For the last hour, Archer had embarked on a raging internal argument to either go to sleep, or to march down the hall to Silta's room. To do what, he wasn't quite sure, but he'd been bouncing back and forth between the two options until he felt like he had a glass ball rattling around in his head.

He sat in his room, occasionally moving from the bed to the table in the corner. Tanner, who was reading something on his top bunk, asked him multiple times why he was so agitated, but Archer ignored him every instance.

He got up off the bed and leaned against the table again. To keep moving was to keep distracted, to forget how close he'd been to her, to forget the smell of salt and the feeling of her sharp nails. If he forgot how it felt, he wouldn't start imagining what it could've been like.

Archer let out an annoyed groan. Tanner gave him a look but said nothing.

She was there down the hall; he knew it. He'd heard her soft footsteps disappear into the corner room about an hour ago. If only he could just make it through this night, maybe tomorrow her words wouldn't feel so fresh.

Figure out what you want—but what conclusion did she want him to come to? Was she playing him like he'd been doing to her either? He'd admittedly done a rather pitiful job. Was this payback, or what this some other plan she'd concocted?

Or was this just what she wanted?

Archer groaned again, his head to the ceiling. Things like this had never been confusing to him before. He was respectful and bold. Everyone usually liked him. Everyone normal.

"What is up with you?" Kip asked.

Archer gave the dud a look. He didn't answer.

This feeling wasn't going away. He needed to talk to her. Yes, talk. That was all he'd do. He'd go to her, and he'd figure out what page she was on. He strode to the door and pushed it open.

"Where are you going?"

It was Tanner's voice that pulled him out of his trance. He slammed the door in front of him and turned to his roommate. How close he had been to giving in startled him.

"Kip, I don't know you all that well. Tell me something about yourself." He needed to be distracted. If Silta was pulling him with some sort of Siren magic, he needed to reoccupy his mind.

Tanner offered him a bewildered look. "You're odd, Kingsley."

"I'm going through something. Where did you grow up?"

Tanner shifted. "A pirate ship," he said. "The Firlirn."

Archer frowned. "The Forlorn?"

"No, different ship."

"Oh," Archer said. So he had a boring roommate. The angels were really not on his side today.

"And you?" Tanner asked, if only to be polite. The dud was quite polite for a pirate, and quite a dud for someone who grew up in piracy—but some people never got their sea legs, no matter how hard they worked for it.

"I grew up on Orphano," Archer said.

"Right. I knew that."

"Right."

"So...What is it that you're going through?" Tanner asked very slowly, once again if only to be polite.

Archer glanced up. "Women."

Tanner laughed at that. He had a funny smile, with sharp teeth. They didn't look damaging at all, though, in fact, they looked kind. Trusting.

"You do realize there are only three women on this ship," Tanner said, turning back to his reading, "so you might've just told me more than you should've."

Archer shrugged. "Thirty-three percent? I'll take my odds."

Tanner tilted his head a gave a little hum. "I'd say there's one with higher odds," he said, still not looking.

Archer didn't really mind if the dud knew that much; there weren't many people who cared to listen to Kip. What was odd was the way he seemed to mention Silta as if she weren't the careful topic the rest of the men considered her. Archer figured Kip Tanner was much too confident for the incompetent skill set he possessed; that's probably what Silta saw in him when she allowed him onto the crew in the first place. Those aspects of Tanner worried him greatly, for he was frightened that the dud was very close to being thrown off the crew, and it wasn't something he would get out of alive.

"Fair," Archer said, growing bored with the conversation. Kip seemed relieved that the interaction had come to an end, and he laid back down on his bunk.

Archer took his spot beneath. Kip had distracted his thoughts for at least a moment, and he hoped it would be enough to lull him to sleep before he marched right down the hall.

He still tossed and turned that night. He threw his face into his pillow and held his breath as long as possible until all he could think about was breathing. And late into the night, he fell asleep, his dreams nothing but an endless expanse of black.

*

There was something about Port Kiver that made Archer want to stare at the island longer than necessary. On the brilliantly sunny day, the lush vegetation and soaring buildings contrasted perfectly to create a picturesque scene.

Port Kiver was so much more beautiful than any other island for no other reason than royalty. The navy ships, if the Avourienne didn't get to them first, would bring the resources from other starving ports and stack them here, creating the illusion of wealth and riches.

