Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

03 | The Price of Uncertainty

By the time he snatched Jeanne to his side and slipped the same blade he'd used to destroy their sail from his boot, the crew recognized he wasn't going easy. In a matter of seconds, there were four pistols trained on his forehead and four more cutlasses extended.

Silta raised her hands, silently ordering everyone around her to freeze. Archer backed Jeanne into the rail, his measly four-inch dagger not much of a barrier between them and the crew.

The wind breezed over the deck, ruffling the whisps of hair in front of Archer's face. "Don't touch us," he breathed. "Don't come any closer."

With an utterly blank expression, Silta took a step forward.

A test of his nerve, of his willingness to back up his bold demands. Don't let my death be in vain. Oh, he knew how to play this game. Wrenching back his arm in one sharp movement, he threw the knife at her.

He swore he heard the faint snap of a tendon somewhere near her neck as she leaned out of the way, far too fast to have reacted to his throw; no, she'd calculated it, predicted it down to the inch. Her gaze flicked to the far end of the deck, where his knife embedded in the starboard rail, wobbling slightly. She looked back at him as the entire deck felt silent.

"What now?" she asked, gesturing to his empty hands.

Archer reached for his other boot and pulled out the twin dagger. Someone behind her barked out a laugh.

"Next one goes that way," he declared, nodding towards the mast, where Bardarian had pushed through the crew once more to see the events unfold.

Silta didn't need to check to see who he was referring to. "Go on, then," she said.

Archer didn't take his time deciding if it was the right move. If they wanted a vicious killing soldier, then that's what he'd be. He couldn't show hesitation, couldn't show a weakness on which they could prey. He threw his second knife in the Captain's direction.

Silta stepped back a second before the blade left his hand, reached out to empty space, and caught it.

She twisted from the momentum of the lunge, dropping the knife as soon as she received it, curling her hand into a fist to hide the blood that had drawn. She turned slowly, lips curling into another one of those cunning smiles. "And now?"

Archer rolled his shoulders. "I've got hands."

"So do I."

He felt his options dwindling. She was pushing, taunting, testing to see which level of force he'd break under. Behind him, Jeanne's breath warmed the back of his neck. Please don't let my death be in vain. There would be times his physical skill would be outnumbered, as it was now. He had to exhibit a swift slip into a different game.

"And what about mercy?" he snapped.

"Mercy," she said, feeling out the word as if it were new to her.

"Mercy," he repeated. "You've heard of it?"

"I can't say that I have, love." Too quick to be reacting. Predicting.

Archer felt his opportunity stretch in front of him. "Show us mercy," he said, more demanding than begging. "I'll repay you."

"Repay us," she said. She was big on repeating, on forcing him to fluster.

"However you want." He formed his words like he was thinking of them, like he was coming up with them on the spot and not a year earlier in a strategy session with Farley. "We'll work for you—we'll crew for you."

Her brows raised as if this was the first she was considering the option. Her eyes flickered to Jeanne, a snake to its next meal. "One does not crew for the Avourienne," she said quietly, "without displaying a telling act of loyalty."