Page 20 of Tempest

Cat did not know the fort well, having mostly avoided it no matter who held control of the island. Now she cursed herself for never learning in anticipation of darker days, and stumbled along after her new jailers, her eyes raised for one last glimpse of the sky.

No, not the last, she realized. You can say goodbye when they walk you to the gallows.

She tried in vain to track the winding path from entrance to jail cell, but she was quickly swallowed by the stone abyss, the air turning damp, the torchlight oddly green and waxy. The corridor closed in, the ceiling low, a long line of cells appearing behind yet another locked door. The jailer waved them through, and Cat found herself wishing for Fell, if only to have some distraction from the endless steps that carried her towards doom.

She eyed the soldiers from beneath her lashes, taking their measure. The men escorting her were young, hard-eyed, eager to prove themselves. Their allegiance was to the Empire, to the Meridian above all. To another world an ocean away.

They knew nothing of Archenport or what the Lyrian Sea once was.

Her throat went tight, feeling the noose.

“Finally came for you, did they, Cat?” someone called from the long line of cells.

Cat chewed the inside of her cheek. “Simply here to keep you company, Mr. Dalton,” she answered, eyeing the ruddy old man as they passed.

“Been a long time since I could afford company such as yours.” He grinned with rotten teeth, waving a hand in return. Once Dalton had run a printshop, and his fingers were permanently stained black from the ink.

“Any word from my Tam?” the old man added, the glint of hope in his eye brighter even than the torches.

“None,” Cat replied honestly, offering the smallest smile.

Mr. Dalton mirrored it. His son, barely nineteen, had managed to get off the island before the Meridian landing.

“Good,” he muttered, settling back against the wall.

“Quiet, traitor,” one of the soldiers barked, kicking dust at the bars of Dalton’s cell.

Traitor. Cat almost snorted at the thought. Ned Dalton was no such thing, his only crime survival, his only fault printing a pamphlet with scraps of news whenever he could get it. Just like the rest of us, only trying to keep our heads above the waves, lest we drown.

He laughed back at the guard, a deep, guttural bark that hinted at a lung affliction. For his sake, Cat hoped that were true. Mr. Dalton was sentenced to imprisonment over execution, his crime of aiding piracy less severe than treason.

Illness would be a mercy, Cat thought, more for herself than the old man.

His rattling laughter chased after them, the echoes dying as her escort marched her into the adjoining chamber. It was at least empty, and the air was not so stale, but there were no windows and the ceiling pressed down in a way that made Cat’s skin crawl. When a jailer opened a cell door and waved her in, Cat felt like livestock being herded into a slaughter pen.

“Your women’s quarters leave much to be desired,” she said, watching as the cell door locked.

On the other side of the iron bars, the jailer grinned a gummy smile. The bluecoats remained rigid, as if made of steel and not flesh beneath their uniforms.

“Is this what you pictured when you joined up, boys?” Cat eyed each soldier in turn.

The one who had offered his hand stared back at her, his pale blue eyes round. Cat did not miss the way they ticked over her body. Not with lust, but pity. She ventured the ink was still drying on his enlistment papers.

Softhearted, Cat noted. And inexperienced with women.

“Locking up tavern maids and old men?” She raised her chin and crossed her arms over her dress. The weak torchlight gleamed over the patterned black silk, picking out the image of onyx vines and raven blooms. “I suppose that’s all you’re good for now, what with the war over. My condolences, sirs.”

The bluecoat frowned unhappily. Beneath his tricorne hat, Cat noted a shock of red hair braided into a neat tail. He lowered his gaze, a flush spreading beneath his sunburn, darkening an already scarlet face.

Cat shifted closer and lowered her eyes, looking at him through long lashes.

“What’s your name, sailor?” she murmured.

In reply, the jailer jangled his keys in her face, destroying any hope she had of finding an ally.

“You’ve missed dinner, I’m afraid,” the jailer barked before ushering the bluecoats away. Even the blushing soldier followed, choosing duty over a woman’s charm.

An old woman, Cat cursed, eyeing her hands, freckled to match her face. Hardly a prize to tempt a young soldier. Or anyone else.