Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

05 | The Calculation of Uncertainty

Both the sun and wind were absent as Archer came up from belowdecks, watching the water turn dark. The red sails over his head drifted aimlessly, hardly catching any speed. The ship coasted slowly through the glasslike water below, silent and deadly once the sky lost its colour.

For the few hours he'd had to himself, Archer had gone over Farley's meticulous plan of attack. In the two years since his friend had ditched this ship, a good number of people had come and...well, died, since you didn't retire from the Avourienne, which left Archer to apply the general wisdom to his current situation. His job was to be a so-called grey man, a near invisible soldier who did their work and nothing else. Someone who didn't obtain gazes, whose name was tossed around but never dwelled on. So his plan was to pick out a group of three people to surround himself with; two harmless ones to cling to, and one for protection.

Denver was one of the harmless ones, he'd decided. From the way Bardarian acted around him, Archer could tell his first connection here was nobody of note. The second person he wanted to find was that young scout, the fourteen-year-old. If he latched himself close to that boy and adopted the big-brother role, people might leave both of them alone.

And finally, the navigator. Farley called him an artist aboard a ship of killers, an essential cog in their machine who preferred to draw and quip the occasional joke rather than bloody his fists. He was the most popular of the middle ranks, adored and more importantly respected by everyone. If Archer got him on his side, he'd have protection, someone that might provide a wall between him and the bullies.

It was a great plan, but it was off to a terrible start. The moment Archer stepped out on the deck, he realized the young scout was still up in the crow's nest, and therefore impossible to speak to.

Archer stepped to the rail, leaning over to see the horizon on their nose. No land, yet—although Bardarian had mentioned port soon. What would it be like, to set foot in a place completely new to him?

Something brushed against his leg, and when he looked down, it was nothing but a cat, concerningly old and matted to hell and back. It curled around his leg, looking up at him expectantly.

Archer glanced around, but only the cabin boys were scurrying around the deck; the rest of the crew were lounging or in the common room, considering the shouts and loud conversation that was coming from there. He leaned down and ran his fingers over the cat's spine. It was well-fed, as most ship's cats were. They were said to be an investment, eating the rats and such.

The cat fell back on its haunches as Archer worked a few of the mats out near its neck. Animals couldn't be evil, could they? Even if they were around it all the time? Just when he thought the cat might've started purring, it was overtaken by some sort of chorus coming from the common rom.

Sighing, Archer got to his feet once more, abandoning the cat by the rail. It followed him for a moment but snuck away in favour of something quieter when he came up to the source of all the noise. He pushed open the swinging doors, getting a lay of the land.

He preferred the quiet deck to this room, with more of that thick smoke and sharp reek of liquor. It was loud and barbaric, with countless people strewn about the couches and tables, shouting about whatever gave them passion. Archer couldn't form a single thought with that song still being chanted from the far corner of the room.

"Good evening, Kingsley."

Archer startled again, slamming his shoulder back into the door he'd come through. Britter didn't acknowledge the jumpiness as he leaned against the wall next to a rum barrel. "Got yourself situated?" he asked, crossing his arms. Out of his uniform now, the tracks of muscle along his forearms bode like a subtle warning.