15 | The Disguise of Uncertainty
There was a dark tint to the night, throwing heavy shadows across the street. Archer's collar was uncomfortably tight, but he avoided tugging at it. He glanced over at Lyra, who gently placed her hand on his arm as though she could sense his lack of ease.
"You'll be fine, Minnow," she said softly.
He wasn't sure he liked how obviously his nerves came off to her, so he stayed quiet as they approached the grand building. The long, narrow windows and golden arches were an indisputably impressive feat of architecture. As they approached, he shook off his shivers and racing pulse.
"No, not yet," Lyra whispered to him as he reached into his pocket for the invitation.
Archer withdrew his hand, knowing she was right and frustrated at himself for not realizing how jumpy it would've looked. He couldn't quite get over how obviously out-of-place he looked in this setting. Lyra, with her small, easily overlooked frame and northern features, looked nothing more than her part: the unsuspecting wife of a wealthy man who worked for the King.
But Archer? He'd never noticed how little he blended into crowds. One good look at the colour of his skin and the set of his eyes, and one may suspect Myrian as Silta had.
He'd never known self-consciousness, but now he was painfully aware of everything—the fact that his fingers bore the callouses of a man who fished for a living, not the smooth pads of a socialite. The scars from his lures, the broadness of his shoulders that seemed to scream, I don't belong among these stumpy, overly well-fed men.
As they ascended the steps, he felt the now-familiar spike of pain in his leg. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone, hoping it wouldn't disrupt the plan, but he could already feel the muscle screaming for rest.
They don't see the details, not until they've seen the whole. Her words were haunting the corners of his mind, bragging about how much truth they held. No one would suspect a thing if he gave them no reason to.
"Invitation?"
Archer glanced at the man in the door as though he hadn't noticed him. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed over the piece of paper. The man stared at it for a moment, decided it was real and handed it back.
"That's the hard part done," Lyra breathed as they stepped inside.
The doorway opened up to a long, open hallway. They walked down it for what felt like an eternity before the ceiling suddenly soared skyward and the walls melted away into the biggest room Archer had ever seen. Each window had a stunning collection of stained glass, each railing made of polished gold and each chandelier worth the entire island of Orphano in gold.
"He's a bastard, through and through," Lyra mumbled, "but by the angels, does he make some beautiful things."
Archer bit the inside of his lip to stop his laughter. He was nervous, and that's why he found it so funny. Or maybe it really was just funny—after all, Silta was by far the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and the King had a hand in making her, too.
"We should stay a few minutes," Lyra said, ignorant to his laughter. "Throw suspicion."
He tore his gaze from the expansive room and the dozens of suave, self-assured king's workers. Silk, suits, crystals, diamonds—it was beautiful, but it was tasteless, so far from the captain's quarters of the Avourienne he'd admired.
"Clever," Archer replied, offering her his hand. "Shall we?"
She narrowed her eyes at his hand, then took it anyway. "You dance, do you?"
"No," he said, leading her to the space where the other couples were. "But I learn quickly."
He turned around to face her, and she placed a ghostlike hand on his shoulder. He glanced at the other men, mimicking their placement. Not hard at all, with the exception of that burning pain in the back of his thigh.
"Sore?" she asked, nodding down.
Archer looked at her. "A little."
"I'd expect nothin' less. That woman is brutal."
"Like you wouldn't believe," he mumbled.
Her hand tightened on his shoulder a little. He was glancing around the room, taking notes, making exit strategies, but he could feel her heartbeat rattling off even from the small of her back.
"You know where to go?" she asked.
"Stairwell near that big man in blue?"
"That's right. You gotta get to the rooftop floor. And not to make you panic, Kingsley, but the General's lookin' at us."
Archer said nothing. He waited a few moments, then spun them slowly so he could get a glimpse, and sure enough, there he was, perched up on a throne-like chair near the north side of the ballroom. And sure enough, he had his eyes on them.
