The Changing Tide: Book One of Rogue Elegance Read online

  She stares at the space where the sea meets the sky until tears prick at her lower lids. She blinks and her thick black lashes sweep against her olive skin. She remembers the previous spring and the longing she felt within her gut as the season gave way to the orange heat of summer. The merchants, plump and sweating beneath their doublets, had packed up their tents and loaded the ships with whatever goods they had not managed to sell in the marketplace.

  She had been in a fit that summer, and the heat made her restless. She forced her way down to the royal ports, her bare feet slapping upon the splintering gilded wood of the docks. Shouting up to the men onboard the nearest ship, she had all but demanded that she be allowed to stow away below deck. I’ll clean, she promised, her green eyes glittering in earnest. You won’t even know I’m there.

  The crew laughed in her face. Women en’t allowed on board, they called down at her. Their black eyes were lost in the grooves of their sun-baked skin. Bad luck.

  The memory of their mockery is as stark as though it happened yesterday. She is doomed; it seems, to rot away on the same island for the remainder of her existence.

  The sun finally begins to peek its cylindrical yellow head over the cliffs. The golden warmth of spring prickles against the exposed flesh of her shoulders. The tide is coming in faster than she expected. The sea growls hungrily. It tears at the sand before her with white, foaming claws. It reminds Emerala of the feral dogs from the tangled green forest that borders the outskirts of Chancey. She gathers the fabric of her gown in her fists and places a toe into the lapping waves. A shiver runs down her spine. The water is like ice.

  She is faintly aware of the time that passes as she stands idle before the rumbling sea. Her cousin will be awake and seeking her in the marketplace. She sighs. Her green eyes sweep the horizon once again. The sea before her is empty.

  “Cairan.”

  The voice that reaches her ears over the subdued roar of the waves startles her out of her reverie. She spins about on her heels. Her black coils bounce against her taut cheekbones. A few yards down the beach stands a man. He stands tense and coiled like a snake ready to spring, watching her carefully through unreadable brown eyes. His golden cloak is slung uselessly over his right shoulder. It encompasses his silhouette as it becomes ensnared in the brutish wind that rolls in off of the ocean.

  A grin spreads across Emerala’s face as she recognizes the man immediately.

  “General Byron.” The voice that leaks out from between her lips overflows with practiced courtesy. “Good morning.”

  “Rogue.” The young guardian nods brusquely in greeting. She bristles at the sound of her pseudo-name upon his tongue. He squares his jaw and continues. “It isn’t proper for a woman to wander the beach without an escort.”

  She keeps her voice light. “Is it not proper for a woman to wander alone, or for a gypsy to be out in the open for all to see?”

  He ignores her, taking several steps closer across the sand. His boots leave shallow indentations in his wake. “You’re out of the protection of the city. The Golden Guard cannot guarantee your safety beyond the walls of Chancey.”

  “I’m quite satisfied that you and your men care nothing for my well-being.”

  “You would be wise to head back into the city.” His voice is tight. His brown eyes stare at an invisible entity directly above her head.

  “Why?” she inquires. She closes the gap between them, swinging her hips as she walks. “Do you suspect that I am up to no good?”

  Before her, the general remains silent. She detects the first twinkle of impatience in his dark gaze.

  “If you do, then you’re quite right.” The sea swallows the echo of her laugh. “I’m never up to anything good.”

  Again, the general holds his tongue. His eyes snap back down towards her face. Emerala expels a deep sigh. “You’re boring today, General. And here I was hoping for some excitement to add to my morning.”

  One corner of the guardian’s mouth twitches. If Emerala did not know better, she would have thought him to be biting back a smile.

  “I know by now that it’s not wise to get tangled up in your games, Rogue.”

  “Fine.” She proffers an indiscernible shrug. “I was heading back anyhow. The tide will be at the cliff walls within the hour.”

  She pushes her way past the guardian; ignoring the dark look he shoots her as she walks by. He says nothing else as she makes her way down the narrowing stretch of sand.

