Sir Gaston and Sir Aldred gathered news from the edges of Temesvár’s busier streets, moving with the purposeful ease of men accustomed to sifting truth from rumor. Remy, meanwhile, kept to the merchants. He haggled softly, steadily, with the measured civility of one who preferred coin to conversation yet excelled at both when necessary. Some merchants tried to flatter, others feigned ignorance, but he recognized all their games. He had played them too many times in too many corners of too many lands.

  He negotiated for grain, dried meat, spare leather, pins, thread, salt wrapped in linen, and a pouch of medicinal herbs which the seller insisted came from southern hills kissed by better sun. Remy bought them anyway. It was cheaper than arguing and their quality mattered more than the story behind them.

  His purse stayed healthy. His hidden wealth stayed where it needed to be, buried in scattered earth known only to him. A handful of men might stumble across one of his caches by accident, but without a compass, sextant, or a clock that told precise time, they would be as lost as a drunk navigating by cloud shapes.

  Sometimes he wondered what other men would think of such tools. Perhaps they would become so common that no scholar would marvel at them. But for now they were secrets. And he had to thank the men in Toledo for helping him make these items, though they probably thought it was nothing more than a curio, a toy made for fun.

  Remy stepped out of the market stalls and oriented himself beneath Temesvár’s late morning light. A mental compass unfurled in his mind. After a moment studying the clouds, the river’s curve, the shape of the streets, he made a few adjustments to the route he had planned. Then he rejoined the others, ready to leave Temesvár for Giroc. Southeast toward the Danube’s direction, across open countryside that looked deceptively mild in daylight.

  They rode seventeen miles until they reached Gataia, a village caught between marsh and meadow. Its people eyed the knights with guarded courtesy. After a brief rest they pressed onward, climbing into hillier terrain where the land folded in on itself and the wind grew sharper.

  By evening, the fortress of Vr?ac rose against the sky, a stony crown perched on a hilltop. Its silhouette cut into the clouds with the kind of permanence born from years of standing its ground.

  The thirteenth day since leaving Buda found them riding through the night toward Pancevo, a river town whose lights shimmered faintly across the flatlands. They reached it by dawn. Ten miles farther, they arrived at Belgrade’s massive fortress.

  Here, Remy felt the shift at once. Afterall, Belgrade was not merely a stop, it was a place of change, a knot of histories and ambitions drawn tight around stone walls and the Danube’s restless curves. The fortress loomed vast and rigid, a guardian and a threat in equal measure. Within its shadow stretched a city pulsing with movement.

  Since Szeged, no place had commanded their attention with such authority.

  Belgrade possessed inns large enough for their entire company, markets deep with goods, and a population that felt cut from every corner of the frontier world. Slavic, German, Vlach, and Ragusan merchants argued beneath painted awnings. The streets were crowded, noisy, sharp with scents of smoke, iron, cured meat, and fresh dough slapped flat and thrown toward ovens.

  Its people were a mosaic of nations and faiths.

  Serbs in long tunics. Orthodox priests in black robes. Farmers with broad shoulders and weatherworn faces. Soldiers leaning on long spears. Hungarian merchants with heavier purses than they wished to admit. Garrison men, goldsmiths, millers shouting prices over the din. Vlachs, these lean shepherd tribes who moved like the wind over hills, who tethered their horses with the soft confidence of men who trusted in their beasts more than in walls.

  Saxons hammered metal into clean shapes, smoke rising around them like incense.

  Ragusans from Dubrovnik walked with the quiet pride of men trained in negotiation from birth.

  Greek scribes and clerks arranged ledgers with meticulous care, muttering numbers and blessings in the same breath.

  A few Jewish merchants had set up stalls near the inner quarter, their voices sharp and clever, selling spices and small luxuries. Roma musicians drifted between crowds, playing tunes quick as laughter, while the Roma metalworkers examined broken tools with expert eyes. Horse traders lingered near gates, judging animals and men alike.

  And there were Turks.

  Not many. But enough for the innkeeper to lean toward Remy and whisper that a few might be spies or at least men who wrote down more than they bought. Remy believed it. This was a frontier, and frontiers collected watchful eyes.

  Languages tangled in the air everywhere. Serbian everywhere, the street language, and the most common voice of the crowds. Hungarian were thick in the markets and military quarters. Slavic dialects from Bosnia and Croatia blending into restless voices. German ringing from craftsmen’s rows. Greek from merchants who carried alphabet and coin in equal measure. Italian from Venetians and Ragusans, always slick with diplomacy. Even occasional Ottoman Turkish threaded through the din, mostly emissaries, caravan guards, men testing the waters.

  It was not unusual to hear three or four languages volleyed within a single conversation. Nobody paused to question it. They lived atop crossroads, and crossroads never belonged to silence.

