Archer told Lyra everything, even the part about the Silta-ghost. They both agreed solemnly that in this particular circumstance, they'd listen to her eerie warning. He didn't need to interact with Isabella, really. Lyra could speak with the strategists and then speak with him.

Since then, he'd been walking everywhere with a purpose so no one would stop to speak with him. The deckhands saluted; he walked fast enough not to justify telling them to relax. He tried desperately to place him and Isabella on opposite sides of the ship, but sometimes, especially at night, he could...sense she was there somewhere.

Today, though, was sunny and unthreatening. The ocean was falling into the evening routine, the waves tranquil and shining with the flickering sun. Today, he had nothing to worry about—except, of course, that object he noticed on the horizon as he made his way across the deck.

"Marquis?" Archer shouted over the deck. He jogged to the rail.

"Was just about to notify you, Captain!" yelled a voice above him. He glanced upwards to see the current scout, Bickie, crawling down the pole. Bickie, unlike the deckhands that had specialized to scouts, wasn't shy or reserved at all. He believed he belonged on the Myriad and therefore didn't apologize simply for being.

"Pirate flag, sir," Bickie told him, his voice strained with the effort of exercise.

Archer squinted out at the shape. "You see the name?"

"No sir," the scout replied. "A little too far. There's no spyglass up there. I was just about to grab one and head back up."

"No, that's fine," Archer said. He didn't need approaching pirates to use his scout as target practice. "Just raise the black, please."

Bickie dashed away to the mast. Marquis appeared in the spot he'd previously occupied.

"You called?" the head scout asked.

Archer jutted his chin out to the approaching ship. Marquis followed his gaze, lifting a dark hand to shield the sun. "Reprisal," he said.

Archer marvelled at his eyesight and squinted again.

"Never heard of it, sir," said someone behind them. It was the voice of Pincho, the Myriad combat instructor. Archer had been impressed with Pincho's skill, so he'd had a few training sessions to bring him up to speed with all the little tricks. Since the chopping of the officer's ranks, Pincho was told to speak freely, and Archer liked that he was obeying.

"Me either," Archer replied. "You see a flag there, Marquis?"

Marquis shook his head. "Only the pirate one, sir. Nothing else."

Archer took a deep breath, turning to Pincho. "Make sure everyone is armed. Deckhands without combat experience get belowdecks, near the bow. Bring up the ones you're confident in and have them on deck." When Pincho ran away to organize, Archer glanced at Marquis. "Get on the helm. Ready to maneuver, no anchor. Lyra?"

"Captain." Lyra was moving quickly, following him as he went down the rail.

"You're giving out sail orders in the event that we run. I'll tell you if you do. Get some people by the cannons as well."

Lyra moved away, the rest of the crew moving to where they were told. They weren't unfamiliar with this—the Kipperly had run into a few pirates, but even though the Myriad was better suited to a fight, something about the approaching vessel had Archer's nerves twisting.

He checked his own pistol and watched the Reprisal draw nearer. It was just a small ship—one the Myriad could most definitely outrun—but Archer preferred not to cower as his first action aboard his new ship. Then a bigger crew would come along, and he wouldn't have the reputation needed to be left alone.

In the distance, the ship became clearer. It was perhaps a third the size of the Myriad, and he suspected it was barely a full ship. There'd be a small crew, that's for sure. But something about that ship was... uncomfortable.

The Reprisal slowed as it approached. He caught a glimpse of a man standing tall on the topdeck. He saluted quickly, jogging down the steps as the Reprisal pulled in beside the Myriad. Finally, they hung a black.

"Could've done that a bit earlier," Lyra noted.

The same man from before regarded them from the rail. Archer couldn't quite pick out his facial features, but he could hear his next words, "Captain Kingsley!"

Lyra glanced at him, tilting her head.

"We'd like you to come aboard, Captain," the man yelled. He looked harmless, but his request was absurd.

Archer didn't move. "On what grounds?" he shouted back.

