The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  “Get down!” shouts the Hawk. He hears the clicking of a hammer just as the great cat lunges again. Alexander bellows as the shadow of the beast stretches over him. He is met with a thick, earthy smell and a great weight bears down upon him, cutting off his air supply.

  “Shoot him,” he screams, his voice hoarse. His fingers claw at the leafy undergrowth as the panther’s teeth enclose around his bleeding leg. Sharp pain courses through his limbs, pressing against the back of his eyes and turning his vision red. Somewhere below him there is the sudden sound of splintering wood. The ground beneath them gives away, expunging a black cloud of dust.

  And suddenly he is falling. The hazy orange light of dusk is extinguished and he finds himself staring into blackness. There is a harrowing roar as the great weight of the cat falls away from him. He reaches out with his hands, grasping desperately as he free falls—plummeting deeper into a yawning gorge in the jungle floor.

  At last, his hands enclose around a crude bit of tangled roots. His body slams against moist soil as he careens to a stop. He is suspended over impenetrable blackness, the palms of his hands sporting fresh abrasions from the coarse root to which he clings.

  He lets out a low moan. His throbbing leg is slick with blood. His heart his in his throat. Beneath his dangling feet, there yawns a dark, deep hold. From the depths below comes a desolate purr. Alexander looks up and sees only a violent orange sky, the twilight swallowed here and there by the black treetops.

  “Hawk!”

  He is met with silence. Beneath him, the panther purrs again. Alexander can hear the pads of its feet against soil as the great cat paces the bottom of the hole.

  “Hawk!”

  Again, there is no response.

  Curse him to the Dark Below, Alexander thinks. He tries in vain to get a foothold in the crumbling dirt. And curse me. I shouldn’t have given him the box.

  He adjusts his grip upon the vine, coughing as clods of dirt tumble into his eyes and nose. He spits, the earth turning to mud in his mouth, and tries to pull himself up. Beneath his weight, a vine snaps. He slips down further into the hole, his stomach slamming hard into the packed earth.

  There is a steady shuffling noise from somewhere above him and several more clods of dirt break across his face. He blinks, spitting profusely, and peers up into the fading orange light.

  Two golden eyes stare back down at him. Relief courses through him.

  “Damned booby traps,” the Hawk mutters. “Island must be riddled with them. Give me your hand.”

  Alexander reaches upward, stretching his arm as far as he can. The Hawk’s hand encloses around his forearm and he wrenches him up, ignoring the groan that emits from his captain. Alexander stumbles to his feet and immediately regrets it. The pain in his leg is punishing. He teeters, careening into a nearby tree for support as he shifts all of his weight to his good leg. Glancing down at his lower half, he takes quick stock of the damage. His breeches are torn to shreds. His left leg is too bloody to tell how much deep the injuries he’s sustained. His vision swarms in and out of focus as he pats at his head, feeling for his hat.

  Across from him, the Hawk studies his injuries in stoic silence.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I’ll have to, won’t I? I don’t think the hole is that deep. It won’t be long before that animal climbs back out.”

  As if in response to his words, an agitated growl ripples up from the dark opening below them. Alexander studies their surroundings. The trees overhead are startlingly bare of birds. The absence unnerves him. He recalls how quickly they had taken flight at Tyde’s death. He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, where they were heading—knows that they will already have reported the murder to Domio.

  He catches the Hawk’s golden gaze in the mounting darkness.

  “He’ll go after Emerala,” the Hawk says.

  “Then we’ll have to get to her first.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Caira

  Emerala slaps at her skin, brushing away the crumpled black insect that had alighted there only an instant before. Its veined, translucent wings twitch as it falls weightlessly toward the ground. There is a faint buzz as something flutters by her ear, rustling a stray curl, and she slaps at that, too.

  She scowls, casting a dark glare at the twirling figure of the shapely woman before her. The woman has long since undone her sand colored braid, allowing her curls to stream out from her body like a rippling brook. The fading gold sunlight of the dwindling afternoon plays upon her hair as she does a pirouette, her hands prying up the russet cloth of her gown from the tangled leaves underfoot.

