Morning did not bring common sense.
It didn't bring regret or lucid thinking. Archer was still very much infatuated with the concept of Silta even as the sun began to filter through the huge window of her room, where the cobalt ocean could be seen, dancing over the glass.
He should probably leave. He probably shouldn't have stayed in the first place, but she'd fallen asleep with her forehead against his arm, long fingers wrapped around his wrist like she was asking him not to leave.
She looked far from dangerous while she slept—like she was just a woman, just twenty-four. For a moment, he could pretend he was back on Orphano, having drunk too much at Shark's restaurant and taken a stunning girl home. Irresponsible, but not deadly. Not the end of the world.
He leaned his head against the wall, closing his own eyes, attempting to stew in the silence. He could still leave before she woke up. He doubted she was a stranger to mornings like this, but Archer had always woken up to the same woman.
He kept his eyes closed. Forced the name from his mind.
Seemingly only a few meters away, a door opened then slammed, causing him to flinch. It was probably just Rusher; from the position of the sun, it was still quite early.
Beside him, she moved, rolling onto her stomach. Her fingers splayed out on his chest, warm and soft. Her eyes flitted open as she propped herself onto her forearms, wincing in the morning sun. She glanced at him.
Her head tilted, and she looked over at the door, amber eyes cloudy and unfocused. Her expression morphed to the last thing he'd expected: confusion.
He wasn't sure what she'd say. Maybe she'd say she made a mistake. Maybe she'd say something witty. Maybe she'd—
"You didn't kill me."
Archer squinted at her, as if the words were blurry or foggy rather than just absurd. "What?"
She propped herself up even further, that hand still on his chest. Her eyes darted around, lips parted and eyebrows drawn. He'd never seen her look that way.
"I was just laying there," she said, talking more to herself than to him. "I was unconscious for hours. You just...didn't?"
It felt like she was speaking a different language. He drew his brows, utterly lost. "You thought I was here to kill you?" he asked, voice careful.
She searched his face, trying to poke holes in his act. "Aren't you?" she asked, bewildered.
"Why would I be on the ship to kill you?"
"Is that not why Farley sent you?" She sat up now, eyes focused and mind clearer now.
He'd known she's suspected it the whole time, but hearing Farley's name in her mouth unsettled him far beyond his control. "Okay, first of all," he began, "you decided to spend the night unconscious next to somebody you thought was your assassin?"
"Well, love, I didn't mean to fall asleep," she replied, and she did look rather perplexed at the fact she had.
Archer shook his head. "Second," he continued, "why would Farley want you dead?"
She frowned at him as though this was something he should've known. As if he were missing something. "Did you know Farley well, love?" she asked cautiously.
"I knew him well," he replied.
She sighed and threw herself back down onto the bed, ruffling Archer's hair.
"If Farley didn't send you to kill me, then why are you on this damn ship?" Her tone was becoming increasingly abrupt and upset. The fact that she couldn't figure his mission out was tearing her apart, like she'd do anything to find out why he was on this ship.
Archer glanced at her. Like she'd do anything.
"You didn't expect it," he said. "When you pulled away from me last night. I couldn't figure out why. It's because you didn't expect it."
"Of course not," she said back, only half paying attention. "I was ready for the knife. Not..." She gestured around. "This."
"You thought I was on the ship to kill you," he repeated. His voice began to get louder, the realization setting in. "The flirting—the seduction. It was you trying to get a foot up, getting us close so you'd be ready when I tried something rather than unprepared."
She didn't seem phased by his rising outburst. "It was a good plan," she mumbled. "I thought you were trying to put me to sleep so you could get me—but I actually fell asleep. Imagine, if you'd tried. Champion of the Sea, brought down by some random orphan."
They were having two separate conversations, both too concerned with their own issues to address the other's. For one, Archer felt his heart being peeling away layer by layer like an onion. He knew her style, but he didn't pause to think for long enough.
