The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  Jealousy, he thinks, chiding himself silently. Jealousy is a child’s vice, not a man’s.

  His feelings for Emerala have made him blind. He assumed that the Hawk’s behavior was due to feeling similarly—not due to his constant, calculating planning.

  “I’m a fool,” he says aloud, unthinking.

  Before him, the Lethal is quiet as he fingers the blade of his dagger. The parrot rests upon his shoulder, his beady black eyes catching in the sun.

  “Are ye?” the Lethal asks, one eyebrow rising upon his forehead. The dull coloration of his partially blind eye is pronounced in the sunlight.

  “I am. I should have seen the Hawk for what he was.” Alexander shakes his head, frowning as the paddles hit sand. The tide is low—the pale beach stretches out before them, interspersed with formless blue shadows cast by the looming cliff wall.

  “And what is he?” the Lethal asks.

  “A liar. A traitor. A thief.”

  “Murderer,” squawks Salty.

  The Lethal gives a wry laugh. “So he’s a pirate, then, aye?”

  Alexander scowls at him as he leaps from the rowboat. His boots squelch into the damp sand underfoot. He grabs hold of the wherry, watching as the Lethal does the same. The water is up to his knees. A dark line of saturation plies at his trousers. Together, they drag the boat ashore and upend it on the sand. Alexander peers out across the rippling ocean, shielding his eyes against the dazzling sunlight that plays off of the white-capped waves. The tide is still leeching from the sand, dragging the breakers farther from the cliff. They have several hours before they need to worry about the rowboat being carried off.

  Squaring his shoulders, he scours the beach. His fingers linger at the ready just above his cutlass. The beach is empty—there are no flashes of gold, no Guardians in sight.

  Not yet, anyway, he thinks.

  A quarter mile or so ahead he can see a slender figure making her way down the long stretch of beach. Her features are obscured by the blue shade of the cliffs, but the curves of her are unmistakable.

  Emerala. He is unsure whether to feel anger or relief.

  The Hawk is nowhere is sight.

  He curses under his breath, his eyes scanning the shadows. “Where is he?”

  “Likely saw us coming,” the Lethal snarls. “Tread carefully, now.”

  They pick their way cautiously down the beach, keeping their weapons in their scabbards. They are silent as they study the shadows beneath the crumbling stone outcroppings of the cliffs. The sun is rising higher in the sky, dragging a sheet of glistening gold across the fast drying sand.

  Several uneventful moments pass them by. Up ahead, the figure of Emerala is growing smaller. Silently, Alexander gestures for the Lethal to follow her. The old pirate nods in a show of understanding, taking off down the beach. He sticks close to the lapping waves, his eyes trained upon the cliffs.

  Alexander draws closer to the crumbling rocks, his head cocked as he listens for any sort of sound. All he can hear is the whisper of the wind and the murmur of the sea. A soft breeze tickles the tall, yellow grass that rises between the rocks upon the sand. The movement pulls his attention and he draws closer, his cutlass sliding out from the scabbard at his waist with a shivering sigh. A thin sheen of sweat rises to Alexander’s skin beneath the itching collar of his undershirt. He flicks his hat upwards upon his head to paw at his forehead, freezing in mid-movement as he feels something cold and hard press against his skull.

  “Hello, Hawk,” he says coldly. He curses himself inwardly for not hearing the pirate slinking up behind him in the sand.

  “Cap’n.” He can hear the sneer in the Hawk’s voice. The pistol presses harder against the back of his head. “Drop your sword.”

  Alexander obliges, listening to the ringing of steel as his cutlass falls against the sand.

  “Are you planning to kill me, then?”

  “Not just yet,” the Hawk replies. The pistol moves away from his head as the pirate swings around on the sand so that they are face to face upon the beach. The sun is rising higher, still, above the cliffs, throwing golden light upon the breakers. Beneath the cliff, he and the Hawk are still blanketed in cobalt shadow.

  Alexander stares into those gold, unblinking eyes and says nothing.

  “Shouldn’t have followed me, Cap’n.”

  “You shouldn’t have taken Emerala.”

  The Hawk throws his head back and crows in laughter. “Taken? You think I took her? The Rogue wanted to leave. It was her choice.”

