Alessio di Morcitta in: Professional Courtesy

[Dannaron]

AUthor's Notes: Chapter one of what will be a two-chapter story. Have to throw up something before it dies a painful, unread death.

*

Being a good guard takes a certain kind of person. Namely, one who cannot become bored.
Marco was just such a man, and he took a quiet pride in this fact. He earned enough money to keep himself, his wife and his daughters alive and well and did it by standing still for six hours in uncomfortable armour and not being bored.

And times were good for Marco of late. His employer, Padrone Petruccio, had recently combed through all of the mercenaries assigned to his estate, thrown out those deemed useless, given a sharp pay-rise to those he approved of and nearly doubled their shifts. For a man with Marco’s patience, the longer hours simply meant more of an opportunity to reap the higher profits, and was going a good way to building up a dowry for Isabella, who would be of marriageable age in just a few months.
That Petruccio had suddenly become so security-conscious was no surprise: the entire city of Morcittà had been squirming like a disturbed hornet’s nest. Brawls were sparking in the arena crowds and on the streets. People were starting to discreetly vanish at a far greater rate than was usual even in Tilea, and all of the senators were increasing their guard. The other guards were abuzz with rumours as to what was afoot, rumours that Marco did not add to. Amongst Marco’s other talents, aside from standing still, were listening and watching carefully (also useful traits in a guard) and since he stood so still important people usually failed to notice he was there at all, which meant he heard quite a few things. He knew that the unrest in Morcittà had a name: Niccolo Elogio.

The Elogio family was the oldest, bluest blood in Morcittà: a more well-bred and connected family didn’t exist. This had more-or-less guaranteed Niccolo a seat on the senate since birth, even though the ruling faction in Morcittà were the low-born but filthy rich merchant-lords. When Niccolo had turned thirty and duly taken his place the dominant factions hadn’t spared him a second thought: nobles were easy to manipulate as needed and to crush through bankruptcy if not. But within only a few months Niccolo had the merchant class scrambling for cover: he’d proven entirely impossible to bribe or coerce into the dominant factions, and had rallied several of the other unaligned senators into a new party with him at the head. Though smaller than the dominant parties, it swiftly became obvious that Niccolo’s pet senators would provide the little extra push necessary to get either faction’s policies through: he essentially now held the power of veto over the whole senate. To further add to the merchant’s nightmares, he’d shown that his family connections and inheritance sufficient to fund his efforts and to hold numerous festivals, balls, circuses and especially games in his honour which had won over the common people, making him immune even to direct violence without inciting a riot. The merchant lords, and prominent ones like Padrone Petruccio chief amongst them, were scared stiff.

Inwardly, Marco felt guilty that all this turmoil was providing him and his family a life of comfort, but then his wife assured him every night that this was how Tilea was: the wheel of Fortuna favoured men at different times, and it was important to grasp the fleeting opportunities she offered with both hands, while they still lasted.

While trying to comfort himself with this thought, Marco noticed the man separate from the crowd of passers-by and walk straight towards the Palazzo entrance that he was guarding.
The man was dressed in the current style of the nobles: a black cape clasped over his shoulders, the puffy sleeves and tight trousers, the sword with the fancy decorated hilt. It wasn’t common wear, exactly, but certainly nothing that would draw attention. A little closer look and Marco noticed the man was blackened greaves and what appeared to be a leather vest as well. Still not that weird, if his family made money through being mercenaries or if he was just one of those punk kids, but worthy of note for a man in Marco’s profession. The man walked right up to the gate, and Marco and his fellow guard Luccino who was on the other side of the gate crossed their pikes over to bar his entrance. The man took a step back.

“I have an appointment with signore Petuccio. He’s expecting me.” The man said. Not a noble’s usual accent, Marco noted, but he didn’t sound low-born either. More like a merchant’s son, but certainly not dressed like one. Interesting.
“Your name?” Luccino asked with the appropriate brusqueness and sense of intimidation expected of a good guard. Marco approved.
“Alessio.” The man replied, and sounded annoyed.
Luccino shook his head. “We’ve not been told to admit any Alessio today. Good day.” It was a good day of the greatest finality, and then Luccino turned his head to stare forwards again, his pike not moving.

The man, Alessio, fumed. Marco could almost see the anger building up in his face, like steam filling a kettle, rising up through his neck. He had to fight back a smile.
He was a young man, younger than Marco certainly, probably near the end of his teens. He had jet-black hair and skin just a shade darker than the Tilean olive. He had a small, well-styled beard on his chin that was also a recent vogue amongst the nobles. Was he trying to fit in, like a lot of the noveau riche, Marco wondered, or was he trying to blend?
“I was told this time and this address. Your padrone asked me here. Let me through.”

But the good day had already been said, so Marco and Luccino had nothing to add, and said nothing.
“Ahh! There you are. Very punctual, just as advertised.” Luccino turned his head to see where the new voice had come from: Marco kept his eyes on Alessio. He was a good guard.
In any case, he recognised the voice: it was Tybalt, Petruccio’s personal bodyguard and the captain of his mercenaries. Marco heard his heavy, booted steps approach and pulled his pike away in time to allow him to walk through. Tybalt strode past without breaking his stride, and Marco saw for the first time that three other guards following on his heels.

