The room was dark, musty and as expected, Britter was leaning against the desk towards the back of the room.

"Oh, our weapon's manager!" he said, mockingly animated.

Archer shut the door behind him with a soft click. Silta nodded to the weapon's manager and said curtly, "You've got a key for the storage?"

The weapon's manager was perhaps only a decade Archer's senior, but he suddenly looked like a very frail, very old man. "I've got a key," he muttered.

"Excellent," Britter said. "Let's see it."

"Giving you that key makes me guilty of treason," the man squeaked out, his voice torn. "Treason for...pirates." He barely managed to spit out the word.

Silta kept a straight face as her nimble fingers began to reach for something. Archer interrupted before she could bring out anything sharp, "If you don't give us the key, we'll kill your General. We have somebody just waiting for the word out there."

Silta glanced over at him. The life of the General was more important than the storage, and the weapon's manager wouldn't be guilty of treason if he gave up the key to save the life of a king's man.

Britter was confused, but Silta was tossing him a sharp look. "Crafty," she noted.

"The key," Archer reminded the weapon's manager.

The man leaned down to open the safe in the desk. He turned the clicklock a few times and then the hinge popped forward. He produced a solid golden key from inside.

"Should we take him with," Britter asked, "or kill him here?"

The weapon's manager backed into the door, reaching for the handle, but he was about two paces too short. "I did as you asked," he breathed.

"Pirates aren't really known for keeping their word," Silta pointed out, taking the key from Britter. She looked nonchalant, not necessarily concerned about the weapon's manager. Archer latched onto that quality, intent on saving a life with it.

He took a step forward. "Killing him is pointless. You just want another line on that awful tattoo? What does it prove?" He emphasized each word, hoping they'd hit their mark—or she just wouldn't care enough to advocate against him.

"You think my tattoo is awful, Kingsley?" she asked. At first, he thought she was simply being difficult, but then he realized the question was serious; the idea of anyone finding any part of her unattractive was completely foreign to her.

"Appalling things don't get a pass just because they're on a pretty canvas," he snapped, but that was the way this all worked, wasn't it? Silta's atrocities, the horrors of the Avourienne, Bardarian's bloodshed—they were so easy to ignore when they were paired with alluring golden eyes and silky crimson sails. A beautiful thing to cover up something ugly.

Silta tilted her head then, and any genuine emotion on her part dissolved. "Pretty canvas?" she repeated.

Britter interrupted by cocking his pistol in the direction of the weapon's manager. Archer took a tense step forward. "Don't shoot him," he insisted.

"Okay, Kingsley," Britter said, sliding the aim of the gun to Archer's head. "It's you or him, then." His face was caught in an unusually ugly snarl.

Archer took a step back. He looked to Silta, as if for help.

"Liam—" she began with a sigh, looking inconvenienced.

He cut her off, "Getting a little tired of Kingsley, anyway." His hand was still. "Somebody snitched today. I vote we get rid of him."

"Kingsley's not the snitch," Silta said.

Britter turned to her. "Who is, then?"

Instead of a direct reply, she just said, "We have to move. We're taking too much time here."

"You're evading. Why?" Britter queried.

"I outrank you," came her knifelike reply. "Drop the gun."

Britter barked out a laugh. "Since when?" he asked, bewildered. "Sleeping with the Captain gets you that?"

Archer could care less about the actual content of this argument, he was just awfully tired of having a pistol aimed at him by someone that was supposed to protect him.

"Sure," Silta said. "I'd say that gives me an edge over you. Drop the gun."

Britter shook his head. "I'm the senior crew member," he said. "So therefore, I outrank you." Then, to Archer, "You or him, Kingsley. Pick one."

Silta reached out and knocked the gun from Britter hands, catching it a second later. She pointed it out the window and pulled the trigger. The shot went through the glass, shattering it instantly with an ear-splitting crack. She handed Britter back the pistol.

"You win," she said. "Shoot him."

Britter looked at the pistol, then laughed. "You used up my shot."

Archer shook his head. Everything was a joke to them: death, threats, a mix of the two. They lived in a constant place of hilarity, even when things should be serious.

"He's yours now," Silta said to Archer, nodding to the weapon's manager. "Move fast."

It should've been surprising, her decision to save a life. It may have been timed with her indifference and a fight for status with Britter, but it proved she wasn't entirely hopeless.

She was the first one to crawl out of the window, avoiding shards of glass with methodical movements. Britter followed, and Archer gently pushed the weapon's manager through before himself. There was a shout as he dropped to the grass outside the window.

"I hate these damn crisps," Britter complained. There were two of them running towards the window, longknives drawn.

"I have it." Silta tossed a knife toward the approaching men, and it found its mark in the chest of the left one. She reached back expectantly, and Britter handed her another. This one hurled towards the other crisp's neck, and Archer's instinct caused him to look away. The weapon's manager did the same.

"You know, you could miss once," Britter said, "just to help my ego."

"Your ego is perfectly fine," she replied, making her way to take the knives back.

