The Grand City of Delmonte; The Piazzo Del Toro
IC:
Clang.
"I do hope you understand that we didn't make this decision lightly."
Rattle. Clang. Water drips somewhere no man would ever find it. Cesare and Ludovico are in a place unfit for any Di Canossa, let alone the Doge and the Foreign Chancellor: a seedy warehouse on the lower West side of the Grand City of Delmonte. The warehouse is owned by a small fishery, a subsidiary company of Pesconnes Co., which is a much larger fishing company that is owned by the umbrella company of Regaliere Consumazzi (a company that generally produces various food-stuffs). That is owned by an off-shore shell corporation which was just purchased last year by Di Canossa Vineyards & Co.
"Won't you respond to the Doge's question, Faliere?"
The man thus addressed, kneeling on the mildewy floor as he was, was not in a good position to look at either Ludovico or Cesare, but he oozed contempt. His crimson robes of office were, by this point, entirely ruined.
"You're not scaring me." he spat, "I'm not a mere peon that you can cow into submission. I am the Vice-Chancellor of the Quality of Wines and Spirits, a Conte, and a protected man of three of the other major families. You can't touch me."
Cesare writhed.
"Clearly you think that my cousin Vincenzo is the only one who can play dirty. But I can deal with you without his help." Cesare rested one gloved hand on a dilapidated railing. "Now, inform me of how I can get my hands on the Di Azzones that plotted the veritable treason that you have initiated, or I will kill you."
Diego Faliere spat at Cesare's feet. "Go fuck yourself, Di Canossa dog. I played the game just fine and did nothing out of place until you decided to break the rules yourself. Hell, I even made a pretty good Vice-Chancellor. You broke the Pax Nobilis. You brought these things upon yourself. My living is your only chance of redemption and you know it, so you won't kill me."
Cesare stared at him and Ludovico backed away, thinking Cesare would over-react. But instead, Cesare just looked at him for a few seconds before speaking.
"Fuck you. Fuck the other families. And fuck the Peace. I'm not an old man. I have sixty years left on the Doge's chair; minimum. Our plants have already taken over the entirety of the Special Police, as you have learned tonight..." Here he nodded at the four DSP agents standing behind Faliere. "I no longer need the army; the mercenaries I've hired are more loyal anyway. So remind me of what, exactly, I need this alleged Peace for. Sure, sure, it's a tradition, and that's nice. But you know what? It's a tradition that shafts me."
Here he got quite close to Faliere.
"And you know what, all of this was just to scare you. I'll admit that. But now you've insulted me, my family, and my manhood and I just can't live that down. My only consolation will be knowing that you died a far worse death than I will. I hope you enjoy your voyage. I apologize for the bumpiness of your ride; Delmontese Rafts are notorious for the turbulence they incur en route to their destination." He waved his hands at the agents who were holding the various components of the Delmontese "Raft" in the back. They were briefly taken aback; they hadn't been expecting to actually do these things! But slowly, the one with the chain and locks moved forward and attached the chain to Faliere's shackles.
"Hah! This is quite good! You want me to beg. Maybe you'll even let me go in the water before you doubtless pull me up on a spare chain you've hidden. Quite rich."
Cesare was silent as the other end of the chain was wrapped through the empty spaces of three large cinder blocks, making a grating sound as it did so.
Faliere burst into laughter. "Good God, Cesare, are they actors? They're moving so purposefully. This is quite good. Are you going to give me my Last Rites to make me really worry? No? Probably more convincing that way, anyway, you dumb fuck. God, you're going to look so fucking stupid. If I begged now would you immediately relent or just pretend to? Did you rehearse this? It's really excellent."
Cesare just watched. He could probably still make him crack if he tried. He could probably even bribe him... Another clang.
"Uhoh!" Faliere said sarcastically with mock worry on his face. "That sounds like a grate being opened! Oh, gee, I might be about to die! I'd better fess everything up to you, huh?" Then he had another fit of laughter. "I'm so upset that you shackled my hands together so I can't wipe the tears from my eyes. This is so perfect. I won't even have to embellish it when I tell everyone at the Club tomorrow about how the Di Canossas- Oh, my, they are making quite a show of being about to push them in the water. I say, those boys look like they mean business, Cesare! Where did you get them?" His laughter became grating and incessant. Even as the cinder-blocks plunked into the water with a splash one by one and the chain began to whir after them, he kept laughing.
His cloak tore and his fingernails ripped as he clawed at the wood, still red in the face with glee. He held himself up for just a few seconds by holding his elbows against the planks near the edge of the hole in the floor, now exhausted. His laughing quieted and he looked around. Nobody was moving closer to pull him up after he inevitably plunged into the water. He didn't even see a secondary chain attached anywhere. Then he looked up at Cesare and saw his face. And then it hit him. His face went completely calm.
