Page 21 of Rears & Vices

The moonlight came through the darkness of the sickbay to reveal Vitaliy crouched against the curve of the hull, arms shackled to two thick frames, ankles wrapped together with fetters. No hood, no gag, but⁠—

Who will I release upon the world?

Vitaliy raised his head. He offered no greeting, only a cool, blue, heavy-lidded gaze that was harsh and judging, disapproving and… damning.

Everard swallowed. He was never, ever sick aboard a ship.

“Er… we should… I’ll… um.” He yanked the little key and its lanyard out of his shirt and over his head, and bent to unlock the fetters. Those first, so he wouldn’t have to look Vitaliy in the face again just yet.

Vitaliy didn’t move as he was freed. Didn’t speak. There was only the heavy clink of shackles falling away, and D’Arcy’s murmuring from beyond the door, underlaying the unmistakable sound of retching. The young marine, no doubt.

The right wrist shackle was proving stubborn; Everard thought he would have to bash it with something to get it to separate. And again Vitaliy didn’t so much as flinch as his arm was manipulated, puppetlike, as Everard slammed the cuff again and again against the frames of the hull—not until he slashed the skin between the two knuckles of his own left hand in the process.

“Shite-fucking-Christ!”

Then Vitaliy, expressionless, tensed his arm and did it himself, dealing the shackle’s killing blow with a powerful thwack.

Everard sucked at the cut to draw a bit of blood, and hopefully the chance of lockjaw, out of him. He spat, and looked up to find Vitaliy staring, his stern brow slightly furrowed.

“York,” Everard said, “shortly after we met.”

Vitaliy opened his mouth⁠—

D’Arcy stuck his head into the sickbay. “Best go, Ev.”

Beyond the dead man was the mainmast hatch, rope handholds and stair rises unfortunately splattered in gore. But it was the closest exit. Everard ran up, lips pressed tight, trusting Vitaliy to follow; he did.

It wasn’t until they reached the starboard side quarter railing and Everard had hauled himself half over that he realised: the freckled marine was still with them, and D’Arcy had paused, bent forehead-to-forehead with the redhead redcoat, whispering frantic and quick and pleading.

“Uh.” Everard had only a moment for a stunned pause. Belowdecks, there came heavy, running boots from the direction of the forecastle. Everard turned to ask Vitaliy could he swim⁠—

—just as the man launched from the rail in an impressive dive.

Everard followed. When he surfaced, he heard two heavy splashes to his left, along with the soft, shocked gasp-coughs of a man who really didn’t know how to swim, and who was being hauled forward despite it. He hoped to hell D’Arcy knew what he was about.

The marines lined up along the quarterdeck, guns straight and at attention; the sergeant-at-arms began the high yip of firing cadence.

“Make—aim! Set⁠—”

They swam.

Eight

The Widow Bess—of the eponymous boarding-house in Kingston—was, in Everard’s estimation, a saint of a landlady. She was tiny, unassuming, discreet in all senses of the word, with a winding knot of curly silver hair and a spine of Sheffield steel; no person alive would dare cheat her rent. Her rooms were rat-free, and her savory scones were light and served with butter and her own chicken-and-leek stew. Everard paid her a whole year’s worth for the four months the Netley was laid up in winter dock, and considered it a bargain investment.

But even a saint of the Widow Bess’s calibre would balk at receiving four large, wet, injured, and exhausted ex-officers into her parlour at quarter-five in the morning.

Everard stood on his wobbly land legs and stared up at the backside of the neat two-story brick building, thinking even one wet, bedraggled ex-officer might be too much. Could he really bear another casualty? Drag another down weighted into the deep beside him?

“No,” he panted. “It will have to be Maud’s, I think.”

He glanced over to Vitaliy, who leaned barefoot against the brick alleyway, shoulders bowed and arms crossed, impassive. His fine-silk hair was already drying, as he’d lost the tie for it somewhere in the water, and white-blond wisps swept across the sharp bones of his face.

For him, Everard had thrown away his uniform, his reputation, his career, the Netley, and the respect of a hundred crewmen. All in a blink, and he’d do it again.

But the loss of Bess’s seemed worse than all of the rest combined. No surprise, really, as it meant warmth and food and home away from home, and Everard was both tired from swimming and exhausted from his sudden conversion of personal values. Surely, if he’d had a true home, he didn’t deserve to go back there.

And Vitaliy wouldn’t even—hadn’t yet, anyway—said so much as a thank-you. Everard was afraid if he confronted the man, he’d get the same as he had before: a short rebuff. You’ve done enough.