Page 81 of Rears & Vices

“I don’t fit in the magazine. Is that all right?” He hesitated. “Would it… disturb you? Being near to powder?”

Everard laughed. “I won’t fit much better. And that question is a little bit belated, Vitya, when I’ve been breathing sulfur for the past hour at least.”

Vitaliy looked even more concerned; his hand pulled back.

“But no, it doesn’t. I was too close, and never felt the magazine blow.” Everard waved his left hand. “This was a crushing injury: my wrist got pinned, and the fingers swelled. I came to beneath a column of brickwork”—and bodies—“as Preston was pulling me out.”

“Oh.” Vitaliy’s eyes went wide. “York? The magazine in York?”

“Mm-hm,” Everard confirmed. “About a week after we… er… met, in fact.”

Friendly fire. Deadly self-sabotage. Whatever one called it, the major-general of York had ordered the magazine set to blow, and it had: heedless of any and all soldiers within the periphery, including him. Everard, completely unaware of his retreating superior’s plans, or indeed that he was retreating at all, had pushed together a small line of trembling-knee militia on the road against the approaching Yankee stars-and-stripes, had called something resembling a firing cadence, and⁠—

Powder had gone off, but it hadn’t been the militia guns.

“But in all seriousness,” Everard said, “you want me to carry a twelve-pound keg through three decks of guns and live fuses? What in hell’s name is in that trunk?”

Vitaliy wiped a hand over his mouth, blew out a short breath. “I trust you not to trail a path. Do you trust me?”

Everard slid his shoes off so he stood in stocking feet—for the magazine—and sighed. “You know I do. Give me that.”

Vitaliy handed the key over on an outstretched finger.

Everard grimaced. “The Sévère has need of a powder monkey, do you know?”

“We are not usually a warship.” Vitaliy peered down. “Those stockings have holes in,” he murmured.

“Yes, they do.”

“Wind?” Vitaliy demanded as they crossed into sunshine and salt air.

“Sur’east-by-east,” León promptly replied.

Vitaliy nodded. “Pray it doesn’t change.” He looked up to the foremast, the sails there all filled now that they’d tacked around, and checked his hack watch. “And clew up the foresail and mainsail again.”

Everard pursed his lips. Two courses drawn up? That didn’t make sense. Didn’t Vitaliy want good headway? Were they not fleeing? Had Everard not been scurrying forth and back, maintaining suppressive fire to prevent the San Telmo from overtaking them?

“I want her moving lateral to leeward,” Vitaliy said, unnecessarily—as lateral movement could be the only result of such a bizarre directive. “Slack the starboard braces,” he ordered, and squinted up, “twenty-five degrees.”

A twenty-five-degree swing would put both yards almost abeam, parallel to the wind, slowing them quite a lot.

Everard said, “Hmmm.”

“Keep me advised of our speed,” Vitaliy said to León. “I want it taken every five minutes.” He glanced over. “Input, matelot?”

“Not at all,” Everard said politely, though the question, really, was why Vitaliy wanted the Sévère to do these things. “Where d’you want the bloody cask of explosives?”

“In a moment. Come behind the staysail, so they don’t spy us by chance.” There, he stepped in a circle, peering around sentry-like. “Where is the lieutenant? From you, he is never very…”

D’Arcy appeared: shirtsleeves, frilled; sailor’s trousers, plain; mysteriously no gun bandolier. He’d been amidships, hauling lines. “Why the devil’ve we put up the frigging course… Holy gad, is that a powder keg?” His hand jerked forward, as though given the chance, he would snatch the keg and throw it over the side. Everard sympathised. His whole person crawled with unease.

“Lieutenant,” Vitaliy said, not unironically. D’Arcy swiveled his attention and bowed. “Are you as good a shot as you say, or is it boasting?”

Everard said, “He’s actually quite deadly⁠—”

“One-inch grouping at twenty-five yards, unrifled.” D’Arcy narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“And with a shotgun?”