Knives Don't Have Your Back: Chapter VII
Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood
Rated: NC17 (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 6,695 / 90,339
Knives Don't Have Your Back
NOTICE: Fanart now exists for this story! Please click here to see SilvesterVitale's beautiful depiction of the masquerade scene from Chapter VI.
† VII †
Three towers burned.
Teodor squinted in the harsh sun and raised a hand to shield his eyes as he took in the damage. White ash lingered in the air, causing his eyes to water and turning his coat from blue to gray. The smell of smoke was thick and choking even though the fires had been put out. Bodies littered the street, stained with black blood. At least six men dead, two more nearly there.
Teodor crouched in the dusty street and wrapped a hand around the blackened remains of a Borgia banner. It crumbled in his fingers.
Two days ago Teodor had received news that the machine gun Cesare’s forces had constructed had been stolen and destroyed, the blueprints with it.
It could only mean one thing.
“Your orders?” came a voice. Teodor peered up at the young soldier. The boy looked barely nineteen, his eyes nervous and his hand fisted on the hilt of his sword.
Teodor rose, slapping his hands together to shake the ash from his gloves. “Keep them back,” he replied, nodding to the gathering crowd.
The soldier nodded. Teodor looked over at the two guards who had lived through the attack. Someone had moved them onto a thin blanket and the tall shadow of Malfatto loomed over them as they moaned.
“And get me a priest,” he added. The boy nodded again and hurried away.
Teodor turned and went back to examining the tower. They had lost two others to fire months ago, perhaps to the same cause. Like the others before, the foundation and bottom half of the building were still standing but it was no longer serviceable as an outpost. To rebuild it would take months and a great deal of resources. Most likely it would be left to stand, a remnant of Borgia influence.
Teodor turned and walked to Malfatto. In his black cloak and large mask the doctor was impervious to dust and the smell of ash. As Teodor wiped at his eyes once more he felt a stab of jealousy. Malfatto, crouched and silent as he worked, seemed a calming shadow in a day filled with riotous sound and chaos.
“What did he say?” Teodor asked as he came to stand beside the doctor. He gestured to the body in front of him-the man had suffered a broken back and what looked to be a shattered skull. The few sounds Teodor had made out as the man expired had been unintelligible through the clatter of loose teeth rattling in his mouth. Perhaps Malfatto had had better luck.
Malfatto closed what was left of the corpse’s eyes and looked to Teodor over his shoulder. The doctor shrugged.
“It was a man,” came the voice of Malfatto’s other patient. Teodor turned. This man was clutching at shreds of a bloody shirt, the fisted cloth doing little to stem the flow of blood or cage the organs that protruded from his gut.
The smears of soot across his face were streaked with sweat, pale skin peeking out beneath the dirt. His eyes were already clouding over and the man’s voice trembled as he spoke.
“One-one man. Dressed i-in white. N-never seen anything...” he said, eyes focused somewhere to the left of Teodor’s face. “It...it was him,” the man continued, slow with pain. “Th-the one they t-talk about. I-”
The man broke off as his body spasmed, eyes rolling in his head and hands turning to claws. Malfatto swiveled on his knees and raised a hand to the man’s face but made no move to aid him. Blood blurred the features of the man’s face, dripping watery and red from the corners of his mouth. He began to scream.
Teodor turned away and thought.
Three towers burned. The gun destroyed.
A man dressed in white.
The assassins were nothing more than a myth to Teodor. They were rumors, ghosts, bogeymen used to mold less cunning men into better soldiers. Teodor had heard the stories. He had dismissed them as nothing more than another generation’s nightmare, a rebellious relic from Rodrigo Borgia’s storied rise to the papacy. Even when Teodor had been chosen to lead the attack on Monteriggioni he had never been told, nor had he suspected, that he had helped bring down the headquarters of the assassin order. Ezio Auditore and his uncle were nothing more than dissenters to the Borgia’s rule-the same could be said of many men, and those Teodor had cut down as well. None of them had come back to haunt him.
It was much later, after his travels as Cesare’s contracted killer, that he had realized the legend of Ezio Auditore to be much more than myth.
And now he was facing the reality. Teodor found himself thrust to the front lines of what he now understood to be an old war.
Moving through the crowd was a man wearing a green vest. Teodor watched as he walked past the onlookers and soldiers and went to the corner of a nearby building, slipping into the shadows of the alleyway beside it. A moment later a young woman with brown hair followed suit, her face obscured by a metal fan.
The sight of Baltasar caught Teodor off guard. He briefly wondered why something as routine as a burning building would catch the interest of Cesare’s busiest informant, but then realized his presence could only mean one thing-Baltasar knew the assassins were behind the attack. Teodor narrowed his eyes. He had no intention of allowing Baltasar to withhold such crucial information any longer.
Teodor made his way to them slowly, careful not to attract attention. The crowd and guards were preoccupied with the destruction around them and took no notice as Teodor leaned against the building beside the alleyway. From his position Teodor was still able to survey the scene and while he was blind to the barber and young woman behind him, the sound of a razor was unmistakable.
Snick.
Teodor pulled out a journal and pretended to take notes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the young woman appear, moving to stand on the left side of the alley, back turned to him. A lookout, then.
“I fail to see the need for one of Cesare’s consorts in this place,” he said, low and careful. Unknown people-particularly unknown, likely disgruntled women-made Teodor uncomfortable. “Or a local barber for that matter.”
“Teodor, meet Fiora. Fiora, Officer Viscardi,” replied Baltasar’s disembodied voice.
“Charmed,” said Fiora, sounding anything but.
“Fiora speaks for Cesare on certain matters, particularly those concerning mercenary work.”
Teodor hummed. “We have had an increase of mercenaries being bought and used to attack Roman guards.”
“Not my men, obviously,” Fiora said, fan shimmering in the sunlight. “It seems, Officer Viscardi, you have many problems concerning your army.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Teodor said, jaw clenched. He concentrated on the white of Malfatto’s mask in the distance and tried to keep his temper. “It makes me wonder if there is someone leaking information to those who would like to see the Borgia fall. Someone who perhaps tires of taking the brunt of Cesare’s...appetites.”
“You are a fool,” said Fiora, nonplussed. Teodor snapped his journal shut and openly turned to glare at her. She smirked, still facing away from him. “Oh? You do not scare me with your baseless accusations, Officer Viscardi. You are just a man.”
“Viscardi,” came Baltasar’s warning tone.
“I haven’t the time for this,” Teodor hissed. “Tell me why you are here. When I returned from Venezia you told me Ezio Auditore was still alive. This is him, isn’t it?”
Snick.
Rashly, Teodor turned the corner and faced Baltasar. The barber’s face turned to stone. Having a public conversation about Ezio Auditore with Cesare’s top spy was likely a grievous tactical error, but Teodor didn’t care. He planted one hand on Baltasar’s chest, using his full height to crowd him against the wall. The razor instantly pressed against his throat.
“Tell me what you know,” Teodor demanded, ignoring the slight sting in his neck. “I am not in the mood for games.”
Baltasar’s eyes bored holes into Teodor’s, black and merciless. “It would seem there is only one conclusion to draw,” he said carefully.
“Three towers,” Teodor spat, giving voice to his thoughts. Baltasar nodded, but gave nothing more. Teodor increased the strength behind his hand, shoving Baltasar painfully against the wall. The pressure at his throat intensified and he felt blood trickle past his collar. “Don’t you leave me in the dark, Baltasar,” he warned, furious. “You know how useful I can be.”
“Guards are coming,” Fiora said, ignoring the scene they were causing. In fact she sounded bored.
Teodor sighed through his nose and reluctantly surrendered his grip on Baltasar’s vest. For a moment Baltasar’s blade remained pressed against his skin and Teodor heard only the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.
A look of disappointment crossed Baltasar’s face as he dropped his hand. Teodor stepped back and allowed him to move from the wall.
“An official warrant for Ezio Auditore’s arrest will be issued,” Teodor said, searching Baltasar’s face. “I will not keep losing men and having Cesare’s forces humiliated.”
“You do not understand,” Baltasar whispered, turning to walk away. “An army cannot kill an assassin. I suggest you learn your place.”
Stunned, Teodor watched the barber and courtesan walk away. His mind whirled at the implications. He waved away the soldiers who approached him and slowly made his way back towards the rubble.
