The last thing Archer ate was Shark's watery eggs and a slice of sourdough bread that morning, now mixing with the choppy waves. He curled his hands around the rail, tears pooling in his eyes. From the effort of retching, he'd explain if anyone asked.

There was a firm hand on Archer's back as the sounds of the deck registered to him once more. Laughing, the exchanging gold coins from their bets, the shouting of some phrase in a language he didn't know, over and over. Halleveire monere. Halleveire monere.

"None of us knows what it means." The hand on his back lifted. Looking up, Archer found the newcomer to be a white-haired boy even younger than him. The boy shrugged. "Silta came up with it, I think, so it's probably some weird seaweed-Siren language or something like that." He nodded to the rail Archer was still hunched over and said, "I did the exact same thing."

Wiping his mouth, Archer caught his breath as he looked the boy over. "What are you, sixteen?"

The boy just grinned, leaning back against the rail to watch the crew, still tossing each other around over their new edition. "Nineteen," he said. "What are you, thirty?"

Archer squinted, but the boy still looked much younger, no smile lines or bags under his pale blue eyes. "Funny," he said. He was twenty, and unlike this weird-smiling-vomit-bonding boy, he actually looked his age.

The boy shifted his eyes to something across the deck, but when Archer turned to look, that hand was back on his shoulder. "Don't," the boy said. "They're tossing her over the side. Best not to watch."

The image of her slumped body, of those men picking her up and rolling her over the rail and into that water...Archer leaned forward to throw up again.

The boy patted his back once more. "Easy does it."

"Eh, Tolva!" someone called. "You givin' barf boy a tour?"

The white-haired boy flashed a thumbs-up, leaning closer to Archer to say, "You've got a solid two minutes before you get told to toughen up and get moving, so use 'em well."

Archer shook his head, watery eggs and sourdough bread all gone. Life really just went on here. Tours and small talk followed murder, and no one had any qualms about it. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Jeanne lift her chin in defiance. He hoped to the angels that the image would never go away, that it would never be replaced by anything else.

Archer steadied himself on the rail and looked at the blonde boy. "Can I have some water or something?"

"Oh, yeah, sure." He reached for his canteen, hung from his shoulder by a strap and handed it over.

Archer eyed it as he took a sip, washing the taste of bile from his mouth. He gave it back. "What are you? Cabin boy?"

The boy grinned, shaking his head. "Denver Tolva," he introduced. A sliver of pride was evident in his voice as he said, "Deckhand."

"Is there some sort of difference?" As someone who'd never sailed anything bigger than a two-person boat, Archer wasn't all that well-versed in pirate ranks, and Farley didn't tend to dwell on anyone so deep in the cogs of the Avourienne.

A feign expression of offense passed over Denver's face. He pointed to the two men scrubbing at the wood where Jeanne had been, where the red still stained. "Cabin boys," he explained. "Servants, essentially." He pointed to himself. "Deckhand," he said. "We're trained, so we get to touch the sails without some big shot screaming at us."

Archer scrunched up his nose. "I have to start as a servant?" Farley had not mentioned cleaning bloody decks as one of his tasks. He was trained for rigging and trimming, for combat.

Denver shrugged. "I dunno, but probably not. If you already know how all this works"—he gestured around to the ropes and the sails, starting to unfurl so the ship could move on—"then they'll make use of you as a deckhand." He ushered Archer from the rail. "They won't officially declare you one or the other, though. They'll just tell you to do something. Here we are. First stop of the tour."

Archer looked around. "We've moved like three inches from the rail."

"It's a tight ship." Denver pointed up beyond the skysail. "That's the crow's bucket, I'm sure you know. We've got a few guys that trade the spot, but Trippy handles it most of the time." He cupped his hands together and shouted up through the wind, "Hi, Trippy!"

Archer squinted against the sun as the figure perched at the high point looked down. Either he was really bad at telling age, or the boy in the crow's nest wasn't a day over fourteen.

"He's not yet got a hold of his limbs, so that's why we call him trippy," Denver explained. "Good eye, though. Let's move on." He walked towards the bow as the ship started to pick up speed, waves fanning out behind them. The crimson sails were set free, and the Avourienne began a dead run towards the west. Denver took a step onto the quarterdeck and pointed towards the wheel. The ship was already moving faster than anything Archer had been on.

