The Changing Tide: Book One of Rogue Elegance

by K Dowling

  Strange. The man is watching her with such familiarity, and yet she is sure that she has never before laid eyes on him. Ensnared by her curiosity, she moves back into the tent. There is a loud clamor at her back—the sound of glass shattering upon stone. The merchant is shouting at a customer, berating him for breaking a piece of his collection. Emerala glances over her shoulder, distracted, and turns back towards the post.

  The dark stranger is gone.

  Emerala frowns at the crowd mulling about her. Nowhere among them does she see a man wearing that same black hat. How could he have exited without her seeing? She only looked away for a moment. Her shoulders droop. Slowly, keeping her eyes peeled for any sign of the man, she exits the tent and heads out into the street.

  The marketplace outside is far too crowded for Emerala’s liking. She shoves her way through the throng of Chancians that have fallen to meandering aimlessly from tent to tent, studying each face as she passes. None of the men she sees appear to have those same bright golden eyes. She curses silently and allows herself to be swallowed by the mass of shopping Cairans.

  The sound of a familiar voice calling her name pulls her out of her foul mood. Glancing over her shoulder, she spots Orianna is running towards her through the horde of Chancians. Nerani is at her heels, her long brown locks streaming in the sunlight. The draped fabric of her ivory gown is bunched within her fists. The women are breathless—their chests rise and fall beneath their tightly laced bodices.

  “There you are,” Nerani exclaims. “We’ve been searching for you all morning.”

  “Why?” Emerala asks, growing immediately defensive. She wracks her brain, retracing her steps that morning as she searches the banks of her memory for any condemning actions she might have undertaken. Coming up empty, she crosses her arms across the tightly laced brown fabric of her whalebone corset. “What have I done?”

  Orianna ignores her, tugging roughly at her locked arms. “You have to come! Quickly!”

  They are, each of them, far too excited for Emerala to bother playing at being disinterested. Her curiosity aroused, Emerala allows herself to be led back through the crowd. As she walks she scans the faces around her one last time. There is no trace of those golden eyes—that dark, beckoning face. She tries to closet her disappointment. She focuses her attention instead on the girls before her. “What is it? Where are we going?”

  “Pirates are in the square.” Orianna shouts to her over the rising volume of the crowd. Emerala catches Nerani’s gaze. Her cousin shrugs; smiles. Sure enough, as the girls make their way closer to the square, the crowd grows more condensed. Several people are shouting heatedly. Their voices overlap one another in a raucous roar that climbs towards the sky. Emerala strains her ears to listen. She cannot make out anything intelligible. The mass is pushing forward relentlessly, each onlooker more eager than the last. It is no use trying to shove their way to the front of the crowd. The girls keep to the outskirts, their backs pressed against the cool brick of the surrounding shops.

  “Damn you! Stand still!”

  Emerala hears the incensed roar cut through the commotion like a knife. A gunshot ricochets through the square. At the sound, a collective gasp ripples through the crowd. Everyone falls silent at once.

  “Stand still, I say!”

  The women have managed to make their way around the crowd and into a more sparse collection of stragglers. Before them stands an elderly man donned in an oversized red coat. On his head sits a black tricorn hat laced with gold. In one hand he holds a half empty pint of ale. In the other, a pistol. He stumbles forward, clearly heavily inebriated. Spittle flies from his lips as he bellows indistinctly, waving his gun in a haphazard, jerking motion. The crowd draws back, frightened. The sight of a weapon, carelessly wielded, has robbed them of their bravado.

  Emerala cranes her neck to see past the slobbering drunkard. There, perched upon the back of a fruit-laden cart, stands a smirking young man. His tricorn hat has been swept from his head in a grand gesture as he addresses the crowd nearest to him. Wild brown hair falls down into bright hazel eyes. His face is burnt from the sun, and even from here Emerala can make out the spattering of freckles that coat the bridge of his crooked nose. He hops down from the pushcart as the drunkard’s gun goes off again.

  “Stop movin’, you bilge rat,” spits the man.