  They have been following Melena deeper and deeper into the jungle for nearly an hour. An hour, and still Emerala has received no answer to the questions that have twisted up like a knot inside her head. She disentangles herself from an upended root, the gnarled bark curling like a beckoning finger, and rushes to keep up with the twirling woman. The sticking heat of the jungle adheres to her skin, brackish with salt left over from her plunge in the ocean. She thinks of the shadow she saw rippling beneath the boat, and of the fear that had gripped her as she drowned.

  The Lethal had spent a great deal of his time on deck regaling her with imaginative yarns.

  Anything to keep ye from talking on, he had said to her one afternoon after she asked why he continued to oblige her with story after story. At least I’ve got something worth saying, whereas ye are like to babble on until I lose me mind.

  Her favorite story was the story of the selkie—a mermaid like creature that could shed its skin and climb aboard a ship. Once shed of its sea skin, the Lethal told her, a selkie was said to take on the form of a most beautiful woman. Often, the beauty of the selkie was enough to seduce a sailor right out of his bed and lure him overboard.

  Many a sailor be drowned that way, he said, leering at Emerala over the torn yard mast he mended one afternoon.

  Why are you looking at me? she had asked, drawing back from him. His breath smelled, as always, of his private stash of imported cherry tobacco.

  I en’t lookin’ at you any sort of way.

  You are.

  He grinned, the motioned crinkling the white pinched flesh of his scar, and leaned in closer. The men are like to whisper, ye know. Horrible gossips, the lot of ‘em.

  What do they say?

  That you be a selkie, lass, come up from the sea and shed your skins. And one dark night soon ye’ll lure the captain overboard and drag ‘im back to the bottom of the sea.

  Emerala remembers that day, shuddering slightly. She had not thought of the story when she saw the shadows beneath the swelling surface of the sea. Then, she had thought of mermaids.

  She recalls the feeling of hands, rubbery with brine, enclosing about her feet and hauling her overboard. The layers of her gown were so heavy that the entire rowboat had capsized with her. And then she was pulled downward, her head immersed in the stinging salt of the crisp, blue sea as two hands dragged her towards the sandy floor beyond the corals.

  It was only then, as her lungs began to burn beneath the pressing ocean, that she remembered a single word. Selkie.

  She glares ahead at Melena, her eyes narrowed against a dazzling array of golden sunlight that has managed to break through the leaves overhead. The woman has taken pause against a rotting stump, its base covered in a dense layer of moss. She watches the trio approaching with gleaming blue eyes.

  “Keep moving,” she sings, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  She waits only for a moment longer before dancing off into the shadows, the echo of her giggle trailing behind her like a veil.

  Emerala shoots a sidelong glance at the Lethal. He lingers at her side, unspeaking, his attention trained on the jungle around them. He is listening, she knows—sorting through the discordant symphony of noises that emanates from all around them.

  “Maybe I am a selkie,” she whispers to him, her eyes blazing. “If so, I’d like t
o start by drowning her.” She gestures towards the distant figure of Melena with a tilt of her chin. The Lethal says nothing. Even so, she can see the faint glimmer of a smile in his gaze. It’s all she can hope for, with him. To say the old pirate is not in possession of a sense of humor would be an understatement.

  She takes a lurching step forward only to be drawn back by Derek’s fist enclosing roughly about her upper arm. He pulls her back, careless of the lace of her chemise as it snags against the snarled roots.

  “Careful how we speak of our hostess, Katherine, dear,” he hisses in her ear. His eyes wander upwards with implication. “You never know who might be listening.”

  “I—” Emerala begins, but her words fade to silence upon her tongue beneath an admonishing stare from Derek. A sharp flapping of wings overheard startles her as a raven takes off from the shadows. It glides low over their heads, its wings fluttering against Emerala’s wild curls.

  There is a dull rustling behind them—the sound of someone pressing through snatching ferns—and the trio whirls about to see Melena studying them through probing blue eyes. The raven alights on her shoulder. Stunned, Emerala glances over her shoulder to where she could have sworn she just saw the woman disappearing into the brush ahead.

