“Why are you asking all these questions?” I demanded of Markos. “I thought you knew all about shadowmen, being from Akhaia.”
“Very few people know all about shadowmen. They mostly keep their own secrets.”
“Your father had a shadowman at his court,” I pointed out.
“I don’t know what Cleandros did for my father.” His face assumed a guarded look. “I’ve come to suspect he was particularly talented in the magic of sleep—for one, look what he did with the boxes. But it was more than that. After I turned eighteen, my father permitted me to sit in on his council meetings. I saw things happen that I found … strange. A man would express strong opposition to something my father suggested, but then he would suddenly … I don’t know, give way.”
I stared in horror. “You think Cleandros controlled their minds?”
“Not controlled, exactly. A tired man is confused. Forgetful. Susceptible to suggestion. I don’t claim to know everything about the magic of the shadows, but I know that, above all, it’s about trickery.”
I turned to Kenté. “Have you ever done that?”
She smirked, sunset light sparkling on her nose ring.
“Have you ever done it to me?”
She ignored the question. “What Markos says is essentially correct. A shadowman cannot set a man on fire. But he can manipulate his dreams to make him believe he’s on fire. Riddle me this: Which is more dangerous?”
“It seems to me a useless magic,” I said, “if you can’t even do it in broad daylight.”
“I certainly stowed away on your boat easy enough.” She pressed her lips together, and I saw the thin line of sweat above them. “He’ll start out weak, but as it gets darker, his powers will grow. Until midnight, when they’re at their strongest. We must hurry.”
“But you’re a shadowman too. You can fight him.” At least I hoped she could.
“Don’t forget, I have no training.”
As we wove through the streets of Casteria, I felt naked. Foreboding crawled down my neck, making my heart beat faster. We had seen nothing of the Black Dogs, but they might be anywhere, watching us.
The oldest estates in the city were built into the side of a hill, across which the streets ran in tiers. Every now and again, a set of steps led down through the cluttered houses to a small dock or private beach. The nicest houses were smashed right in alongside the hovels, the only difference being that they had a stone gate or a garden with sculpted trees.
Markos came to a halt outside a peach-colored house, nodding at the lions’ heads on the gate. “This is the place.”
He stepped onto the front walk, but I grabbed his jacket, hauling him back. “Were you going to just stroll up to the front door?”
“Right.” He grimaced, looking a little sheepish. “Let’s do things your way.”
“Keep walking. Don’t even look at the house,” I whispered without moving my lips. The street was empty, but I didn’t know who watched us from behind the curtains of those houses. “There’ll be a back door, for servants and tradesmen.”
We skirted the edge of the garden and ducked down the next alley. There, as I’d suspected, we found the back entrance, an unassuming wooden door.
I tried the knob. Unlocked.
The door swung inward, revealing a kitchen with a massive brick oven. The fire had not been lit. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that the wallpaper was peeling. Dirt from many muddy boots had dried on the floor, and a stale smell lay over the place. Meeting my eyes, Markos shut the door softly behind us.
I didn’t think it mattered. “Markos, no one’s lived here for days.” I nodded at the moldy cheese on the table. “Look at the food.”
“I’m telling you, she’s supposed to be here!” Blade drawn, he moved down the hallway, peeking in the doors. Finally he shook his head. “There should be servants—a whole household. My family owns this house. And they dare just up and leave?”
I was wary of the mess on the shelves. Porcelain dishes lay shattered everywhere. This place had been turned over. I carefully swiped my fingers over the shards of a broken wine bottle, rubbing them together.
“I don’t like this,” I murmured. “I don’t like this at all.”
Markos slapped the wall. “Those were meant to be loyal men. I suppose that’s what you get, hiring Kynthessan servants …” He glanced at us. “Sorry.”
“Perhaps they heard the news about the Emparch.” Kenté studied the mess. “And fled in fear.”
“We have to search the house.” He straightened. “Look for a chest. Large enough for a child.”
It didn’t take long. The other doors led to a small library, a bedroom suite, and a root cellar that was completely dark except for the dim glow of one dirty window. We found no Black Dogs hiding in the closets, to my relief.
“It’s not a very big house,” I said. “For an Emparch.” I had expected something more grand. Bollard House was easily twenty times the size.
“It’s only a fishing retreat.” Markos rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What do we do now? If the servants took her with them, how am I going to find her? Gods damn me, I wish we’d chosen any other manner of escape. Anything but these cursed boxes.” I laid my hand on his sleeve, but he shrugged me off. “I can’t—” His voice broke. “I can’t bear not knowing what happened to her.”
Fee whistled from the kitchen.
I burst through the door. “What’s—”
She nodded at a wooden chest, in the back corner next to a sack of potatoes. We’d missed it the first time. Someone had thrown soiled dishtowels on top, nearly concealing it from view.
Sweeping the towels to the floor, Markos pulled out his sword and hacked at the leather straps holding the chest shut. The first strap gave, snapping. He sawed easily through the second, and bent to grip the chest lid.
Outside the window, the sky over the rooftops of Casteria blazed sunset orange. One last bright beam hovered on the horizon. As I watched, it winked out.
“Markos, wait!”
He opened the box.
Huddled inside was a little girl. For one frozen, horrible moment I thought she was dead. Then her thin shoulder moved, and she uncurled herself.
Her eyes went round. “Markos!”
I swallowed down sudden emotion at the way his smile lit up his face. He lifted his sister from the crate, clutching her hard to his chest. She wore a gauzy nightgown spangled with stars, and had the same jet-black hair as Markos, except hers was stick straight. The poor thing had bruises up and down her arms.
She looked up at him as he brushed straw from her gown. “I had the worst dreams.”
Markos’s eyes met mine over her head. He knew what he had done. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.
Kenté stared at Daria like she was death come to snare us. “He’ll have known instantly. We have to go.”
Markos hoisted his sister out of the box, setting her on the table. “Daria, this is Caroline. You must do everything she says. If she tells you to run, you run. If she says hide, you find a small place and crawl into it. Do you understand? If she says to duck—”
“I duck.” The girl rolled her eyes. “I’m little, not stupid.”