them. The gatekeeper had dropped the keys in his panic. Bending to pick them up, he did not notice Ion slip through.
The party made their way to the horse lines.Beyond them, the gates of the stables were flung wide. Within, under the glare of reed torches, men and horses moved. The prisoners were marched straight in, taken to the right, past stalls, through a place Vlad had spent some time—the falcons’ mews. Bent over, glancing up, Vlad saw sakers, their hooded heads bending to the noise of men, seeking through their blindness. Strangely, he wondered which was Sayehzade, the stake in the jereed wager that Mehmet had sullenly failed to deliver. One bird began screaming, wings spread wide, tipping off its perch, held upside-down there by its jesses. He saw legs come forward; someone reached, gathered.
Then they were through the mews; the screams receded but did not cease; another sound came. This was rhythmical, the striking of metal on metal. Only then did Vlad realize where he was being taken; and terror came. He had never thought that the punishment for what he’d done would be death. His only value to the Turk lay in his life—but they were masters of punishments. He had told Ilona of one upon the docks. The hostage sons of the Serbian despot Brankovic had been caught trying to send messages to their father. They had not been killed. Red-hot metal had simply been jabbed into their eyeballs.
The heat of the forge struck him like an open-handed slap. As he was forced onto his knees, Radu beside him, he glimpsed two things, two people: Mehmet, in his brocade jacket and Greek robe, smiling; and beside him, the blacksmith, hooded like a hawk, drawing something glowing from the fire.
Vlad felt his bowels loosen. His jereed rival was the one person he did not wish to see there, amidst heating metals. Yet, hating the fear, he reached for his defiance. “You owe me a hawk,” he shouted.
He was slapped, thrown down onto the hard-packed earth before the anvil. He lay there, squinting up, mesmerized by molten red, and wondered, in a flush that brought sweat to every part of his body, if this was the last thing he would ever see. Beside him, Radu wept.
And then Vlad realized that they were not the only ones on the ground; that everyone there was descending, from feet to knees to bellies. Even, finally, Mehmet, allowing his glittering jacket to lie in the dust. Until there was only one man in the forge still standing.
The blacksmith.
He was dressed as any of his trade. A leather apron protected him from neck to knee, his hands were encased in thick gauntlets, and his face in the hood, a slit filled with meshed metal before his eyes. They glowed, reflecting the heated iron he held in tongs, which he studied for a moment, then lowered upon the anvil. A hammer fell, in those rhythmic strokes. Then the metal was lifted, plunged into a water trough. Steam engulfed him, as he laid down the hammer, raising the tongs to the eye slit, turning it.
All Vlad had seen was iron. He had made it into the shape he feared—a poker with a molten tip. Now, in the coolness, he saw its true shape, and what it was: a horseshoe.
With a sigh, the blacksmith laid it down upon a pile of others, immediately lifted another bar of metal, laying it back into the coals. Then he raised the hood from his head, speaking as he did.
“Allah be praised for the worthiness of this work. For his is the skill, mine merely the service.”
The hood was set aside. The man turned. And Vlad saw why everyone was lying before him.
“Murad!” he breathed, not so loudly that any could hear, as the Magnificence of the World, the Beacon of Creation, the Sultan of the Turks stepped down from beside the anvil.
– TEN –
Punishments
In the darkness just inside the forge’s open doors, an eye pressed to a crack, Ion hesitated. He’d slipped behind them as the others were dragged in. If he slid forward now, lay in the dirt, perhaps they would assume he’d
The party made their way to the horse lines.Beyond them, the gates of the stables were flung wide. Within, under the glare of reed torches, men and horses moved. The prisoners were marched straight in, taken to the right, past stalls, through a place Vlad had spent some time—the falcons’ mews. Bent over, glancing up, Vlad saw sakers, their hooded heads bending to the noise of men, seeking through their blindness. Strangely, he wondered which was Sayehzade, the stake in the jereed wager that Mehmet had sullenly failed to deliver. One bird began screaming, wings spread wide, tipping off its perch, held upside-down there by its jesses. He saw legs come forward; someone reached, gathered.
Then they were through the mews; the screams receded but did not cease; another sound came. This was rhythmical, the striking of metal on metal. Only then did Vlad realize where he was being taken; and terror came. He had never thought that the punishment for what he’d done would be death. His only value to the Turk lay in his life—but they were masters of punishments. He had told Ilona of one upon the docks. The hostage sons of the Serbian despot Brankovic had been caught trying to send messages to their father. They had not been killed. Red-hot metal had simply been jabbed into their eyeballs.
The heat of the forge struck him like an open-handed slap. As he was forced onto his knees, Radu beside him, he glimpsed two things, two people: Mehmet, in his brocade jacket and Greek robe, smiling; and beside him, the blacksmith, hooded like a hawk, drawing something glowing from the fire.
Vlad felt his bowels loosen. His jereed rival was the one person he did not wish to see there, amidst heating metals. Yet, hating the fear, he reached for his defiance. “You owe me a hawk,” he shouted.
He was slapped, thrown down onto the hard-packed earth before the anvil. He lay there, squinting up, mesmerized by molten red, and wondered, in a flush that brought sweat to every part of his body, if this was the last thing he would ever see. Beside him, Radu wept.
And then Vlad realized that they were not the only ones on the ground; that everyone there was descending, from feet to knees to bellies. Even, finally, Mehmet, allowing his glittering jacket to lie in the dust. Until there was only one man in the forge still standing.
The blacksmith.
He was dressed as any of his trade. A leather apron protected him from neck to knee, his hands were encased in thick gauntlets, and his face in the hood, a slit filled with meshed metal before his eyes. They glowed, reflecting the heated iron he held in tongs, which he studied for a moment, then lowered upon the anvil. A hammer fell, in those rhythmic strokes. Then the metal was lifted, plunged into a water trough. Steam engulfed him, as he laid down the hammer, raising the tongs to the eye slit, turning it.
All Vlad had seen was iron. He had made it into the shape he feared—a poker with a molten tip. Now, in the coolness, he saw its true shape, and what it was: a horseshoe.
With a sigh, the blacksmith laid it down upon a pile of others, immediately lifted another bar of metal, laying it back into the coals. Then he raised the hood from his head, speaking as he did.
“Allah be praised for the worthiness of this work. For his is the skill, mine merely the service.”
The hood was set aside. The man turned. And Vlad saw why everyone was lying before him.
“Murad!” he breathed, not so loudly that any could hear, as the Magnificence of the World, the Beacon of Creation, the Sultan of the Turks stepped down from beside the anvil.
– TEN –
Punishments
In the darkness just inside the forge’s open doors, an eye pressed to a crack, Ion hesitated. He’d slipped behind them as the others were dragged in. If he slid forward now, lay in the dirt, perhaps they would assume he’d
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