Page 40 of Rears & Vices

Everard was no one to judge. He had coffee beside him, strong as he could bear, kept hot in its cup by a small flame beneath. It was lightly raining, but nobody was yelling about any leaks, and not even the large gallery windows let in a drop. He had before him on the desk a long list of ship’s miscellany, delightful minutiae he’d thought he’d never have the privilege of overseeing again in his life.

Even if it was pirate and, strictly speaking, illegal.

The companionway door slammed, and D’Arcy burst in, dripping wet, startling Everard so that he nearly dropped his quill.

“Here’s another,” D’Arcy proclaimed, and tossed something down onto the desk before Everard.

Everard exclaimed, hastily rescuing his coffee as the smell of ink and damp paper cloth hit his nose: the Louisiana Star and Chronicle.

COVERT SODOMITE, CAP’N ‘BLACKHAND’, SACRIFICES SELF FOR PIRATE-MATE, “V. VARFOLOMEY”.

“Huh,” Everard said curiously. He set down the mug and splayed the paper flat. “They haven’t censored this one?”

“I think,” D’Arcy said, “we can definitively say that your deuced plan worked.”

“We knew it had,” Vitaliy murmured from the corner armchair. “Since I was received without challenge.” Everard glanced over, but the man kept his kohl-darkened lashes lowered to his knitting, his expression neutral. Everard wasn’t sure he’d even flinched.

Three weeks out from Kingston, the two still did not get along.

Everard had avoided the subject entirely. Sequestered within this sunny, pale-blue-painted greatcabin, Everard had thrown himself into understanding what he could of V. Varfolomey’s vast network of trade routes and partners, ignoring D’Arcy’s cold standoffishness—and frankly everyone else, too.

Vitaliy had had only one proviso to Everard’s purview of the Sévère at anchor o’er the past week: that he observe only, and not try and assert authority in any way. Everard didn’t need reminding of this, knowing what the average sailor’s feelings towards Navy officers had always been, how thinly even his own crewmen had tarred over their dislike of him and his position. It wouldn’t take much overstepping on his part to remind pirates of his previous occupation, matelot shield or no. He was no V. Varfolomey, belovèd; he’d kept his head down.

Mindful of this, now he said, “You shouldn’t be seen coming in here, Preston. You know that.” He paused. “Especially drunk as you are.”

There was a tense moment of quiet, of enraged breathing; beneath the rain he could hear D’Arcy’s teeth grind from across the cabin.

“In fact, the lieutenant is welcome,” Vitaliy corrected. He hadn’t paused his knitting. “As is everyone.”

“He—what? But this is your greatcab⁠—”

“Allowed, not allowed,” D’Arcy spat, “it doesn’t matter. It’s been made plain I am not wanted. Don’t worry, I won’t stay—I only wished t’give you that and say: I can’t believe you’ve agreed to this, Everard Rubén.” He didn’t quite manage the R. “Your reputation, your name, dragged through and spat on”—he glared at Vitaliy, who remained unperturbed—“have you even read what’s being said?”

Everard hadn’t gathered the courage yet, no. What would be the point? “Yes. Some of it I wrote.”

D’Arcy scoffed. “If you were actually fucking him, I might understand. As it stands… well, nothing’s standing, is it?” he said meanly.

Everard’s face flamed hot. “Preston! It’s done, anyway. Leave be. And while you are at it, sleep it off.”

D’Arcy raised his hands and left, heels snapping unevenly, rain cloak fluttering.

Vitaliy did not even look up. It was a sort of relief.

In the end there had been no fight for his captaincy. Romilly René—the infamous Milly—had exclaimed at the approach of their gig, though she had been informed by her Jack slightly in advance of its arrival into Matagorda Bay.

Hand-in-hand, like the coffeehouse, Vitaliy had dragged Everard up onto the Sévère’s massive quarterdeck first thing. He’d introduced him to René—Everard could not abide “Milly” for someone so obviously authoritative—and then later announced him to an anticipatory all-hands, all-fleet crowd as what he was now: V. Varfolomey’s matelot, his inheritor, his partner, who had saved his life and their pirate livelihood along with.

Everard was therefore—with a fierce, showy, and prior-agreed-upon kiss—easily read aboard. Not as captain, not as master, not as anything of authority, but as a mate. Matelot. Partner.

No one had blinked except Everard; Everard, whose jaw had dropped as four hundred hands cheered en masse below them, hats pitched high in response to their kiss like a wedding. Vitaliy, far from having to worry about being supplanted or turned out, was apparently extremely well liked.

He’d chuckled at Everard’s shock, said, “Council approved,” and pulled him into a second, not-prior-agreed-on-but-still-welcome kiss. Everard had responded fiercer than he’d meant.

But then Vitaliy had… abruptly left, seven long days, his motivations or destination unknown. Take care of her; I’ll be back soon. René herself said it was nothing unusual for him, especially on the western Gulf coast, so close to his economic rival Jean Lafitte. Him, Everard had heard of.

Everard wondered if Vitaliy had a shore wife, in New Orleans or perhaps nearby Galveztown. He had no idea if he regarded women in that light. Some men didn’t mention wives, even after all manner of intimacies; Vitaliy didn’t seem the type.

Well, all 112 guns of the Sévère were still of a piece. No one had mutinied; there was not the slightest talk of an election, not since Vitaliy had miraculously survived his ordeal and had brought back thousands of pounds of goods to sell from America on the Enemistad besides; no one had attacked. Even the Gulf rain had held out until now, the sun setting pink and rising to blue skies, again and again.