The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  Likely not.

  Seranai fiddles with a stray lock of her hair, smiling into the darkness.

  Selling out Nerani to the Guardians had been easy enough. Whinny had been clay in her hands, the gullible fool. She swallowed every lie that Seranai fed her as if she was a starving vagrant, clinging desperately onto each and every morsel.

  People crave power. They are born that way, whether they get a taste of it or not. Seranai has always noticed that about people—how far they are willing to go to empower themselves—how dark the deeds they are willing and able to do.

  Whinny’s very existence was powerless. She belonged to the world, to the night—to the men that paid for a space in bed beside her. A woman like that would do anything to take back control. She would do anything to survive.

  And so she had.

  Yes, selling out Nerani the Elegant had been easy. Laughably simple, really.

  It makes Seranai suspicious, the ease with which her plan had fallen into place. She is unsettled, uneasy—waiting for something to go wrong.

  Several days ago, she had watched with barely concealed glee as the Guardians threw a hapless Nerani down upon her knees, binding her hands at the small of her back before dragging her off down the cobbled streets. Relief flooded her as they turned out of sight and the sounds of their boots faded to silence. Nerani had not begged. She had not screamed. She had only waited, her sky blue eyes pooling with tears as she was arrested for her crimes.

  Seranai should feel magnificent. She should be relishing in her accomplishment, perhaps even breaking into a bottle of Mamere’s finest port.

  Instead, that niggling unease roots around within her gut like a sniffling rodent, driving her to restlessness. The demons that plague her in the dark follow her now all throughout the day, tugging at her mind and tormenting her senses.

  Something is amiss.

  Nerani the Elegant should have been burned at the stake.

  She should have been hung by the neck until dead.

  She should have been, and yet not even a notice of public execution has been distributed among the citizens of Chancey. No herald has streaked through the street upon his horse, trumpeting the announcement of her demise.

  What are they waiting for?

  She arches her back, ignoring the fabric that adheres itself to her skin in the sticking heat leftover from the unforgiving day. The darkness that settles over Chancey presses against the earth like a blanket, making the stale air hang heavy. It does not bring with it the usual cool relief of night.

  She can feel James’s presence in the dark street before she sees him. His arrival, as quiet and as sudden as the rain, sends a small shiver down the nape of her neck.

  “Hello,” she says, opening her eyes at the sound of his footfalls on the cobblestone. He always did have a distinct way of walking, she notes, his footsteps firm and self-assured—a meticulous swagger. His presence on the steps before her is suffocating. She pulls at the high, lace collar of her dress and frowns.

  James inclines his head toward her, avoiding meeting her eyes. “Good evening.”

  “What brings you here?” An uneasy flutter sweeps through her. She recalls the warning he had issued during his previous visit. Is that why he is here, now? The night feels suddenly cold in spite of the heat. There is no wind, but she shivers all the same.

  “Come to make good on your threats, have you?” Her voice is constrained. Quiet. James looks startled by her question. His brown eyes momentarily lose their impenetrable exterior. It is then that she notices how unkempt he appears. His is donned in his everyman clothes, his gold standard replaced with grey homespun cloth and black breeches. His face is unshaven. He looks as though he has not slept.

  “You look awful,” she remarks. Some of her initial fear falls away from her as she studies him. He does not seem to register her remark.

  “I need a favor.” His brown eyes meet hers. She is shocked to find his usually cold gaze entreating.

  “A favor?” she repeats, unable to keep the disgust out of her voice. She is not quite certain she has heard him correctly.

  “Yes.”

  Not likely, she thinks scornfully. And yet her curiosity ebbs at her, willing her to hear him out and see just what it is he wants.

  “Just what could the formidable General Byron possibly need from me? A quick fix, perhaps? We are at a whorehouse.”

