The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance
Page 29
Captain Samuel Mathew possesses something of which I am in need, Derek had told him, leaning in over his grog with glittering black eyes. I want you to get it for me. I will pay you handsomely.
I don’t want your gold, Alexander had responded, his head already thick and swimming with drink.
What is your price, then? Name it, and I am certain I can fulfill your wishes.
My price is his head. If you give me the location of my father, I’ll find him and I’ll kill him. He could feel himself growing hot with anger, the sparks of the fire fanned into licking flames by the burning grog in his chest. A thick lump formed in his throat. I’ll kill him for what he’s done to my mum.
At that, Derek had leaned back, his fingers interlocking across his chest. He regarded Alexander for a long moment, his black eyes speculative.
She’s important to you, your mother? he had asked quietly.
She’s all I have in this world.
And you would do anything for her?
Alexander paused at that, wondering what the man’s game could possibly be. I would, he relinquished at last. She’s not well. She needs me.
Derek smiled, his gaze friendly—understanding. What if I could provide for her?
What do you mean?
I’m sure it has dawned on you by now that I am a gentleman of considerable wealth. I am in the process of purchasing an estate in Senada. It will be equipped with the finest of staff—enough people to attend to your ailing mother’s needs day and night.
You would do that? Alexander asked, bewildered. He thought of the dilapidated hovel in which his mother was currently sleeping, waiting for him to come home. She had spent the night before refusing to come out of the ocean. She had seen Samuel’s ship, she was sure of it this time, and she was waiting for him. That morning, he had heard her give a watery cough. He could not care for her, not anymore. Not within his means.
Before him, Derek was grinning. His gaze was kind. She will want for nothing.
Alexander gestured for the barmaid, waiting as she filled his mug. Only once she had absconded from earshot did he continue speaking. It must be important to you—this object in my father’s possession.
Immensely so, Derek agreed.
And you can’t get it yourself?
I’m afraid not. And I can especially not obtain it if you were to kill your father.
Alexander hesitated, licking his lips as he considered the implications of the deal. He stared at the professionally tailored cuffs of Derek’s sleeves—at the polished gleam of his leather boots. If anyone could provide for his ailing mother, it would be this man. What would the murder of his father do for her, after all, besides leave them even more alone than they already were?
We have an agreement, he said, and stuck out his hand for Derek to shake.
A stifled noise from Emerala brings him surfacing back into the present. He glances over at the neighboring boat and sees that Derek has stopped rowing.
“What is it?” Derek asks Emerala, a look of concern spreading across his face. He reaches out and takes her hands. For show, Alexander reminds himself. This is all for show.
“I—” she stammers and stops, glancing over the side of the rowboat at the glassy surface of the water. “I thought I saw something.”
“What did you see?” Alexander calls out to her as Derek, too, glances over the side of the boat. Her oversized hat dips gracefully over her face, the shadow obscuring her eyes. Even still, he can feel her meeting his gaze.
“I don’t know, I thought—” she starts and stops again, her face flushing with embarrassment.
“Out with it Rogue, what did you see?” the Hawk snaps, impatient. One hand lingers on the hilt of his dagger.
“Remove your hand from your weapon,” Alexander hisses to his companion. “You heard Derek, they’re watching.”
The Hawk frowns and ignores him, gripping the hilt tighter.
“I must have been imagining it,” Emerala says meekly, her cheekbones stained with red. Derek is still peering at the cerulean surface of the water, his brows lowered.
“Well, what did you think you saw?” Alexander prompts.
She opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the Lethal. “A mermaid.”
At this, everyone turns to the murderer that crouches at the stern of the boat. He, too, stares darkly at the surface of the water.
“What was that?” Alexander asks, unsure he has heard him correctly.
“The lass thinks she saw a mermaid,” the Lethal repeats slowly. The red scar over his eye gleams white in the reflection of the sunlit sea.
“Aye,” rasps the Hawk, clearly struggling to hold back laughter. “And how do you figure?”
The Lethal glances back at him with an expression that causes Alexander’s blood to run cold. “Because I just saw one, too.”
The Hawk throws back his head to laugh, but an undulating movement from just beneath the water suddenly jostles the boat. Alexander glances downward just in time to see a rippling shadow disappearing out of sight among the colorful reefs. He blinks twice, hard, trying to justify what he just saw. Not a mermaid, but something startlingly human regardless.
Derek is the first to be pulled under. There is an outcry of protest and he is gone, his gleaming boots disappearing beneath the surface of the water with scarcely a splash. Emerala is left alone in the swaying rowboat. She gapes at the swelling surface of the water where her companion just disappeared, her lips parted in a silent scream. Two struggling shadows drift together in fragments of dark and light as the water settles back into stillness.
And then there is total pandemonium.
Hands shoot upward from the water, grabbing at the sides of the rowboat and pulling at the wooden edges, rocking, rocking, rocking the boat back and forth. With a hoarse shout, the Hawk drops his oar. Forgetting his dagger completely, he draws his pistol and begins firing at the surface of the water. The air reeks suddenly of crisp, burning gunpowder and salt.
