by K A Dowling
Up ahead, the Lethal whispers something into Emerala’s ear.
“Pig,” Alexander hears her snap.
His fury ignites, coursing through his bones. Lachlan the Lethal will be welcome onboard his ship. For now.
They will set sail immediately for the Eisle of Udire.
And that’s as far as the murderer will go.
King U’Rel and his band of hunters will take care of him there, on the arctic shores of the north.
Harvest Cycle 1511
It has been raining for weeks on end. I have never seen rain such as this, not in all of my days on Chancey. It pounds relentlessly at the deck of the ship, beating the wooden vessel and its drenched crew into weary submission.
Charles Argot has been working tirelessly at constructing the map. He writes in a dead language, charting the course in symbols and lines that only he can understand. Captain Samuel swears he is the best man for the job, and yet something about his manner irks me. Even now he watches me far too closely, studying my every move as if he thinks he can read me. No one can read me. I am an enigma, even to myself. My mind is uncharted territory.
The golden-eyed boy—the Hawk, as I have come to know him—does not like Argot either. He says he doesn’t trust a map that only one man can read. I feel similarly, although I will not voice my concerns. My orders were clear, and if I am to follow them I must not leave a trail. There is too much at risk to make a mistake now.
We are only days away from the Eisle of Udire. In the brief breaks in the rain, I can see the grey strip of land growing larger on the horizon. I am looking forward to being warm and dry, even if only for a short while.
Eliot
CHAPTER 8
Chancey
The clink of utensils being scrubbed in the scullery acts as a menacing substitute for the metallic whistling of the guillotine. At the very least, it seems that way to Blaine the Eager. He clears his throat and averts his eyes as a scullery boy shoves past him, holding aloft a pot that reeks of day old meat.
Never in his lifetime did he think that fate would lead him here, to Rowland Stoward’s royal kitchens. Never in his lifetime, and yet here he is, keeping his head down and his ears open—praying to whatever gods may be that tomorrow won’t be his last, won’t be the day he is discovered for what he truly is.
Tainted blood.
A gypsy.
He’s really only half of a Cairan. His standing as a half-blood is what got him into this mess in the first place. His familial connection to the purist bloodlines of Chancey is the only thing that made the Cairan king look his way, he’s certain of it. He would have been all too happy to stay out of trouble—to keep his nose in his drink and his hand in the coffer.
But fate, and Topan, had other plans for him.
His grandfather’s name was Harold Blaine. He supposes he has the old man to blame for his current circumstance. He’d been a chef in Rowland Stoward’s kitchens long before Blaine was even born. When Blaine was a child, he knew his paternal grandfather only as a subject in his mother’s stories. They weren’t permitted to visit him in the palace, nor did he visit them. He was family in name only, his legacy the one thing that kept him bound to them as tensions grew in the city. Back in those days of youthful ignorance, Blaine—content to spend his days running barefoot through the puddles in abandoned street corners—was blissfully unaware of the cultural strife that was brewing in Chancey. He didn’t know that his muddled bloodlines would one day make him a target of hate.
It wasn’t until the executions began—wasn’t until his mother spent her weary nights crying herself to sleep—that Blaine began to realize that things were coming unraveled all around him. His mother and father would argue late into the night—would shout at one another over the flickering candlelight when they thought Blaine was asleep.
They’re killing us, and you don’t even care, his mother would cry.
I care, he’d hear his father snap. Damn it, I care what happens to you—to my son.
Then why won’t you contact your father? He can help us. He has connections.
Because, Lariana, his father would say, exasperated. Because he’ll be strung up as a traitor, and then they’ll come for us. It isn’t safe. Best to stay away. Forget about it.
Blaine went through his adolescence hating the old man, hoping he’d die. After all, he had turned his back on family, hadn’t he? He would stand among the crowd at the executions, watching friends and neighbors pleading for their souls as the drums rolled out a slow march, and think of his grandfather preparing an extravagant celebratory meal in the kitchens.
