The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  “You too, dear,” Mamere Lenora mutters with sudden urgency. “No need to be out here in this heat. Get on inside.”

  “It’s quite all right, Mamere,” James says warmly, and something in his voice makes Seranai’s breath catch in her throat. “It’s the woman right there that I’m looking for.”

  Seranai allows her grey eyes to slide over to where he stands and sees that he is looking at her. Directly at her. Sighing, she snaps the fan shut. The game is up. She wonders how long he has known that this is where she was setting up camp—among the filthy fringes of the city—among the women with no morals.

  Next to her, Mamere Lenora grows tense. When she speaks, her voice is fraught with trepidation. “With all due respect, General, there’s no reason you need to talk to any of my girls, this one included.”

  “Of course not,” he assents, “but this woman isn’t one of yours. Let’s not insult my intelligence by continuing to pretend that she is. We both know she’s a Cairan.”

  Mamere Lenora inhales so deeply that for a moment it seems as though she has sucked all of the air off of the stoop. The heat that bakes the stones underfoot singes the inside of Seranai’s nose.

  “I’m not harboring any gypsies,” Mamere asserts. “I knew her father. He was a local butcher—a Chancian man through and through.”

  Seranai cringes inwardly at the mention of her father. Her lips draw into a thin line. Her tongue feels as though she has tasted something acrid. She wipes her palms against her red brocade gown, the itching memory of blood on her hands bringing a chill down her spine—sickly sweet against the sweltering summer air.

  “And her mother was a Cairan,” James is saying. “Half-blood or not, a gypsy is a gypsy.”

  Mamere idles on the step, caught between the darkness of her foyer and the spilling summer sun on the step. “Please,” she says at last, her husky voice dropping into a whisper. “Please, I can’t afford to be charged with sheltering gypsies. I’ll lose the business.”

  “And that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” James asks, his tone deprecating. “I won’t say a word, I only wish for a brief audience with our Cairan friend.”

  “Of course.” Mamere’s voice cracks as she speaks. Her heavily painted lids flutter over eyes filled with dread.

  “Alone.”

  “Take as much time as you need,” Mamere says, ushering him up the steps. She reminds Seranai of a feathered hen ripe for plucking, fretting to and fro and bobbing stupidly upon the creaking steps. For a brief second, an image of the woman roasting on a spit creeps through her thoughts.

  “Come—come, use the front hall where you won’t be seen.”

  James draws besides Seranai on the porch, his cloak brushing her arm. She fights the urge to recoil even as somewhere within her, a flicker of memory compels her to lean into his frame—to melt away against him.

  She scowls, slapping the fan hard against the palm of her hand. Mamere jumps at the sound, sputtering nervously as James lays a palm upon her back. He leads her inside, hardly bothering to glance in Seranai’s direction.

  “Thank you, Lenora,” he says, bowing his head towards her in a show of cordiality. “And I trust I can count on your confidentiality in this matter. I’d like my visit to remain unknown.”

  “Of course,” Mamere promises. “Chancey’s best kept secrets live in this very house.”

  Seranai follows silently behind them, reentering the stuffy front hall of the brothel. Hovering on the threshold, she glowers at the broad, golden shoulders of her former lover—stares daggers at the shadow of the boy that once loved her as only a young man could love. He lingers in the fusty hallway, his cloak sweeping the threadbare carpet underfoot, and runs one finger through the film of dust atop a wooden table.

  “In here,” Mamere gestures, pointing a heavily ringed finger at an open door closest to them. James flashes her a gracious smile and dips out of sight into the room. Seranai sighs and follows suit. What else is there to do?

  As soon as the door closes behind them, the words come tumbling from her lips.

  “I’m not selling myself.”

  A brief glimmer of mirth passes across his features. “I don’t particularly care either way.”

  He means it. The blunt delivery pummels into her, nearly bowling her over. She rebukes herself silently. She shouldn’t be so affected by his indifference anymore—not after all this time.