  Alexander frowns. “I’m sure you had a hand in convincing her.”

  The Hawk shakes his head, still grinning. “I’m innocent,” he says. “My only crime, as it has been from the very beginning, is wanting her.”

  The bravado in his words is off-putting. Alexander scowls at him, trying to read the lines of his face—to see whether or not this is another bluff. He is always playing a hand—always upping the ante. Alexander is growing tired of the game.

  Before him, the Hawk presses the barrel of the pistol firmly between Alexander’s eyes. “You asked me why I wanted her on the ship, aye? You asked me what purpose she served.”

  Alexander is silent, waiting beneath the cold lip of steel at his brow. The Hawk winks at him, his gaze thick with implication. A lewd grin splits his face in two.

  “She served a fine purpose for me.”

  Alexander can feel the heat of rage curling within him. Fury rises into his cheeks. His scalp grows hot beneath his hat. His fingers tighten into a fist; the flesh of his knuckles pull against bone, fade to white.

  A bawdy laugh escapes the Hawk, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Hit a nerve, have I, Cap’n? Did you think she was yours all this time? Did you think it was you she wanted?”

  He takes a slow step forward, the pistol lowering ever so slightly. Alexander notes this in silence, the white-hot anger still simmering beneath his skin—the sour ache of a hangover still taking up residence in his skull.

  “I can let you know what you’ve missed out on,” the Hawk says, still grinning. He leans in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I can tell you what she tastes like.”

  Alexander shouts, his voice spilling from him in a wordless cry as he surges forward in a rage. In one sweeping movement, he knocks the pistol from the pirate’s hand as his fist makes contact with the side of his jaw.

  The Hawk curses, stumbling back several steps as he searches the sand for the pistol. His temper still boiling, Alexander swings his fist a second time. Gratification ripples through him as his knuckles make contact with the Hawk’s lip. Blood trickles down his chin, dripping onto the sand in glistening globules of red. The Hawk stumbles into an outcropping at his back, bracing himself against the rock. He spits blood upon the sand, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. His fist comes away bloody and he growls, charging Alexander like a bull.

  He slams hard into Alexander’s midsection. The pair hits the beach with a painful collision of bone against bone, sand flying up around them in sprays of gold. Alexander flinches as the Hawk’s bloodied fist comes into contact with his nose. Red shoots across his field of vision and he shouts in pain, thrusting the Hawk off of him. He rises to his feet, spitting blood and sand out of his mouth.

  His nose throbs with the steady blood flow that trickles down into his lips. The pain is sharp, pronounced. Nauseating. It’s definitely broken. He presses his boots into the sand and looks around for the Hawk, his fists at the ready.

  Before him, the Hawk is equally worse for the wear, a dagger at his throat. The Lethal stands astride him, his gaze cold as he glowers at Alexander.

  “Fighting like boys,” he says, and scoffs. “Both of ye.”

  “Where’s Emerala?” Alexander demands. The taste of blood is metallic on his tongue.

  “Halfway down the beach, by now, I’d reckon,” snarls the Lethal. “Couldn’t get her, what with ye two carrying on to kill one another out here in the open. Is it the attention of the Golden Guard
ye want, boys? Because that’s what you’ll get if ye don’t keep quiet.”

  Alexander takes several steps closer to them, aware of the rising sun burning the side of his face. The Lethal is right—the Guardians will begin patrolling the beach with the dawning morning. They won’t be safe here, not for long. He lifts his cutlass from the sand, leering at the oozing cut that splits the Hawk’s lip down the middle. The pirate stares back at him, his gaze jovial in spite of the sliver of steel pressed beneath his larynx.

  “You’re too easy, Cap’n,” he says.

  “Shut your trap, boy,” snaps the Lethal, pressing the dagger harder into his flesh.

  Alexander’s grip tightens upon the hilt of his cutlass. His injured leg throbs beneath him and he quails, his vision spinning. His fury keeps him upright—keeps him rooted to the ground underfoot.

  “You’re right,” Alexander says to the Lethal, his gaze still trained upon the Hawk. “The Guardians will be here soon. So I’d say we have to act fast.”

  “Aye,” agrees the Lethal. “Let’s move on from here, all of us.”