"That's our helmsman, Jackson—exact opposite of Trippy, because he's old as hell." He shifted his finger to the cabin over the balcony. "That's Cap's place. He might seem approachable, but I wouldn't talk to him unless he talks to you. In fact, you're probably best to keep that standard for anyone who looks like they know what they're doing. Let's go to navigation."

Archer kept his eyes on the captain's quarters as he mindlessly followed Denver across the deck again. How precarious a job, all that power with one person. Farley had declared Bardarian one of the youngest leaders out there, but the man didn't strike Archer as such. He was too sure, too unapologetically ruthless to be anything less than qualified.

Denver footed open the door under the captain's balcony. "Navigation," he explained. "Come on in."

Archer ducked as he passed the threshold, avoiding a bulb hanging from the ceiling. The day was starting to dim, the evening sun producing a glare off the maps, strewn about every surface and wall in the room. At the main table sat a man Farley's age, head bent down as he worked on the biggest map Archer had ever seen.

"This is Alexander Rusher, our navigator," Denver said, and the man looked up. He was well-documented in Farley's notes, as important as the Captain himself. Apparently, taking out the young man would be the equivalent of blinding the Avourienne.

Rusher tossed his pencil on the map as he went to stand. "Pleasure to meet you, Minnow." His eyes sparkled, blonde curls messy as he extended an arm.

"That's what we call the new guys," Denver said as Archer shook the navigator's hand. He lowered his voice and whispered, "Better than barf boy."

Archer gestured to the map on the table, incredibly detailed and full of colour. "Is that Myria?"

"Aye," Rusher said, stepping aside so he could have a look. "In all her glory."

Denver followed Archer to the table. "Rusher is the most talented navigator in the sea—the only one to have charted Myria fully," he said.

Nodding, Archer examined the massive map. It was hundreds of miles of charted territory, every island and presumed depth noted. He ran his fingers over the pencil lines, of all the places he'd never seen. The norther portion ended at the border of Myria, where the water was said to turn just a little bluer as it morphed into the Cobalts, royalty-ruled and navy-sailed. The layout of that ocean was no mystery, and it had been marked down a thousand times before. But Myria? As far as Farley knew, this kind of map existed nowhere but this ship.

"But," Rusher said, leaning over Archer's shoulder. "There's a place I'm missing on my famous map—Kingsley, is it?" He picked up the pencil. "Care to help?

Archer pursed his lips, glancing at the older boy and his outstretched pencill. Myria was full of mysteries, but Orphano was likely a navigator's most exciting one; it was supposed to be impossible to find if you weren't an orphan, no matter if someone marked it down for you or told you where to go. Farley's theory was that it didn't really exist in any one location, that it just was.

Rusher's grin grew at the silence. He shook his head, sitting back down at his table. "Off with you two," he said. "I've got work to do."

Denver gave him a curt smile, directing Archer towards a narrow staircase at the back of the room. "This goes to the strategy room. Let's see if they'll let us look in just for the tour."

Archer took the stairs slowly, still a little queasy. Jeanne would likely be dashing about this ship, excited as ever. She loved new people, loved tallying them all up and giving them nicknames.

As they winded around the corner, the stairs creaking under their weight, Denver turned to speak, "You probably can't tell, but Rusher's a bit annoyed these days. Cap is forcing him to take on an assistant, and that's kinda pissin' him off. But you don't argue with Bardarian."

Archer kept his head down, but he knew the reasoning behind the demand; if the navigator was killed, there needed to be someone to take up the job. It was a morbid thing to plan for the death of someone so young, but pirates didn't exactly have a long lifespan.

"Here we are," Denver said, poking his head through the door at the top of the staircase. Voices drifted from inside, and as Archer leaned to see what it was, he found the room to be eerie in every form of the word. The lighting was dark and sinister, and the room was thick with cigarette smoke. At the far end was Bardarian, leaning back in a chair, looking up at his first mate while the pudgy man spoke. A third man marked the source of the smoke as he brought a cigar to his mouth, deep in thought.

"Those are the big three—the bridge crew," Denver whispered. "Captain, first mate, quartermaster. If you're lucky, you won't ever have to talk to 'em." He raised his hand, catching Bardarian's eye.

The Captain leaned back in his chair, waving them in. He glanced at Archer briefly, then went back to listening to whatever his first mate was saying.