  “If you weren’t three sheets to the wind, likely you would have shot me by now, mate,” the young man shouts back. He laughs at his own words, his hazel eyes twinkling. A few in the crowd laugh along with him. He has captivated his audience with a smile and a bow, this grinning visitor.

  A shout from beyond the crowd sends a section of the watchers scattering. Another voice, authoritative and clear, calls out, “Make way!”

  “Clear on out,” calls another voice. Emerala watches as a section of the crowd parts in nervous obedience. Silence has once again settled over the square and its inhabitants. At the far end of the gathering, General Byron is making his way towards the center of the commotion. His dark eyes scan the crowd. His jaw is set in an angry line. Behind him march five more guardians. Their weapons are drawn. Their expressions are hardened into stone. Their golden cloaks gleam in the morning sun as they surge forward towards the brawling pirates.

  “Emerala, it’s time to go,” Nerani hisses in her ear. She feels her cousin’s nails dig into her wrist. She ignores her, shaking her arm free from Nerani’s vise-like grip. Her green eyes are glued to the scene.

  “Emerala, we’re going.” Orianna’s voice slips out from the shadows at Emerala’s back. They are already leaving. Neither of them is eager to stick around and risk exposure with the guardians so close. It’s understandable, but Emerala knows that she can take care of herself. She is far too captivated to walk away now. She needs to see how this ends.

  “Go on, then. I’m staying.”

  “Suit yourself,” Orianna murmurs darkly.

  Nerani’s voice barely climbs above a whisper. “Be careful.” And they are gone.

  Emerala studies the scene before her. The drunkard drops his pint of ale to the ground as he catches sight of the approaching Golden Guard. Several onlookers jump at the sound of shattering glass upon the street. His gun droops limply at his side. He watches in silence as the guardians approach him, his eyes opening and closing as though he cannot quite believe what he sees. His lower jaw has gone slack against his face. General Byron slows to a standstill directly before the old man. He raises one gloved palm above his shoulder. The guardians behind him draw to an immediate stop. It seems to Emerala as though everyone in the square is holding their breath. Watching. Waiting. They have transformed from an unruly mob to a captive audience.

  “State your name, foreigner.”

  “J-jameson,” stammers the man. He clears his throat. “Jameson.”

  “He’s a pirate!” The accusation comes from somewhere behind Emerala’s back.

  One eyebrow rises upon the general’s forehead. “Is that so?”

  Jameson the drunkard is shaking his head wildly. His lower lip trembles like the drooping jowl of a hound. One stubby finger jabs at his chest. “Me? En’t got a clue what that bloke be on about.”

  General Byron appears unconvinced. “What is your business in Chancey, Mr. Jameson?” His dark, unblinking gaze is trained upon the man. He is the picture of propriety in his golden uniform, standing tall beneath the midmorning sun.

  “Sellin’ goods,” Jameson says, before hiccoughing violently.

  “Ah.” General Byron smiles wanly. “So you’re a merchant?”

  “Aye, that I am. A merchant.” Jameson flashes the general a toothy grin.

  “I suppose, then, you wouldn’t happen to be the similarly named Captain Jameson of the brigand ship Red Skull that my men and I took into custody earlier this morning?”

  The grin is rapidly fading from Jameson’s face. He is silent. A silver haired guardian steps forward, a polite smile imprinted upon his face. In his free hand he dangles a pair of
golden shackles. The sound of the cuffs clattering against one another resounds loudly throughout the square.

  “You see, Jameson, the captain was not present with his crew when we boarded the ship,” the guardian with the silver hair explains. “The crew was surprisingly amiable towards the good general and I. They were not feeling well—they’d fallen ill to a bout of scurvy at sea. They needed supplies—food and water. Said that the captain gambled away their goods and they had nothing left to trade. It’s a sad story, truly. They gave quite the description of their fearless captain—a description that I’d say you fit rather nicely.”

  He snaps his gloved fingers together, grinning. “Private Provence, wouldn’t you say this man looks just like the Captain Jameson they described?”