  The way back to the city is closed to commoners. The royal ports, golden and glittering in the morning sun, are the easiest way by which to access the steep gilded staircase that winds its way up to the top of the cliffs. Emerala knows without a doubt that the general took the staircase in order to access the beach that morning. After all, it is his men that stand guard at the top.

  They will not permit her to pass in and out by way of the king’s docks. It is only the noble men and women of Chancey that are authorized to access the staircase. Even then they must provide sound reasoning for their visit to the docks. Only in the spring do the guardians grow more lenient, allowing merchants and the like to drag their carts of foreign goods into the marketplace.

  Emerala lives for the spring. In the decaying autumn and frost bitten winter she hungers for the flurry of sights and smells and strangers that clog the narrow streets of Chancey. It is a reprieve from the rest of her boring, pitiful year, when she is required to make up her own fun and unjustly expected to stay out of trouble. She thinks, too, that it is the only time that pirates are likely to slip unnoticed into their midst, swaggering with drink and disguised as merchants.

  She pauses to watch the golden docks glisten in the sun. The ships that are anchored in port are all far too well maintained to belong to the barbaric men of the high seas. It is just as well. Her elder brother has been keeping a closer eye on her this year after he discovered her failed attempt at stowing away upon the merchant ships the previous summer. If pirates have managed to manipulate their way into Chancey, she is sure her brother will not allow her within a mile of the taverns where they set up shop. While the merchants would not permit her to board their ships, pirates most certainly will. They are a fearless sort of men, and she is certain that men who kill you as soon as look at you are not frightened of anything as intangible as luck.

  Emerala can feel the general’s eyes upon her back as she dithers upon the sand. She fights the urge to roll her eyes. He worries too much, she thinks. As though she can get into any sort of trouble out in the open, surrounded by nothing but sand and sea.

  To her right, the sheer wall of the cliff splits into a broken partition. It is here that she and the other Cairans of Chancey are able to descend and ascend without being interrogated by the Golden Guard. Years and years of erosion have worn away at the surface of the cliff. The corrosion, coupled with the manmade path cut by centuries of feet plodding up and down, have created a natural stairwell of sorts. She heads towards the stairwell, careless of General Byron’s watchful gaze. She is certain that the guardian is already aware of the stairwell’s existence. No one really cares what her people do to occupy themselves, as long as they stay out of underfoot and do not garner any negative attention. She is certain, in fact, that the general would have been perfectly content had she lingered on the beachfront for too long and washed away in a riptide.

  One less Cairan for the Stoward king to worry himself sick over, she thinks ruefully as she begins her ascent.

  She thinks as she walks that it was rather odd, looking back, to run into the general alone on the beach. It is unlike the guardians to spend any of their time beyond the cliffs of Chancey. The island is a fortress, protected on all sides by the nearly impenetrable precipice. History has proven the golden naval ships unnecessary for the protection of the small island, and the guardians even less so. These days, the men of the Golden Guard are more brute force than anything. They are responsible for keeping the lower class Chancians from embarrassing his royal majesty, the
rotten king whose name the young woman can never seem to remember. Her nose wrinkles in consideration. She wishes she had thought to interrogate the general further. He despises when she asks him questions.

  She reaches the top of the staircase, panting only slightly. Up ahead looms the grimy edge of the city. It is nothing more than crumbling brick and perpendiculars, stacked in heaps and staining the sky with soot. Emerala’s eyes narrow into slits at the sight of it. The wind that whistles through the constricted alleyways before her threatens to bowl her over as it careens over the edge of the cliff. The roar of the sea that she so loves has grown muted with her climb. As she presses her bare feet downward into the loam she allows her ears to readjust to the clatter of carts and the bickering of businessmen that cascade towards her, carried out of the city upon the breeze. The smell of baking bread reaches her nose and her stomach growls. She follows the scent hungrily.

  She enters a narrow roadway, shivering against the shadows that stain her flesh. The cobblestones are pressed tightly between the mildew eaten sides of two stone buildings. Before her, the alley empties out into a bustling pedestrian street. A horse drawn cart rolls by and she listens to the slow, lazy clip-clop of the animal’s hooves upon the cobblestone. It sounds discordant paired with the squeaky complaining of the worn down wheels.