To issue an arrest warrant would mean to publicly announce the presence of the assassins. The guard would suffer the terror of it, but perhaps a few men would survive with a little extra vigilance. Teodor, on the other hand, would never make it out alive. The resurrection of Ezio Auditore was directly linked to Cesare’s failure to kill him. If Teodor announced these things to the world he had a feeling Micheletto and his wire would pay him a visit.
Teodor sighed and undid the few top buttons of his doublet to keep the collar from rubbing against the cut beneath his jaw. Another debt owed to Baltasar. He stopped and rubbed at his irritated eyes.
When he opened his eyes Malfatto stood before him, tall enough to block the sun. The doctor held out his hand. In it was a small white cloth.
“For your neck,” said Malfatto.
“Thank you,” said Teodor, taking the cloth and pressing it to his neck. Malfatto watched him expectantly. “Did anyone see?” Teodor whispered.
“I was watching,” Malfatto replied. He turned and began walking back to his patient.
“Did you get any more information?” Teodor asked, following.
Malfatto didn’t reply, moving to crouch by the dying man. The man reached for Malfatto, who allowed it. The doctor even slid an arm around his shoulders, bracing him like he would a frightened child. A burst of heat went through Teodor’s chest as he observed the gesture.
The man was clearly suffering, wracked with pain. Stomach wounds were notorious for cruel, slow deaths. The dying man gagged and gasped into Malfatto’s shoulder, smearing the waxed leather in pink froth as he tried to speak.
“What is it?” Teodor said, feeling like an intruder.
“Last rites,” Malfatto murmured. “God’s mercy.”
“I called for a priest.” Teodor frowned, looking around. “He should be here.”
The man began to seize, shaking both himself and Malfatto who held fast. With his free hand Malfatto reached for a syringe in his belt. It was loaded with a familiar green liquid.
“He can’t have last rites if he’s dead,” Teodor pointed out, mildly appalled. “He’s lasted this long. He can make it until a priest arrives.”
Faceless and heedless, Malfatto raised the syringe to the man’s chest. Teodor flinched as the needle sunk into the skin above his heart. Malfatto swayed slightly as the man died, body turning heavy and limp. Teodor watched as the doctor laid the body on the ground, then stood.
“Perhaps,” Malfatto said, his voice smooth and light, “I am more merciful than your God.”
Teodor barely managed to keep his expression neutral. Too many things had happened in the last hour and he had no way of telling which emotion would show up on his face.
Malfatto reached up to press on the cloth against Teodor’s throat, his long hand covering Teodor’s own. Teodor winced at the slick sting of the wound.
“Pressure,” Malfatto reminded.
Malfatto’s hand moved from the cloth to the edges of Teodor’s unbuttoned doublet. The doctor hooked a finger inside the collar, then spread the garment wide to reveal Teodor’s throat. Teodor held still, watching for any sign of expression behind the white mask. One of Malfatto’s scissored fingers brushed the skin, then pushed down. Teodor felt a sharp ache at the spot and realized Malfatto was touching the bruise the blond stranger had left on his throat four days ago. His mouth went dry.
The tip of Malfatto’s gloved finger circled the mark, then pressed again.
Teodor swallowed against the half dozen sounds trying to escape his mouth. He stared hard into the dark glasses covering the doctor’s eyes. Malfatto stared back, his touch relentless.
The air grew thick and Teodor felt a telltale warmth begin to pool in his belly. The sound of the crowd was drowned out by the noise of his heartbeat, his pulse quick under his own hand that still held the cloth to his neck.
When anticipation became too much to bear, Malfatto took a step forward. Teodor twitched.
“You have my journal,” Malfatto said.
Teodor froze, surprised. He managed a simple nod. His chin brushed over Malfatto’s knuckles.
“I would like to bring it to your shop,” he struggled to say, voice odd and rough. Malfatto’s finger trailed down his throat, catching on the fabric of his collar and freeing another button. Teodor hissed through his teeth.
“Perhaps I could interest you in a meal,” Teodor added hastily. “As an apology for the inconvenience.”
Malfatto tilted his head, considering. He pulled his hand away from Teodor’s skin. Teodor nearly sighed at the sudden loss, disappointment flooding through him like rainfall.
“If you visit,” Malfatto said slowly, as if forming words were a difficult chore, “and you are hungry, we could eat.”
Teodor felt his eyes widen. When Malfatto had pulled away he thought he’d thrown this slow, frustrating game they were playing.
“Tonight?” he asked.
Malfatto looked to one side. “That will not work.”
“Then when?” Teodor said.
Malfatto said nothing and kept his beaked mask turned away. Teodor put a dampener on his irritation and remembered his surroundings. He took a quick glance around the scene and caught the eye of a bald priest coming to him, a glower on the man’s face.
Rage was quickly followed with resigned amusement. With all his scheming and all his patience, timing seemed to never be Teodor’s strong suit. He pulled the cloth from his neck and pushed the bloodied rag into Malfatto’s hand. Malfatto looked down at the cloth.
“Thank you for your time, doctor,” Teodor said, voice perfect in pitch. He turned away from Malfatto and began walking towards the incoming priest.
“Tell me, am I lost?” Teodor asked of the soldiers flanking the holy man. “I thought this was Roma. Who would care to explain how it took twenty minutes to find a priest?”
A soldier began to stammer through an excuse, but Teodor turned a deaf ear. Instead he watched Malfatto walk past, casting shadows with every step. He gazed at the broad shoulders and steady hands, but the thing that caught his attention above all else was how the figure never turned to notice him at all.
† † †
The tavern in the town of Castel Gandolfo was a cozy affair. The building sat two stories high, the first floor reserved for the bar with rooms on the second for passing travelers. A fading sign above the entrance listed no name, only prices for liquor, lodging and women.
The inside of the bar was littered with wooden benches and sagging torches. The benches had become smooth with use, but they were not without the nicks and gouges of past violence. A few steps across from the long counter of the bar was a space for games of chance atop a well worn rug on the floor. A motley crew in rags knelt at the edges, cheering and cursing depending on their luck. In the back corner and along the side were a haphazard group of brawlers wrestling as less able men bet on the outcomes. A few women whose company was paid for posed mechanically and encouraged their lonely customers.
Lonelier still sat Teodor, friendless save for a cluster of empty cups. He had chosen tonight to shirk all duty and privilege in exchange for a few muddled hours of peace, his uniform left to hang upstairs in his rented room. His red shirt and dark brown jerkin hid the errant spots of wine that had missed his mouth when the liquor had started to affect his grip.
“To Castel Gandolfo,” he toasted to no one in particular. A few merry cheers of approval answered him, and he took a long swallow. Tonight he was a strange man in a strange town. The knowledge left him dangerous.
He had traveled from Roma a few days earlier to confirm the loss of the gun with his own eyes. The damage was unbelievable. Seventeen men dead, the gun turned to blackened splinters and the camp itself nearly demolished from an explosion of gun powder. Even worse, the blueprints had burned and Leonardo Da Vinci, Cesare’s half-imprisoned genius, had sent word there were no copies to be had and recreating them would be difficult.
His enemy was thorough.
Teodor was a suspicious man and a scholarly one at that. Da Vinci was an incredible asset, in theory, but Teodor wondered at the price they might pay for his services. Teodor had requested additional blue prints from the inventor but had yet to hear back. If another weapon went missing or came back destroyed, it was Teodor who would face Cesare’s wrath. Already he had spent most of the day holed up in his tavern room pouring over schematics and punching holes in the defenses he’d arranged around the other three machines.
It seemed Teodor’s imagination, while no longer on sentry outposts and enhanced artillery, was still brewing. Ghosts lurked in the corners of his saturated mind. He puzzled at the habits of assassins. Had the man come through this very city on his way back from Colli Albani? This particular tavern with its anonymity and cheap lodging? Teodor wondered if the sheets he would sleep in tonight had also covered the assassin as he slept, weary from his day of thrashing scores of men.
There had been rumors of course. Over the afternoon Teodor had tracked down one man who was thought to have provided travel to a suspicious man in white. He had been an unwitting ally of the resistance, but had paid the penalty all the same.
That reminded Teodor-he needed a new pair of gloves.
A trio of men a few tables over sat down. They were a plain bunch, but Teodor took note of them only because they did so of him. Three sets of eyes met with one another, then moved to gaze at Teodor.
Teodor took a long sip of wine, using the large mug to hide his face. He peered at the dice game over on the floor as if it was suddenly the most compelling thing in all of Italia. A serving boy passed and he held out his glass for a refill. As the boy bent, pitcher tipped and flowing, Teodor put a hand to the boy’s shirt.