  “Yes, sir,” barks a young guardian that has positioned himself at General Byron’s left shoulder.

  “Really, the resemblance is uncanny,” General Byron marvels. “Could it be there are two Captain Jamesons wandering around our island?”

  Before him, Jameson sputters wordlessly. His gun trembles within his fist.

  “I’d wager not,” Corporal Anderson offers.

  “If you’re lookin’ to arrest anyone, arrest him—the thievin’ bastard!” Jameson shouts, gesturing his free hand wildly in the direction of the pushcart. General Byron glances over his shoulder. Emerala follows his gaze. The young pirate that stood there only moments before is gone.

  Another disappearing act, Emerala considers, intrigued. He had been in full view the entire time, and yet she had not seen him depart from the square.

  “I’m afraid there’s no one there, Mr. Jameson,” General Byron points out.

  Jameson’s mouth is agape. “He were there only moments ago!”

  The silver-haired guardian—Corporal Anderson—makes a mock show of looking concerned. “And you claim that this mystery man was a thief?”

  “Aye.”

  “What did he steal?”

  Jameson hesitates. Winces. “Well, I en’t able to tell you that.”

  At this, General Byron smiles. “I thought that might be the case. Men, arrest him.”

  The guardians surge forward, ignoring the wild protests of the pirate as they clap him in irons. Emerala watches in silence with the rest of the crowd as the guardians drag a protesting Captain Jameson around the corner and out of sight.

  General Byron is the only guardian that remains behind. He stares wordlessly at the throng of people before him. They stare back.

  “Well?” he snaps at last. His voice projects through the crowd. “The show is over. Go about your business.”

  It is as though the onlookers have been set free from a spell. All at once, everyone is moving and chatting as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Emerala falls back against the brick buildings, watching. From the shadows, she studies the general. He is standing in the midst of the commotion, his cold gaze trained upon the shattered pint glass upon the street. His fists are clasped in a tight ball at the small of his back. She tries to imagine what it is he is thinking, standing there alone, and if it is the same thought that led him down to the waterfront the day before.

  He looks up, then, and she wonders if he has somehow heard her thoughts. His dark eyes scan the crowd—he is watching for someone—waiting. His gaze alights upon her face. His lips deepen into a frown.

  Time to go, she thinks. She veers to her left, ducking sharply into a narrow alleyway between the shops. The air within the cramped lane is thicker somehow—heavier. Speckles of dust drift down in broken shafts of sunlight. The crumbling brick swallows the commotion of the crowd in the square. She surges forward into the shadows, eager to avoid a run-in with the general. Her frame collides hard into a figure that lurks beyond the reach of sunlight.

  “Watch where you’re going,” she snaps, startled.

  “I see the Cairan hospitality hasn’t changed a bit since I’ve gone.” A laugh slips out from between the stranger’s lips—tickles the curls at the top of her head. She backs away, uncomfortable.

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend.” The response is given pleasantly enough, but Emerala feels a shiver of unease run through her all the same.

  “Come into the light where I can see you,” she demands of the shaded figure.

  Obliging her, the man steps into a shaft of sunlight that spills down onto the hay-ridden dirt path beneath their feet. Two golden eyes twinkle merrily out from a handsome face as he grins down at her.

  You again. With all of the commotion in the square, she had nearly forgotten about her brief interaction with the golden-eyed stranger in the tent earlier that morning. The nervous excitement that winds through her veins curls her toes upon the earthen street.

  “Who are you?”

  “The Hawk, at your service.” He sweeps his tricorn hat from his head and dips into a theatrical bow. Unwashed black hair tumbles down into his face. Emerala scowls at his use of a title. He is not a Cairan—she would know him if he was. The bronzed skin of his face suggests that he is a foreigner. He should have no understanding of the way the gypsy titles work. Even so, she finds that she is afraid to ask for his true name. Cairan custom requires her to offer her true name in exchange for his. She does not know how much he knows. She is not willing to risk such personal information to find out.