  Apart from a reeking drunkard and his cat, she is the only occupant of the alley. Alone. That is exactly how she prefers to spend her time. She ambles along, watching shards of hazy golden light spill down through the lines of dank and moldering laundry that someone has strung from window to window.

  “What are you doing?” The voice that snaps at her from beneath the hood of the drunkard is startlingly familiar and decidedly feminine. Emerala starts, whirling about on her heels.

  “Nerani?” she asks, astonished. “What are you doing?”

  A sigh; exasperated. Emerala watches as the drunkard, now revealed to be her cousin, rises to her feet. Folds of the young woman’s indigo gown fall out from beneath the patched and putrid cloak she wears about her shoulders. With a screech, the ragged cat leaps to the cobblestones. It hisses up at Nerani, arching its back and baring its sharp, white teeth.

  “Oh, be gone with you,” Nerani cries. Her toes protrude from beneath the gown to shoo the creature away. “Go, you smelly thing!”

  Emerala watches the feline slink off into the shadows. “I don’t think it’s the cat that smells.” She fights the urge to cover her nose with her fingers.

  Nerani removes her hood, revealing a pair of stark blue eyes. Her dark brown hair falls about her face and cascades down her backside. Even donned in a tattered and ugly garment, she is uncommonly beautiful. Golden sunlight plays upon her fair skin as she leans down and scoops a chipped mug off of the stones at her feet. Emerala hears the clatter of coins in the bottom of the cup.

  “You were gone when we woke up this morning,” Nerani accuses, her eyes upon the mug. “I had to invent some absurd story to appease Roberts. You know how he worries.” Her lips move silently as she counts her earnings. Emerala thinks of her brother and wonders just how irate he had been to find her absent upon awaking.

  “I went for a walk,” she explains with a shrug. “You know, you would make more dancing in the marketplace than pretending to be some ugly, old drunk in the corner.”

  The tinny sliding of the coins stops. Nerani’s eyes snap up from her counting. “Roberts made me promise I would keep a low profile today. He wishes you would as well.” Her shapely eyebrows drop in suspicion. “Where did you go walking? I’ve been all over the marketplace and not seen you once.”

  Emerala ignores the inquiry. “Why is Rob so concerned with always spoiling all our fun?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Sorry.” Emerala fusses with a stray coil of hair that has fallen into her eyes, thinking absently. “What was it?”

  “Emerala—” Nerani chides, impatient. The coins rattle in the mug as she drops her slender arm down by her side in agitation.

  Stifling a groan, Emerala relents. “I went for a walk on the beach. Just to watch the sunrise, nothing more.”

  Pink heat flushes across Nerani’s cheekbones. “Are you mad?” she whispers. “If Roberts finds out—”

  Emerala cuts her off before she can finish. “He won’t. You won’t breathe a word, and neither will I.”

  Nerani’s full lips drop into a sullen frown. She surveys Emerala in silence for a moment before speaking. “Fine. But please don’t go back down there again. Word is that the guardians have spotted a brigand ship off to the north.”

  Pirates. Emerala fights to keep her gaze even as her chest swells with excitement. She places her hand in the small of her back and crosses her fingers. Don’t let them pass by the island without docking, she wishes silently. There are plenty of small, secluded islands that rise out of the water a few miles off of the western shore of Chancey. If they want to visit Chancey, they will find a way. Her mind wanders to the general, and how his presence on the beach that morning was unusual.

  He was watching for the ship, she concludes, although it still does not feel like a satisfying answer.

  Nerani has gone back to counting her coins.

  “Is that why Rob wants us to stay out of trouble today?” Emerala asks.

  “What?” Nerani murmurs, distracted by her counting. She glances up at Emerala, taking several moments to realize what has been asked of her. “Oh. No. According to Tayland the Con, the guardians threatened to burn Toyler’s tavern last night.”

  Emerala thinks of the Wandering Lady and how it had been set aflame only weeks before. The streets were suffocated with smoke the entire afternoon. No one knew whether or not the owner was inside when the fire was started. His charred corpse was not discovered among the ruins, and yet no one has seen him since. The guardians posted a sign outside the wreckage the very next day.

