Solitaire POV: Day 94

  Current Wealth: 196 gold 19 silver 32 copper

  Everything nice I ever said about black powder had been taken back, by the dawn of our ninety fourth day. It was bullshit. I fucking hated the stuff; shitty, stubborn little powdered rat shit was what it was. I was glad we’d abandoned it in the nineteenth century, because I’d be embarrassed to still use a piece of shit like that as late as the twenty-first, just as I was embarrassed to be stuck using it then.

  Embarrassment changed very little, though, in the grand scheme of things. Actually it changed nothing, I was still dealing with the same shitting problems with the same shitting mechanisms.

  But that was for another time. It’s not that you need some vital context shown later to understand what I was doing, more so that it’s just way more narratively satisfying if I record it as some big, epic reveal. Remember the exploding barrel when we attacked those gangsters in the ratpass? Or the makeshift cannon at Rinchester? Yeah, pretty cool shit, way better than if it’d been spoiled beforehand. What can I say? I’m writing this journal to record me and my brothers’ histories in Redacle, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still a storyteller at heart.

  As an aside, to this day, black powder can go and fuck itself. But I digress.

  It really is hard to stress how bad of a mood I was in at the beginning of that day. It wasn’t often, when you happened to be me, that a problem arose which didn’t surrender to the blunt hammer blows of intellect near-instantly. Some might expect that to mean that those few exceptions were fascinating, enticing novelties. To some extent, they were. For the first ten minutes. Then they became progressively more annoying, quickly graduating from “blinking manually” to “lying in bed, needing a piss”, then moving on to “crying baby on an airplane” before finally settling at a level in excess of even Shango’s bitch wife. Really, I’d been going through it.

  But it was not all bad. When Shango got back from his meeting, he’d insisted on scanning me with his Appraisal. Sure enough, there’d been a change to my stats. Level sixteen, four skillpoints all to myself.

  “What made you check?” I’d asked, and he’d just grinned.

  “Do you know how many times I’ve struggled to make one of my deals since coming here?”

  I thought about it.

  “None.” I guessed, and Shango grinned wider.

  “None.” He confirmed. “And I’m guessing that steel-creator was the first time you’ve actually struggled to make something, intellectually, rather than simply remembering principles of science you already knew and implementing them.”

  God damn did I like how smart he was. Shango was absolutely right.

  “So we can gain experience by tasks based around our own fields.” I finished. “Maybe even others, but certainly by pushing ourselves.”

  That was the best news I’d heard in a while, because it meant there was actually an advantage for us to find in my stepping out of my comfort zone.

  “I do need a break so that I don’t go insane and kill myself though.” I noted, and Shango sighed.

  “Right, figured. We’re heading off to watch the tourney soon, want to come with?”

  It seemed better than nothing, so I did. There was always something to gain by scouting out the competition with an extra set of eyes, after all.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Besides, our funds had dropped below two hundred gold, and betting had proven a decent source of revenue before. Shango had secured us a constant influx of wealth, as I learned when he returned earlier that afternoon, but we still stood to gain in the short term from a particularly lucrative wager. More money was, after all, better than less money.

  For once, we were arriving at the arena earlier than any of our own side’s fights. Some delay had befallen it, necessitating a later start in the day, but the main reason was that this round was where the competition became properly fierce.

  Beam had watched by far the most matches previously, and according to him we’d gotten past the point where contestants weaker than Magnus could be expected to show up. Even disregarding the advantage of now-universal plate armour, people like Alora were looking a great deal less hopeful in their chances.

  Which wasn’t to say she was screwed, because we’d made a few improvements to her gear, too. Her lamellar was all well and good of course, but the dash of tool steel we’d added just perfected things. Maybe she’d even make it to round four.

  The Challenger strolled out as his name was called, and we all watched him receive his opponent. Shango was shoulder to shoulder with me, watching and Appraising. His mood was fouled slightly, despite a general upkick from learning he’d gained experience through his politicking. That wasn’t surprising. It never took him long to go from pleasantly surprised to bitterly disappointed not to have received his surprise sooner. Someone really ought to have a chat with him about that pessimistic streak.

  Not me, of course. It would preferably be someone who didn’t mine his own sleeping quarters as a cautionary defence.

  “New guy is tough.” Shango growled. “Physical stats all in the teens.”

  It was funny how much less intimidating that was than if we’d heard it a few days ago. I glanced at Beam, and Shango read the question on my face before I could ask it outloud.

  “Thirteens, yeah, essentially dead equal with him.”

  Beam for his part did not look particularly pleased to hear that. Maybe he’d gotten used to standing above everyone among our group, in any case the reminder of his own limits would probably do him some good.

  And holy shit, it was one hell of a reminder.

  The guy was quick, at least. His name was Kokatoa- a weird one that was foreign to Elswick, and didn’t ingratiate him to the crowds. His armour was of strange design, too, clearly not local work, and his technique was less local still. He came on like a damned cyclone, all unchecked aggression and precise aim.

  But the Challenger wasn’t all talk. Clearly he’d been trained by the best, and at no small expense to his own family. With an enemy this good we actually got to see some measure of skill from him rather than just brute strength. Things didn’t last much longer than last time, though.

  Strikes were met by parries, swords screeching on each other and shaking so violently with each impact that I thought they might shatter every time. Both were thicker than most historic examples in real life, needing to be built more robustly to survive their own wielders’ strength for any length of time, but I saw the clear difference in their make as the Challenger’s weapon continuously knocked flakes of steel from his opponent’s.

  The opponent in question was soon forced onto the defence, a position he was clearly far less comfortable in. I took it all in, as best I could, but I wasn’t Beam. Physically perceiving what was happening was about my limit.

  Once it was all done, the Challenger took his leave and his beaten enemy did the same shortly after. He wasn’t hurt, surprisingly enough, having managed to stave off the majority of incoming damage right up until his own disarming. Not bad at all, I made a mental note of his name in case we were ever recruiting while he was in the area again.

  Beam was the first of us to comment on the affair.

  “So, the loer was as good as me.” He breathed, clearly not liking the fact one bit. I didn’t either.

  “You have better gear.” I noted. “And certain other advantages outside raw statistics. But yeah, as good as you.”

  Not a promising sign in the slightest.

  We watched a few more matches, and fortunately Kokatoa was still a cut above the norm. I was having a hard time seeing myself matching some of the fighters pulling up now, though, and a lump built in my throat as I thought of Beam.

  I was done with this tournament, and none of what I now watched was my problem. But all of it was Beam’s. He hadn’t fought in this round yet, and with each person who fell, the odds of him going up against the King got higher.

  The King, at last, was called through. He came out like some giant machine, freezing the blood in my veins as I watched him move. His opponent was some fucking guy who didn’t even last a single swing.

  He’d been as good as Beam, too, apparently.