"So that's what this was about?" he asked, voice sharp enough to draw her out of her own little world again. He tossed aside her stupid overly comfortable blanket that she only got because she was spoiled and egocentric. "Bait?" he snapped, getting to his feet.
She finally seemed to realize why he was upset. "Kingsley—" she started, a lazy smile forming on her lips. She reached out an arm as if to stop him, but he cut her off.
"Oh, I'm so blind," he said to himself, trying to find his shirt. He spun around twice, lost. She grinned and pointed to where it was on the floor. He gritted his teeth as he pulled it over his head. "This is you. A careless, seductive sociopath that thinks everyone is trying to murder you."
"Kingsley—" she began again, biting her lip to stop the spreading of her amused grin.
And it infuriated him, because it was always Kingsley. Kingsley the member of the crew, Kingsley the sailor, Kingsley the pawn. It was only Archer when she could use it to her advantage.
"Am I missing something?" he asked, whirling around. "Do I not have the full picture? Or did you sleep with me to find out why I was on this ship? Did you play with me like I was a toy to get what you wanted?"
She opened her mouth a little, looked out the window then back to him.
"Look, love, you came to me. You kissed me. I didn't make you do any of that."
But she had, hadn't she? She'd baited him, reeled him in. Made it sound like it really was what she wanted.
"Answer what I asked you," he insisted, his hand on the door.
She looked to the ceiling. "Well, partly, love. That was why I did it."
"Partly?" he repeated.
She pursed her lips, that horrible smile just held back. "You know, I get the feeling you'll hate the other reason even more."
Archer closed his eyes. Her fight with Bardarian. Her need to get him back.
"Fuck you, Novari," he told her. Nothing else was strong enough in that moment.
He slammed the door on his way out, anger racing through his veins. He knew he didn't have a right to play the victim; he knew he should've been more careful. He knew, he knew, he knew.
Denver was coming out of his room as Archer stormed down the hallway. He looked to where Archer had come from, then glanced down at the crisp's uniform from last night.
"Oh, you're kidding me—" he started, but Archer raised his hand to silence him as he passed.
"Yes, I know," he snapped. He opened his door and slammed it behind him.
He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. Tried to focus on the good part: Silta still had no clue why he was on this ship.
His breathing steadied. So what? It was a little heartbreak, a tiny setback to know it didn't mean the same to her as it did to him. It wasn't the say-all-end-all. It wasn't so bad.
But it was. It made him angry beyond relief, hurt beyond reason. It made him feel used and filthy. It made him hate his own skin, his own body and mind for wanting her so much he blinded himself.
But it would go away, wouldn't it?
*
Somebody put their finger to the bottom of Archer's bottle, tipping it up to make him drink more. Coughing, he pushed back, rum dripping down his chin. He glanced at Rusher, the culprit.
So what if he'd broken his no-booze rule? Silta couldn't figure him out, so he was safe. He'd be fine.
"You know, Archer," Rusher said, shuffling his cards. "You're being considered for strategist."
Archer frowned and put out a card from his own deck. The oak table of the common room glistened in the dark lighting. "I doubt it," he said, looking at Denver for his turn.
Denver thumbed through his cards. "I believe it," he offered, putting out his card.
"Bad move," Rusher sang from Archer's other side.
Denver glanced down at his card, made a face then picked it back up.
"No takebacks!"
"Takebacks," Denver replied. He put out his new card.
"Is it normal to specialize after only a few months?" Archer asked.
Lyra put out her card across from Archer. "Well, yes. Usually, if you're going to specialize, you do it as quickly as possible."
"They want to make use of whatever short lifespan you have as a pirate," Rusher explained. "Only first mate and quartermaster have to fight for their position."
"Oh, like how Bates fights so hard?" Lyra snorted.
"Who else deserves it?" Denver said, picking out his card. "Don't you remember that time that Bates took a bullet for Cap?" he asked. "Thought it would kill him."
