The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  The Hawk exhales sharply, the sound just short of a scoff. “Fine,” he snarls. “Entrust your life to a murderer.”

  “We’ve all got blood on our hands, Hawk,” Alexander says. “At least he’s honest about it.” He turns his attention to the rest of the crew, bringing his row with the Hawk to an abrupt end. “Listen closely. When the cleanup begins, you’ll need to get out and get out fast. Head back to the ship. Raise anchor and ride the tide in the cove. Wait for me there as long as you can.”

  The order is weighted—heavy with caution. Emerala feels suddenly uneasy. “What’s going on?” she asks, searching the stony faces of the crew of answers.

  It is Thom who speaks. “Food be rare this winter. The snows have claimed many at t’farms. Ha’Rai en’t so inclined t’let us go easy.”

  Emerala swallows, feeling nauseous. Her skin grows hotter still, and her vision goes suddenly fuzzy. She glances down at the meat on her plate, feeling something sharp and acidic rising to her tongue. A hand, cool and firm, presses against the back of her neck. Alexander’s mouth is next to her ear, his breath causing her curls to tickle her cheek.

  “Stay with the Hawk. Do as he says.”

  “I can’t come with you?” she mutters into her plate.

  “No.” His answer is immediate. Final. Across from her, Lachlan busies himself with examining the ceiling. Emerala frowns deeply at him, but holds her tongue.

  Slowly, his eyes still upon the joisted ceiling, the Lethal rises from his stool. As he does so, Emerala catches a glimpse of his dagger sliding up the sleeve of his jacket. She watches as he and Alexander head across the crowded room, disappearing through the door that leads into Ha’Rai’s room of bone and jewel.

  As if on cue, a gong rings out. Its deep peal reverberates through the room, slicing through the noise like butter. Immediately, the occupants of the room rise and begin clearing the tables. For a moment, attention is turned away from the crew.

  And then a man appears at the Hawk’s back, his cheeks ruddy with drink, his features twisted into an expression of rage. Emerala glances up at him and recognizes him at once—he is the same man the Hawk disarmed and threatened in the snow, the same man that chased her through the storm only hours before, his curved cutlass reserved for her narrow wrists.

  “Si’fi no et pa’al,” he snarls, shoving the Hawk in the back with one balled up fist. “S’or el ni’id.”

  The Hawk remains as still as stone, glaring forward as if he’s unaware of the man behind him. All around them, the crew is silent.

  “S’or el ni’id,” the man repeats, shoving the Hawk harder this time. Emerala glances down at the native’s belt, unsurprised to see the curved blade of the cutlass nestled in its leather scabbard. She swallows, studying the Hawk’s face for any sign of having heard the man. He continues to sit facing forward, his golden gaze burning.

  “S’or el ni’id!” the man shouts. Spittle flies from his lips.

  “He wants you t’get up and help with the cleanin’,” Thom translates; worry creasing his face as he glances between the angry native and the unmoving figure of the Hawk.

  The Hawk cracks his neck to the side, his expression unreadable. “Doesn’t matter what he wants.”

  “Aye, and why’s that?” Thom asks.

  “Because he’s already dead.”

  “Si’fi, et fi’al,” snarls the native, grabbing a fistful of the Hawk’s jacket in his hand. Quick as a flash, the Hawk spins on his stool and slashes the man’s throat, his dagger dragging across his pallid skin with ease. The movement is effortless, practiced. Emerala stares in shock as the man drops to his knees, blood gushing from the gaping wound beneath his beard. Without batting an eye, the Hawk levels a kick at the man’s chest, sending him falling hard against the ground. He gropes within his jacket with his free hand, procuring two copper coins from deep within a pocket. Tossing them upon the floor, he watches as they clatter against the flagstone. At his feet, the dying man’s mouth opens and closes like a fish.

  The Hawk turns toward the occupants of the table, his golden eyes cold.

  “Well,” he mutters. “I’d say we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

  As if his words are the kindling to a fire, everyone begins moving all at once. Emerala remains glued to the stone, watching the blood seeping through the grooves in the flagstone, her head spinning—her vision contorting. She feels like fainting. Odd, she has never been the type of woman to swoon at the sight of blood.