And then he began laughing again; more loudly than ever. He threw his head back and laughed with insane glee just before being sucked into the water in an instant. The water splashed upwards, black as coffee. As Cesare stewed over his breakfast in the Piazzo Del Toro the next morning, this is what his beverage reminded him of. Ludovico, sitting across from him, had no difficulties eating. If anything, murder apparently worked up his appetite.
"You could pretend to be upset, you know."
Ludovico swallowed some ham and shrugged. "Cesare, when you were young your father, my brother, taught you a very important lesson. While he was trying to teach you about something or other out on the Promenade, right there, a pigeon kept bothering him. He shoo'd it away once and continued speaking. It flew at him again, so he shoo'd it away once more. After the third time, he grabbed it and broke its neck. You cried and he politely informed you that it was just a pigeon. Well, Faliere? He was just a pigeon, that's all."
Cesare pushed his plate away. The steaming food that would otherwise induce him to hunger did not interest him at all. Then a side panel in the room opened and a herald entered.
"Serene One; Foreign Chancellor." He nodded curtly at each in turn, "Cardinal-Archbishop Raccio is here as per your request." Cesare nodded and the herald opened the door to allow the Cardinal in. He flew in upon a flurry of crimson and silver. He was a young man for a Cardinal. And he was very un-Cardinal-like, too. He simply sat down next to the Doge. However, this was understandable as they were family, after all.
"So, Cesare, what is it this time?"
"Ludovico and I killed a man. You'll probably hear about it today."
"Ah, murder is a foul crime, you really ought to turn yourself into the temporal authorities, you need to be contrite, blah blah blah, your penance is three hundred Hail Mary's, fifty Our Father's, seventy Acts of Contrition, and... your breakfast." Cesare slid his plate and utensils to the hungry bishop.
"Three hundred Hail Mary's?"
Raccio dead-panned at Cesare. "What, your penance for murdering a man is too high for you? I'm sorry that the Heavenly Host didn't have a discount running on homicide today. Next time, you know, maybe don't go around killing people."
"Can't I just make a donation or something?"
"That product was discontinued. This ham is fantastic. God, the eggs too. I honestly thought all my life that an egg was just an egg, but now I know that this is not the case. You have to get your steward to tell me where he buys your produce, because this is all just- Oh, right, cold-blooded murder. Look, it's the most grievous sin. Very displeasing to God. In order to go to heaven, you have to do your penance, but you also have to show actual contrition."
"Contrition?"
"It means being sorry for what you did."
"I know what it means."
Raccio shrugged and pushed away the now empty plate. A baffled Ludovico attempted to figure out how Raccio, a far skinnier man, had made the food disappear so quickly. He even lifted the edge of the bishops' plate up and pulled his chair out to check the man's lap. He looked back at his own plate, still half full, and frowned.
"You have to feel sorry for what you did convincingly. Enough to convince God. A public confession might help, but I can tell by the look on your face that that is out of the question. I recommend going to his funeral and looking at the eyes of his relatives. You already feel pretty bad, I can tell. Not like this born killer over here." He gestured to Ludovico who gave a convincingly baffled "Who me?" look.
"Having pardoned Vincenzo many times, let me give you a bit of advice. Don't grow a taste for murder, Cesare. And for Christ's sake, leave some of the good ham for the rest of us poor bastards that are only moderately wealthy."
"Yes, the plight of our society's lower upper class is quite disturbing." Ludovico said, dryly. "Now, begone, foul Cardinal, that we may discuss affairs of state."
Raccio had grabbed a roll and already had one foot out the door by the time Ludovico said "state". Ludovico nodded approvingly and grabbed a roll for himself. He set it aside on his plate. He waved to a servant who opened a different panel (Delmontese aristocracy had a long love affair with hidden entrances).
In flew Marshal Gideon Lustrang, stage left. He stood at attention near the table and waited to be addressed. Early morning sunlight glinted off of the golden buttons on his Syndicate uniform.
"General..." Cesare said.
"Most Serene One." Gideon replied, pausing to push a particularly unruly lock of black hair back under his cap.
"General Lustrang, there have been fascist agitations in Diorso and the surrounding countryside. There will be a rally today. Your men are, doubtless, ready?"
"Yes, Most Serene One. I can give you the specifics, if you would like."
Cesare sipped his coffee and could have sworn he tasted brine mixed with death on his tongue. His throat went dry.
"Please do." Gideon's face had begun to look pale and bloated as Cesare watched. The General began to speak as though nothing were wrong. Why? Did he not feel sick?
