The head is the only reliable sudden-death target, Silta said.

You don't strike me as someone who likes a sudden death, he replied.

Sometimes it's necessary, she pointed out. When you need a quiet sudden death—that's the real challenge. Bows are quiet, but the skull is too thick in most places. If you get them right here—She leaned forward, pressed her index finger into the soft flesh of his temple—then you're golden.

Archer shoved Corpher's body away from him, eyes unable to move from the arrow in his temple.

He peeled his gaze from Corpher's open eyes to glance back outside the window. The hull of the Avourienne disappeared into the night, which meant Archer needed to act quickly. He rolled Corpher out of the way so opening the door wouldn't reveal the body. Not to his surprise, Corpher was a light man; the way he fought had proved that. He'd fought as Silta had: prioritizing speed and agility over strength. Limited muscle used in all the right ways. Incredible talent, now dead on the ground.

Archer glanced out the window. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Had that applied here? The Myriad and the Avourienne were enemies, and Corpher and the Archer were also—in the last thirty seconds—enemies. But apparently, that had not made Corpher and the Avourienne friends.

Archer looked down at the body.

Not friends at all. Everyone was an enemy, every man for themselves. Archer had only been saved because for now, he had a purpose in the Avourienne's eyes.

Stepping around the dead man, he made his way to the door. He pasted on his best nonchalant face and did not look back.

Archer closed the door behind him and nodded to the two crew members he'd brought aboard.

"Captain Avoure and I have come to an agreement," he announced, tossing both Bickie and Pincho a look. The two crew members ushered to the plank.

Archer passed by the crew members of the Reprisal, who were looking at him with skepticism. Had they seen the Avourienne? He needed to get out of here. Fast.

There was urgency in his movement now, and he tried to hide it. He glanced at the six members of the Reprisal that had been held hostage on the Myriad. He glanced back at the smaller ship.

Archer whispered to Marquis as he passed, "Move the ship. Now."

Marquis did not question. It was sufficiently dark now, and although Archer knew it to be there, the Avourienne could not be seen. Glancing back at the Reprisal, he saw the tall man put a foot on the plank between the two ships.

Archer kicked the plank with his boot, sending the tall man stumbling backward and the plank plummeting into the water below. With the suspicion on those faces, Archer didn't have time to give them back their hostages, although he'd never planned to take prisoners.

The tall man shouted in surprise and drew a pistol from his belt. The crew of the Reprisal followed the action.

Archer pointed to Lyra and ducked to avoid the flurry of shots he knew to be coming. "Drop the sails!" he shouted, rolling behind a barrel to avoid a bullet. His heart hammered as the bullet ripped through the barrel, almost shredding his shoulder. Shrapnel caught the side of his arm.

On the other side of the ship, ducking as they moved, the mainsail unfurled in a flash of white. Marquis was working with the foresail, but he couldn't do much on his own. Archer was ready to dart over to help when he remembered their hostages. The members of the Reprisal were breaking into action. They'd been stripped of weapons, so he took that to his advantage. Pincho managed to get two belowdecks, and Archer knocked three of them out after a slight bit of posturing. Lyra took the other, and he raced back to the topdeck, poking his head out of his hiding place only for the wood behind him to explode with a shot. Recoiling, he slunk away, crawling along the barrels. He heard a cannon click—and not one of his.

Keeping his head low, Archer rolled from barrel to barrel. He finally got a good enough vantage point to see the Reprisal. There was an older crew member with a pistol aimed, and Archer followed it to Marquis—standing unprotected at the wheel, desperately trying to turn the ship.

He didn't think through this part anymore. Not like he used to. You waste your aim on morality, Silta had told him. Imagine the kills you could make, love, if you didn't care so much where you put the bullet.

This time, he put the bullet through the older man's head—because he did prefer a sudden death—and didn't look to see the aftermath. He managed to look over at the wheel again, seeing Marquis untying the rope over it and letting the wind spin it. The wind caught the mainsail with ease, but the foresail still hadn't come down properly, and the ship wasn't moving as quickly as it could. They weren't going to make the turn before a cannon was fired. On his brand-new ship, yet. And those cannons of the smaller ship were aimed low on the Myriad—where his crew was hiding.

