Page 12 of Rears & Vices

The doors opened again. Jack set down a decanter, a pitcher of water, and two glasses, and whisked himself silently out.

Had D’Arcy recognised Vitaliy Gray? Had he let them shove him into the hot, wet prison hold and keep him there for a day? Two days?

Everard sat, took his time pouring a glass, then slid over the decanter.

D’Arcy caught it and held it steady between two palms. “You haven’t returned a single letter of mine, Ev.”

Everard downed his drink.

Since D’Arcy had returned to the Lakes Service last year, he had been writing Everard incessantly, spending a small fortune in postage to convince him to speak to him in friendship once more. Everard hadn’t written back a word, and not for lack of postage fare.

He raised his left glove, back of hand out.

D’Arcy recognised the gesture in spite of too many fingers. He smirked.

“We both know damned well that hand doesn’t stop you from a thing.” He pushed back from the table, went to the little parlour bookshelf, and picked up the newsprint lying atop it. It was the Canada Gazette, a week old, and nothing in it but the list of deceased, promotions, and Rags! Rags! Cash and the Highest Price Paid for Clean Rags.

“Gad, do they even put His Majesty’s speeches in anymore?” D’Arcy mused aloud, paging through. “The States, the States… the States are burning… Ah! Political Miscellany,” he quoted. “Look at that. Good God, but what the Gideons are printing these days, they’re going to get themselves arrested for blasphemy. Listen⁠—”

He quipped a few surprisingly faithful sentences from Everard’s latest submitted editorial, and then:

“Oh, my mistake. This is hardly the Niagara Independent.” D’Arcy tossed down the paper and gave Everard a pointed look.

Everard clenched his teeth. “You can’t be a subscriber.”

“No, but Maud’s keeps it in the nightstands.” D’Arcy picked up the wine, pulled the stopper, and poured Everard another couple fingers. “Out with it, then. Or d’you need more wine to speak to me at all?” Seating himself on the table, he drank straight from the decanter, finishing it to dregs; at the end of it he smacked his lips. “Well, too bad.”

Everard turned to exit the parlour. “I’m afraid I won’t have time for supper after all.”

D’Arcy stood. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”

“Ignorance is your defence?” Everard snapped.

“Well, yes. They brought him in with a hood, Ever, and as I’ve said, they’re not my usual marines, and by the time I heard about the—the additional charges, it was this morning, and—” He took a deep breath. “I can recuse myself tomorrow, same as you; it’ll delay them further. I should anyway, because sooner or later they’ll remember what they promoted me for…”

He meant the Wanderer.

Everard turned round. D’Arcy’s eyes were wide and hazel and sincere.

“… but I don’t think it will do much good. They must want this to have as little travel as possible, or they’d have had a tribunal of twenty waiting to give a unanimous death sentence in Halifax. Make no mistake: they want him very, very badly.”

Everard sat down heavily. “A hood?” he said. “Why on earth? I don’t…” He groped for the wineglass. He knew D’Arcy hated sodomy trials; he always had. He’d warned Everard as soon as he could. And would such unfeeling, uncharacteristic brutality have suited a motive of regaining Everard’s friendship?

He thought… not.

“Letters aren’t going to do it,” D’Arcy said. “Not even your letters. You’re a damned good forger, but I think he could have Nelson himself as witness to defence and still not get out of this.”

“Was,” Everard muttered. “Was a good forger. I’m not yet sure of my right pen hand, you know.”

D’Arcy pulled a flask from nowhere and glugged brandy into Everard’s glass.

“I don’t, actually.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “All I know is that you continue to write editorials for illegal periodicals and that you are still, if by definition only, alive. Three years, Everard Rubén. Drink, God damn it.”

Everard obeyed, sipping this time. “I don’t think he’s innocent,” he said at last. “Not in the least.”

D’Arcy laughed. “That’s safe to say.” He grinned with sharp teeth. “You’re sure of the one.”

“God. Yes, very sure.” Maybe it was the drink affecting him, or the heat of the dining room, but Everard found himself laughing, too. Just a little chuckle into the wineglass at first, and then he had to set the thing down to put a hand over his face; and before he knew it, he had slumped into the crook of his elbow, completely broken down with silent shaking.