Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

10 | The Death of Uncertainty

"What'd you say to him?"

Archer startled, spilling his bottle of something strong over his wrist. He glanced at Silta as he held out his hand, letting the liquid drip onto the floor instead of further down his forearm. "They should put a bell on you or something," he said.

"I'll wear a bell if you tell me what you said to him."

Archer rolled his eyes. That morning, the movement of the ship had been all the gossip. The Avourienne's crimson sails were turned little by little, until her nose was pointed due north. Apparently nobody knew why, not even the navigator, Rusher, who had just retired from the common room a few minutes ago. Denver had gone to get another bottle, but when he saw Silta had cornered Archer, he quickly spun around and wandered somewhere else.

"Say what to who?" Archer asked. He wiped his hand on the couch.

Silta watched him for a moment, then sat down beside him. She stretched her legs onto the coffee table in front of them, crossing her arms. She scanned the room.

"We're going to the Kingsland," she noted. "Came down this morning."

"Oh? Why?"

She tossed a look over at him. "I figured you would know."

"Why?"

She sighed, slouching further. "I heard you on deck with Tailsley. When you were done siphoning information about me, you asked when we were headed to the Kingsland."

"How do you get anything done with all that eavesdropping?"

She ignored him. "You want to go to the Kingsland, for whatever reason, and then you have an impromptu talk with our captain and suddenly, we're headed right there."

Archer took a sip from the bottle. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Her eyes flickered with annoyance. She was silent for a long moment, and then she muttered, "I hate being out of the loop."

Archer raised his brows as he watched her return her gaze to the rest of the room. For once, it wasn't such a calculated thing to say, and it forced him to wonder who she became away from all this back-and-forth. Who she was when nothing threatening was afoot—when she relaxed on her knifelike replies and Bardarian put away his hat for the night. He wondered if she'd ever known a lack of surety or indecisiveness in those moments.

"Seems like that's a regular occurrence for you," he noted.

"Although," she started, "it's wildly impressive how quickly you turned him around."

Archer pulled his guard back up immediately. Perhaps her dip in pointedness was as planned as ever.

"Look, Minnow," she said, turning to face him. "Every time you think you're better than us"—she gestured out to the room—"because you hold mercy and morals so close to your heart, remember how you manipulated someone for your best interest. You're no different from the villain you see me as."

He sighed. Back to the game. "I never called you a villain."

"You didn't have to, love. How many times do you wake up at night because of what you saw me do in Port Marcel? You keep looking at my hands, and I know why." She titled her head towards him. "You can't get over how much blood I have on them. Am I right, Kingsley? Those murders feel like they're on you?"

She could've been wrong. Archer wasn't sure if he'd even glanced at her hands at all, but she spoke so vividly that he believed her, if only for a moment.

He said nothing in response, realizing it was much better to take that approach. She was baiting him, trying to get a reaction. An older sibling bullying the younger but in a much more subtle, intelligent way.