Page 71 of Rears & Vices

“No?”

Vitaliy glanced up, then pointedly down. “He does not.”

Everard blinked. Laughed, a little disbelievingly.

Vitya slid further south, with purpose, and Everard wanted that—desperately—but his prick could wait. Probably should wait, in all honesty. He pulled at shoulders instead and said:

“No, I still do… No, hang on a moment; I do want to talk of Alarie.”

Vitya halted. “Now? You haven’t⁠—”

“Yes, now, in earnest. Else it’ll never happen, and I let you do that. I can’t exactly bring it up abovedeck, can I?”

Vitaliy sighed but drew back.

Everard said, “Alarie went from being commodore of Cartagena… to governor of unknown Galveztown. Not a lateral move.”

“Mm.” Vitaliy flopped onto his side.

“You won’t help him take it? Galveztown?”

Vitaliy snorted. “I don’t need to. It is no more than a sandbar.” He paused. “He did ask, but I refused.”

Everard’s ears pricked up at this, crackling with focus. I refused.

That was, in his eyes, plenty reason for a man like Louis-Michel Alarie to hold a grudge. Plenty motive to want a man dead. In a true navy, such a thing would have got a man executed for dereliction of duty. And the refusal of Alarie’s authority, even an authority granted by a failed nation-state, would have stung.

But V. Varfolomey was a pirate-privateer, an outlaw, untethered to any jurisdiction at all. Surely, Alarie had gone into the relationship realising that.

If he still to this day wanted Vitaliy and his ships for his navy, why would he have had him captured, court-martialed, and hanged?

“You, Vitaliy, refused him, or did Varfolomey?”

Vitaliy hesitated longer than was usual. “It was… personal,” he said at last. “We had a falling-out. But Alarie’s sheltered slavers before. Varfolomey has excuse enough.”

“You fell out badly enough to leave his navy, refuse him aid?”

Vitaliy grunted. “Yes. Besides that, he wants muscle for his own gain and glory. Not as aid for México. He’s a filibuster; a power-seeker; a user. Something I didn’t realise upon first acquaintance with him in Cartagena.”

Gain and glory. This flew close enough to Everard’s own career heart that he felt defensive. “Well, gain and glory, achieving a greater good… they can go hand-in-hand. Yes?”

Vitaliy nodded. “Sometimes, they can,” he agreed. “But intention matters.”

Everard raised up on an elbow. “But how can one judge that of another?”

“I have seen what motivates him.”

“How can one know a man’s heart by observation?” Everard challenged. “There must be a reason Alarie defected from France, from his profession, from his family, and became a filibuster. Has he told you why? Has he a manifesto? Would you believe it if he had?”

Vitaliy was silent.

“Take yourself. Who knows what drives you but you? Or take Varfolomey, even. Surely, no one truly thinks he is motivated by altruism alone. It would be… unnatural. For any man, if not especially for a pirate.”

Vitaliy looked displeased. “Unnatural,” he said.

“Saintly is what I meant,” Everard said hastily. “Martyrlike. Unachievable legend. Heracles. Atlas.”

“That isn’t better than unnatural,” Vitaliy said slowly, and gave him a pointed look. “It is still other. But I see what you mean. To be a pirate is to be a legend; a story; judged on surface.” He settled onto his back, put his head into the cradle of his left elbow, and wiggled wool-sheathed toes. “That was intentional, and truthfully I don’t think they are comparable situations. Varfolomey is necessarily exaggerated. No one expects a man with flaws and desires behind him.”