have to.”

The man’s look was neither impressed nor unimpressed. “You will learn Turkish as well. That is the language of our sultan, and of your new home.”

“No.” Vlad said.

The man stared at him. “No?”

“No, I won’t learn Turkish. This willneverbe my home.”

Vlad was aware of several things: Val staring at him, big-eyed, and shocked, and imploring; the other man moving, pacing slowly around them; the janissaries’ boots scraping on the floor as they made to start toward him.

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