Page 46 of Tempest

“He means to fight, my lord. Total victory or nothing.”

Osprin grimaced as she threw his words back at him. But it was the truth, a truth Cat knew all too well. Val would tie himself to the mast of a sinking ship before surrendering to the navy, now or ever.

“So Kane will fight,” the governor growled, closing his fist. He seemed a volcano near to eruption.

This time when he struck the desk, he sent his maps flying, his regiment of paper soldiers scattered like a surrender. The letter from the King slid with them, the stamped image of the Meridian lion staring up at them all.

“From where?!” Osprin swiped at his desk again, sending another spray of parchment over the floor. “With whom?”

Fell did not flinch as a chart of the Lyrian currents slid across his boots, only picking it up with a sniff.

“And how many?” Fell added, moving to put the map back in its place. As he went, his arm brushed Cat’s, the pristine blue of his coat a sharp contrast to her wrinkled sleeve.

His body was far too close for Cat’s liking, but she did not move, holding her ground and the governor’s attention. Her survival depended on it.

“Like I told you, there are hundreds of small islands, some barely sandbars or tidal keys, with no inhabitants or crown claim. Before the pirates took Archenport, they used those islands as their own.” Her fingers walked a map of the Lyrian Sea, tracing the formations picked out in ink, bound by severe lines of latitude. “Islands that aren’t even on your charts.”

Her finger grazed an empty stretch of water that Cat knew was not empty at all.

Captain Carley seemed to have regained his voice. “Preposterous. The royal cartographers are unmatched—”

“The royal cartographers are in Brycam City and subject to what your ships see,” Cat said coldly. “If a landslide or a hurricane changed a coastline tomorrow, your navy-issue maps would not reflect the difference for two years at best. I’m afraid pirates of the Lyrian Sea are far more knowledgeable in their navigations than you are, sir.”

The captain sneered but even he could not argue with the logic. He rounded on the governor instead, electing to ignore Cat outright. “Send Commodore Percy after him, my lord. And the Revel will happily join him to hunt down this—”

Fell laughed openly, cutting the man off before Cat could. He faced the rival captain with a lazy smirk, shaking his head as if Carley were a student in the classroom—a student who had supplied the very wrong answer to a simple question.

“That is precisely what Kane wants, Captain,” Fell drawled. “For us to chase him piecemeal, searching a hundred useless spits of sand. As Lady Rose said, he knows these waters better than you do. And he has at least four ships behind him, three of ours, and one of his own.” He ran his eyes over Carley once more, then turned away with a shrug. “And gods know who else.”

This seemed to embolden the governor, a strange light coming into his eyes.

“Then I will not play his game,” he said. “I will not send squadrons to the slaughter.”

“I don’t understand . . .” Carley sputtered.

“I will not send a squadron. I will send the fleet entire,” the governor barked. “I only need a heading. And I need it quickly.”

Cat felt the blood drain from her face. The fleet entire. More ships than Cat knew how to count: men-o’-war, frigates, cruisers, warships all. Dozens of ships, thousands of sailors. Worse than the fleet was two months ago, when the Meridian fell upon the Lyrian Sea and the pirate republic like a godly hammer, and shattered the world.

What will they shatter now? What world will rise from this wreckage?

She eyed the floor again, picturing marble instead of wood. White tile, black tile, left or right.

She chose her move without hesitation.

“I will find Valerian Kane.”

Perhaps it was some trick of the humid air, but her voice seemed to echo, her words repeating over and over, drumming in rhythm with her ragged heartbeat. Cat expected doubt or regret to course through her as her words landed. Neither came.

My head or his.

Carley’s laughter shook the study, high-pitched and needling. Groust gave a half-hearted chuckle but clamped his mouth shut on sight of the governor.

Osprin did not laugh. Neither did Fell.

Both stared at her, hard-eyed and silent.

“My lord, you need hunters, not a barmaid,” Carley said, still chucking. His spittle flecked the air.