  “I’m only wasting my time in this hovel because it provides a good cover,” she explains.

  “Not that good,” he disagrees. “I’ve known you were here for quite a while.”

  The admission comes as a surprise. All this time she thought that her continued safety meant that she had managed to remain undiscovered.

  “And yet you never thought to have me arrested?”

  “Clearly not.”

  She can’t resist the urge to pry. No point in being subtle about it. “But why? I’ve seen your men overturn every rock in this city searching for any trace of Cairans.”

  “You’ve never identified with your people, Seranai, and they’ve never identified with you. Quite frankly, I would have been surprised had you disappeared with them.” He looks around at the room—his eyes scanning the faded carpet, the yellowed wallpaper—and smirks. “A whorehouse is much better suited to you, I think.”

  It is meant as an insult, and it works. Cheeks burning, she resists the urge to slap him across the face.

  “You came here for a reason,” she snaps. “Get on with it and leave.”

  The look he fixes her with is chilling. “Most people wouldn’t dare to give orders to an officer of the Golden Guard.”

  “You forget that I knew you before they raised you up on a pedestal, James,” she says, spitting out his name like poison.

  He ignores her comment. “Where did they go? The Cairans?”

  “The Dark Below, with any luck.”

  He scowls. “I asked a serious question.”

  “And I gave a serious answer.”

  “You’ve no idea where they went?” James asks, looking doubtful. His posture is stiff, his movements stilted. He looks out of place in this faded old room, a stark spot of polished gold against rusted brass and moth-bitten fabric.

  “Oh I do,” Seranai disagrees. “But I don’t see why I should share anything with you.”

  “Perhaps because I have the power to have you killed.”

  Seranai dithers upon the rug before him, trying to gauge his sincerity. It wouldn’t be worth it to call his bluff—not when she has come so far in her plan. Not when she worked so hard to rid herself of Emerala the Rogue—to set herself in the perfect position to run into Roberts the Valiant.

  James doesn’t wait for her to calculate a response before asking, “What is the Forbidden City?”

  The question startles her, but she recovers quickly. She cannot afford to lose face. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

  “It’s a children’s story,” she says, twisting a finger within a silvery lock of hair.

  “Is there any truth to it?”

  “Of course not. I took you for a more practical man, James.”

  He proffers a small shrug, glancing up at the low ceiling overhead. “The king has ordered us to search for it.”

  She laughs wryly. “You’d be wasting your time.”

  His attention drops back down towards her face. “Would we?”

  “Yes,” she says, but her laughter dies in her throat as she notes the conviction in his gaze.

  “I don’t think so,” he disagrees. “I saw the way you caught yourself when I asked. You believe in it, even if I don’t. Tell me the truth. Is that where the Cairans have gone?”

  She runs a slender finger down her forearm, frowning. Think fast. He can torture the answer out of her if he so choses, especially now that he knows she has an answer to give. Somewhere outside, a rooster screams. A carriage rattles down the street, the wheels catching in the pocketed grooves between the cobblestones. A thought occurs to her, th
en, and she smiles.

  “Do you know that old Lord Chadwin is one of our most frequent visitors? No, it’s true,” she says, her smile widening at the disbelief that crosses James’s face. “In fact, he’ll be coming by for a spot of afternoon pleasure in just a short while. He comes every third day, just after lunch and right before tea.”

  James chews at the inside of his cheek, his eyes darting all around the paltry room before coming back to land upon her. “I’m not sure how this information relates to the Forbidden City.”

  “It has nothing to do with that old fairy tale,” she admits. “But if you’d like your visit here to remain a secret, you’d be wise to take the back door in the next minute or so. He arrives with an arsenal of your very own Guardians, each one highly paid to hold their tongues.”

  Before her, General Byron is silent.

  “I’m not sure they’d do the same for you,” she comments. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she adds, “There are a lot of men who’d give anything to see you fall.”

  “Did you learn that secret here as well?” he asks, his gaze dark.

