Chapter Fourteen Before
VALERIAN LED HER through a broad council chamber running the width of the deck, the walls paneled oak, the windows thick-glassed, with the image of a golden lion holding the anchor painted on the ceiling.
It wore the crown of the Meridian Empire, a double band of gold set with yellow diamonds like the pointed rays of a burning sun.
If Cat questioned the origins of the Covenant, there was no mistaking it now: this was a stolen Meridian vessel, a battleship of the line, a fourth-rate if she counted decks correctly.
And fairly new, judging by her exterior.
Perhaps fresh from the burned shipyards in Allisport, newly delivered to the fleet in the Lyrian Sea. Pride of the Crown and Empire.
But no longer.
There were scorch marks in the rich curtains, which were now mismatched, a thick red brocade on one side, and light cotton on the other.
The latter was hastily replaced, and Cat ventured they were not curtains at all, but bedsheets procured at some market.
Or plundered from another ship. Sunlight spilled across the floor, casting a soft glow on the dark wood.
Though polished, it was scuffed and scraped, a testament to dragged furniture and hard boots.
So it was, the trappings of piracy layered over imperial foundations.
She did not miss the bullet hole in the wall, at precisely the height of the average man. Her heart thundered. At least the wall around it had been scrubbed over, leaving only the ghost of bloodstains behind.
Valerian did not stop as they passed the long table set across the room, with a dozen mismatched chairs. Instead, he pushed open the door into the next chamber without so much as a backwards glance.
Gritting her teeth, Cat followed, though every instinct told her not to.
She knew what lay beyond the last door.
In her mind, she remembered her books and the whispered warnings of Meridian society.
Pirates were not just criminals but scoundrels, ravaging maids and ladies without thought for propriety or etiquette or honor.
They sought their pleasure not just on the seas but in the gambling houses and brothels of the islands, in every ditch and gutter, until their lust for blood and gold and flesh was slaked. If it ever truly could be.
Cat trembled as she walked.
She expected a bedchamber done up in garish red and black, a den of debauchery, where not even the Lyrian sun could penetrate.
Perhaps even a whore still between his sheets, sleeping through the assault to serve the captain later.
Bright as Valerian appeared, Cat could not ignore the darkness in him, within his stormy eyes and beneath his chest, in a cavernous pirate heart.
She had seen enough of the Lyrian Sea to know what dangers lay beneath still waters or behind serene clouds.
Her footsteps halted on the threshold, breath catching.
There was no red, no black, no shuttered curtains or enormous bed.
No curled toes peeking out from the sheets.
She doubted any companion could even fit in the shockingly small bunk, hidden away in the corner amongst shelves overflowing with bound books and rolled parchment.
Certainly not alongside Valerian, who seemed too tall for his own bed, alone or otherwise accompanied.
Next to the bunk was a chest, the wood crisscrossed with iron banding and more locks than could ever be sensible.
At a second glance, Cat realized it was screwed into the floor, held fast with planks.
Whatever Valerian valued most would go down with his ship, should the Covenant face the same fate it gave the Venerable.
Against all her expectations, the cabin was warm and yellow with sunlight. Glass windows faced the sea on three sides, battered curtains thrown open to the horizon.
If not for the desk pulled to the center of the room and the maps scattered across every flat surface, the cabin might seem disused.
The only personal items seemed to be clothes, along with a scattering of strange trinkets and artifacts.
A few were clearly plunder, starkly out of place in the room: a porcelain plate painted in the Rijkstad style, blue patterned on white, with a sizable chip at the edge.
A water-damaged gilded book, an ornate clock ticking so slowly it was almost frozen in time.
Then were items she could not place at all.
Smooth stones mostly, green and blue, a few of them carved with symbols Cat did not recognize.
They were not Meridian make, or even Esperese, that much was clear.
Valerian dragged a chair across the room, legs scraping a fresh line over the floor.
“Well,” he muttered, gesturing to the chair. It was missing an arm, but otherwise finely made, the polished oak inlaid with gold scrollwork.
Silent, Cat sank into it, her focus narrowing from the room to the man in front of her.
To her surprise, Captain Kane seemed more awkward alone, indoors, away from his crew.
He bustled around the desk, his shoulders hunched a little so he did not hit his head on the broken lamp dangling from the low ceiling.
