The Eight are known to manipulate the affairs of mortals to turn them to their side at most, or warp their destinies in order to turn them into tools.
-The Necromancer's Notes, Vol. 33, Arteris Collection
***
Skaria had another job this time. But unlike most of her jobs, this one didn't involve killing people.
She stepped into the manor for the second time this month. "Hello?" she called out. No one was in the atrium. The guard who had let her into the courtyard, through the gate, had seen half-asleep, focused more on the fire he sat by then the fact that he had just let an unknown woman, armed to the teeth, into the manor. "Hello?"
A door to her left opened. "Are you the new instructor?" a servant, wearing a plain blue dress and soot-stained apron, asked.
"Instructor?" Skaria frowned. "I'm just here to teach Kyra-"
"Good. You're the instructor." The servant cut her off. "And in Lord Solstael's presence, please only refer to her as 'the young lady.' Such informality isn't tolerated."
"Alright." Skaria hoisted her bag farther over her shoulder, adjusting the leather shoulder pad so it lay more comfortably on her. Training materials, it turned out, were heavy. "Where is the young lady?"
"In the fencing salon." Fencing salon? What in the world was that? "This way please." Skaria followed the servant through the door she opened and through the hall.
The manor was much more luxurious than anywhere Skaria had spent her time. The hall was decorated with paintings, masterfully done, and obviously expensive. House Solstael was a family of discriminating taste, and deep pockets.
They approached a door. Skaria heard something from behind it, something that sounded oddly familiar. The clash of steel, the beat of heavy footsteps, the rhythm of steady staccato commands... this must be the fencing salon the servant had mentioned. Well, enough was enough. Skaria grabbed the doorknob and threw it open.
The room was well lit, mostly by natural light flooding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, and it was long enough to have a fencing track inside, and plenty of room to spare. "Again! Double-step, and launch!"
Skaria watched as two figures, dressed in what looked like quilts sewn into trousers and tunics, advanced up and down the floor, blades flashing. They both wore identical masks, vaguely similar to a knight's helm, but the visor, instead of being removable and providing a slit to see, had a facepiece of metal wire mesh. The smaller one stepped forward and thrust forward with her thin rapier, before her opponent parried it with a swirl of his blade. "Again!" he barked from behind his mask.
They continued their dance, advancing one way, retreating the other way. Well, this looked like it would be going on for a while. Might as well make oneself comfortable. She dropped her bag on the floor and sank into one of the comfortable chairs.
The smaller fencer -Kyra, most likely- was clearly the lesser of the two in skill, but by no means was she weak nor unskilled. Her movements showed a precision that only came from training and rigorous discipline. She wasn't some spoiled kid who took up fencing as a hobby to impress her naive circle of equally spoiled friends. This was a woman, a young woman, who had found a discipline that she could apply herself to.
In other words, she would be a willing and capable student.
Unfortunately, Skaria wasn't a teacher. She was skilled, no bloody doubt about that. But did she have the temperament to teach? Highly doubtful. Most of the people she interacted with, she wanted to beat. Not in a disturbed way, like some men and women who had some madness in them, a madness that compelled them to kill or to hurt. No, she just got frustrated, and the best way she fixed that was by beating someone repeatedly until they stopped frustrating her. Might not be the most productive method, but it was Skaria's method.
Eventually, after a few more bouts, the two of them stopped. "Alright," the man said. "Salute!" They both snapped to attention, backs ramrod straight. Their swords swished upwards, the base of the blade right by their masks, before slicing downward, to the side. They gave each other a shallow bow.
And then the two of them pulled off their masks. Kyra shook her hair out, setting the practice blade aside. "Hello, Skaria," she said between labored breaths. "You're back."
"Yes, I'm back." Skaria smiled. "How's our scaly friend?"
"He's patrolling the manor," Kyra said, "yelling at the guards periodically. He's 'conducting a security review' or something. His job requires it, or something of that manner."
