Fevre Dream by George R.R. Martin

twenty or thirty bottles lying neatly on their sides. He went directly to it and pulled out a bottle. The bottle was unlabeled, and the liquid within was a somber red, so dark it was almost black. A cap of shiny black wax sealed the cork on. “You got a knife?” he asked York, turning with the bottle in his hand.
    “I don’t think you’d care much for that vintage, Abner,” York said. He was holding a tray with two silver goblets and a crystal decanter. “I have some excellent sherry here. Why don’t we have that instead?”
    Marsh hesitated. York’s sherry was usually just fine and he hated to pass it up, but knowing Joshua he figured that any wine he kept a private stock of had to be superlative. Besides, he was curious. He shifted the bottle from one hand to the other. The liquid within flowed slowly, creeping along languidly like some sweet liqueur. “What is this anyway?” Marsh asked, frowning.
    “A home brew of sorts,” York replied. “Part wine and part brandy and part liqueur, tasting like none of them. A rare drink, Abner. My companions and I have a fondness for it, but most people find it not to their liking. I’m sure you’d prefer the sherry.”
    “Well,” Marsh said, hefting the bottle, “anything you drink is probably just fine for me, Joshua. You do serve up good sherry, though, that’s true enough.” He brightened. “Say, we’re in no hurry, and I got myself a fierce thirst. Why don’t we try both?”
    Joshua York laughed, a laugh of pure spontaneous delight, deep and musical. “Abner,” he said, “you are singular, and most formidable. I like you. You, however, will not like my little drink. Still, if you insist, we shall have both.”
    They settled themselves into the two leather chairs, York putting the tray on the low table between them. Marsh handed over the bottle of wine, or whatever it was. From somewhere within the pristine folds of his white suit, York produced a skinny little knife, with an ivory handle and a long silver blade. He sliced away the wax, and with one single deft twist flicked the knife point into the cork and brought it out with a pop. The liquor poured slowly, flowing like red-black honey into the silver goblets. It was opaque, and seemed full of tiny black specks. Strong, though; Marsh lifted his goblet and sniffed at it, and the alcohol in it brought tears to his eyes.
    “We ought to have a toast,” York said, lifting his own goblet.
    “To all the money we’re going to make,” Marsh joked.
    “No,” York said seriously. Those demon gray eyes of his had a kind of grave melancholy in them, Marsh thought. He hoped that York wasn’t going to start reciting poetry again. “Abner,” York continued, “I know what the
Fevre Dream
means to you. I want you to know that she means much to me, as well. This day is the start of a grand new life for me. You and I, together, we made her what she is, and we shall go on to make her a legend. I have always admired beauty, Abner, but this is the first time in a long life that I have created it, or helped in its creation. It is a good feeling, to bring something new and fine into the world. Particularly for me. And I have you to thank for it.” He lifted his goblet. “Let us drink for the
Fevre Dream
and all she represents, my friend—beauty, freedom, hope. To our boat and a better world!”
    “To the fastest steamer on the river!” Marsh replied, and they drank. He almost gagged. York’s private drink went down like fire, searing the back of his throat and spreading warm tendrils in his innards, but there was a kind of cloying sweetness to it as well, and a hint of an unpleasant smell that all its strength and sweetness could not quite conceal. Tasted like something had rotted in the bottle, he thought.
    Joshua York drained his own goblet in a single long motion, his head thrown back. Then he set it aside and looked at Marsh and laughed again. “The look on your face, Abner, is wonderfully grotesque. Don’t