> “Life is much simpler than people think. Words are water, ideas, thoughts. All things that affect the flow of action. The truest reality is the edge of a blade.”

>

> ~Razer

The deacon was a very barrel-shaped man. It was almost a fractal thing. His chest was a big barrel-shaped chest, probably adaptive to the bellowing sermons that missionaries were known for. His biceps swelled and curved like two smaller barrels. Even his fingers were fat barrely fingers, thick and powerful.

He had warm green eyes under thick cat-whisker eyebrows of black and white. His beard was the same shoebrush of black and white bristles, and when he thought nobody was looking, sometimes he would chew on the longer ends of his moustache.

Usually he wore a black shirt that was clearly not intended to pull across his chest muscles the way that it did. Today, he had exchanged it for a tactical vest studded with pockets and ammo pouches and all sorts of things. A massive sword hung loosely at his side, second only to the massive arms that hung loosely from his shoulders.

His feet were bare on the practice mat, toes almost hidden by the loose black pants. Good for moving around in.

“Sword,” Razer said. With a flick of his wrists a set of knives appeared in his hands. “Is it your intent to maim the candidates who do not measure to your standards?”

“Certainly not,” the deacon told him. His stance shifted – he was still comfortable with the appearance of Razer’s weapons, but his knees bent and he placed his feet carefully.

“You shoulda seen the last batch,” Vinnius told him. “Limbs everywhere.”

“Don’t listen to him,” the deacon said. He drew the sword and held it out for Razer to examine. The serrated teeth had been modified, replaced with little felt tips soaked in fluorescence. “Paint. It’s good to spar without dismembering your sparring partners.”

He offered a smile, which Razer did not return. He examined the sword, noting that the shaft of it was still plasteel and ferrimesh. With enough force, the impact would be enough to bruise or break bone.

He spared a glance around the sparring gym. Punching bags lined the starboard wall, and the freeweights were aft. To port, the shooting range. Many of the walls were mirrored, and the floor was lined with a rubbery padding. The padding was unusually thick against his bare feet, and he could feel himself sinking into the surface with every step.

“Is it also your intent to be maimed by successful candidates?” he asked, offering his knives to the Capo.

Vinnius took the knives snickering.

He was given in return blunted plastic knives with painted edges. “This was the best we could manage on such short notice,” the deacon told him. “I’ve been hearing good things about your melee ability, and wanted to see for myself. Think of this as just a way of getting to know each other.”

“Okay kids let’s get stabbing,” Vinnius said, backing toward the stern wall. “A cut counts as a pause. If you hear me yell stop then take a pause and reset. Otherwise you’re still tryna kill each other. Eye gouging is legal and nuts shots are not.”

“Eye gouging is not legal,” the deacon said.

“Go.”

They circled each other warily. The deacon stepped in suddenly for a moment, to judge his reactions. Razer slid to the side, ready to counterstrike, but there were no good openings.

“What are you thinking?” the deacon asked softly.

That this, too, is a test, Razer thought to himself. “You report directly to the Lord-Captain,” he said.

“Yes.” The deacon lunged with the sword, but the rhythm of the fight had been set by the speaking. Razer dodged – it was unreasonable to expect blocks to be useful against a man with arms that large around. He swiped twice with his knife hand, right then left. Both times the edge met air, and the deacon grabbed at him, to yank him off balance.

Razer went to the ground. He rolled and half-jumped to his feet, knives held out warily.

“He values your judgment,” Razer panted.

“One day he may value yours.”

Razer threw two of the plastic knives, more to see what would happen than any serious hope that they would connect. The first was aimed straight at the deacon’s forehead. The second, at where his shoulder would be if he rolled right. He had rolled right last time Razer swiped at him.

Instead, the deacon caught the first knife, hand carefully avoiding the paint around the edge. He threw it back. Razer ducked and turned the momentum into a spin, and the spin into a kick. He let the angular momentum carry him as he turned, as his foot smashed into the deacon’s knee.

The second knife clattered against a mirror, splattering fluorescent yellow everywhere.

The deacon went down to one knee, bringing his sword down with him. Razer went for the arm, guiding it left as he twisted right. He continued the turn, throwing a vicious donkey kick, which caught his opponent in the chest.

The deacon went sprawling backwards.

In a flash Razer had a knife in each hand, one ready to throw between the index and middle fingers of his left hand. One he held edge toward the fallen deacon.

“So what’s your judgment here?” the deacon asked.

“That you are dead.”

“Tactical assessment,” the deacon barked. “Of me, as a melee opponent.”

Razer didn’t move his knives, didn’t relax his stance. “You’re strong and take hits well. But not as well as you should.”

“You can give me more than that.”

Razer narrowed his eyes. “You are used to the blade. A strong melee combatant, especially at close range. Probably a combat cleric.”

“With the Panhominae,” the deacon nodded.

Razer recognized the name. “Then you have been trained in tactics as well as combat. If Salieri has a combat cleric, he surely does not need a Seneschal specialized in combat.”

