“He hardly calls any more,” Dagen complained, knowing full well that he sounded like a churlish old fishwife but not caring enough to stop.  “I almost feel as if I’ve been abandoned.”

“You got along just fine before you had Victus in your life,” Abbot Wesley reminded him.  “‘I don’t need anyone else in order to be happy,’” he quoted, airily.  “‘Dependence on others is weakness of character.’”

“Oh, shut it,” Dagen said, crabbily.  “I’d never have said anything of the sort, if I’d realized you had the memory of an elephant.”  His annoyance broke and he sighed, his shoulders slumping minutely.  “I’m sorry, old friend.  I just miss my boy, is all.”

“This is a difficult assignment,” Wesley said.  “I have to tell you, I had my doubts about sending him into the lion’s den like that, as much for your well being as for his.”  For one of the few times in their relationship, he looked uncomfortable.  “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors flying around about this posting being more about money than anything else.” 

Dagen looked at him sharply.  

“Nobody buys off the council,” the abbot hastened to assure him, “but I’d be lying if I said that money didn’t play at least a minor role in granting Mal that contract.  I’ve also heard other, uglier rumors from outside our halls, suggesting that the Earth Defense Force has doubled their long-range patrols over the past few years.  Something’s going on out there, and when things come to a head-”

“IF they come to a head,” Dagen interjected, but his interruption had no effect.

“- I have no intention for Kenzine warriors to be at the beck and call of the military, the way they were during the first invasion.”

“Are you thinking of forming your own army?”  Dagen asked, only halfway joking.

The abbot didn’t meet his gaze. “That’s hardly what I want to happen,” he said, lowering his voice ominously.  “But if it does, I plan on being prepared for it.  And that preparation requires financial independence. It’s an unsavory reality that we’d best learn to swallow.”

Dagen gave an unsatisfied grunt and freshened his tea, not trusting himself to say what was on his mind.  Sagely, the abbot chose not to inquire about his silence.

“As I said,” Wesley continued, “his assignment isn’t so much about the money as it is about putting an asset where he can do the most good.  You know how socially backward that mudball you live on is.  There probably aren’t two hundred varii on the whole planet.  Putting Victus into such a prominent, visible position will do more to advance sapient rights on Galise than they’ve done by themselves in the past hundred years.  There’s not a person on that planet who likes Rudex Mal, but still they watch him with an eagle eye.”

“That’s because they have to keep him in sight, lest he stab them in the back,” Dagen said, sourly.  “I’m pretty good at finding the good in everyone, but his… his is buried so deep that I fear it has suffocated by now.”

“Regardless of why they watch him, whenever they see him they’ll also see Victus, as the only man on the planet capable of keeping him alive.  Word has gotten out, you know,” he added, “about what happened last month.  I even saw something in one of the mainstream news outlets about your boy heroically throwing himself off a building to save Mal’s life.”

“They’re exaggerating,” Dagen scoffed. “It was a garden shed,” 

“It doesn’t matter!” The abbot sounded aggrieved.  “The man was a hired assassin, and Victus prevented him from turning Rudex Mal into worm food.”

Dagen sighed.  “It’s just too bad he wasn’t the brains behind the attempt,” he said, wearily.  “Then Vic would be finished and could come home again.”  He shook his head. “Someone out there must really want the negin dead."

***

Victus hadn’t been looking forward to attending Mal at the slave fights, and the outing was proving to be every bit as horrific as he’d feared.  That people in their day and age would cast off all veneer of civility and cheer men on as they pounded one another into submission was embarrassingly vulgar.  The one saving grace, he thought, was that all but the final three matches were going to be fought to first blood, not to the death.  The Negin must have done a masterful job of hiding his peccadilloes from the Kenzine council if he could engage in something so barbaric and still be granted a protection contract.

Or, Victus thought to himself, the head of House Mal had made some exorbitant bribes.  It unsettled him to think that there was anyone in his order who would have sold his services, but he had to admit that it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Feeding the hungry was a noble pursuit, but the money to do so had to come from somewhere.

Traditionally, Kenzine protectors were assigned only to those who exhibited either extraordinary need or extraordinary opportunity, but in Victus’ experience, the only thing Mal had demonstrated in extraordinary quantites were wealth and a lack of good judgement.  He sighed silently and scanned the crowds surrounding them, the same way he'd been doing for the past two hours, and tried not to lose faith that his abbot knew what he was doing. The vast majority of their fellow spectators were well into their cups by this point, and Victus allowed himself, ever so fractionally, to relax.  

