Sparrow laughed. "Ah, no, it's the definition of murder. 'The crime of deliberately killing a person'. I'm fairly sure what you did was deliberate. Therefore, murder." Not that Sparrow was about to judge her for it. He enjoyed a good murder now and again. He thought people were far too concerned about the price of life. Humanity was, or had been, a seething mass of too much, bodies crowding and taking in resources and leaving pollution behind as payment. But cut a few of them down and you were suddenly a bad thing.
He watched her with her blades. He didn't make any attempt to take them, didn't step too close. Just watched. Those were very dangerous weapons she carried, and there was a clear reality beneath them that she knew how to use them. They weren't weapons caught up by some lucky scavenger with no skill.
"I learned it in school. They were hoping I'd go off to the Olympics." He returned his own knife to its sheath, leaving the one at ankle and wrist alone. The more advantage of hidden weapons he had, the better off he would be. "I make my own arrows. Much better, when you know exactly what you have."
He moved a little closer. "No worrying that it might fail you in that last crucial moment, cara bella, eh?"