  “No.” Alexander shakes his head. He jabs a bloody finger at the sand. “This is where Evander the Hawk dies. This is how he dies. Right here, beneath the blade in my hand.” He angles his cutlass, tilting the blade until it tips just beneath the Hawk’s chin.

  “Think about what you’re aiming to do, Alexander,” the Lethal cautions.

  “I have thought about it,” snaps Alexander. The blood coursing to his nose is making him dizzy. “He’s done nothing but lie and cheat since the moment this whole thing began. His usefulness has run out.”

  The Lethal frowns, his good eye scrutinizing Alexander beneath the scorching sun. “Is murder what ye really want?”

  “Interesting choice of words,” the Hawk muses, “ coming from a murderer.”

  “Shut up,” Alexander snaps. The coppery taste of blood on his tongue is nauseating. “Not another word out of you.”

  The Hawk laughs. “Or what? You’ll kill me? Seems like you’ve already made that decision, Cap’n.”

  “Think this through,” the Lethal says, lowering his dagger as Alexander presses the blade of his cutlass against the Hawk’s throat. Blood drips from his nose, landing against the quivering blade with an audible plop.

  “You’re supposed to be on my side,” growls Alexander.

  The Lethal’s expression is grim. “I am. I am on your side. But ye need to listen to me. The Hawk knows things—things we don’t know. He knew Emerala’s father was the man in the maze. He knew how that map of yours was spelled.”

  He pauses, wetting his lower lip, and adds, “He killed Charles Argot on Caros.”

  Alexander’s headache explodes behind his eyes, setting his skull to throbbing. He glowers at the Hawk, his fury burning hotter still.

  “You bastard,” he curses. “You treacherous, lying—”

  “Argot was worth more to you dead than alive,” the Hawk says, pawing at the fast-drying blood on his chin.

  “Is that right?” Alexander snarls. “Turns out, so are you.”

  “So kill me already,” the Hawk challenges. “If the tables were turned and I had a blade to your throat, you’d already be carrion for the birds.”

  “There won’t be enough of you left for the birds when I’m finished, traitor.”

  The Lethal steps between them, placing his palm firmly against Alexander’s chest and shoving him back a step upon the sand. He forces Alexander to look at him, grabbing him by the cuff of the shirt and shaking him hard.

  “There are other ways to make a man talk. Effective ways. Painful ways. Don’t be rash, boy. We can find out what ye need to know.”

  There is a low grunt and the Lethal’s eyes widen into circles. Blood pools within his lower lip, staining his teeth red. Horrified, Alexander glances down to see the silvery point of a knife sticking out of the front of his chest—directly through his heart. Deep red seeps through the fabric of the murderer’s undershirt, staining the moth-eaten brown of his jacket. Over his shoulder, the Hawk crows triumphantly. The Lethal gives one last gurgling gasp and sinks down onto to his knees in the sand.

  “This is going to cost me,” Evander says. “But Saints, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” Lifting his boot, he kicks the old pirate to the ground with the heel of his boot.

  CHAPTER 48

  Chancey

  Emerala rushes down the beach, her bare feet slipping upon the sun cooked granules of sand. The damp hem of her violet gown whispers against her bare ankles, and she bunches the skirt within her fists to keep from tripping.

  Her heart pounds in her chest, rising to her throat and forcing her to swallow, hard. She is so close—so close to seeing her family again. She does not know how to feel. She does not know what to feel.

  She only knows that she needs to keep running.

  Her hair falls down around her face in bouncing ringlets, the strands pulled loose from where she has bound the bulk of it into a loose bun. She allows the rippling wind that rolls down from the cliffs to sweep the tendrils of black from her eyes, picking up her pace as a salty squall caresses the small of her back.

  Evander told her to run.

  They had seen Alexander and the Lethal approaching in the rowboat long before the pair made it to shore. Something uneasy had twitched within her at the sight of them. Some deeper, wordless instinct implored her to see reason, assured her that this—what she was doing—was wrong. Everything was backwards. Everything was ruined. She stared into the dazzling sun as it played upon the cresting waves, squinting at the distant outline of the rowboat drifting to shore.

  Run, Evander instructed. Hide. I’ll deal with them.