Mal's harsh voice cut through the crowd's cheers to summon his bodyguard. "Protector!" he bellowed, intent upon informing anyone who had yet to hear that he was under the protection of a genuine Kenzine warrior. “Attend me!”

“There is no need to yell, Negin Mal,” Victus answered as he moved closer to his employer.  “Advertising your presence to anyone who wishes you ill isn’t prudent.”  Not to mention the fact that it’s astonishingly rude, he thought to himself. 

Mal ignored the Protector and held his wine goblet up to Victus, his eyes glittering with alcohol-induced mirth. “Is this safe?”

The Negin had requested that Vic taste the wine in his goblet so often that Victus suspected Mal was playing with him, trying to get him drunk. Still, he took the took the glass, pulled a straw-shaped metal probe out of his pocket, and drew a microscopic portion of the contents into the tester.  When the light on the probe remained green, Victus pulled the sample into his mouth and swirled it around with the care of a sommelier before returning it to its owner.  “It is safe.”  It was nearly impossible to get a Kenzine warrior drunk, but Mal did not know that.  It was far better to let the awful man have his fun in this relatively innocent way, distracting him from more harmful pursuits. If Victus had learned nothing else in the nearly thirteen months that he’d been guarding the negin, he’d learned how dangerous a psychotic person could be once bored.

Victus’ contract with House Mal had a little less than a year left on it, and no matter how vigilantly he protected his charge, he still counted the days until he was released into another, more fulfilling situation. But, as abhorrent as Victus found his employer, he still had a duty to perform.  As the two men in the arena below them bludgeoned each other into submission, Victus distracted himself by considering how best to use the next eleven months of his life.  Professional integrity demanded that he train a replacement before he left, but...who?  Few of the guards Leland kept on staff would be capable of such a demanding task, and none were sufficiently trustworthy.  Any respectable protection service would turn their noses up at such menial duty, and Victus would be certain that the shadow of no other Kenzine warrior would darken the doorway of House Mal in the future. 

The crowd’s sudden roar drew Victus’ attention to the sand-floored ring, where a huge, well-armored sapiens man had entered. He stomped around the perimeter, sending a small puff of dust flying with each footstep.  This, Victus knew, was Charnel, the man they’d come to see, the man who had a fifty-fifty chance of dying that evening. He also had a fifty-fifty chance of emerging from the ring a champion, perhaps even rich enough to buy his freedom.

The man seemed energized as he stalked the outside of the sand pit like a tiger exploring the confines of its cage.  This wild animal, however, was not looking for escape.  Charnel looked up into the crowd, Victus noticed, and seemed to be feeding on their energy.  He raised his arms, shouting at them as he passed, encouraging their taunts and doing everything he knew to stir up their passion. Cords in his neck strained against the skin as he flexed and spat, prodding them into a frenzy. Victus folded his ears close to his head in defense against the all-but-deafening noise.

Almost unnoticed, a door on the opposite side of the arena opened, admitting a pathetic, frightened creature who seemed to shrink in on itself. The loose-fitting loincloth marked it...him... as a male, but other than the fact that he was some type of canine varius, little could be told.  Victus had seen this before, and he groaned quietly.  This was the nadir of pit fighting morality.  This scared little canine had done something so displeasurable to his master that he had been cast into the pit as a punishment. Given that varii were such a novelty on Galise, Victus couldn’t imagine what sin he could possibly have committed for him to have been sacrificed like this.

He would be a warm-up act for the spectacle to follow, something to limber up the champion fighter. He would run around the ring in terror while the crowd laughed, or he might pick up a sword in a desperate attempt to defend himself.  The fighter would play with him for a few minutes, putting on a good show for the crowd like the professional entertainer he was, but all too soon the fighter would tire of the farce and, if the other slave was lucky, slice his head off.  If the other slave was not lucky, he’d get his belly ripped open and he’d spend the next few hours dying a horrible death as other, larger men stepped over his exsanguinating body. His death would serve no purpose more meaningful than as a lesson to his fellow slaves what would happened to them if they sufficiently angered their owners. 