“Those men,” he said, moving his lips as little as possible. “They seem anxious.”
The serving boy hesitated. Wine splashed on the outside of Teodor’s goblet and dripped between his thumb and forefinger. “Some of the Cantonelli family,” the boy answered. “Their brother was murdered today.”
One of the hazards of being in the Borgia’s employ was the occasional need for public statement. Teodor thanked the boy and let him go. His eyes passed over the men once more, then he licked the wine from his hand. It would seem he was well remembered.
Teodor rose slowly. With wine in hand he made his way to the stairs that led to the second floor. The men didn’t move from their table and Teodor managed to make it to his room without incident. Once inside he hurried to grab his coat and supplies, bundling the easily recognized garment and shoving it in his riding bag.
Retreat wasn’t something that came naturally to Teodor, but survival did. He had purposefully sent his small guard ahead to expedite the message to the other outposts and thus was alone and without back-up. Usually Teodor wouldn’t blink at the thought of a mild pub brawl, but these men had sinister intentions and the night’s earlier excess left Teodor slow and unsteady.
Teodor checked his belt, making sure his épieu was firmly secured. He struggled to open the bedroom window, but finally managed to push the swollen shutters wide. As carefully as he could manage he dropped his bag, satisfied as it landed in a cluster of bushes safe and concealed.
Now there was the task of returning downstairs and waiting for the inevitable violence. There was every possibility Teodor’s reputation and Borgia standing would be enough to keep the men from retaliation, but on the other hand he disliked the idea of waking up to a knife at his throat.
Resigned, Teodor took up his glass and left his room. Provided he wasn’t shot immediately, all Teodor would need to do is take the first punch and then incite a few bystanders during the fall out. When the ambush turned into an all out fight it would be easy enough to slip out the back door.
He turned the corner and into the hall, the stairway at the end. Two rooms from where he stood a door opened and out stepped a dark figure, its back turned. The dim light revealed a familiar leather coat and the brim of an unmistakable hat.
Teodor stopped so suddenly some of his wine sloshed onto the floor. At the sound the silhouetted man turned, white mask tinted orange in the strange torchlight. For a moment Teodor thought himself mad, for no drink could conjure up such a perfect phantom.
The doctor froze as he realized he was being watched. Teodor had a fleeting thought that this man could be any doctor, but the slope of shoulders and the subtle differences in the mask left little room for doubt. Even if he had never turned around Teodor thought he would have known it was Malfatto.
The clatter of footsteps on the stairwell broke the odd trance in the hallway. Teodor moved toward Malfatto and the doctor towards him. In less than a second Malfatto had Teodor by the arm, pulling him inside the room he had just stepped from. Drunk and clumsy, Teodor nearly fell as he was jerked forward. Malfatto kept him upright, bracing him tightly against arm and hip, Teodor’s shoulder and side snug against the doctor’s chest. Teodor quickly regained his footing and pushed Malfatto off him, the glass in his hand falling to the floor and splashing the two of them red.
Malfatto reached for his belt as they fell apart, gloved fingers passing over poisons and instead choosing a knife. He held the blade in front of him, raising his other arm to block. He took a step away from Teodor and bent at the knees, his body curled into a warning.
Teodor half-fell, half-pushed the door to the room closed. As he saw Malfatto go for his weapon he reflexively pulled out his épieu, but stopped as he realized that Malfatto’s blade was meant to stave off him. With his back against the door, he slowly lifted his free hand to calm the doctor.
“Malfatto, I’m not-” Teodor began, but cut himself off as the men from the stairwell grew near. He strained to listen to the voices, catching a few words and a room number-his.
Malfatto’s knife hand twitched in the darkness. “Why-”
“Be quiet!” Teodor whispered, twisting around to try and hear. He held his breath as shadows flickered through the crack under the door. Silence reigned for a tense minute, Teodor pressed to the door and Malfatto still defensively crouched two feet away.
A thin trail of wine trickled towards the door. Teodor moved his foot to stop the stream, furrowing his brow at the crimson stain moving against his heel.
There was the sound of a door opening. An angry chorus of voices. The crack of splintering wood. Footsteps thundering into the hall once more, then stopping. A sharp pounding on the door.
“Open up!” demanded the man outside. Teodor heard similar muffled shouts as other men pounded on other doors. “Open up or we will break through this door.”
“Je déteste ce jour,” Teodor muttered, fumbling to lock the door. He slowly backed into the room, stopping when he felt Malfatto’s hand on his arm.
Fists pounded on the door again. As Teodor raised his weapon, Malfatto put down his knife. Teodor stared at the doctor, not knowing what to expect should the door finally give way.
A heavy thud sounded against the door. Teodor hissed through his teeth and hated the sluggish haze that had settled on his limbs and brain from too many rounds with the bottle. The noise seemed to finally spur Malfatto into action and the doctor strode purposefully to the door and unlocked it. Teodor shot forward to stop him. Malfatto’s hand came up and shoved him to the side with startling force, then he opened the door. Teodor froze and clung to the wall, using the meager shadow of the open door as cover.
Malfatto peered impassively at the perplexed man in the hall.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Malfatto asked calmly.
“None of your business,” growled the man. Malfatto held his ground, tall body blocking the entrance. “Who are you?”
“This is Cardinal Ascanio Sforza’s room,” Malfatto continued. “He has fallen ill and I am his physician. You dare to disturb him?”
The man’s expression abruptly changed. “My apologies to his...his...”
“His Eminence,” Malfatto provided. “Now please, the cardinal needs his rest.”
The man was working through another stammered apology when Malfatto shut the door. Teodor allowed himself a breath and they both stood silent until they heard the men move back downstairs in search of their quarry.
“A cardinal?” Teodor whispered, shocked at so daring a lie. Cardinals were untouchable when it came to his line of work. Too well-connected, and not just to God.
Malfatto moved from the door and stood beside the bed. Teodor hadn’t noticed the bed in the confusion, but now he could see the still figure resting on top of the sheets, draped in velvet of the brightest red. He moved closer, horrified, and took in the sight of the bloated, purple face of the poisoned corpse.
“Cardinal Sforza,” he said, feeling bile rise in his throat. “You killed a cardinal.”
Malfatto stared steadily at Teodor, mask tipped towards the épieu naked in his hand. His hands hovered at the edges of his belt, clearly searching for a weapon.
Teodor’s eyes widened. “Wait-”
As if they had not been interrupted in the slightest, Malfatto charged forward, one hand going to Teodor’s collar, the other to his wrist. Taken by surprise, Teodor was easily pinned against a nearby desk. Malfatto tried to crack his wrist against the wood in an attempt to make him drop the spear. Teodor shouted as pain shot through his arm but had long trained himself to never let go of his weapon. He bucked against Malfatto and brought his free arm up to push the doctor off of him. As he broke the doctor’s hold on his collar, Teodor twisted away and stumbled a few feet back.
“I am not here for you,” Teodor spat. His head pounded and he doubled over, rubbing at his eyes. Malfatto circled him like a spider, arms outstretched and hands curled.
“I don’t suppose the good cardinal left us some wine, did he?” Teodor said, standing gingerly. Malfatto held still at the comment and Teodor slowly backed over to a trunk at the edge of the room. Keeping watch of Malfatto he toed it open with his boot and used his épieu to push aside a few robes, revealing coin, books, and a bottle. Teodor retrieved it and sniffed the cork.
“This is more your expertise than mine,” Teodor said. He holstered the épieu and then held out the wine bottle to Malfatto. The doctor considered him for a moment, and then slowly approached him like a curious wild animal.
Malfatto wrapped a hand around the neck of the bottle. Teodor refused to let go of it completely, giving Malfatto a warning look. The doctor looked or sniffed it-it was impossible to tell with the mask-before giving Teodor a slight nod. Mostly convinced it was free of poison, Teodor took out a knife and plunged it past wax and cork, pulling it free.
Teodor ignored how Malfatto tensed at the knife and took a small sip of wine. It was robust and rich. He took a few long swallows and then sighed, eyes closing momentarily as the wine warmed his throat and shoulders and kept his headache at bay. It made him lazy, and when he finally looked up he couldn’t stop Malfatto’s reaching hand. Fingers spread across the base of his throat, not wide enough to choke but enough to leave an impression.
They studied one another for a moment. Malfatto was very close, the beak of his mask nearly brushing Teodor’s eye. The doctor’s thumb brushed inside Teodor’s collar, once again passing over the nearly-faded bruise from the masquerade.
