Miller is an excellent doctor. Miller is an excellent doctor. Miller is an excellent doctor.

Those logical words calmed him when nothing else would. He sat next to Lyra, back to the rail, waiting for word like the rest of the crew.

"She'll be fine," Lyra muttered. She wasn't speaking to Archer—or anybody else, for that matter. It seemed the whole crew was in their own little world, all terrified to lose their most prized possession.

It angered him. They weren't worried about Silta, they were worried about their champion, their brilliant strategist. They were worried about the consequences of her death on Bardarian, on their hierarchy. They could pretend there were other reasons for the fame of their ship, but the truth remained that the daughter of the King was the real reason the Avourienne was anything at all.

They didn't fear the loss of her, not like he did. They didn't agonize over the quick wit, the quiet lover, the cunning mind. It infuriated him, made him intent on stealing Silta away once she was healed and dragging her off to some world where she would be more than a pretty face and a means to gain power.

He was angry about it, but perhaps he was wrong to be. Perhaps he was wrong in the first place. After all, Lyra was the most white-faced out of everyone; she would still be in Port Kiver if it weren't for Silta. Britter would be without his best friend, Rusher without his verbally abusive sparing partner.

The door to the navigation room opened, and Bardarian stood at the doorway. His face was ashy, but his voice was calm, "The blood." He gestured to the deck. "If it's not cleaned, it'll stain." He headed to the balcony steps, moved up to his quarters.

Nobody moved. Archer definitely didn't.

They stayed there for a long time. They watched the sky break open and pour water from the clouds, washing away the blood, swirling it with water. A few of the crew left their unspoken vigil as the hours passed.

It must've been close to midnight when Britter came out of the navigation room and pointed at Archer.

"Get over here, Kingsley," he said.

He obeyed quickly, making his way over. Britter lowered his voice to a whisper so the rest of the crew couldn't hear, "Do you know who she was talking about?" he asked.

"No clue," he replied.

"Do you think she'll tell you?"

He didn't think she would. If she wasn't going to tell Britter or Bardarian, then she wouldn't tell Archer either. Still, he wanted in the room now that Bardarian was gone.

"I don't know," he answered. "She's still not telling anyone?"

"No," Britter said. "She's all loopy from the drugs that Miller gave her, if you can believe she can get even more psycho than she was."

That was hard to believe.

"We're thinking if she's going to tell, it's going to be now. Once she's lucid again, she definitely won't tell. She'll run around all of us with those damn mind games."

"I can try," he offered.

"Okay Kingsley," Britter said. "Let's hope she likes you more than she did us."

Archer pushed open the door, leaving Britter outside. Miller was still moving around, propping up Silta's head. She looked up at Archer when he entered.

"She's absolutely off her nut right now, Archer," the doctor said. "But try your best." She left out of the front door, leaving him alone.

"You know, she really does think that," Silta offered, arms and neck covered with gauze. She laughed. "There's that look in her eye—you get it. It's how you know someone's telling the truth. Angels, you're shaking, Minnow. You think I'm going to hit you, do you?"

Archer was more afraid of her words.

"Oh, you're scared of the words, aren't you?" she asked, smiling. "It's like you talk with your eyes, Kingsley. Good for me, bad for you."

Archer squinted at her. Her words were strung together perfectly despite the hazy tone of her voice. "You're okay?" he asked cautiously.

"I'm not telling, love," she said. "They sent you in here to get me to tell. I'm guessing, but you know my guesses are accurate. Vallin already yelled at me; maybe it's a good-cop bad-cop maneuver? Imagine that, the two of you working together. You know, though, I really do love it when he gets all flustered and mad, all terrified I'm going to throw a punch. He's so tough until he's not. He's got, like, a hundred pounds on me and he's scared of me. And listen, Kingsley, it's not just me, okay? He hits back. Well, but I'm always the perpetrator. Is that my fault? Probably."

"You don't seem all that dazed," Archer noted, leaning against the table. "A little loopy, but coherent."

"Drugs don't make you dumb," she said. "They just spill your thoughts; the things you normally wouldn't say. I have very sophisticated thoughts."

"It appears you do," he said with a smile.

"Angels, you've got nice teeth. Do you do something to make them whiter?" she asked. "I don't think mine are that white." She raised a hand to her mouth.

Archer avoided answering that. "Who did it?" he asked.

She shook her head. "It's smart to ask me outright; you know I hate being baited. But I'm still not telling. Not you, not anyone."

"Because you're upset?" Archer asked. "That you've been beaten?"

"He thinks I've been beaten," she said quickly. "You and Britter and Vallin."

"Vallin?"

"Vallin Bardarian. Middle name Corpher."

"Okay, got it. Go on."

