SIX
“Murdered,” I repeated flatly. “The Emparch of all Akhaia. Pull the other leg, why don’t you?”
Tarquin’s jaw tightened. “This is not a laughing matter.”
Akhaia was a fading empire. When the Margrave of Kynthessa had declared his province independent from the Emparchy, he’d launched a long bloody conflict now known as the Thirty Years’ War. In the two hundred years since, several other territories had broken away to form smaller republics and city-states. But despite its decline, our neighbor to the north remained formidable. As the largest country on the continent and the birthplace of our culture, Akhaia cast a long shadow.
I leaned forward. “Why do these Theucinians want you dead? What is it you’re carrying—a letter or something?”
“Yes.” He stared hard at the lantern, its wavering red light reflected in the darks of his eyes. I got the sense he was trying to decide exactly what to tell me. “After Valonikos seceded from the Emparchy to become its own city-state, certain distant members of the royal line continued to reside there. In exile, of course. The Emparch has”—he corrected himself—“had no use for them. Not until now. The message I carry is vital to the future of Akhaia.”
When he stopped, I gestured expectantly. “Well?”
“Well what?”
I ground my teeth. “What’s in the letter?”
“It’s a secret, obviously.” Tarquin drew himself up. “If I told every common river laborer my business, I wouldn’t be much of a courier, would I?”
In my extreme curiosity, I was willing to ignore the slight. “What happened to the Emparch?”
“He’s been assassinated.” His voice was hoarse. “By Konto Theucinian, who by the grace of the gods was once born the Emparch’s own cousin.”
“Once?”
His nostrils flared. “A man who murders his own blood has no honor. He is not a man. The Theucinians have always been bitter because their line didn’t inherit the Emparchy in the Succession of 1328. Preposterous, of course.”
He dropped into the seat opposite me, downing his drink in one swallow. “I don’t know how long they’ve been planning the coup, but Konto Theucinian has attacked the palace and seized the throne.”
I remembered Commander Keros’s haste to get to the Akhaian capital. This had to be what he was talking about when he said there was unrest. But if word of the Emparch’s murder had already trickled south, why were the Black Dogs so intent on hunting down Tarquin? His news wasn’t exactly a secret. Something was missing in his story—and that wasn’t the only thing bothering me.
“You’re the one they sent?” I eyed him doubtfully. With his high and mighty mannerisms and that silk robe, he would stick out like a sore thumb in the riverlands. Not to mention he didn’t seem very experienced. “Surely you can’t be the consulate’s best.”
“I don’t know what you’d know about it,” he muttered. “It’s due to the influence of my father that I have a diplomatic posting, despite my youth.”
“Who’s your father?”
“He’s on the Emparch’s council. I”—his voice cracked—“I don’t know if he made it out of the palace.” His hand trembled on the checkered tablecloth. He saw me looking and pulled it into his lap.
We sat in silence as the lantern flickered, long enough for it to feel awkward. Much as it annoyed me to admit, he was right. I wished I’d never opened the box. Pa and I were smugglers, but it wasn’t as swashbuckling as it sounded. Sometimes we buried a shipment in a hidden cache or gave a tariff agent the slip in the dead of night, but most days we just sailed from port to port. Nothing had prepared me for being in a scrape like this. The commander should’ve taken Pa’s suggestion and given the crate to the Bollards—I was in far over my head.
“All right.” Taking down a chart from the shelf, I unrolled it and spread it on the table. “This is us.” I jabbed my finger on the snakelike line that marked the River Thrush. “And this is the Free City of Valonikos.”
Tarquin waved his hand. “I have no intention of going to Valonikos. Not now that I’m awake.”
“Oh, well, la-di-da.” I was nearing the end of my patience. “Where do you intend to go, then?”
“Casteria.”
He traced the River Thrush on the map until he came to the fork, where he drew a line not up the River Kars toward Valonikos, but down through Nemertes Water, past Iantiporos. He didn’t stop until he got to the Neck, the great narrow bay that lay many miles to the south.
I flattened my palms on the map. “No.”
“This is a different matter. Just as important.” He squeezed his glass, knuckles whitening. “You have to help me. I’m an agent of the crown.”
“Not any crown of mine. I have to deliver you to Valonikos.” Pa’s freedom depended on it. On me. “I’ve got a letter of marque from the Margravina says I’m to take you there and let no one get in my way.”
“So?”
I crossed my arms. “You’re getting in my way.”
“But everything’s changed now. When the shadowman enchanted that box, he didn’t know—” He abruptly shut his mouth.
I’d heard of the shadowmen who live in the north, whose lineage is full of secrets they mostly keep. The stories say they can pluck horrors and illusions from the dark, and twist your dreams into bone-chilling nightmares. It is whispered that they were descended from the god of the night, just as the frogmen are children of the river god. I had never seen a shadowman. Only very rich people could afford their services.
A shudder ran through me.
Tarquin noticed. “You’re not scared of shadowmen, are you?”
“No,” I lied.
“Magic doesn’t make a man evil,” he said. “It’s just a skill. It isn’t inherently good or bad. It’s what’s in his heart that makes him evil, the same as anyone else.” He leaned across the table, the lantern casting weirdly shaped shadows on his face. I stiffened. “Are you afraid of the dark?”
I stared him down. “Of course not.”
“Then you have no reason to fear a shadowman. They work the magic of light and dark, sleep and awake.” His voice took on a lecturing tone. “But that’s all they can do. Misdirection and shadow and sleep, and so on. Their power is passed down from long ago, time out of mind, when gods spoke and walked abroad among men.”
They still do, I wanted to say. I thought everyone knew that. But I reckoned we’d had enough bad luck. I wasn’t about to bring more of it down on us by speaking of the river god out loud to a stranger.
Outside, the wind whistled through the treetops. A spattering of rain blew in the open cabin window and the candle in the lantern guttered low.
Wood slammed on wood, causing us both to jump. Fee’s long-toed feet appeared on the steps. “Gone on,” she said, shaking off water droplets.
“Do you think they saw us?” I asked.
“They shot at you. Of course they saw you,” Tarquin said.