"But over here," Denver said, stepping over the threshold, "are the strategists. Considering your little display on deck, you'll probably love these two. Britter?"

At Denver's call, the boy lounging on a couch near the back of the room glanced up. He offered the two of them a fantastic smile as he got to his feet.

Archer felt every muscle in his body tense. Liam Britter, famous for his outrageous strategy, was one of Farley's most underlined threats. At a mere twenty-six, he'd earned a strong spot in Bardarian's favour, marking him both influential and popular.

Britter gave Denver a sly nod. "Showing the Minnow around?" he asked.

"Sure am. Archer, this is Liam Britter. He's pretty smart."

The strategist turned his gaze on Archer, tossing him a pearly smile. With his hair tied back in a black ribbon and his eyes sparkling in the evening light, he gave the illusion of someone you'd love to have on your side—but also someone who wouldn't hesitate to turn on you. He was fake and plastic in every way, shape and form, and Archer hated him instantly.

"It's good to have you, Kingsley," Britter said, but he didn't offer his hand. "You'll do well here. Spectacularly, I think."

"Spectacularly," Archer repeated. Quite the word.

"Aye." Britter nodded to the bay window where the bridge crew were still discussing something surely much more important than the rest of them. "You handle pressure well."

Archer found himself wondering who this friendly boy had murdered to obtain his position, who he'd once loved that he now so clearly forgot about. His smile got on Archer's nerves.

Denver glanced between the two of them, taking a step to the side. "And, of course, you've met Silta, our second strategist." His voice switched to cautionary as he turned his gaze on the couch, where their champion was slouched, feet up on the coffee table as she watched the bridge crew talk. "She also manages the training and upkeep of the crew's combat skills."

"Second strategist," Silta muttered. She didn't look up, but she tossed a ball of twine in the air and caught it.

Denver cleared his throat. "Strategist," he corrected. "She controls the logistics with Britter. Equally."

"Or at least we pretend she does," Britter whispered, loud enough that she could hear. "She's really just here to have something nice to look at."

"Angels know we couldn't look at you." Silta tossed the twine up again, glancing over at them. She shifted her eyes from Denver to Archer, then tossed the ball to him.

Archer caught it, feeling the sharp parts of the rope stick out. He threw it back to her.

Britter was still smiling. "In all seriousness, the scheming of the Avourienne can be attributed mostly to our famous champion. Unfortunately, though, she's a lot less pretty when she's annoyed, which is her usual state."

"Sycophant," Silta said.

Archer shifted. He wanted away from that killer of a woman and this fake man that came with her. He wanted out of this room, with the stuffy taste of smoke and the heavy air. He wanted to go back out on the deck, where he could breathe without all these people staring him down.

A hand settled on Archer's shoulder, starling him. When he turned, Bardarian was there, no loud thumps or footsteps to indicate he'd moved. For such a big man, he should've been easier to track.

"Lads," he said. "How's the Minnow?"

Denver's shoulders straightened. "I believe he's getting a satisfactory tour, sir."

Bardarian didn't seem to hear him. "Meeting the brains, I see," he said, giving Britter a nod. "Brilliant, aren't they?"

"Brilliant,"—everyone turned at the sound of Silta's voice over on the couch—"but rather useless, no?"

Bardarian's heavy hand finally lifted from Archer's shoulder, and he let out a long, deep sigh, sharing a look with Britter that said here we go. "Play nice," he said.

"Why's that?" she asked. She didn't say 'sir' or 'captain' as Denver had, just examined the ceiling like there was something far more interesting up there. "Are we trying to impress a minnow that hurled over the rail at the first sight of blood?"

Archer held his tongue. As if it was the blood that bothered him.

For his part, the Captain settled his calm eyes on her, apathetic as ever. "That's enough, darling." It was a simple combination of words, but to Archer, it reeked of a threat, a sure-fire way to silence anyone with a sense of self-preservation.

But when he looked back at the couch, Silta was suddenly on her feet. Materialized—that was the word Jeanne had used.

Archer backed out of her way as she took a step closer to their group, slow and methodical. She was tall, no more than an inch or two shy of his height, but that still made her a head shorter than Bardarian—yet despite all the obvious indicators that made the Captain the focus, the most powerful person in the room, she had a way about her that demanded to be center of attention.

"Your word is not my law," she said. "Not anymore."