  A hand, strong and steady, grips her arm. She looks up to see Thom’s face inches away from her own.

  “Let’s go, Rogue,” he says. “No time t’waste, aye?”

  She sways where she stands, the meager contents of her stomach threatening to upend on the floor. Dizziness washes over her in waves. Thom’s grip tightens, and she feels him wrench her several steps across the stone floor. Somewhere behind her, she hears the sound of running footsteps, the ringing of steel finding steel. The Hawk crows out a curse and a command, but his words sound foreign against the sudden ringing in her ears.

  “Rogue!” the Hawk bellows. The proximity of his voice startles her, dragging her back to the present. She finds his golden eyes across the pandemonium. Blood spatters the side of his face, gluing his wild black hair to his skin.

  “Run,” he orders. “Now.”

  Harvest Cycle 1511

  Eisle of Udire

  The mountains here are endless—endless. The days are short and the nights unbearably long. Winter has sunk her claws deep within me and refuses to let go.

  There is magic here. Old magic, trapped beneath the glacial ice. We can feel it, all of us. We can hear it crying out in the dark. If I was never a damned man before, I am certainly one now. Saints forgive me; I’m doing it to protect my children. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t?

  What kind of man will I be once I do?

  What will be left of me when I’ve spilled my blood into that cup?

  There is no going back, not anymore.

  Eliot

  CHAPTER 20

  Chancey

  Seranai the Fair is halfway through her lukewarm cup of afternoon tea when the front door opens and Nerani the Elegant stumbles into the foyer. Strange, the sight of Emerala the Rogue’s prim and proper cousin is out of place among the threadbare carpeting and moth bitten drapes of Mamere Lenora’s brothel. Nerani stands framed in the doorway, statuesque and alarmed, her cheeks rosy from running and her traveling skirt bunched within her fists. Behind her trails a much younger girl—no more than a child—with a freckled nose and a lopsided grin. Two blue eyes as wide and as round as a barn owl peek out from beneath a mop of pale brown hair. She blinks twice, slowly, gaping at the harlots that mill about the tea room, their gossip rising and falling in waves.

  At the far side of the room, Mamere Lenora rises from her divan with a strangled cry, her voice caught between joy and concern. Seranai’s lips dip into a scowl and she sits back against her creaking chair, setting her cup down too hard against her lap.

  “Mamere,” Nerani cries, already weaving through the room. She throws herself into the matron’s open embrace, her lovely blue eyes jeweled by tears. “Oh, Mamere, it’s so good to see you.”

  Mamere Lenora draws the woman in closer, her own tears running freely.

  “My dear, sweet girl,” she murmurs. “You’re all right.”

  Seranai studies the interaction, her mood souring impossibly. Mamere Lenora’s demeanor, as a rule, is gruff and commanding. She is a woman who demands respect—who draws eyes solely by walking into a room. She is brassy, bossy, and boisterous. Never, in Seranai’s several weeks at the brothel, has she seen Mamere Lenora act so unprofessionally—so emotionally—toward anyone.

  She nearly vomits into her teacup.

  Next to her, Winifred Alastor clutches at her skirts, her fingers positively trembling. Seranai shoots her a sideways glance, taking note of the unmasked dislike inscribed upon the harlot’s features.

  “What’
s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing,” snaps Whinny.

  “Right.” Seranai lifts her teacup to her lips, forgetting that she has already drained the dregs of her cup. Only the loose leaves that stain the bottom reach her lips, the taste bitter on her tongue. She tries her level best to ignore the tearful reunion going on at the far side of the room. Nerani the Elegant doesn’t know who she is. She has no idea of Seranai’s affiliations with Emerala—has no idea that it was Seranai who paid the Hawk to take Emerala away.

  And she’ll never find out. Who could possibly tell her? There isn’t a soul left on the island of Chancey who knows what transpired between Seranai and the golden-eyed pirate. Seranai is safe in that respect, at least.

  “It irks me, you know,” says Whinny. Seranai turns back toward the disgruntled harlot, her attention divided. She does her best to look interested.

