The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

“I’m certain your Majesty is already aware that I’ve ordered my men to conduct a thorough questioning of the palace staff,” James says.

  “And you’ve discovered nothing?”

  It’s time, James thinks, the insides of his palm growing slick with sweat. Time to lie to your king. The word treason gnaws at the edges of his mind, and his stomach does an uneasy somersault. He swallows, ignoring the dryness of his mouth, and lets the words rise to his lips.

  It doesn’t matter what I say, he reminds himself. Not now. The damage is done. I must protect myself.

  “I have, your Majesty.”

  At this, the sneer fades slightly from Rowland’s face. The dark grooves about his mouth fill in with marked flesh where the skin has lost its elasticity.

  “Well?” he barks. “Out with it.”

  “I have a name. The Cairan was aided by William Blaine, one of the cooks in the kitchen.”

  He pauses for a moment, letting the announcement settle upon the room. Whispers have kicked up along the shadowed edges of the chamber, the fluttering breath of many tongues swirling the golden motes that hang precariously in shafts of sunlight.

  It’s not a total lie, he reminds himself. He was there, in the end. And he has not returned since escaping with Nerani in the city.

  With any luck, he won’t return. Not now, after James has ousted him before the court, or else he will surely face immediate death. The crime for killing a Guardian is immeasurably worse than the crimes for which the Cairans have been accused. Murder is a far darker evil than existence, after all.

  “I know of no one by that name,” Rowland argues, his hands folding slowly upon his lap. He appears perturbed by this unexpected change of course in the conversation.

  “I am not surprised, your Majesty. I have come to understand that he began working here quite recently, and under an alias.”

  “William will not be his real name, then?”

  “It is not. He is a Cairan, born and bred. A bastard child, if my sources are correct—born to a Chancian man. His given name is Blaine, as is customary of gypsies.”

  “A half-blood,” the king says, repulsed. “In my palace. How?”

  James swallows hard, feeling the lifeless eyes of the angels overhead watching him with pressing scorn. His skin prickles uneasily. “His grandfather, Harold Blaine, has long been a cook in your kitchens, your Majesty. He secured him a job only a few months back.”

  The black eyes grow hard. “Gypsy scum residing within my walls. Touching my food. Breathing my air.” His scowl deepens. “Killing my men. It’s treason. Pure treason!” He snaps his fingers and several Guardians jump to attention. “Fetch me Harold Blaine! He will serve the sentence in his grandson’s place.”

  A familiar darkness flashes over Rowland’s eyes and he is, for a moment, far away from his great hall and his sniveling courtiers.

  “No one will dare call it courage then,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Not then, when the Cairan’s flesh and blood burns in his place while he hides like a coward behind the walls of his city.” He glances upwards, his gaze returning to normal and settling upon the hapless herald that idles by the great double doors. “Get the message out—quickly, now. Tell them—tell them that treason and murder do not go unpunished in Chancey. Tell them he will burn at dawn.”

  Several Guardians abscond from the room, the golden clad herald following at their heels like a dog. James feels his heart sink in his chest. He thinks of the white-haired old cook, idling away among the tomatoes in the gardens, unaware of the turmoil that has progressed.

  He will go to his death, James thinks, and it is I who sent him.

  This is not how it was supposed to happen. Outside, the sun has sailed several inches across the sky, stretching the shafts of golden light into obstinate angles. The shadows that encroach the corners of the great hall threaten to engulf the occupants in pitch-black gloom. Overhead, the immaculate forms of the angels have faded into shadowy obscurity.

  James is alone before the king. Abandoned by his father’s god.

  The Dark Below take me for what I’ve just done.

  Behind him, he can hear the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. He does not turn around to see, keeping his eyes instead trained upon Rowland.

  “I am disappointed in you, James,” Rowland says, looking quite the opposite of disappointed. A delighted sneer has encapsulated the lower portion of his face. He appears otherworldly in the strange throws of afternoon light. James suppresses a shudder as the heavy object at his back is dropped to the floor. The sound echoes through the great hall. The lords and ladies draw back—a rehearsed move of horror reserved for those of weak disposition.