  What will you do? she asked. Then, before he could answer—Don’t hurt them.

  I won’t, he promised. I’ll just slow them down.

  And so she ran.

  She gasps as something passes by her face with a flutter and a scream. Alexander’s silver parrot circles around her, wings flapping furiously. His black eyes are murderous as he drops down to her shoulder. His talons scrape against her skin and she winces.

  “Emerala the Rogue,” he squawks. “Pretty, pretty girl.”

  He plucks contentedly at a ringlet with his beak.

  “Copper, copper eyes,” he sings. He bends down low, extending his neck and ruffling his feathers. “Awk! Murderer!”

  Emerala hears a hoarse shout at her back. The sound is barely audible over the waves, but it is there. She whirls about, the talons tightening upon her shoulder. Scanning the beachfront, her eyes land upon two figures in the blue shadows of the cliffs. It is Evander the Hawk and Alexander, of that there can be no doubt. She hears a grunt as Alexander’s fist connects with Evander’s jaw. He stumbles several steps backwards upon the sand, quickly regaining his balance. Alexander takes another swing, again making contact with Evander’s face. He groans, his fingers flying to his mouth.

  Emerala is running, again, this time in the direction of the pirates. Anger courses through her like wildfire. She sees Evander lunge in Alexander’s direction and the two men topple downward, falling out of sight behind a grey outcropping of fallen rocks. For a long time there is silence. Emerala wavers upon the sand, her heartbeat threatening to crack her ribcage as she gasps for breath. She stares into the undulating grass that snaps and sputters in the wind, waiting for some sort of sound.

  Any sort of sound.

  The wind carries with it the low, angry murmur of men’s voices. She cannot hear what they are saying, not from here. She begins to inch slowly closer—moving as cautiously as she dares—when she hears another angry cry. Again, the sound has come from Alexander. With a snarl and a curse, the singing of steel starts up in the morning sun. Her heart seizes within her chest as she hears the rhythmic thrusting of one blade meeting another. The shivering song of swordplay echoes across the beach.

  The wind that tickles the back of her neck picks up, suddenly, urgently—swallowing the sound of steel up
on steel as invisible fingers wrench at the hem of her dress. The unexpected gale snaps at the top of the rolling breakers, making the waves lap at the beach with rabid fervor. Skeletal clouds clutch at the westward sky overhead, their grey tendrils creeping toward the sun. Emerala shivers in the chill, caught between the buffeting wind to the west and the golden sunbursts to the east.

  She races around the edge of the stone, stopping short at the sight before her. Alexander and Evander are head to head, one bloodied face glowering into the other as their swords meet between them. With a grunt, Evander shoves Alexander back, sweeping his blade again in his direction. There is another ringing clash as Alexander parries his blow, his face scrunching in exertion as blood trickles from his nose and into his mouth.

  “Stop!” Emerala screams, her voice shrill against the sound of the whistling wind. Salty echoes her cry, his voice guttural. She stamps her foot in irritation, kicking up granules of sand. The men before her continue to fight, heedless of her commands. She runs forward, her cheeks red and angry.

  “Stop this instant! Both of you!”

  Her order falls on deaf ears. The men continue to parry and advance, their weapons playing off of the other in an equal show of swordsmanship.

  At last, Alexander uses his blade to thrust Evander backwards, the force of his weight overpowering the lanky pirate. Evander falls back hard against a rock, keeping his sword held out before him. Seeing her chance, Emerala rushes between the two men. Squawking in indignation, Salty takes off and finds somewhere safer to nestle.

  “Stop!” She extends a palm towards each of the men. They stand on either side of her, their chests heaving with exertion. Alexander’s sword lowers obediently, the point dropping down toward the sand. His hazel eyes are lined with defeat.

  “Are you two trying to kill each other?” The wind whips at her hair, tugging stray tendrils into her mouth.

  “That’s the idea,” Evander mutters from behind her. She turns around to glare at him pointedly, furious. He is dabbing at a shallow cut that runs the length of his cheek, his golden eyes flashing with annoyance as he surveys the blood that comes away on his fingers. His black hair falls into his eyes, pushed forward by the wind at his back. Behind his head, the ominous grey clouds creep ever forward, bleeding through the clear blue sky at an alarming rate.