Jeanne was wide-eyed as the shape of the Avourienne grew on the horizon, a swath of dramatic colour in the navy sea. They must've spotted the rowboat, because the crimson sails began to furl, even and calculated. Archer could only image the kind of discipline that act alone took to execute, how many deft hands and skilled minds he was about to attempt blending in with. For now, he'd keep the miniscule stipulation of murder from his mind.

"That's a big ship," Jeanne noted, wobbling the boat again as she tried to see over his shoulder. "Like, massive."

"Not quite," he replied, reaching for their canvas. He slid the knife from his boot and slashed at the sailcloth, ripping it through the way a nasty storm might. "She's one of the smallest open water vessels out there." Farley had told him so, and now he confirmed it with his own eyes, counting three sky-high masts with a long, multi-deck drop from rail to water. Archer tightened the knots on the sail despite its uselessness; the Avourienne was small compared to her competition, but she was still capable of crushing their dinghy in a matter of seconds if they made any rogue movements.

"Shouldn't the best pirates have the biggest ship?" Jeanne wondered, watching him work with an air of nonchalance. She might've taken to learning the motions if she could get to her feet without struggling for breath.

"Not really how it works," he answered, twisting to watch the approaching ship. "Big is heavy, and heavy is slow." He watched them cut their speed further, the obsidian wood of their hull as stark as those bloody sails. Red and black—the colours of death and destruction, and the colours of the Avourienne.

When the ship was close enough for Archer to pick out the rungs on the rail, he turned to Jeanne. "Wave," he said. "Act like we're stranded." With their emergency oars left on Orphano, and their sail torn to shreds, it was a believable picture.

"What person in their right might would wave at the Devil's ship?" Jeanne asked.

Archer tossed his hands over his head, crossing them into an 'x', the sailing symbol for an emergency. "Orphans who've never set foot outside Orphano," he told her. "People who don't know this ship by sight—people who have never met Farley."

Jeanne raised her brows as she began waving, too. She knew the plan, but it was a daunting task to play the role of people they weren't, to act as if they had no clue what kind of horrors were coming their way.

The Avourienne slowed, a slender bird tucking in its wings. As she gave them a wide berth, Archer started to wonder if the pirates would stop at all, but his internal questions were silenced when the port sail unfurled, twisting the ship off in a tight turn in front of them, then coming to a rest as they trimmed once more. Big was indeed slow to move, and small was indeed agile.

The waves from the maneuver fanned out, lapping at their rowboat, white crests rendering Farley's book on knots useless. It was just a book, but it was also the last connection he had to Orphano, to his best friend. Or, it would be once Jeanne was...whatever was about to happen to Jeanne.

"We can run," he said, turning to face her again. "We don't have to do this."

She snorted. "You want to run?" She nodded to the ship behind him, casting a shadow over him even as he stood. "From that?"

"I can swim you back," he said. "They're not going to care about two stranded sailors."

She smiled. "Arch." She got to her feet and reached forward, placing two delicate hands on either side of his face. She tried not to breathe heavily from the effort, but it was there all the same. "Let's not get cold feet now."

He heard no shouts from behind him, no orders or plans being belayed. Whatever they were doing, they were doing it quietly.

"How am I supposed to do it?" he said, letting his voice drop to a husk. He was oh-so-controlled and trained, the bravest orphan there ever was, but he wondered if after all these years, she knew he wasn't near as brave as she.

"Easy," she replied. "You're not killing me. You're giving me mercy."

Archer nodded, turning once more. Mercy. He was giving her mercy. He could think of it that way. Hopefully, when the time came.

"Arch," she said again. "If you don't act the part, they won't believe you."

"I know that, Jeanne."

"If you break down, if you let it interfere, my death will be in vain." A long pause as she searched the upper decks of that fantastic ship. "Don't let my death be in vain."

