Bardarian knew.

It was there in the depth of his irises, the curl of his fingers on the desk. It was in the set of his jaw, down to the muscles under his eyes. Bardarian knew, and yet he said nothing about it. Not yet, at least.

"Word travels fast here, Kingsley," the Captain said, voice calm and smooth. He was leaning back in that huge chair, ocean eyes steady.

"I'd blame it on the tight quarters, sir," Archer replied, not quite meeting his gaze. He couldn't help it; when he got nervous, he got witty.

Bardarian glanced over. He was older than Archer by more than a decade, but his appearance was youthful at the same time as it was authoritative. He was easy to be jealous of, with his surety and his size. He was even easier to be afraid of, with the scars on his hands and the entire crew of loyal killers under his control.

He regarded Archer carefully as he said, "You're a brilliant man, Kingsley."

"Oh, that's hardly my best joke, sir." He couldn't help it.

Bardarian lifted his chin, threatening him with that grin again as he leaned back in his chair. "Do you know where we put brilliant men, lad?"

It eased him to realize that while he may not be brilliant like Silta, he was at least smarter than Bardarian. Conversations with the strategists made him think, made him plan his words and predict theirs in order to keep up. Here, though, he knew exactly what Bardarian was going to say long before he said it—that's why he wasn't exactly paying attention to what was being said, but rather what was being implied, like the avoidance of the general word 'people' in favour of the word 'men.'

He remembered the crew's story of Adrian Everson, the man who'd have made Silta first mate. Having a female first mate wasn't a good look, but if it were Silta, with her status, it wouldn't necessarily harm the ship's reputation. Archer was hardly a modern thinker, but he did believe in giving a position to the most qualified individual.

He guessed the pushback from Bardarian regarding Silta's promotion wasn't really because she was a woman, but rather because it threatened him. Because she was already smarter, quicker, even better at fighting, and giving her more power would only minimize his own.

Archer cleared his throat and answered the question, "In strategy, I'd assume, sir."

Bardarian tilted his chin down again, just short of a real nod. "I've yet to announce this to Silta and Britter, but I doubt the idea will be new to them," he said. "You know these strategists—they're always a step ahead. I'd like for them to introduce you to the position."

A deep breath, then, "All due respect, sir, but don't you doubt my competence? I've been on this ship for only two months."

He'd decided his course of action on his way in. Being strategist was a good thing, because it allowed him insight into the plan near the Kingsland, but if he was right in assuming Silta had told Bardarian about what happened—because he didn't seem smart enough to know it just by looking—then he needed to reduce himself as a threat in Bardarian's eyes. Act tentative and insecure, very traits Silta would despise.

Bardarian smiled. "You act as though I know only what I see with my eyes, boy." He brought both of his hands to the surface of the table, letting the candlelight shine off a gleaming gold band on his finger, his left ring finger.

It was bait. It was testing to see if he would react. Silta wasn't even wearing hers last he saw. He resisted the urge to reply to the 'boy' insult by pointing out that the four years between him and Silta were half the gap between Bardarian and her, and instead said cautiously, "I'm just not sure I've done much to deserve the position."

"No? I won't give it to you then." He leaned forward quickly as he said it, causing Archer to flinch.

It was a calculated, rapid reply. It said, you've wildly underestimated my intelligence—but only because I tricked you into doing so.

He paused. So Bardarian had caught onto the game, and Archer was not necessarily the smarter conversationalist after all. In fact, it was now entirely possible that Bardarian had figured out the events of that night because of simple observations. Why he hadn't already snapped Archer in half was still a mystery.

"I'll take it," he said. If Bardarian wasn't going to fall for the trick of minimizing the threat, then he'd maximize it, all in, one way or the other. He held his breath and said, "I'm sure Silta will catch me up just fine."

Bardarian gave him a wicked smile, but it wasn't just venomous. It implied he respected, even liked Archer's audacity, found the idea of playing this little game quite fun.

"Excellent," came his low, grating reply. "Why don't I bring you in? I'm in need of a map from there."

"Yes, sir," Archer said, but he waited just a little too long between the two words for the response to be considered perfectly respectable.

He rose and left the captain's quarters, feeling tiny in the Captain's shadow. Bardarian pushed open the door to the strategy room so forcefully it slammed against the wall as he passed through.