Alessio glanced up at the man warily. He stood up a little straighter, Marco noticed, and his hands slipped to his sides. A man ready either to fight or to run. “Who are you?”
“I am Petruccio’s right-hand.” Tybalt replied, stopping before the gates. The three guards he’d take with him kept walking, fanning out around the man in front. “If you’re to be working for my Padrone and stealing my pay, we need to ensure that your reputation is deserved.”
The three guards that had come with Tybalt had spread out in a triangle surrounding Alessio now. Marco was fervently wishing that he was elsewhere. He had no desire to witness a murder.
He didn’t recognise the guards, but that wasn’t a huge surprise: they were some of Tybalt’s personal crew, remnants from when the man was a captain with a whole small army at his call, and they tended not to keep entirely to themselves. They had all the usual uniformity of a mercenary band, which is to say none at all: the one standing in front of Alessio had drawn his sword, the one to his left had a halberd and the other to the right was holding a flanged mace. All of them were wearing armour: proper armour, rather than the camouflaged stuff Alessio had on. Marco noticed that, rather than drawing his sword, Alessio seemed to be undoing the clasps of his cape.
“Alright boys.” Tybalt said, “Interview him.”

Alessio had undone both of his clasps and stepped backwards, towards the man with the mace, as all three mercenaries came forwards. Grabbing his cape in one hand like a Matador he flung it over the top of the mace-man’s face, then kept spinning to face the man with the sword that was now upon him. Marco noticed for the first time the stiletto in Alessio’s hand: he must have drawn it with the cape thrown over his arm. It seemed to be the first time the swordsman had noticed it to, because he was caught completely off guard when Alessio stepped inside his reach and stabbed him twice in the gut and once in the chest with it. It happened so fast Marco only realised what had occurred after the fact: the swordsman stumbled to the side and fell over.

The guard with the halberd circled cautiously to stand behind Alessio as the guard with the mace threw the cape off from his head, only to see Alessio bearing down on him, now with sword drawn. The man gave ground desperately, parried the first strike above his head and stepped aside from the second. His last parry was knocked aside, and Alessio’s sword bit deeply into the side of the man’s neck. Alessio slid it out backwards and turned around just in time to step backwards, avoiding a thrust from the halberd guard behind him.
The guard with the halberd seemed to stop dead, and Marco did not blame him. He’d nearly dropped his pike himself. Was this man possessed? Marco had heard of such things…
Alessio took advantage of the halberdier’s momentary pause, dropping his stiletto and grabbing the shaft of the halberd, then pushing it backwards. Expecting to be pulled forwards, the halberdier stumbled and Alessio in the meantime knocked aside his weapon and left his sword-point just before the man’s neck. The halberdier through his hands onto his head.

It had all happened in just a few moments. The swordsman was on the ground, breathing raggedly and occasionally moaning, Alessio was already panting hard and looked flushed, and whoever had been holding the mace was no longer moving at all.
Alessio picked up the halberdier’s weapon and, carefully and slowly, with his eyes never leaving the prone figure, he backed away until he came to the swordsman’s body. There he dropped the halberd, leaned down, and closed the man’s eyes. He mumbled something over the body that Marco couldn’t hear.

Tybalt grunted. “Well then. You seemed to have passed.” And he turned on his heel and left without saying another word. Marco noticed the man’s face was beet red as he left, and his fists were clenched tight.
Alessio stood up and walked past the whimpering swordsman and still kneeling halberdier without batting an eyelid, right to the guards. Marco and Luccino shared a glance and agreed, without a word being spoken, to let him through.

[Dannaron]

Author: Part two and final. Enjoy!

Alessio entered the Padrone’s mansion into the grand entrance hall. Every surface here had something expensive happening. The floor was chequered stone, white and black, like a giant chess board and the elegantly curved staircase was made of marble. The ceiling displayed a marvellous fresco of some famous warrior of antiquity standing triumphant over the corpse of another famous warrior of antiquity. Paintings covered almost every spare inch of the wall-space: dour-looking merchants, many of them Petruccio himself, famous saints looking pious, marvellous city-scapes of towns that never existed. Almost all of them were truly magnificent works of art, and all of them together gave the impression that this was the home of a very, very wealthy man.
“Ah, Alessio! There you are.”

Alessio looked up towards the voice and there was the paunch, if not actually fat, padrone himself, bedecked in a loose, gold-lined robe that looked terrific on him. He gestured with a hand lined with gold fingers up the stairs. “Come on up to my office. I had asked Tybalt to show you in but he seems to have vanished, the useless freebooter. This way.”