Teodor took another few swallows from the bottle, each one pushing him a little further from drunk and on toward sloppy. Malfatto waited, inscrutable, until Teodor thumbed the cork back in and let the bottle drop. As it rolled between their feet, he brought up a hand and went for the mask.
Malfatto reared back. Teodor’s hand curved against the shell of the mask, fingers ghosting across the small leather lacing that held it in place. Malfatto’s hand pressed at Teodor’s collarbone, denying him the reach he needed to find the knot at the back of Malfatto’s head. Teodor’s hand went to Malfatto’s wrist, and then the real struggle finally began.
For a civilian, if the term even applied, Malfatto wasn’t inept in hand-to-hand combat. He was slightly taller than Teodor and his size evened the level of strength between them. As with everything else, he was unnervingly quiet as he fought, even his labored breath muted by the costume he wore. If it were a true battle, Teodor imagined the doctor would be a decent opponent.
This was more a contest of wills. Malfatto’s hands pushed and pulled at Teodor’s shoulders, hips and sides, both of them too close and too unwilling to exact actual blows, but the doctor seemed to lack a clear purpose. Teodor, on the other hand, had much greater focus.
Teodor’s hands fumbled at the heavy leather jacket and the guard that stretched across Malfatto’s chest and shoulders. He managed to get the buttons above Malfatto’s belt undone and a few below, but when he reached to undo the buckle and finally see what lay underneath Malfatto’s hands came about his shoulders and spun him forcefully round. Teodor caught himself against the wall and ducked when Malfatto went to grab him.
As he darted away, Malfatto managed to pull Teodor’s shirt free from his breeches and a long hand connected with the small of Teodor’s back. Teodor stumbled but righted himself, turning back to face Malfatto.
Malfatto’s hat was crooked and his waxed coat bunched in odd places, pulled slightly apart but held in place by the cursed belt. Teodor spied a pair of dark breeches underneath and the slightest glimpse of a pale shirt. The sight sent a jolt of lust through his body and when Malfatto lurched for him again, Teodor dodged with bared teeth.
As capable as Malfatto was, Teodor, drunk or not, made living fighting men. With more force than was necessary, he wrestled Malfatto back and against the nearby desk. Malfatto’s hand shot out to catch him on the desktop and Teodor swiped it out from under him. Malfatto’s legs lifted in the air and he fell back. Teodor saved him a nasty bruise to the spine by lifting him forcibly onto the desk. Malfatto’s ass was barely on the lip and Teodor used a hand to pin the doctor’s shoulders to the wall above the desk. He used his own body to hold Malfatto in place, the doctor’s hands scrabbling at the desk’s surface for some purchase and relief from the awkward position.
Stretched as he was, Teodor moved mercifully fast. His free hand quickly worked Malfatto’s belt loose and he finally pushed the coat open. Malfatto was thinner than Teodor had expected, narrow hips and sunken stomach, still covered by shirt and pants but more revealing than anything Teodor had seen until now. He looked up to Malfatto’s face with greedy eyes.
“Yield,” he whispered. Malfatto’s chest heaved against his palm and Teodor could see the quiver of his stomach underneath the thin pale shirt. In a half-crazed way Teodor delighted in the confirmation of Malfatto as a man instead of a faceless monster, but he wasn’t quite ready to abandon the monster yet.
Malfatto held still and Teodor relented, sliding an arm behind Malfatto and pulling him forward until his feet touched the floor. Malfatto still straddled Teodor’s hips, but now he could lean against the desk. Malfatto reached up and went to undo the strap holding his mask in place, but Teodor surprised the both of them by pulling his hand away.
“No,” he said, finger tracing over the white beak, “I am used to it.”
Malfatto gave the slightest of nods. He lowered his hands to the desktop, fingers curling under the lip. Teodor licked his lip and sank slowly to his knees.
Carefully Teodor pulled at the laces of Malfatto’s breeches and pulled his shirt free. The white cloth rode up to reveal a sliver of skin. The shirt was made of a fine material, a detail Teodor ferreted away for later scrutiny as his fingers passed over the pale skin underneath. Malfatto was not as pasty as Teodor had expected of a man who spent most of his days covered head to foot. A light dusting of freckles stretched across his hips, and where Teodor’s fingers touched his mouth soon followed.
Malfatto breathed in sharply, thrumming beneath Teodor’s lips. Teodor shivered. With more purposeful hands Teodor coaxed the breeches down Malfatto’s thighs, groaning when at last Malfatto’s erection was laid bare. Malfatto twitched, and then settled as Teodor’s hands moved up the back of his legs, forcing Malfatto’s thighs wide. Teodor ran a hungry tongue over the heavy sack before teasing his way up the length.
Malfatto said nothing, but two leather hands came down and held Teodor’s face firm. Teodor flicked his eyes upward and stared at the stern mask above him. Malfatto’s thumb pushed at his chin and Teodor’s mouth opened obediently. Long fingers curled behind his ears and Teodor closed his eyes as Malfatto slowly moved his hips, cock sliding past wet lips.
Teodor’s fingers pressed ten perfect bruises into Malfatto’s hips as the doctor fucked open his throat. Teodor grunted noisily at the invasion of all his senses, but Malfatto was fittingly quiet. Teodor burned for the small sounds Malfatto did make, the relative silence making Teodor’s wet slurping that much more obscene.
Malfatto’s body was not as shy and his hips kept a steady pace, thighs trembling at the exercise. Even as eager as Teodor had been made by his long wait, after awhile he gave up any semblance of control over the situation. He had been wanting this and he did his level best not to choke as he reveled in the rough slide of Malfatto’s cock against his tongue, throat swollen and neck aching. His eyes watered with the effort.
Teodor himself was painfully hard, but he waited until Malfatto’s rhythm began to falter and become more brutal before he dared to touch himself. Despite his sluggish and drunken state after only a dozen strokes he spilled into his own hand.
He lost his balance as his body shuddered, hands going to Malfatto’s thighs to steady himself. Teodor hummed, bright and stupid with pleasure, then nearly gagged as Malfatto suddenly went taut as a wire in the throes of his own orgasm. Teodor rallied as the hands around his face held him firm, sucking and swallowing as best he could, the world narrowed down to only the smell and taste of sex.
When he could take no more Teodor pushed off, coughing as he wiped spit and semen from the sides of his bruising lips. He braced himself with his hands and worked to catch his breath. His throat was raw and his head swam from the abuse to his senses and earlier excesses.
Malfatto was already doing up his laces when Teodor stood, queasy and satisfied at the same time. He longed to kiss Malfatto with the dirty taste of sex still rich inside his mouth, but refrained from any symbolic gestures since the mask made it impossible. Wordlessly he helped Malfatto reassemble his terrifying costume, waiting patiently as Malfatto straightened and strapped on his belt. When the last vial of poison was in place, Teodor leaned forward and rested his forehead against the doctor’s, eyes peering into dark glasses.
“We must leave,” Malfatto said, once again whole and still beneath Teodor’s hands. “Cardinal Sforza has missed his meeting by now. They will come looking for him.”
“It was good for me as well, thank you,” Teodor murmured, voice raw. He pulled back with a sigh and winced as nausea swept through him. Swallowing, he picked the wine bottle off the floor and opened it, rinsing his teeth. He gave the cardinal’s body a guilty look, one hand absently making the sign of the cross.
Malfatto reached out and pulled Teodor to back to him by the wrist. The doctor cupped Teodor’s face in one hand, his other moving to Teodor’s hip, steadying him. He ran a thumb across Teodor’s mouth, then down his aching throat. Teodor winced as the touch made his insides shudder and put a hand to his stomach. Malfatto stopped.
“I might be drunk,” Teodor explained, defensive. “But I am fine.”
Malfatto’s mask tipped curiously to one side. Teodor reached up and ran a finger over the dark glasses and then underneath the long beak. After a moment he lifted Malfatto’s hat from his head. He examined the leather briefly, then looked back to Malfatto and took a last sip from the bottle.
“Now,” he whispered. “Show me.”
Malfatto paused for a moment, looking even more birdlike without the strong hat across his brow. Then he slowly raised a hand and untied the leather strap behind his head. Teodor looked on feverishly as Malfatto finally lowered the mask.
A familiar set of blue eyes met Teodor’s, framed by high cheekbones. A gloved hand pushed the hood back, revealing short blond hair.
Malfatto smiled.
The wine bottle fell from Teodor’s hand and shattered against the ground.
“Asshole,” Teodor managed, then his stomach could wait no longer and he threw up all over the floor.