Nonetheless, when Archer, Rusher and Britter went into the lesser part of town that morning, children were running in the streets, feet bare and bloodied. There was an old woman begging for change, cheeks gaunt and ghastly, and a man eyeing them, trying to decide if they could be stolen from. It was only when they made it to the government buildings that the poverty was nowhere to be seen, just carriages of gold carrying men with smooth, tailored uniforms. Higher-standing people who bathed in wealth and blew their noses with the kind of things others would kill for.

"Head right. Crisps up ahead," Britter said.

"Crisps?" Archer asked.

"King's men," Rusher explained, gently guiding him towards the right, where the road split up ahead. "They iron their uniforms once and never have to do it again. No work, just plenty of coins to stand there and look pretty." He raised his voice and shouted out to the street, "Fuck the King!"

Archer was sure Britter would scold the navigator, but the strategist just grinned and ducked out of the view of the king's men, gesturing for Archer to follow them into a thinner alleyway.

"You see that, Minnow?" Britter, pointing towards the sliver of a tall, shining building up ahead. "That's the royal building. You'll enter through the front steps tonight, dressed all fancy. They'll let you and Tailsley in with the invitation. Lyra knows the place, and she'll point you in the right direction. You find your way up to the top floor, open the roof latch, and Silta and I will be up there."

At the mention of the plan, Acher's heart began to stutter like it had tripped on a pebble and couldn't quite catch its footing. Still, he listened and filed the information away as Britter continued, "We'll track down the weapon's manager and bring him out back to the storage units. You'll go back to the ballroom, find Lyra, and the two of you will politely leave, making your way back to the Avourienne."

Archer nodded. "And if someone asks who I am?" he questioned.

"Do your best to avoid it, but if you can't, Silta wrote a cover story that you'll be filled in on. No punches on your part."

After they scouted out the area, they headed back to south port, where the Avourienne docked yesterday. Apparently, Bardarian seized control of the entire lower portion of port, so the ship was able to sneak in without notifying anyone on the north side of the island.

It was unsurprising to witness just how much pull their captain seemed to have. It was well-known that he did what he wanted in the water, but apparently he got around land without much trouble, too. Archer wasn't entirely sure how the man had managed such feats of control.

As they neared the water, the red sails of the ship came into view. The sun dipped towards the west as it began its final leg towards the horizon, and the trio reached the ship in the late afternoon. Aboard, Bates and Courtley were loading on the regular supplies that had been paid for; the weapons and gunpowder would all be stolen tonight.

Tanner, the assistant navigator Starle and the chef Kourvourk hurried onto the ship as the crew prepared. They giddily held up a creamy envelope with a red seal—an invitation—then disappeared into the captain's quarters to hand it off.

Archer couldn't stop thinking about that invitation. If he managed to lose it somewhere between the ship and the event, he might never have to go into that building. Even if he could get that far, though, Lyra would catch him—and as much as he hated to admit it, there was a part of him that longed to go out there and see what would be like to dress up and play the double-agent part. Or perhaps he'd be a triple-agent, all things considered.

It was early evening when Bardarian finally called Archer into the captain's quarters. It was a gorgeous, dark-natured room, decorated with just the right amount of wealth and class to steer clear of tasteless. There was a desk for the captain, a sitting area, and another door that led to the sleeping quarters. The curtains were a brilliant red, and the furniture was a deadly black. The colours of the Avourienne: blood and death.

Archer wasn't looking at the furniture or the desk, though. He was looking at Silta, leaning against the brace behind Bardarian, who was seated at the desk.

He hadn't seen her since last night on deck, although he wasn't sure how he'd managed that. She had either stayed in the captain's quarters religiously or been slinking around to avoid him. He knew it not to be the latter; she didn't have a tendency to hide from people, and she didn't hide from his gaze now, either. She looked completely nonchalant, completely normal. Archer could feel her nails under his jaw again, the whisper of her words on his face.

Bardarian leaned back in his chair and it creaked slightly, drawing Archer's gaze to him.

"Come, lad, sit. Silta will run through the plan one final time with you and me," he said. "Ask any questions you have, make the whole thing flawless. Understood?"

