Chapter Five After
CAT DID NOT need a window to guess where the cart was headed.
She knew Archenport well enough after nearly a decade.
The wheels creaked and shuddered over familiar streets, climbing steadily up the hill.
Fort Morden loomed at the top, an ugly, exposed bone thrust up through the crown of the city.
And beneath the glowing limestone walls was a place she had never seen before, not in all her years of life in the Lyrian Sea.
The jail cells, dark and endless.
Torchlight glowed through the gaps in the wood, and Cat shivered as she passed through the jaws of Morden’s gates.
But when the cart stopped, she arranged herself as best she could, smoothing her skirts and setting her face.
The ride had given her time to collect herself, to calm her harried mind and think.
She was not imprisoned yet. There was opportunity enough, space to maneuver and weasel her way to freedom.
She needed only one moment of weakness from Fell.
But when the cart door swung open, Captain Fell was nowhere to be seen.
Cat looked out to find herself in the middle of the fortress, with nothing but white walls, black cannons, and stone-faced soldiers to greet her.
Coward, she cursed, wishing all manner of terrible things on Captain Fell.
A sunburned bluecoat held the door expectantly, waiting for her.
He looked barely old enough to shave, let alone hold a gun.
When he offered her a hand, as if Cat were a lady disembarking her carriage on the way to a ball, she quelled the urge to break his wrist. It was not a maneuver she had used recently, but she remembered well enough.
Worse still, she remembered the man who had taught it to her.
The thought made her blood run hot, and her steps faltered as she alighted from the coach. The escort made to help her, but she speared him with a dark look, and he leapt back to let her pass unaided.
A shackled woman was not so unique a sight, not after the Meridian reclamation. Men and women alike had been hung for committing or aiding piracy. No one bothered to jeer her, the soldiers too preoccupied with their patrols or, more likely, their daily ration of rum.
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.
She flinched as the door at the end of the hall slammed, leaving her with nothing but echoes and the drip of water somewhere. Thankfully the torches still burned on the wall.
At least I will not rot in darkness, she thought, eyeing the boundaries of her cell.
The floor was packed earth, the walls carved stone with the ceiling arcing overhead.
There was a bench the length of the cell, big enough for three people to sleep on from end to end.
Cat made sure to give the bucket in the corner a wide berth as she settled on the bench.
Her fingers ran over grooves in the wood, tracing a few etched lines. Their meaning was clear.
Days counted.
Cat fought a wave of nausea and slid away. Most of the bodies still hanging in the streets were men. But a few women hung among them, pirates and otherwise. Cat knew their names too. She eyed the carving again, imagining who counted out her final hours down here in the cells.
For a moment, her head spun and she almost went to the loathsome bucket. Instead her fingers curled in her lap and a chill settled over her. It was an odd feeling in the Lyrian Sea, where even the months that should have been winter burned.
Captain Fell’s voice echoed in her head, his words haunting.
All who partake in piracy, on the sea or off it.
It was a hazy definition, casting as wide a net as Governor Osprin liked.
In the first days, civilians and sailors alike went to the gallows, especially the poorest who could not pay for favors or secret passage off the island.
Cat had not feared for herself. She had Captain Fell’s protection.
She had given enough to save herself from the governor’s wrath. Or so she thought.
Cat traced the carved lines again. They burned as if cut into her own skin, and she leaned into the pain, chasing the punishment she deserved.
* * *
SHE WOKE TO a dry mouth and a sore back, her face pressed against something rough.
Her curls spilled over one side of her face, tangled from a night of tossing and turning.
For a moment, she wondered if she had fallen out of bed and onto the pine floor of her bedchamber.
Then her eyes opened and the world sharpened.
Instead of her room with its fresh-cut flowers and heavy curtains, she faced a jail cell.
And a bemused navy captain.
Cat sat up too quickly, her bones cracking. But anger burned away her aches, leaving only fury behind.
“I suppose you simply had to arrest me in the night and steal one last comfort from me before I hang,” she snapped.
Captain Fell eyed her through the bars.
He looked the same as he had in her dining room, his uniform pressed and perfect, his hat under one arm. In spite of herself, Cat took some comfort in his presence.
“I couldn’t risk you learning of the Lord Governor’s order and fleeing the city,” he said.
It sounded like an apology, somehow.
Cat curled her lip. “Of course. I suppose I was foolish to think you would uphold your end of the bargain and square the debt between us.”
A flush crossed Fell’s face, his voice dropping to a hiss.
“We settled that score long ago, Cat.”