The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  “No,” calls another voice directly above them.

  “Of course not,” snaps a third voice.

  “Are you sure you saw a girl, Thompson? Seems highly unlikely, alone in the woods like this.”

  “I saw her,” insists the Guardian called Thompson. “I swear to you, she ran off in this direction.”

  “And how old did you say she was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Well, I didn’t get close enough, did I?” Thompson snaps, his tone defensive. “My orders were to report back to you first before taking any sort of action. I hardly got a good look before she went hopping off among the trees like a frightened hare.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” another Guardian groans. “Bloody waste of our time, this.”

  “Careful,” chides the first man. His voice is low and dangerous, pitted with a nervous undercurrent. A horse whickers softly, pawing impatiently at the ground. Several more clouds of dirt burst across Nerani’s shoulders.

  “Careful of what, then?” demands the Guardian. “Who’s around to hear me gripe? The birds? A fat, tasty boar, perhaps?”

  The low rumble of laughter that spills away from the group is cut off abruptly, likely the result of a silencing glare from the superior officer.

  “These woods are dark and deep,” says the first Guardian. “You never know what may be lurking just beneath you.”

  Nerani’s blood runs cold. Her lungs burn from the effort of holding her breath. Her vision swarms before her eyes, the greenery twinkling with speckles of white. Overhead, she hears a low scoff—the sound of a boot scuffing against the earth.

  “Unless General Byron himself is lying in wait to catch me grumbling, I think I’ll not fear any woodland eavesdroppers. Anyhow, we haven’t found much among these cursed trees.”

  “Certainly haven’t found the Forbidden City,” adds another Guardian, dangerously close to her. Nerani exhales in surprise, her sprawling horror only mildly abating at the sound of a well-timed whinny from one of the fickle mares overhead.

  How can they know about that? She scowls up at the dirt, her gaze fixating angrily on a wriggling earthworm that protrudes from the earth. It’s impossible.

  A whistle, sharp, sets her heart to racing.

  “Alright, men—let’s carry on, then.” The voice sounds far away, the sound swallowed by the dense vegetation.

  There is the shuffling sound of hooves scraping stone as the men and horses prepare to leave.

  And then, “Bloody waste of our time, I say.”

  And then the last of them is gone, leading his horse away by foot. Nerani continues to glare at the fat, writhing worm, her gaze all but burning a hole through the earth.

  It’s just not possible. They don’t know where we’ve gone. They can’t.

  The thoughts repeat on a useless loop within her head, rattling her nerves. The power of the Forbidden City—the protection—lies in its secrecy. With that secret gone, with the Guardians out searching for their hiding place—

  Her thoughts trail off into silence. She does not dare to think what will happen if they are discovered.

  “Well.”

  Nerani is startled out of her reverie by a voice that emanates from deep within the stump. Darianna the Rose pries herself out of the opening, her light brown hair laced with leaves.

  “That was uncomfortable.” She shakes her limbs, massaging her arms as though they fell asleep during her interlude within the tree.

  “Would you rather have been caught?” Nerani snaps, her singing nerves getting the best of her temper. She presses her palm firmly against her cheek, surprised to find her skin hot to the touch.

  Darianna glowers at her for a moment. “You seemed to do quite fine just where you were. There was no need to nearly break me in half. Halfway through, I found a toad lodged in my corset.” She shudders at the memory, sticking out her tongue.

  “You needed to stay hidden from them,” Nerani says. “They’re dangerous men.”

  “I know that.”

  “I had no idea they would be combing the forest. They aren’t supposed to know the Forbidden City exists.”

  “Looks like they do,” Darianna observes, and the blunt ease of her observation acts as yet another sharp reminder of Emerala. Nerani frowns down at her, watching as the girl plucks pine needles from her hair. She is so young—so naïve. She should be quivering with fear at the prospect of running into the Golden Guard and yet here she stands, utterly unaffected by their near brush with Rowland Stoward’s puppets.

  Nerani had always admired Emerala’s fearlessness—had aspired to be more like her. Here, in the dappled light of the forest, her heart still pounding, she stares at the young girl before her and wonders if fear is a good thing after all.