“It’s a good idea to have people effective on the battlefield.” The deacon shifted, but Razer shifted his stance to match, until the deacon had stopped moving.

This was a test, and Vinnius had not said to stop.

“There is more to the role of Seneschal than mercenary,” Razer mused. “You are testing me to see if I have these qualities as well.”

The deacon started to hike himself to his elbows, but Razer’s left-hand knife bounced off the padded floor an inch to the left of the deacon’s throat. Keeping his eye on the downed cleric, Razer drew another knife from inside his jacket.

“How do you think you’re doing?”

“There is a rumor Arabel is the favorite,” Razer said, noting the pleased glint in Vinnius’ eye when he said this. “And if you’re a former Panhominae combat cleric, that means you’ve been going easy on me.”

There was a beat as they looked at each other. And on the second beat, the deacon was standing.

Razer threw his knife, but the deacon was already moving, blindingly fast for how they’d been before. The rhythm was all off, before he knew it a foot smashed into his remaining knife hand, sending the weapon flying across the room. He went into a defensive stance, trying to pull another knife from his jacket while his left hand held his guard, but the deacon bull-rushed him, smashing into him at chest level and charging across the room until they slammed into the big mirrors on the wall.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Stunned, all Razer could think was to notice that they weren’t glass. This made sense.

He was picked up by the lapels and smashed into the wall again and thrown to the ground. He prepared to fling himself to his feet, to use the momentum to strike, but found the sword edge at his throat.

Vinnius started clapping from somewhere out of Razer’s field of view. “Fuck yes. That was awesome. Oh god it’s always worth it to see Manny toss people on their asses.”

The deacon’s eyes were still on Razer, but he smiled. “Thank you, Vinnius, for volunteering to be my demonstration partner for tomorrow’s training.”

“Fuck you.” The tone was light, the banter familiar.

Razer took a moment to breathe, brought fresh calm from outside his body, and exhaled the adrenaline of the last half minute. “I see I’m not doing well in the combat assessment. But how is my judgment?”

“Call a stop,” the deacon said. He made to sheathe the sword. “You’re pretty good as a combatant. Your judgment is very tactical, and you pick up on things that you need to.”

“All surrounds me, but only some is useful,” Razer quipped.

“You think a step ahead, which is good. But you look for too many targets, weaknesses, and it makes you slow.” As the deacon finished sheathing the sword, he glanced at his left thigh. “Huh.”

There was the smeared, imprecise fluorescent yellow stain of a glancing knife blow. The deacon nodded in sudden respect. He offered his hand to Razer.

Razer took it. The grip was warm, firm, and when the deacon pulled, it seemed he could hoist Razer’s entire weight one-handed. The grip turned into a handshake once he was on his feet.

“Very impressive,” the deacon told him, looking him with warm green eyes. “I don’t think anyone in your group has managed to lay a paint streak on me.”

“Would not have stopped you,” Razer conceded, because it’s a good idea to butter up the man who reports directly to the Captain.

“Do you even remember making the strike?”

“Let your strikes be intentional,” Razer quoted. “Let them flow out from the heart of you, because the heart is strong and strength flows to weakness.”

The deacon tilted his head.

“But no,” Razer admitted. “Not as such.”

“As I thought, you have good instincts,” the deacon nodded.

----------------------------------------

“There you are.” Vio glanced up from her dataslate, nestled in a small throne of pillows. “Where have you been?”

Razer let himself feel a moment’s irritation as he carefully smoothed his hair back into place. “Combat victory is based on perception. Do I lose if I am injured? Delayed? Dead?”

Vio looked at him, chewing on her lip. “Well someone kicked your ass.” She patted the bed beside her, so he removed his boots and crawled into her makeshift nest.

“The deacon.”

“The deacon?”

“He’s a Panhominae.” At her blank look, Razer continued. “An order of combat clerics trained in ground operations, tactics and strategy, and a variety of weapons.”

“An inquisitor?”

“No. Freelance, I guess.”

Vio breathed, sighing through her teeth. “Okay. The deacon is a spec ops priest guy. Got it.”

Razer nodded. “Powerful. I don’t believe Salieri needs another knife when he already has a cannon.”

Vio thought about this. “Good news for me, bad for you.” She tilted her head. “Eh, sucks to suck.”

Razer scooted closer. “So that’s what I’ve got for the groundwork. What do you have?”

She snatched her dataslate out of his view. “Hey. No looking.”

“Alright.” Razer nodded. “But if we’re going to work together, we need to share what we find. Full disclosure.”

“Alright then.” Vio looked at him for a moment, made a rolling gesture with her hand. “Disclose.”

“I told you about the deacon.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Not him. You. Spill.”

Razer sighed. “Okay. I’ve been a freelancer for about twenty years, part time when I was apprenticed.”

“To what?”

“Corporate security. Probably would have ended up espionage but I dropped out.”

“Makes sense.”

“So, odd jobs here and there, had a couple teams I ran with for a while until the work dried up. Ended up earning a favor from a man distantly connected to Salieri, so here I am.”

