Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

03 | The Price of Uncertainty

"Afternoon, good lad."

Archer's vision hadn't yet adjusted to the bright sunlight on the deck, nor had he pinpointed the exact origin of the voice, but he still knew who it came from. It was the arid tone, the threads of condescension in an otherwise sincere greeting. The dripping of surety, that famous allure.

Captain Bardarian leaned against the rail to Archer's left, dazzling ocean eyes as sharp as his smile. "Sea gave you trouble, did she?"

In some pathetic act of protection, Archer curled his fingers around Jeanne's wrist, taking a step back. He'd studied this man to no avail, soaked each minuscule detail of his personality, and yet it felt surreal to stand on his deck and share his gaze. Farley claimed him to be all bravado and charm, more legend than reality, but it certainly didn't feel that way; it felt like Captain Bardarian was every bit the part he played: a well-groomed, intimidatingly good-looking foil of the typical pirate.

Archer cleared his throat, thinking of what to say, but someone on the crew beat him to it. "Two of you are awfully young to be whirling about in Myria," they remarked. It was undoubtedly Corvo Bates, the pudgy first mate of the Avourienne, known for little more than an undying loyalty. Archer tried to place more of the crew members in Farley's description, but he was too anxious to do anything more than hold tightly to Jeanne's wrist and attempt to stop looking so weak.

That was, of course, until Bates held out a handful of rope, taking a step forward. Archer backed up immediately, refusing to be tied. It gave him a sudden purpose along with a wave of anger. "Like hell," he snapped.

Bardarian smiled. "Nonsense," he said to Bates, waving him away. "The boy means no harm." He glanced over again. "Do you?"

His question was satire and his expression was contagious. When Captain Bardarian smiled, the world very simply agreed. It was a seasoned trick; Archer was never meant to be bound, he was only meant to feel protected by Bardarian—indebted, trusted.

His voice finally came, more tentative than he wanted, "No, sir. None at all."

"Well, then, lad, do tell of your predicament," came the friendly, firm reply. The Captain pushed off the rail, sidestepping them both. "I'd agree that you and your woman are far too young to be in Myria. It's hellish here." He made a little gesture with his fingers as he gave Archer a sly, conspiring look. "Pirates and such."

There was a smattering of chuckles as the crew came from the ship's corners to listen in on the drama. There were familiar qualities to them, stories and descriptions Archer had burned into his memory. His floundering mind had since settled for counting; the Avourienne had a shockingly small number of sailors. One, two, three, on and on, like a trick to stay calm—but the number kept coming up short.

"Who are you looking for, lad?"

Bardarian's direct question shocked him back to reality, forcing him to recall the importance of his act. "I'm only admiring the ship, sir," he replied. "I've never seen anything like it."

That sick smile dissolved, snapping Bardarian's face into sinister seriousness. "You're a good liar, boy." He tilted his head, easy with his next words, "I'm not a fan of those."

No thoughts formed in Archer's head, none in his mouth. His muscles and bones melted into what felt like nothing more than glorified protein and calcium. This burning feeling was terror, he realized, something entirely new.

At the realization he'd rendered himself useless, Jeanne spoke up in an accusatory manner, "He's no liar. He's a sailor, and he appreciates a nice ship. If only it didn't belong to...pirates." She spat out the word like an insult.