Mind whirling, he kept his head low as he darted out from his barrel and onto the port side of the ship. He found Pincho again, seeking refugee behind the stairs.

"We're not going to turn in time, Captain!" Pincho told him, eyes wild.

"We don't have to," Archer said. He closed his eyes and for the first time in his life, prayed to somebody more powerful than him to make him right.

"What're you meaning, sir?" Pincho said, but he barely finished his formality before the cannon fired. And from the sound, Archer let out a little breath, because it was not the Reprisal's cannon, and it was not the Myriad's.

The Devil's ship had saved him once today, and they weren't going to waste the effort. Not that it really was effort, in the end. With Archer's inexperience and Corpher's tiny ship, it was all just child's play.

Crafted in hell, designed for death. Sailed with the same number of battles as wins. It lit the night on fire, destroying the Reprisal with those precious cannons—stolen from the navy with care. The smaller ship set ablaze, fire licking from the sides and wood splintering. Only a moment after, the Myriad cleared the range of the Reprisal and pulled away.

Archer scrambled to stand, desperate to see it.

There it was, momentarily lit by the burning ship. Sleek, blood sails, wood of deathly black. The feeling of fearful beauty; the feeling of corruption and adventure. And there, standing at the helm, was exactly who Archer expected to see.

Britter, leaning nonchalantly on the rail as though an entire ship hadn't exploded in front of his eyes, by his command. As the light flickered and the Avourienne began to disappear again, the former strategist leaned forward to bow. He lifted his hands high in the air and gave Archer the finger with both of them.

How ironic to be saved by the very thing he was truly scared of.

*

"I can't believe I saw the Avourienne."

Archer glanced at Alli, watching her mind whirl. She was trying to pick the shrapnel from his shoulder—he'd insisted he needed to talk strategy; she'd insisted he needed to go to the doctor and get the metal out of his skin; they'd compromised by talking strategy while she got rid of the shrapnel.

"They saved us," Lyra said, pacing uncontrollably. "The enemy of their enemy is their friend."

"No." Isabella was leaning in the corner, the closest Archer had been to her since pushing her away. It was essential that he be here. He could hide later.

"No?" Eric wondered, glancing at his twin.

"No," Isabella said again, but didn't clarify. Her face was twisted in anger that had become her staple.

Archer hated that she was right. "We're not their friend," he told Lyra. "They just have a bigger plan."

Alli pulled out a particularly large piece, and Archer tried not to wince. She dabbed the blood from his shoulder.

"Who?" Lyra inquired. "Who is captaining that damn ship?"

"Britter," Archer answered. "According to the rules, it should be Courtley, but it has to be Britter."

Lyra spun around, pacing. "The Avourienne doesn't run like the navy. Lack of a captain and first mate involves a revote for captain. Courtley wouldn't win that. No one on that ship was ever prepared to step up. It was always Bardarian. Bardarian's ship, Bardarian's hat. And if by some freak accident, Bardarian was killed, I think every damn person knew that Bates would be tossed to the side and Silta would win the vote. But a third in line?"

"Rusher?" Archer tried.

"Rusher isn't a killer, he's an artist."

"Then it has to be Britter."

"But would Britter win a vote? Honestly, I think he's too young, and he doesn't have the ambition Silta did."

"Jackson? Kourvourk?" Archer threw out.

Lyra shook her head. "You're right. It has to be Britter. He makes the most sense. But what does he want from us?"

Archer shrugged, causing Alli's tweezers to dig into his shoulder. "That was your fault," she muttered as she dabbed away more blood.

"Maybe he really just wants revenge," Archer offered.

Lyra shook her head again. "I'm sure he does, but is it worth the risk? The Avourienne's hierarchy has to be unstable, and you have the King's protection, the support of the entire navy, and can still kick Britter's ass if it comes down to it. Britter's bold, but he's also logical."

"Then I'm out," Archer said.

