Page 122 of Tempest

“I trust my crew,” Valerian answered evenly, a chord of something deeper in his voice.

“Men make mistakes,” Morovant said again, albeit more gently.

Valerian scoffed. “The captain of the Venerable certainly did. If he’d maintained his powder stores properly, all would have gone to plan, and I’d have quite the prize on my hands. Even Goa would have licked his lips at the spoils.”

“Well, the Lyrian claims the prize now.” Morovant sighed and Cat heard a cork popping free of a bottle, followed by the slosh of liquid into cups.

“May the sea always sing for you,” the older captain said, their glasses clinking.

“May the sea always sing for you,” Valerian echoed.

Silence fell between them. Cat supposed they sipped watered wine or ale, as it was not even noon. But then one could never tell with pirates. For all she knew, they could be gulping rum.

With a smack of his lips and the scrape of a chair across the floor, Morovant sat heavily, groaning the way old men did when they moved.

“What did you manage to salvage?” he said, more liquid sloshing into his cup. “You know Goa. The Prince of Merchants will find a buyer, no matter the product. Certainly you took something from the wreck.”

Low laughter spilled from Valerian Kane, the sound so deep Cat could almost feel the vibrations of it through the door. Her skin crawled, what little warmth she had felt last night disappearing in an instant. That’s all I am. Salvage, she thought, waiting for the captain to detail his meager prize of a destitute lord, his even more hopeless wife, and one snarling Meridian officer.

“Lady Rose?” Valerian’s voice called out, and Cat almost fell back in surprise. She bit her lip tightly and clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling any sound.

But it was no use. The laughter rang again.

“I assume you are listening at the door,” he said.

Cat could easily imagine his smirk. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of her presence, summoned like a whipped dog. But it would do her no good to remain behind the door, caged by her own choices and her own fear.

Steeling herself, she gently undid the latch.

“Captain Kane,” she said curtly.

She barely glanced at him as she stepped into the chamber, a single glimpse enough to get her bearings. Valerian sat a few feet away at the corner of the long council table. He certainly did not seem worse for a night of gambling and drinking—he was well used to such pursuits, Cat assumed. Nor did he try to look presentable for Captain Morovant. Like the rest of the crew, Kane was wet all over, having left a trail of watery footprints across the floor. His sodden hair was pushed back from his face, most of it tucked behind his ears, but for one strand that had slipped free, dangling by his left eye in a way that made Cat’s heart skip. He had a boot on the chair next to him, a wineglass held lightly in one hand. The other twisted the chain around his neck, her prayer bead dancing on the golden thread. She saw it for the taunt it was.

Valerian Kane had taken from her already; nothing could stop him from taking again, if he so chose.

It made her shiver . . . and not entirely with fear. Though Cat could hardly admit it, even in the echoes of her mind.

Then her eyes fell on the other pirate, far older and more dangerous.

“Captain Morovant,” she murmured, her voice softened as she dipped into a curtsy.

At the head of the council table, Harry Morovant laughed too, his empty wineglass discarded. The hat she remembered was on the table next to him, green to match his coat, the feathered plume drooping and wet. His hair was the same, sopping black curls falling about his shoulders along with his furious beard. With a glimmer of amusement, he drew a pipe from his velvet coat, the fabric set with an impressive line of silver buttons, bright as the jewels around his wrist and the many rings on his fingers. His pipe was equally opulent, a masterwork of carved ivory and tortoiseshell. If not for the circumstances and the wet clothing, he might have looked at home in the Meridian court.

But Captain Morovant was no preening courtier. The dagger at his hip, bejeweled but well-used, was testament to that.

“Lady Rose,” he repeated, as if turning her name over in his mind. His hands moved deftly, packing tobacco, though his black eyes never left her face. “I’ve seen you before.”

“On the Credence,” Cat offered, her voice slightly unsteady.

Morovant’s eyes danced. “It seems every ship you set foot on ends up captured.”

Cat clenched her teeth. “Or sunk.”

At that, the older captain grinned, standing to light his pipe from one of the oil lamps. He gripped the neck between his teeth as the tobacco burned. His eyes reflected the sparking embers, his gaze burning like hot coals.

“If I believed in superstition,” he said, blowing out a ring of smoke, “I’d tell Valerian to send you to the deep.”

Valerian drained his glass and noisily set it down, drawing Cat’s attention. He smirked up at her.