Chapter Eleven
Danilo left the hall as Konstantin approached it. Though normally a cheerful boy, he seemed wary, and Konstantin could guess why. A delegation from the sultan made all of them nervous. But Rivak wasn’t strong enough to break their bonds of vassalage, so they would have to remain subservient, no matter how distasteful they found service to the enemy who had slaughtered Konstantin’s father and most of Rivak’s army on the banks of the Maritsa. The Serbs were trapped, and the longer they did the sultan’s will, the stronger he grew, and the less likely they were to ever regain their freedom.
Slavonic words spoken with a Turkish tongue carried to the corridor. “Arslan asks if the boy is Darras’s son.”
A chill crept along Konstantin’s spine. He didn’t want the Turks taking an interest in his cousin. He ran a hand over the top of Danilo’s head. “Go see how your mother is doing,” he whispered.
Grigorii sidestepped the question from the Turk. “You knew Darras?”
Turkish words preceded a Slavonic translation. “They fought together when Lala Şahin Pasha led us to victory at Edirne.”
Konstantin had sent Miladin to fetch a few members of the garrison so they would outnumber the Turkish delegation, and when Miladin arrived with Bojan and Kuzman, Konstantin entered his hall.
He was the sultan’s vassal, but his father and uncle had given their lives for their people. He wouldn’t desecrate their memory with apology or excuse. “It was my uncle’s desire to atone for the battle of Adrianople that led him to Maritsa.” Konstantin used the city’s Christian name rather than its newer Ottoman title. “That, and his loyalty to my father and to the Serbian kral.”
When the translation was complete, Konstantin continued. “Welcome. We are prepared to offer hospitality to the sultan’s envoy.”
The envoy scanned the worn tables and faded tapestries before nodding his acceptance.
Konstantin sent a servant for food. He was new, one of the merophs who had lost his crops in the fire. As he left, Konstantin introduced himself and his men. “I am Župan Konstantin Miroslavević.” He gestured to the others. “My satnik, Grigorii, and Miladin, Kuzman, and Bojan.”
The Turkish delegation introduced themselves in turn. The envoy’s name was Arslan. The one who spoke Slavonic was Esel. The third was Hamdi.
A pair of servants brought bread, wine, and juice, in case the Turks did not wish to partake of alcohol. Arslan chose the juice, and the others followed, either from religious devotion or a show of it.
The translator addressed Konstantin. “We have come from Župan Teodore’s grody, and next, we will visit the lands of Župan Dragomir. The duties of your vassalage will require the payment of tribute promptly in the spring, and you will bring it to the sultan along with the army you have been instructed to maintain.”
Konstantin did his best to keep a calm face. Military service had been part of his vow of vassalage. He had hoped it wouldn’t come, but the summons did not surprise him. “How many men will be required from Rivak?”
“Four score.”
Kuzman’s lips parted, Grigorii frowned, Miladin put a hand over his mouth, and Bojan shook his head slowly. The number was more than triple their current garrison. Only men hired with Suzana’s dowry would allow them to meet the requirement.
“Come spring,” Konstantin said, “we will be prepared to meet the sultan’s demands.”
Arslan raised an eyebrow when the translation was made. He didn’t seem convinced, and no doubt, the reaction of Konstantin’s men hadn’t helped. “We plan to winter in Serbia,” he said through the translator. “Given the location of your župa, we hope to spend the majority of our time in Rivakgrad.”
Bojan and Miladin showed disdain in their hardened expressions. Konstantin suspected Rivakgrad’s central location was only part of the reasoning. The man would also want to verify that Rivak could meet its obligations. If not, whatever military campaign the sultan planned for the spring might be compromised.
“We will ensure you have all you need while you remain,” Konstantin said. Rivak’s coffers were leaking, but the delegation was blessedly small, and Suzana’s dowry was blessedly large.
When Suzana heard rumor of an Ottoman delegation, she felt a stir of curiosity. Rivak was her home now, and if the Ottoman sultan played a role in its existence, she ought to learn all she could. But she also felt fear. She’d heard nothing good about the Turks, not ever. They were dangerous, powerful, and threatening: all attributes she tried to avoid whenever possible.
