The entire training session Arno had been tempering himself, watering down his skills to avoid suspicion. They had practiced target shooting, bayoneting, and now he was fencing against Georges with a wooden sword.
This was their fifth match. He had let the fights drag. He had even let him win one, but decided he would claim this one.
Arno blocked a few more strikes before Georges provided an opening. He struck his arm hard, to dilute any appearance he may have been holding back. The blow would have been enough to dismember with the real weapon.
"Ah!" Georges yelped, dropping his sword and grabbing the affected area. Even wooden swords left their marks.
He stopped rubbing and opened his eyes. "You're damn good with that sword. Tell me where you learned your tricks."
"I guess I'm a natural."
Georges took his hand off the point of impact and straightened up.
"So what made you join up with this little militia? You seem right at home. You been a soldier before? Hunted at least?"
The Assassin intentionally ignored the latter part of the question. "I heard talk around town. Found a recruiting booth. What about you?" He tried to keep the line of questioning on Georges.
"You see that man next to Rodet?" He nodded towards the shorter, rougher looking man. "The one who's barely talked? He's a Spaniard. Met him at le Vieille Charité during some contract work with mon papa. He talked me into the joining."
"Vieille Charité?"
"The almshouse. You aren't from around here, are you?"
"Not exactly. Tell me more about the Spainard," Arno said.
"His name is Diego. Says he got that scar fighting les Britanniques in Amerique. I actually recognize a couple of the faces here from the shelter. That kid that ferried us here, and le mec who almost dropped the musket? I saw both of them before."
"Diego, you said his name is...did you get his last name?"
"No...why?"
"I...nevermind."
Guy-Marcel called out to the crowd. "Alright, hommes! It is time for our next exercise!"