They headed across the courtyard, the sound of Silta's heels rhythmically clicking on the stone, echoing across the walls. Archer dragged his prisoner along, unsure of what else to do with him.

When they reached the other side of the courtyard and slipped under the arch, the storages came into view. The lifting team was just a lump of shapes, but Archer could see one form bigger than the others.

"What do I do with him?" he whispered to Silta, gesturing to the weapon's manager.

"Disable him," she answered. "Break his leg."

"What?"

She turned to him, the only semblance of calm in the face of his panic. "Those are your options: You can kill him, or you can disable him so he can't call for help before we're gone. Whatever you decide, you probably want to get it done before your captain sees him."

Archer looked at the weapon's manager, then back to the approaching crew. That big form.

"Fine," he said. "Fine." He turned to the man in his grasp and took him by the wrist and the shoulder. "Sorry for this," he said curtly, then used all his strength to snap the arm over his leg. It took a lot less force than he anticipated, and the resulting crack echoed across the stone. The man went to scream, so Archer quickly placed his hand over his mouth to stifle it.

"This is as much as I can give you," he whispered, his voice pleading. He dropped the man, jogging to catch up to Silta and Britter.

"Leg," Silta said. "I said leg." Her voice was steady, but it was clear to him that something about the situation set her on edge.

"What took you so long?" Starle was saying as they approached. "Why do you have Kingsley?"

"Ran into a problem," Britter said. "Figured the entrance guards might've been looking for Kingsley, so we took him with us. Lyra's on her way to the ship. Somebody's been tipped off."

"By who?" Bardarian stepped forward.

"The contact," Starle said immediately. "He was acting all suspicious the whole time. I told you that, Cap."

Silta pushed between them and opened the gate behind them with the golden key. Her choice to remain once again silent on the topic of the snitch unsettled Archer. She knew who it was, obviously, but how? And why keep it a secret?

They took as much as they could carry. Rusher and Starle used a blanket to drag a load of cannonballs, and Britter handed Silta a barrel of gunpowder, to which she made some comment about being to pretty to carry.

Britter took the powder himself, accidentally dumping some out as he walked. Archer grabbed a barrel of freshwater, struggling to move it in a way that was comfortable. His hands were slipping as he lost his grip, but he refused to stop and readjust. Bardarian was carrying two of the freshwater barrels, and he didn't even have a bead of sweat on his forehead. Was everything so much easier for him? Decisions, leadership, strength? Did aligning with the Devil truly make one's life so effortless?

There was a shout from behind them, so Bardarian gave the command to hang a right, and the group changed course. The branches thrashed against Archer's skin and face as he attempted to wack them away while holding tight to his barrel. The shouts raced by them to their left.

South port came into view slowly. The night was nearly black now, and the moon had risen high into the sky. The smell of the sea wafted through the air, and soon after the hazy shape of the Avourienne came into sight.

Archer could barely see in the dark. His damn jacket kept getting caught on the trees. At one point some sort of bug crawled into his hair, and he violently shook his head to rid of it.

"Not one for bugs, minnow?" Rusher whispered beside him, his face beaded with sweat. "Not used to real labour, I suppose."

"Says the guy who's not in this ridiculous getup," Archer whisper-snapped back. "Must be awful fun to draw on a map all day instead of dealing with the real fight." He gritted his teeth as he lifted his barrel over a particularly large stump.

"I don't...draw," Rusher said defensively, slowing.

"Good thing, too," Starle added, marching by them. "I'll bet you're terrible at it."

"Probably," Archer said. "It's best if you stick to straight lines."

In front of them, Courtley snorted.

Finally, they reached the ship. They carried their stolen goods up the ramp and dumped them on deck. Denver was perched on the rail, and he gave Archer a solemn thumbs up, still disappointed he'd been on the ship while all the fun was happening. At least Lyra would've filled him in.

Archer glanced around for her. She wasn't by the rail, not by the balcony either. Archer gestured to Denver. "Where's Tailsley?"

Jackson replied for him, "She ain't here. Thought she was with you."

"She never came back?" Archer asked, heart stuttering. They shouldn't have left her alone. It had been careless, wrong, immoral—

"You're sure?" Rusher was asking, glancing at Bardarian.

"I'm sure," Jackson assured. "She ain't come back."

Bardarian lifted a hand to the back of his neck, his jaw tight.

"That's why it was so easy," Britter reasoned, his voice edged. "They have her caught."

Silta who had been next to Bardarian—started back to the plank. Nobody proceeded her.

"Where the hell are you going?" Bates asked her.

She looked at him. "To get Tailsley?" she said, as though it were obvious. The rest of the crew looked confused, but it had been obvious to Archer.

"Novari," Bardarian said carefully. "That's what they want us to do."

"Vallin," she said back. "And?"

He shook his head at her. "Risky."

She raised her brow, questioning, troublesome. "You want to leave her behind?"

"I don't—" He cut off, running his hand through his hair. Never had Archer seen him look so flustered. He clearly struggled with the idea of abandoning a loyal crew member, but he also seemed to be leaning that way.