  It has kept Nerani alive. That counts for something.

  A bird screams overhead and she feels the sweeping shadow of wings brush across her face.

  “We can’t stay here,” she announces. “We need to head into Chancey.”

  Darianna’s plump lips drop into a frown. “I thought our plan was to stick to the forests for now.”

  “Plans change. We can’t stay this close to the entrance, not with Guardians searching every corner of the woods. We need to get within the walls of the city. It’ll be easier to blend in there, surrounded by people.”

  “Where will we stay?”

  Nerani considers their options, turning over every possible venue in her mind. The apartment she shared with Roberts and Emerala will be too dangerous—the building was owned by a half-blooded Cairan and rented to tenants of largely Cairan origin. It will have been all but emptied by now, the residence crawling with soldiers. The cathedral, too, will only draw attention. That’s where she met him—General Byron—it’s the first place he’d expect her to return.

  She doesn’t want to think of him there, tall and menacing among the rows of candles, a fire burning in his coal dark eyes.

  She doesn’t want to think of him at all.

  “Mamere Lenora’s,” she says at last. “We’ll be safe there for a night or two while I search for news of Emerala.”

  “Isn’t that a whorehouse?” Darianna asks. Her blue eyes widen into circles of fascination.

  Nerani grimaces. “It is,” she assents. “Which is precisely why it won’t be crawling with Guardians. We can stay out of sight easily enough.”

  A small smile dances in the corner of Darianna’s lips as she tries to hide her excitement. “I’ve never been to a brothel before.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t,” Nerani says tersely, taking hold of the girl’s arm. Pulling her along through the thickening trees, she adds, “I don’t plan to allow you to make a habit of it, either.”

  Darianna beams up into the mottled sunshine, her smile radiant, her cheeks pink. “This is already a wonderful adventure, don’t you think?”

  Nerani picks up her pace, tugging the girl’s arm a little bit harder.

  “Try and keep up,” she orders, ignoring her. “We’re going to get you back home as soon as we’re able.”

  Together, they head off silently through the woods, keeping their eyes peeled and their footsteps silent. Overhead, the birds lurk in the thinning trees and ogle the meandering women as they head towards the forest’s edge.

  CHAPTER 19

  Eisle of Udire

  The dining hall of the Frost Fort is only faintly illuminated. Tendrils of smoke swirl languidly above the heads of its patrons, casting the majority of the room in formless shadow.

  Among the midst of dining natives and shivering silverware sits Emerala.

  She is as still as stone, her stomach ill. Lodged between the hulking figure of Thom and the leaning form of the Hawk, she does her best to keep her eyes trained upon the splintering wooden tabletop before her. All around her are the silent, watchful members of the Rebellion’s crew. A quick headcount upon arrival to their table revealed that all members were accounted for. Still, Emeral
a cannot shake the ominous feeling that churns within her. She shifts her weight on the elevated stool upon which she sits, her dangling feet cramped within their boots as they sway inches over the cold floor.

  A plate of food sits before her, but she does not eat. She dare not touch the smoked meat that stares stagnantly up at her. Ha’Rai swore to them that it was the last of the wild bison left over from the spring hunts, but she doesn’t believe the honey-eyed woman for a moment.

  Not everyone at the table shares her reluctance.

  At her side, Thom chows down upon the food with surprising ease; the sloppy sound of his smacking lips attracting the attention of many an uncomfortable member of the crew.

  “We picked up Thom at one of the Eisle farms years back,” the Hawk explains, perhaps noting the shade of green that tints Emerala’s cheeks as she watches the first mate from the corner of her eyes. “Mate’s eaten his fair share of human. Whether its beast or man isn’t an issue for him.”

  Emerala swallows the lump that has formed in her throat. “I can see that.”

  “Here.” The Hawk nudges her arm, pushing a bronze goblet across the table. The rounded base scrapes against the wooden surface. Emerala eyes the goblet suspiciously, doing nothing. “Drink up,” he instructs. “It’ll warm your bones.”

