Page 31 of Rears & Vices

“I don’t,” Everard admitted. “The Lakes Service is fairly isolated, not much in the way of word of mouth.”

“So, why not ask?”

“This again.” Everard laughed faintly. “Who the devil asks such a thing? What manner of pirate are you, now that I’ve realised you are one? What sort of criminal have I released unto the world?” He sat back. “To be honest, I haven’t contemplated the total reach of it yet.”

Vitaliy nodded. “You should have. But I’m not a slaver. I have never made a coin from the sale of another human, nor owned one.”

Everard was so relieved, he almost dropped the cup.

Vitaliy went on: “But when I can buy it, coffee is a commodity I transport.” He tapped the coffeepot. “This is Haitian, delivered not a month past.”

“Haïti, of the massacre?”

“Haïti, the revolutionary nation.” He frowned. “War is war. One doesn’t say America, of the massacres.”

“Doesn’t one? But I take your point. I’ll be honest—I don’t know much about American history, save that we lost. Twice.” He sipped. “Did you say when you can buy the coffee?”

“When,” Vitaliy emphasised. “It requires taking a loss.”

Everard, surprised into rudeness, almost swore. “Oh, come on.”

Vitaliy said nothing.

“America has drunk coffee since its inception,” Everard went on. God save him, the stuff made him talk. “It’s as patriotic as Yankee Doodle. I cannot think of a thing less likely to stand for freedom than slave-grown coffee, but there you have it; it isn’t tea. With Madison’s bloody restrictions and tariffs, you an American, and what you can’t throw a stone in Boston without hitting a coffeehouse… you can’t see a profit? Even when buying it?”

Not stealing it? he left unsaid.

Vitaliy raised his eyebrows. “You are worried I am a slaving pirate, but have some objection to my taking a loss on what is usually a slave-grown crop?”

“No,” Everard said emphatically. “Quite the opposite. But⁠—”

“Are you a man to care for profit, Everard?”

Everard paused.

“I— No. I mean, I’m a—I was captain of the Royal Navy, entitled to shares of my prizes above and beyond the salary, which is fairly significant… why else should I have joined the service, pray? Renown? The incredible rate of officer death? Or maybe was it the impossible odds of promotion? Authority?”

Vitaliy leaned forward, palms flat on the table, his expression intense. “Yes, why else? Why are you a twenty-year Navy man, Everard?”

Why, indeed. “Well, primarily,” he snapped, “abject violence and criminality doesn’t particularly seem to affect me. There is that.”

Vitaliy laughed. “You mentioned. It is certainly a prerequisite. But a greedy man—a man concerned of the loss of all those things—renown, authority, salary”—he ticked off fingers—“would not have done what you did yesterday. Do not you agree?”

Everard harrumphed. “That was impulse, and I believed you relatively innocent. And how the devil do I find myself explaining economic motivation to a pirate, anyway?” he said, incredulous. “You aren’t known for taking losses, you realise.”

Contrary to popular belief, ships were not really profitable things of themselves, but giant, floating, wooden estates that threw money and labor and materials and men to the sea at a fairly predictable rate of loss. And pirating was a business like any other.

“So, why would y…Vee? For that matter, how could he do so, and stay afloat? What about tobacco? Sugar? If one objects to profit from one cash crop with questionable sourcing, why not all?” he demanded.

Vitaliy sat back. He looked as though he were trying not to smile. “Why not all?” he said.

Everard put his head in his hands and groaned. “You cannot be an actual pirate. I refuse to believe it. You must see it’s all very incongruous to expectation. Every part of this. Of you.”

“Oh, I do see.” Vitaliy hummed. “Every part?”

Everard flushed as Vitaliy laughed.

“Let us forget not the testimonial of a night shared in bed,” he said. “Or did that too not meet expectation somehow?”