Eventually, he stopped thinking of his grandfather at all.
It wasn’t until one night nearly two decades later that he even heard the name. By then, his parents had been dead for years, the memory of his Chancian connections all but faded into oblivion. He had been quietly enjoying a cigar on the stoop outside his dilapidated apartment when a figure dropped down onto the step beside him.
Who’s that? he demanded coolly, blowing out a smoke ring. He watched as it drifted aimlessly up into the air, the weightless grey tendrils breaking apart and fading into the darkness.
Roberts the Valiant, the newcomer said. His tone was hushed, hurried. I come with a message.
Is that right? From who?
Nobody.
Blaine immediately recognized the alias for the elusive Cairan king.
Pull the other one, he said, and took a deep drag from his pipe.
I mean it.
Of course you do. And I’m the archduke of the Stoward court.
Will you really turn me away? the Valiant asked. In times like these, I don’t think you can afford to.
At that, Blaine relented. He exhaled, emptying his lungs of air. Fine. What kind of message can No One have for a simple man like me?
The Valiant either didn’t pick up on his scarcely concealed cynicism, or he’d merely chosen to ignore it, because he pressed on.
Are you Blaine the Eager, grandson of Harold Blaine?
At this, Blaine coughed, choking on smoke. It had been a long time since he heard the name.
Yes. His voice grew cautious, quiet. His lungs burned. But I haven’t met the man, nor spoken to him in my lifetime. He could be long dead, for all I know.
He’s alive. He lives in the castle, in one of the dormitories off of the kitchens. He tends to the garden when he can, but otherwise he’s grown too old to be of much use to anyone.
What use is this information to me? Blaine inquired after a spell of thoughtful silence.
No One is gathering a group of men together to look out for the well-being of our people. It’s no secret that the status of the Cairans has been greatly devalued in the past few decades—so much so that it has become dangerous to continue identifying with our culture. We’re being killed off one by one. No One wants to fight back. We need eyes and ears to infiltrate the city.
Blaine’s mind worked quickly to put the pieces together. He was a smart man—quick as a whip, his mother used to say—he knew what it was the Valiant wanted from him. You want me for my connections, then? he asked. What makes you think that my grandfather would even be willing to give me a job in the kitchens? What makes you think he isn’t in league with those upper class elitists?
The Valiant smiled, and his unusual green eyes glinted wickedly in the moonlight. It’s true. He may very well be on the wrong side of this fight. I have no way of knowing that. I never said this job wouldn’t be dangerous.
That’s how Blaine arrived here, one of Topan’s Listeners, working in Rowland Stoward’s royal kitchens. Every day is a gamble—a roll of the dice. He never knows when he might be accused of being a Cairan. Accused, as though to be born a Cairan is to knowingly commit come unspeakable, carnal sin.
It happens to others almost weekly. He’s nearly sick every time he’s forced to line up against the wall of the kitchen and watch as the Guardians drag away another protesting scullery boy. Rowland Stoward is growing
paranoid. Paranoid and impatient. Everyone knows that he’s targeting innocents, but who would dare speak out against the king? The fear of retribution is far too great.
In the sweltering kitchens, every man is his own friend. They entrust one another with basic tasks and nothing more. Each knows that if the opportunity arises he will sooner sell out one of the other men than be placed under arrest. Blaine keeps to himself, working diligently at whatever task he is given. As he works he’s careful to keep his ears open and listen information that might be important.
He jumps, rocketing himself out of the way of an oncoming cook. The rushing man, clad in a flour stained apron, fights to balance a large pot of some bubbling liquid or another. A bit has spilled out the side and now lies steaming upon the ground between the two men.
“A hand, Will?” The cook uses the common name Blaine chose to go by when he first came to his grandfather. A hint of impatience lines the words of the disgruntled cook, and Blaine makes haste. A surefire way to attract unwanted attention, he’s learned, is by moving too slowly. He grips the other end of the large pot, helping the portly cook to balance it out.