  Emerala lifts the goblet and sniffs at the rim of the glass, peering at the golden contents within. “Hmm,” she murmurs, taking a slow sip. The warm dram slides down her throat, bringing heat back into her aching joints. She eyes the Hawk across the rim of the goblet, eyebrows raised.

  “It’s just a little ale, Rogue. You haven’t eaten in hours. You need something in your stomach.”

  “Since when do you care?” she asks hotly.

  His lip twitches ever so slightly. “You’re the one furious with me, Rogue, not the other way around.”

  Emerala searches for a scathing comment and comes away with nothing, instead finishing the remnants of the goblet in a slow chug. The Hawk’s golden eyes remain glued to her, his expression unreadable.

  A chuckle from across the table draws her attention away from the lanky pirate. Lachlan the Lethal fidgets with the plate of meat before him, his one good eye flickering back and forth between Emerala and the Hawk.

  “Seems to me like he cares an awful like, don’t ye think?”

  Emerala glowers back at him and says nothing, her cheeks feeling unnaturally warm. At the end of the table someone says something too quietly for her to hear, eliciting a laugh from several of the men. The Lethal studies her reaction, spinning his plate around and around on the wooden surface.

  “It’s curious, is all I’m saying.”

  “You’re not to speak to her,” the Hawk warns, voice low.

  The Lethal doesn’t miss a beat. “Last I checked, ye weren’t captain. Anyhow, the lass hardly needs ye to protect her, try as ye might.” His good eye bores into Emerala, the creases crinkling at the edges.

  “I’m seldom wrong,” he admits. “But I’m not too proud of a man to admit when I am. I sorely misjudged ye that day in the woods. You’re no little fawn, you’re a wolf.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Emerala asks.

  “Only that I took ye for a creature to be preyed upon—a weak and easy kill. But the way ye handled yourself back there with Ha’Rai—I’d say ye were as capable as any man on this crew. Ye have my respect, for all it’s worth.”

  “It’s worth nothing,” the Hawk reassures him. Emerala shoots him a scathing glare before returning her attention to the Lethal. The murderer grins at her, several of his golden teeth catching in the light.

  “Everyone tells me that you’re famous,” she says. “I travel in the company of murderers and thieves. Good ones. Skilled ones. You make them all quake in their boots. Your respect means something.” She flashes him a smile in return. “Thank you.”

  It was said to ruffle the Hawk’s feathers, and it works. Next to her, the lanky pirate grows visibly tense, nearly snapping his fork in two. The Lethal lets out a laugh, his blind eye winking shut.

  At the far end of the room, a gong sounds out. Emerala nearly jumps out of her skin. She watches as several scrawny and nervous looking young men rush to dole out second helpings of food. No one comes to their table. No one even looks their way. Emerala turns on her stool and scans the room, glancing toward the high table where Alexander is seated at the right hand of Ha’Rai.

  “The guest of honor appears to be enjoying himself,” the Lethal notes. Emerala watches as Ha’Rai leans into Alexander’s shoulder and whispers something into his ear, her blood-red lips grazing his skin. He laughs, his cheeks dimpling, and Emerala finds herself inexplicably annoyed. She turns back towards the table, her cheeks flushing red, her skin feeling unnaturally feverish.

  “They say her hands shake because she’s eaten too much human meat,” the Lethal explains. Emerala glances up at him, confused. “Did ye see the tremors of her fingers? They’ve all got it, the natives. Dead man’s hand, they call it here. De’rea haba.”

  “De’rea haba,” Thom echoes, looking up from his plate long enough to shake a palm in a theatrical imitation of Ha’Rai’s tremors.

  “Why does she call herself king?” Emerala asks. Next to her, the Hawk stabs his dagger into the piece of meat before him. Grabbing the handle, he pulls the weapon out of the meat and inspects the blade.

  “The men of Udire wouldn’t unite behind a queen,” he explains.

  Emerala glances over her shoulder, studying the radiant form of Ha’Rai seated at the front of the room. Her blood-red baubles glitter in the firelight. Her pointed nails trace a line down the seam of Alexander’s jacket and he nearly spits out his drink, his skin turning a traitorous shade of crimson. Irate, Emerala turns her attention back to the table.