"Well, we have our riot armament prepared. Rubber bullets, all of that, but also riot trucks with scoops to lift demonstrators and place them into containment cells in the rear of the truck. We're quite good at this. Minimum casualties to be expected. We have the Plaza where they'll be demonstrating all plotted out. They thought we were doing parade maneuvers last week, but we were actually preparing for the demonstration in the Plaza itself."
The more Gideon talked, the more pale (blue, even) his face became and the more it swelled. Water began to drip from his eyes. Was he crying? Then it appeared from his nostrils, then his ears, and then with every word he spoke water poured in a trickle from his mouth. Why wasn't he stopping?! Was he insane?! Why wasn't Ludovico saying something? He was eating a roll for fuck's sake! Clearly Gideon needed medical attention! Cesare looked at the servant by the door to gauge his reaction and then back at Gideon. Only it wasn't Gideon anymore. It was Deigo Faliere. And he wasn't talking about troops in riot gear. He was laughing again, in that same grating voice. It wouldn't end.
He blinked. When he opened his eyes, it was Gideon once more. No bloating, no water.
He was going to be ill.
Cesare waved his hand. "My uncle can deal with the rest of this. Excuse me." Gideon seemed confused, but he went on conversing with Ludovico. Cesare dashed out onto the balcony that connected with his study. He ran into the dark, welcoming chamber and shut the door. He breathed in the cool air, paused for a moment, and then immediately vomited into the pot of a particularly unlucky ficus.
"I'm so sorry..." He said, pulling away from the plant and collapsing onto the floor. "I'm so, so sorry." He looked up and saw the picture of his father, giving him that same unforgiving stare. It was particularly appropriate now. So perturbing was his father's gaze that he hid his face with his arm and wept into the carpet.
"I don't want to go to school today..."
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Diorso; The Southern Coast of Delmonte
"It was at this point that Signore Castaglianni approached Il Duc Di Gastanzinni and informed him of The Most Serene Republic's intentions regarding the gold mines of the Aparre. The Duc laughed and asked how a lion might threaten an eagle; referencing the fact that The Grand City of Delmonte and Gastanzinni were separated by water. Signore Castaglianni responded that it depended on how close to the ground the eagle found it wise to fly... and how high the lion could jump."
~A Private Chronicle of the Channel Wars
Serlo Di Constanzarro
Wind from the ocean whipped around the Plaza Del Tambiano in Diorso, carrying with it a refreshingly salty breath of air. The entire Plaza had been taken over by a seething crowd of men and women whose predominant choices of color included black and crimson. Baldazar watched the anticipation stir through the crowd from his post on the side of the Plaza opposite the Grand Podiae that had been erected. He stood immediately under a banner that had a color scheme similar to the flag of the Most Serene Republic, only it portrayed an eagle gripping a fasces instead of a lion holding a book.
Baldazar was a soldier. Or, at least, he had been until the Delmontese Army was virtually disbanded in favor of the forces of the Security Syndicate, contracted from overseas. These were supplemented by the Delmontese Security Force which was, theoretically, an army, but not nearly as impressive. And they were trained by the Syndicate. Veterans like him had been handed their hats. It was insulting. It had angered him. This is what had made him ripe for being recruited into the Crimson Guard. He got to wear a uniform and a firearm once more. And this time, he was fighting for a Delmonte that he could believe in. A Delmonte that would be redeemed.
His lips tightened and he stood a little bit taller. The banner above him rustled in the salty air as the subjects of the rally ascended their respective podiums. The one, dressed smartly in an all-black uniform (save for some crimson and gold trim), was Belitrano Di Mosca, the enthusiastic leader of the operational side of the Irridentist movement. Adjacent to him, in flowing crimson, was the fiery propagandist and preacher Cardinal Antonin Varro. He surveyed the crowd with dark, shadowy eyes. The crowd went silent.
One of the Lieutenants, Baldazar recognized him, took up a megaphone and shouted into it.
"Delmonte!"
"Vindico!" The crowd shouted back with exuberance.
"Delmonte!"
"Vindico!"
This went on for several more minutes until the crowd was practically in a frenzy. Then the real entertainment began. Varro and Mosca went back and forth admonishing the faults of the ruling elite. Mosca addressed their waste, their corruption, their decadence. Varro honed in on their pride, sinfulness, and impiety, calling on God himself to smite the Delmontese nobility. They truly complimented one another. Several times, Baldazar had to struggle to not cheer himself. But he had orders to be silent and imposing. When he went home later tonight, he would freeze by the stove where he would fry some sliced potato in a few reluctant drops of oil. But for just another few hours, he was invincible.