The frightened varius made a stumbling dash for the weapons rack at the side of the pit as Charnel watched in amusement. He had years of experience in dealing death, and had little to fear from this pathetic mouse of a canine.  The pit fighter smiled as the slave made the typical amateur’s mistake of choosing one of the largest, sharpest swords on the rack.  Among the dirks and stilettos which might have served him well, that broadsword looked like the most dangerous piece of armament, and he had no doubt grabbed it out of the misplaced, panicked thought that bigger was better.  

The muscular pit-fighter grinned at the delicious irony of the unfortunate choice. That impressive sword was indeed sharp, but it was also the slowest, heaviest weapon in the ring, impractical for use by any but the strongest of competitors. It would weigh this frightened little bird down like a sack of rocks attached to its wrist.  He moved to the center of the ring, where clean sand was about to be stained red, bared his teeth, and roared at his appetizer. 

The canine stopped in his tracks, and the gargantuan fighter could swear he saw the little man’s knees knocking together.  The fighter bellowed a cruel laugh, then flexed his enormous muscles and roared again in an attempt to make his underdressed opponent wet himself in terror.

His opponent’s loincloth remained dry but he did begin to back away, dragging the tip of the sword behind him like a rake with one tine.  As predicted, it slowed him down to a crawl, but Charnel still sighed in disappointment.  It was always better when these things stood their ground and tried to fight.  Chasing them around the ring sapped a portion of his strength, and on a day like today, a day with so much riding on the outcome, he couldn’t afford to be at less than the peak of his game.  Charnel would have to end this quickly. By running, this disobedient slave had done nothing but speed his own death.  

Charnel roared and jogged after him in pursuit.  His quarry sped up as well, the sword’s tip dragging just a few meters ahead of Charnel’s hairy, sandal-clad feet. The fighter thought that if he sped up just a little he could step on the blade’s broad side, snatching it out of the wretch’s hand and maybe pulling him to the ground with it.  Then he could be disposed of with ease.   He sped up and the sword grew closer.  Two meters.  One meter.  

The slave sensed the danger and dragged the sword toward him, somehow hefting it out of the way and cradling it in his arms as he ran. The weight was considerable, but he still managed to run just fast enough to stay out of the fighter’s reach. 

The crowd howled its appreciation for the real-life comedy playing out before them.  The sacrificial lamb was proving to be more difficult to catch than their champion had originally thought, evading the experienced fighter through energetic panic and sheer dumb luck.   Those who had placed wagers on the title match howled for different reasons; those who had bet against the house favorite egged him on, encouraging him to expend his energy to catch the frightened rabbit.  Those who bet on him to win grew angry at his waste of resources.  

Victus watched the horrific drama play out with growing interest.  Now that the slave was no longer cowering in fear, the Kenzine was picking up on subtle hints that the man might be more of a threat, had he chosen to stand his ground and fight.  His musculature might be hidden beneath a grubby coat of dirt, but it was there.  His shoulders carried more mass than a house slave’s ever would, and the way he was running with the broadsword’s considerable weight in his arms suggested he was not unaccustomed to covering distances while bearing a load.  In fact, the care with which he cradled the razor-sharp sword so he wouldn’t slice his own arm off made Victus take notice.  

He spared a quick glance at the small table to the right of the Negin, where the day’s program had been tossed. Mal noticed Vic’s movement out of the corner of his eye and held out his wine goblet to be refilled, never once looking away from the bloodthirsty spectacle playing out beneath them.  It cost him nothing to do so, so Victus picked up the decanter and poured a measured amount into his employer’s glass.  After he’d finished this small service, he absentmindedly held onto the vessel instead of putting it back on the table.

Beleaguered by the taunts, Charnel had obviously tired of the game.  He roared and put on a burst of speed, intent upon ending this farce.  Sensing his impending doom, the slave let out a mouse-like squeak and scampered away as quickly as he could but his smaller feet found little traction in the sand, and Charnel closed the distance between them. Soon they were close enough, and Charnel reached out a great, hairy hand to grab his troublesome quarry.  

Sensing that the end to this conflict was fast approaching, Victus narrowed his eyes. In his final seconds, the frightened canine scuttled first in one direction as he ran and then the other as if looking for one final hiding spot.  He almost looked as if he were going to throw the sword away in an effort to lighten his burden when he overbalanced and stumbled.