  “You were always a shining star, James Byron. I elevated you to the top because I knew you would do great things for the Guardians, even as young as you were. I took you under my wing—cared for you like one of my own sons. Your pitiable father could never have done for you what I’ve done. I had faith in you, and you’ve let me down.”

  His words sting, and yet not for the reason he intended. James thinks suddenly—sharply—of his father, coming home after a long day of work. His skin smelled like the salt of the sea and the sweat of the sun. His bright eyes glistened.

  God, we thank you for another bountiful catch, that we may keep the coins in the coffer and the fish in our bellies.

  He thinks of what his father would say, were he alive to see the cowardice of his son. He thinks of that and shudders, choosing instead to think of Nerani—of her bright blue eyes taking in the ghosts of his forgotten childhood as she stood shivering before him in his father’s storefront.

  He thinks of Harold Blaine and of tomatoes.

  Something snaps against the marble behind him—the sound of a thinly bound cable sliding against the floor is unmistakable. His skin grows cold. He meets the gaze of the king.

  “The men of my Golden Guard cannot see such mediocrity go unpunished. They will come apart at the seams. It is fear, James, that holds a kingdom together. You will understand, of course.” The sneer has broken into a full grin. Those two black eyes disappear into the folds of his skin.

  The king barks an order that James does not hear. Hands grope at him, pulling his cloak from his back. He shakes them off idly, his gaze going red. If it must be done, he’ll do it himself. Squaring his shoulders, he begins to carefully unbutton his waistcoat. The room is impossibly silent as he draws his arms through the sleeves of his undershirt, folding the white cotton carefully before setting it on the floor.

  “Thirty lashes, I think, then,” Rowland says, the trace of glee in his voice unmistakable. “That will suffice for our purposes, don’t you agree, James?”

  “Of course, your Majesty.” James’s voice is even. He turns to the supplementary wooden post that has been dragged to the forefront of the room. As he does so, he catches the gaze of several ladies peeking their heads out from behind quivering fans. He keeps his face blank, inclining his head to the Guardian that grips the whip within his white knuckled hands. The man does not return his gaze.

  Somewhere at the far end of the hall, a drum begins to play. The sound is slow—measured—matching his heavy footfalls across the marble. A superfluous bit of ceremony for the king’s benefit, he thinks wryly. He holds out his wrists to be bound, each fist stretching out on either side of the post. He keeps his gaze trained forward as another Guardian tightens the cords against his skin.

  “Sorry, sir,” he whispers, the sound all but inaudible.

  “On your knees, James,” comes the king’s derisive echo. James drops, his shoulders erect. The drumming ceases.

  The last thing he thinks of before the whip cuts across his skin is Nerani the Elegant.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Rebellion

  “Bring her about!”

  “Heave to!”

  The voices that cut through the viscous heat of the afternoon scarcely register in the slumbering mind of Emerala the Rogue. She s
macks her lips once—twice—and sinks farther down into her swinging hammock. She is far away, whisked off by her subconscious and dropped in the merciless tundra of the Eisle of Udire. She dreams of cold, blue ice. She dreams of her blood upon the snow, frozen and glittering like rubies. In fits of gasps and starts, she dreams of circular golden eyes watching her in the darkness—waiting just beyond her reach.

  “Loose anchor!”

  Somewhere in the waking world there is a sickening lurch. Emerala is thrown out of her cot and onto the damp floor below. Waves collide with the hull of the ship as her spine cracks against the floor. She grunts loudly, the dregs of sleep falling quickly away from her with the impact. Coils of heat press against her skin, slick with sweat. She gasps, inhaling the mildewed scent of saturated wood.

  “You often sleep in just your shift in the company of men?”

  The voice above her forces another gasp out from her chest. She gathers her coarse blanket to her body, scrambling upright to find a pair of bright golden eyes blinking down at her from the cot directly overhead. The Hawk flashes her a wicked grin and winks, sliding off of the cot in one fluid movement and dropping to the floor.

  “I can hardly sleep fully dressed anymore,” she sniffs, wary of his proximity in the claustrophobic room. “It was never this hot back in Chancey.”