The man took a step forward and gestured for a plank to be placed between the two ships. "In the name of peace," the man said. "Our captain would like to speak with you."

Archer had known the tall man was the not the captain of this ship; he didn't hold the leadership air nor the cocky arrogance that it took to be the leader of pirates. However, it was odd for the true man not to show himself, and Archer was desperately trying to decide why.

The tall man walked the plank between the two ships, his heavy boots landing on the Myriad. He lifted his arms in surrender, and Archer held off on any sort of attack.

"Captain said you might be a bit wary of us," the tall man said evenly. "Every right to be. He told me to tell you the subject matter, and you'd probably walk right over."

Archer stood still. He didn't prompt.

"The subject matter," the tall man spoke, "is the Avourienne. They are trailing you, aren't they?"

Archer searched his face. He looked in control and unafraid despite looking slightly incapable. He walked with a limp and now that he was close, it was possible to see scars littering his skin.

The fact that he knew about the Avourienne was intriguing, but not enough for Archer to consider going aboard their ship. Not when he didn't even know who the Captain was.

"Captain also said," the man continued, "that you might still need a push. In that case, he told me to mention the King to you. Has he been off recently?"

Archer tried to hide it, but his blood turned icy.

The tall man smiled. "The King is but a puppet, sir. Our captain can tell you who's pulling the strings."

Risk to reward. A risk worth taking.

"I'd like five of your crew members on my ship," Archer told the tall man. "They wait here while I go aboard. I take three of mine with me."

"A smart request," the tall man said. "Captain said you'd say that. He's giving you six of our crew members to hold hostage while you're aboard, and you can take any crew members of yours aboard the Reprisal, as long as it's not her."

Archer frowned. He quickly glanced at Lyra. This time, he'd actually been planning on bringing her along.

"What's the reason behind that?" Lyra asked, eyes inquisitive.

"Not to tell ya," the tall man answered. "Only that she can't come aboard."

Archer didn't remove his frown as he held a silent conversation with Lyra. So the Captain had a thing against women, it seemed.

"Round up their crew," Archer said finally. "Make sure they've got no weapons. Pincho and Bickie, you're with me."

Lyra didn't complain this time. She did as she was told, and Archer followed the tall man aboard the Reprisal. She was quite small, nearly inconsequential to a ship like the Myriad, but then again, something was wrong. The ship felt eerily similar to Isabella.

"Captain said you can bring 'em in with you, if you want," the tall man was saying as he led Archer and his two crew members to an imposing oak door. "But he also said you probably would choose not to."

He glanced back at the tall man, aware that whoever was captaining this ship knew an awful lot. He told his crew to wait and pushed open the heavy door. The space beyond was musty and quiet, the room completely neat and tidy. There was a man at the window, the evening sun silhouetting his shape.

Wholes first, Silta would say. Don't get caught up in the details. Tap into what your unconscious mind is sensing first.

Danger. That's what this man's whole perception gave Archer. Danger and violence. He was a unique-looking man, with eyes so black he couldn't tell the difference between the pupil and the iris. He was a few inches shorter than Archer, but much leaner, much sprier.

"Captain Kingsley," he said, spreading his arms. "What an honour."

Archer didn't answer at first. His details were not intimidating, but his whole was.

"I've heard rather extravagant stories of you, Kingsley," the man told him, advancing a few steps. "Stories of the Kingsland and Captain Bardarian and the Champion of the Sea."

Archer finally spoke, "Your crew member said some very specific things to get me to come aboard."

"Of course, of course," the man said. "First, please sit and let me introduce myself. I know all about you and you've only just met me. I'm"—he paused as he ushered Archer to a chair—"Corpher Avoure."

"Captain Avoure," Archer repeated. "Haven't heard of you."

He grinned. "You can call me Corpher. I've never been one for formalities."

Archer scrounged his face again. He was older, if only by a few years, and now that he was closer, Archer saw his reflection in Corpher's incredibly dark eyes.