"You all think I've been beaten. Just because I'm hurt doesn't mean I've been beaten. You gave me plenty of bruises and I still beat you. It's part of the process—and He had a knife; knives are a lot sharper than hands. He was always a knife guy. I'm not really a knife girl."

"It's a man, then?" Archer asked.

"Was a man," she corrected. "He's dead now. I'd like that to be known. He's dead and I am not. It is then logical to conclude I have not been beaten. I remain the Champion of the Sea, thank you."

"Before you said he's dead, but it doesn't mean much," Archer pointed out.

"You heard me say that? I thought you were too far away. I didn't say that."

"You're an awful liar in your current predicament."

"But I'm not really trying. There's no way in hell you'll ever figure out who it was unless I tell you, so as long as I don't tell you, I'm golden."

"How can being dead not mean much?" he asked.

"That is the question, Kingsley. I'd call you Archer like you want me to, but I prefer Kingsley. It's a good name—nice and strong, power, too. Perfect for a captain. Don't answer that. I know it is."

He sighed. "You're not going to tell me, then."

She grinned. "No. I could be persuaded, especially by you, Kingsley. You've got good hands. And angels, those teeth. I'm hard to persuade, but I'm especially influenceable right now. No—that's not a word. Is it?"

"It's a word."

"Thank you. I could call you thesaurus instead of Kingsley if you want."

"That's not what a thesaurus is."

"Well, I know, but it's better than calling you dictionary."

Archer looked at the ceiling; he was getting absolutely nowhere. He backtracked. "Let's talk about rule number five," he said.

She looked at him and said nothing.

"Silta?" He cleared his throat and corrected himself. "Novari."

She said nothing.

Archer squinted at her. "Why aren't you talking?"

"Dangerous to talk."

He was exhausted from this conversation alone. "You're not making sense."

She stared at him. Her lips were pressed together.

"You're scared to talk about this in your...current state?" he concluded.

"Come back when I'm sober. I love your teeth."

He rolled his eyes and made his way to the door. At the very least, he knew she would live. When he was back on deck, he regarded Britter. "She's not telling."

"I figured as much. Get some sleep, Kingsley. You look awful."

Archer noticed a lot of the crew had gone belowdecks as well, but he hesitated.

"She's fine Kingsley," Britter said. "She's just dramatic."

"Do you have ideas?" Archer wondered aloud. "Who it was? I mean, there are very few people who can pull a knife on her at all."

"Yeah, Kingsley. They're Bardarian, maybe you on a good day. I don't know who it was."

He knew there was something off about this whole thing; he could feel it down in his bones. The things Silta had said, in connection with what Britter was saying, in connection with something else. He felt it right in front of him, but he couldn't quite reach it. He tried for a moment, but he gave up out of exhaustion.

"Good night, then," Britter said, examining Archer's face, attempting to decipher what he was thinking.

"Night," Archer replied, turning away before the strategist could draw too much from his expression.

But even when he was back in his room, covered in blankets to ward off the threatening cold, he couldn't shake the night's events from his mind. The blood kept appearing in front of him, pooling and curling in his eyes. He'd never seen so much come from one person.

Britter had said Archer was one of the people who could give Silta a run for her money, but he'd only gotten one singular advantage on her for about thirty seconds, and she'd practically told him how to get it. He would never have been able to get a knife down both of her arms like that. He never would've been able to pull any of it off.

So who could?

*

Archer spun around in the navigation room, admiring the maps. He looked closely at the one of Myria. There was Canale and there was Sirenna, the main Siren island. There was everything, all charted out. Orphano wasn't on there, but Archer could find it. There were little drawings of monsters in the waters, indicating the spots that should be avoided.

"Next bearing, please, Starle," Rusher said to his assistant.

Archer glanced back to look at them. Silta had been moved to her room, so the navigation room was cleared of all the medical supplies. Miller announced that she would be fine as long as she a week or two to rest, so he hadn't seen her since the night she'd been hurt. Still, he remembered her words like they had been spoken to him minutes ago.

"That's a little too far south, Starle."

Archer spun around in his chair out of boredom. "Where did you learn to navigate?" he asked Rusher.

He looked up. "From a navigator."

"You grew up on a ship, then?"

"Yeah, a navy one, actually."

"Really?" He leaned forward with interest.

"We were a charting vessel," Rusher explained. "I came on the ship before Silta, so there was no tradition of killing all the people who worked for the King yet. I killed my mentor, and here we are."

"Huh," Archer said. He thought the story would be more interesting.

"Shouldn't you be planning?" Rusher chided.

"No planning without Silta," Archer replied quickly. He spun around in his chair.

"She's all fine and lucid now," Starle pointed out. "You can still plan."

