Time ought to have faded the memories somewhat, brought new loves, new diversions. In other men, perhaps. Not in Ferhad Pasha. And other men might have hated Sokolli Pasha for lording that paradise which clearly belonged to Ferhad, none other. But the young Master of the Horse had no such feelings. Obedience continued to force his thoughts. His superior had rights to these blessings because no man in the empire, nay, in the world, was as submissive to duty as Sokolli Pasha was. The Grand Vizier deserved his post and everything that went along with it—including the family—because he had paid his due to the Sultan and to Allah.
Paradise, Ferhad knew, could not be besieged and taken. It must be earned, by the will of heaven. And by strict adherence to duty. That was, after all, how he had gained his one glimpse of the place.
And so Ferhad continued to strive to match his service to the old man’s own, hoping in the end to inherit that man’s reward. It might well be. If he were faithful enough. The Grand Vizier—no matter how many times one said “May he live ‘til Judgment Day” after his name—could not, after all, live forever. And already Ferhad Pasha was one of the handful of men standing to inherit. He was, in fact, the only possible heir as yet unrewarded with a royal bride. And he had not married lower, finding, in his memories, no need to. Knowing that those who married lower never advanced.
There was only one royal bride in which he had any interest. And the constraint of monogamy seemed no hardship.
The Grand Vizier could not live forever. But still, as Ferhad walked to the fire riders, he thought, Death should come no sooner than Allah wills—to anyone. And, considering the message he bore, he would have dragged his feet to the fire more slowly, more slowly. Except, of course, he would rather be seen, by the Grand Vizier as well as by any shadow peeking at him through sedan lattices, to be overseeing the more flawless unit rather than the clumsy lance throwers.
Ferhad Pasha’s nose twitched horse-like at the smell of sulphur just barely fumigating the training ground of its usual dust and manure. Burning swords passed just fingers’ breadth from the horses’ tails, which were tied up against sparks. The precision the team displayed as he approached was quite remarkable even by daylight and Ferhad wondered idly why this exercise always attracted the best men and their mounts.
Ferhad motioned the head of the fire unit to him. The ranks closed in over the place the man vacated like magic. The man rode his horse at a canter past the water trough, where he doused his flaming equipment with a flourish. Then he pranced his horse up to where Ferhad stood, showing his animal off to best advantage.
By Allah, where did he get that mare? Ferhad asked himself. She was the pinkish white color of some roses and seemed to be a mix of the best qualities of both Arabian and Turkish breeds with some of the power of the Europeans thrown in as well.
How is it that these subordinates always manage to get the best animals? Ferhad wondered again. Far better than mine. Better, even, than any in the Sultan’s private stables.
But Ferhad knew that if he asked, the rider would merely shrug and say, “Oh, her? Ah, I picked her up for a song—skin and bones, nothing promising there—from an old trader. No pedigree at all.” But, “No,” he would continue, “I cannot part with her. She isn’t much, but we’re friends, best friends. No, not for any price.”
Perhaps it had been the man’s mother who’d first called him Iskandar the Horseman. Maybe he had always been that way, little, lithe, dark, hairy, with a black mustache like a curry brush. Or maybe it was just a streak of opportunism he had, like the best riders always seeking out the showiest exercise: In any profession, by hook or by crook, he would rise to the top. Was this why Lala Mustafa Pasha had specifically asked for this man?
But now the man had dismounted and stood at attention. Why am I so intimidated by this fellow? Ferhad wondered. He felt if he spoke he would betray something to give that man an edge, so he merely handed Iskandar the written orders. Reading, at least, was his weak point: Let him struggle with it for a while.
“We’re to ride to Hungary, then?” Iskandar asked as soon as he’d made out the gist of the writing.
“Yes.”
“When, sir?”
“As soon as you can get your men together. My men have already been notified. Meet at the Edirne Gate.”
“We’ll be there before noon prayers.”
“Good. I needn’t reiterate how important secrecy is in this mission.”
“It goes without saying.” The little man grinned. Then he whispered so no one else could possibly hear over the pounding of horses’ hooves in the background, “We go to knock off the Grand Vizier’s nephew and you need to remind me it’s a secret?”
Ferhad felt himself grow red—and a little sick. “No one said anything about ‘knocking off. Our orders are merely to speak with the man. ‘Obtain satisfaction concerning the disappearance of Feridun Bay, secretary to the Grand Vizier.’ “
“But we both know what ‘obtain satisfaction’ means.” Iskandar had not been able to read the orders word for word, yet he had read more between the lines than Ferhad had.
“Let us hope it will not come to that,” Ferhad said.
Iskandar grinned in response, then asked, “Was there something else, sir?”
“No. Well, yes. I was wondering what you did with that letter I ordered you to deliver from Sokolli Pasha.”
“I took it to the captain of the ship bound for Cyprus, as you ordered.”
“And no one read it in between?”
“Whatever do you mean, sir?” Iskandar grinned.
Ferhad realized now what was so disconcerting about the grin. It was broken by missing teeth, like a lacunae