"I'll stop by after the lesson and check in on him," Skaria said. She didn't mention Kyra's relationship with him, of course. Lord Solstael wouldn't approve, and seeing as Kyra didn't mention it to begin with, Skaria could guess he didn't know.
"He'd probably like that," Kyra said. "I mean, he is quite busy, but he seemed to like my company any time I stopped in to chat."
Skaria raised an eyebrow. Why wouldn't he enjoy her company? Last time Skaria had checked, Laidu was head over heels in love with Kyra. Of course she'd be welcome company. "Maybe I'll see what he's up to. You know he hired Thaen for something, right? Wrote him some letter in his native script, kept it all secret-like so that we wouldn't know what Thaen was hired to do."
"I heard something about that." Kyra had seemed to had caught her breath. "Well, who knows why Laidu does half the things he does. Anyway," she said, standing up, "you said that you were going to teach me how to use a viper blade?"
"Frankly, I don't know why you chose this person to be your secondary instructor," Kyra's teacher said. Skaria studied him. Thin, all hard angles, he had a face twisted into a permanent scowl, a short, well-trimmed beard of iron grey, and hard, cold eyes. "She hardly looks credible!" he told Kyra. "Why would you trust her teachings?"
"I don't make my living off of teaching how to fight with a sword," Skaria said. "I fight for a living."
"Oh?" the man sneered. Skaria had seen this type of man before. They were called experts, but they really weren't.
She and Laidu and Karik'ar and Thaen were professionals. Both Laidu and Thaen were soldiers, and she and Karik'ar made their coin off of fighting. Every technique that they used had to be useful, had to save their life and end another's. Every technique they used, every new innovation, had to work. Their life depended on this.
Experts, however, weren't paid to do their work. They were paid to teach, to instruct. This expert who had never been in a fight learned the art of the sword from another expert who had never been in a fight, who learned from another who had never been in a fight. Maybe the first of that chain might have had actual skill, but they quickly divorced from actual fighting, and reality in general.
Skaria glared at him. "Yeah. I make my living off this thing." She tapped her sword.
"So, you're not judged on your form or technique?" he asked. "I have to appear before masters of the art and perform, to ensure I have the technique."
"And you get your license revoked?" Skaria asked. "Funny. If I don't have proper technique, I lose my head."
The older man frowned. He probably didn't have that much experience with mercenaries to begin with, and had probably thought them all a bunch of dumb brutes who could swing a sword around and not much else. Certainly not many would use a viper blade. "Alright," he said, "show me." He grabbed the mask and slipped it on back over his head.
Skaria nodded and reached down into the bag she had brought. She fumbled around a bit, pushing past a few items wrapped in oilcloth, before withdrawing an armored gauntlet. It was the only piece of plate she had, used for one purpose.
The fencing instructor motioned for her to face him on the strip. Kyra sat down in a chair, eyes fixed on both of them. Whatever was about to happen was going to be interesting. And, since Skaria was involved, violent.
She readied her weapon but the fencing instructor did not do the same. "You need to put on a mask," he said. "I'm not going to have you losing an eye to a blow you deflect into your face." Skaria's face soured at that remark. Of course it would have to be her fault.
Kyra tossed Skaria her helmet. "You may need to loosen it a bit. There are some drawstrings in the back." Skaria turned the fencing mask over, tugged a bit at the cords, before slipping it on over her head. Of course she was wearing her normal armor -it was practically her uniform, after all- but this offered some more protection around her neck. If only it didn't snag at her braids. That was part of the reason she despised helmets to begin with. That, and they rang like a bell when someone hit you on the head. It was one thing to have a head wound, but another thing to have your armor ringing in your ears.
"Begin!" With that, the fencing instructor took one extremely long step and lightly tapped Skaria on the chest with the tip of his blade. Skaria just looked down at the tip. "That's a hit! I get one point," the instructor declared.
