Page 33 of Tempest

And she did not care to find out.

Unlike the fort, the governor’s mansion was familiar ground, though she had not stepped foot in it since Osprin had landed in Archenport. She surveyed it with a keen eye. The black and white marble beneath her feet had been freshly polished, her reflection staring back at her; the gilding on the walls, once peeled off, had been replaced, the bits of gold catching the shine of afternoon sun. She noted new pieces of decoration around the hall—flawless marble statues, oil paintings, overstuffed armchairs, brightly woven rugs. The spoils of the Empire hung from every corner.

And yet old shadows remained, stubborn as a bloodstain. The long gilt mirror still had a crack in the corner, the product of an ill-placed brawl. And no one had replaced the crown molding over the second archway, where a bullet had shattered a relief of the Meridian lion.

Cat smirked at the reminders of what was, small as they were.

Again, Fell touched the small of her back, guiding her through the mansion. Cat pursed her lips, unable to do much more under the watchful eyes of navy bluecoats and the governor’s staff, who seemed to mill around every turn. Most looked at Cat with a dismissive detachment. She did the same, returning their haughty glances.

But Fell nodded to each of them. It gave him the look of a duck on a pond, bobbing for fish. Or a snake swaying its neck, waiting to strike.

“I believe you missed your calling,” Cat muttered under her breath. “You would’ve made a better politician than a sailor.”

“You are either complimenting my charm or insulting my seafaring skills,” he said. “Fortunately, with you, I know to assume the worst.”

“So you aren’t completely stupid,” Cat replied. “What a revelation.”

Fell only grinned. He broke stride, gesturing to an open door flanked by bluecoats. Cat glimpsed a large study on the other side, the walls lined with bookshelves, an intricate desk in the center. There was no one seated behind it, but she could rightly guess who would.

The governor.

Her heart thumped, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck and under her dress.

Cat told herself it was just the heat. After all, she was no stranger to powerful men and their appetites for gold or blood or glory. Osprin was just another one in a long line.

But deep down, she knew it wasn’t true. No man had ever filled the streets of Archenport with so many corpses.

Cat refused to be one of them.

Her teeth clenched and she inhaled a sharp breath, steeling herself for the precipice. Then she leapt off it without so much as a backwards glance, stepping forwards into the study.

Fell shut the doors behind her, leaving Cat to face Governor Osprin alone.

Coward, she cursed, though she had little time for frustration. With another breath, she squared her shoulders and turned to face the ornate desk in the middle of the study.

It was aggressively organized, with sheafs of paper perfectly aligned. They reminded Cat of soldiers in battle formation, waiting to charge. Maps in one pile, letters and reports in another, again divided by some neat categorization. It made it too easy to spot the one paper out of place—what looked like a half-written letter, still waiting for a seal and signature.

The sturdy wooden chair was without an occupant. Instead, Osprin stood at the window, silhouetted by the greenery outside.

Cat had only glimpsed Osprin during the executions, and his appearance in the streets had not disappointed. An ornate coat, a bejeweled collar to mark his station, a powdered wig of gray and white curls. Jeweled buckles on his shoes, pristine white stockings. Jon Osprin was a duke’s son, raised in splendor across the sea. He was every inch a lord of the Meridian Empire, as far from the men he hanged as the stars were from the sand.

She expected to face that same preening lord today.

But the man at the window was someone else entirely.

He wore no wig, his hair ash brown shot with spindles of silver. It was pulled into a neat tail, the ends cut in a blunt, severe line. His hands clasped behind his back, fingers laced together. Cat eyed them sharply, noting scars and calluses not often seen on Meridian nobles. He still wore fine clothes, his velvet coat a deep, cobalt blue to match the fleet, with gold filigree at the shoulder. His breeches were ivory, and polished black boots replaced the jeweled shoes.

Cat thought of the checkered tile in the entrance hall, the black and white slabs beneath her feet. It looked like a game board, and Cat chose her next movements as carefully as a chess player.

But chess was never your game, Cat warned herself, even as she made her first move.

“Governor Osprin,” she said, dropping into the best curtsy she could muster. Her knee cracked, one of many testaments to the long years between herself and high society. And youth.

A corner of the governor’s cheek lifted, and he turned to face her with a smile, his eyes an unsettling black. His skin was pale but sun damaged across his cheeks, and the lines on his forehead were deeply carved. Too long frowning into the horizon, Cat thought, reading the years on the governor’s face. The sea aged everyone, and she ventured him to be nearing fifty, young for a ruling lord, but old for a sailor.

He made for an odd sight, a noble with callused hands. Like a commodore in command of a fleet, not a lord hiding behind his polished desk. The rumors said he was an admiral before being appointed—but there were many jumped-up lords in the navy, highly ranked without skill.

Osprin did not seem to be one of them, and it sent a chill down her spine.