Archer nodded and sat across from him, his feet nervously tapping the ground where no one could see.

Bardarian slid the invitation across the desk. The creamy cover looked inviting, but Archer didn't touch it. If he touched it, it made this whole thing too real. He waited for somebody else to speak.

"We'll set you up outside the building when the line is the longest and their resources are stretched the thinnest," Silta began. "We'll provide your disguises, but you have to memorize your cover story."

As she spoke, Bardarian passed over another few slips of paper, Silta and Britter's handwriting covering them. Archer leaned closer. His cover story, all written out.

"Do not voluntarily offer any of this information," Silta said. "If you're cornered into it, however, your name is Jacob Pawalski, visiting Port Kiver with your new wife, Sarah. You work for the Kvas sector doing manual labour, hired under the Myrian convention, born just south of Chorro."

Airtight, as always. Archer's fitness would be attributed to his labour job, and his apparently Myrian-looking features could be explained by his involvement in a peace convention operating on the border of Myria and the Cobalts, taking young and previously declared wild children so they could be assimilated into jobs under the King. And lastly, newlyweds were often invited to royal events.

"This story has everything from your early years to your marriage last year. Memorize it. Believe it," she said, watching as he ran his eyes over the paper.

He wasn't sure about this. It was one thing to play double agent and a whole different thing to have to lie for his life. He never even thought of how out of place he could look in that royal building. Not to mention all the other things about him that just didn't fit.

"Rings," he said.

"What's that, Kingsley?" Bardarian asked.

"Rings," Archer repeated. "Married people wear rings, sir." He lifted his bare left hand.

The Captain glanced at Silta, who lifted her chin slightly. She looked back at Bardarian. "They do," she said.

She hadn't thought of it, Archer realized. Neither brilliant Britter nor cunning Silta had thought to get rings to back up such a simple part of the story.

There was a harsh knock on the door, then pushed open by a red-faced Bates.

"There's an issue with Starle and Jackson, sir," the first mate said. "They each think they're stronger and should be on the heavy lifting team, so I suggested they do a simple arm wrestle to settle it. It started fine but it got pretty nasty. Britter tried to break it up, but then they both went after him. Could we borrow Silta for a moment?"

Bardarian sighed, then turned to Silta, gesturing with his head to the door, telling her to go.

She didn't answer or move. She tilted her head. Then she mimicked the Captain's head gesture, telling him to go instead.

Bardarian had turned to face her, so Archer couldn't read his expression, but when he turned back away from her, he was nothing but stoic.

"Lend Kingsley some rings," he said to her. "Answer his questions." With that, he rose and followed Bates out.

Whatever dynamic Bardarian and Silta had been maintaining was changing. He didn't like her involvement with Archer, and at first, she'd been insistent on diffusing his concerns. Now, though, she was stoking them either for fun, or for some other reason.

Silta watched him for a moment after the door closed. Then she spoke, sure and unarguable, "You don't think you can do it."

Archer leaned back in the chair now that Bardarian was gone. "I've never been a big liar," he said, but it was bigger than that. It was that he really didn't think he could play this part as well as it needed to be played, and she saw his fear.

Her features softened a little as she pushed off the beam and walked around the desk. "I'm a merchant's daughter," she said. "He—and I mean my father—saved a King's man from certain death."

Archer caught the oddity, for she'd clarified what she was talking about in the middle of her sentence, something she'd never done before. He watched her carefully.

"The soldier saw fit to give us invitations as a thank-you," she said. "Just because I don't look like you doesn't mean I have any less of a right to be here, sir. My father? Look around, sir. He's here somewhere. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my drink."

It wasn't her regular voice, wasn't her normal word choice. It was a fake story, displaying her perfected ability to manipulate the truth. There wasn't a single indicator in her performance that hinted it was all a lie, even though he knew it to be.

"People are a lot more intuitive than we give them credit for, Kingsley," she said, making her way over to a box on one of Bardarian's shelves. She sorted through it, picking what she wanted. "First impressions don't exactly occur the way you would think they do."

Archer leaned back again to see what she was looking at.

"Focus, Kingsley," she said, even though her back was turned.

