I smiled in the dark. “She wouldn’t agree.”
The floorboards creaked as he walked to the window. “Do you think we might pass by the Akhaian Consulate on the way back to the docks? I have an idea.”
I eyed the trellis below the window. It had supported Markos’s weight, so I guessed it was sturdy enough. I would hate to escape from the Black Dogs only to fall to my death from a fourth-story window. “It better be something useful.”
The light from the gate lamp made his eyes shine. “Are guns and blades useful?”
I didn’t know what to make of this Markos. He seemed to be savoring this adventure. Even more surprisingly, he wasn’t bad at it.
As I swung my leg over the windowsill, I said something I would never in a thousand years have anticipated. “Lead the way.”
A damp mist still hovered low over the city. The Akhaian Consulate was dark except for a light in one upstairs window. Under the peak of the roof, a giant stone cat’s head jutted out. Lamplight fell through its carved fangs to cast gruesome shadows on the wall.
“Are you going to be Tarquin Meridios again?” I whispered.
“No, of course not. Anyone who really works here will recognize me immediately.” Markos glanced at the cat’s head, then swept his gaze down. He looked as if he was measuring something. “Every consulate is supposed to have a safe house. There’ll be a secret door somewhere. With the Emparch’s seal on it.”
I nodded toward the front entrance. A guard was posted there, musket strapped to his back. “Careful.”
Markos ducked into the narrow alley. He examined the cornerstone, running his hand across the surface. Feeling along the wall, we crept toward the back of the building.
He stopped. “It’s here.”
It looked like scratching on a brick to me. He pushed, and the wall descended inward with the creak of rusted gears. I held my breath, hoping the guard wouldn’t come around the corner to investigate the noise.
Markos fumbled inside the opening. “Oh, excellent,” he said. I heard a snap and the smell of sulphur—an alchemical match. He held a candle lantern aloft, beckoning to me.
I swallowed at the sight of those stairs leading into a mouth of blackness, but followed him down. The flickering light illuminated a tiny round room.
Swords and axes hung from hooks on the walls, along with one wicked-looking curved weapon I could not identify. A number of boxes rested on tables around the edges of the room. At least one had coins stuffed into it. More weapons were scattered on the tabletops, and bundles of fabric too. A ghostly gray layer of dust covered all.
Markos went straight for a pair of short swords. “A cache of weapons and other useful things,” he explained, sliding one of the blades out of its sheath to examine it. Seemingly satisfied, he hooked the sheath to a broad leather belt. “Placed here for just this contingency.” He buckled the other sword to the left side of the belt. “It doesn’t look like any of this has been touched for a hundred years.”
I spun, taking in the wealth around us. “It’s wonderful.”
“Do you see anything you want?”
“I’ll stick with Pa’s pistol, thanks. I know how to use it.”
“I think you should take a sword,” he said. “In case.”
“I’d rather take a dagger. I can throw a knife. Pa has me practice.”
He flipped a dagger over in his hands. “How good are you?” he asked, tossing it to me. “Could you kill a man with a knife?”
I caught it. The scabbard had a pretty pattern of vines and scrollwork. “I’ve never tried.”
Could I? I prided myself on my accuracy with a knife, but there had never been a flesh-and-blood person at the other end. Pulling the blade out a few inches, I traced the curlicues along the handle. I wouldn’t dare throw something this fine, when I mightn’t get it back. I buckled the knife to my belt, but knew I would never use it except as a last resort.
Markos dropped three coins into my hand with a lopsided grin. “For your father. To repay him for the coat.”
Rifling through a small chest, he tugged out a scarf. He draped it around his shoulders in the old-fashioned style and fastened it with a gold pin in the shape of a wreath.
I eyed it dubiously. “Isn’t that going to get in your way if we end up in a fight?”
He glanced down at himself, lips tightening. “You’re right.” He unwound it.
“Wait, what’s that?” A glint of gold had caught the light. I shoved the rest of the clothes aside. At the bottom of the chest was a set of gold pistols with engraved bone handles. They were nestled in a velvet case, one pointing left and the other pointing right.
I touched the barrel of one of the guns. The metalwork was exquisite. I could pick out flowers and flourishes and a lounging mountain cat, its tail curved around the handle. The cat was set into a circle with words running around the outside in a script I could not read. Its eyes were tiny gems.
“That’s the royal crest of Akhaia,” Markos said.
I wished he hadn’t told me. I didn’t feel fit to carry a set of pistols like that. “These weren’t meant for me.”
And yet there was something familiar about them. Something I’d seen before. Shock running through me, I remembered my dream—walking the deck of the cutter Victorianos as she raced the waves. My hand had trailed down the rail, the wood smooth under my fingers. Seagulls circled and dove around me. On my head I wore a three-cornered hat and at my waist—a set of matched gold pistols.
Exactly like these.
I stumbled back, my breath tight in my chest.
Markos, busy examining the pistols, hadn’t noticed. “Well? Aren’t you going to take them?” He looked expectantly at me. “You’re a much better shot than me.”
“It’s not—not right.” I wetted my lips. “They’re so much fancier than your swords.”
Coincidence. That’s all it was. Only oracles dreamed true dreams. I’d been thinking of the Black Dogs when I fell asleep two nights ago. Letters of marque. Privateers. It had all gotten jumbled up in my dream somehow. Surely lots of people had gold pistols. Well, lots of rich people anyway.
“Caro.” He tilted his head. “I’m the Emparch. All these things belong to me. I’m giving them to you.”
Another compartment in the chest held a crisscrossing leather harness, meant to be worn under a man’s jacket. Strapping it on, I adjusted the buckles down to the smallest hole. I lifted the pistols from their box, still feeling strange about it.
Oblivious to my hesitation, Markos moved on. He brushed the dust away from a glass on the wall, leaning in close.
“This is the first decent mirror I’ve seen in ages,” he said. “My hair is a dreadful mess. I don’t know how people manage without a valet.” He sighed. “You’re going to make fun of me for that, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
There was nothing the matter with his hair. It looked exactly as it always did. All at once my fingers got a strange twitch, as if they might reach up and touch it.