“Stop shooting, damn it,” the Lethal demands. Alexander whirls about in time to see glistening fingers enclose about the old murderer’s ankles and pull him overboard. He has little time to react. There is a resounding splash and the boat is capsized. The last thing Alexander hears as the roar of the ocean pummels against his eardrums is the sound of Emerala’s screams.
He is encased, suddenly, in the pressing blue silence of the sea.
Schools of fish flicker and turn all around him, their scales shimmering silver and blue in the shafts of sunlight that break through the surface of the water overhead. Something is holding his legs, drawing him downward. He kicks aimlessly; shoving his boots toward what he hopes is his captor’s face. After a moment, he feels his foot connect with something fleshy. Fingers slide away from his legs and he is free. He kicks for the surface; his eyes trained on the surging circle of yellow that dances against the waves. There is movement to his left and he turns to see Emerala fighting against the heavy folds of her gown. They are dragging her downward; the lavender gossamer and cream lace an anchor preventing her from rising toward the surface. Her eyes meet his in panic and he chances his course of direction. A shadow passes by him—legs kicking fast—and he sees not a mermaid but a man, naked except for a loin-cloth and two long banana tree leaves bound to his feet, spiraling toward Emerala.
As he swims away, Alexander can suddenly make out a glint of silver in his right hand. The man is brandishing a rather imposing looking knife. Emerala sees him as well. She kicks harder, losing stamina as she fights aimlessly against the saturated material. Her eyelids begin to droop, her cheeks purpling as she fights to keep her breath.
Alexander swims fast, but the man is faster. He reaches Emerala first, using the knife to saw through the heavy fabric of the gown. And then he is rising to the surface, pulling Emerala upwards towards the circular ripple of sunlight. Alexander follows, ignoring his mother’s gown as it drifts, ghostly and translucent in the flickering sunlight, toward the ocean floor.
“Do not struggle,” says a heavily accented voice close to his ear. “And we will bring you ashore.”
“And if I decide to struggle?” he asks; his challenge muffled by the heavy fabric.
“Then you will be drowned.”
CHAPTER 32
The Forbidden City
Roberts the Valiant paces the length of the great, stone gallery, his head bowed. Tousled black ringlets cascade wildly across his forehead, obscuring the angry glimmer of his emerald eyes. He mutters darkly, the words that fall from his lips scarcely audible to anyone but himself. The only sound in the room is the distinct echo of his bare feet slapping against damp stone.
Across the room, shrouded in shadows and still as the stone walls at her back, sits Nerani. Two watery blue eyes stare out of a pinched, white face. She is flanked on either side by the looming figures of Topan and Orianna, each with similarly stoic expressions frozen across their features. Orianna’s fingers are clenched tightly together, the long painted violet of her fingernails scourging her flesh.
“Are you done, Roberts?” Topan’s voice rolls softly off of the stone. The flames dance upon their sconces as he takes several unimposing steps forward.
Roberts skids to a halt upon the stone, glancing up at the occupants of the room in some surprise. The flickering golden light that stretches across his pointed features causes the room beyond to fade into black. His dark brows draw close together over his eyes as he stares past Topan and towards the two women lingering just behind him.
“Have you finished shouting?” Topan asks, ignoring Roberts’s continued silence. “Because if you have, I’d rather like to give Nerani a chance to speak.”
At that, Robert takes a sharp gulp of air, his nostrils stretching as his chest puffs outward beneath his white cotton shirt. He is teetering dangerously on the edge of losing his composure. Again.
“There is nothing for her to say,” he says through clenched teeth. “What apology can she offer? She robbed me of the chance to avenge my sister. A life for a life—that would be fair.”
“It would be fair if Emerala were dead,” comes Nerani’s voice from the shadows. She had remained quiet all through the shouting—had let Roberts yell until his voice was hoarse. He resents her for her patience. He wants her to jump to her feet and shout back at him—to give him something visceral at which to point his rage. As it is, his temper is slowly abating. His muscles quake from the prolonged tension in which he has held himself. His knuckles clench and unclench at his sides, skin pulling over bone, discoloring with the strain.
“We’ve been through this before,” he hisses, his voice barely rising above a whisper. He does not finish the thought he started. Emerala is dead. Gone.
He sees a small line of color rise in Nerani’s cheekbones and feels a perverse satisfaction at having finally, finally elicited some sort of emotional reaction.
“Emerala was not killed,” she insists.
“You and Orianna saw her shoved to her knees by three armed Guardians. Surely you remember.” He shoves his palm in Orianna’s direction, urging her to join the conversation. “Orianna, remind her what you saw.”
Orianna’s mouth falls open. She shoots a slanted look in Nerani’s direction before meeting Roberts’s gaze across the dimly lit expanse. “I saw her at the mercy of the three armed Guardians.” She swallows. The intonation of her words has adopted a rehearsed cadence—the result of having been repeated time after time. Her voice is thick. “She called out for us to run. And we did.”