  “You’ll see a lot of things out here that you’ve never seen back in Chancey, I reckon.”

  Seeing him lingering before her in the musky light of the sailor’s quarters brings an uneasy sensation swarming into the pit of her stomach. She is suddenly cold in spite of the pressing humidity. His gaze bores into the exposed skin just above the fraying edge of her blanket. Her shoulders prickle and she frowns darkly in his direction.

  “Why have we dropped anchor?”

  He shrugs at that, his tongue pressing at the inside of his cheek. “We’ve reached the ports of Caira. If you can call them ports,” he adds wryly. “The natives here en’t much for seafaring.”

  Somewhere below, the anchor pulls at reef and rock as the ship is buffeted by a sudden, sweeping wind. Emerala lurches uneasily, nearly falling forward into the Hawk’s arms. She steadies herself, grabbing clumsily at a splintering post as she tries in vain to maintain what little cover she has. Up above, several voices are shouting, their words overlapping one another in a jumble of incoherent commands. Above the noise cuts one clear order.

  “Bleed the sails!” shouts the Lethal. “Douse the canvas, quickly now!”

  Before her, the Hawk’s chin is cocked slightly to the left as he listens. His expression has darkened considerably. Only when he notices her studying him does his gaze relax. He tilts his chin back towards her, his eyes gleaming. “Storm’s coming.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I can smell it.”

  She sniffs twice, but recognizes nothing other than the usual pungent reek of salt and sweat and wood rot.

  “Furl the colors!” The Lethal’s voice reaches them once again, the husky tenor of his words trickling down amid the bunks with the fragmented shafts of afternoon light. “Put your backs into it.”

  Emerala wonders where Alexander is and what he is possibly doing that he has entrusted the deck to Lachlan the Lethal for the afternoon. As if reading her mind, the Hawk’s grin widens.

  “Before I forget, the Cap’n asked that you join him in his quarters.” He pauses, reaching up into the hammock where he had been lying and grabbing hold of something startlingly fuchsia. There is an audible rustling of fabric and Emerala finds herself staring suddenly into a monstrous gown of frills and laces. “He wants you to wear this.”

  “That?” Emerala echoes. She reaches out a hand and fingers the material between her thumb and index finger. Silk. One delicate sleeve of magenta lace, likely nudged forward by a rippling puff of ocean air, gives her a ghostly wave.

  “Aye.” The Hawk’s smirk has broken out into a full grin as he studies her expression. “Derek brought it for you to wear during our trip to the island.”

  He heaves it into her arms, ignoring her protests as the coarse blanket falls to the floor by her feet. She is starkly aware of her bare skin visible through the sheer tulle of the underskirts. Several tiers of fabric tickle the skin beneath her nose—variations of deep fuchsia and cream petticoat and white lace itch at her arms and her chin. She glares at the Hawk over the top of the fabric.

  “But—” she begins in protest. She trails off into silence as she thinks of the already stifling afternoon heat. The Hawk is receding from the room, an amused grin still plastered across his face. That odd feeling of uneasiness continues to linger beneath her skin. She drops the heavy silk fabric down onto the floor at her feet and calls out for him to stop.

  He pauses on the steps that lead out into the galley, his silhouette framed in the glimmering motes kicked up in the wake of his boots. His head turns only slightly, the tip of his nose catching fire—pale light blazing down the line of his jaw. She sees his larynx pull at the skin of his throat as he swallows, waiting.

  “I’ve been dreaming about you.”

  The words escape her too quickly. She cringes at the subsequent look upon his face. One eyebrow arched, he stares back at her in silent amusement across the stifling expanse.

  “That’s not what I meant to say,” she retorts, at the same time that he says, “I know.”

  She hesitates, uncomfortable. “You know?”

  “Aye. You were saying my name in your sleep.” He turns toward her, throwing his features into shadow. The wooden belly of the ship unleashes a low groan as the waves roll beneath the hull.

  “I was?”