  The markets sprawled in open-air chaos, loud enough to make even Sir Eamon’s voice feel modest. People haggled with such ferocity that it felt more like ritual combat than negotiation. Weights were tested by smashing grain bags on the ground to prove there was no stone hidden inside. A man’s reputation rose or fell with how often he flinched at such displays.

  Popular goods crowded the stalls. Grain shipped from the north; wine and rakija that could warm a man’s chest in a breath; honey and beeswax; wool cloth in plain earth tones; iron tools; leather goods; Balkan cheeses strong enough to silence a squire mid-sentence and salt caravanned from Wallachia.

  When the local nobility learned who they were sheltering, their welcome transformed into ceremony. The host, middle aged, stern-faced, proud in a quiet Serbian way, insisted on honoring them properly. He greeted them with bread and salt, then poured rakija with both hands as though presenting a sacred offering. The Serbs practiced their hospitality with full measure, seating the knights according to rank, blessing every dish with Orthodox prayers that flickered in foreign syllables that most of his companions did not understand.

  Remy noticed some of his companions stiffen. Most were courteous but uneasy. Faith, after all, did not loosen its grip merely because men traveled west or east. But they did not mock the prayers nor refuse the bread. They understood that borders bred tension, but hospitality was a gift that bore its own weight.

  When Remy spoke with their host, in their own tongue, he gained far more than courtesy. The man observed foreign merchants with vigilance but treated them well unless they were Venetian. Venice and Serbia shared a rivalry as old as some of the stone foundations beneath Belgrade, and it colored their dealings. Remy filed that away. Knowledge, even petty animosity, mattered here.

  Men here wore wide leather belts, long tunics belted at the waist, wool cloaks against the wind, and boots hardened by terrain rather than craft. Soldiers favored chainmail and long spears, their shields painted in colors that caught torchlight like hammered bronze.

  The women displayed beauty quietly, white linen blouses embroidered with red thread, long aprons that shifted when they moved, headscarves tied with the comfortable elegance of habit. Silver jewelry glinted at their throats and wrists, simple pieces with intricate engraving.

  Their host, pouring them another round of rakija he insisted was aged in the best casks near Smederevo, lamented that the knights would not remain until St. George’s Day. His voice carried the genuine disappointment of a man who believed the celebration was worth witnessing.

  Remy listened as he described harvest feasts under sprawling skies, dances in spiraling circles, and goats roasted whole over open fires while songs rose loud enough to make the hills answer. Sir Aldred leaned toward Remy once the host stepped away and whispered that he had heard the same, that the festival here was wild but generous, like a fusion of faith, gratitude, wine, and old rites.

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  Remy could imagine it.

  Firelight on the Danube, dancers moving like shadows against the fortress walls, the mingled languages weaving into the night.

  It would have been wonderful.

  Remy was preparing to head out alone when Jehan appeared beside him, already mounted, reins in hand, expression fixed in that stubborn way she used whenever she decided on something. She did not order him to stay, nor scold him like a mother would a reckless child. She simply told him it was not safe for him to wander alone in Belgrade. He did not argue. There was no point in arguing with Jehan when she had already made up her mind. So they rode together through the crowded lower streets and then climbed toward the Kalemegdan Overlook.

  Even he had to admit it was the most beautiful spot in the city. A windswept plateau pressed against the very edge of the fortress, high above the meeting of the Danube and Sava. From here, the horizon opened into plains so wide they swallowed distance. The wind always carried a bite, and the sunsets, he imagined, would ignite the sky in gold and rose if they stayed long enough to watch. The cool air whistled between the stone towers, brushing their cloaks like a quiet greeting.

  Remy tugged at his familiar blue cloak and settled beside Jehan at the edge. Below, fishing boats drifted lazily on the rivers, their hulls cutting soft wakes across the water.

  “Jehan,” he said, his voice low enough that only the wind might overhear. “Do you think the world is flat or a circle?”

  She frowned, not as someone offended by the question but as someone actually considering it. “I do not know,” she said. “I think it is curved. I once climbed a tower and watched the sky for an hour. The sun seemed to bend, almost rise from a curve.” She glanced at him. “But I cannot be sure.”

  “Then you believe it is round?”

  “Lately,” she said softly, “I do not know what to believe. What do you think?”

  He looked across the convergence of rivers and said. “The world is round, and if they have time, I would show you an experiment that would convince you.”

  Jehan smiled, a small, sincere smile that softened her whole face. “I am looking forward to it. You always have fascinating ideas, Sir Remy.”

  They stayed there a few breaths longer, letting the wind pull at their cloaks. Eventually they guided their horses toward the Small Orchard behind the Upper Church, near St. Petka’s area, a quiet place tucked near the cliffs. Apple and plum trees grew in neat rows, tended with the patience only monks possessed.

  One of the monks looked up as they approached. Remy greeted him with the same politeness he used for kings and farmers alike. He told the monk they only wished to watch the orchard’s work, not interfere. The monk nodded, then mentioned that locals believed the spring water nearby brought good fortune to lovers.