"It was to his arm," Lyra said.
"Still."
"Silta saved all our asses on that Siren island," Lyra shot back at Denver, clearly finding the issue personal. "But you wouldn't know that, because you weren't even there yet."
Archer put out his card.
"Oh, I'm plenty aware of the stories," Denver snapped back. "She also put a pistol to Cap's head when she came back from abandoning the whole ship."
Archer looked up. "She did what?"
"She didn't pull the trigger," Lyra mumbled.
Rusher put his card out and said, "Everybody, just shut up about this."
Archer leaned back. Denver was just trying to make Silta a villain, as though Archer was a kid and needed that protection. But then again, maybe he did.
Denver took his card back again and put a new one out. "Fact is, Archer's going to be a strategist," he said.
Lyra grinned. "It's quite the honour," she told him.
Archer wasn't sure if it were a good thing. Being a strategist would allow him into the tight circle of the Avourienne a little better, but it also put him a lot closer to Bardarian, which was risky. And then, of course, her.
"Why would they consider me for strategist?" he asked. Lyra put out her card.
Rusher shrugged. "You seem to be unnaturally bright. You figured Kip out faster than most of us."
Archer shrugged back. "He was my roommate. I saw a lot more of him."
"You developed that big plan to get Lyra back," Denver said.
"Silta did that." He knew they were trying to compliment him, but he wasn't really in the mood to put himself on a pedestal. He put his card out.
"You're slaughtering us all in this game," Denver pointed out. "You've won, like, three times over."
He didn't have a rebuttal for that one. He'd never considered himself to be brilliant or anything of that nature. He hadn't even realized that he might be from Myria until Silta suggested it—and people from Myria were often peculiar. Even so, he always felt overcome by the shadow of Farley and his scheming.
Speaking of, he wanted to figure out what Silta had been talking about that morning. "Hey, what was Farley? Was he a strategist?" he asked.
All three of them looked up. "How do you know about Farley?" Lyra asked.
Archer shrugged. "Heard somebody mention him. He was from Orphano, too, I think."
"He wasn't nearly clever enough to be a strategist," Rusher said slowly. "But yeah, he was from Orphano. That's the only reason he was able to get out before Silta got him."
"Got him," Archer repeated.
Lyra was the one to explain, "The two of them didn't have any problems—actually, they were pretty close, until we went to the Kingsland. Then, once we were out, Farley tried to kill her. Couldn't go through with it, though." She was gauging Archer's reaction carefully.
"How did being from Orphano help him get away?" he asked. He kept his expression straight, borderline uninterested.
Denver put out his card. "Farley jumped ship in the middle of the ocean. He'd be dead a million times over by exposure, but Orphano calls to him. That's why them orphans can always just walk the plank and end up back on that damn island a few days later. They're like, unkillable."
Archer considered it, and he supposed it made sense. If he jumped ship right now, Orphano would call back to him. And if he followed it, he'd be back home in a few days.
"Why would he try to kill Silta?" Archer asked.
Lyra shrugged. "No clue. Just went batshit in the middle of the night. Who knows why."
He tried to keep the interest off his face. If Farley tried to kill Silta, then in her mind it followed that Archer was here to finish the act. But he had the suspicion that Farley had been acting in self-defence—that Silta had gone for him first and then switched the story. Farley seemed wary of Silta on Orphano, not murderous. She was hiding something.
"Any other angry crew members running around off the Avourienne?" Archer asked, keeping his tone simple.
"None that are alive," Lyra said with an amused look.
"How many died?" Archer asked.
"Three or four. Four, actually," Rusher said. "Trelly got unlucky. Don't mention his name around here, unless you'd like to watch Silta and Bardarian try to kill each other for the five hundredth time. Visco died on a mission. Then there's Kepperly, killed by Bardarian after he was one hell of a coward. Then there's Everson."