Or, that’s what he wants his pursuer to think, Victus realized.  With a swordsman’s eye, the Kenzine watched the man discreetly shift both his hands to the sword’s pommel while bearing the blade’s weight on his forearm.  Victus was so intent on his observation that the world around him slowed.  As if he were judging a fencing match, he watched the slave fall to one knee, then push off with both unexpectedly powerful legs, propelling his body around in a violent twist which threatened to snap his spine.  

Under the dingy fur, the slave’s shoulders bunched as they waited until the last possible second before releasing their pent-up energy, whipping the sword around with astonishing violence.  A part of Victus’s brain rebelled at such a move, for it would leave the man defenseless for the precious seconds it would take to get the blade’s inertia under control after such a wild swing. But he also saw that it was pointless to worry about a counterstrike, because none would be coming. 

The crowd saw the slave stumble and fall. They saw a momentary flash of light as he lost control of his sword. They saw their champion trip over his own feet.  It took a second longer for them to notice that Charnel’s head was rolling away from his body, and when they did, the hush of a stunned silence fell upon the stadium. 

The slave pulled himself up and filled his lungs with several deep, restorative breaths.  Now that he was no longer behaving submissively, the man stood with a regal charisma that compelled every eye in the arena to stare.  And out of those four hundred pairs of eyes, the eyes he chose to stare back at belonged to the only other varius in the crowd; the varius who was playing wine steward to the porcine sapiens in the front row. 

After a heartbeat or two, he sneered in distaste and stalked back to the side entrance from which he’d come, leaving the blood-stained sword behind him where he’d dropped it in the sand. 

***

Victus found the ride back to the negin’s estate disturbing for a number of reasons.  The negin was quiet, and although this might seem like a good thing on the surface, Rudex Mal was rarely, if ever, quiet.  Although his employer might be a semi-sane sadist, Victus quickly learned that he was not stupid, and for every waking moment that he was not eating, fucking or intoxicating himself into a stupor, Mal was thinking.

Negin Rudex Mal had hardly settled himself into his deeply cushioned throne before he broke his disturbing silence and peppered Victus with questions. “What was that?”  he asked his protector. 

“I have no idea,” Victus admitted.  “I’m as mystified as you are.”

“I’m not mystified,” Mal spat, “I’m angry!  I just lost twenty thousand credits back there, all because one of your dog-haired brothers decided to play fast and loose with the rules.”

Victus was puzzled.  “Was what he did illegal?  It didn’t look like the others-”

“It wasn’t illegal,” Leland broke in, smoothly, “but it was certainly unorthodox.”

Although Victus wasn’t particularly fond of this man, he was certain that when discussing matters of policy, Leland was a far better source of information than was Rudex Mal. “The two were going to fight anyway. Why should it make any difference how they met?”

Leland spoke to him with unusual patience. “Once you surpass a certain level in the fights, it becomes as much a matter of house honor as it is sport.  The men in that ring weren’t just fighting each other, they were carrying the honor of their houses on their shoulders.  At least,” he said, cocking an eyebrow, “that’s what was supposed to happen.  

“That varius dumped his house’s honor in the dirt when he stripped off his armor and threw himself into the ring looking like a common slave.  That’s like…” he fished for a moment, seeking an adequate comparison.  “..like promising a head of state that you’ll take his daughter to the ball, and showing up at their doorstep wearing rags and riding a donkey.  It was…”  he thought for a moment, then began to smile. “Actually, if he was trying to bring shame on as many parties as possible all at once, it was magnificently effective.”  He sipped his cooling tea.  “You have to admire him for that, at least.”  

“I admire him for nothing,” Mal shot back, petulantly. Unsurprised that his employer would disagree, Leland merely cocked an eyebrow where Mal could not see and turned his attention back to his tea. 

Something about the other varius preyed on Victus’ mind.  Something about the way he’d stared straight up into the crowd and found his eyes, almost as if he’d expected him to be there. Even from that distance, Victus could tell  that there was something unusual about the man, something he felt compelled to investigate.  “You’re aware that my contract is up in two hundred and sixty-four days,” he said, hoping the Negin was in a receptive mood. 

 “Life will be so dreary without your effervescent personality,” Mal moaned, mocking him. “Whatever shall we do without your shining face to brighten our day?”

“In all likelihood, you will die,” Victus said, ignoring the verbal jabs with calm indifference.  “You have amassed an impressive number of people who wish to attend your funeral.”

“Power fertilizes the soils of discontent,” Mal quoted, from a book which Victus had read, but had not at all agreed with.  He wasn’t certain whether he was more surprised that Mal could quote the author, or that he’d read a book in the first place.  

