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Bertrandon de la Broquière stood on the deck of the small merchant galley, hands clasped behind him, watching the rugged shoreline of the Morea fade against a dusty, pink horizon. The wind ruffled his hair and tugged at the loose sleeves of his traveling cloak. Seagulls cried overhead, circling in long, lazy arcs. It should have felt serene, a moment of respite in a sea of uncertainty. Yet there was an unease clinging to him like salt on the skin, and it had little to do with the threat of pirates or storms.

Iskandar stood not far from him, gazing at the same view, though with eyes that seemed to see a different landscape altogether. In the weeks since Glarentza, Bertrandon had come to sense that beneath the scholar's polite smiles and well-chosen words pulsed an urgency bordering on desperation.

They were bound for Canea, the Venetian port on the Northwestern tip of Crete. Word around the docks claimed it was a vibrant waystation for ships headed east. Bertrandon, as Duke Philip's envoy, believed he'd simply accompany Iskandar as far as Antalya—gathering intelligence. But with every new port, the Tatar scholar's path seemed less incidental and more deliberate.

When at last, they stepped ashore in Canea, the heat and the clamor greeted them like a bracing slap. Fishermen shouted prices in a blend of Greek and Italian, while Venetian factors—merchant agents—bickered with local dockworkers over cargo fees. The stench of fish and brine mixed with the sweet aroma of spices from stalls whose owners hailed from Euboea, Cyprus, or farther east still.

It was there, amid the chaos of the docks, that Bertrandon and Iskandar encountered yet another swirl of rumor: Ottoman pirates threat pressing more profound into the Aegean, and always, always the talk of how the Morea clung to its new innovations—books, and printing—for a semblance of power in an era of swords.

That evening, over a simple meal of boiled octopus and bread, Bertrandon ventured onto delicate ground. "You seem...preoccupied. More than a man simply traveling for study," he said, voice low.

Iskandar regarded him calmly, swirling watered-down wine in a tin cup. "Knowledge, my Burgundian friend, can be as sharp as any blade. Perhaps sharper. The Byzantines have lost their advantage over centuries of complacency. Yet if they had harnessed knowledge—true, transformative ideas—maybe they would not be in such peril."

Bertrandon leaned forward, drawn in despite himself. "You suggest knowledge could reverse their decline?"

Iskandar offered a tight smile. "Or inspire the ordinary man to question why he must bow so low to power. Why must the fisherman in Canea or the farmer in Thrace remain at the mercy of an emperor or sultan who barely knows their names?"

Bertrandon heard passion simmering beneath the scholarly tone. "Are you speaking of a...rebellion?"

Iskandar did not answer directly. Instead, he let the question hang between them. They passed the rest of the meal discussing the day's impressions—Venetian influence, local customs—maintaining an air of polite detachment. But in the hush of the inn's cramped quarters, while Bertrandon tried to sleep, he could still feel the weight of Iskandar's unspoken convictions pressing in like the humid night air.

From Canea, they secured passage to Candia. The galley was larger this time, and the captain was an affable Venetian who regaled them with tall tales of sea monsters and legendary storms. While Bertrandon took in the banter, Iskandar remained withdrawn, perched on a bench by the helm, scribbling notes in a small leather-bound book.

One evening at sea, Bertrandon mustered the nerve to sit beside him. "You work so diligently on that manuscript."

Iskandar barely looked up. "Just reflections. Observations of what I see and hear."

Bertrandon inclined his head, adopting a casual tone. "If you ever care to share..."

"Perhaps one day," Iskandar replied, shutting the book quietly. "For now, it's simply the jumble of a restless mind."

Once they landed in Candia, Bertrandon observed the usual bustle—Venetian governance stamped firmly on local life. But he also noticed how Iskandar sought out certain people, visiting libraries and discussing theology in hushed corners of monasteries. The Tatar's outward persona was that of a wandering intellectual, politely curious, seeking to exchange knowledge with whoever might share it. Yet Bertrandon felt that intangible tension follow them—like a shadow never far behind.

The final leg to Rhodes brought a heightened sense of watchfulness. The Knights Hospitaller fortress loomed large, its ramparts reflecting the last glow of sunset. Here, the talk was more military in tone—how the knights stood guard against the Ottomans and how the seas must remain free for Latin commerce. In the narrow corridors of the fortress, Bertrandon listened to boasts of fortifications, canons, and cunning ramparts. But not all defenses were physical, he realized, as he glimpsed Iskandar slipping away to speak privately with a local Greek merchant.