  The derision in her voice does not go unnoticed by James. He winces visibly, and for a moment she can see beneath the cracked veneer in his decorum. It hurts him to be standing here before her—hurts him to need anything from her. He closes the space between them, taking the steps two at a time until he reaches the stoop where she stands, partially concealed in shadow. His eyes flicker back and forth as he makes sure they are quite alone.

  “This is serious, Seranai.”

  Hearing her name on his tongue evokes, as always, those sudden, unwanted feelings. She pushes them away, growing angrier with herself.

  Quiet, you demons, she thinks.

  “I am as serious as I’ve ever been. The nerve of you, James—coming here on your hands and knees, begging me for help after all of this time.”

  His shoulders crumple under the weight of her words. She fights the urge to smile. She is stomping relentlessly on his cherished pride, and it brings her more joy than she thought possible. He stares at the floor between them, watching it as though expecting it to open up and swallow him whole. After a few moments of silent consideration he glances back up at her. His dark eyes have once again hardened to steel.

  “I’m afraid I won’t beg on my hands and knees. But you will help me.”

  “Will I?” A challenge laces her words. She is not afraid of him—not here, when so much as a scream from her will call to the windows all of the inhabitants of the house and her patrons. One scream from her, and the unblemished record of James will be forever sullied. He cannot afford such a mistake. He cannot lay a hand on her here. Her grey eyes narrow into slits in the darkness, matching him in their indifference.

  “You will.” His echo holds, within it, a sense of finality.

  “We will see, I suppose. What is the favor?”

  He swallows, leaning in close. “You have contacts of some sort, don’t you?” He phrases it as a question, but he does not wait for an answer. “You have a way to get inside the Forbidden City, should you need to?”

  “I already told you, the city—”

  “Don’t,” he snaps, cutting her off. His fingers shake at his sides and he closes them into fists. “Don’t lie to me. I know it exists.”

  She purses her lips. Considers.

  “I don’t know what you could possibly mean by contacts. You more than anyone know that I don’t affiliate with my people.”

  “I also know that you would never enter into any situation without first having an escape plan. If you wanted to get into the city, you could.”

  She contemplates this. Clever, she thinks. But then he always was smart.

  “Right?” he demands, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence have elapsed between them. His voice cracks and she starts, surprised at his unraveling conduct. She wonders how long it has been since he last slept.

  “Right,” she assents. “Let’s say that I do have contacts. What is it you need?”

  His tongue darts out over his lower lip. “There was a woman arrested here a fortnight past. You may have known her. She is a Cairan, herself.”

  Seranai feels her blood run cold. Her knees slam together beneath her petticoat. “Yes,” she says, and her voice comes out in a squeak. The demons within her are writhing in the pit of her stomach—wailing like banshees deep within her head. She struggles to gather herself. “I know of her. You’ll be speaking, I assume, of Nerani the Elegant.”

  James pauses at the sound of her name, an unusual splash of color rising along the line of his cheekbones. She takes silent note of this and continues.

  “What of her?”

  James gl
ances around carefully, his brown eyes studying the shadows as though he expects someone to emerge from the darkness at any given moment.

  “I need you to arrange for you and Nerani to return to the Forbidden City.”

  Unable to help herself, Seranai’s lips fall open. She gapes at him in silence, incapable of grasping what she has just heard. There is a distinct buzzing in her ears and she fights the urge to shake her head clear.

  “But,” she begins and falters. She swallows hard, tasting something bitter on her tongue. Her veins run cold beneath her flesh. “She was arrested.”

  James looks momentarily anguished. His gaze is as dark as the dreaded Dark Below. “I know. I will be bringing her here.”

  “What? When?”

  “Tomorrow night,” he states simply, his gaze holding hers.

  “You—” Anger surges through her skin, the white-hot heat of it curling in her fingertips. “You can’t,” she says at last. “You wouldn’t. What you’re talking about doing—that’s treason.”