† † †
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author's notes | warnings
Rated: NC17 (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 6,695 / 90,339
Knives Don't Have Your Back
NOTICE: Fanart now exists for this story! Please click here to see SilvesterVitale's beautiful depiction of the masquerade scene from Chapter VI.
† VII †
Three towers burned.
Teodor squinted in the harsh sun and raised a hand to shield his eyes as he took in the damage. White ash lingered in the air, causing his eyes to water and turning his coat from blue to gray. The smell of smoke was thick and choking even though the fires had been put out. Bodies littered the street, stained with black blood. At least six men dead, two more nearly there.
Teodor crouched in the dusty street and wrapped a hand around the blackened remains of a Borgia banner. It crumbled in his fingers.
Two days ago Teodor had received news that the machine gun Cesare’s forces had constructed had been stolen and destroyed, the blueprints with it.
It could only mean one thing.
“Your orders?” came a voice. Teodor peered up at the young soldier. The boy looked barely nineteen, his eyes nervous and his hand fisted on the hilt of his sword.
Teodor rose, slapping his hands together to shake the ash from his gloves. “Keep them back,” he replied, nodding to the gathering crowd.
The soldier nodded. Teodor looked over at the two guards who had lived through the attack. Someone had moved them onto a thin blanket and the tall shadow of Malfatto loomed over them as they moaned.
“And get me a priest,” he added. The boy nodded again and hurried away.
Teodor turned and went back to examining the tower. They had lost two others to fire months ago, perhaps to the same cause. Like the others before, the foundation and bottom half of the building were still standing but it was no longer serviceable as an outpost. To rebuild it would take months and a great deal of resources. Most likely it would be left to stand, a remnant of Borgia influence.
Teodor turned and walked to Malfatto. In his black cloak and large mask the doctor was impervious to dust and the smell of ash. As Teodor wiped at his eyes once more he felt a stab of jealousy. Malfatto, crouched and silent as he worked, seemed a calming shadow in a day filled with riotous sound and chaos.
“What did he say?” Teodor asked as he came to stand beside the doctor. He gestured to the body in front of him-the man had suffered a broken back and what looked to be a shattered skull. The few sounds Teodor had made out as the man expired had been unintelligible through the clatter of loose teeth rattling in his mouth. Perhaps Malfatto had had better luck.
Malfatto closed what was left of the corpse’s eyes and looked to Teodor over his shoulder. The doctor shrugged.
“It was a man,” came the voice of Malfatto’s other patient. Teodor turned. This man was clutching at shreds of a bloody shirt, the fisted cloth doing little to stem the flow of blood or cage the organs that protruded from his gut.
The smears of soot across his face were streaked with sweat, pale skin peeking out beneath the dirt. His eyes were already clouding over and the man’s voice trembled as he spoke.
“One-one man. Dressed i-in white. N-never seen anything...” he said, eyes focused somewhere to the left of Teodor’s face. “It...it was him,” the man continued, slow with pain. “Th-the one they t-talk about. I-”
The man broke off as his body spasmed, eyes rolling in his head and hands turning to claws. Malfatto swiveled on his knees and raised a hand to the man’s face but made no move to aid him. Blood blurred the features of the man’s face, dripping watery and red from the corners of his mouth. He began to scream.
Teodor turned away and thought.
Three towers burned. The gun destroyed.
A man dressed in white.
The assassins were nothing more than a myth to Teodor. They were rumors, ghosts, bogeymen used to mold less cunning men into better soldiers. Teodor had heard the stories. He had dismissed them as nothing more than another generation’s nightmare, a rebellious relic from Rodrigo Borgia’s storied rise to the papacy. Even when Teodor had been chosen to lead the attack on Monteriggioni he had never been told, nor had he suspected, that he had helped bring down the headquarters of the assassin order. Ezio Auditore and his uncle were nothing more than dissenters to the Borgia’s rule-the same could be said of many men, and those Teodor had cut down as well. None of them had come back to haunt him.
It was much later, after his travels as Cesare’s contracted killer, that he had realized the legend of Ezio Auditore to be much more than myth.
And now he was facing the reality. Teodor found himself thrust to the front lines of what he now understood to be an old war.
Moving through the crowd was a man wearing a green vest. Teodor watched as he walked past the onlookers and soldiers and went to the corner of a nearby building, slipping into the shadows of the alleyway beside it. A moment later a young woman with brown hair followed suit, her face obscured by a metal fan.
The sight of Baltasar caught Teodor off guard. He briefly wondered why something as routine as a burning building would catch the interest of Cesare’s busiest informant, but then realized his presence could only mean one thing-Baltasar knew the assassins were behind the attack. Teodor narrowed his eyes. He had no intention of allowing Baltasar to withhold such crucial information any longer.
Teodor made his way to them slowly, careful not to attract attention. The crowd and guards were preoccupied with the destruction around them and took no notice as Teodor leaned against the building beside the alleyway. From his position Teodor was still able to survey the scene and while he was blind to the barber and young woman behind him, the sound of a razor was unmistakable.
Snick.
Teodor pulled out a journal and pretended to take notes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the young woman appear, moving to stand on the left side of the alley, back turned to him. A lookout, then.
“I fail to see the need for one of Cesare’s consorts in this place,” he said, low and careful. Unknown people-particularly unknown, likely disgruntled women-made Teodor uncomfortable. “Or a local barber for that matter.”
“Teodor, meet Fiora. Fiora, Officer Viscardi,” replied Baltasar’s disembodied voice.
“Charmed,” said Fiora, sounding anything but.
“Fiora speaks for Cesare on certain matters, particularly those concerning mercenary work.”
Teodor hummed. “We have had an increase of mercenaries being bought and used to attack Roman guards.”
“Not my men, obviously,” Fiora said, fan shimmering in the sunlight. “It seems, Officer Viscardi, you have many problems concerning your army.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Teodor said, jaw clenched. He concentrated on the white of Malfatto’s mask in the distance and tried to keep his temper. “It makes me wonder if there is someone leaking information to those who would like to see the Borgia fall. Someone who perhaps tires of taking the brunt of Cesare’s...appetites.”
“You are a fool,” said Fiora, nonplussed. Teodor snapped his journal shut and openly turned to glare at her. She smirked, still facing away from him. “Oh? You do not scare me with your baseless accusations, Officer Viscardi. You are just a man.”
“Viscardi,” came Baltasar’s warning tone.
“I haven’t the time for this,” Teodor hissed. “Tell me why you are here. When I returned from Venezia you told me Ezio Auditore was still alive. This is him, isn’t it?”
Snick.
Rashly, Teodor turned the corner and faced Baltasar. The barber’s face turned to stone. Having a public conversation about Ezio Auditore with Cesare’s top spy was likely a grievous tactical error, but Teodor didn’t care. He planted one hand on Baltasar’s chest, using his full height to crowd him against the wall. The razor instantly pressed against his throat.
“Tell me what you know,” Teodor demanded, ignoring the slight sting in his neck. “I am not in the mood for games.”
Baltasar’s eyes bored holes into Teodor’s, black and merciless. “It would seem there is only one conclusion to draw,” he said carefully.
“Three towers,” Teodor spat, giving voice to his thoughts. Baltasar nodded, but gave nothing more. Teodor increased the strength behind his hand, shoving Baltasar painfully against the wall. The pressure at his throat intensified and he felt blood trickle past his collar. “Don’t you leave me in the dark, Baltasar,” he warned, furious. “You know how useful I can be.”
“Guards are coming,” Fiora said, ignoring the scene they were causing. In fact she sounded bored.
Teodor sighed through his nose and reluctantly surrendered his grip on Baltasar’s vest. For a moment Baltasar’s blade remained pressed against his skin and Teodor heard only the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.
A look of disappointment crossed Baltasar’s face as he dropped his hand. Teodor stepped back and allowed him to move from the wall.
“An official warrant for Ezio Auditore’s arrest will be issued,” Teodor said, searching Baltasar’s face. “I will not keep losing men and having Cesare’s forces humiliated.”
“You do not understand,” Baltasar whispered, turning to walk away. “An army cannot kill an assassin. I suggest you learn your place.”
Stunned, Teodor watched the barber and courtesan walk away. His mind whirled at the implications. He waved away the soldiers who approached him and slowly made his way back towards the rubble.
To issue an arrest warrant would mean to publicly announce the presence of the assassins. The guard would suffer the terror of it, but perhaps a few men would survive with a little extra vigilance. Teodor, on the other hand, would never make it out alive. The resurrection of Ezio Auditore was directly linked to Cesare’s failure to kill him. If Teodor announced these things to the world he had a feeling Micheletto and his wire would pay him a visit.
