Page 55 of Rears & Vices

“You deal perfectly well with women, Preston.” In bed and out of it. It was another reason D’Arcy was so shrewd: he had no whispered reputation or specific social circles to signal others what he was; it was left to him to chance whomever he would.

D’Arcy dimpled. “True.”

An awful thought occurred. His indifference to Everard aside, could Alarie be similarly minded to D’Arcy?

“You don’t think they have…?”

“Fucked?” D’Arcy finished for him, and laughed. “Christ, no. Knowledge does not enthrallment make. That there is a man left curious.”

“Oh.” Everard harrumphed. “I suppose.” Was that what Everard lacked? Novelty? New-polished shine? He’d been had, quite thoroughly, and more than once; perhaps Vitaliy had simply moved beyond the already known.

A man can’t change so much in three years.

I don’t agree, Vitaliy had said.

Were those the words of a man bored by prior acquaintance? Surely not. But then…

You can’t expect the decisions of the future to produce the same results as the past.

Everard scowled.

D’Arcy laughed more. “What a fierce face you make.” He leaned in, whispered, “You’re more than pretty novelty, Ever. Only say you’d like me to demonstrate.”

Everard gave him a look: half fondness, half exasperation. He knew D’Arcy knew he appreciated the sentiment from the way the man’s eyes crinkled at the corners in response.

“How is it below?” Everard asked, after a comfortable silence. “Is piracy as you imagined it? Your French is up to par?”

“Oh, sod off, my French is and always has been magnifique. But yes, it is every belowdecks ever imagined.” He pouted. “With significantly less roving and thieving than I’d hoped.”

Everard laughed. “The Sévère is too big to go roving. She’s more of a floating station, as I understand.”

And she was. Piracy being a business, one that competed for men with profitable merchantmen and others, the crew were each contracted to Varfolomey’s fleet in renewable terms of four or six months. Written into said contracts was a mandatory stay upon each of the seven ships—excepting the Birch, which didn’t allow men and didn’t share crew. For everyone else, sixty days each year were required upon the Sévère and no longer, to discourage coveting of her and also laziness. Not that sailing a meregildo allowed for layabouts. It was fair and equal to divide it such, Vitaliy insisted—kinglike again. And, Everard supposed, also practical: keeping an end date in mind for each man probably helped with mutinous feelings while at-anchor with no prizing.

“A pirate’s summer home!” D’Arcy proclaimed, chuckling. “With a firmly established hierarchy, despite what your pirate spouse proclaims of equality.”

“Hmm.” Everard was curious what he meant, but didn’t want to press for specifics, not up there in the open where anyone might hear. “You’ve retained your sapphire, anyway. And gained not one but two pistols, I see.”

“But two are loaded,” D’Arcy said, offhand. “You’re not the only one with a reputation, you know.”

“You alarm me,” Everard said, truthfully. He hesitated. “I know you have. I heard what kind of captain you became.” What kind of legacy he’d given up.

D’Arcy squeezed his arm. “Isn’t that something?” he said lightly.

Below, Romilly René had interrupted Vitaliy’s tête-à-tête with the French governor, and the two pirates’ attention turned to the multitude of crates, hogsheads, and jute sacks being swung over the rail and stacked on Sévère’s deck. Vitaliy frowned as he looked up over the creak of block and rope.

So, this was the unwanted thing René brought, then: not a person but cargo. But what could it be? They were quite full up on provisions for the foreseeable future, so it could be nothing needed upon the Sévère herself. Was Alarie thrusting stolen goods upon Vitaliy to transport, with the fleet master as go-between? Weapons? Coffee, or sugar, or maguey? It could be anything, but whatever it was, its presence troubled Vitaliy.

Everard disengaged his arm from D’Arcy’s, murmured a goodbye, and stepped down the ladder to meet René at the gangway rail.

Maybe Vitaliy would let himself be bullied by a pretty deceiver, but Everard had no such bias. Like it or not, the Sévère was now legally half his, and it gave him an advantage: he had a say in what she carried.

“As far as I am aware,” he said to the fleet master, “we have plenty of provisions. What are we taking on?”

René laughed. “You do not know.” She whistled and gestured, and a barrel was rolled their way. She caught it agilely, produced a mallet and wedge from her belt, and in very few thumps, had cracked open the head. A sweet, familiar, and extraordinarily rare smell rose.

“Vainilla!” Everard exclaimed. He looked up to the stacked barrels with the same marking as this one’s and made a quick count. There were many. “Vanilla, by God. No wonder you made good time.” Cargo like that, one wanted more than a swivel gun and a rowing crew to protect it.

René made an agreeing noise. “It meets your approval?” She buried her hands in waxed linen and brought forth two bundles of brown-black beans, each as thick as a man’s arm. The scent came in waves to Everard, dense and heady.