Page 3 of Tempest

Osprin had kept him alive for months after his grand defeat. Long enough to watch his men be executed, his ships burned, his fellow captains hunted down and killed.

Long enough to see the ruin of the pirate republic and all he had tried to build.

The entire city came to the execution, to look upon the dying king of a dead kingdom. Cat saw the shock of fear in his coal-dark eyes, the flush beneath his sun-worn cheeks, the new streaks of gray in his once-black beard. Without his plumed hat and green velvet coat, he seemed small, unremarkable. And lost. Nothing like the great captain Cat once knew.

But his pride remained, still holding on. Morovant did not break when so many crews and captains were hanged, one neck after the next, day after day. He did not break when the governor’s men put him to the screws for information on the scattered pirate armada. He did not break when Meridian bluecoats marched him through the city at gunpoint. He did not break when they tied his arms and legs, lashing each limb to a horse.

But he had broken when the beasts pulled him apart.

If only that was the end of it, Cat thought, passing the corpse.

It was a cruel way to die, but an even crueler way to rot.

Governor Osprin had the pirate lord nailed to a post in the square, his limbs sewn back into place. Now Morovant seemed a child’s broken doll, hastily mended by a neglectful mother, and growing more gruesome by the day.

A thin boy with mad eyes sat by the body, forever perched on his little stool. He kept a knobbly stick in hand to chase off the birds.

That was Governor Osprin’s order too.

Morovant was not even worthy of the crows.

Cat certainly wished he was, if only to hasten the decay, and earn Morovant some release at last. She wished for the sharks in the harbor, for a cruel wave to rise up and claim Morovant’s body so he might rest in the sea he loved so much. He deserved that, at least. They all did.

She fought back the usual nausea, both from the smell and the guilt. One was far easier to bear. She hurried past, leaving her usual biscuit for the boy. He gave her a rueful look, the best thanks he could muster, before returning to his cursed work.

Cat felt the same. Cursed.

At the post, Morovant slumped. His jaw had detached and lay abandoned in his lap. It was an odd sight, a patchwork of empty gums—his gold and ivory teeth already stolen. Cat figured they were in the pocket of some navy officer, their wives, or one of the few prostitutes left on the island.

It was his head or mine, she thought once more, reaching her tavern.

But Cat hesitated on the step, forcing a glance over her shoulder.

Captain Morovant still glared from his post, the accusing kind of stare that only a corpse could muster. As always, she faced his accusation, unable to look away. She took the punishment she so rightly deserved.

Overhead, a wooden sign swayed, painted with the image of a blood-red rose.

* * *

THE SUN SET scarlet through the rippled glass windows, sending a spray of light across the dim interior of the tavern. It gave a red haze to the plank floor and paneled walls, making the pine glow from within. A clock ticked in the corner, the only thing to mark the passage of time besides the growing shadows. The Widow Rose lay silent, with only two patrons huddled in their usual place.

Mr. Pine and Mr. Dorian slumped at the long bar, the rest of the stools and tables empty. Both were sailors, though they had not set foot on a ship in years. Poor men, but good customers. They blinked stupidly back and forth, communicating with eyes alone.

Behind the bar, Ms. Moseley leaned against the cabinets. Like the men, the old barmaid looked half asleep, her eyes heavy-lidded, her gray hair frizzing in the humidity. The usual sheen of sweat gleamed on her brow, the same crown everyone wore on a tropical island. She dabbed at her forehead, the white handkerchief fluttering like a bird’s wing.

In the back corner, Cat startled at the movement, woken from her haze of heat and despair. The pocket watch lay open at her side, ticking kindly, the faded rose keeping her company. A single candle burned on the tabletop in front of her, casting barely enough light to drink by, let alone take stock of her accounts. She squinted to examine her open ledger, running a quill down a column of sharply decreasing numbers.

The inky truth was difficult to stomach. But the empty seats around the tavern were even worse.

Once there had been no empty seats at all, every chair filled, the floor rowdy with customers night and day, all the bedrooms occupied, and Cat’s ledger bursting with lines of credit. All manner of folk looking for rum or good company. Sailors, merchants, craftsmen, travelers. Knobbled old men and cabin boys. Fishwives taking their glasses of sherry. Eager new colonists with bright eyes and brighter sunburns. Smugglers, wreckers. And pirates, of course—though most people were pirates in their own way, on the sea or off it.

Cat and Ms. Moseley worked hard nights, barely able to sit, let alone think. Now thoughts were all Cat had, each one worse than the last, pounding across her mind like a mad horse tearing a man apart.

Gritting her teeth, she scratched out one last figure and set down her quill.

“I think we’re done for the evening,” she muttered, shutting her ledger with a thud to break the silence.

Moseley raised an eyebrow but did not argue. The barmaid knew better than to question her mistress, even if it meant shuttering a tavern before the sun was below the sea.