  “What’s that?”

  Across the room, Nerani is being ushered through the vestibule and into Mamere’s personal dining space. It’s a space reserved only for the matron’s most honored guests, of which Seranai—although not a harlot—most certainly isn’t. She has never so much as set foot in the room. The sight of Nerani stepping inside, the freckled brat at her heels like a dog, makes Seranai’s insides boil. Beside her, Whinny is well into her tangent, her words going largely unheeded by Seranai.

  “It’s just that she goes everywhere with Roberts, doesn’t she? She’s the problem, that’s what I think. She and his rotten sister. They’re a distraction. They discourage him from anything what might be good for him. And you know, I’ve said she’s just always been meddlesome. Always.”

  Whinny places her teacup onto the low table before her, glaring at the empty doorway to Mamere’s dining room with a wounded expression on her face. Seranai scrutinizes the harlot closely, picking back through her tirade. Her thoughts catch on the name Roberts like a fish on a hook.

  “We were childhood friends, you know.”

  Whinny is staring at Seranai through sad, doe eyes, her lids ringed with last night’s charcoal paint.

  “What?” Seranai asks, distracted. She wishes she could get close enough to Mamere Lenora’s door to hear the conversation through the cracks.

  “Nerani and I,” Whinny says, her face wrinkling. “We played together as children. It weren’t really her that was awful, you know. It was that meddling sister of his, Emerala.”

  The sound of Emerala’s names tug at Seranai’s insides, twisting her gut and pulling hard. She has a sudden vision, sharp and clear, of a bloated body sinking towards the ocean floor, pale skin and blue lips and wide, green eyes staring—unseeing—up toward the mottled surface of the water. Black curls fan out from a lifeless face. The thought is satisfying. For a moment.

  And then it becomes horrifying.

  Seranai blinks several times, clearing the image from her head. Her nails dig into the skin of her palms, nearly puncturing flesh. She refocuses her attention on Whinny.

  “I didn’t know you knew them—Roberts and his sister.”

  “Oh, I did,” Whinny reassures her. “They were like family. Mamere raised them, you know. After their family was slaughtered. Terrible thing.” She titters softly, three long fingers rising to cover her lips. The crumb of a tea biscuit clings to her lip stain. “You know,” she says, leaning in close as if sharing a secret. “Roberts was always a little bit in love with me.”

  “I rather doubt that,” Seranai says, but the doleful harlot is already lost in her own rewritten memories. “Excuse me,” Seranai says, rising from her chair without waiting to hear if the woman has any more to say. An unrequited lover is useless to her. But Nerani the Elegant on the other hand—someone like her could be dangerous. Seranai moves through the room with ease, ignored by the lingering women that whisper amongst themselves, chatting and drinking and napping the day away. They dislike her, these women of the night. They dislike her fineries, her morals—however loose, however fleeting. They are women without. They are creatures in limbo, waiting to come alive when the sun dips down below the western sea.

  She is idling here, hiding among them.

  Perhaps Nerani the Elegant’s arrival means the time for idling has come to an end.

  She draws short just before the door to Mamere’s dining quarters, her ear tilted toward the wood. The carpet underfoot, worn down by years of boots trudging up and down the hallway, muffles any footfalls. Through the thick wood, she can just make out the sound of a whispered conversation. She inches closer, her heartbeat quickening beneath her chest.

  And then a voice close to the door catches her attention, the sound taking the shape of words. It is Nerani the Elegant, her tone tense—her words blunt.

  “I need to find her, Mamere. Emerala is out here.”

  There is a sigh, followed by a deep silence. Parchment crinkles and Mamere’s voice strikes up in the quiet. “These walls have ears my dear, and my, do they hear a great deal in the night. Men’s lips are as like to become as loose as their breeches in the arms of the right woman. I haven’t heard news of Emerala. Not even a whisper.”

  “She’s alive,” Nerani insists.

  “I know you want to believe—”

  Nerani cuts the matron off. “I don’t want to believe, Mamere. I know. I didn’t see her die. Nobody did. Surely you must be able to find out something for me.”

