The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  Untrue, James thinks and catches himself again. Peterson continues talking, saving James from having to formulate a response.

  “When I was a boy, before Frederick left us, my father told us that it was a Cairan curse that took away our mother. He said they would have taken me, too, but I was born before the curse could be completed.”

  James is still before the young man. He’s heard this theory before—an enraged Frederick had put his father’s bold faced lie on blast one afternoon, pacing the length of his private solar with rage in his inky gaze.

  He’s putting lies in Peter’s head—he’s filling him with hate, Frederick had snapped, shattering a vase against the floor. James stood at the door in silence, annoyance flickering within him at the prince’s temper.

  He’s mourning, James said. Grief manifests itself in different ways.

  He’s mad, Frederick shot back, his eyes brimming with angry tears. He’s always been mad—Saints, James, why do you continue to defend him?

  James remembers the day with a tinge of bitterness. He knows better now. Rowland’s mind comes and goes, fraught with paranoia and susceptible to bouts of oblivion.

  He is a man come undone.

  Before James, Peterson continues speaking. “He said that they wanted to kill us all off, one by one, and leave my father without any heirs so that they could take the throne by force. In my last interaction with him, just after Frederick’s—just after his disappearance—my father told me that they had finally succeeded in taking him, too.”

  Peterson swallows and stares down at the polished floor. “He told me that they had succeeded in infiltrating his bloodline with one of their own, and that he would be damned if he would let a Cairan take the throne. It was the last time I have ever been permitted in his presence.”

  James feels his lips tightening at Peterson’s words. He studies the young man before him. The bridge of his nose is narrow, the tip pointed. His lips are thin. His thick black hair, parted to the side, catches the light where his nurse could not quite tame the wild curls. His features are nothing like that of his bear of a father, with his bulbous nose and his fleshy, red laugh. Suddenly the madness of the king becomes all too clear.

  Just as King Rowland has concocted the death of his eldest son, so, too, has he turned his youngest into his enemy. He views the boy as a stranger—as something to be feared.

  “Do you believe what your father told you?” James asks. Peterson shakes his head slowly, one black curl of hair falling across his forehead.

  “I know that Frederick left—I watched him go—and yet my father acts as though he’s died. I have never met a Cairan, but I know for certain that my mother died of natural causes.” He pauses and appears suddenly hesitant as he fusses absently with one sleeve of his doublet. His green eyes meet James’s gaze across the hall.

  “I know that you’ve slaughtered a great deal of Cairans at my father’s command. There must be a reason. I’ve known you my whole life, James, and you’ve always been a reasonable man. Frederick trusted you more than anyone else in this world, and that means something to me. And so, I ask you again, why is my father really obsessed with finding the Cairans?”

  The word slaughter catches in James’s chest and remains rooted there like a knife. He is speechless before the young prince, casting about for an appropriate response. His head is a battlefield of jumbled words as he sways between what he is expected to say and what he feels.

  There are footfalls on the marble floor—quick, anxious patters of boots. Someone is coming. James squares his shoulders and watches as a Guardian races around the corner. He draws to a stop when he sees the prince, dropping into a lazy bow.

  “Your Highness,” he mutters, out of breath. Peterson says nothing, only studies the newcomer in silence.

  “What is it?” James asks. There is something frantic in the Guardian’s stance. The soldier straightens quickly, one hand pressed firmly against his gut. Dust motes swirl wildly about his head. His breathing comes in deep pulls as though he has been running for a long time.

  “His Majesty has us searching everywhere for you,” the Guardian says between inhales. “We have a Cairan within our custody.”

  The knife within James’s chest twists violently. He feels his face drop and fights to remain neutral.

  “Where is she?” he asks, and his voice is too loud in the dusky stillness. He nearly cringes as the words fly away from his lips. He can feel Peterson’s sharp gaze fall upon his face. The Guardian before him is far too excited too have noticed his slip-up. He continues, talking faster than before.

  “She’s in a holding cell, awaiting her inquisition. They found her at that whorehouse—Mamere Lenora’s—over by the edge of the city. One of the harlots turned her in.”

  For a brief instant, James finds himself desperately hoping that he has been mistaken—that the blue-eyed Cairan listened to his plea and returned to the Forbidden City. There is no need to panic—not yet—Seranai was staying at Mamere Lenora’s, and she is exactly the type of woman to try the patience of her licentious housemates.

  It could be her, he reasons. It could be Seranai.

  Something deep within his gut protests loudly—an instinct that is far more visceral than reason whispers that it is exactly who he thinks it is.

  “Who is handling her questioning?” he demands.

  The Guardian shrugs. “Like I said, the king has had us searching for you for quite a while. He sent Corporal Anderson in your place instead.”

  At that, James Byron runs.

  CHAPTER 24

  Chancey

  Nerani squeezes her eyes shut and counts her heartbeats. She breathes. In and out. Slowly. One plump tear presses out from between her lids and makes its slow way down the line of her face. She sits, stalwart and unmoving against the cool stone wall of the cell in which she has now spent an unclear amount of time.

  Stupid, she chides herself silently. So very, very stupid.