Teodor sighed and undid the few top buttons of his doublet to keep the collar from rubbing against the cut beneath his jaw. Another debt owed to Baltasar. He stopped and rubbed at his irritated eyes.
When he opened his eyes Malfatto stood before him, tall enough to block the sun. The doctor held out his hand. In it was a small white cloth.
“For your neck,” said Malfatto.
“Thank you,” said Teodor, taking the cloth and pressing it to his neck. Malfatto watched him expectantly. “Did anyone see?” Teodor whispered.
“I was watching,” Malfatto replied. He turned and began walking back to his patient.
“Did you get any more information?” Teodor asked, following.
Malfatto didn’t reply, moving to crouch by the dying man. The man reached for Malfatto, who allowed it. The doctor even slid an arm around his shoulders, bracing him like he would a frightened child. A burst of heat went through Teodor’s chest as he observed the gesture.
The man was clearly suffering, wracked with pain. Stomach wounds were notorious for cruel, slow deaths. The dying man gagged and gasped into Malfatto’s shoulder, smearing the waxed leather in pink froth as he tried to speak.
“What is it?” Teodor said, feeling like an intruder.
“Last rites,” Malfatto murmured. “God’s mercy.”
“I called for a priest.” Teodor frowned, looking around. “He should be here.”
The man began to seize, shaking both himself and Malfatto who held fast. With his free hand Malfatto reached for a syringe in his belt. It was loaded with a familiar green liquid.
“He can’t have last rites if he’s dead,” Teodor pointed out, mildly appalled. “He’s lasted this long. He can make it until a priest arrives.”
Faceless and heedless, Malfatto raised the syringe to the man’s chest. Teodor flinched as the needle sunk into the skin above his heart. Malfatto swayed slightly as the man died, body turning heavy and limp. Teodor watched as the doctor laid the body on the ground, then stood.
“Perhaps,” Malfatto said, his voice smooth and light, “I am more merciful than your God.”
Teodor barely managed to keep his expression neutral. Too many things had happened in the last hour and he had no way of telling which emotion would show up on his face.
Malfatto reached up to press on the cloth against Teodor’s throat, his long hand covering Teodor’s own. Teodor winced at the slick sting of the wound.
“Pressure,” Malfatto reminded.
Malfatto’s hand moved from the cloth to the edges of Teodor’s unbuttoned doublet. The doctor hooked a finger inside the collar, then spread the garment wide to reveal Teodor’s throat. Teodor held still, watching for any sign of expression behind the white mask. One of Malfatto’s scissored fingers brushed the skin, then pushed down. Teodor felt a sharp ache at the spot and realized Malfatto was touching the bruise the blond stranger had left on his throat four days ago. His mouth went dry.
The tip of Malfatto’s gloved finger circled the mark, then pressed again.
Teodor swallowed against the half dozen sounds trying to escape his mouth. He stared hard into the dark glasses covering the doctor’s eyes. Malfatto stared back, his touch relentless.
The air grew thick and Teodor felt a telltale warmth begin to pool in his belly. The sound of the crowd was drowned out by the noise of his heartbeat, his pulse quick under his own hand that still held the cloth to his neck.
When anticipation became too much to bear, Malfatto took a step forward. Teodor twitched.
“You have my journal,” Malfatto said.
Teodor froze, surprised. He managed a simple nod. His chin brushed over Malfatto’s knuckles.
“I would like to bring it to your shop,” he struggled to say, voice odd and rough. Malfatto’s finger trailed down his throat, catching on the fabric of his collar and freeing another button. Teodor hissed through his teeth.
“Perhaps I could interest you in a meal,” Teodor added hastily. “As an apology for the inconvenience.”
Malfatto tilted his head, considering. He pulled his hand away from Teodor’s skin. Teodor nearly sighed at the sudden loss, disappointment flooding through him like rainfall.
“If you visit,” Malfatto said slowly, as if forming words were a difficult chore, “and you are hungry, we could eat.”
Teodor felt his eyes widen. When Malfatto had pulled away he thought he’d thrown this slow, frustrating game they were playing.
“Tonight?” he asked.
Malfatto looked to one side. “That will not work.”
“Then when?” Teodor said.
Malfatto said nothing and kept his beaked mask turned away. Teodor put a dampener on his irritation and remembered his surroundings. He took a quick glance around the scene and caught the eye of a bald priest coming to him, a glower on the man’s face.
Rage was quickly followed with resigned amusement. With all his scheming and all his patience, timing seemed to never be Teodor’s strong suit. He pulled the cloth from his neck and pushed the bloodied rag into Malfatto’s hand. Malfatto looked down at the cloth.
“Thank you for your time, doctor,” Teodor said, voice perfect in pitch. He turned away from Malfatto and began walking towards the incoming priest.
“Tell me, am I lost?” Teodor asked of the soldiers flanking the holy man. “I thought this was Roma. Who would care to explain how it took twenty minutes to find a priest?”
A soldier began to stammer through an excuse, but Teodor turned a deaf ear. Instead he watched Malfatto walk past, casting shadows with every step. He gazed at the broad shoulders and steady hands, but the thing that caught his attention above all else was how the figure never turned to notice him at all.
† † †
The tavern in the town of Castel Gandolfo was a cozy affair. The building sat two stories high, the first floor reserved for the bar with rooms on the second for passing travelers. A fading sign above the entrance listed no name, only prices for liquor, lodging and women.
The inside of the bar was littered with wooden benches and sagging torches. The benches had become smooth with use, but they were not without the nicks and gouges of past violence. A few steps across from the long counter of the bar was a space for games of chance atop a well worn rug on the floor. A motley crew in rags knelt at the edges, cheering and cursing depending on their luck. In the back corner and along the side were a haphazard group of brawlers wrestling as less able men bet on the outcomes. A few women whose company was paid for posed mechanically and encouraged their lonely customers.
Lonelier still sat Teodor, friendless save for a cluster of empty cups. He had chosen tonight to shirk all duty and privilege in exchange for a few muddled hours of peace, his uniform left to hang upstairs in his rented room. His red shirt and dark brown jerkin hid the errant spots of wine that had missed his mouth when the liquor had started to affect his grip.
“To Castel Gandolfo,” he toasted to no one in particular. A few merry cheers of approval answered him, and he took a long swallow. Tonight he was a strange man in a strange town. The knowledge left him dangerous.
He had traveled from Roma a few days earlier to confirm the loss of the gun with his own eyes. The damage was unbelievable. Seventeen men dead, the gun turned to blackened splinters and the camp itself nearly demolished from an explosion of gun powder. Even worse, the blueprints had burned and Leonardo Da Vinci, Cesare’s half-imprisoned genius, had sent word there were no copies to be had and recreating them would be difficult.
His enemy was thorough.
Teodor was a suspicious man and a scholarly one at that. Da Vinci was an incredible asset, in theory, but Teodor wondered at the price they might pay for his services. Teodor had requested additional blue prints from the inventor but had yet to hear back. If another weapon went missing or came back destroyed, it was Teodor who would face Cesare’s wrath. Already he had spent most of the day holed up in his tavern room pouring over schematics and punching holes in the defenses he’d arranged around the other three machines.
It seemed Teodor’s imagination, while no longer on sentry outposts and enhanced artillery, was still brewing. Ghosts lurked in the corners of his saturated mind. He puzzled at the habits of assassins. Had the man come through this very city on his way back from Colli Albani? This particular tavern with its anonymity and cheap lodging? Teodor wondered if the sheets he would sleep in tonight had also covered the assassin as he slept, weary from his day of thrashing scores of men.
There had been rumors of course. Over the afternoon Teodor had tracked down one man who was thought to have provided travel to a suspicious man in white. He had been an unwitting ally of the resistance, but had paid the penalty all the same.
That reminded Teodor-he needed a new pair of gloves.
A trio of men a few tables over sat down. They were a plain bunch, but Teodor took note of them only because they did so of him. Three sets of eyes met with one another, then moved to gaze at Teodor.
Teodor took a long sip of wine, using the large mug to hide his face. He peered at the dice game over on the floor as if it was suddenly the most compelling thing in all of Italia. A serving boy passed and he held out his glass for a refill. As the boy bent, pitcher tipped and flowing, Teodor put a hand to the boy’s shirt.
“Those men,” he said, moving his lips as little as possible. “They seem anxious.”