  Seranai draws back from the door, her breath hitching in her throat. Once again, the image of Emerala, bloated and sinking, flashes through her mind. Her olive gown fans out from her silhouette like a cotton ghost, the fabric rendered weightless by the sea. This time, the corpse blinks, a smile splitting her face like a wound. Seranai stumbles backward across the hall, clutching at her heart. Her palm stings and she glances down to see that her nails have indeed pierced through skin. Blood forms in crescent pools upon her flesh.

  She cannot afford to have this kind of complication—not now. Not when the summer tide is ebbing and the leaves are beginning to drop.

  Look for me when the leaves turn gold—that was what the Hawk told her. That was his promise to her. She cannot be discovered now. She won’t be discovered now. Certainly not by a meddlesome gypsy such as Nerani the Elegant—prissy little wench.

  Her mind churns, running through her options. She always has options. That’s what a lifetime of clawing her way up the social ladder has taught her. There is always something to be done if you’re willing to get your hands dirty. She thinks of Whinny, and of the way the harlot had withered at the sight of Nerani, the joy leeching out of her skin and giving way to naked distaste.

  Seranai needs a scapegoat. She needs someone obvious, someone garish, someone with a preexisting grudge.

  She needs someone stupid enough to do the deed that needs doing.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Seranai searches the tearoom for the wretched harlot. She spots the wild head of curls seated at the gaming table, bent over a crumpled pair of cards. The woman fusses with her pierced earlobe, her painted eyes incapable of carrying out a bluff.

  Yes.

  A plan comes together, falling into place with sickly sweet satisfaction. Seranai heads back through the room, weaving through the women of the night with a newfound conviction in her step. She pulls an empty chair across the room, ignoring the stutter of the legs upon the floor. Dropping down into the seat at Whinny’s side, she leans in close to the focused harlot.

  “I’ve just heard a whisper in the house.”

  Whinny clutches her cards closer to her chest, trying and failing to conceal her hand from Seranai’s eyes. A thin layer of dirt lines the bed of her nails. The cards are weak. She’ll certainly lose the round. If it were Seranai, she would fold—would wait for something better to come along. But Whinny is not Seranai. Whinny lacks the gift of foresight—lacks the ability to sit back and wait.

  “There’s always whispers going about the house,” she counters, pushing her coins toward the gathering pile at the center of the table.

  “Alway
s about you?”

  Whinny puts her cards down at that, her flat nose twitching in consternation.

  “I fold,” she tells the woman across from her. Her opponent, a short, plump woman with a nest of gold ringlets on her head, sniffs loudly.

  “It’s too late to fold, you’ve already placed your bet.”

  Whinny smacks her cards down on the table. “Keep it,” she snaps, rising from her chair and stalking out of the room. Seranai follows her, moving like water where Whinny had trampled across the floor, her footfalls a mere whisper against the carpet. She comes face to face with the harlot in the darkened hallway beyond the tea room.

  “Out with it, then. Who’s doing whisperings about me?”

  Seranai makes a show of glancing left to right, scanning the empty hallway for any potential eavesdroppers. Whinny follows her gaze, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. One foot taps out an impatient rhythm on the floor. She is restless, paranoid. Seranai will make easy work of her.

  “It’s Nerani the Elegant,” she lies. Her grey eyes are cool—unblinking. Whinny’s arms uncross, her fingers falling limp at her sides, her palms upturned.

  “How could you know that?” the harlot demands. “She’s only just got here.”

  “I overheard her talking to Mamere through the door as I was heading back to my quarters.”

  Whinny’s eyes widen into coins, the dark rings around her lids giving her the appearance of a striped rodent that digs through trash in the streets.

  “You eavesdropped on Mamere?”

  To Whinny, the act is an unspeakable crime. Mamere is all-powerful. Mamere is a woman not to be crossed. Mamere is a goddess in these crumbling halls—untouchable, impeccable. Seranai knows better. Mamere is a good businesswoman, nothing more. If you cut her open, she’d bleed the same as any other mortal being.

  “Quiet,” Seranai whispers, glancing around again. “I didn’t mean to, of course. But I heard your name through the door and I just had to stop. And you’re lucky I did.”