  “You—” she stammers, pointing. “I—”

  The raven gives a guttural cry. Emerala turns back toward Melena, trying to ignore the glassy eyes of the preening creature on the woman’s shoulder.

  “Walk with me,” Melena commands. Her voice is shrill, her smile unsettling. She takes Emerala’s arm, prying it easily from Derek’s grip. Emerala chances a look at the Lethal as the woman leads her away. He nods once, the decline of his chin almost imperceptible in the speckled shade that dances across his face.

  “Men can be so dull,” Melena titters into her ear. “Don’t you think?” Her breath stirs Emerala’s hair, causing the thick curls to tickle the side of her face. She feels the hair on the back of her neck stand erect as unease creeps through her.

  They walk a ways in front of Derek and the Lethal without saying a word. The occasional shrill screech of the glossy raven is only noise that cuts through the viscous heat of the dying afternoon. Emerala listens intently for the sounds of boots crunching against thick foliage, reassured by the fact that the men are just behind them. She doesn’t dare to turn around. She attempts to look prim—a little frightened, even. Surely a lady of such a fine upbringing as Katherine Montclay of Toholay would be frightened in the company of gypsies.

  Emerala the Rogue—herself a gypsy—is frightened here, among the alien sights and smells of the jungle, far from home and in the company of a woman who listens to the whisperings of ravens.

  “So, which one do you think it is?” Melena asks, drawing Emerala in close as though to share a secret. Her eyes widen to impossible circles and she bites her lip, a giggle barely restrained upon her tongue.

  “Sorry, what are we talking about?” Emerala asks, confused. She fights to keep her voice sedate but finds that annoyance with the Cairan woman is winning the battle for her words.

  “The two pirates that accompanied you and Derek.” Melena titters, flashing a look at Emerala as though it should be obvious. She glances over her shoulder to see if the men at their backs are within listening distance. Her tresses tickle the mossy undergrowth as she does so. When she looks back at Emerala, her gaze is positively wicked. “Which one do you think fancies you?”

  Emerala stiffens, stumbling against the untamed roots that snake in and out of the rich soil.

  “I don’t believe one does.” Emerala catches her feet just in time to keep from falling. The raven gives off a lilted screech, cocking its head to one side and glaring at Emerala. Melena clicks her tongue, tut-tut-tutting reproachfully. The raven mimics her, clicking its beak together in an admonishing echo.

  “Don’t lie to Melena,” she sings, touching Emerala lightly on the tip of her nose. “They couldn’t bear to let you out of their sight.” She leans in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “How terribly dramatic of both of them.”

  At that she gasps aloud, startling the raven into taking flight. It circles above their heads with an unsettling cry before returning to Melena’s shoulder. “Perhaps both of them fancy you—wouldn’t that make for the perfect tragedy?”

  Emerala clears her throat, feeling her cheeks growing hot. “I’m quite happily engaged to be married, if you’ll recall.”

  “No you’re not.” Melena’s singsong voice lilts upwards towards the treetops. Emerala fights the growing urge to slap the woman across the face. She looks at the curled, black talons of the raven and thinks better of it.

  “But we can keep pretending you are, if it suits your fancy,” Melena says with a simper. “I adore games, and this one is delightful.” Her eyes twinkle with a knowing gleam. She drags Emerala forward through the jungle at a quickening pace, and Emerala finds herself struggling to keep her footing in the dense undergrowth. Behind them, she can no longer hear the footfalls of Derek and the Lethal.

  Next to her, Melena sighs. “Pirates are just hopeless romantics at heart, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Emerala says darkly. Up ahead she can just make out a looming, rectangular silhouette pressing through the trees. She stares into the vegetation, trying to fathom what they could possibly be approaching this far out in the jungle.

  “It’s their fatal flaw.” Melena snickers. “Take Lachlan the Lethal, for example.”