The serving boy hesitated. Wine splashed on the outside of Teodor’s goblet and dripped between his thumb and forefinger. “Some of the Cantonelli family,” the boy answered. “Their brother was murdered today.”
One of the hazards of being in the Borgia’s employ was the occasional need for public statement. Teodor thanked the boy and let him go. His eyes passed over the men once more, then he licked the wine from his hand. It would seem he was well remembered.
Teodor rose slowly. With wine in hand he made his way to the stairs that led to the second floor. The men didn’t move from their table and Teodor managed to make it to his room without incident. Once inside he hurried to grab his coat and supplies, bundling the easily recognized garment and shoving it in his riding bag.
Retreat wasn’t something that came naturally to Teodor, but survival did. He had purposefully sent his small guard ahead to expedite the message to the other outposts and thus was alone and without back-up. Usually Teodor wouldn’t blink at the thought of a mild pub brawl, but these men had sinister intentions and the night’s earlier excess left Teodor slow and unsteady.
Teodor checked his belt, making sure his épieu was firmly secured. He struggled to open the bedroom window, but finally managed to push the swollen shutters wide. As carefully as he could manage he dropped his bag, satisfied as it landed in a cluster of bushes safe and concealed.
Now there was the task of returning downstairs and waiting for the inevitable violence. There was every possibility Teodor’s reputation and Borgia standing would be enough to keep the men from retaliation, but on the other hand he disliked the idea of waking up to a knife at his throat.
Resigned, Teodor took up his glass and left his room. Provided he wasn’t shot immediately, all Teodor would need to do is take the first punch and then incite a few bystanders during the fall out. When the ambush turned into an all out fight it would be easy enough to slip out the back door.
He turned the corner and into the hall, the stairway at the end. Two rooms from where he stood a door opened and out stepped a dark figure, its back turned. The dim light revealed a familiar leather coat and the brim of an unmistakable hat.
Teodor stopped so suddenly some of his wine sloshed onto the floor. At the sound the silhouetted man turned, white mask tinted orange in the strange torchlight. For a moment Teodor thought himself mad, for no drink could conjure up such a perfect phantom.
The doctor froze as he realized he was being watched. Teodor had a fleeting thought that this man could be any doctor, but the slope of shoulders and the subtle differences in the mask left little room for doubt. Even if he had never turned around Teodor thought he would have known it was Malfatto.
The clatter of footsteps on the stairwell broke the odd trance in the hallway. Teodor moved toward Malfatto and the doctor towards him. In less than a second Malfatto had Teodor by the arm, pulling him inside the room he had just stepped from. Drunk and clumsy, Teodor nearly fell as he was jerked forward. Malfatto kept him upright, bracing him tightly against arm and hip, Teodor’s shoulder and side snug against the doctor’s chest. Teodor quickly regained his footing and pushed Malfatto off him, the glass in his hand falling to the floor and splashing the two of them red.
Malfatto reached for his belt as they fell apart, gloved fingers passing over poisons and instead choosing a knife. He held the blade in front of him, raising his other arm to block. He took a step away from Teodor and bent at the knees, his body curled into a warning.
Teodor half-fell, half-pushed the door to the room closed. As he saw Malfatto go for his weapon he reflexively pulled out his épieu, but stopped as he realized that Malfatto’s blade was meant to stave off him. With his back against the door, he slowly lifted his free hand to calm the doctor.
“Malfatto, I’m not-” Teodor began, but cut himself off as the men from the stairwell grew near. He strained to listen to the voices, catching a few words and a room number-his.
Malfatto’s knife hand twitched in the darkness. “Why-”
“Be quiet!” Teodor whispered, twisting around to try and hear. He held his breath as shadows flickered through the crack under the door. Silence reigned for a tense minute, Teodor pressed to the door and Malfatto still defensively crouched two feet away.
A thin trail of wine trickled towards the door. Teodor moved his foot to stop the stream, furrowing his brow at the crimson stain moving against his heel.
There was the sound of a door opening. An angry chorus of voices. The crack of splintering wood. Footsteps thundering into the hall once more, then stopping. A sharp pounding on the door.
“Open up!” demanded the man outside. Teodor heard similar muffled shouts as other men pounded on other doors. “Open up or we will break through this door.”
“Je déteste ce jour,” Teodor muttered, fumbling to lock the door. He slowly backed into the room, stopping when he felt Malfatto’s hand on his arm.
Fists pounded on the door again. As Teodor raised his weapon, Malfatto put down his knife. Teodor stared at the doctor, not knowing what to expect should the door finally give way.
A heavy thud sounded against the door. Teodor hissed through his teeth and hated the sluggish haze that had settled on his limbs and brain from too many rounds with the bottle. The noise seemed to finally spur Malfatto into action and the doctor strode purposefully to the door and unlocked it. Teodor shot forward to stop him. Malfatto’s hand came up and shoved him to the side with startling force, then he opened the door. Teodor froze and clung to the wall, using the meager shadow of the open door as cover.
Malfatto peered impassively at the perplexed man in the hall.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Malfatto asked calmly.
“None of your business,” growled the man. Malfatto held his ground, tall body blocking the entrance. “Who are you?”
“This is Cardinal Ascanio Sforza’s room,” Malfatto continued. “He has fallen ill and I am his physician. You dare to disturb him?”
The man’s expression abruptly changed. “My apologies to his...his...”
“His Eminence,” Malfatto provided. “Now please, the cardinal needs his rest.”
The man was working through another stammered apology when Malfatto shut the door. Teodor allowed himself a breath and they both stood silent until they heard the men move back downstairs in search of their quarry.
“A cardinal?” Teodor whispered, shocked at so daring a lie. Cardinals were untouchable when it came to his line of work. Too well-connected, and not just to God.
Malfatto moved from the door and stood beside the bed. Teodor hadn’t noticed the bed in the confusion, but now he could see the still figure resting on top of the sheets, draped in velvet of the brightest red. He moved closer, horrified, and took in the sight of the bloated, purple face of the poisoned corpse.
“Cardinal Sforza,” he said, feeling bile rise in his throat. “You killed a cardinal.”
Malfatto stared steadily at Teodor, mask tipped towards the épieu naked in his hand. His hands hovered at the edges of his belt, clearly searching for a weapon.
Teodor’s eyes widened. “Wait-”
As if they had not been interrupted in the slightest, Malfatto charged forward, one hand going to Teodor’s collar, the other to his wrist. Taken by surprise, Teodor was easily pinned against a nearby desk. Malfatto tried to crack his wrist against the wood in an attempt to make him drop the spear. Teodor shouted as pain shot through his arm but had long trained himself to never let go of his weapon. He bucked against Malfatto and brought his free arm up to push the doctor off of him. As he broke the doctor’s hold on his collar, Teodor twisted away and stumbled a few feet back.
“I am not here for you,” Teodor spat. His head pounded and he doubled over, rubbing at his eyes. Malfatto circled him like a spider, arms outstretched and hands curled.
“I don’t suppose the good cardinal left us some wine, did he?” Teodor said, standing gingerly. Malfatto held still at the comment and Teodor slowly backed over to a trunk at the edge of the room. Keeping watch of Malfatto he toed it open with his boot and used his épieu to push aside a few robes, revealing coin, books, and a bottle. Teodor retrieved it and sniffed the cork.
“This is more your expertise than mine,” Teodor said. He holstered the épieu and then held out the wine bottle to Malfatto. The doctor considered him for a moment, and then slowly approached him like a curious wild animal.
Malfatto wrapped a hand around the neck of the bottle. Teodor refused to let go of it completely, giving Malfatto a warning look. The doctor looked or sniffed it-it was impossible to tell with the mask-before giving Teodor a slight nod. Mostly convinced it was free of poison, Teodor took out a knife and plunged it past wax and cork, pulling it free.
Teodor ignored how Malfatto tensed at the knife and took a small sip of wine. It was robust and rich. He took a few long swallows and then sighed, eyes closing momentarily as the wine warmed his throat and shoulders and kept his headache at bay. It made him lazy, and when he finally looked up he couldn’t stop Malfatto’s reaching hand. Fingers spread across the base of his throat, not wide enough to choke but enough to leave an impression.
They studied one another for a moment. Malfatto was very close, the beak of his mask nearly brushing Teodor’s eye. The doctor’s thumb brushed inside Teodor’s collar, once again passing over the nearly-faded bruise from the masquerade.