  She hisses the last word through clenched teeth, her fists resting upon the wide whalebone netting of her hips. His gaze turns murderous. In a flash, his hands enclose around her throat. She cries out, her skull cracking against the warm brick as he shoves her backwards. Deep red and white spots fan out across her vision. His face is inches away from hers, all traces of decorum gone. In its place she sees only quiet rage.

  “You will not mention that word again in my presence, do you understand?” His voice is so low that it is almost inaudible. She lets out a guttural cry, gasping for breath. Her grey eyes widen with realization.

  “You’re in love with her.”

  There is a footfall upon the creaking wooden staircase just inside the front door.

  “Seranai?”

  It is Mamere Lenora. Two hands slide away from her neck, leaving behind a dull throbbing as air rushes down her throat and into her lungs. She can feel him slinking back into the shadows.

  “Tell her you’re fine,” James whispers. He is in control of his voice once again. The words that reach her ears in the darkness are weighted with an unspoken threat: Or I’ll kill you.

  She does not doubt that he will. Not anymore.

  The front door squeals open and Mamere Lenora pokes her heavily painted face out into the darkness. “Great After, it’s hotter out here than it is inside.” She tilts her head in Seranai’s direction. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, which, Seranai notes with a heightened level of disgust, she has been doing every day since Nerani’s arrest.

  “Are you well, darling? I thought I heard a commotion.”

  Seranai waves her away with an idle hand, acutely aware of her bosoms rising and falling within her tightly laced corset. Her demons claw relentlessly at her insides, raking her gut and tearing at her lungs. “I’m quite alright, Mamere.”

  “Are you certain? You look as though you’ve been frightened half to death.”

  “I had a scare, that’s all. A stray cat popped out of the shadows just now.”

  It is a poor attempt at a lie, but Mamere nods knowingly, as though a wayward cat would be quite enough to strike fear into the heart of anyone. “I understand. We’ve all been on edge since Nerani’s arrest—I can only imagine how you must be feeling, poor dear. To see one of your own snatched up like that. Just terrible, it is. Why don’t you come on inside? It isn’t good to be out here in the open where Guardians might be patrolling.”

  If you only knew, Seranai thinks scathingly. “I’ll be in in just a few moments,” she says, trying to smile. “Don’t worry yourself about me.”

  “Of course, dear.” Mamere flashes her a warm smile before disappearing back into the house. The door clicks shut behind her and James reappears. His boots are silent on the wooden stoop. His face is as grey and as still as stone. He does not blink.

  “I’ll bring Nerani to you tomorrow at sunset,” he says. “You will be waiting here for us. You’ll make the arrangements for your safe return back to the Forbidden City.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I’ll make sure it’s you that hangs in her place.”

  He does not wait for her to respond. He takes his leave in silence, his shoulders squared against the pressing heat of the night. Without the gold of his uniform, it takes him only moments to disappear entirely into the darkness of the crooked alleyways. Seranai stares into the street, feeling revulsion pooling within her stomach like bile.

  And then, slowly, the demons within her have settle into silence.

  An eerie calm passes over her.

  So the fearsome General James Byron has fallen for a Cairan. The great, infallible Guardian finally has a weakness.

  A thin smile curls the corners of her lips. She glances up at the new moon and sees only dark, formidable sky.

  She will make arrangements to return to the Forbidden City, if that is what he requires of her. Perhaps it is time, after all, to introduce herself to Roberts the Valiant. Returning Nerani to her cousin will certainly sweeten the deal. And there is not much time remaining until the Hawk’s promised return.

  And then, she thinks, ignoring the sharp throbbing of her head. And then.

  James Byron has just given her a bit of rope, and she will see to it that when the time comes, it is she who ties the noose.

