Page 159 of Tempest

“You will make for a fine distraction.”

* * *

WHERE THE LADY’S overcoat had come from amongst the varied stores of the Covenant, Cat did not know—and the middle of an ambush was hardly the time to ask. She picked at the thread of the green brocade, her nightshift obscured beneath. At least they let me put shoes on, she thought, eyeing her borrowed boots peeking out beneath the hem. To anyone with a spyglass, she would look like a passenger taking the air on the deck of a Meridian warship. She almost laughed at how good a ruse it was. After all, she had been such a passenger mere weeks ago. Though the officer next to her had not worn a murdered captain’s coat.

Valerian paced slowly at her side as they walked the starboard rail, a performative escort. His eyes were on the fog, and whatever he knew lay in wait shrouded in the gray. Occasionally he glanced over the rail, looking into the dark blue waves as if they held some secret in their depths.

“I suppose you aim to show me the whole of it,” Cat hissed, trying to glean anything in the fog. But the world was shadowed and gray, inscrutable. Just like her future. “What I asked for so foolishly.”

“Hardly,” Valerian scoffed, though she did not miss the color rising on his face. “A prize was spotted, and I would not be captain long if I let such an opportunity go.” His voice took on a darker edge. “This is our nature, Cat.”

It almost sounded like an apology.

“How do you know what’s out there?”

She could see nothing for the fog—no sails, no flags, no lanterns.

“These are what the Arcayans call the Amori, the snake tides,” he answered. “This time of year, they swell through the Furies and form currents like rivers. Any ship without a sharp heading and a hard hand at the helm will end up in these waters. And Mr. Garedo spotted such a ship on the path last night.”

The new tone in his voice, easy and prideful, gave Cat pause. “Certainly, the navy can navigate the tides as well as you.”

His cocked his head. “Shall we bet on it?”

“Very well, Captain,” she said, watching him turn back to the waves. “But at least one of your legends isn’t true.”

He did not look away from the water, but his jaw tightened a fraction. “Which?”

“The one about salt water in your veins.” She brushed a hand to her now clean mouth. “To that I can attest.”

Before he could reply, three flares of golden light bled through the fog, too small and uniform to be the distant dawn. Lanterns, Cat knew, her breath caught in her teeth. Bow, mainmast, and stern. The prize was close, barely a quarter mile from the Covenant. She expected Valerian to shoot her a triumphant look, but his focus was entirely on the opposing vessel, the captain’s mantle settling back around his shoulders. Whatever lay between them disappeared, forgotten in the face of the hunt.

The ship took shape through the fog, planted perpendicular to the Covenant’s path, Meridian flags catching the soft wind. The Lion roared through the fog, the flags and figurehead matching those on the Covenant. The ships were brothers once, and it showed.

But no longer.

Cat squinted at the warship, trying to count. Decks, guns, sails. To measure the size of the prey against the size of her hunter. Not to mention count the dozens of Meridian men on the other ship, sailing directly into a trap. Men with families and friends, men who only hoped to do their duty for Crown and Empire. She felt sick with possibility. The other vessel might have been her salvation once, a ship of the fleet come to save her. Now it could send her to the bottom of the sea in the ensuing firefight.

Rescue or death.

Valerian motioned, fist opening and closing behind his back. On cue, the lanterns of the Covenant flared to life again, blazing through the fog. As if they had only just appeared, and not stalked the other warship as a wolf would a lamb.

“What happens if I scream?” Cat murmured, chest rising and falling beneath her coat. Once more she felt the press of walls, of water, of the weight of the Lyrian Sea dragging her down and down.

His heel hissed on the deck as he spun, and Cat half expected to be seized again. But Valerian held his ground, staring down on her.

“That is a fourth-rate ship of the line, thirty-two guns a side. Thirty-two guns shooting twelve pounds of solid iron each,” he answered with a low growl. Over his shoulder, the other warship loomed. “I will not bore either of us with the arithmetic, though I’m sure an educated woman like yourself can solve the equation. We have speed and stealth, but they have the angle of the shot at present.”

His face tightened, and Cat saw a glimpse of what his enemies might see. A warrior. A conqueror. A king no matter how many times Valerian Kane claimed to be anything but.

“Would you like to scream, Lady Rose?”

“No,” she answered, too soft for even her own ears.

But Valerian perceived.

He nodded once, tricorne dipping. Even when he was in uniform, it still felt impossible to picture him as a sailor of the fleet, a man of His Majesty’s navy. Every inch of him cut a hard contrast against Meridian cobalt and an officer’s filigree.

“Just play the part and all will be well,” he muttered, barely brushing her sleeve with his hand. Again, his touch was ice, freezing her to her spot.