Archer felt himself nod again, felt himself agree to her promises. He could do this. He would do this. He never thought he'd love someone enough to kill them—didn't even think that kind of situation existed.

There was a whiz in the air, then the snapping clamp of metal on wood. Both Jeanne and Archer stumbled in realization that the Avourienne had thrown a hook into their boat, right near their tiny mast.

"Angels," Jeanne breathed, having fallen back in reaction. "Could've warned us."

"Don't think they bother with things like that." He offered her a hand as the hook pulled taunt, drawing them closer. The sudden movement of the boat beneath their feet was shocking, but he held them as steady as possible, glancing back at the shape they were quickly approaching.

"Aye!"

Archer squinted as he looked up. A silhouette leaned over the rail at the top, dangling a rope. "You lads climb okay?" The voice sounded perfectly normal, like any other sailor on any other ship.

Archer felt panic creep into his bones. If they found out Jeanne was sick, they'd have more of a reason to believe this was all a premeditated scheme.

But Jeanne just caught the rope, shrugging. "Easy work!" she shouted up. To Archer, "They're pretty friendly. Y'know—for devilish pirates."

Archer covered her hand on the rope. "It's a long climb, Jeanne."

She shrugged again, reaching for the next knot. "Well, you know what they say. Burst of energy before death and all. "I truly worry you might not be able to keep up." She flashed a charming smile. "I feel great."

Archer let out a long breath of air, watching as she got to the next knot. It was a feat most of their fittest friends couldn't perform, likely far less friendly an ask than she'd assumed. It was a test to see if they had the strength to get up the rope. If they weren't, what point was there to even learning their names?

Grunting, Archer grabbed the second rope, the knots tied at space intervals. Climbing is an essential skill aboard a ship. Farley, always with him. The ability to pull your body up without purchase from your feet is easy once its learned, but hard to start off. If you have this down already, they'll see more use of you.

Archer spent a good chunk of his life crawling after Farley through the makeshift rigging of their attic on Orphano, leaving Jeanne to call out words of encouragement. Two weeks ago marked the first time Archer had beat his mentor to the little bell on the ceiling.

He glanced back at Jeanne, still all smiles. Her face was flushed with exertion, but she trailed just behind him now, undoubtedly going to make it. Almost at the top, he waited a moment for her to gain ground before curling his fingers over the rail and pulling himself up.

He propped an elbow on the handrail, shielding his adjusting eyes from the flickering sun. As Jeanne came up beside him, his vision corrected, and he was met with the very last thing he expected to see.

A crew. A regular, human crew going about their ship duties, quick and efficient. As the rowboat was released and hooks returned, they crowded around the rail, eager to see what they'd dragged in.

Something touched his elbow, and Archer nearly let go of the rail and splattered back into the sea. He startled towards Jeanne, taking in what—who—had touched him.

"Easy, good lad." The man calmly lifted his arms, sunlight sparkling off the rings adorning his thick fingers. "Just giving help over the rail." He offered his hand again. As he leaned forward, the shadows cleared from under his wide-rimmed hat and revealed his eyes, sparkling the same colour as the waves behind him.

Archer felt his muscles freeze, nothing but chunks of useless protein. How unusual that he'd been tested on this man, trained to remember every detail about his personality, learn every defense mechanism to his charm, and here he finally was, struggling to act in his presence.

This was Captain Bardarian, lovingly nicknamed or perhaps self-proclaimed King of the Sea. The ruler of Myria, of all things immoral. This was a man not even two decades his senior that had bent the ocean to his will, forced every other pirate and captain to their knees at his feet. This man was offering him help over the rail.

Archer took his hand, calloused and rough. He stepped onto the rail and slid down onto the deck, landing silently.

Bardarian tilted down his chin, sidestepping for Jeanne, who'd also paused where she was. He extended his hand to her, too, helping her over. He was the tallest man Archer had ever come across, dramaticized by the massive hat he wore.

