Page 100 of Tempest

It was the most she would get about him, to Cat’s chagrin—and a small amount of pride too. His logs were gone, along with his more detailed navigation charts, a manifest, or any schematics of the ship. Clearly, Kane thought enough of Lady Rose to keep her away from his writings.

Cat put aside the correspondence, hunting instead for more immediately useful information. She blazed past a few leather-bound books written in odd script, even the individual letters inscrutable. Somehow the pages smelled of salt water and she guessed they were rescued from the sea, though the paper showed no sign of water damage.

She settled for more maps of the Lyrian, roving between nautical charts the size of wagon wheels to small scraps covered in scribbles. Her eyes darted between the little speck that was Rosby Island and the far more important places. To the north, amongst the Stills, was Archenport. In the middle of the map, the Esperese patrolled the Furies from their strongholds on Prospera and its smaller islands. To the south was the Hook, a looping archipelago anchored by Arcayo.

She traced the outline of the island with a finger, thinking not of what the Meridian books said about the crownless island, but something more real. Ana, an Arcayan herself, with her tattoos and her laughing manner, formidable and beautiful, first mate of a pirate ship.

It was difficult to read in the dimming light, the sun now fully below the horizon. But Cat did not miss the swooping lines of ink, drawn over the Arcayan island. A braided circle, three lines woven together.

Her eyes narrowed, trying to place the symbol for a long moment.

“Oh.”

She sat up straight, the image of a man’s chest searing in her mind. A gold chain, a scarred-over tattoo. And another beneath it, a circle of three braided lines.

As she stared at the ink, the shadows of the cabin darkened completely. There would be no more reading this night. Unless . . .

“I need a light,” Cat said to no one.

* * *

AS BELOW IN the brig, no one had bothered to lock the door to the captain’s quarters.

After donning an overlarge coat to defend from the sea spray and lacing up her borrowed shoes, Cat steeled herself for the main deck. Somehow, she grew more ridiculous by the hour. First, she was a drowned rat. Now she felt like a beggar girl from the Brycam docks, with frizzy hair and cobbled-together clothing.

Her skirts swept over the floorboards of the dark council chamber, and she was careful to avoid the bloodstained wall. One hand clutched an unlit oil lamp, while she held out the other to maintain her balance against the gentle rocking of the ship.

Cat paused at the adjoining door, her heart a drum. Somehow, going out onto the ship felt like breaking a rule, though no one had given her any.

Do pirates have rules? she wondered, pushing open the door before she could lose her nerve.

She expected a raucous show on the other side, a bevy of pirates enjoying their rationed rum and the cool night air. Instead, she met a half-empty Covenant, with most sailors seemingly below to sleep.

Of course, she scolded herself. On the Venerable, when not in service fighting a storm or other ships, any man who had the time to sleep would be sleeping. She supposed it was the same here. Especially after the events of the previous day and night, chasing a navy ship through a battering storm, only to blow their prize to pieces.

A figure moved about the rigging: a sailor checking and rechecking knots by lantern light. Another swabbed the gunwales, shuffling along with a rag and a bucket. So it was. Quiet chores and a quiet ship.

Except for a threesome playing cards beneath the mainmast, the group of them gathered around a low table. They chortled in low voices, trading hands and winking coins. A lantern burned next to them, throwing off just enough light to play by.

With a start, Cat remembered herself and the oil lamp in her hand.

“I don’t suppose I can bother you for a spark,” she said, approaching like a mouse creeping towards crumbs.

All three looked up from their game in stunned silence. Though their faces ranged, one man as different from the other as a man could be, they wore the same look. Each carried the harshness of a life at sea, in rough, sun-worn skin and dirty hands. In crowfoot eyes born of squinting into the sun. Scarred, tattooed, with metal teeth or pierced ears. These were hard men, killers and pillaging rogues.

And completely frozen in the face of Lady Rose.

Cat glanced between them, confused by their varying degrees of shock.

Have I said something wrong? Do I really look that horrible?

Hastily, she held up the dead lamp in explanation.

“I have no striker myself,” she offered, biting her lip. Though the pirates were certainly more dangerous than she ever could be, they seemed to shrink from her presence.

One of them, a bronzed Esperese man with a cap of curly black hair, nodded his head back at the quarterdeck.

“You should return to your cabin,” he said hastily. His warm brown eyes darted, catching the light. “The captain would not like you wandering.”