Archer paused at the entrance. He needed this opportunity, but by the angels, he did not want to go in there. He wanted to keep hiding, like he'd been doing the past few days. He didn't want to see her, didn't want to watch her pretend it never happened, act like those hours in the dark were just good strategy. Like he was just another notch in her carved-up bedframe that she wouldn't remember in a few weeks.

But he couldn't—he wouldn't—hide forever, so he stepped over the sill.

Britter was by the table, near a splayed-out map. Silta was perched on the table, legs crossed as she conversed with Britter, but she looked up, expressionless as ever. She opened her mouth to say something, but Bardarian raised his hand immediately.

"No, no," he said, snapping his fingers at her, taking a step closer. "No arguments, no pretty little innocent looks—stop that. He's a strategist, regardless of your meaningless protests. You hear me, woman? No discussion."

Archer blinked. Bardarian had placed a hand on his shoulder as he spoke, and he had to fight the urge to shrug it off. It was no different from the outcast being thrust onto the popular kid's team.

Silta lifted her hands in surrender, meeting his outburst with an amused smile. "No complaints," she said.

"Fine by me," Britter added, turning back to the map. "Also, sorry about the whole gun-aimed-at-you-thing in Port Kiver. I thought you were the snitch. I understand now that you were not."

Archer still didn't like the friendly boy, but he was growing on him a little. At least he was tolerable, to a certain extent—

"Although," Silta said.

Bardarian eyes narrowed.

"It's just that three strategists are a lot of strategists," she said.

Bardarian shook his head, abandoning Archer by the frame to go get his map. He rounded the table, ignoring her.

"There's a simple solution to your crowded strategy room, though," Silta continued, eyes following him as he reached for a map on the wall. "You could promote me. You know, give Bates a rest. He looks so tired these days."

Britter's hand fell onto the table loudly, but no one looked at him.

"Unbelievable," Bardarian muttered, rolling up his map and coming back around the table.

She tilted her chin back and laughed, lyrical and beautiful. "Oh, come on," she said, unfolding her legs to rest her forearms on her thighs, looking up at him through her lashes as he passed by again.

"Head strategist," she countered his silence. "Britter still thinks we're the same rank, and Archer cannot have the same title as me."

Everyone paused, including Bardarian, who turned around to see her once more. Had she slipped up? Called Archer by his first name as a mistake? Of course not; Silta didn't make mistakes. Look how easily I can replace you, love. You know I already did for a night.

Bardarian smiled at her, but it wasn't intrigued or wicked or cunning; it was just hateful. "Head strategist," he confirmed as he reached for the door.

"Sir!" Britter exclaimed, stopping Bardarian in the frame. "I've been on the crew a year longer!"

Silta glanced at Britter. "Length isn't everything, Britter," she said, still appearing to find herself quite amusing. "Technique, style—"

"Experience has everything to do with—"

"Relax, you vultures," the Captain cut in. He spoke to Britter, "She's twice the clever you are, and you know it. End of discussion." He shut the door behind him loudly.

Silta turned pointedly to Britter with a grin, spreading her arms in victory. "Head strategist," she declared. "Address me as such."

"This is rigged," Britter snapped at her, slamming a hand down on the table in frustration. "I don't get how you do it."

Archer knew exactly how she did it. There were the obvious things: starting big with the mention of first mate, then aiming lower to compromise. There was the subtlety—calling Archer by his first name to threaten Bardarian with replacement. And above all, if he'd still said no, she simply would've gone to him later that night, put her skilled hands somewhere he'd fall for and convinced him. He knew she could do that, too.

Britter just shook his head and moved on quickly, pointing to a certain spot on the map they'd been looking at. "They've blocked the second entrance since we last visited," he said. "There's only one now, which is going to be a problem."

Archer pushed off the wall. "The Kingsland?" he asked, moving towards the table.

Britter glanced up at him. "Yeah," he said, pointing to the spot on the map again. "We're planning our approach. We're here."

"We'll just have to dock outside this time," Silta said. She didn't acknowledge Archer.

"Agreed," Britter replied.

"Why?" Archer asked. "Wouldn't you normally go all the way in?"

Silta let out her breath louder than usual, annoyed with having to catch him up.

"We usually go in, yes," Britter explained, "but we've always entered at night, taken what we needed and left before anyone knew we'd come. This time, we're going to make them aware we're there." He squinted at the map.

"Why does it make a difference?" Archer asked.

"We can't just have the Avourienne in plain sight," he explained again, clearly getting irritated now, too. "We want the element of surprise."

