Page 8 of Tempest

“Salt?” Lord Rose raised an eyebrow.

“He means sweat, my lord,” Cat offered politely, wondering how a man like her husband even put his shoes on. But she held her smile for the bewildered sailor. “We will certainly endeavor to prosper here, Mr. Bridger. I am eager to see Rosby Island for myself.”

Her husband puffed up his chest beneath his coat, his pink face proud.

“Rich farmland, a country estate to rival the great houses back on the Continent. The King himself gave Rosby to my lord uncle for his services in the Anticlean Wars, and with his death it passed to me.” He gave a little salute, and Cat hid a scoff in her sleeve. Her husband had never served a day in the navy, the army, or any group more organized than a hunting party. “It will be nothing to flourish here, nothing at all. I do not know why I did not pursue this years ago.”

Because you were not destitute years ago, Cat thought, holding her tongue. She dearly wished he had left for the colonies then, so he might have been gone from Meridia long before she came of age. Instead, I fell neatly into his trap.

It was painful enough to watch Ryman spew his nonsense and spend money with abandon. But to know how tied she was to his demise . . .

Ryman Rose was an anchor, dragging her forever down.

He continued his mutterings about farming and trade, two things Lord Rose had little understanding of. The sailor stood by, nodding dutifully, his face pulled into a polite grimace. Cat ventured he’d heard such things before from other starry-eyed lords with lofty ambitions and shallow pockets.

“Pity there’s no slaving. I could turn quite the profit with a few bought backs,” Ryman added.

Even Cat could not school her features against such unsavory words; she winced, recoiling. Mr. Bridger’s face went sour too, and he twisted out of the lord’s grasp. He even dared to wag a finger in the lord’s direction.

“Slavin’ is for the devil, sir,” he said sharply, cheeks red. “Certainly, a good Meridian man like you knows that.”

Ryman’s face flushed in reply, and Cat delighted to watch him squirm. The Meridian Empire had outlawed slavery nearly half a century ago, as had the Esperese. The trade of human flesh was expressly forbidden, frowned upon in most corners of polite society. Or at least, they pretended to frown at it; greedy men like Ryman lamented the wealth lost, no matter how many souls were saved.

“Of course, of course, I’m only saying—from a profit standpoint, nothing more,” the lord mumbled. “I shall have to look into indentureds instead.”

As if you could afford them, Cat thought to herself. Indentured servants still had to be paid and given a set term of employment.

Mr. Bridger only sneered and stalked off, leaving Ryman blushing in his wake.

“Quite sensitive for a sailor,” he grumbled. “And foolish. There’s money to be had here, and not enough labor to make it.”

Cat bit the inside of her cheek. “Slavery has been outlawed, by Church and Crown, my lord. He is merely faithful to both.”

At that, Ryman’s flush deepened, his cheeks the same scarlet as his namesake.

“And I’m not?” he growled, his voice dropping in a dangerous way.

“I did not mean—” Cat began, but was cut off by a shout from the topsails.

“Sail ho!” the spotter called, his tone harsh. He waved out at the sea, not towards the islands but away, past the Credence’s stern. Every face turned in the same direction, squinting out into the horizon.

Indeed, a sail appeared to the northwest, a white cloud quickly gaining in speed and size.

What it could be, Cat had no idea. But the crew moved as one, well trained in their business. To her surprise, half a dozen disappeared below. Her throat tightened.

The cannons are below.

Cat’s eyes snapped through the sailors around her, seeking a tricorne hat and round physique.

Lord Rose found him first, bustling across the deck.

“Captain Meedy, what is the meaning of this?” he said, reaching for the man’s arm.

But the captain brushed Lord Rose off as if he were a fly. Instead, he raised a spyglass, training the instrument on the approaching ship.

“What flag, sir?” the first mate called, his hands on the wheel at the helm.

Behind Cat, Sara whimpered, raising her hands to her face. “I knew it, we sailed too close to the Esperese island. It’ll be the green cross on their flag,” she said. “We’re done for.”