  “Can’t they see that she’s clearly a woman?”

  “Like ye noted back in the throne room,” the Lethal explains, “the people of the Eisle admire force. The natives are like to fall in line behind whomever they fear the most.”

  Emerala considers this. “Do you fear her?”

  Several members of the crew glance up at the question. Whether or not the famed murderer is afraid of anything is a subject of constant debate within the bowels of the ship. Across the table, the Lethal’s dark eyes glitter like jewels. His smile widens at the corners as he regards her in silence, paying no attention to the eavesdropping crew on either side of him.

  “Aye,” he says at last. “Here, surrounded by deep stone walls and outnumbered by her bestial hunters, I do. Only a reckless man claims to be incapable of fear.” He leans against the table, his voice lowering. “I am not a reckless man, lass.”

  “Seems to me you were reckless in the Westerlies last spring,” the Hawk comments, prying his dagger out from the slab of meat only to thrust it in the pith once again. “Or perhaps you were looking to be caught and exiled to Caros. An early retirement, was it?”

  If the table was not silent before, it is silent now. Emerala watches as one corner of Lachlan the Lethal’s smile twitches.

  “If ye think I was sent to Caros against my will, ye’d be incorrect,” he says, his voice even. His eyes have dropped into dangerous slits.

  “And we’re expected to believe that you were there on holiday, mate?”

  “I was there because I needed to be there.”

  “Aye? And what was it you were doing when we stumbled upon your sorry arse?”

  “Looking out for an old friend. Unfortunately, he was killed.”

  The words are said deliberately. Slowly. The gaze that is fixed upon the Hawk is, Emerala thinks wryly, murderous. Next to her, the Hawk clenches his mouth shut, the lines around his jaw deepening. She can feel his arm stiffening as it brushes against hers, his fist closing tightly about the dagger in the meat.

  “Hawk,” she hisses, nudging him. His grip only tightens, the blade catching in the firelight. “Hawk, not here.”

  He breathes deeply, his nostrils flaring slightly as deep and o
bvious dislike creeps into his gaze.

  “Evander,” she says, using his given name for the first time. She places her fingers across his forearm, surprised to feel the tendons in his arm go lax at her touch. His golden eyes flicker to meet hers for an instant before dropping back towards his plate.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  Emerala spins upon her stool to see Alexander idling behind them. She wonders how long he has been standing there, listening. The table is teeming with tension. Behind them, the rest of the dining hall is rippling with a different type of movement than before. The dinner is drawing to an end.

  “None at all,” the Hawk assures him, his voice tight. He replaces his dagger into the hilt at his side. “Any news?”

  The crew leans in almost unanimously, their eyes trained upon their captain, their reflexes tensed and ready to reach for their weapons.

  “Ha’Rai claims to know how the map was bound. She has agreed to meet with me alone to decipher it.” He lets the words hang upon the smoky air. The table before him is quiet. Emerala already knows the question that no one wants to ask.

  What about the rest of us?

  “Lachlan will stay here with me to translate the map,” Alexander explains. A muffled protest from the Hawk draws all eyes to him. He fumes, his brows knitting over a turbulent gaze as he fights to remain composed.

  “With all due respect, Cap’n, I think it should be me.”

  “Why?” Alexander asks.

  “Because I—”

  “Because you lied to me?” Alexander interrupts. “Because, once again, you’ve withheld critical information from me after repeatedly reassuring me you’d told me everything you know?”

  “I never lied.”

  Alexander leans in close, his voice lowering dangerously. “I heard her, Hawk. You were here before, weren’t you? You’re the golden-eyed boy Ha’Rai was talking about.”

  The Hawk is silent, his lips disappearing in a thin line on his face as the muscles in his jaw work beneath his skin.

  “That’s what I thought.” A humorless smirk pulls at Alexander’s lips. “Unless you feel like telling me what it was you were doing here the last time, you’re sitting this one out.”