  Emerala hesitates, her eyes drawing away from the oblong structure beyond the tangled, grey tree trunks. Overhead, something hoots in alarm. The sound echoes three times in succession before fading away into silence. There is an audible rustling—the reverberation of something heavy climbing through the branches. Emerala shivers, glancing over her shoulder. Derek and the Lethal are nowhere to be seen.

  “How do you know him?” Emerala asks, buying time. Somehow, she can’t imagine anyone choosing the phrase hopeless romantic to describe the gruff old murderer.

  Melena flashes her a knowing grin. “Everyone has heard of him, of course. I’m surprised you haven’t, since you’re so firmly pretending to be a Westerlies bride.”

  “Oh.” Emerala sniffs, unsure of what to say. Melena leans in closer, and Emerala notices the raven on her shoulder is gone. She feels a shiver of unease go down her spine. She had not heard or seen the bird take off.

  All around them, the jungle is oddly void of wildlife. The dissonant sounds of life that buzzed and fluttered incessantly on their journey have faded into silence. The sun is drawing closer to the earth, the crisp gold of the afternoon giving way to an ambiguous halo of red that splinters through the leaves like spilt wine. The world around the women is cast in dangerous hues of olive and violet.

  “There is an old story about Lachlan the Lethal—one almost as notorious as the stories of his misdeeds.” Melena straightens, her gaze searching. That same smile is still pressed into her lips—a permanent, irritating fixture upon her face. “You do know that your pirate friend is a convicted murderer, I assume.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Emerala murmurs. She can feel the looming presence of the structure before her and wonders if this is where the man they called the architect resides. A prickle of anticipation sends her pulse fluttering.

  At her side, Melena does a little dance, her feet shuffling lightly against the earth.

  “His fate, it was set, his rights, they were read, and Lachlan was hung by his neck ‘til dead,” she sings, stringing two fingers around her neck like a noose. Emerala stares at her and says nothing.

  “He wasn’t always a killer, you know.” Melena’s eyes are shining in the dying light. The muddled red sun paints her face the color of blood. “Have you heard of the four wind women of the seas?”

  “I have not.”

  Melena giggles loudly, the sound spilling away from her like water. It saturates the silent space around them, the echo of her laughter rolling down the branchless trunks of the leaning
trees and colliding with Emerala’s sticking skin.

  “Another mistake,” she whispers, nearly hopping with excitement. “Mistake after mistake, it isn’t good if you’re hoping to win our little game.”

  Emerala scowls. Through the trees she can hear the crunch of a boot against brambles and feels a surge of relief rush through her. Melena moves so close to her, then, that her blue eyes double before Emerala’s vision. Her breath is tinged with the crisp scent of mint leaves.

  “They say it is only a great fool that falls in love with an immortal woman of the wind,” she whispers. “Lachlan the Lethal has been called many things in his first lifetime. A fool was never one of them.”

  She draws back with a wink, her hair fluttering into her eyes. Emerala glowers at her in silence.

  “It’s a lovely story,” Melena says, “You should ask him to tell it.”

  She lets out a cackle at that, setting off once again to dancing. Emerala watches with relief as Derek and the Lethal break through the tangled trees and emerge into the clearing. Their faces are slick with sweat. The Lethal’s cutlass is drawn. He lowers it at the sight of Emerala, his expression unreadable. The white scar that runs down the length of his face appears fresh and red in the fading light.

  “And down came the wind with a wretched old shriek and bade, then, the dead man to rise up and speak,” sings Melena as she twirls away from Emerala. In the dusky violet shadows of the trees, Lachlan the Lethal freezes. His gaze darkens as he fingers the blade of his cutlass, studying the spinning figure of the woman. His lips are pressed together in a tight, white line.

  Melena pauses, peering out at them from behind a tree with eyes that glitter like jewels. Her voice croons softly in the twilight. “The story is old, the whispers, they grow. Where Lachlan is now, the dead men will know.”

  Lachlan scowls, ignoring her. “Are ye alright?” he calls out to Emerala. His voice is hoarse.

  “Fine,” she calls back, unnerved by the expression that flashes across his face. The cutlass in his hand catches the dying sun, throwing fragments of ruddy light across his features.