"You climb that yourself?" the Captain asked Jeanne, nodding to where two crew members were pulling up the ropes they'd used. He was the picture of well-groomed with his neatly trimmed stubble and spotless, expensive-looking floor-length coat, not a dark curl of hair out of place.

"Aye," Jeanne said, hiding her breathlessness as well as she could. "Your boys trouble with such a task?"

The Captain grinned, no trace of yellow, rotting pirate teeth. He glanced back towards the gathering crew, some of whom chuckled and nudged each other at Jeanne's answer.

"Don't think Bates could make it a quarter the way up," someone sneered, causing Archer to tense once more. The man who spoke was stalking from the quarterdeck, talking about Corvo Bates, Bardarian's pudgy first mate, known for little more than a strong, undying loyalty. Bardarian keeps him there to keep ensure those with more potential stay a good distance from his hat, Farley once whispered. He plays dumb, plays the pretty boy, but he's far from it.

The rest of the crew were still quipping jokes, but Bardarian had his eyes on Archer. He'd done the tallying in his mind, already long past deducing that although Jeanne's display was impressive, she wasn't the one who'd been trimming their sail—wasn't the one that would be of use to him.

"Did the sea give you trouble, lad?" Bardarian asked, leaving Jeanne in favour of inspecting Archer once more.

"Aye, sir," he answered, keeping the warble out of his voice. "Nasty storm."

Bardarian raised his dark brows, throat adorned with a priceless pearl necklace, a common fashion even on Orphano. "That so?" He took another step, sweeping aside the flap on his coat to rest a hand on his hip, or more specifically, the sparkling, crimson-hilted pistol secured there. "Aren't you and your lady a tad young to be whirling about in Myria in the first place?"

Archer resisted the urge to take Jeanne's wrist, to ensure no one dragged her out of his reach before he could play this the right way. "We come from—"

"Dangerous place, Myria," the man from the quarterdeck interrupted, circling them like a predatory bird. He was the helmsman, apparent from his eerily steady hands.

"It is at that," Bardarian agreed, tossing Archer a mischievous smile. "Pirates and such, I've heard."

"We're stranded," Jeanne said quickly. "We were hoping you might give us a lift to the nearest island."

A few of the crew stifled their laughs. The Avourienne didn't give lifts.

"You're mighty lucky we found you," another man said, drawing closer. He leaned over the side of the rail, inspecting the leftovers of their rowboat. "Could've been food for the fish." He hissed the last word as if the sharks in the water would've been a much friendlier ending.

Bardarian ignored both of his leering crew members. "Are we just a passing vessel to you?" he inquired, seemingly interested in the concept of someone who couldn't place his ship. "Myself, my crew—are we ordinary sailors to you, lad?" He looked at Archer, who stayed silent. The game was in full force, and he had to play it right. Don't let my death be in vain.

Bardarian's grin widened, noting his expression. He suspected Archer may not have recognized the ship upon calling for help, but he surely did know the King of the Sea when he stood posturing in front of him.

"The lad's got it now," the Captain mused, backing up a few steps. He spread his arms, the shape of his crew silhouetted around him. "Welcome aboard the Avourienne," he said, and the name rolled from his tongue like a dirty word.

The helmsman sneered as he came closer. "We're not the kind of ship to give free lifts."

Archer finally did reach for Jeanne. It made him feel better to know she was there, but it was also a clue, a clear representation of what she was to him. He saw Bardarian note the action, note who they were to each other.

"Then we apologize for straying your course," Archer said, firm and quick. "If you might spare an oar or some cloth, we can be on our way."

Bardarian clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "I'm afraid I'm not the one who decidse your fate, lad." He nodded over to the balcony rail from the captain's quarters, where the steps curled onto the main deck. "I've got a person for that."

Not a man, but a person. In a man's world, it was a definitive choice of words, and it was at that moment Archer realized—after all his training and testing and memorization of this crew, of all the people that might hurdle his plan—he'd forgotten to keep an eye out for most important one.