  CHAPTER 27

  Chancey

  Nerani wakes to the throbbing of her hand. The fleeting shreds of her dream dissipate upon the air like smoke. She emits a low, shuddering sob as she stares into the clammy darkness of her cell. For the briefest of moments, she had forgotten where she was. Her brocade gown, chosen so carefully all those weeks ago, pools out around her in filthy folds of fabric. Her lower back aches from lying propped against the dank stonewall. She shivers, feeling hopelessly cold against the relentless blackness of her iron prison. Staring down at her left hand, she stifles a whimper. Although the blood has been washed away and the fingers bound carefully with clean linen gauze, there can be no mistaking the irreversible damage that has been done. Her littlest finger juts outward at an unusual angle, dangling limply from within the folds of fabric. A small brown stain has begun to seep through the layers of gauze. Her stomach revolts at the sight, threatening to upend what little food resides within her stomach.

  She is a fool.

  All this time, Roberts thought Emerala dead—he swore up and down that Emerala was no longer among the living. And yet General Byron had verified what she had already known to be true.

  The Guardians have not killed her.

  And yet—

  She frowns, ignoring the sharp pains that shoot through her mangled fingers as she shifts her hand upon her lap.

  If Emerala is not with the Cairans and not locked away within the prison, where could she be? The pirates had called off their ambush after they were outnumbered by Guardians in the dark streets of Chancey. Roberts had seen it himself. He had been at Captain Mathew’s side as he gave the order to retreat back to the sea.

  She heard the shouts of victory spilling through the streets like ink as she and Orianna fled from the square with Emerala at their heels.

  Then, they had run away from the battle and not towards it. They had raced inland with silent desperation, never once thinking to turn to the sea and catch the pirates before they departed.

  And so she cannot be with them, either.

  Where are you?

  She wets her lips, feeling the hollow ache of hunger rumbling within her. The Guardians do not bring her food often. When they do, much of it ends up spilled on the ground before it reaches her. The last Guardian to deliver her food was none other than Corporal Anderson.

  Here, he had barked, dumping the slop on the ground with a flick of his wrist. His eyes lingered upon her fresh bandages in the darkness. His lip twitched. Eat it off the ground, animal.

  His hostility was preferable to the cool malice he had displayed in the inquisition room. She shuddered, then, at the memory of her pain—of the perverse pleasure he to
ok in inflicting it upon her.

  She shudders again now, quailing briefly against the onslaught of memories that threaten to overtake her. She has been dreaming of drowning—frantic, clutching nightmares that do not seem to abate upon waking.

  “Fool,” she says aloud. Something squeaks in the shadows, scurrying off into hiding with four scuffling paws scraping against stone. She feels strangely offended by the rat’s departure. An oppressive sense of loneliness creeps into her chest.

  “Come back,” she whispers. She is met with silence.

  She does not know when she drifts off to sleep again—she only knows that when she wakes it is because she can hear footfalls upon the stone just outside her cell. She stiffens; prying open her eyes and waiting for the newest Guardian to appear and shove reeking slop into her cell. No swinging orange light accompanies the footfalls. Instead, the visitor walks in total darkness. For a moment, she thinks she must still be dreaming.

  She peers out through her bars, struggling to make out a discernible shape in the grey slivers of light that flicker in here and there through the deep stone. She rises slowly to her feet, her stiff knees protesting. In the dim, grey light she can see two fists enclose about the bars.

  “Who’s there?”

  “I am not a coward,” comes James Byron’s voice, earnest against the darkness. She freezes mid-step and says nothing, clutching her wounded fingers to her chest. She can feel his eyes upon her, pressing into her skin as he studies her. His face is so cast in shadow that all she can make out is the hard line of his jaw.

  “I am no coward,” he says again, his voice almost a whisper. “And yet I am utterly terrified to stand by and watch as you go to your death.”

  She opens her mouth to speak, but all that manages to eke out from within her is a hoarse squeak. The thought of her impending death is a paralyzing one. Her heart has risen to her throat. Her stomach twists within her.

  “You need to understand, all I’ve ever done is follow the orders of my superiors. I’m not a man with an opinion. Soldiers aren’t permitted to have opinions. I am at the mercy of Rowland Stoward. I serve at his pleasure.”