“Okay. And your thing is…”

“Knives,” Razer grinned. He produced one with a flick of the wrist and twirled it between his fingers.

She laughed. “Duh.”

“Also quiet operations, plants and pickpockets, and so on. I can do entry, but I’m not great at it. Same goes for playing face.”

“Okay.” Vio leaned back. “Okay that sounds right. So why do you wanna be Salieri’s numbers guy?”

“Hm?”

“We both know Seneschal means a lot of things. You’ve got the sneaky spy thing, and the knifey thing, but uh, there’s the whole mafia accountant thing.”

Technically Vio was breaking a lot of freelancer etiquette by asking, but usually teams weren’t made up of overt rivals banding together.

“Uh, I have a part time running the books for an arcade in Cliffside, and a spiced wings factory.”

“Seriously.”

Razer nodded seriously.

“What kind of wings?”

“Buffalo Eight.”

“No kidding.” Vio loved that shit.

“Mm.” Razer looked at Vio expectantly.

She sighed. “Okay fine. I’m a technical wageslave turned technical freelancer and I figure that I can script my way through most problems, including money stuff. And I’m here because I’m tired of being poor.”

Razer smirked. “What else?”

“What do you mean what else?”

“Spill.”

She looked at him blankly.

“Ground work. Whatever bad thing you’re doing to that wall,” he gestured. “What have you got?” He slouched back in an approximation of the way Vio was lying on the pillows. “Disclose,” he falsetto’d.

Vio laughed. “Oh, that kind of spill. What do you want first? I got footage of all the other candidates’ interviews, some stuff about the predecessor Seneschal, bathroom pictures of the ladies’…”

He didn’t react. “Start with the predecessor, and then let’s watch the interviews.”

----------------------------------------

Neither of them had anything going on for the next few hours. Cicero sent out an alert that all appointments for the rest of the day were canceled.

“Perhaps they are making their decision,” Razer said.

“Let’s hope not.”

Vio started with her data on the old Seneschal, High Factorum Russo. “Pretty clearly a career criminal, decent at money, generally boring guy. Except for the mafia thing.”

“Betrayer,” Razer noted. He did not seem to condemn the man, nor approve. It was a mere statement of fact. “At least this tells us some things about what Salieri is searching for.”

Vio shrugged. “I don’t see how it helps us very much for right now.”

“Knowledge is power,” Razer shrugged.

“Where are you getting all these sayings?”

Razer seemed embarrassed. “I, I don’t know, they fit the situation. Do they not?”

Vio laughed. “I dunno man. I guess.” She swiped at her slate. “Okay, so the other candidates. Let’s focus on Arabel and Reeve for now.”

She felt something on her shoulder. Razer’s hand.

She gave him a look.

“Your posture is terrible,” he commented, adjusting the set of her back.

“That’s pretty common with coders,” she allowed.

There was a pause. She continued looking at him.

He awkwardly pulled the arm back.

Vio paused for a moment, unsure. “I have to ask. I’m doing a lot of the legwork here.”

“You’re intel,” he looked away. “This is the intel part of the operation. You would prefer I stabbed someone?”

“At the end of this, that’s when we’re most in competition,” she said. “And it might not be in your interests to, uh, stab anyone on my behalf. But I’m sharing all my info.”

Razer finally glanced back. “I will not stab you,” he said solemnly, “and I will stab people who are trying to stab you.”

“Like, metaphorically?” Vio hoped. She had never particularly cared for kill missions. To her own financial detriment, it turned out.

“I will stab the metaphorical backstabbers for you too."

Vio thought about this. There was something in angled brown eyes, a fumbling earnestness in his face.

Razer was lonely.

Vio decided sharply that she wanted to move on. “Uh, okay. Good enough.” She decided to move on.

“So we have Reeve, Arabel, Hortensia, DeMoss, and the two of us.”

“And Salieri,” Razer pointed out.

“Salieri’s not a Seneschal.”

“No,” Razer leaned back. “Yet his presence shapes the battlefield.”

Vio grunted. “I don’t know much about him.”

“A distant leader,” Razer agreed. “There are six candidates. Why has he not come to greet us?”

“That’s not how they do this on his world,” Vio protested, but it was a weak protest. Hospitality culture was not why the Salieri patriarch had remained distant.

“A child of military men. Not a frontline general - or he would be here, would he not? But one who delegates.”

Vio pretended she’d done enough homework to know that Salieri was a military brat of some description. “So what he’s looking for is - what - someone he trusts enough to delegate things to?”

“That would follow,” Razer mused.

“Nah,” she decided. “At that point you’d want to meet ‘em either way. Someone you’d be trusting to make decisions for you in the field n stuff.”

“Perhaps that is not how he sees himself. Perhaps Salieri is a xiangqi player,” Razer traced the traditional game board into the folds of the blanket. “And he is deciding which of us is a common soldier tile, and which would make a grand advisor. But all of us the same, pieces for the players to move.”

Vio laughed. “If you see it like that, why would you ever want the job?”

Razer cracked a small smile. “Show me where things are any different and I will go at once.”