Raised by Sirens, fathered by royalty, Farley had whispered to him through the candlelight of Shark's restaurant. Novari Silta is purposely advertised as no more than a seductress—because it distracts from the fact that she's a strategist, and a dangerous one at that. Farley had shaken his head in something like disgust. That girl is a savant who will turn your mind into her playing field. She's the Avourienne's brain, the mechanism that keeps it ticking.

With that kind of reputation, Archer figured her entrance would be outrageous, too, but it was nothing of the sort. When Bardarian nodded over to the balcony, his strategist was already there, leaning over the rail.

"Angels," Jeanne breathed. "She just...materialized."

Bardarian wandered over to the mast, glancing up at the furled skysail. "It's her brand," he said, suddenly very uninterested in the unfolding situation. "Novari?" he called to her. He gestured lazily to Archer and Jeanne.

The woman took a single step onto the deck, clothlike boots utterly silent. A seductress indeed, with the telltale amber eyes of a Siren and the obsidian hair of her royal father. She draped a slender hand over the balcony rail, graceful and subtle.

"She is prettier than me," Jeanne muttered.

"Nonsense," Archer murmured back. She was too angular, far too striking to be described anything at all.

Silta glanced over at Bardarian, golden sunlight shimmering on her Myrian skin. Her words came quiet, but not soft—a method of entrapment, of forcing those around her into stillness so they could hear, "Found yourself a few orphans, did you?"

Archer's brows dipped. He'd tried to get it out, but he hadn't ever disclosed they were from Orphano quite yet, had he?

"You didn't," the strategist replied, sliding her hand from the rail and taking a few steps closer. She lifted a long finger and pointed to his chest. "You're wearing the Orphano chain."

Archer felt his brows draw even more. He had not just said those thoughts aloud. This time he was sure.

"Again, you didn't," came the answer, quick and cold. "But you're very easy to read."

Jeanne's fingers curled tighter around his. "I don't like that," she whispered.

Archer didn't, either. That was beyond cleverness or good strategy. How was he supposed to—he didn't finish the thought, didn't need her knowing any more than she already did.

The woman grinned, which could've been a beautiful expression if it weren't for her canines, sharp as the end of a knife, the teeth of a Siren. Jeanne's fingers got tighter.

"Let's have your names," Silta said, stopping in front of them. The sun gleamed in her hair, on the little golden rings pulling back stray strands.

Archer paused for just a moment. Silta was their mind, their first defense against traitors and schemers like him. How to get by her? How to be interesting enough to indulge without treading into threatening territory?

"Archer Kingsley," he told her. "But you knew that."

Her hazel eyes snapped up, then trailed down to the tattoo on his bicep of the Kingsley crest. It was a Myrian practice to ink your family name on infant skin, and she'd surely catalogued it already.

"Are you done yet?" Bardarian called from the mast, losing interest. "Do I get him?"

Him. Not her. Not that they didn't have a use for her.

Silta glanced over her shoulder. "You want him?"

Bardarian shrugged, meeting her gaze with indifference. "Looks useful."

Silta returned her gaze to Archer. "Hence why you don't make these decisions." She stepped aside, but her eyes stayed firm on them. "Get rid of them."

Get rid of them. As Bardarian rolled his eyes and turned to go on with his day, the helmsman stretched out his shoulders, and the man to their left reached for something in his jacket. Jeanne's grip turned deathly strong. Don't let my death be in vain. It echoed in the air, in his heart.

Get rid of them. For what reason? Archer was a young, healthy sailor travelling with a woman he loved. He was their perfect candidate in every way, shape and form. In Silta's mind, perhaps he was too convenient, not worth the gamble he posed. Everything in their business was reward and gain measured to investment.

So in essence, all he had to do was exaggerate his use, play up his skills, make himself too valuable to pass over in fear of risk.

Archer reached for his knife.