"Looks like he's been tipped off," Lyra noted as they turned back around.
"By who?"
"Well, you never know. The contact, maybe. Oh, he's talking to his advisor. Get going, Kingsley."
He took the opportunity the moment it presented. While the General conversed with someone else, Archer stepped away from Lyra and made a beeline for the stairs. The moment he was out of view, he slowed down, going back to the part of the man who belonged.
He turned on his heel, finding the hallway behind the ballroom. The east staircase came into view on his left, the sounds of simple music drifting into the hallway. A woman with hair so tall it nearly hid her husband was leaning against the stairs, speaking in hushed tones. As he passed, Archer smiled at them and started up the steps.
He reached out to the staircase rail and took the steps two at a time, his leg aching horribly. One floor up, two men in King's uniforms—crisps, as Britter had called them—met him on the landing.
"Evening, gentlemen," Archer said evenly. "Beautiful night."
One of the men gave him a nod as they went on their way, which almost caused him to laugh—it really was that easy. Aggression, in the perfect dose, made anyone believe what he wanted.
He leaned over the railing to see up the opening between the stairs, wondering how much further he had to go. From outside, the building looked no more than a few stories high.
Second landing. Nobody in sight. He reached the third. A man and a woman disappeared around the corner with a whisper. He made his way to the fourth landing, his leg screaming for rest.
He'd finally reached the top floor. He gazed up but there was no way to the roof. He glanced around, searching the intricate stones with his eyes. They'd all said there would be a way to let Silta and Britter in.
He walked a little down the hall and he saw a dark square in the wall, maybe four feet off the ground, latched closed. That must be the way to the roof, which was only a half story up.
The issue? There was a crisp standing beside it, which Archer had not been prepared for. He crept closer, getting only a few paces away before the crisp looked up. His uniform was stark black and gold, with a sparkling choker around his neck, apparently each worth thousands.
"There are to be no guests on this floor. Please head back to the ballroom." The crisp's voice was commanding, confident in a way that implied no one had ever failed to obey him before.
Archer didn't respond nor stop his advance. The crisp had a pistol; all Archer had were a few concealed knives that would make the whole situation even messier. So he'd do it Silta's way. Hands against hands.
The crisp took a step back as he recognized Archer to be a threat. He held out his hand, his other one creeping towards the hilt of his longknife. He spoke again, but it wasn't so confident this time, "Proceed back to the ballroom."
Archer said nothing. When he was close enough, the crisp threw a slow punch and immediately after reached for the pistol. Ducking, Archer took both sides of the crisp's face and slammed his head back against the wall. He fell to the ground, unconscious.
He glanced at the man. They were useless.
Looking around to confirm no one had seen, he reached up and unlatched the cool steel of the roof door, swinging it open.
He saw Britter first, as he was taking up most of the door. He might've been dressed like Archer, but his glimmering smile told them apart. Reluctantly, he moved aside as Silta shoved him with her shoulder.
"Evening, Kingsley," came her typically cryptic greeting. She lowered her eyes. "You look good, love." She bundled up her dress and took his outstretched hand, nimbly landing on the floor below.
Archer ignored both her compliment and the possible expectation of giving one back. He turned to help Britter down, but the other strategist waved off his hand and hopped, then stumbled when he landed. He latched the door behind him.
When Archer turned, Silta was leaning down to feel the pulse of the crisp on the ground. "Couldn't finish it?" she guessed.
"Could've," he corrected.
She stood up, lifting her chin to look down on him in the way she always managed. With the heels she was wearing, she was his height, if not a hair taller. Archer always considered himself secure enough that such a thing wouldn't matter, but with her, it felt like the only thing he had. She'd also twisted up her hair, as though she were showing off both the bruises on her neck and the cut across her cheekbone—the latter, Archer didn't remember giving her. Despite the nasty colour, she had a way of pulling them off.