“We already assembled breakfast for His Majesty, surely he can’t be eating again so soon,” Blaine ventures. Conversation is a good thing, even idle talk. If there is anything the men and women of the Stoward court love more than themselves, it’s gossip. No information is useless. Not in times as dangerous as these.
“Bloody soldiers have a hankering for black pudding,” the cook grumbles.
Blaine wrinkles his nose at what he now knows to be congealed pig’s blood gurgling within the steaming pot. “We don’t serve the soldiers.”
“Today we do. His royal Majesty,” the cook says, emphasizing the king’s title with a grunt as he hoists the pot up higher, “is in a good mood this morning. He’s given the orders to prepare whatever the soldiers want.”
“Ah.” Blaine doesn’t dare to ask what has put the king in a good mood. Asking too many questions looks suspicious. Anyhow, he’ll find out everything he needs to know eventually. People love to talk, if you let them.
The cook continues, “It’s damn near going to kill me, too. I’ve too much to do today. He’s dining with Lord Anderson and his wife tonight and he’s ordered boar’s head. Boar’s head! And not even a full day’s notice. The huntsmen will be hard pressed to find a fat boar in this heat, I’ll tell you that. I’ll be serving up last night’s roast pig and His Majesty will be serving up my head.”
They turn sideways and push through the heavy swinging door that leads to the Guardians’ kitchen. Boisterous singing reaches his ears as soon as he steps across the threshold. He recognizes the song immediately—a bawdy commoner’s ballad about a drunken lord who falls into bed with a beautiful Cairan woman.
Funny, he thinks darkly, that they should scorn our culture but desire our women.
He helps the cook to place the pot down on the nearest table. Several of the Guardians—their formidable golden cloaks removed—push and shove on their way over to the table. The others remain crowded around the four Guardians that continue to sing the finale of the song.
“I fell for a lady, oh-a-lee-oh-a-lie,
“A lady with blue in her eyes.”
Blaine resists the urge to roll his own eyes, uncommonly dark for a Cairan man—and luckily so. As the laughter and applause subsides, he catches the fragment of a muted conversation somewhere behind him. His breath snags in his throat and he strains his ears to listen.
“He’s mad, that’s what the officers are saying.”
“That’s treason.”
“Is it treason if it’s true?”
“General Byron would have your head if he heard you talking that way about the king. Most of these men here would.”
“It was General Byron who first commented on the absurdity of the king’s order.”
“Is that the word he used? Absurd? I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, no, but Thompson was privy to the conversation and he said Byron had a rather short fuse over the whole affair.”
“I’ve never even heard of a Forbidden City.”
There it is again, the phrase that first caught Blaine’s attention and brought his stomach into his throat. The Forbidden City.
A Guardian is hooting next to Blaine, the volume of his laughter rising well above the two soldiers at his back. He attempts to take a step backwards without drawing any attention to himself. The voices come back into focus, their annoyance evident.
“Where do we even begin looking?”
“I wouldn’t know, would I?”
“We’ve combed the whole island time and time again.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I suppose General Byron will brief us on our new duties tonight. Provence says he’s called a meeting in the barracks. Even off duty Guardians are meant to attend.”
“How do we look for something that doesn’t exist?”
How indeed? Blaine turns and heads towards the door. The cook has already disappeared—probably to try and find a way to dress up one of the palace pigs as a convincing boar. Blaine has lingered far too long in the company of soldiers. It will draw unwanted attention if he idles any longer.
This is terrible news. The beauty of the Forbidden City—the magic of it, really—is that no one thinks to look for something that doesn’t exist. If Rowland Stoward knows—if General Byron has caught the scent—it means the stakes just became a little bit higher.
Lost in thought, Blaine backs through the swinging door and collides directly into the portly frame of the chef.
“There’s to be a reward, you know,” he says.
Blaine turns around to meet his gaze head on. He does his best to look confused.