"You don't have the element of surprise," Archer told him. "They know we're coming."

Silta looked up at that, but he didn't meet her gaze.

"You know something?" Britter said, standing up straight. "I'm plenty aware that you don't like me, Kingsley, but if I'd known you were here just to undermine me, I would've put up more of a fight when Cap brought you in."

"I'm not undermining you," Archer said, meeting his gaze. "You're just too arrogant to consider that I might have more information than you."

"Careful, Kingsley. You know nothing about the weeks of strategy we've been doing—"

"Why don't you look over at your head strategist?" Archer interrupted. "She'll explain."

Britter glanced at Silta. "What is he talking about?"

She shrugged. "I might've said something to the General in Port Kiver."

"You did what?"

"She told him we were coming to the Kingsland," Archer told him. He couldn't figure it out then, but now it clicked, now it made sense. "She also told him we had the Prince, because by that time she'd already figured it out." He glanced over at her. "Didn't you?"

It was the first thing he'd uttered to her since that morning a few days ago. In fact, the last words he said to her were something along the lines of a pretty hateful statement.

She met his gaze, beautiful and corrupt. "I did," she said.

Britter made a face and shook his head. "Why? Why would you tell them we're coming?"

She shifted off the desk in favour of leaning against the wall. "They already knew we were coming."

She'd lost both of them now. The King couldn't have already known; Archer had convinced Bardarian to go based on a map that royalty didn't even have.

"They wanted us to come in thinking we had the element of surprise when we didn't," she said. "I took that away from them. Now everyone is on the same page rather than us being one behind."

"But how would they know that we're coming?" Britter asked.

"Nevermind how or why," she replied. "You leave those little details to me, your head strategist," she said.

Britter rolled his eyes, but he clearly wasn't overly resistant to being left out of her schemes. "Whatever. Let's move on."

"Let's not," Archer said. "It's an important detail. How would they know we're coming?"

Silta glanced at him again. She looked hard this time, like she was searching for something. She found it, then flinched as if a little droplet of water had landed on her nose. She was clearly some semblance of shocked, but she covered it up. "You don't know why?"

"That's why I asked," he said. Said, not snapped. But his patience was running thin.

"You really don't know," she declared, shaking her head. "Unbelievable."

"What's unbelievable?" Britter asked.

"Honestly, Kingsley," she said, ignoring him, "I'd have so much more respect for you if it was all your clever doing. But this? Unbelievable."

Archer hadn't the faintest clue what she was talking about, but he guessed she'd probably come to another false conclusion, blaming him yet again for something he didn't do.

"What are you talking about?" Britter asked, eyes darting from Archer to Silta.

She ignored him, training her blank look on Archer. "You know, love, it's so performative to play coy of Bardarian—as if sleeping with me should be even a fraction of your worries on this ship."

Britter pointed a finger at Archer, who came around the table as Silta held her ground near the wall. "I'm sorry, what?" he asked.

Archer felt his words snap out quickly, "You're talking so much shit I don't even know what you're accusing me of."

"That's because you're full of blind trust," she replied. "You give your entire being to people you barely understand."

"Don't you dare," he spat back. "I did not blindly trust you—I asked you over and over if you were using me, but you deflected, distracted and above all manipulated me into believing what you wanted."

"I'm not talking about us, Kingsley. Just think about it." Her voice still held that deadly calm, and it enraged him, made him frustrated beyond relief. Nothing bothered her, nothing frustrated her or made her feel guilty.

"No?" he asked. "I'm supposed to believe not everything you do is a ploy to get under my skin?"

Britter was making a gesture. "Can we go back? Say, to the part about the—"

"Just be quiet," Silta told him, and he listened.

There was a brief moment of silence as she shook her head, reaching up to run her fingers through her hair by some form of exasperation. And there, glinting in the candlelight, was that beautiful, expensive, talkative ring on her finger—the one he'd picked up from her nightstand, when she'd answered his silent question by shaking her head.

"Look me in the eye, Kingsley," she said to him, still so calm. "You know a truth from a lie."

That he did, and she wasn't lying; this wasn't about them, but she'd shaken her head, told him silently that she was not marrying Bardarian. She'd told him she wasn't a Siren, wasn't manipulating him. She'd told him a thousand things he believed at the time.

"I don't believe a word you say." He started out calm, but he was losing it again. "Not one single word, Novari. You're honourless, and you're a liar down to your soul."