“We did not see her die,” Nerani insists, rising to her feet. “Those three Guardians were found dead only moments later, with no trace of Emerala. The Guardians don’t have her in their possession and they admitted to never killing her, so she must be—”
“They admitted?” Roberts repeats, his tone a mockery of hers. His eyes fall to Nerani’s mangled hand, carefully bound only hours ago by Mame Minera in the infirmary. Already, blood is seeping through the gauze. She lost the fingers, the Mame had said. They were too broken to save.
“I’m sorry,” he says, scowling at her. “I thought it was you who were interrogated, not the other way around.”
“Roberts,” Topan’s voice is dangerous. It slithers across the floor of the room and coils at Robert’s feet—a clear warning. Tread carefully.
“No,” Roberts says, ignoring him. “I’m curious. Who is it that told you that? James Byron?”
A sharp look of discomfort flickers across Nerani’s face and is gone. He remembers the proximity of them in the empty storeroom—remembers the way General Byron had held Nerani’s gaze. He would have been a fool not to notice the implications. He feels the anger inside him rising into a full boil.
“Is that why you protected him?” he asks, shouting again. “Are you friends now, you and the king’s loyal dog?”
“Why is it so hard to believe that the pirates may have succeeded where we did not?” Nerani is not shouting—not yet—but the tone of her voice quivers with emotion. Her face drains of color and she teeters where she stands. Noticing this, Topan rushes over to her side. His arms enclose about her, steadying her by the shoulders. Roberts watches, seething, as Topan lowers Nerani slowly back into the chair. After she is settled, the deep, indigo eyes of the king turn back to him.
“You’re done here, Roberts. Thank you.”
Roberts frowns, watching as Topan moves to obscure the figure of his cousin. Over his shoulder, Orianna’s gaze is just as imposing.
“Nerani needs to be brought back to the infirmary. Mame Minera will want to change her bandages.” A thin line of worry shoots across Orianna’s brow as she speaks.
“I’ll take her,” Roberts says gruffly, his mood softening just slightly at the sight of his cousin’s frailty.
“I think you’ve done enough,” snaps Topan. Roberts is startled at the naked disappointment on the face of his friend. “Take a walk. Please.”
Roberts grunts an unintelligible reply, turning his back on the group and heading towards the shaded alcove at the far side of the room. Only once he is alone, encased in the total blackness of the narrow stone corridor and out of earshot of any listeners, does he allow himself to breathe again. His knees tremble; buckling at last beneath the weight of his shoulders. He drops to the ground, heedless of the uneven stone that cracks against his bones. His chest heaves in a silent, choked sob. He fights to swallow the surge of emotions that threaten to overcome him as he rocks, alone, in the darkness.
For several quiet moments his lips move in speechless fervor as he fights to calm his raging nerves. When at last a lucid word rises upon his tongue, it dances on his lips in a choked cry.
Eliot.
It is his father that comes to him, there, in the darkness. It is his father’s memory—those dark green eyes so similar to his own, watching from beneath the shadow of his hat, wincing at the screams of the child Emerala. He was unaccustomed to children. An eccentric and a self-ascribed loner, he had never been a family man. An artist, their mother had called him. An architect.
Roberts hates him—hates the very fiber of his being. The memories—those he has worked so hard to keep at bay all his life—swarm at the forefront of his mind. They wash over him like a wave, pushing him downward; threatening to drown him. He pushes his knuckles hard into the stone. The snapping of his crackling bones is loud against the silence.
The day his father left, he had knelt before Roberts and gripped him tight by the shoulders. Roberts found himself looking into a mirror image of himself, in spite of their significant difference in years. His father, perpetually young, was handsome to a fault
. His slick black hair was impeccably combed—parted down the side just so. His green eyes twinkled out of a pointed, olive face.
That day, those eyes were troubled.
I’ve got to go away, boy, he said, looking as though he was trying for all the world not to cover his ears with the palms of his hands. Nearby, Emerala was perched on her mother’s hip, her little face pinched and red with the strain of screaming. Her hair, wild and black since birth, flew in all directions in curling wisps.
With some amount of effort, Roberts calls into memory the face of his mother—a tall, thin woman with dark brown curls as wild as her children’s. Her own skin was fair and smooth, with eyes as blue as the clear sky. She shushed Emerala in distraction, whispering soothing nothings into the child’s hair as she attempted to overhear Eliot’s conversation with his son.
Look at me, his father had commanded him sharply. His breath was tinged with the pungent stab of cigar smoke. Things are going to get bad, now, before they get better. But I’ve been given no other choice.
Eliot Roberts’s eyes had filled with tears, then, and Roberts felt himself starting to sniffle as well. He bit the inside of his cheek, determined not to let his mother see him cry.
They’ll kill me if I stay, do you understand? They’ll kill us all. He hesitated, pawing clumsily at one eye with the back of his hand. They’ll kill my boy.
Roberts had the strange sensation that his father was not referring to him. The man suddenly gripped him tighter, pulling him close. You protect them, do you hear me? You protect your mother and your sister.
Why can’t you stay and keep us safe? Roberts asked, feeling suddenly fearful. He was only a child. What dangers were coming? What could he possibly protect his family from that his father could not?