“Somewhere between here and the bridge, I expect. I heard they plan to go downriver tomorrow.”
The House of the Shipwright was the last stopping place before Gallos. The drawbridge there was too low for the likes of Victorianos to pass through, and the men who worked the turnstile would have gone home for the night. Wherever they were, the Black Dogs were stuck there till morning.
“I must go,” Lord Peregrine said. “Current carry you, Miss Oresteia, as they say here in the riverlands. Give my regards to Nick.” He gave Tarquin a small bow. “Your Excellency.”
I froze, unable to breathe.
Tarquin stiffened, his eyes flickering across to me. “She didn’t know,” he said in a strangled voice.
Lord Peregrine grimaced. “My apologies.”
Throwing us a small salute, he shouldered through the door. I watched his dark cloak swirl around him as he slipped through the crowd and out a rear exit.
You didn’t call a courier “Your Excellency.” Even if he was the son of a nobleman. My mind spun, buzzing with suspicion … and a rising sense of dread.
The man at the end of the bar turned. He was a bald bruiser, with arms twice the size of my thighs. His leather gauntlets were scratched, and a blue tattoo curled across the stubbly skin of his head. A conspicuous lump under his jacket led me to believe he had a blade strapped to his back.
“I can explain—” Tarquin began.
I held up a hand. “Not here,” I growled. “Go straight for the door. Keep your head down.”
We almost made it out.
Muscles flexing, the bald man pushed off from the bar. As he jostled his way through the crowd, he slid one hand inside his coat.
Tarquin—I didn’t know what else to call him—pushed up the sleeves of his dress. All pretense of his being an old woman had gone out the window. “If only I had a sword.”
“Well, we haven’t got a sword.” The better for us, I suspected. His confidence probably far outweighed his actual ability with a blade.
Fee’s lips curled back, showing small pointed teeth.
The tattooed man whistled a signal. A second and third man lunged out of the crowd, arrowing toward us. I didn’t know if they were part of the Black Dogs’ crew or simply bold river men lured by the promise of coin.
But Oresteias are bold too. I kicked over a table, halting them in their path. Empty mugs hit the floor with a clatter, and the candle landed on its side, where flames immediately began to lick up the checkered tablecloth.
“Fire!” someone yelled.
The tattooed man charged us. I picked up a chair and heaved it at him as hard as I could. It bounced off his head. Howling like an enraged bull, he stumbled into a table of fishermen and knocked their game pieces onto the floor.
The largest fisherman jumped to his feet, belly bulging under a wool sweater, and told him exactly what he thought. The tattooed man threw him aside, causing his friends to stagger up with shouts of protest. Meanwhile the flames had jumped to a second table. The barmaid shrieked.
Tarquin stepped between me and our pursuers, but I seized the collar of his dress, hauling him toward the door. We clattered down the stairs. Fee reached the bottom first, leaping them three at a time. Frog legs are an advantage when you’re in a hurry.
“Fee, cast off!” I yelled.
She let loose the mooring ropes, and Cormorant drifted sideways out of the slip.
“Pierhead jump,” I gasped, taking a flying leap. Dark blue water flashed under me.
I hit the deck running and went straight to the mast. Without the sail, we were helpless to steer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tarquin jump aboard. My breath heaving in my throat, I tugged down on the halyard. The black sail rose in jerky lengths until finally the blocks clanked together.
A gun went off. Splinters exploded from Cormorant’s wooden trim.
“The paint!” I shrieked.
Tarquin spun on the deck. “The paint? Really?”
But the paint was soon the least of my worries. The man with the tattoo leaped across the gap and landed on the deck. He leered, exposing two missing teeth. “Hello, love.” He held a long, dirty knife.
I drew my own blade. It looked like a child’s toy next to his.
A pair of oars lay stacked alongside the cabin wall. Tarquin grabbed one up, holding it like a spear. He shoved me roughly behind him. “Get back.”
The tattooed man, narrowing his eyes, lunged toward him with the knife. Tarquin struck out with the blunt oar end, easily parrying the thrust. The man attacked again. Tarquin darted forward, moving so fast he was almost a blur. Wood slapped against flesh as he clubbed the man over the head. He howled, toppling overboard.
I realized my mouth hung open and promptly shut it. “You’re good.”
Tarquin grinned. Then he slipped on a wet piece of deck, and I felt less confident in him.
He recovered his feet. “I am the Emparch of Akhaia,” he said, drawing himself up. “Did you think I wouldn’t be good?”
CHAPTER
TEN
He tossed the oar down with a clatter. “You already knew. I may as well admit it.”
I turned away and walked up the deck, trembling with anger. His betrayal lay like a hard stone on my chest. How could he not have told me something as big as this? It changed everything.
Tarquin followed me. “I said, I’m the Emparch of Akhaia.”
“I heard you.”
With Fee at the helm, Cormorant slipped downriver, picking up speed. A mist had begun to roll in, wet splotches of the first rain dotting the deck. Holding on to the forestay, I leaned out to scan the riverbank. Danger hung over us like the low, damp clouds. We had to find a place to hide.
“What would impress you?” Tearing off the flowered veil, Tarquin began to unbutton his dress. “I suppose it’s impossible. I suppose it would require an encyclopedic knowledge of fish. Or ropes.”
At least now I understood why the Black Dogs wanted to kill my passenger. I could not say I blamed them.
I whirled to face him. His shirt, sticky with sweat, clung to his shoulders. The discarded dress lay in a pile at his feet, and the red jewel shone in his left ear. It marks me as a member of a great Akhaian house, he’d said. Everything finally fit together—his formal manner of speech, his arrogance, and most importantly the Theucinians’ desire to have him out of the way.
“Look, whatever-your-name-is—” I started.
A raindrop rolled down his forehead. “Markos. My name is Markos.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m—that is, I was the second son of the Emparch,” he said, a strange note in his voice. “I was never meant to inherit the throne. But now …”
“Wait—the second son? Then why—” Horror trickled through me and I halted, immediately dreading his answer.