Page 74 of Rears & Vices

Abovedecks, the cannon shot had already scrambled a fair few others from their beds and onto the weather deck: Louis-Michel Alarie, D’Arcy, León the bo’sun. Thom stumbled up out of the hatch, ahead of Stephan the surgeon, quickly followed by Romilly René.

“Who dares?” Vitaliy demanded. “Which cannon was shot? Milly?”

Romilly René answered quickly: “Ángel.” Every one of the Sévère’s cannon were stamped and named. “Second deck, larboard bow.”

“The powder room?” Everard inquired.

“Secure,” León said. “Unbroached.”

Mystifying, but… “Thank God.”

“Sail, to larboard!” called out Louis-Michel Alarie. They all hurried to the rail.

There, D’Arcy handed him a glass, along with a raised eyebrow.

“You look…”

“Yes, rather, thank you,” Everard finished for him. He raised the glass. “Oh, damnation. Well, there’s wherefore the shot.”

There was a ship on the dawn horizon, its bow pointing in the Sévère’s direction. A ship-of-the-line, riding the trades to Cuba, colours undetermined. A ship to whom the Sévère had just made a warning shot, as though she were really a Spanish warship, wanting their colours. And at the moment—Everard twisted to confirm—the Sévère was still flying the red-yellow-white.

“Pure provocation,” D’Arcy said cheekily. “And a good morn to you, too, Ev.”

As they watched, the boom of reply shot came, its smoke puff trailing up. But still no colours came.

Shite. They either recognised her as an enemy or didn’t trust she wasn’t.

“She’s Armada. Who the fuck was watch on deck?” Vitaliy growled.

León opened his mouth, but Vitaliy didn’t wait for a response. He hauled up onto the rail and into the mainmast ratlines. Everard put down the glass and watched him go, blinking. Vitya really hadn’t put on anything but a shirt⁠—

He disappeared. Then something large and dark tumbled over the edge of the topmain platform where he had entered. The falling, rolling thing narrowly missed the mainsail yard; and before anyone could yell, there was an incredible, meaty splat-thunk onto the deck before them. It was the sprawled body of a white man, someone Everard didn’t recognise, covered in blood and bowels, very dead.

“Good lord!” Everard exclaimed.

“Madre mía.” León crossed himself rapidly.

Stephan the surgeon crouched over the broken body, needing no more than a moment. He shook his head. “Dead an hour, at least.”

“Putain,” Alarie cursed. “We have been infiltrated a-purpose.”

Everard looked up to D’Arcy. His eyes were wide. Another false watchman? Here? In the middle of the Gulf?

There was a sharp whistle, and Vitaliy appeared again over the platform.

“Marcus is dead,” he called down, loud but weary. “I need a chair.”

Thom ran to retrieve it.

Vitaliy gave Everard a long look, one that said: You know what to do. Then he disappeared back onto the platform.

And Everard did know.

“León,” he ordered, “an immediate all-hands, please. Fleet master René, take ten crew and search the ship, bow to stern. We’ve traitors aboard.”

If anyone minded the abrupt shift of authority, it didn’t show. León’s whistle blew, and the bell was rung. Romilly René disappeared; Everard heard her bellowing orders below.

León ran to the foremast. Everard feared what he’d find.