"Let's go through it one more time," Eric said slowly. "The Avourienne killed this 'Captain Avoure' man, and saved us from having to patch up the Myriad. All to get us to get this map for them? Can't they do it themselves?"

Archer resisted the urge to shrug again. "Corpher—or whoever that was—implied that Britter wasn't exactly the one that wants the map. He said whoever wants it isn't spending many nights on the Avourienne, but they could still be considered a part of the crew."

Isabella leaned forward in interest.

"First of all, the Avourienne is the middle of the sea," Lyra said haughtily. "If they're not spending time on their ship, where the hell could they be?"

Archer waved his hand, preferring not to dissect that right now. "What was the second thing?" he asked.

She gazed at him for a moment like she didn't quite remember. Then, she spoke, "You said he was Captain Avoure, didn't you?" She continued when Archer nodded, "And you just said his first name was Corpher?"

Archer nodded again.

Lyra made a face. "Something about the name Avoure is really familiar," she said, snapping her fingers.

"It's similar to the Avourienne," Alli pointed out, tugging out another piece of metal.

Lyra snapped her fingers for the final time, her face morphing with realization. "You're right! I do know the name Avoure. It was Silta's middle name!"

Archer raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I'm sure," Lyra said to his skepticism. "When Silta boarded the Avourienne all those years ago, she told me her middle name was Avoure. Novari Avoure Silta. I remember everyone being a little starstruck by the fact it was so close to the Avourienne. Almost like she belonged on that ship. Like it was made for her."

Alli paused her tweezers. "So the Captain had the same name as Silta's middle name? Seems like a coincidence to me."

Archer slammed a hand down on the table with realization. "Angels! I can't believe I missed this! Corpher!" he exclaimed. "I knew that name was familiar. It was Bardarian's middle name."

Archer couldn't believe it. It wasn't his fault for missing it at first, but once Lyra pointed out the other middle name, it was nearly impossible for him to ignore. All that time ago, Silta had accidentally told Archer Bardarian's middle name in a medication-induced haze.

Lyra's eyes had widened to nearly twice the size. "Corpher Avoure? That man was using some disturbing form of a pseudonym?"

Archer stood, pushing Alli away. The injuries could wait. "What does that mean? Why use the middle names of a dead captain and his dead champion?" he wondered aloud.

"It might not mean anything," Eric said, drawing Archer's attention back to him. "It might've been the first two fake names to pop into his head."

Archer figured he might be right. Still, they did get something from this. "So that means Corpher—or whoever that was—knew both Bardarian and Silta well enough to know their middle names."

"But no one outside the Avourienne should've known those names," Lyra pointed out. "And I came on before Silta. I would've known any person in her life."

"Maybe not," Archer ventured. "She had secrets, didn't she?"

Lyra shrugged, like it could be a possibility.

"He called me minnow," Archer remembered.

"Lots of ships use that nickname," Lyra offered. "It might not mean anything, either."

He felt it right there. He felt all the clues and all the aspects lining up, but he couldn't glue them together to fit the larger timeline—that was Silta's talent.

Silta. It was a long shot, but perhaps it was worth it.

"I'm going to my quarters. We'll pick this up later." Archer went for the door.

"Captain!" Alli protested. "You still have shrapnel under your skin!"

Archer didn't care. He was so close to understanding this whole thing. "I'll find you in an hour," he said, and left. He impatiently jogged up to the captain's quarters, throwing open the door.

"Seeking help from a dead woman, love? So ironic."

Archer turned and saw her, like he'd known he would. She was leaning against the frame of his room, the door open behind her. He'd sworn he'd closed it.

"I need help," he told her.

She grinned. "I thought you were ignoring me."

"I need to bounce it all off myself. You're good for that."

She raised a perfect eyebrow.

"It starts with the Avourienne. Whoever is pulling the strings here is somehow related to the Avourienne, although we're not sure they're a crew member."

Silta tilted her head, eyes focused and narrowed.

"The mastermind here—for whatever reason—can't get to the map. They enlisted me to do it for them."

"Mastermind," Silta repeated.