  His grin widens impossibly, his wicked eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “Oh,” she breathes, her cheeks growing hot. She feels that all-too-familiar cold creeping in through her fingers and toes. The palm of her left hand throbs with a dull ache. “It’s just—” she begins and falls silent. He is still and dark before her—a perfect, shadowed replica of those golden eyes that haunt her dreams.

  “Alexander said you were the one who rescued me in the Eisle of Udire. You and Thom.”

  The Hawk’s nod is nearly imperceptible. “Aye,” he says, and waits for her to continue.

  “He also said that he thinks I was poisoned.”

  “Aye,” he says again. She wishes she could see his face more clearly. The edges of his features swarm with blue and green pulls of light—tricks of the harsh sunlight that streams in behind him.

  “What do you think?” She nudges balefully at the bundle of magenta fabric on the floor, trying to hold his gaze.

  He shrugs, scratching at his scalp with one hand. “I found you in the snow and brought you back here. I couldn’t say for sure one way or another if you’d been poisoned or not.”

  Emerala bites down upon her lower lip, considering the piece of information she has withheld from him—from Alexander. “He asked me if I had anything to eat or drink at the Frost Fort,” she starts, keeping her eyes trained resolutely upon his face. He is as still as stone as he stares back at her. “I told him I couldn’t remember.”

  “Aye?” He is quiet. His voice has grown dangerous. “And that was a lie, I reckon?”

  “You offered me a cup,” she says, trying to keep her voice from adopting a tone of accusation. “You practically insisted I have something to drink.”

  He is silent. She can feel his gaze penetrating her sheer cream slip. One sleeve has fallen from her shoulder, slipping down toward the crease of her elbow. She ignores it, her pulse quickening as she prepares to ask him the question that has plagued her through her endless, breathless nightmares.

  “Why?” The lace petticoat crunches softly beneath the layers of silk as she takes a step forward. “Surely you weren’t concerned about my comfort. Why did you offer me a drink? Why were you the one who found me lying in the frozen wasteland in the dark—you, out of everyone else on the crew? I’m sure you’re the one who found me, even if Thom was there to help bring me bac
k.”

  Again, he is silent—watchful.

  Her throat is dry, but she continues. “Why do I dream of you every night? Most of my flight from the fortress has escaped my memory, but I know for certain that you were there with me in the tundra. You didn’t find me by some stroke of luck.”

  The Hawk is frozen before her, his figure warping slightly against the dwindling light of the afternoon. She is close enough now to see him clearly. She keeps her gaze trained upon his golden eyes as they flicker ceaselessly across her face.

  “Evander,” she says, using his given name. The words that fall from her lips are slow and concise. “Did you poison me?”

  “Poison is a woman’s weapon,” the Hawk says. His gaze is suddenly disdainful. He turns his eyes up towards the beamed ceiling. “Get dressed, Rogue. The Cap’n is waiting.”

  He does not wait for her to respond. He turns and stomps up the stairs in silence, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He stops only at the top, his hesitation so sudden that it startles her.

  “And Rogue?” His voice drifts down through the opening, trailed by a muted echo. “Be careful around Derek. Don’t trust him. He’s not what he seems.”

  And then he is gone.

  Emerala sniffles loudly, annoyed with herself for becoming so emotional. She tries in vain to shake off the cold unease that grips her like a vise, kneeling instead towards the ugly violet gown that lays crumpled at her feet.

  His silence was as much of a justification as anything, one small part of her says in derision. Her mind buzzes uselessly—her thoughts are fuzzy with fatigue. She dresses slowly, contemptuously, trying in vain to pull together the frozen fragments of her dreams.

  She arrives at Alexander’s quarters to find him hunched over his gleaming oak desk, his back to the door. He is muttering softly, his index finger running slowly over an unrolled bit of parchment on the surface.

  She squares her shoulders and sighs, glancing quickly at herself in the warped looking glass that hangs askew on the wall by the door. Her hair has been haphazardly pinned to her scalp in a fruitless effort to cool down. Wild black ringlets cascade downward into her face. The magenta gown he insisted she wear constricts tightly against her waist, causing her to breath in short pulls of air. Her bosoms are spilling out over the laced top of the golden brocaded corset, and she stares at these in disdain before clearing her throat.