"Let's talk about the Avourienne, shall we?" Corpher began. He sat down and crossed his legs. He moved briskly, but it was almost as if the maturity level at which he spoke didn't quite match his body movements. Corpher may have been slightly spindly, but he moved in a way strangely similar to Silta, like a dancer, perhaps.

"You know who's captaining it?" Archer asked, keeping his tone disinterested.

"I do. You have any guesses?"

He thought that to be an odd response. "Liam Britter," Archer told him. "A former strategist."

"Ah, you're a smart man. Britter has landed himself quite the powerful position."

He could call him out for not answering the question, but he preferred to let Corpher believe he was stupider than he really was—a clever tactic of Bardarian's.

Corpher continued, "The Avourienne is being careful as of now. They want you to know they're breathing down your neck, but they're not exactly willing to make a grand entrance quite yet. They're saving that, as they should. But the Avourienne is not exactly an issue currently. The map you're looking for, that is an issue."

Archer leaned forward. "Your crew member implied you knew who was controlling the King."

"That is true, he did imply that. But if we're being honest with each other, Kingsley, the name of the person is hardly important. The simple fact of their actions are plenty worrisome."

He couldn't quite place Corpher's tone or body language. One night, when Silta had been uncharacteristically tucked into the curve of Archer's shoulder, she'd mentioned his accent. She'd compared his southern enunciated grace to her Siren habit of getting caught on consonants. He told her he didn't hear accents at all. She advised him to focus the next time Britter spoke, listen for the sharpness of his northern heritage. Compare it to Bardarian's Chorro mix of both.

Ever since, Archer had determined Myrians from those who were born in the Cobalts by listening for the shapes of their words. That was how he'd determined that Alli and Shuri were from the north, how Isabella was probably born near Myria. But now, it was giving him trouble. Corpher spoke in a way impossible to place, like he was a mix of everything.

"If you've got the name of the person playing with the King, I'd like to hear it," Archer told him.

Quickly, Corpher spoke, "The name is irrelevant. The truth is, the moment you get that map, the person controlling the King is going to take it from you, no questions asked. And they'll do rather bad things with it."

Archer wasn't following. The map in question only led to the chest—one still had to get to the chest and cut out their heart to do much damage. If, once again, the chest was even real.

"That doesn't make sense. The King gave me the map map, which means the person controlling him had access to it. Why not get it themselves?

Corpher made a humming noise. "Isn't it far more dramatic to have someone do it for you?"

Archer noticed that he once again had not answered the question. "I'd like to know two things," he started. He was getting that strange feeling of cold creeping into his spine, and he wanted to wrap up this conversation. "For one, who the person is and why they want the map. And two, how and why you know all of this."

Corpher grinned, stained yellow teeth nearly blinding. "Neither question of which I will answer. But I do have a proposition for you."

Archer narrowed his eyes.

"Go for the map, by all means," Corpher offered. "I'll trail you, and when you have it, you give it to me."

Archer snorted. "Sounds like you need me to get it for you." Royals couldn't get the map, but Corpher was too old to be a product of Silta. A brother, perhaps? He was around the age she would be by now, but Archer couldn't see her features anywhere on Corpher.

Corpher leaned back in his chair and considered his response. Finally, he said, "Perhaps it's something like that."

Archer scrounged his face for signs of Silta. None. None of Kerian, either. No sheer black hair, no Siren eyes. No royal canines, nothing. Corpher couldn't be their sibling.

"I'll bite, Kingsley," Corpher began again. "Listen, the person that's in cahoots with the King—they're not simply enlisting you for drama. The map is unattainable to them, too. And the moment that you obtain that map, they'll attack you and they'll kill you. If you go with my offer, you'll simply hand over the map and be on your way."

Archer shook his head. So there were two separate people that couldn't get to the map, then, excluding Kerian?