 “It doesn’t really matter why others want you dead,” Victus reminded him, “my job is to keep you alive and to improve the security of your house in any way I can.  If you’re dead thirty minutes after I leave, the Kenzine council will not be impressed.”

“So train someone from the security detail,” Mal commanded.  “I have a house full of guards walking around, looking for something to kill.  You can have any of them you want.”

“One of Max’s mercenaries?” Victus said, having to work to keep incredulity from his voice. “You must be joking.  Any one of them would gladly stab you in the back for a hundred credits and a stiff drink.”  He eyed the Negin dubiously.  “Given the way you tend to treat the people in your employ, it’s entirely possible that they might forego the money.”

“Huh,” Mal snorted.  “As much as I hate to admit it, you do have a point.”  He reached for the decanter and poured himself another generous helping of wine. “So what am I supposed to do?”

Victus scratched his chin absentmindedly. “You need someone who has both the skills to fight and the brains to know when not to.  You  need someone who is sufficiently imposing to make an enemy think twice about attacking you, yet can be discreet when the situation calls for it.  And above all,” he said, quirking an eyebrow at his employer, “he has to have a good reason to keep you alive.”

“So go shopping,” Mal said, carelessly. “I really don’t give a damn what it costs. I want to sleep well at night, and I can’t do that if I’m constantly looking over my shoulder.”

“I think I might know the right person for the job,” Victus said, cautiously, “but I’m not certain you will approve of my choice.” 

“When have I ever approved of your choices?” Mal drawled. “You’re a bone-chilling killer with the heart of a tea-sucking herbivore.  But,” he said, reaching into an ice bucket and noisily plopping a pair of ice cubes into his wine, “you’ve managed to keep me alive for this long, so I guess you must know a thing or two about this protection business.”  His glass abruptly stopped its journey toward his disturbingly lush lips. “You said ‘person’.  You weren’t thinking of hiring a woman to be my bodyguard?  The last thing I need is an angry set of hormone-powered tits breathing down my neck.”

“No,” Victus assured him, “not a woman.  He’s a proven world-class fighter that you’d have to be out of your mind to go up against, but he’s also intelligent.  He’s varius, so he definitely stands out in a crowd.”  Mal looked ready to argue, so before he could draw a full breath Victus went on, “My room is already set up for a varius bodyguard, so there would be no added expense.   The house staff knows the protocol and the transition would be seamless. And you’ve seen the effect I have on your associates.  They may assume he’s a Kenzine as well, just because we’re both canine.”

Mal’s head tilted to one side as he contemplated Victus’ words.  “Maybe not the worst idea you’ve ever had,” he said, grudgingly. “Where would you get him from?”

“That’s the best part.”  Victus allowed a small smile to creep across his face.  “How much did you really lose today?  On that final match?”  Mal seemed disinclined to say, but Victus had heard Mal talking on the Comm for weeks, bragging how much money he was going to win, so it wasn’t much of a guess. He inflated the figure a bit to bolster Mal’s ego. “Ten thousand credits? Fifteen?”

Mal pursed his lips and shrugged agreement.  Victus spoke conspiratorially, his voice pitched so low that it was an effort for Mal to hear him. “That slave is everything you want in a bodyguard.  He’s fast, he’s imposing, and he’s obviously intelligent. And if you own his contract,” he said, feeling as if he were selling a horse, “you can roll today’s losses back into his buyout.”  

The buying and selling of human flesh was as repugnant to Victus as anything he’d ever considered, but he kept the smile on his face. “Come to think of it, that’s about the only way you can make that man pay for what you lost.  And if he doesn’t work out,”  Victus shrugged, “you can always resell him, or use him for another purpose.  But at least you’ll get some of your money back.”  In this Victus’ logic was not entirely sturdy, but he didn’t worry about it any more than Mal did.  

The Negin had been shown a path to regaining his lost stature, and that was more appealing to him than any material gain. “I suppose I can guarantee his safety with a collar,” he mused, scratching the stubble where his first chin overlapped his second one.

Victus knew that to push further wasn’t in his best interests, so he let the matter rest on Mal’s wine-addled mind.  The seed had been planted, and regardless of the outcome Vic’s own position benefited. If Mal didn’t purchase this particular slave, at least he’d be primed the next time the discussion of Vic’s successor arose.