Page 23 of Tempest

“What’s done is done. We’re square, Cat.” Fell’s voice sharpened, snapping her from the memories. “But there is another bargain to be made.”

Another bargain.

Cat swallowed against a ragged burst of hope. She searched Fell’s face, looking for the lie, for any hint of falsehood. Fell was many things, but not a sadist. He had no reason to dangle freedom in front of a woman set to die.

Or so she used to think.

“For some reason,” she muttered, pointedly examining the cell. “I don’t trust you.”

He did not blink, eyes on her face as one hand slipped into his coat, retrieving the parchment again, crisply folded.

Fell carefully unfurled the heavy paper, peeling it open to display an ornate signature and a familiar seal. The Meridian lion, stamped in golden wax. He held the page out between two fingers, his mouth twitching into his usual crooked smile.

With a jolt, Cat realized this was not the same document as before.

“What is this?” she breathed, her gaze trailing from the governor’s signature to the words above it. Impossible words, scrawled in lazy handwriting, not so formal as she expected an execution order to be.

Because it isn’t one, she realized, reading what she could.

I hereby order a stay of execution for Lady Catrine Rose of Archenport, in exchange for services rendered to Crown and Empire. At the discretion of His Lordship, Jon Osprin, Governor of the Meridian Colonies in the Lyrian Sea.

Cat swiped for the order, but Fell was faster, his hand darting just out of reach.

“So eager, Cat,” he said, tsking her. “Unbecoming of a lady.”

She bared her teeth.

“I’ll act more ladylike outside this jail cell,” Cat replied, her chest tight with anticipation. “What does the governor want from me?”

Fell’s crooked smile spread, some gleam coming back into his eyes. With a flourish, he tucked the stay of execution away.

“Three ships of the Meridian fleet left Eastermount three weeks ago, bound for Great Edrin. Hardly a long or difficult journey.” He crossed his arms behind his back, standing as if he addressed his crew and not a woman imprisoned. “They ran headfirst into a storm off Favor Island and never reached port.”

Cat could picture the path, tracing the western route along the island chain known as the Furies, named for their volcanic mountains and cruel winds.

“Hurricane season comes early, it seems.” Cat shrugged. She understood trade ports and shipping lanes, not wind patterns and sea currents. But even she knew the seasons in the Lyrian Sea, and they were still weeks from the violent months known only as storm. “If the governor wants to control the weather, he should try an Arcayan song priest. What does he want with me?”

Fell gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Two sailors washed up on Favor not long after. They had bullets in their heads,” he said, pointing to the space between his eyes. “I’ve seen many strange things in the Lyrian Sea, but I’ve never seen a storm shoot someone.”

The Furies were dangerous ground, physically and politically. Cat bit her lip, weighing the possibilities.

“Perhaps Esperin—”

“The Empire made peace with the Kingdom of Esperin, and there have been no conflicts with Anticles or Itzima. The Rijkstad keeps well away from these waters.” Fell waved off the idea. “No crown will risk another war, and certainly not here.”

“Not over people like us,” Cat muttered, and the captain nodded.

Meridian or not, they were castoffs in the colonies, far from the Empire, small in their backwater lives. Against the great peoples of the world, they meant nothing at all.

“You have done a great service to Crown and Empire, helping save the King’s colonies from the plague of piracy.” Fell turned to stride along the bars, forcing Cat to follow. “But the task is not finished.”

“It is finished enough,” she scoffed. “The last of the pirates are in hiding, dead, or fleeing. The navy will have no issue mopping them up. The reclamation is complete and the pirate republic is in ashes. Harry Morovant is nailed to a post in Hargrove Square, the rest of his captains strung up throughout the city.” She gestured to her own bars and the many cells, filled and filled again. “Is this not victory?”

Fell tipped his head, his eyes shining.

“Not every captain.”

His words echoed too heavily, surrounding Cat like another set of bars. She felt like a struck bell, and blood rushed in her ears, her pulse the harried beat of a desperate drum. The room spun and she halted mid-step, letting Fell carry on a few paces without her. Her face relaxed into a cold mask, but her hand fell against the bars of her cell, holding on to keep steady. As if she could stand against the impossible wave of memory, ferocious and crashing over her head.