  She had not counted on Whinny recognizing her. She had certainly not imagined Whinny turning her in. Whinny, the blonde young prostitute that had spent the greater part of their fractured youth pursuing an unrequited romance with Roberts, who ignored her as best as he knew how.

  Whinny had never liked Nerani and Emerala much. The fickle young woman saw them only as obstacles to getting the thing she wanted most. It was as though she believed without the presence of the two sniveling orphan girls; the adolescent Roberts would suddenly reciprocate her continuous advances.

  Her dislike was evident, yes, but she had never born them any ill will.

  Nerani recalls the empty look in Whinny’s dark eyes as she watched her childhood playmate be thrust to her knees before the Guardians. She was silent as they dragged Nerani off—safe in her perch atop the stairs. Just out of reach, obscured beneath the skulking shadow of the eaves overhead. Her lips had been pressed firmly into a smile that tried and failed to retain an air of smug satisfaction.

  She missed the mark completely. Nerani remembers thinking she looked half mad as she swayed beneath the dust motes stirred up by the gleaming black boots of the Guardians, her face stained with too much rouge beneath that hollow gaze.

  Nerani wanted to call out to her then—to scream with rage at the injustice of it all.

  How could you? We were children together.

  But she did not. She remained silent.

  Her fingers ball into fists and she slams them against the damp wall at her back. Hard.

  At least Darianna is safe. The young girl had already melted into the shadowed throng of hungry women by the time the first of the Guardians arrived. Nerani knew she would save only herself. What could the young girl have done for her by then? She hopes fervently that Dari will have the good sense to stay hidden until she can locate a Listener to return her to the Forbidden City. One will drop by Mamere’s eventually, she is sure of it. She knows they conduct thorough patrols of the city.

  Nerani can only hope that someone will receive wor
d of her capture before it’s too late.

  And then what? she asks herself. Orchestrate a rescue?

  She almost laughs aloud at the thought. It is too dangerous. She knows this. Many Cairans have been caught and tried in the past. There is no rescue attempt. There is no struggle against the powers of the king’s golden force. There is only execution—swift and painful and public.

  She will not pretend to believe she is more important than anyone else.

  Her mind wanders idly to Topan and she feels sick. What will he think, she wonders, when he receives word of the news. Will he love her still? Will he mourn her death, or will he view her betrayal as unforgivable?

  Her frown deepens at the detachment she feels over this consideration.

  There is a sudden, slow exhale from somewhere in the darkness outside her cell. The insides of her eyelids blaze with blanketed orange light. She pries them open and glares up at her visitor.

  “What a beautiful little insect I’ve caught in my web,” the Guardian says. His face flickers in and out of shadow. Even in the darkness, the corporal is immediately recognizable. His silver hair catches in the firelight.

  “I heard you were discovered at that despicable little whorehouse on the edge of town. Turning a few tricks, were we?” He laughs as though he has said something quite funny. Feeling sick, she forces herself to continue holding his gaze. Somewhere in the darkness she hears a voice. Throaty and half crazed, the words slide out of the darkness in a nearly incoherent babble.

  “No!” An earsplitting shriek silences the bubbling words.

  The corporal ignores all of this, his gaze lingering on Nerani. “I’d like to talk to you. Shall we go someplace a little bit more comfortable?”

  His grin is menacing in the dancing light. Nerani says nothing, She thinks of Emerala. Her cousin would be bursting with hateful retorts. She, however, cannot think of a single thing to say. She presses her lips together and tries to stop herself from trembling. Her eyes swarm with stinging tears. The darkness before her splits into jeweled ember. She hears the rattle of bars as the corporal pries open the door.

  “It’s polite to respond, gypsy, when being addressed by a superior.”

  She is silent again, staring into the orange reflection of his boots as his feet click across the floor. She hears him give an audible sniff.

  “Oh, good,” he remarks cheerfully. “You haven’t soiled the floors yet. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be in the most pleasant of moods if you had forced me to wade in here through your piss.”

  He chuckles at this and grips her roughly beneath one arm. She feels a sweeping heat pass over the top of her head as the flames come dangerously close to her scalp. With a grunt, he wrenches her unceremoniously to her feet.

  “Come along now. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He leans in closer to her, his lips brushing against her ear. “I’ve cleared my entire schedule for the day, so it’s really up to you.”

  She forces herself to walk alongside him. Her feet feel like lead. He leads her through a narrow doorway at the end of the reeking corridor. The room inside is brightly lit. The flames sputter and snap in their sconces, throwing unforgiving golden light upon a long, low table of rusted tools.

  The corporal shoves her into a splintering chair at the center of the room.

  “Sit,” he suggests.

  He sets his torch into a nearby sconce and sets to work binding her wrists with rope. She cries out as he twists her wrist too far. His smile widens. He reminds Nerani of a wolf—his fangs bared, his expression hungry.

  “Not one for pain, are we? This should go by rather quickly, then.”

  Something in her expression catches his eye and he pauses before her, one finger caressing her cheek. She jerks her head out of his reach, her skin flaming. In response, he takes her face between his hands and forces her gaze up towards his face.

  “I don’t want you to worry,” he whispers. “This will only be as painful as you make it.”