Danilo walked into the corridor, looking subdued.
“Is everything all right, Danilo?” she asked.
“A delegation of Turks has arrived. They are our enemies . . . and our masters.” He continued to a door at the end of the corridor and knocked. His mother answered.
“Grigorii told me I should leave, and Kostya told me I should find you,” Danilo said. “The envoy asked about Father.”
Dama Zorica cupped the boy’s cheek in her hand. “Your father’s connection to the Ottomans is complicated. Perhaps it’s wise to keep your distance, at least until we know more about the envoys. Will you check on Ivan for me?”
Danilo nodded. He smiled at Suzana as he walked past her again, apparently eased by his mother’s explanation, or by his task.
“What do you think the Ottomans want?” Suzana asked.
Dama Zorica folded her arms. “We owe them tribute but not until the spring. We also owe them military service, and perhaps the envoys are making a request now so we have time to prepare. I hope it’s something else . . . the last time a župan of Rivak rode off to war, he didn’t return.”
“Is Danilo in danger?” Suzana didn’t know the boy well, but he had a kind smile, and she admired his loyalty to his cousin.
“Probably not, but his father might have been.”
“Why?” She assumed Dama Zorica’s husband was the uncle Konstantin had lost at Maritsa.
“I suppose it’s time you heard that story.” Dama Zorica motioned her into the room.
Suzana took in the writing desk, the ledger, the trunks and papers. A counting room, or a strongroom. Her father had one much like it.
“My husband—Darras—was an Ottoman.” Dama Zorica sat on the stool in front of the ledger. “He fought for the sultan for a time. Was part of the army that took Adrianople. When Lala Şahin Pasha wished to take full credit for the victory, he poisoned his rival and threatened anyone who didn’t bend to his version of events. Darras was faithful to the murdered bey and thus became the pasha’s enemy. He was desperate enough to turn to a group of Christian travelers for help, my brother among them. Miroslav saved him, and despite all their differences, they became fast friends.”
Dama Zorica closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. “He made a good impression on me. So strong and handsome, wise beyond his years. There had been talk of my marrying Župan Teodore, whose župa borders our lands. But when it came time, I found that I preferred Darras. He converted to Christianity, and then we were married.”
“Were you happy?” Something in Dama Zorica’s voice suggested a lasting loss, and Suzana wanted to know if marriage to a warrior could really produce the type of union a woman would still grieve over even years later.
Dama Zorica nodded. “Very. I still miss him. Personally, because I loved him. And because times were better then, more secure, more prosperous. Konstantin does his best, but Maritsa left Rivak weak and poor. It’s hard to recover from something so devastating.” She tapped a leather-bound book lying on the table. “Even our ledger is leaking.”
Suzana had spent hours with her father, learning how to manage his payments and receipts, how to track profits and losses, how to spot errors. “Your ledger is leaking?”
One of Dama Zorica’s shoulders rose in a gesture of frustration. “Perhaps only the money chest. The protovastar died recently.” She forced a wan smile. “Konstantin and I will figure it out well before we add your dowry to the box.”
Suzana didn’t want to meddle where she wasn’t wanted, but Rivak was to be her home now, and she suspected the protovastar had died in the attack meant to kill her. “Do you need help? My father was most precise with his funds, and he taught me.”
Dama Zorica’s brow knit in confusion. “Your father taught you?”
“Is that so surprising?”
A flush grew on Dama Zorica’s face. “From what I heard of your father, I was under the impression that he does not value a woman’s mind. But I do not doubt you. Please, come see.” She slid her stool to the side and pulled another over for Suzana.
Suzana wasn’t sure what to think. Dama Isidora thought it wrong that her father called her stupid. Dama Zorica thought it surprising that her father trusted her with his ledger. Suzana had never known anything other than how her father treated her. She was his child—and he trusted blood. He’d tried to hire others but had quickly grown frustrated with them. She, however, knew his methods and expectations. “My father was not always so sharp with me. He taught me when I was younger. He grew less patient, more critical after—” Suzana stopped herself. Some secrets were best kept hidden. “After I was a little older.”