Cat almost laughed. Valerian was simultaneously too small and too large, looking boyish behind the desk of a navy lord.
Captain though he was, he did not wear the mantle like Quine or Meedy or even Morovant. They all bore the weight of command with ease or smug satisfaction. Not like Valerian. The captain’s title hung off him like an overlarge coat.
She ventured his command of the Covenant was barely weeks old, if that.
And perhaps the Venerable his first prize, or what remained of one, she mused.
Her fear melted, and the scales between them tipped towards balance, if only a little.
He had barely sat before glancing at her shoulder. His gaze snagged on her simple shift and the stretch of exposed skin around her neck.
Cat went warm beneath his inspection, but held still, reluctant to show any unease. It would only be seen as weakness. And she could not be weak if she were to save Jasper—and herself.
“Would you like a jacket, Lady Rose?” Valerian said in a halting voice, eyes skipping between her collarbone and her face. Then he extended a hand towards a wardrobe by the bed, the top drawer missing, the others crooked and stuffed full.
It was the last question she thought he might ask.
Her first thought was to shudder. His clothes were probably riddled with fleas and gods knew what else. Not to mention the shame of wearing a man’s things, let alone a pirate’s. But warmth curled in her too. He offered so easily, with little agenda she could find.
Beyond granting me a favor, and perhaps winning my trust, Cat told herself. She was at enough of a disadvantage without indebting herself to a pirate captain.
Nor did she need to cede what might be a small advantage of her own.
She shrugged, aware of her bare, freckled skin exposed to the warm, sunny cabin, and Valerian’s stormy eyes.
“No, thank you,” she answered, sitting back in the broken chair as if she was entertaining in her parlor. Her heart thrummed, though her voice remained level. “And I told you—my name is Cat.”
At that, Valerian grinned, settling back in his seat. He kicked up a boot, resting his foot on the desk.
“So I’ve heard,” he drawled, pointing back towards the deck. “That officer carries a candle for you. I’m certain you’ve noticed. And your husband,” he added, whistling a low tone. “I do not envy you.”
Her hand closed on the single remaining arm of her chair, fingers tight on the wood. But her face, like her voice, remained serene.
“I apologize for my husband’s behavior,” she said. “He is not himself when sailing.”
Valerian’s eyes darkened. “The Arcayans say the sea reveals a man’s true nature.”
“I do not know the ways of Arcayo,” Cat replied, with a ladylike humph, as if they were discussing the weather or a passing scrap of gossip. “Though you seem to collect their treasures.”
“Collect?” Valerian scoffed and followed her eyeline, noting the stones. “No, those were given, my lady. I do not take from my own.”
“Good luck charms then? Magic to guide you on the sea?”
At that, Valerian threw back his head and laughed.
But there was no mirth to it. “Magic? The crowns of the Continent squeezed the magic from these waters a generation ago,” he said, his voice going tight.
“When they slaughtered and sickened and drove away the true people of the Lyrian. There is no magic here anymore.”
Cat frowned, feeling like a child scolded by the teacher. “That isn’t what the history books say,” she answered, keeping her chin high.
Another laugh echoed around the cabin. “And who wrote those books, Lady Rose? Someone who was there, someone who lost something? Or a Meridian man at a desk on the other side of the world, with only the words of the conqueror to tell the tale?”
To that, Cat had no answer at all. She did not miss the interesting glint in Valerian’s gaze, the way his hand strayed to the tattoo on his chest. The braided circle, the twisting lines.
But she was in no position to ask probing questions.
Through the window, a few pieces of the Venerable drifted into view—then the first body. She winced, only to find Valerian still staring, not at her exposed shoulder or throat, but her face.
“You are changed since last I saw you, and yet your fortunes have not changed at all,” Valerian said slowly.
Cat felt her jaw clench. “I was in the process of changing said fortunes when you decided to blow up my ship.”
His grin widened, but it did not reach his eyes.
“I did not decide to do anything of the sort.”
More bodies bobbed amongst the wreckage, a parade of blue coats and blood.
“And yet countless men are now dead in the water,” she said. “Or already feeding the sharks.”
The captain scoffed. “Sharks don’t feed much in daylight.”
“My mistake,” Cat replied, her tone acidic.
It turned something in the pirate, his smile dropping.