  Jehan glanced down at the ground as if pretending not to hear. Remy cleared his throat.

  The monk offered wine as hospitality. Remy accepted the cup, tasted it, and found it sour. But refusing it would have been insulting, so he drank it quietly. Jehan drank hers more easily, though she made a slight face afterward.

  They left the orchard and descended toward the Sava Riverbank at dusk. Below the Lower Town, the Sava’s banks were lined with fishing huts patched with reeds, roofs bending under wind. Rafts creaked as they drifted past. Small boats rocked lazily against makeshift docks. The reeds rustled like whispers.

  The previous evening, Remy had seen the whole river glow silver beneath the moon. He remembered how still it had been, like molten metal poured across the land.

  They lingered only a short while before moving on again. The day turned into aimless wandering through Belgrade, letting their horses choose the direction more often than they did.

  Belgrade was carved from stone, timber, and Balkan practicality. No unnecessary decoration, no wasted effort. Its skyline was dominated by the Upper Fortress, the Gornji Grad standing defiantly above the confluence of the two rivers. High stone walls. Circular towers beside square ones. Thick battlements shaped for war, not beauty. A deep, dry moat that wrapped the fortress like a scar. Wooden gates reinforced with iron bars that gleamed even in low light. From a distance, the place looked unbreakable.

  In the Lower Town, the Donji Grad, most buildings were one or two stories at most, timber and plaster houses pressed close together. Wattle and daub walls, wooden beams, heavy thatched roofs that sagged in places. Some had wooden shingles. Their windows were small, covered by shutters or oiled parchment that let in just enough light for daily work.

  A few stone houses rose among them, those with tile roofs belonging to wealthier families or officials. Orthodox churches were modest, small domes rising over round apses. Their interiors were frescoed in rich colors, though the dust of the streets clung to everything. The alleys were narrow, twisting, and often muddy. Animals roamed freely, pigs nosing through refuse, chickens scurrying under carts, goats bleating at nothing, stray dogs weaving between people.

  All that beauty, fortress, rivers, ancient stones and yet beneath it all still lay the stubborn truth that dung was everywhere.

  Remy always hated that.

  At night, the taverns glowed warm with candlelight. Music filled the city. Balkan flutes. Gusle strings that hummed like old stories. Wine flowed freely, and so did plum brandy that could numb a man’s tongue in a heartbeat. Remy and Jehan shared a jug of wine at one tavern, listening to traveling musicians. Dancers formed rings and danced kolo under torchlight, their steps quick and precise, their laughter carrying above the music.

  Belgrade still held the bones of ancient Rome. Fragments of walls, bits of foundations, stones etched with worn Latin. The past pressed against the present everywhere.

  Jehan watched the dancers and the firelit streets with a gaze softer than usual. She did not smile often, but tonight she did. After a while she spoke quietly, as though afraid someone would pry the words from her and mock them.

  “I wish,” she said, “that we would see more sights like these.”

  Remy heard the tremor beneath her voice, not uncertainty, but longing. He noted it, tucked it away like he tucked away useful knowledge. Then, before he could stop himself, a sad smile pulled at his lips. It was not her fault. He wished the same.

  He had time. He always had time.

  But she… he doubted she did.

  He looked at her, and a strange ache settled in his chest. She stared at the river, unaware. The torchlight softened her features. The wind lifted strands of her hair. She appeared younger for a moment, or perhaps simply happier. Either way, it made something sharp twist in him.

  He lowered his gaze first.

  They stayed until the tavern began to empty and the musicians started packing their instruments. When they stepped outside, the night air was cool and smelled faintly of smoke, damp stone, and river water. The fortress loomed above them, its towers lit by scattered torches.

  As they walked back toward their lodging, Jehan kept a steady pace beside him. She did not speak, not at first. The silence was comfortable. She seemed content merely to share the night with him. He felt the same, though he would never admit it aloud.

  Finally she said, “You often speak of the world as if you have seen all of it.”

  “I have seen enough,” he answered.

  “And yet you want to see more.”

  He thought about that. “I suppose I do.”

  She hesitated. “Do you think… do you think we will see Jerusalem alive?”

  He did not answer immediately. The question carried more weight than she intended. He sensed the hope in her voice, and the worry. He knew the dangers ahead.

  So he simply said, “I intend to.”

  Jehan seemed reassured. She nodded once, and walked beside him without speaking again.

  Later, inside the dim inn where the others slept, Remy removed his cloak and stood by the window. The city glowed faintly under the moon. He could hear faint echoes of singing, distant laughter, the barking of a dog.

  Jehan’s words circled in his head. I wish we would see more sights like these.

  He wished the same. He wished it fiercely enough that it surprised him.

  But wishes did not change what waited ahead.

  He looked out at the rivers meeting beneath the fortress, two forces converging into one. The world moved like that, always merging, always changing shape.

  He wondered how much of this she would live to see.

  He hoped, quietly, bitterly, that fate would not answer his question too soon.