She grinned and shook her head, backing up.

"Do not get off this ship," Bardarian said strictly. Maybe he hadn't decided yet, but he didn't want her doing it for him. "That's an order." Despite the meaning, there was an edge of amusement to his voice.

"Tell me," Silta said, her eyes firm on the Captain, "if it were me down there, would you leave?"

Bardarian's expression faltered, and the crew remained silent. Something about those words left them all uncomfortable.

"You taught me loyalty over all else, sir," Sita said, still backing up. A grin curled around her words, "No family left behind."

"Silta," Bates warned.

"Who's coming?" she asked, raising her voice.

"Silta!" Bates said again, but Bardarian didn't stop her.

"Anyone?" she asked again, now halfway down the deck.

Bardarian laughed, seemingly recovered from whatever had caught him before. "Nobody is going with her," he told them. Perhaps he knew she'd come back. Everyone else, maybe not.

"Rusher? Come with me," Silta said to the navigator, who was leaning against the rail of the ship. As she passed him, she gave him a wide smile and whispered something that Archer couldn't hear.

Rusher simply shook his head, biting down what looked like an embarrassed smile. "Captain's orders. Sorry, Ri," he said.

"Liam?" she asked, now by the railing.

Britter shook his head—they weren't just following orders, he realized, they were scared. Terrified to act on the loyalty they preached so often.

"Kingsley," Silta said, and there was no question to it as there had been for everyone else.

Archer glanced at Bardarian.

"Kingsley." Bates' voice came out as a growl.

Archer spoke to the Captain rather than the first mate, as respectfully as possible, "If you'd chosen a slightly different team structure, it would be me down there, sir." He just managed to hold that ocean gaze. "I have to go back, sir. For Tailsley."

For Tailsley. It made the message clear: I'm doing this to save the woman I walked into it with—not because I'm so starstruck by yours that I'll do whatever she asks of me.

Bardarian gave him a sly look, but Archer doubted he was detailed enough to catch what he was supposed to. He glanced over at Silta, still more amused than he should be. He shook his head, then made his way over to her, leisurely arms wide.

"You're entertaining as ever, darling, I give you that," he said. He leaned down to whisper to her in a voice so scarce Archer barely caught the words over the tentative wind, "Thirty minutes, pretty girl. Or I'm sailing away with a bottle of rum."

At the last word, she flinched. She flinched.

It hardly registered to him, really. The only thing Archer was thinking about was how much taller Bardarian was than her. No straightening his back, no slivers of doubt.

She didn't move for a moment, so he gave her a hard shove to the chest, pushing her back down the plank. She said nothing, just turned and started down the dock. He turned to look at Archer, expectant.

Carefully, Archer stepped past him, onto the plank and down the dock to follow her. He glanced back once as they prepared to shove off.

"They're not going anywhere," came Silta's reassurance.

Archer figured as much, but he still didn't like it. He needed on that ship; it was the only way into the Kingsland. "I'm banking a lot on your importance," he said, glancing back again as they walked.

"Good thing I'm awfully important."

Somewhere down in the city, a resounding crash drew his attention. When he squinted, he could see fire licking at the base of the trees, climbing towards the building; Britter's accidental pouring of gunfire was probably not quite as accidental as he'd thought.

"I suppose the disguise is up," Silta said, stepping out of her shoes as she walked. She reached down and used her teeth to rip the base of her dress, giving her more range of motion.

Archer followed her lead. He shrugged off the jacket, then loosened the tie from his neck and tossed it onto the grass as they made their way closer. The warm air rolled over his neck once more, and he finally felt like he could breathe.

"I liked the tie," Silta said.

"I liked the shoes," he said back.

She abruptly stopped and spun around to face him. Unprepared for the quick stop, he stumbled as her forehead hit the bridge of his nose. He leaned back a little and glanced down. She'd put her hand on his chest.

Nothing moved for a moment. The night was beginning to sparkle with flying tree embers, making for a stunning scene, but it didn't matter. He had no capacity to care about anything else when she was right there.

"There's something about you, Kingsley," she said, voice cool and collected but eyes dancing with mischief. "I don't know what it is, love, but you make me want to risk everything I have."

And he could stand there, starstruck. He could be like everyone else and turn speechless in the mere presence of her, but he'd always despised conforming to fawn over a narcissist.

"Even without the tie?" he asked.

And that was the something, wasn't it? The lack of conformity to what she was used to, the streak of something new in her repetitive world. She grinned, those two sharp teeth telling him to pull back, remember what he'd come for. But he didn't move, and neither did she—at least not for a moment. During those few seconds, Archer wondered if right here, with the deadly stillness of the world around them, she really would risk everything. He wondered if he'd let her.

She took a step back, hand falling from his chest but the conspiratorial look never fading. She curled her fingers inward, telling him to follow.

"Halleveire monere, Kingsley," she told him, continuing to back up down the path. "I stand by it. But unfortunately, we're on a clock." She spun around and set her sights back on that building.

So Archer did the same.