  She lets a quiet laugh leak out between parted lips. “I’m sure you’d like to know.”

  He exhales deeply through his nose. “Goodbye, Seranai.”

  The sound of her name on his tongue is as unwelcome as it is familiar. She frowns, feeling that nostalgic sense of heartbreak creeping in and settling in her bones. She remains frozen to the carpet as he moves past her to leave the room. His golden cloak brushes against the outturned palm of her hand. It is cool despite the pressing heat, and she resists the urge to grab it within her fists and hold tight.

  She hears the door squeal open, and he is gone. His muffled footsteps fade into silence on the musty carpet outside. Somewhere in the distance she hears the overlapping patter of hooves on cobblestones. A loose wheel squeaks. Lord Chadwin.

  So James Byron knows about the Forbidden City. Even worse, perhaps, Rowland Stoward knows about the Forbidden City. If they find it first, Seranai is certain she’ll never see a lick of the fortune she so craves. If they find it, everything she’s worked for will have failed.

  She thinks of the Hawk, and remembers the bloody rain that dripped down his face after he slaughtered the three Guardians in the square. Emerala the Rogue was unconscious in his arms. His chest, skin glistening in the downpour, heaved with exertion. And yet it was not the exertion of having committed a necessary evil, but from the labor of elation. He liked killing. He craved it. His golden eyes had gleamed with ecstasy across the dark expanse.

  I’ve done my part, he’d said. Now it’s your turn.

  What do I do? she asked, lingering in the shadow of a narrow alleyway. The three corpses in the street unnerved her.

  Nothing. Forget Roberts. He’s not important. Wait for me. I’ll be back by summer’s end.

  So far, she has obeyed his orders. And yet—even Evander the Hawk cannot stop her from watching. She has remained hidden in the shadows, studying the Cairan—watching as Roberts the Valiant rose to the ranks of the Cairan king’s right hand man. He is frequently out in the streets of Chancey—stealing food and water and bits of news.

  Meanwhile, the Hawk remains at large, lost at sea without so much as a word. Seranai is not the kind of woman who likes to be kept waiting, and she is getting quite bored of sitting around in the company of harlots.

  Her goal has always been singular in nature—claw her way into the upper elite. She is a victim of circumstance, a Cairan half-blood by birth, left to always hover in the middle, never belonging anywhere. All she has ever wanted is a place in Chancian society. What love has failed to procure for her, she is determined to achieve through manipulation.

  Whatever means necessary, she thinks.

  Her plan is simple. Or, it should have been simple before Emerala the Rogue complicated matters. Now that the wretched girl is gone for good, the plan is simple again. The Cairan king has access to Saynti’s Treasure, buried away within the depths of the Forbidden City. Roberts the Valiant has access to the Cairan king. Seranai, therefore, needs access to Roberts the Valiant. To the Dark Below with the Hawk and his instructions.

  She knows him, Roberts. She knows his comings and goings. She’s seen him angry. She’s seen him afraid. She’s seen his weakness and his strength. Seranai knows how to make a man fall in love with her, and Roberts will be no different.

  Evander the Hawk told her to wait, but she is done waiting.

  It’s not safe to stay put at Mamere Lenora’s. Not anymore.

  James knows she’s here, and he knows she has the answers he seeks. It won’t be long before he returns to the brothel. The time is coming to make herself scarce. The Hawk wishes to gain entrance to the Forbidden City upon his return to Chancey, so she’ll be sure she’s already there when he arrives.

  From now on, she’ll do things her way.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Forbidden City

  “What you want is impossible.”

  Orianna the Raven’s voice is too loud for Nerani’s comfort. She shushes her with a stunted wave of her hand, glancing around nervously at the supply room full of bustling women.

  If, of course, one could call it a room. It is more reminiscent of a hollowed out hole in the middle of deep, impenetrable rock. The Forbidden City is meant to keep their enemies out, but right now all Nerani can focus on is how effective it is at holding her hostage.