Archer continued, "They have strings on the King, which is how they got to me. That same person somehow knows this new 'Corpher' man, probably quite well, who we now know has some sort of history with both you and Bardarian."

"History," she repeated.

Archer glanced up at her and continued pacing. "This 'Corpher' man wanted the map as well."

"Well, no."

Archer looked back up. Her golden eyes were nearly dull in the lighting. "Think about it," she told him. "He was willing to kill you, even though you're the only access he has to the map."

Archer unpacked the insinuation. "You're saying that he didn't want the map at all, he just doesn't want this other person to get it?"

She shrugged. "He was clearly prepared to kill you."

"And therefore, cut off his and the other person's access to the map. He just wanted to make sure they didn't get it—he has no need for it." Archer nodded to himself. "But there are still questions. Who was that man to you? Why can't he or the Avourienne get to the map?"

Silta's eyes sparked with interest. She nodded her chin at him. "What do you have so far?"

Archer snapped his fingers to get himself to think. "Why does anyone use a pseudonym? Why did Kerian use it? Why was Bardarian known to use one? They had recognizable names."

She glanced at him and said nothing.

"I think I would know Corpher's real name," Archer concluded. "Which leads me to believe he has to be related to you or Bardarian somehow. An estranged brother or long-lost cousin."

Silta made a face and an exaggerated gagging sound. When Archer looked to her for explanation, she grinned and said, "Nothing. Go on."

"Corpher has to have had made enemies with you or Bardarian—perhaps both of you. It's no coincidence that he shows up the moment you both die. Now he wants to make sure the map doesn't fall into the Avourienne's hands for whatever reason."

"Anything else?" Silta queried.

Archer shrugged, to which she gave him a sly smile.

"You've got nothing to give me?" Archer asked her.

"You have nothing to give you," she corrected.

He desperately sorted through the details. Nothing was sticking out to him. He felt the same as he did that night that he'd figured Farley out—when he knew Silta had the answers but wouldn't give them to him.

"I need you," he admitted, the frustration building. "You would know, if you were alive. If this were the real you, you'd be able to help me. You could figure it out."

She swirled her finger around in the air and pointed to him. "Funny how the things we do come back to haunt us."

Archer looked up at her. He felt like her mind was right there, real as real could be. He felt like if she wanted to, she could give him the last little hint he needed to figure this all out.

He felt his skin prickling and his heart breaking. He needed her. Not the things he longed for, but the things he needed. Her mind. Her thoughts. Her brilliance. He just couldn't figure it all out.

He slumped against the floor, his back to his desk. This was all too much for him; he was too young for this.

"Falling apart there, Kingsley?" she asked, tapping one of the unlit candles.

He wished he could go back in time and never kill her, even though he'd told him a hundred times that he didn't regret it. He knew he only told himself that to stop the pain and the regret from drowning him. He just wished he could rely on someone older and smarter. Someone he loved.

"I don't know how you did it," he confided. "Eighteen years old and you were running circles around Bardarian. My age and you were the Champion of the Sea. I don't know how the pressure didn't get to you."

"It's about face, lover," she said dramatically. "You put on the face, and you forget about the pain and the suffering and the hell." She ran her hand through her hair and lifted her chin. She grinned, shark teeth and all. "No one suspects a thing."

That was true. He was not nearly as vulnerable around his crew. He kept his face on.

Archer drew a little circle on the floor with his finger. "I miss your mind," he said softly. He drew another circle, not daring to look up at her. He took a deep breath.

"I miss you," he said, his arms covered in shivers. "I miss you like I loved you for a lifetime."

There was something fresh about that—admitting that he struggled to overcome the loss of her. He'd blamed loving her on his worse attributes, and he refused to mourn for fear of the guilt that might come from worshiping someone so unapologetically evil.

"I can't believe you're gone," Archer whispered, the air cool against his skin. "I can't believe you're dead. And I can't believe I did it."

When Archer looked up, she was gone.

The truth remained—that he had all the details he needed to work out the whole story, but he didn't think about it anymore. He thought about Silta and her mind. How easy this would've been for her. His focus had completely diverted.

And intention is a hard thing to place.