  “Why are you following me?” she demands, narrowing her eyes.

  He shrugs. “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “How entirely arrogant of you to think so. I suppose I should expect as much.”

  “What does that mean?”

  A smile dances in the Hawk’s golden eyes. “I’ve brought you something,” he says, ignoring her question. He holds out one dirty hand. His long fingers are wrapped around a familiar looking object. The sunlight catches on the rounded, iridescent surface. It is the dagger she had admired earlier that morning beneath the merchant’s tent.

  “What is this?” It is not one of the hundred questions that bubble within her chest, and yet it is the only one that manages to find a voice.

  “Well, it’s a dagger, of course.”

  “I can see that,” she snaps tersely. “Why?”

  A crooked smile teases at corner of his lips, dimpling his cheek. “It’s a gift.”

  “I can’t take that.”

  “Aye, you can. It’d be rude not to.”

  She hesitates, her eyes traveling hungrily along the glistening silver blade. It is thinner than paper—as fragile-looking as the trilling rim of a wine glass. Yet she is certain that, if wielded correctly, the blade could be deadly. Rob would never approve of her having such a weapon.

  That is exactly why she covets it.

  “What do you want for it?”

  Another laugh. “If I wanted something in return, it’d hardly be a gift now, aye?”

  “Nothing comes for free,” she retorts.

  “Indeed,” the Hawk agrees, grinning. He replaces his tricorn hat, his golden eyes drifting down towards the knife in his hands. One idle finger runs along the blade. It makes Emerala uncomfortable to see the ease with which he handles the weapon. She feels suddenly helpless—trapped before the stranger in the narrow shade of the alleyway.

  “Tell me,” the Hawk says, “where is it you get those lovely green eyes?”

  “Sorry?” She is caught-off guard by the question.

  “Your eyes—it’s not common to see eyes that color in a Cairan.”

  Emerala is silent. He is right, of course—most Cairans have blue eyes. It is the color, the Mames always said, that the gypsies brought with them on the long journey from Caira. Those that are half-blood—the offspring of both Chancians and Cairans—will often sport brown eyes, maybe even hazel, but not green. Emerala has never before seen anyone with eyes quite like hers and her brother’s. It’s a distinguishing feature, and one that she is proud of. It is what sets her apart.

  But how can he know that—this stranger to the island?

  “I just co
uldn’t help wondering if those eyes came from your mother or your father?” he asks again, trying to elicit a response. He has moved closer to her without her even noticing. She keeps her attention trained upon the blade of the dagger. The tip rests dangerously close to her bodice. She can see the warped reflection of her faded olive gown within the surface.

  “What does it matter?” Emerala asks, suddenly suspicious.

  “It doesn’t matter a lick, I’m just curious is all.”

  “Well it’s none of your business.”

  “I suppose it’s not.” His smile widens, and she can see one golden tooth rooted within his bottom jaw. “Do you want the dagger or not?”

  She hesitates, chewing at her lip.

  “It’d be wise, I think, to have some protection. Keep yourself safe.”

  She crosses her arms protectively over her chest. “What do I need to be kept safe from?”

  “Guardians,” he says and shrugs. “Pirates.” The crooked grin upon his face stretches impossible wider, crinkling his golden eyes. “Times are changing—getting dangerous. See for yourself.” He nods towards the square at her back. She watches him, unmoving, reluctant to turn her back to him in order to look into the square.

  “Look,” he says again, gesturing this time with the point of the dagger.

  Her curiosity getting the better of her, she turns. Her green eyes seek out the object of his gesticulation. There, in plain view, his body bound by rope to the rotting wood of a post, is the corpse of a familiar looking young man.

  Harrane the Hostile.

  So that’s why General Byron was so close to the square with all of his men that morning, she realizes. She feels as though she is going to be sick. His blood has dried upon his flesh in the sun. It is cracked like red mud baked by the summer heat. A crow perches idly upon his exposed shoulder, pecking hungrily at his ear lobe. Tears prick in Emerala’s lower lids at the sight of him.