Later, in the fortress courtyard, their conversation resumed:

"Rhodes is a symbol," Iskandar observed, voice echoing against the stone walls. "A bastion of knighthood and faith—but faith alone might not save them from the Ottomans."

Bertrandon gave a slow nod. "Your words, my friend, carry a sense of urgency. As though time is running out."

Iskandar's face betrayed nothing, but his voice trembled with quiet intensity. "Time always runs out, Bertrandon. For men and for empires. The question is whether we reshape the world before it does."

They parted for the night, but Bertrandon lay awake in his cramped bunk, replaying Iskandar's words. Somewhere in that gentle scholar's calm stare was a storm brewing—one that might well redraw maps and topple rulers.

And still Bertrandon could not ascertain the full scope of Iskandar's mission.

Alone in his quarters—whether on the ship or in a cramped tavern—Iskandar worked by candlelight on the manifesto that would spread Sheikh Bedreddin's vision: unity of faiths and equality among all peoples. Each sentence demanded careful crafting. The words had to inspire without arousing immediate alarm. They had to travel widely, slip through port cities, and echo in the hearts of Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike.

He reflected on Bertrandon's curiosity, recognizing the Burgundian's skill at observation. Still, he did not yet trust him fully. For all his warmth, Bertrandon remained an agent of Duke Philip—whose political aims might or might not coincide with Bedreddin's dream of a more just world.

So Iskandar locked away his true intent behind mild smiles and academic commentary. He would use the next weeks, months—however long it took—to position himself where the seeds of rebellion could be sown and nurtured.

Their arrival at Antalya came at dawn, the sky a palette of pale gold and soft rose. Bertrandon leaned over the ship's rail, marveling at the view. Tall walls embraced a sprawling city, each district enclosed behind its own gate. The port, known as the Mina, teemed with foreign merchants—Muslim, Venetian, Catalan—discussing deals in a cacophony of tongues.

Iskandar stood beside him, silently absorbing the sight. From the tilt of his head, Bertrandon guessed he was reading more than just the architecture—he was gauging the city's pulse, its fractures, and perhaps its potential for dissidence.

They made their way past Ottoman guards. The Christian quarter stood behind stout walls; gates that slammed shut at dusk, effectively corralling foreigners within. Another quarter housed the Jews—each group living separate lives under the watchful eye of local authorities. Minarets pierced the skyline, calling the faithful to prayer.

In a nearby bazaar, the fragrance of dried apricots—Qamar ad-Din—mingled with spiced meats and honey cakes. Antalya's famed fruit, with its sweet almond kernel, was on display everywhere, basketfuls shining in the sunlight. Bertrandon noted how the city's prosperity flowed from trade routes tying West to East. But he also sensed tension: armed gendarmes patrolled with deliberate pacing, and merchant whispers hinted at rising taxes and conscriptions.

He and Iskandar took rooms in a modest khan near the port, its inner courtyard bustling with caravans carrying silks and dyes. By midday, they found a moment's quiet in the shade of an orange tree.

"Remarkable, is it not?" Bertrandon murmured, eyeing a troop of Ottoman soldiers marching down the street. "A city so alive, and yet so carefully cordoned."

Iskandar's gaze flicked toward the soldiers. "Separation is a way to manage tension. Keep each group walled off, literally and figuratively. A city of compartments can be a ticking clock—if one compartment catches fire, the rest might only smolder or, if handled poorly, burn the entire structure."

His voice carried a certain satisfaction, as though these divided quarters confirmed a suspicion. Bertrandon looked at him, half expecting a lecture on tolerance and unity, but Iskandar's face was unreadable.

They passed the next day among various traders. Bertrandon picked up scraps of information on local administration, the Sultan's latest decrees. Iskandar, for his part, found a quiet bookseller who specialized in Greek and Arabic texts. He spent hours in hushed conversation, occasionally slipping the man small coins or a slip of parchment.

By the second evening, Bertrandon could stay silent no longer. "You're planting seeds, aren't you?" he asked over dinner, voice barely above a whisper.

Iskandar offered a faint, tired smile. "I am a wandering scholar, nothing more."

Bertrandon studied him. "Then you have the oddest reading list I've ever encountered."

For a moment, Iskandar looked ready to reply candidly. But he simply sipped his tea, leaving Bertrandon to realize that in Antalya—where tension simmered and watchers lurked around every corner—they best keep their words guarded.