He straightened himself as she spun around again, a few silver rings in her hand. "Impressions aren't built from details," she said. "Physical characteristics and even personality traits are low on a person's lists of concerns because first, they must instantaneously decide who you'll be to them." She walked back over, eyes firm on him. "Are you a threat? Are you attractive? Do you comfort them, or do you unsettle them? Once they have their framework, the picture, the whole, only then does their conscious mind fill in and therefore analyze the parts of it. If you force their perception of that framework, then you can also control how they view your details."

Archer watched her lean against his side of the desk. Her theory made sense, in fact, it explained exactly why her manipulative tactics were so effective; she preyed on the unconscious mind, the mental processes her victim wasn't even knowledgeable of. What truly perplexed him was how she'd figured it out in the first place.

"Thinking, Kingsley," she replied to his unspoken thought. "Questioning things, wondering about their intricacies instead of simply letting them be because it's the way they are. Curiosity is at the very soul of intelligence. Listen, love. Certain traits, like aggression, in the perfect doses, build a certain type of framework, and it can lead people to believe whatever you want them to."

"The perfect doses," Archer repeated, because that's exactly the part about which he was concerned.

"Too much and they'll get defensive and threatened. Too little and they'll mark you as a pushover. Just enough and they'll feel indifferent enough to move on."

"I don't know how much is just enough," he insisted.

"Relax, love," she told him, gesturing for his hand. When he gave it, she took it and found a ring that would fit. "Your mind, my mind and all other minds are near-identical in the way they move through unconscious thought. The differences come from how aware we are of what's happening beyond our control, and how to offset it. In your case? Believe your story."

He watched her slip a simple band on his finger. "Believe my story," he repeated.

She held onto his fingers. "If you believe it, you don't need to worry about any perfect dose for the person you're dealing with, because people can sense if you believe your own story, more than they know. So convince yourself that you are the man on that paper. Come up with detail after detail, force your mind to believe it. If you believe you deserve to be there, they'll believe you deserve to be there, regardless of whether you're too athletic to work for the King or if you look Myrian. Give them the outline, and let their mind do the rest."

If he simply marvelled at her brilliance instead of taking it in stride and using it for himself, he might never have realized that in this situation, something wasn't quite adding up. Why would Silta—somebody desperate to figure out what lies Archer was telling about his plans—give him an incredibly detailed stepwise process to be a better liar?

She let go of his hand, some expression of acknowledgment in her eyes. Look at you, Kingsley, always looking for the motivation behind the motivation. It was a look of appreciation. I like it when I've found a challenge. It's fun.

"You can probably catch your own tricks," Archer said, holding her gaze, "and if you find me using them to lie, then you can tell exactly when I'm lying and what I'm lying about."

She smiled.

"It must be exhausting to be you," he said.

"Not once you get the hang of it," she replied.

He leaned forward, disliking her vantage point on the desk and how far above him it put her. "If you're suspicious enough of me to put all this effort into figuring out what I'm doing, why would you put me in the most important position of this entire mission?"

She glanced at him. This was chess, and he'd just moved a particularly vital piece. He'd thought it was smart at first but now, with the look she was giving him, he quickly looked down to scrounge the board, thinking he'd mistakenly moved right into certain death.

"You don't threaten us as of now," she said slowly. "Not until the Kingsland, at least."

A good move after all. He felt a little more at ease, leaning back in his chair and narrowing his eyes. Despite the last good move, he still paused, hand over his own metaphorical chess piece. She didn't sound like she was completely sure about her own conclusions, but she was right. Archer was no danger to her or her crew. They were just his ride.

"So you trust me to do this right," he said.

She parted her lips slightly, her expression almost a smile. "Trust," she repeated. She leaned towards him and steadied herself with a hand on the surface of the desk. "Kingsley, love, I don't trust you even a fraction. I just don't doubt your competence. There's a difference."

Archer was about to look up when Bardarian re-entered. Silta leaned back, impressively subtle but just a little too quick to be natural.

"We've decided to go with Starle," the Captain was saying. "He's smaller, but we've come to the conclusion that he's surprisingly stronger."

Silta gave him an amused look. "Kingsley's ready, lover," she said, voice smooth.

Bardarian glanced at her, his expression guarded. Then he turned to Archer and smiled. "Excellent," he said. "Let's pull off a heist, shall we?"