Page 102 of Rears & Vices

Twenty-Six

Everard flew down the ladder with the sure tread of a conquering hero, with his heart in his throat and his breath short. The swiftness of his decision shocked him, but like a few other decisions he’d had to make on the spur of the moment lately, it felt right. And not just because Alarie was an overstimulated, insulting ass—no, he could have wooed and wined Everard to limpness with smiles and promises of glory, and he would’ve had the same answer.

Why would the man think he would refuse the glorious Sévère, only to take the position of admiral? It made no sense.

Inside the greatcabin, Vitaliy and D’Arcy had reversed the strict positions they’d kept the whole week long. Vitaliy had partially reclaimed the cot and was seated on the edge of it, pushing himself back and forth with socked toes. His shoulders were hunched, his head was bowed, his hair loose around his face. He didn’t at all look like a man in temper; he looked either desolate or very drunk. D’Arcy sat in the opposite corner, slumped in the plush armchair, totally sober, knees splayed and head back.

Everard didn’t deceive himself that he didn’t know what the two of them had been discussing. No matter. He could set them straight.

But neither would look at him, and that seemed a bit of a prerequisite. He cleared his throat, a difficult task when he was breathing so.

“Alarie’s offered⁠—”

Vitaliy stood, and in three steps that utterly ruled out any potential inebriation, was in front of Everard, reaching⁠—

Everard put out his own hand, upraised in welcome⁠—

—but Vitaliy outstretched a sideways palm.

Everard stared like he’d never before seen a handshake greeting. He took the hand instinctually, felt the dry sailor’s rough of Vitaliy’s palm, and looked up to see Vitaliy’s expression flat and tired and unfeeling. He frowned.

“Louis-Michel is more fortunate than he knows,” Vitaliy said. His lips moved, but the rest of it was lifeless. “The position will suit you and the San Telmo well.”

“What—the San Telmo? No.” Everard tugged his hand free. “It— You think so?” he demanded.

“He has been looking for you a long while.”

“Not me, surely⁠—”

“Someone like him: looking for gain and glory. Someone like you.”

Everard shook his head. “No⁠—”

But Vitaliy went on, ruthless, as though it were all of it foregone. “He asked me find an admiral for his navy, since I would not be that for him.”

Everard took a step back. “He asked you? And what did you promise him?”

“Nothing. But naturally I thought of you—that you might have it all back, everything you had lost. A ship. A position.”

A different life. “You mean to say he’d asked you before… before all of it.”

Vitaliy nodded, once.

“Before the court-martial? In Cartagena?”

Another nod.

“And the—the matelotage?” Everard said weakly.

“It would be considered ironclad assurance for Louis-Michel.”

“Tied to you, I could assuredly be kept in line? A good little pirate admiral.” Everard sneered.

Vitaliy shrugged. “That is how he thinks, if it isn’t the truth. And it wouldn’t be a bad thing. He won’t manipulate you with Varfolomey backing you. Easy enough to go along with, yes?”

Easy enough. The words cut knives through Everard.

“I’m sorry, ‘go along with’?”