Petruccio led Alessio down a short corridor, also lined with paintings, and into a surprisingly small room that looked like it had been a closet or servant’s bedroom at some point in the past. The decoration was sparse here: just a single copy of the famous bust of Myrmidia that most rich people had somewhere. There was a simple wooden desk in the middle of the room with two chairs next to it: it held a set of scales, an abacus, an ink well, drying sand and several sheets of paper. Behind it was a huge window that showed an excellent view of the city, including the famous cathedral of Morr in the distant south. This had to be where Petruccio did most of his work: signing the slips that would move tonnes of merchandise from one place to another. Alessio tried to understand a life like that and failed. Instead he took the offered seat.
“Well now. I must apologise about the ‘interview.’ I’m afraid it was Tybalt’s idea, though a worthy one. It’s hard to tell who to trust these days, with everyone slipping to hyperbole and exaggeration in their claims as a matter of course. It is a very difficult mission I plan on assigning you, and I need the best.”
Alessio simply nodded. It didn’t do to brag, after all, but there was also no point in false modesty.
“I see you’re a man of few words. An excellent attribute. Too much bandying about these days. Very well then, let us get down to the basics.” Petruccio said, and laid his hands flat on the desk in front of him. His accent was slightly rough, but clear: Alessio could picture him shouting out his merchandise in the market square, even though such things were far beneath a man of his standing in the city.
“Niccolo Elogio is causing the city much turmoil. We believe he is planning a coup. And I understand from my sources that you’ve met with him already.”

Alessio’s eyes widened at that and he sat upright, his hand unconsciously drifting to his sword-hilt. Was this some sort of trap?
Petruccio smiled. “Relax my friend, if I had meant to kill you I’d have already done so. You have been of interest to the council for some time. We all recognise that the time has come for a professional hand. So I was asked to find out about you. I have.” Petruccio rifled through one stack of papers and removed a sheet. Alessio watched in mute shock. Who was this man?
“Alessio, son of Luigi and Margherita of Morcitta. Your father was in textiles, I understand, and indeed made for himself and your family a comfortable living. Was fortunate enough to live through the marriages of your two older sisters, and able to raise an appropriate dowry for them both without trouble. I suppose this is how you picked up your fine dress sense!” Petruccio said, and grinned, looking away from the paper and back at Alessio.
“You were set to inherit the business with your brothers until your father upset his patron by aiding in the fitting of a girl’s wedding dress. One from a rival house to that of the nobles supporting you, I understand. Signor Lorenzo saw this as a lack of loyalty, and shut down your father’s business, leaving him destitute. Shortly thereafter he took his own life.”

“This is a story that is far too common, Alessio.” Petruccio said, putting the sheet back down and steepling his glinting fingers. “That of a hard-working family of the moneyed class being betrayed by those born into privilege. Your father had earned that business, the dowries of your sisters, his comfortable home and life, and yet Lorenzo, who was born into security and wealth, needed barely breathe a word to destroy all that work. I know what it is to have to make your means. For years I have struggled with like-minded people on the council to make this a city for people like us, people who are professionals, rather than the blue-blood ponces who think the gods set them up to rule. Niccolo is the worst of the lot, and arrogant enough to think that the whole city should bow to him and just to him. He’s a lunatic, every bit a Lorenzo, and merchants and prosperity will suffer under him. He will never appreciate you for what you are: a true professional.”

Petruccio reached under the desk and his hand came up with a sack about the size of his head that he tossed onto the table. It landed heavily with a loud metallic clunk. “I appreciate your work. So I am offering far more than I know he will ever pay you, to do the city this favour. See to it that Niccolo goes the way Lorenzo did, after he betrayed your family. Deal?”
Alessio pursed his lips and stood up. He offered his hand. Petruccio took it.

Alessio yanked the larger man towards him suddenly, his other hand flashing out from under his cape with his stiletto and stabbing Petruccio directly between his ribs, into his heart. He screamed. Alessio picked up the sturdy chair he had been sitting on and wedged it underneath the door handle, then turned back to the merchant and stabbed him a second time, this time in the throat.
“The last thing you will learn in this life,” Alessio said, “is that my father taught me there are far more important things than money. Honesty, discipline, and most importantly professionalism. It wasn’t the fact that he was a pauper that broke him: it was that the bastard betrayed his trust and took his job, the thing that he did, the thing that defined him. I am not a two-bit thug. I will never betray my contract.”
There was the sound of thudding steps from outside as the guards who had heard Petruccio’s agonised screaming rushed to the room. Alessio watched as, by degrees, Petruccio’s soul left him and he changed from human to corpse.
“May the gates of Morr open wide for you, and may he grant you rest.” He muttered, and closed the man’s eyes.

*

Tybalt finally succeeded in kicking the door down on the tenth try, hearing splintering wood on the other side. He flung the portal open, noted briefly the broken chair now lying on the floor and saw the dead body of his employer slumped over in his chair. The window behind him was open, and the breeze was fluttering the curtains.

Tybalt walked up to the corpse, sheathing his sword, and made a hacking noise in the back of his throat. Then he spat on its neck.
“Serves you right for firing me, you sack of shit.” He said, then turned to the door where the other guards were. “Hey! Does anyone know if Lord Niccolo is hiring?”

[Arcsheild]

Frickin sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet. Fantastic work