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    “One who can recite all of the Qur’an?” Vlad shook his head. “No.”
    “And yet you can recite much more than almost…anyone else I know.” As he spoke, Hamza suddenly punched Ion on the shoulder. When he stepped out of range with a yelp of outrage, the other two laughed.
    “I…admire it,” replied Vlad. “And I recite it because the words and the thoughts they hold are beautiful and are meant to be spoken aloud, as the Angel Gabriel spoke them to the Prophet, may peace be upon him. On a page they are just words. Out here…”—he waved the air before him—“…they are energy, released.”
    “I think you are intoxicated with words, my young man.” Hamza rested his hand on Vlad’s shoulder, leaned in. “We are alike in that. And perhaps their truth will lead you to other truths. Even to Allah?”
    “Ah, no. That is not the reason I learn and recite. I admire the words, yes, but…”
    Hamza’s smile did not fade. Doubt was good, a stumble away from a fall. “But?”
    Vlad looked up, listened to the last of the ortas leaving, the shouts, laughter, and challenges, as caged youth exploded into freedom. “I learn to know you,” he said. “Truly know you. For the Turk is the power shaking the tree of the world, and your faith is what drives you to do it. Unless I know about that, know everything about you, well…” He looked back, directly into the older man’s eyes. “…How am I ever going to stop you?”
    Two gasps came, from both listeners. Hamza recovered first, withdrawing his hand. “Do you not fear that I will punish you for such talk?” He gestured to the bastinado , which he had left by his floor pillow.
    “For what, effendi ?”
    “For your rebellious thoughts.”
    Vlad frowned. “Why would you be surprised by them? All hostages are children of rebels. That’s why we are hostages—so that our fathers, who rule their lands by Turkish grace—continue to acknowledge their true master. Dracul, my father, gave me and my brother Radu to your…care, five years ago. Not so we’d receive the best education it is possible to have but so that, if he rebels again, you can kill us.”
    Ion reached, took an elbow. “Stop…”
    Vlad shrugged him off. “Why, Ion? Hamza agha knows our story. He has seen hostages come and go, live and die. He helps to give us the best of everything—food, language, philosophy, the arts of war and poetry.” He pointed to his tablet. “They expose us to their faith, one of tolerance and charity, yet they do not force us to convert, for that is against the word of the Holy Qur’an. If all goes well, they send us back to our lands to deal with all their problems there for them, to pay them tribute in gold and boys, and thank them for the privilege. If all goes badly, well…” He smiled. “Then they spill our well-educated brains upon the ground.” He turned back. “Do I speak anything but the truth, effendi ? If so, beat me soundly for a liar, please.”
    Hamza regarded him for a long moment, nothing in his expression. Finally, he said, “How old are you?”
    “I will be seventeen in March,” came the reply.
    “It is too young to have such cynical thoughts.”
    “No, Hamza agha ,” replied Vlad softly, “it is only too young to be able to do anything about them.”
    They stared at each other for a long moment. Then both smiled again, with Ion looking between them, excluded, suddenly jealous. He would never have the intellect of his friend; and he could plainly see that Hamza and Vlad shared something he would never be a part of.
    The silence held, until the Turk rose and turned away. “Go, my hawk,” he said over his shoulder. “Your companion is desperate to fly.”
    Vlad rose, too, but did not go. “ Effendi , do you not leave us soon?”
    The tutor was stooping to collect books. He straightened. “How have you heard what has only just been decided?” When Vlad merely shrugged, he shook his head, continued. “It is true. I travel at