Teodor took another few swallows from the bottle, each one pushing him a little further from drunk and on toward sloppy. Malfatto waited, inscrutable, until Teodor thumbed the cork back in and let the bottle drop. As it rolled between their feet, he brought up a hand and went for the mask.
Malfatto reared back. Teodor’s hand curved against the shell of the mask, fingers ghosting across the small leather lacing that held it in place. Malfatto’s hand pressed at Teodor’s collarbone, denying him the reach he needed to find the knot at the back of Malfatto’s head. Teodor’s hand went to Malfatto’s wrist, and then the real struggle finally began.
For a civilian, if the term even applied, Malfatto wasn’t inept in hand-to-hand combat. He was slightly taller than Teodor and his size evened the level of strength between them. As with everything else, he was unnervingly quiet as he fought, even his labored breath muted by the costume he wore. If it were a true battle, Teodor imagined the doctor would be a decent opponent.
This was more a contest of wills. Malfatto’s hands pushed and pulled at Teodor’s shoulders, hips and sides, both of them too close and too unwilling to exact actual blows, but the doctor seemed to lack a clear purpose. Teodor, on the other hand, had much greater focus.
Teodor’s hands fumbled at the heavy leather jacket and the guard that stretched across Malfatto’s chest and shoulders. He managed to get the buttons above Malfatto’s belt undone and a few below, but when he reached to undo the buckle and finally see what lay underneath Malfatto’s hands came about his shoulders and spun him forcefully round. Teodor caught himself against the wall and ducked when Malfatto went to grab him.
As he darted away, Malfatto managed to pull Teodor’s shirt free from his breeches and a long hand connected with the small of Teodor’s back. Teodor stumbled but righted himself, turning back to face Malfatto.
Malfatto’s hat was crooked and his waxed coat bunched in odd places, pulled slightly apart but held in place by the cursed belt. Teodor spied a pair of dark breeches underneath and the slightest glimpse of a pale shirt. The sight sent a jolt of lust through his body and when Malfatto lurched for him again, Teodor dodged with bared teeth.
As capable as Malfatto was, Teodor, drunk or not, made living fighting men. With more force than was necessary, he wrestled Malfatto back and against the nearby desk. Malfatto’s hand shot out to catch him on the desktop and Teodor swiped it out from under him. Malfatto’s legs lifted in the air and he fell back. Teodor saved him a nasty bruise to the spine by lifting him forcibly onto the desk. Malfatto’s ass was barely on the lip and Teodor used a hand to pin the doctor’s shoulders to the wall above the desk. He used his own body to hold Malfatto in place, the doctor’s hands scrabbling at the desk’s surface for some purchase and relief from the awkward position.
Stretched as he was, Teodor moved mercifully fast. His free hand quickly worked Malfatto’s belt loose and he finally pushed the coat open. Malfatto was thinner than Teodor had expected, narrow hips and sunken stomach, still covered by shirt and pants but more revealing than anything Teodor had seen until now. He looked up to Malfatto’s face with greedy eyes.
“Yield,” he whispered. Malfatto’s chest heaved against his palm and Teodor could see the quiver of his stomach underneath the thin pale shirt. In a half-crazed way Teodor delighted in the confirmation of Malfatto as a man instead of a faceless monster, but he wasn’t quite ready to abandon the monster yet.
Malfatto held still and Teodor relented, sliding an arm behind Malfatto and pulling him forward until his feet touched the floor. Malfatto still straddled Teodor’s hips, but now he could lean against the desk. Malfatto reached up and went to undo the strap holding his mask in place, but Teodor surprised the both of them by pulling his hand away.
“No,” he said, finger tracing over the white beak, “I am used to it.”
Malfatto gave the slightest of nods. He lowered his hands to the desktop, fingers curling under the lip. Teodor licked his lip and sank slowly to his knees.
Carefully Teodor pulled at the laces of Malfatto’s breeches and pulled his shirt free. The white cloth rode up to reveal a sliver of skin. The shirt was made of a fine material, a detail Teodor ferreted away for later scrutiny as his fingers passed over the pale skin underneath. Malfatto was not as pasty as Teodor had expected of a man who spent most of his days covered head to foot. A light dusting of freckles stretched across his hips, and where Teodor’s fingers touched his mouth soon followed.
Malfatto breathed in sharply, thrumming beneath Teodor’s lips. Teodor shivered. With more purposeful hands Teodor coaxed the breeches down Malfatto’s thighs, groaning when at last Malfatto’s erection was laid bare. Malfatto twitched, and then settled as Teodor’s hands moved up the back of his legs, forcing Malfatto’s thighs wide. Teodor ran a hungry tongue over the heavy sack before teasing his way up the length.
Malfatto said nothing, but two leather hands came down and held Teodor’s face firm. Teodor flicked his eyes upward and stared at the stern mask above him. Malfatto’s thumb pushed at his chin and Teodor’s mouth opened obediently. Long fingers curled behind his ears and Teodor closed his eyes as Malfatto slowly moved his hips, cock sliding past wet lips.
Teodor’s fingers pressed ten perfect bruises into Malfatto’s hips as the doctor fucked open his throat. Teodor grunted noisily at the invasion of all his senses, but Malfatto was fittingly quiet. Teodor burned for the small sounds Malfatto did make, the relative silence making Teodor’s wet slurping that much more obscene.
Malfatto’s body was not as shy and his hips kept a steady pace, thighs trembling at the exercise. Even as eager as Teodor had been made by his long wait, after awhile he gave up any semblance of control over the situation. He had been wanting this and he did his level best not to choke as he reveled in the rough slide of Malfatto’s cock against his tongue, throat swollen and neck aching. His eyes watered with the effort.
Teodor himself was painfully hard, but he waited until Malfatto’s rhythm began to falter and become more brutal before he dared to touch himself. Despite his sluggish and drunken state after only a dozen strokes he spilled into his own hand.
He lost his balance as his body shuddered, hands going to Malfatto’s thighs to steady himself. Teodor hummed, bright and stupid with pleasure, then nearly gagged as Malfatto suddenly went taut as a wire in the throes of his own orgasm. Teodor rallied as the hands around his face held him firm, sucking and swallowing as best he could, the world narrowed down to only the smell and taste of sex.
When he could take no more Teodor pushed off, coughing as he wiped spit and semen from the sides of his bruising lips. He braced himself with his hands and worked to catch his breath. His throat was raw and his head swam from the abuse to his senses and earlier excesses.
Malfatto was already doing up his laces when Teodor stood, queasy and satisfied at the same time. He longed to kiss Malfatto with the dirty taste of sex still rich inside his mouth, but refrained from any symbolic gestures since the mask made it impossible. Wordlessly he helped Malfatto reassemble his terrifying costume, waiting patiently as Malfatto straightened and strapped on his belt. When the last vial of poison was in place, Teodor leaned forward and rested his forehead against the doctor’s, eyes peering into dark glasses.
“We must leave,” Malfatto said, once again whole and still beneath Teodor’s hands. “Cardinal Sforza has missed his meeting by now. They will come looking for him.”
“It was good for me as well, thank you,” Teodor murmured, voice raw. He pulled back with a sigh and winced as nausea swept through him. Swallowing, he picked the wine bottle off the floor and opened it, rinsing his teeth. He gave the cardinal’s body a guilty look, one hand absently making the sign of the cross.
Malfatto reached out and pulled Teodor to back to him by the wrist. The doctor cupped Teodor’s face in one hand, his other moving to Teodor’s hip, steadying him. He ran a thumb across Teodor’s mouth, then down his aching throat. Teodor winced as the touch made his insides shudder and put a hand to his stomach. Malfatto stopped.
“I might be drunk,” Teodor explained, defensive. “But I am fine.”
Malfatto’s mask tipped curiously to one side. Teodor reached up and ran a finger over the dark glasses and then underneath the long beak. After a moment he lifted Malfatto’s hat from his head. He examined the leather briefly, then looked back to Malfatto and took a last sip from the bottle.
“Now,” he whispered. “Show me.”
Malfatto paused for a moment, looking even more birdlike without the strong hat across his brow. Then he slowly raised a hand and untied the leather strap behind his head. Teodor looked on feverishly as Malfatto finally lowered the mask.
A familiar set of blue eyes met Teodor’s, framed by high cheekbones. A gloved hand pushed the hood back, revealing short blond hair.
Malfatto smiled.
The wine bottle fell from Teodor’s hand and shattered against the ground.
“Asshole,” Teodor managed, then his stomach could wait no longer and he threw up all over the floor.
† † †
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