"What?" Skaria exclaimed as the instructor returned to his original position. "Hit? That barely touched my armor! Even if I wasn't wearing it, the worst that would happen is I'd ruin the shirt I was wearing. That would have been a shallow cut."
"Yes, but the aim of fencing is to earn points, not to skewer your opponent."
"That's probably Kyra's problem!" Skaria snapped. "She couldn't fight off her attackers because she was worried about giving them an 'ouchie.' This is completely useless for self-defense!"
Skaria could tell the instructor was riled up. His body, even under the ridiculous-looking quilt armor, tensed up at her words. "Useless?" he asked, his voice laced with venom. "Alright. Let's have a real bout."
Skaria assumed a defensive position, her sword held crosswise in her right hand, her left hand, now gauntleted, in a fist. The instructor took another lunge forward. He was fast, but so was Skaria. She took a step to his side and brought the flat of her blade right up against his visor.
The fencing mask let loose a most satisfying clang, like the peal of a bell. The instructor stumbled back, reeling, no doubt, both from the forceful blow Skaria gave him, and from the equally disorienting sound. She waited for him to straighten and for the sound to fade before assuming her stance again.
"You're not allowed to step outside the fencing strip," he said, using the tone of voice one reserves for a disobedient child or a bloody simpleton.
"Alright. Next time you get in a fight, you'll have to tell your assailant that, you know, 'you're bloody well not able to fight there, you have to go to a fencing strip to mug me.' See how that works out," Skaria said. Kyra stifled a small giggle. "Alright. Again."
"Very well," the instructor said, before advancing with another lunge. This time, he didn't thrust. Instead, he followed it up with an overhead swing.
Skaria backstepped and brought her blade up to intercept the blow. Then, she grabbed her blade with her left hand.
Half-blading was a technique used by some longswords. It limited the reach of the blade severely. It was a risky move, only really useful in tight quarters.
But it made every blow even stronger.
She took the sword and bashed it into the fencing instructor's head. It whipped back, and the instructor reeled, helmet ringing again. Serves the bloody, stuck-up idiot right. But when he recovered, Skaria could tell she had gone too far. Every motion he made had that snarl of pure wrath and outrage.
Like usual, she had taken it too far.
He tore the helmet off and stormed towards her, red-faced. "You-"
There was a crash, a deep, booming thunderous roar that emanated from somewhere inside the manor. "What was that?" the three of them asked each other at the same time. Of course, their utterances weren't entirely the same; Skaria's phrase had much more profanity in hers.
"Sounded like it was from the kitchen," Kyra said. "This way." She beckoned for the to follow her out the doors. Good, a conflict had been averted.
But as the fencing instructor passed her, he met her eyes. She could still see the rage behind them. "This is not over," he snarled.
"You're wrong about that," Skaria mumbled under her breath. Sure, she'd teach Kyra, but she'd steer well away from that particular instructor.
After a few turns, there was another crash, louder this time, and Skaria thought she heard a trace of a familiar voice. She couldn't make out what was said, but she was sure it was Laidu.
They entered the kitchen. It was a wide building with several fireplaces, most with pots boiling over them. The arches of the hearths were low and wide, made of a pale brick, once pristine white, now a sooty grey.
And standing in the middle of the room was Laidu.
Skaria could tell from his posture that he was very, very unhappy. He wore a dark shirt, buttoned this time, and a classy-looking vest. "What," he snarled, "could have ever let you do something so ridiculously stupid!"
The target of his wrath, a chef, put his hands on his hips. "It tastes good. What are you all up in arms about?"
"'It tastes good?' Really?" Laidu snapped back. "What you're doing is sacrilege!"
"What did he do?" Skaria whispered to Kyra.
"I don't know. I'm the wealthy heiress," she whispered back. "Young ladies like me aren't supposed to even be down here, much less know the ins and outs of the kitchen working. Not that I paid that rule any attention, though," she said.