"I can handle myself against pirates," he said cautiously. "I don't think killing me will be as easy as you seem to insinuate. I'm only concerned if this person playing with me is a member of the Avourienne."

Corpher grinned. "In definition, perhaps they are. But they spend very few nights on the Devil's ship."

Archer didn't understand that at all. It was as though the concrete facts were so few and far between, they too were floating away into theories. That, and Corpher was now beginning to periodically look over at the window, where the sun had hidden below the horizon, settling darkness on the sea.

"I'm not interested in your proposition," he said, attempting to remain calm. "I'd like to know who's playing the puppet master here, and getting that map appears to be the only way."

Corpher held tight to his calm, but Archer could see his façade cracking. "You promise to give me the map, and I'll tell you who is playing puppet master."

He considered it. This was his life and the life of the crew he was looking at, considering the fact that if he didn't do as Corpher asked, the other Captain would most likely become violent.

Corpher spoke again, "I will require to board your ship with my crew, however. To ensure you hold up your end of the deal."

That just couldn't be done. Archer couldn't let another ten men that he had no business being around boarding his ship at a time like this. It would be more dangerous than the other option. Risk to reward.

"I don't agree to your deal," he said. "And it's best that I'll be going."

Corpher stood, too. His black eyes shone and reflected. "I urge you to reconsider, Captain."

They had a whole mixture of crew members outside, but Archer knew it was coming. He felt his knife in his sleeve, his pistol at his side. He gauged his surroundings. He hadn't had time to spread out his natural weapons—something Silta had often done when she walked into a room. She'd be moving trophies and rocks around and Archer would simply think she was messing with people, but she'd had a reason behind it, as she always did.

Nonetheless, Archer hadn't had time for any of that, so he looked around at the supplies he did have, then glanced back at Corpher, both of them still standing.

"I don't want a fight," Archer said smoothly, his eyes focused.

Corpher acted while he was talking, and at that moment, he realized Corpher was a very, very talented man. He moved impossibly fast, tripping Archer off balance.

Attempting to recover, Archer spun away and jerked the pistol from his belt. From that one move alone, he knew that Corpher was no regular fighter—perhaps one that he couldn't beat. He needed that pistol, and fast.

Corpher was faster. He swiped the pistol with unusually long arms and spun it. He pressed it hard to Archer's forehead and backed him into the wall.

It had been a long time since he'd been beaten. In fact, the last time he'd been beaten was on a sandy beach a long time ago. Not once since then had someone been able to pull the pistol on Archer.

"I don't want this, Kingsley," Corpher told him, voice frenzied. "You forced us to be on opposite sides here."

Archer's mind was whirling. Sides. You don't want to find out who plays for the Devil.

How to get out of it? What would Silta do? There was no one around to help him. If he yelled, Corpher would shoot. If he moved, Corpher would shoot.

"I respect you, Minnow. More than you realize. But for the Devil's sake, Kingsley. Learn to throw your stones harder."

Archer was not entertaining Corpher's monologue. Instead, he was glancing out the window, looking for exits, some desperate way to get out of this. The night was almost in full force, and Archer could just barely see the hull of the Myriad, black as night.

But no. The Myriad wasn't black. Even in the dark, one could tell the difference between the near-black of the Myriad and the unmistakable colour of death itself.

The Avourienne was here.

"If only you'd gone along, Kingsley. If only, if only, if only."

Why risk it? Why show up before full dark, where they could be seen? Why risk it? Risk to reward. It's worth the risk.

They need you to get it for them. That's what Corpher had said, wasn't it? That someone—it had been implied someone on the Avourienne—needed Archer alive to get the map.

He pushed Corpher forward, leaving the two of them in the path of the window. It was risky, but it was his only shot, even if it was an incredibly long one.

"You playing games, Kingsley?" Corpher snorted, switching the pistol to Archer's neck, pushing into the soft flesh. "You think you're going to—"

Archer heard it, the soft twang of the arrow, then the whizz of it through the air.