There was an obvious change in register when he mentioned the last name. Archer tried to decide if he would rather hear about what happened to Trelly or to Everson, and he decided he had a better chance with the latter.
"Everson?" he prompted.
Denver sighed. "He's not very important," he said.
"Are we talking about Everson?" a new voice asked. Britter had made his way over, and now he sat next to Lyra.
"I asked, they wouldn't tell," Archer said.
Britter leaned forward, tying his hair back with a black ribbon. "You should know about Everson. He was a good sailor."
Denver raised his brows. "We're talking about the same Everson?" he asked. "I mean, I never met the guy, but the stories say something different."
Britter sighed and rolled his shoulder, causing a faint crack. "I said good sailor, Tolva, not good person. Adrian Everson was incredibly capable—the most dangerous fighter I've ever seen."
"Better than Silta?" Archer asked.
Rusher shrugged, looking at Britter in a guarded way. "There's a difference between a skilled fighter—Silta—and a dangerous fighter, like Everson."
"Did they ever fight?" Archer asked. "Did she lose?"
Britter laughed. "They did fight, but she didn't lose, or we wouldn't call her what we do. He'd broken her arm clean through—bone was showing and everything, so she put it through his neck. She's earned that title, I tell you. Pretty little sociopath."
Archer drew his eyebrows. Oh, he knew. "Why was he so good?" he asked.
"He was born in Myria, which is not exactly common. Myrians can be tricky sometimes—there's always something off about them."
"I'm from Myria, apparently," Archer pointed out. "Silta's from Myria."
"And she and you both dominate the rest of us in terms of skill. So did Everson."
Archer had always thought it was just his hard training. "Where's he now?" he wondered.
"At the bottom of the sea," Britter said blankly, looking him dead in the eye. "There was something, like I said, off about Everson. He was too good. That's how he got first mate."
That was surprising. Archer had assumed it had been Bates forever.
"Anyway," Lyra interrupted. "He tried mutiny. Was about to slice a knife through Bardarian, but then Silta shot him dead. Can we move on?"
Archer tilted his head, ignoring her request and speaking to Britter, "How did he let that happen?"
The four of them looked at him as though they didn't get his question, so he swallowed and began to rephrase. Silta would've understood immediately.
"I mean," he began again, "if he was so smart and capable, how did he end up dead by nothing more than just a pistol?"
Britter caught on. "He thought Silta would be on his side. He promised her first mate if she helped him."
Archer nodded, because that made perfect sense. "She didn't take it?"
"No, she didn't," Britter said. "We all hated Everson, but nobody hated him like she did."
"Why?"
He glanced over to the other side of the room, where Silta was nowhere to be seen. "He was too much. Don't get me wrong, we're all violent, but there's purpose behind it. We kill to gain something, for a reason, maybe even just to make a point, send a message. Everson killed for fun. He'd shoot for the stomach, something that would make you sick and bloody for days before you died, and you would die. He'd step on the tails of dogs for fun and killed our old ship's cat. He pushed women around, forced them to do things they didn't want to do. He wasn't like us, not quite."
Archer listened, annoyed with the sense it made. Killing shouldn't exist on a hierarchy, but then again, it had to. Killing in self-defence and killing for fun were entirely different, and a whole host of rungs existed between the two.
"He's dead now," Lyra said. She had an uneasy smile on her face and although he understood her words were meant to be a joke, they came out a little disturbed, like the memory of the crew member haunted her in her dreams. Like Adrian Everson's face appeared behind her closed eyes at the times of her life she least expected.
In fact, Rusher looked the same way. Even Britter looked anxious at relaying the story. Adrian Everson had done a number on all of them, probably Silta, too.
"He's dead as dead can be," Britter confirmed. "Threw his body over the rail myself. Onto lighter topics, however. Captain needs to see you, Kingsley."
Archer blinked. So they'd been right; Bardarian was going to specialize him. That, or he was going to rip him apart limb from limb for his involvement with Silta.
Either way, it was time to find out.