"Admiring your work?" she asked, beginning to walk.
He led the three of them down the hallway. "Sure," he said. Then, just over his shoulder, "You're unrecognizable."
Britter passed by him, friendly smile vanishing. "Watch how much you take credit for, Kingsley. The face wasn't you," he said, not looking back.
Archer felt his eyebrows dip a little. Britter's implication was plenty clear, and there was only one man who had the guts to get physical with Silta outside of training.
She was unphased as she followed Britter down the hall. As she passed Archer, she leaned in and spoke slyly, "Captain hits much harder than you." She spread her arms and walked backward for a few steps, a wicked smile on her face. "Makes it up better, too."
Archer jogged to catch up as they began descending the stairs. Only she could turn such a thing into a competition.
"You're heading back to the ballroom, Kingsley," Britter was saying as they rounded on the third landing. "Get out of here with Lyra, then meet back at the ship."
Archer nodded, eager to leave. As they made it to the second landing, a guest almost stumbled into Britter. Silta glanced quickly at the railing, hiding her face. Archer moved in front of her.
The man arched his head to see her—perhaps because he simply wanted to match Silta's body to her face, but it still panicked all of them.
"Busy night down there, isn't it?" Archer said to the man, who glanced over at the sound of his voice.
"Sure is," the man replied, giving him a nod and heading up the stairs. He disappeared without another look.
Britter turned around. "I thought you were nervous," he said.
Silta grinned and placed an elegant hand on Archer's arm. "I fixed him," she said.
Archer looked down at her arm pointedly, and in doing so, he got a closer look at what he'd previously thought was just a typical tattoo on her bicep—the one that always seemed to be hidden.
"Is that a kill ring?" he asked, referencing the old pirate tradition. The tattoo started as one line from their first kill and continued to get more intricate as they went on killing. Each line was a life, and Silta's had hundreds.
She searched his eyes, deciding what he thought of it. "Pretty, no?"
Yet he sensed the unusual wavering in her voice suggested she didn't like the tattoo at all. In fact, kill rings were rather precarious; once you had one, legend said you had to stay loyal to updating it or the ink would poison you.
He pulled his arm away. He didn't think it was pretty; he hated the whole concept. It was one thing to kill, and it was a whole other to immortalize it in your skin.
Silta moved past them both, forcing them to resume down the stairs until they reached the second landing. Archer took a step to the side to go his own way, back to the ballroom. The weapon's manager would be on the second floor, in his office. Bardarian had confirmed he was no partier.
But as Archer went to continue down the stairs, Silta's hand wrenched him back by the shoulder.
"Angels," he snapped as she tugged him along to the balcony overlooking the ballroom. "I'm supposed to split up." He rolled his shoulder out of her grasp.
"Look," Silta said, nodding her head down to the ballroom.
Archer glanced out at the room below them. Lyra was standing in the corner where he'd left her, but unlike then, she was conversing with someone else in a tense, awkward conversation. Upon closer inspection, Archer realized who she was speaking with.
"Why the hell is Tailsley cozying up to the General?" Britter asked.
"Not what I'm looking at," Silta said. She turned Britter's head to the right.
"What?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes. "The man in black behind the General. You see him?"
"What about him?"
"Weapon's manager," she said.
"How do you know?"
"The lapel, Liam, use your eyes."
Britter squinted. "No way in hell you can see that from here."
Silta ducked behind Archer when somebody looked up under them.
Britter was staring at the weapon's manager. "Are you some sort of spyglass?" His face was twisting. "How can you see that from here?"
"Siren eyes, love."
"Yeah, whatever. It's not fair."
Archer talked over his shoulder, "How did you know he'd be here?" She'd pulled him back before they spotted the General.
Silta peered out from behind him. "Lucky guess."
Archer and Britter shared a look. She clearly knew something they didn't.
"How do we get to him?" Britter asked.
"I have to go down," Silta responded.