  “It’s not impossible,” she disagrees.

  Before her, Orianna sighs. She puts down the freshly washed linen she has been folding, placing it gently atop the growing pile of mismatched cloth by her knees. The ebony skin of her hands is dry and cracked from repeated exposure to soapy water. Her black hair falls before tired blue eyes and she pushes it away with a flick of her finger.

  “I can’t do what you’re asking.”

  Nerani’s sullen frown is replaced by the first hint of an eager smile. “So, you’re not willing to do it, but it’s not impossible.”

  Orianna slumps forward, sighing wearily. “I didn’t say that.”

  “It was implied.”

  Nerani understands why Orianna is hesitant. She understands the significance of what she is asking her friend to do. Orianna was the only young woman of their name-year chosen to train for the exclusive right to call herself a Mame. It is an honor and a privilege to be accepted into such a rank among Cairans. If she’s to be caught carrying out Nerani’s wishes, she will most certainly pay the price.

  But Nerani needs her. She can’t find her way through the endless, black tunnels of the Forbidden City without her.

  The Mames know the way.

  That was what she’d heard Topan say, clear as day.

  The Mames know the way.

  She wouldn’t dare to ask one of the Mames for their help. If they knew what she wanted—if they knew what she was planning—they would put an end to it at once. No one is permitted in or out of the city, save for the precious few Listeners granted prior approval from Topan.

  If any of the women were to feel sorry enough for her to give her aid, they would simply give her a riddle and send her on her way.

  Nerani has no time for riddles.

  Orianna reaches her hands across the space between them and places her palms over Nerani’s balled up fists. Her coarse hands are warm, and Nerani becomes suddenly aware of how thin and cold she has become. Her fingers are locked into perpetual talons, the bony knuckles pulling against stretched, white skin.

  “Nerani,” Orianna begins, and her voice is soft. Her dark blue eyes swim with grief. “I know it’s hard. It’s hard on me, too. After all these weeks, its still so difficult to believe that Emerala is gone.”

  Nerani fights the urge to pull her hands out from beneath Orianna’s grasp. “Did Roberts tell you that?”

  Orianna’s frown deepens. “No, he didn’t have to. I was there with you.”

  “Then you know that she’s alive. You saw the same thing that I saw.”

  Orianna sh
akes her head. Her eyes flutter closed. “What we saw were three armed Guardians standing over her body in the pouring rain.” Her eyes open again and there are tears sitting in her lower lids. “What we saw, Nerani, was her slaughter.”

  Slaughter.

  The word is cold. Callous. It cuts the heart like a knife. Nerani feels sick at the sound of it, even as it slides off of Orianna’s tongue and slices the air between them. Slaughter; as though Emerala was nothing more than a palace swine, gutted and served for dinner with a seasonal garnish.

  Was. She catches herself using the past tense and her throat tightens. Is.

  “She’s alive,” she says, her voice cracking under the weight of repetition. “I feel it in my gut. If you don’t believe the evidence, at least believe that.”

  Orianna is silent, her forehead lined with worry. “Nerani, stop this,” she says after a moment. “You can be in pain. You can be in denial, but you can’t go looking for ghosts. You won’t survive the catacombs—no one does. Can you imagine what that would do to Rob? To me? We can’t bear another loss.”

  “I would survive in the catacombs if you would consent to help me.”

  At that, Orianna groans. “I don’t know how to get through the catacombs. Even if I wanted to help you, I couldn’t.”

  “But the Mames know,” Nerani points out.

  “They do,” comes the grudging agreement.

  “You can find out.”

  Silence again.

  “Please,” Nerani adds. “I’m going to attempt to navigate the catacombs with or without your help.”

  “That’s absolutely mad.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll die within hours.”

  “I know.”

  The thought of traversing through the pitch dark of the tunnels alone terrifies her. Beneath Orianna’s hands, she feels her own start to tremble.

  “Emerala would have done the same for me,” she adds.