Chapter Twenty-Three After
A GRAND PLAZA ran the length of the Arcayan shoreline, tiled with green and white stone to match the city of Nera and the jungle.
The paved ground ran straight into the water, with canoes anchored against the tile.
They bobbed in the gentle current, painted in varying shades of seafoam and turquoise.
A waterfall made the air damp but not unpleasant, dragging a cool curtain through the air that made the otherwise oppressive heat bearable.
It was no wonder the Arcayans chose this place for their grand city, long before the continental crowns even knew the islands of the Lyrian Sea existed.
Cat felt her hair frizzing already and donned a straw hat, tying it in place to at least protect her face from the sun.
She had collected more than enough freckles on her voyage—she did not need any more.
And I need not show my face so carelessly here, she thought, adjusting the brim just so.
The hat was not all she retrieved from her cabin, though she was careful to hide her heavy purse beneath her skirts, and another pouch in her bodice, tucked between her breasts.
Her pack she made sure to leave behind, conspicuously discarded on her narrow bunk.
But this time she did not leave her flintlock pistol, small as it was.
That she shoved into a pocket, the weight of it both a burden and a balm.
She’d bought it years ago, the gun small enough for a lady to carry unnoticed, but not so small as to be useless.
Captain Fell’s flintlock was far more impressive, a permanent fixture on his hip. Cat eyed it as they disembarked, the polished steel and silver adornments catching the sun. She had only held it once, briefly. But she would never forget what it felt like in her hand.
“We’ll be back before dark,” he told his crew before descending to the quay.
There was no port officer waiting with his ledger, as there would have been in another city.
Not because Nera did not have them, but because the harbor was too full of vessels.
While many passengers disembarked along the quayside, more jumped out of little boats ferrying crews in from the larger ships at anchor, spilling people onto the beach or up onto the plaza.
It made for a crowded, chaotic sight, filling the air with tangled shouts in Esperese, Meridian, Itziman, and Arcayan.
So many languages wove together, Cat only caught the edges of words she could barely translate.
She spotted fair-skinned men of the Meridian, ruddy with the sun, alongside swarthier Esperese, all dressed in jackets, breeches, and boots.
The Itziman sailors looked more like the people of Arcayo, with darker skin, black hair, and sculpted cheekbones to cut glass.
Most wore oxblood robes cut to the knee, belted with braided leather, and some sported gold medallions in the silhouette of their king, in contrast to the islanders who had no such monarch.
The Arcayans were far more varied in their clothing, dressed in gauzy white shifts for the heat or deep-green or blue silk patterned like a parrot’s wing, shimmering as they walked.
And all were armed, with pistols or with short, thick blades equally suited to gutting fish, cutting through jungle growth, or stabbing an opponent.
Many wore glossy feathers in their hair or around their wrists, set with gold, opalescent shells, orange coral, and turquoise beads.
“So many crews,” Fell muttered in her ear, sounding delighted. He was just as observant as Cat, taking in the many ships and varied sailors. “No wonder the whores of Prospera set sail.”
“Not just the whores,” Cat replied.
Indeed, there were many sorts of people making up the crowd.
Not only hardened sailors and Arcayan folk, but what looked like foreign civilians too, with all manner of luggage.
There were even children throughout the crowd, clutching at their parents or each other.
It gave Cat pause; she slowed her pace, puzzled by their presence.
These were not cabin boys fresh from the ships, but toddlers and little children with dolls, even infants still in arms. Colonials, settlers, farmers—the kind of folk she would not expect to flee the Meridian. And yet here they were.
But there was no time to linger, and Fell’s guiding hand pushed Cat along.
Another song tower, taller than any other building in the city, loomed over the plaza. Mist spiraled around it, leaving drops of condensation dripping down the carved face. While Fell gawked up at the intricate stonework, Cat dropped her eyes, reluctant to look.
She expected Fell to sneer at it all, to look down his nose as most noble Meridians would. Instead, he gazed at the tower with awe.
“I suppose it is magnificent,” he muttered under his breath.
You should see the inside. Cat remembered the spiral staircase and the roving priests, their voices raised in song. And Valerian beside her through it all.
She shook her head, clearing the image from her mind, and directed Fell away from the tower. The Widow Rose had enough still-bleeding wounds. She did not need to tear open another.