“I see.” Dama Zorica looked as if she wanted to ask more, but she turned to the ledger and pointed out its most recent entries. “We’re missing at least two hyperpyra. That might not seem like much, but we have many wages to pay and a large tribute to make.”
Together they looked through several pages of taxes and expenditures. The man who had written the numbers had possessed a steady hand for his small script. Suzana double-checked all the arithmetic but found no errors in the addition and subtraction. “The numbers look correct, but someone could, in theory, record a different number than what was collected. Skim off part of the taxes, so to speak.”
Dama Zorica looked thoughtful. “I hate to doubt the dead, but it’s best we know for sure.” She stood and took a book from the shelf, one much smaller, and brought it to the table. “This lists the hearth taxes.”
Suzana looked at the numbers and searched the ledger for their entry.
Muffled laughter echoed through the hallway, then Danilo and Ivan tried to sneak past.
Dama Zorica stood. “Ivan, what are you doing out of bed?”
The boy gave his aunt an impish grin. “I can stand today without getting dizzy. We’re going to spy on the Turks.”
Dama Zorica followed the boys out into the hall. “Last time you were ill, you stopped your convalescence too early and had a relapse. You will rest today. In your bedchamber, not about the keep’s corridors.”
“But I feel fine!” Ivan’s lower lip stuck out in a pout. “And the Turks won’t suspect us. Plus, I’ve already missed three days of training. I’m falling behind.”
Dama Zorica took her son’s wrist in her right hand and her nephew’s in the left. “If you still feel fine tomorrow, I will consider letting you go back to your lessons with Father Vlatko. After you’ve managed that several days in a row, we can discuss a return to your martial training.” She met Suzana’s eyes. “I’ll be back later.”
Suzana smiled at the boys, one loyal and sweet, the other stubborn and spirited. She liked them both. When they left, she continued her study of the ledger and the hearth taxes, and soon a pattern emerged. For every ten coins charged by the hearth tax, only eight had been entered into the ledger. Perhaps an incomplete amount was collected from time to time? Homes burned. Merophs died or ran away. But the ratio of taxes charged to funds listed remained constant as she looked through the sheets. That was no coincidence.
“Suzana? What are you doing here?”
She looked up to see Konstantin in the doorway. She swallowed. Was he angry? She couldn’t tell, but her father would have been furious to find someone looking through his records without his express permission. “Dama Zorica accepted my help, then she went to see to the boys.”
Konstantin glanced at the papers laid before her, then over his shoulder. “We should have a guard nearby.”
She glanced at the chest, where she assumed the coins were stored. “I promise I haven’t taken anything.”
“That was not my concern. My worry is so many of Rivak’s most valuable assets being all together in the same room with no one to guard you or the coins.”
He stepped closer, and it was just like she was back in her father’s home. Suzana had committed some infraction, and now her father would strike her. She pulled back in fear with a single hand raised to block the blow before realizing Konstantin did not intend to cuff her across the head. He’d only been moving toward the window.
He didn’t make it that far. His eyes studied her as he backed away, giving her space in the same way he might to calm a wounded animal. “Aunt Zorica said you were afraid of something. I didn’t realize it was me.”
Suzana’s eyes burned, and she avoided his gaze. She could lie, tell him she wasn’t frightened of him, but that wasn’t true, not completely. He was capable of death; she’d seen that in the tent. He had the power to hurt her—and given enough time, didn’t people with power always use it?
He slumped onto the bench. “You thought I was going to hit you?”
She swallowed again, fear still driving her words. “It is what my father would have done had he found someone looking at his papers without his knowledge.”
“What have I done to make you think I might hit you?”
“That is what men do, isn’t it? When they are displeased with betrothed or wife or daughter.”
He rubbed an eyebrow, and his expression seemed pained. “No, Suzana, that is not what most men do. Your father did?”
She nodded.
Konstantin’s face tensed. “He shouldn’t have hit you, and I’ll never let him hit you again.” He seemed sincere, perhaps even more when he continued. “And I give you my word that I will never strike you.”
“But I am certain to one day disappoint or anger you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ll hit you. Family is not about control and violence. It’s about love and supporting each other. Please believe me, Suzana. Whatever type of family life you had before, this will be different. Better. I want you to believe me. I want to earn your trust, but I’m not sure how.”