Late Night Encounter

Iskandar moved quietly through Antalya's back streets, a single lantern guiding his way. By day, the city's bustle and fragrant bazaars concealed a thousand secrets behind color and spice. But under darkness, even faint footsteps on cobblestones seemed loud enough to stir suspicion. He pulled the hood of his cloak low, mindful of passing patrols that paid too-close attention to strangers. A whispered hint from a Greek fisherman had directed him to a modest courtyard behind a row of shuttered workshops.

At the far end stood a nondescript wooden door, its iron hinges rusted by the sea air. With a quick glance behind him, Iskandar rapped softly. The door creaked open to reveal a single narrow-eyed man—Mustafa, his distant cousin and fellow devotee of the late Sheikh Bedreddin. A cautious recognition dawned in Mustafa's gaze, and he ushered Iskandar inside without a word.

Within the cramped, firelit room, a small circle of men had gathered—Turks, Greeks, and even a solitary Jewish merchant. Though they froze at the intrusion, Mustafa raised a placating hand. "He is kin and a friend," he said quietly, closing the door. "His heart belongs to the same cause."

Iskandar removed his hood, offering a slight bow to the assembly. The air smelled of oil lamps and old parchment. "Peace be upon you," he said, voice low.

As the watchers relaxed, Mustafa guided him to a battered stool in the corner. They sat face-to-face, the lamplight carving hollows in Mustafa's cheeks. "Cousin," Mustafa began, speaking in hushed Ottoman Turkish, "I feared for your life after Karaburun. And still you come to the wolf's lair, here in the Sultan's domain?"

Iskandar offered a faint, rueful smile. "Karaburun taught me that the dream isn't dead—only in hiding. We lost many good people, but Bedreddin's vision remains a spark."

Mustafa's gaze flicked over the others, lingering on a heavily veiled woman who nodded in silent agreement. "I've built this small circle on that same belief. We gather quietly, sharing teachings. Poetry, philosophy—the essence of Bedreddin's unity. No quarter is safe anymore, least of all here, but we hold fast to his words."

The mention of Sheikh Bedreddin summoned a pang of memory: the cries on that fateful day, the smoke and shattered illusions. Iskandar gently exhaled before leaning in. "What about the rest?" he asked. "The broader network—those who still follow him?"

Mustafa's expression hardened. "You know the noose tightens daily. Yet word arrives from across the empire. The largest community of our brethren now flourishes far to the north, in Dobruja and Deliorman. They gather in secret, reading Bedreddin's works. It's said they're growing bolder by the year."

"Dobruja… Deliorman," Iskandar repeated, nodding thoughtfully. Visions of Bulgaria's rolling plains and thick forests floated in his mind. He thought of stirring up a second wave of rebellion, carried by a tide of people ready to reclaim dignity. "You're sure they can be trusted?"

Mustafa let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "Trust is in short supply, cousin. But the hunger for justice runs deeper. They look to us for some sign—a spark to kindle the fire again."

Across the room, one of the circle members—a thin Greek man with a patchy beard—caught Iskandar's eye. In that fleeting moment, Iskandar read the raw hope mingled with fear, the silent plea for direction.

"I'm writing a new manifesto," Iskandar said at last, keeping his voice measured. "One that speaks to all faiths and tongues, just as Bedreddin taught. Something to pass from hand to hand without drawing the guard's suspicion. We sow seeds in the mind first—if we're careful, they'll blossom before the Sultan even knows they've been planted."

Mustafa studied him for a heartbeat, then placed a hand on Iskandar's shoulder. "Your words always carried weight. Bedreddin trusted you. I will do the same."

For a moment, the little group fell silent. Even the crackle of the oil lamps seemed to fade. In that hush, Iskandar felt the gravity of the mission he had carried so far, from the ashes of Karaburun to the labyrinth of Antalya.

"You realize the danger," he said, voice trembling with the aftershock of old traumas. "Once we commit to this path, there's no retreat."

Mustafa nodded solemnly. "We know. But this is the path we have chosen—one that Sheikh Bedreddin paved with his blood. If not us, then who?"

Iskandar closed his eyes briefly, remembering the nights he spent drafting and redrafting paragraphs of the manifesto, trying to distill hope and courage onto a few pages. "I will send copies north," he said, opening his eyes to meet Mustafa's steady gaze. "To Dobruja, to Deliorman. And beyond. With luck, we'll rally those who share our dreams."

They spoke a while longer, discussing code words, routes through the mountains, and the dangerous possibility of infiltration by the Sultan's spies. Some of the circle's members promised to help smuggle pages of the manifesto inside shipments of grain heading to the Black Sea coast.