“Let me guess, you’re leading us to another street of sinful pleasures?” Fell said.
Cat bit her lip, trying to get her bearings. “I’m sorry to say we’ve learned all we can from the brothels. You’ll have to visit Nera’s pleasure houses on your own time.”
It’s the taverns we want now, she thought, letting her feet carry her. They knew the way, even if she could barely remember.
There were no signs on the streets or buildings, not that Cat would have been able to read them.
Instead, the limestone structures were carved to their function, figures and symbols hidden within the braiding lines of stone.
Snapper and long-jawed baracud swam around the arches of a fishmonger’s hall, while the crescent-shaped coins of Arcayo decorated the walls of the overrun port office.
A carved pot on a stone fire boiled over the door of a spice house, its windows ringed with stone peppers and bunched vanilla beans.
Cat’s mouth watered as they passed, and she dreamed of dolphinfish cooked in spice-fired embers, salty skin sizzling off the flesh.
Her hunger was matched only by her appreciation for long tables of pearls and polished gemstones in varying shades of Lyrian blue, a staple of the Arcayan jewel houses.
While cities like Archenport seemed at odds with the tropical islands, the Arcayan capital was in perfect harmony, bejeweled and adorned by the bounty of the Lyrian.
It was no wonder so many crowns sought to claim Arcayo.
And no wonder Valerian loves her so much, Cat thought, her appetite disappearing as cold dread settled in her stomach.
The mist made the air tolerable, the sun not so strong, but she was glad for her straw hat.
Without thinking, her arm slipped into Fell’s, pulling him closer.
“What is it?” he muttered next to her ear.
Cat did not answer nor break stride, but she kept her face bowed.
Just until they were through a particular knot of men on the corner, all of them sun-broken, their fair faces battered by the Lyrian Sea.
In their salt-stained clothing, long hair poking out from beneath worn hats, they looked like any other group of civilian sailors.
But Cat knew better. She eyed their exposed hands as she passed, noting the telltale sign of gunpowder burns and blade-cut scars.
A few had tattoos, black ink trailing along forearms and wrists.
For a split second, she dared to peek out from beneath the brim of her hat.
Her stomach flipped as she met a smirking pair of eyes. Not green as a storm, but deep mahogany, near to black and dancing with amusement.
Cat clenched her teeth and kept her steady pace, much as she wanted to sprint into the crowd and disappear. But that would only cause more commotion. And there was nothing the Prince of Merchants loved as much as a good show.
She refused to give it to him.
Goa looked down on her as she passed. While the men around him were ruddy and rumpled, the Arcayan man was anything but, his smooth black hair combed to his shoulders, his shirt and breeches crisp, with beaded adornments in patterned shades of blue.
His usual ring, seafoam stones set in gold, glinted on his finger.
It took all of her will not to tremble, lest Fell feel her unease. Goa was a smuggler and a fence, a vital ally to most pirates in the Lyrian Sea. Valerian chief among them. And he was a friend.
Or he had been.
For once in your life, be silent, Goa, Cat prayed. Her eyes flaring wide, she hoped he could read the desperation on her face.
To her surprise, he acquiesced with a shallow nod, letting her move on without a word. It felt like a gift, one Cat did not intend to squander. She hastened on, hurrying to put the handsome smuggler behind them.
But Captain Fell was not so oblivious as he seemed.
“Who were those men?” Fell hissed when they were well out of earshot. He pulled her tighter, forcing them chest to chest. “Kane’s crew?”
She could not help but laugh, feeling lighter after putting some distance between herself and Goa.
“Vex wishes,” she scoffed, glancing back. The crew in question were gone from sight too, swallowed up by the city.
Fell’s eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath the brim of his hat. His suspicion melted to excitement.
“Vex? Captain Vex?” he said. Twisting, he craned his neck to look behind him. “Last I checked, he had quite the bounty on his head.”
“Keep your voice down, you idiot,” Cat hissed, forcing him to keep walking. “I recognize those men from his crew.”
And the Prince of Merchants, of course, the most talented smuggler in the Lyrian Sea.
“But I did not see the Harriet in port. He must have lost his ship—”
Fell stopped her short, arm still hooked. He tried to turn her around. “Let’s ask, shall we?”