Her gaze fell on his hands. He hadn’t hurt her with them, yet, but could she trust that he would really never turn his power against her? “I have not lived here long enough to recognize what type of control you exercise over your family, but you are very capable with the sword.”
“I have worked hard to gain skill with the sword. But I use it only to defend my family and my lands.” He looked away. “I will also be forced to use it to serve the sultan’s wishes in the coming spring, but in a way that is also for my people. I am less of a župan than I wish to be, but they are better off with me as leader, I think, than as subjects of the Turks.”
It all came down to if she could believe what he told her, but words and actions were different things. “Were you not angry when you saw me looking at your ledger?”
“I was unhappy that no one was nearby to protect you. Someone tried to kill you. I don’t want another attempt here in the grody, so I arranged extra guards. They should have been nearby, especially now, with three Ottoman strangers in our midst.”
She replayed the scene in her mind, trying to look at it from his perspective. Her, alone, where he hadn’t expected her. He’d been surprised, but he’d done nothing that should have made her brace for a strike. “I wasn’t meant to be alone for long. Your aunt planned to return once the boys are settled. Ivan wanted to return to training, and she wished him to rest another day.”
Part of Konstantin’s mouth pulled up. “My aunt is capable of many things, but she is not usually armed. I imagine any murderers will be.” He leaned forward on the bench, balancing his arms on his legs. “Did you find anything among the papers?”
Suzana had been momentarily distracted by the way the slight smile had changed Konstantin’s face, but she pulled her eyes away and brushed her hands along the ledger. “It seems not all the taxes being collected are making their way into your strongroom.”
“What?” He stood and came to look over her shoulder.
She found the proper hearth tax and then the corresponding line in the ledger. “See here and here.”
He leaned closer, then pulled the extra stool around. “May I sit beside you?”
“You may.”
He gave her his undivided attention as she pointed out all the errors, all the times Rivak had been made weaker by theft. At first, she had difficulty relaxing—they were alone, and she had rarely been alone with a man other than her father. Konstantin was close enough that their arms brushed once or twice. But gradually, she felt easier in his presence. He listened to her, and if he held anger for how someone had taken advantage of him, she felt none of it directed at her. When she turned to him, she found that his profile was pleasant. His face had strength, and maybe strength didn’t always have to mean danger.
He leaned back when they finished. “What a fool I was not to check. My father trusted Čučimir, so I continued to trust him. If I would have spent even a little time ensuring all was accurate . . .” His jaw hardened, and he shook his head. Then he turned to her, and his face softened. “Thank you, Suzana. I’m very grateful to you.”
“You are welcome, my lord.”
He raised his eyebrow. “I’ll soon be your husband. There’s no need to call me lord.”
“Very well, Konstantin. I am glad I could help.”
He kept his eyes on her, and she sensed approval. “You are skilled with numbers.”
“Thank you. My father taught me.”
“When he wasn’t beating you?”
She nodded. Her throat felt dry, just at the mention of her father.
“If I didn’t . . .” Konstantin trailed off, then began again. “I don’t even want to extend hospitality to him, knowing what he did to you.”
“It was within his rights. His priest agreed.”
Konstantin huffed. “Any priest who would agree to that cares more about his benefactor’s money than he does about God’s laws of right and wrong. If I didn’t need your dowry so much, I’d banish him from the wedding ceremony. Will it frighten you to see him again?”
Suzana straightened her back. “I can be brave because you do need the dowry very badly, don’t you?”
He looked away, and the slight color in his cheeks suggested embarrassment. “Yes. I have merophs who have lost all their crops and need to be fed. And come spring, I am to march with an army of eighty trained men to serve however the sultan wishes. I’m to bring a tribute payment as well. I don’t have the money, and I have only twenty-five men-at-arms. No, twenty-four now. And I’ll need to leave some behind to protect the grad and the villages.” He tapped at the ledger. “Will you help me figure out how many men I can afford to hire?”
“Gladly.” Suzana had been in Rivakgrad only a day, and she’d already found her way to the ledgers. In a way, it was familiar. But other aspects of her new home were far different from her last home, especially when it came to the man who ruled. Different—and better.