She slammed her hand down on the table, causing Britter to flinch and scrape back his chair, ready to peel them apart. "Watch it, Kingsley." She didn't sound as outwardly upset as he was, but there was a nasty, incomparable edge to her voice. "You can call me a player; you have every right to, but you don't get to call me a liar. I never lied to you."

Logically, technically, of course, she was right. She'd never explicitly told him she wasn't using him, and she had hinted about ulterior motives. About the ring, Bardarian could've got her into that a thousand different ways after she'd shaken her head, but he was tired of her twisting things into obsoletes, into technicalities and perfect, rigid logic.

"So you never lied," he told her. "You never lie, but you manipulate. You twist words and you turn around the narrative and you know exactly how to get me to do what you want. You're no liar, but you're no better than one, either."

"So I had a motive," she snarled, finally losing her calm. "It makes no difference, Kingsley! You got what you wanted."

"You think I got what I wanted?" he asked. He was the usual crowd to her, he realized, someone as shallow and one-track-minded as everyone else. "That was not all I wanted."

Her voice lowered again, but that only made her sound angrier, "Isn't it? What more do you want?" She held out a hand, as if she was physically trying to get him to understand her point. "Are you in love with me, Kingsley? Do you want me to love you back?"

He shook his head automatically, because no, he wasn't in love with her. Of course not.

"Then what is it that you want from me? What more?"

He didn't have a response for that. He didn't know what more he wanted; he'd been so consumed by her and the mere thought of it all that he didn't stop to think about where they went from there, the best-case scenario. The words were sand, and they were slipping through his fingertips.

She took a step closer in the absence of his reply, hissing out her words through gritted teeth "Do you want me to throw away my life for you, Kingsley, is that it? Burn my ring, take yours instead? Would you like to spend the rest of eternity arguing with me about right and wrong, look down on me from on your pedestal of moral superiority while you desperately try to fix me? Is that what you want?" Her eyes glistened as her voice broke over the words, cracking with not necessarily anger, but rather frustration.

He still couldn't find the words. Not love, he'd told himself. Not just lust, though, either, and not simple infatuation. It was all too surreal in the first place for him to even make up his mind about what he wanted. Yes, her details were deeply flawed, but her whole—that was just perfect, wasn't it? The reckless nature of her, the surety and confidence, the whole.

"I'll tell you what you wanted, Kingsley," she whispered to him, eyes full of fury. "You wanted to touch me. You wanted my body—no, Archer, don't shake your head at me, don't think you're anything more than a man. You sit there and wallowing in your own self-pity, insisting to yourself that you were used and manipulated and yes, you were, but you were just as superficial in your motives—unless you'd like to tell me some other fantastic reason you did it."

She waited for him to speak, ready to rebuttal his next smart argument, but he had no argument to make, because the only thing he could say was the truth—that he did want to sit there for all eternity and argue about morality. That no, he hadn't wanted her body, he'd just wanted her.

"That's what I thought, love," she said. She glanced at Britter once, then spun around and shut the door behind her.

He listened to her footsteps down the hall, watching the empty place where she'd stood for a moment longer before sitting down in the chair by the table. He ran his hands through his hair, holding tight to his composure.

"Oh cheer up, Minnow."

Archer glanced over at the other strategist, who snorted once, then let out a laugh.

"Look, I'll be honest, Minnow, I always liked you, but honestly, who knew you had such gall? You're my new idol; you don't just get what we all want, but you get her all flustered that you're not in love with her."

"She's not upset about that," Archer said.

"Well, Minnow, I beg to differ," he said. "That woman has never not gotten her way. Regardless of whether she wants you, she wants you to love her like everyone else does. It's a faucet of her ego; she's all cool and unimpressionable until the little orphan shows up on his—what was it? Pedestal of moral superiority?" He shook his head. "A shame you got slaughtered there at the end." He laughed, tapping the map a few times. "Anyway, point is, respect for you, Minnow. I truly do hope the Captain doesn't chop you up into bits and scatter you across the ocean for a scavenger hunt."

Archer watched him leave. His head was nothing but sharp needles being tossed around whenever he moved, arms and legs weak despite having done no strenuous exercise these last couple of days.

The problem here was his concentration on her delivery, on what she'd said later in the argument. The true problem here was he never went back to think about what she said about blind trust, and what it might've implied.