Archer went to turn around and face her, but she pressed her fingers into his ribs from behind, forcing him to stay in front of her. He rolled his eyes at his own response as he strained to see her. "They'll recognize you," he pointed out.
"Probably," she said calmly. "I'll take care of it. Kingsley, with me. Britter, head to the first floor. Meet me in the safe room." She pushed Archer back to the stairs. Britter went left to the General's room and Archer went straight, back to the ballroom.
"Walk tall, Kingsley," Silta whispered behind him.
Archer straightened his back. She'd caught onto his insecurity, and now she was using it as a weapon. He wanted to tell her that he was in no way the anomaly—she was—but he didn't take what was most definitely bait.
"You deal with the General, I've got the weapon's manager," she said as they neared.
"What?" Archer didn't bother to hide his panic. "What do you mean, deal with him?"
"Just distract him, Kingsley, relax." He could hear the smile in her voice as she spoke her next words, "Although the bloodlust brings you up a few points." She laughed a little, dragging her hand down his spine, then pulling out from behind him. "Follow me when I leave," she added.
Archer stepped in beside the General. "Evening, sir. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Lyra looked at him, green eyes sparkling. The General turned as well, and while he may have been the smaller man, he held an air of leadership that made Archer feel small.
"Perhaps I found it odd such a pretty woman was without her escort," the General replied.
"He was only scouting his people, dear," Lyra added.
Archer glanced over at her. Scouting. Something was wrong.
"Entirely my mistake, sir," Archer replied. "I found myself lost—it's a grand place." He slid an arm around Lyra, and she leaned closer.
"Kingsley, is it?" the General asked. "Did you happen to run into any members of the Avourienne on your way back?"
Archer raised an eyebrow and offered him a polite look, but one that gently implied he was insane. "Sir, you're mistaken. My name is Jacob, and I have surely not seen any pirates." He kept the bewilderment in his tone to a minimum. "My wife and I were invited here. I work for the Kvas sector." Because he was named Jacob, and he did work for the Kvas sector. He and Sarah had been married in a beautifully tasteless wedding on the south side of Port Marcel. There were roses on the tabletops and they'd eaten white pastries with blueberry filling. He'd been born just south of Chorro, grateful to have been ripped away from Myrian terrors at the young age of four years old. His father had green eyes and broad shoulders. His mother had wrinkles around her eyes and—
"Excuse me," the General said, glancing somewhere else. "It appears I have the wrong people." He took a step back and went his own way, completely disregarding them.
So the General had been bluffing, then. He knew that a new crew member of the Avourienne named Kingsley was wandering around, and he must also know Silta was here, but he did not know what he looked like or where Silta was. Archer may be safe for now, but he knew what it all meant.
The Avourienne had a snitch.
Silta had slid her face next to that of the weapon's manager, who was by himself. She whispered something in his ear and to everyone else, they simply looked like a couple speaking quietly. But to Archer, it looked like she had something sharp pressed into his back.
"That was brilliant," Lyra said, following his gaze.
"Thank you. You're good to go," he replied.
"You're not coming?"
"Silta wants me elsewhere."
Lyra gave him a look. "Okay, Kingsley, but use your head. Don't let her use you as bait or anything."
Archer gave her a good luck smile, and they went their separate ways: Lyra to the entrance and him to wherever the hell Silta was dragging the weapon's manager. He fell into step with her as she departed the ballroom.
"What did you do to him?" he asked, noting the white face of the weapon's manager. He took out a key and went to unlock the door to their left.
"Asked him nicely, Jacob," Silta replied, leaning against the wall next to the terrified man, spinning a knife in her fingers. Archer's eyes landed on it and she grinned, sharp canines and all.
The door opened despite the weapon's manager not yet inserting the key. The lock had been broken, no doubt by Britter.
Silta pushed off the wall and followed the weapon's manager into the room, Archer in tow.
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