Britter came down the steps loudly. "Kingsley and I are scared of her," he said, falling into the chair in the corner. "We both want the other to go talk to her first."

"I still think you should do it," Archer said to Britter. "She's your friend. You've known her longer."

"I'm not the one who's—" Britter stopped himself, glancing at the navigators.

Archer grinned. "Go talk to her," he said, tilting his head to the door.

Britter scrunched up his nose. "No. She was all bloody and shit. She'll yell at me."

"I'm not doing it," Archer said firmly. "She'll hit me."

"Could you guys do this in your own room?" Rusher butted in. "We're trying to work here."

"Relax, mappy," Britter said. "It's not that hard to navigate. You just follow the sun."

"We're going north, dumbass."

"Follow the sun to ninety degrees, then."

"It's cloudy—" Rusher cut his own words off with a wave. "Just go plan something."

"No planning without Silta," Britter said.

"One of the two of you should probably go talk to her, then."

Everyone jumped, startled. As big as Bardarian was, he had an uncanny ability to be oddly quiet. He was coming down the steps from his own room, pulling a jacket over his shoulders.

"Why don't you talk to her, Captain?" Britter asked him pointedly. "She's your girl." He tossed a look over as he spoke. Archer flicked a crumpled piece of paper at him in reply.

Bardarian passed by the two strategists. "Not in the mood to get sliced up," he mumbled as he put his hat on.

Britter snorted loudly and tossed the paper ball back at Archer. "We're pathetic."

"We could gang up on her," Starle suggested.

Britter shook his head. "Then all five of us will get sliced up."

"I'll do it," Bardarian finally said. "Can I have that knife, Rusher?"

The navigator gave him Captain a look. "You're gonna knife her, sir?" he asked.

Bardarian gave him a look and took the knife from him. "If she does it first, yes."

"Aim for the same spot she got sliced before," Britter said with a laugh, "maybe that'll slow her down."

"I doubt it," Bardarian said. "As you were, gentlemen," he said, leaving the room.

Once he left, Archer stretched out his arms. "How far is Port Trivv?" he asked.

"Two days-ish," Starle responded. "Give or take these nasty winds we've been having."

Britter threw another ball at Archer, who caught it and threw it back. "What was the name of the last port?" Archer asked.

"Port Harver," Rusher said. "Why?"

"Just got a weird feeling from it."

"Probably because somebody from there painted Silta in her own blood," Britter said.

"Yeah," Archer replied mindlessly, but he didn't quite believe that. He'd gotten a weird feeling from the place long before Silta had come back in the evening.

Britter and Rusher went on arguing, leaving Archer to keep examining the map of Myria a few minutes later the door swung open and Bardarian came back through.

"For the love of the Devil." He made a gesture to the cut cloth behind Rusher. "Hand me that."

Rusher quickly reached for it and tossed it over. "She really threw a knife at you?" he asked.

"She didn't throw a knife at me," the Captain told them, wrapping what looked like a bloody hand. "She threw my knife at me. Chopped off the tip of my finger."

Britter barked out a laugh. "Oh, you're kidding. Show me."

Bardarian leaned over the table, showing him that there was, indeed, a little piece of his pinky finger missing.

"Why is she so mad?" Archer wondered aloud.

"She can't figure it out," Bardarian answered. He glanced over at Archer, as if realizing who he was answering. "She's insufferable when she can't figure it out."

It was odd for them to have such casual conversation, but Rusher and Britter, the latter especially, had close relationships with Bardarian, leaving Archer and Starle along for the ride.

"Can't figure what out?" Archer asked.

"Probably who her assailant was," Britter answered. "Or something like that."

Archer glanced at the Captain. He didn't get the sense that was what he'd meant. In fact, Silta seemed to know very much who her assailant was.

Bardarian didn't correct anyone. He simply listened to the conversation, dark eyebrows drawn as he thought about something more important than the rest of them.

Archer studied the line of his jaw, the way his hair curled at the base of his neck. He was older, sure, more confident in himself, but was he really all that? He was only conventionally authoritative, conventionally attractive. What caused Silta to be so infatuated that she'd whispered those words to him on deck, those big, expressive three words that one had to slice her up and drain half her blood just to hear her say? Bardarian had lived a lifetime with her, had just as long to convince her to peel back her protective layers and let him in.

Archer stood up abruptly. "I'll talk to her," he announced.

Bardarian glanced up at him, those cobalt eyes so striking.

"Take a knife with you," Rusher said with a mindless snort.

They didn't think he could do it, Archer realized. They thought he'd come back with less of a finger, or he'd back out altogether. He was cautious minnow, safe minnow. He wasn't bold or daring.

He left the room and jogged belowdecks. He'd do it, but he probably should have taken a knife with him.