Page 82 of Rears & Vices

He dimpled. “Disallowed shooting in six shires, outside of competition. Ev”—he twitched his fingers for the keg—“give that here.”

“I am perfectly fine, thank you,” Everard said coolly.

Vitaliy was intent. “What about a harpoon gun?”

“Oooh,” D’Arcy said, light in his eyes. “Never that. Are you offering? What’s the calibre of such a thing?”

“Four-bore. Can you shoot it from the larboard gallery?”

D’Arcy bounced on his heels and whistled. “Four-bore. Can I? Absolutely. Spring-loaded or powder?” His glance flicked to the keg. “Silly question?”

The San Telmo issued another, not-so-distant warning shot. Vitaliy frowned and gestured them into the greatcabin.

They filed through, Everard leading, D’Arcy following, Vitaliy bolting the door behind—which he’d never done before, even at intimate moments. Inside, it was semi-dark; there were no lanterns and no candles lit. Only six-pane-divided sun rays slanted in at midday vertical. On the white rafters above, the reflection off the sea shimmered and wove. The doublewide cot was hauled up tight to the ceiling, out of the way of the run-out guns.

Everard set the keg down beside the desk, feeling suddenly rather queer. It took him a moment to pin down the sentiments, floating end-over-end like a handkerchief in the wind: regret, nostalgia, worry, fear.

Vitya bent his head to his hack watch once more, nodded to himself.

Everard hoped he knew what he was doing. That whatever it was would succeed. Because at some point in the past month, this ship, this cabin, had become home. Now he imagined it splintered, shot through, glass and lead blown out and the spray let in; his throat closed up in tight knots, pushing against his breathing, strangling it. He wanted to stomp like a child and scream and demand why weren’t they to flee with the wind, when there was so much at stake⁠—

“Oh, look at him,” D’Arcy murmured.

Propped against the panelling of the larboard gallery, between two open windows, was indeed a massive shotgun with a harpoon spear sticking out of the barrel, gleaming steel. The harpoon trailed a lead, the end of which was connected to a⁠—

Everard inhaled. “Floating torpedoes. Dear God.”

Vitaliy’s retrieved chest held several more harpoons, all with loops at the end. A tidy stack of torpedo shells lay open-face beneath, ready to be filled.

Everard was at a loss. “You said aim high…”

D’Arcy peered through the open window, unaffected by violence as usual, only intrigued. “How many did you put already?”

“Three,” Vitaliy said, and jerked his chin towards a deskbound map. Everard leaned over carefully; he felt stiff and weak at the same time.

There on the grid were three neatly penciled x-coordinates, exactly along the spiked line of the Sévère’s recent, perfect tack.

She had to move laterally or else cross her own line of traps—traps her own captain had set.

Everard cursed. “You had these—these torpedoes—in here with us the whole time.” With us, as we slept, as we lay awake, as we fucked.

Vitaliy glanced up quick, then down, and nodded, eyes on his task. Black powder hissed as it fell from the keg; he was already filling the war weapons, setting some kind of clockwork mechanism within, placing careful wicks, sealing them tight. There was precisely enough powder in the keg for all, which must have been intentional. Everard was for once glad of Gulf humidity.

He shook his head. “This is madness. You could sink us as easily as any other, Vitya, if the wind so much as…”

“Mathematically—if I have calculated it correctly—we should not ever get close.” If the wind holds, Vitaliy didn’t say. If our movement stays on trajectory. “They’re on timers, all. If the San Telmo chases us at the speed she was, and follows our dead reckon, the floating leads will drag her hull and stick there. A little while after…”

“They’ll blow holes to either side of her hull.”

“Mm.”

“Genius,” D’Arcy said. He had loaded the harpoon gun monstrosity and was lifting it, settling it against his shoulder, sighting it. “Wind is southeast-by-east… how many points into it, Vee?”

“Two, for compensation,” Vitaliy responded. “East by south.”

D’Arcy adjusted his broad stance. Everard’s heart clutched. I wish Vitaliy had picked anyone else for this, he thought. Anyone else.

Absurd. He’d seen Preston D’Arcy covered head-to-toe in blood, grease, mud, sick, seawater; a mix of all of these. Had seen him injured, grinning, battle-mad, thrilled even as they’d failed and been defeated and the ship around them flared with sinking flame. Had seen his face, calm and pale as he twisted his belt round Everard’s left wrist, held the smashed hand there in his lap.