  His fingers linger too long upon her skin. She glares into his eyes, trying in vain to look less frightened than she feels. For a frantic moment, she contemplates spitting directly into his face, but thinks better of it. Her gaze travels towards the table of rusted tools and her stomach does an uneasy flip. She knows what’s coming. She knows what he will want to know.

  His eyes follow hers and he smiles, rising back to his feet.

  “What shall we begin with?” he asks her as he studies the tools. His hand runs across a twisted iron bar, its ends caked in flaking bits of brown.

  Old blood, she realizes, and another wave of nausea rushes over her.

  After a few moments of carefully rehearsed consideration, the corporal makes a small exclamation of pleasure. He lifts from the table a rusted vice with heavy, protruding studs. When he turns back to face her, his gaze is bright—eager.

  “I think the pilliwinks will suffice for our purposes, don’t you?”

  She stares at him in silence and says nothing.

  “Let’s start with something easy,” he says cheerfully. “Have you been hiding out in a place known to your people as the Forbidden City?”

  She longs to retreat within herself—to continue to remain silent—but she knows that she cannot. She swallows.

  “The Forbidden City is an old legend.”

  The corporal’s mouth twitches slightly. Clearly, he did not expect her to speak so easily. At the edge of her vision she can see his grip on the vice tighten.

  “That may be,” he assents. “That was not the question.”

  Her tongue feels like sandpaper in her mouth.

  “Will you repeat the question?”

  He laughs at that. “Games, is it? Have it your way, gypsy. I’ll play along. I asked you if your people are hiding out within the Forbidden City.”

  “I believe I already gave you that answer.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. The Forbidden City is a legend. A myth. It’s not real. It’s a story told to children at bedtime. It serves at a metaphor for happier times.”

  His smile is back. “Indeed,” he says. He leans down, his hand cupping her chin. Pulling her face up towards his, he sets the vice down hard upon the arm of the chair. The long tip of her middle finger brushes against the cold metal.

  “You’d do well to cooperate with me, gypsy,” he snaps. The gruffness in his voice does not match the permanent, merciless smile that has taken root upon his face. He thrusts her chin out of his grasp and sets to fiddling with the vice. The coolness of the metal encapsulates the smallest of her fingers and suddenly she knows all too well what is coming. She stares into his face as he winds the vice downward onto her finger. There is a clipped moment of cool, steady pressure before her bones snap beneath the weight.

  She had intended to bite down upon her lip and hold the scream within her. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. White light pulsates at the edges of her vision and she gasps. The force of her pain is too powerful to be contained. Her voice spills out across the room in a shrill echo of agony. Tears stream in steady lines of salt down the curvature of her cheeks. He is peering into her face with a grotesque grimace, his gaze inquisitive. She clamps her mouth shut and breathes hotly through her nose. Her vision swarms in and out of focus.

  “There.” He pats her lightly upon the cheek and she can feel her own blood warm against her face. It drips down his fingers, staining her skin red. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  She fights to be silent—to suffocate the dull whimper that rises within her throat. Her finger—what is left of it, pulsates in rhythmic, agonizing beats.

  “I know the Forbidden City is real. It would be wise to refrain from lying to me in the future.”

  She stares at the crumbling wall over his golden shoulder. Breathe. In. Out.

  Suddenly there is pain in her finger again. He is pressing down on the vice; leaning casually on it as though he doesn’t realize her bones are being ground into dust b
eneath the tightened screws. She screams again, and his smile stretches across his face like a deep, red wound.

  “A response would be respectful, gypsy.”

  Nerani can only gasp in response.

  “Tell me,” he mutters, leaning down so that his face is level with hers. Her bare feet push back aimlessly against the cool ground underfoot. Her toes curl and uncurl. The pain does not relent. “Tell me you won’t lie to me again.”

  Anything to make the pain stop.

  “I won’t,” she gasps.

  “Won’t what?” He releases some of the pressure.

  “I won’t lie to you again.” The white light is spreading further across her vision. He is right. She is unaccustomed to pain. She wonders what he will do to her if she passes out. Will he revive her and continue? Or will he give up and leave her in her cell to tend to her wounds?

  He appears satisfied with her response. He releases his hand from the vice, straightening his spine.

  “Splendid,” he says gaily and leans back against the table of tools. It shudders beneath his weight, setting some of the rusted equipment to shivering audibly. Her teeth come together with too much force and she tastes blood on her tongue. A low moan escapes from between her lips. Her eyes flutter closed and then open. He crouches before her, studying her with a primeval intensity.

  “Where is the Forbidden City?”

  She fights back the bile that rises in her throat. She barely comprehends his question over the pulsing pain of her finger. It is all consuming, coursing through her body like a fever.

  “Where is the Forbidden City?” he asks again, louder this time.

  “I don’t know.”

  He moves away from the table, running his finger along the top of the vice. “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me? Chose your response carefully, gypsy. I won’t have any more lies.”

  “I won’t tell you,” she says, and the anger in her voice surprises her.

  She gives an involuntary gasp as he shifts the vice upon her fingers and begins twisting again. Cool metal presses lightly against one, unbroken finger.