The days passed without much conflict, thankfully. At least at the start of their journey. Davian had made himself useful, hauling lines with the men and carrying what needed carrying, refusing only menial work like sweeping or mopping the deck. He had spent his youth doing such things, and he refused to do so again. The weather had stayed behind them mercifully, the looming clouds chasing them, but the winds were on their side. The men began to insist it was due to Zoya and her powers of the sea, but Davian had other things on his mind. 

The Horn of Valere. 

Even in Ebou Dar, the legend was a popular one. As a child he had imagined himself becoming one of the fabled hunters of the horn, finding the sacred object and putting it to his lips to save the westlands from a terrible fate. He entertained the idea of using it against the dreadlords of the trolloc wars, having risen again to swallow the world in darkness. Fancies of a child with a sword, ones he had not thought of for over a decade and a half. Now he was told by an Aes Sedai, a light cursed thieving Aes Sedai, that she was going after it, and that she needed his help. 

That night she confided in him, he could not sleep. He had gone up to the decks to walk the ship back and forth, before he drowsed off there for an hour or two before stalking again restlessly. He was not sure if he should be angry with her or impressed, and the conundrum was driving him up the wall. The woman had convinced him she was innocent, he had saved her life, then found out she had tricked him and now required his help! Light blast her! He had a comfortable living in Tear! But now, it was bigger than him. This had to do with the world itself. 

The journey grew a bit more exciting on day three, when Davian had been looking out over the waves. Land was not in sight, though the Captain had said they were close to shore by some measure. He had seen dolphins playing across the waves the past hour, and was hoping to spy them again, before he heard whispers on the wind. 

"That bloody witch means no good for us. You think she's keeping the storm off? She is the storm! It's following her, just like the Defenders were coming after her and her man. She's no good I tell you." The voice said. Davian glanced to his left, one of the sailors speaking behind a few of the crates to a crowd of three who listened intently. 

"But Gil, Captain says she's good for the waves, and the fellow Davian has been helping us out." One of the listeners replied. 

"Fool on the Captain, then! Mark my words, these clouds won't leave us until we get rid of the witch!" 

Davian had been on edge for days, and this was just the fix he needed. He pushed off the railing and strode past the crates, rounding on the small group of conspirators with a deadly grace. One man saw him first and yelped, and the others blanched at his appearance, save for the accuser. He was a wiry man with a wandering eye, with a short beard that looked like cut wheat. "I have killed men for less. Luckily for you, I will give you a fighting chance, sir." 

"What?" He asked, confused. Davian reached forward, grabbing his collar, and yanked him out onto the middle of the deck. The man stumbled, but caught himself and pushed Davian off of him, his defenses now up. All eyes were now on them, the men in the sails above, the men swabbing the deck, and all those besides. Zoya nor the Captain were there yet, but a man left to likely inform the both of them. Gil reared up, eyeing Davian dangerously. "You put your hands on me again..." 

"Go ahead and tell everyone what you were saying," Davian challenged him, raising his voice to be heard. His back was now to the aft, and he would not see Zoya present, though she arrived quickly. "Tell them all that you think our Athan’miere is a witch, and a curse on the ship! That I am a villain and a rogue, yes?" Davian watched as Gil began to look around, suddenly nervous. Davian snarled, and unsheathed his sidesword, the blade gleaming in the afternoon sun. "I intend to duel you." 

"Duel? We don't due-" 

"In Ebou Dar, a man duels another man if they cut in line or do not offer proper respect. Your insults are worse, and the mark of a coward. Fight me or swear silence to your tongue, or next time I will cut it out."