“I saw you dropping eaves on those two Guardians in there. They should be more careful, speaking so boldly in mixed company. His Majesty does not take lightly to treason.”
Blaine swallows. “You mentioned a reward?”
“The officers broke fast in one of the dining halls earlier this morning, and Margaret Wilmer heard them discussing the fabled wealth of the false queen.”
Blaine hasn’t the slightest idea who Margaret Wilmer is. He assumes she is another gossip hungry member of the royal staff.
“The reward will go to the person who can discover the whereabouts of this hideaway. His Majesty is desperate to find the city.” The cook lowers his voice, leaning in as though he’s about to share something dangerous. “It’s a bit strange, I think. I would have thought Rowland would be happy enough just knowing that they’re no longer corrupting the streets of Chancey.”
“He wants them all killed for their insolence,” Blaine says, for a moment forgetting to keep his anger from infiltrating his voice.
The cook harrumphs loudly. “With good reason.” He flashes Blaine a cold look, as if daring him to challenge his assertion—daring him to disagree. When Blaine only nods, the cook turns and heads wordlessly away. Blaine watches him go, fighting the urge to leap upon the man and pummel him for his ignorance.
But what good will that do?
What good will anything do?
Blaine takes a steadying breath and processes his newfound information.
Rowland Stoward knows that the Cairans are seeking refuge in the Forbidden City.
That is a very, very bad thing.
Blaine takes momentary reassurance in the thought that he doesn’t know where the city is. Roberts the Valiant thought it best not to tell him. Should he be discovered—should he be the next staffer to be dragged away in paranoid suspicion—they won’t be able to beat the location out of him. He’ll go to his grave unable to sell out his people.
His stomach churns. He scans the kitchen, taking in all of the busy work that bustles about him. He needs to get back to work soon or his inactivity will become noticeable to his companions.
With grim silence, he sets to kneading a lumpy bit of dough, processing the news and waiting for an opportune moment to sneak away
and inform the Listeners.
CHAPTER 9
Chancey
Seranai the Fair is having a particularly bad day.
It’s not the fact that she was awoken far too early that morning by the unwelcome sound of lewd romance in the room overhead. It’s not—surprisingly—that while dressing herself behind a flimsy three-paned room divider she found a rather prominent tear in the hem of her newly acquired red brocade gown. It’s certainly not that she proceeded to spill hot porridge on the lap of the very same gown when being jostled by one of the over-exuberant harlots in the dining hall.
She is having a bad day, but not for those reasons. Instead, it’s the fact that—for a purpose that she cannot quite fathom—General James Byron is quickly approaching Mamere Lenora’s notorious little whorehouse in broad daylight. She saw him the moment he rounded the corner—how could she not? James Byron is a man that commands attention.
She stares at him in agitation, watching the sun spill off of his gold-clad shoulders. His gait is confident; his stride is even. His firm jawline is locked as his impassive brown eyes scan the crowd of women that linger on the stoop, fanning themselves in the blistering summer heat and tittering excitedly at the approach of such a handsome officer.
Seranai fights the urge to roll her eyes, drawing back against the peeling outer wall of the house and attempting to remain invisible. She is not the only one concerned with his approach. Mamere Lenora must have spotted him from one of the soiled windows upstairs. She can hear the uneven patter of feet on the creaking steps—can hear the breathless grunts as the matron of the Chancian harlots attempts to catch her breath.
“Out of the way, out of the way,” she snaps, and Seranai can see her hands shoving through the throng of women in agitation. “Get inside, all of you. He’s not something to be ogled at. There’s no business for you here.”
James draws to a standstill a few feet away from the stoop. That familiar smile—the charming smirk used only when dealing with people of lesser fortitude than he—suddenly plants itself upon his face. Seranai snatches an elaborately decorated fan from the bustle of the girl before her, snapping her wrist so that it drops before her face. It smells strongly of old perfume—that spicy odor of cologne gone sour. She fights the sudden urge to sneeze.