"Of course," Skaria said. "You have any idea though? Any thoughts? Possibilities? You gotta have bloody something!"
"Shh." Kyra shushed the mercenary. "Just watch."
Laidu grabbed a slab of meat, wrapped in butcher's wax paper. "This... this is a prime shank of beef. It is a gift from God, a work of gastronomical art. And what you are doing is the equivalent of spoiling that art." He stared at the meat, and his face had an almost wistful look at it, a loving look. "What you need to do with this is be gentle. Sear it, or grill it, and coax the flavor out of it." His gaze snapped back to the chef, and the wistfulness vanished, replaced by an angry scowl. "You do not deep-fry it in oil!"
"It tastes good," the chef muttered.
"Tastes good?" Laidu sighed. "You're completely destroying the flavor! Throw in a sack of chicken guts! When those come out, it'll taste the same!"
"Is everything alright?" Kyra asked, raising her voice.
"No, Miss Solstael." Laidu inclined his head. He seemed so... formal around her when others were watching. Others not including Skaria. "Your chef is an idiot, and I'm not surprised you've not gotten food poisoning from him. He has a complete lack of taste and is terrible in his choice of how he prepares food."
"What's a soldier like yourself know about food? What would you have her eat? Salted jerky and hardtack? Or maybe stew made out of moldy boots and scrounged up berries?" the chef snapped back.
"Better to eat something that started out terrible and ended up bad than to eat something that started out wonderful and ended up ruined," Laidu said. "You disgust me. You disgust me more than your food, and that's saying something."
"Look. I wouldn't make that for her or Lord Solstael. The fried beef strips are for me," the chef said back.
Laidu sniffed and turned his nose up at the man. "Really, though. Have some more respect for yourself." He turned to face Kyra. "I'm done the preliminary scan, milady. One more wing of your house left. I should be done that by the end of the day. If you wish to talk to me, I'll be in my room."
With that, he left.
The fencing master grumbled something about being late and quickly exited, leaving Kyra and Skaria alone. "You know," the mercenary said as they walked back, "he's taking his time on purpose."
"Why?" Kyra asked.
"Why do you think?" Skaria said. "You."
"Oh." She sighed. "Well, it's not like we're spending all this time together. My father's keeping a close eye on him. Convinced he's predatory."
"Is he?" Skaria asked. "If he becomes a problem, I can, you know..." she trailed off, her thumb idly stroking the hilt of her sword. If she got the first move in, and used her magic on him, she could probably take Laidu, and dispatch him, if need be.
"Of course not!" Kyra was disgusted by the idea. "He's been the perfect gentlemen. Trust me, I've met men who're predatory. Laidu is not one of them." She sighed. "I mean, once you get past the horns and the..."
"Everything?" Skaria suggested with a raised eyebrow. Heavens, Kyra sounded lovesick. Which she was, come to think of it.
"Yeah. He's a real charmer. And strong." She sighed. "I wish I could curl up next to him, you know. He's so warm. Normally, servants use a pan with coals in it to keep my bed warm, but curling up next to Laidu's like sitting next to a fire and letting the heat soak into your bones, except a fire can't hug you and make you feel safe." She paused, and blanched after she realized what she had just shared. "Please don't tell anyone I said that. Especially not him."
"Hmm... well, there's someone who'd get a kick out of hearing it." Skaria wanted to see Laidu's face when she told him.
"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't tell Laidu. Please?"
"Don't whine, and I'll think about it," Skaria said. "Besides, now that I've chased away your fencing instructor, it's time for lessons."
"Oh?"
"Yep. You're going to end up like how I was with my lessons afterwards."
"I'm going to end up strong and capable of handling myself in a fight?" she asked.
"No." Skaria smiled an evil smile. "You're going to end up bloody exhausted, bruised, and sore beyond your wildest dreams."
"Sounds like a challenge," Kyra said. "When do we start?"