Bardarian just gave her a slanted smile. "I can't recall a time where it ever really was." He glanced at Britter. "Can you?"

Silta's eyes snapped to her fellow strategist when he snorted, which quickly caused him to straighten his expression once more. Bardarian was winning, and Archer could get behind that. Let him diminish her threats and that eerie look with nothing more than indifference. He was a monster, too, but at least he was up front about it. Behind your bravado, behind your wall of simplicity lies a far more sinister character. Domestic—confining, even.

Silta raised her hand to Bardarian's shoulder, and Archer knew she was about to deal a final blow. "Cautious to a fight," she said quietly, her finger curling under that pearl necklace. "You need a drink, love."

The temperature in the room plummeted, Britter stiffened, and the easygoing sparkle in Bardarian's eyes winked out. Pirates drank, and Bardarian was not cautious, so although Archer knew Silta had just thrown the better insult, he wasn't sure why.

Offering the Captain a tight smile, she turned away, shouldering Denver aside so she could go speak to the bridge crew.

"I must ask you to continue your tour elsewhere, lads." Bardarian, pretending all of that never happened. "We've much to discuss concerning port here."

Denver nodded quickly, pushing Archer towards the door. "Let's get out of here," he muttered.

When they were back in that tight staircase, the smoke no longer choking his airway, Archer finally said, "What's wrong with her?"

"Silta?" Denver reached the bottom of the staircase and strode through the navigation room, nodding once more to Rusher, who didn't seem to notice them. "She's not normally that...hostile. I heard they had a fight this morning."

"They?"

"Cap and her," he clarified. "They always screaming at each other."

"What about?" Archer asked, following him across the deck. The sun was setting once more, lowering on the horizon.

"First mate," Denver said. "Silta wants it, and Bardarian won't give it. It's an old argument. She thinks she deserves it over Bates—and maybe she does. But a woman in that position?" He shook his head. "It's asking for trouble."

He keeps anyone threatening far from his hat. There were a few reasons Silta wasn't the person for that job in Archer's mind—her disobedience, her aggression, her threatening skill level—but being a woman wasn't one of them.

"Alright," Denver said, coming to a staircase near the aft deck. "This is the way belowdecks. Come on down."

Archer followed him, eyes scanning the long, well-kept hallway with doors on either side.

"We've got a hammock room for the cabin boys," Denver said, "but once you're trained, you get a bed. I'll put you in with Kip—he's the newest, after you. Here you are." He opened a door to his right, revealing two bunks, no possessions in sight. He nodded down the hall. "At the end there are the single rooms for all the important people like the navigators. The big-ass room in the corner is Silta's because she's spoiled and nobody wants to fight her for it." He shook his head. "I'd kill for that room," he said. "I bunk with the cook, and he's up at dawn to make breakfast every day. Silta's never down here, anyway." He rolled he eyes and closed the door he'd opened. "Down that hatch is the lower deck and below that is the hold, where the cells are. If you don't open the hatch, you never have to smell the algae growing down there." He turned quickly. "Listen, Kip's up on deck, so you've got the room to yourself, but just be careful gettin' too close to him. He's a bit of a...dud."

Archer glanced down the hall as a crew member opened a door, speaking in hushed tones with someone on the other side. "A dud?" he asked.

"Well, he's trained, so he should pull his weight, but he's kinda useless, and his time's almost up to fix himself. Just keep your distance."

His time's almost up. What a nasty, awful sentence. If he couldn't live up to their standard, what would they do with him? Throw him over the rail?

"So get yourself situated, then come up to the common room," Denver said. "When it gets dark, we all gather up there to have a drink. I'll see ya up there, okay?" He didn't wait for Archer's answer, just turned on his heel and headed back up the stairs.

Archer listened to his footsteps recede up the steps. The hall settled into silence.

This was a catch-up game in full force—get blindsided by something and have to swallow his reaction in the moment just to feel it all come crashing down the second he was alone.

Nausea crept up his throat again despite his empty stomach. He'd killed her. He'd actually killed—

Archer shook his head to clear the thoughts. He couldn't do this. He couldn't cry, couldn't scream, couldn't argue that he didn't belong here. He was right where he needed to be, engaging in Farley's plan to the perfect degree. He was going to ride this devil-ship right to the Kingsland, where he'd get his job done. That was the mission, and that's what Jeanne wanted. Catch-up games and nausea be damned.

He would pull this off.