  Burned for condoning the practice of witchcraft and for abetting the antics of the lawless Cairans, the slanted writing read. It was a scare tactic, and it worked. For days afterwards the taverns across the outer portions of Chancey were empty of the usual drunken revelers.

  Yet it had only lasted for just that—days. The taverns were full again before the week was up, and the guardians had said not a word.

  Emerala reflects upon the incident as she rolls back and forth upon the balls of her feet. She has snuck into the Wandering Lady many a time to steal a dram of ale and listen to the local chatter. Never once did she see anyone practicing anything that could resemble witchcraft. She scrunches her face in thought, wondering if the guardians would be so bold as to burn down another tavern. Clearly it had not been successful the first time around. Emerala decides that Nerani’s sources must be false. Tayland the Con is a drunk and a liar.

  “How does Tayland know anything?” she demands.

  Nerani takes a moment before answering, sorting her coins into a pouch that she keeps tucked away in her black-laced corset.

  “He was there,” she says at last. “According to him, General Byron himself paid Manfred Toyler a visit to deliver the message. Roberts went by the tavern today to talk to Manny. The king’s tolerance for our people is growing shorter every day, it seems.”

  “I saw the general on the beach,” Emerala says. The words slip out from between her lips before she can call them back.

  Nerani’s eyes enlarge into perfect circles of blue. “This morning? Saynti, Emerala,” she curses. “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing exciting. We exchanged pleasantries. I went on my way, and he on his.”

  Nerani shakes her head, baffled. “How is it that everything is a game to you? Cairans have been disappearing left and right, and General Byron is behind the arrests. Roberts asks us to lay low and you spend your morning ruffling the feathers of the golden elite.”

  “I didn’t ruffle any feathers.”

  “Maybe not today, but there’s a reason the general knows your name, Emerala the Rogue.” She shakes one slen
der finger in Emerala’s direction, scolding her. “If you keep getting into trouble in the market the way you have been you’ll be the next Cairan to go missing.”

  “I know that,” Emerala huffs. “I’m not dense.”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” Nerani mutters under her breath. Emerala sulks, jutting out her lower lip. If Nerani sees, she feigns ignorance. “I didn’t make nearly as much as I’d hoped,” she remarks, squinting into her pouch before tucking it back into her corset. “And I’ve been out here all morning.”

  “I keep telling you—you should be dancing. The merchants and their crews would have showered you with coins. They’re always entranced by gypsies.”

  “And be run off by the guardians?” Nerani asks. “I’m not you, Emerala.”

  “You know, you used to be much more entertaining.”

  Nerani opens her mouth to offer a retort but is cut off by the jolting sound of a gun being fired. The cousins jump at the noise. The sound ricochets off of the narrow walls of the alleyway. The echo is trailed almost immediately by the wild barking of dogs. From the street beyond come the discordant shouts of men and women alike. A horse lets out a shrill whinny.

  “Look!” Nerani exclaims, pointing. Beyond the rooftop of one of the buildings plumes of heavy black smoke are billowing upwards. They drift apart among the clouds, dirtying the bottoms of the engorged masses with ugly grey residue.

  “Do you think—” Emerala lets her question die upon her tongue. It has to be Toyler’s. She thinks of Rob and feels her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. She grabs hold of her cousin’s arm. Nerani’s mouth has fallen open. Emerala drags her down the alleyway, heading straight for the street outside the alleyway. Instinct tells her to head away from the smoke—to double back and make for the cliffs and the fresh air. Already, the heat is blazing in her throat.

  She cannot turn around—she has to see for herself.

  Her eyes fill with stinging tears. The cinders carried in by the ashen wind feel as though they are tearing at her face. She emerges into the street, tugging Nerani behind her. They are met by such pandemonium that they at once fall back into the entrance of the alley. Screams and shouts split through the rancid air. The smoke is so thick that Emerala can only make out the vague outlines of people running past. A child is crying somewhere nearby. Its plaintive wail pervades the air about them. A black, rider-less stallion gallops across their paths. Emerala listens to the uneven clatter of the horse’s hooves upon the cobblestones as they swell to a steady thunder and then fade upon the wind.