Giovanni had braced himself for sharp words or even anger, but the unexpected silence and faintly pursed lips were somehow worse. Lorenzo turned his eyes back down to his ledger, and as the minutes ticked by, Giovanni weighed the feasibility of attempting to apologize again. Lorenzo tended to treat repetition with impatience.
Eventually, Lorenzo tapped the tip of his quill against his mouth, drawing Giovanni's attention, as usual, helplessly to the thin line of his lips. The assassin couldn't outright recall when was the last time that Lorenzo had allowed him a lover's kiss; sentimentality bored the ruler of Firenze. "Leave."
Giovanni had been expecting as much. Swallowing guilt and bitter self-disappointment, Giovanni bowed deep. "Very well, Altezza."
"And tell the guard to call Oreste."
That drew Giovanni up short. Oreste was one of the Medici's hired blades, and he was fairly decent at his work, but he would hardly succeed where Giovanni had failed. "Altezza, Oreste is-"
"Go, Giovanni," Lorenzo said coldly, annotating his ledger, and swallowing his retort and his hurt pride, Giovanni bowed again, padding silently for the door to the room rather than leaving via the window. Just before he opened it, Lorenzo added, as an afterthought, "And do not come back to see me until I send for you."
"Si, Altezza," Giovanni said, as meekly as possible, somewhat puzzled at the reminder. Not seeing out Lorenzo unless he had orders sent to him was, after all, business as usual. He murmured Lorenzo’s orders to the waiting guard, then pulled himself up onto the roof, ignoring their stifled whispers of astonishment.
It was a pleasant night, cool and crisp with a fresh easterly breeze, but as Giovanni walked slowly back towards his apartment, heavy hearted, he found that he could not enjoy it. Lorenzo’s ire was not new to him, nor disappointment, but his failure had been fairly spectacular by all counts, and all due to a miscalculation on the changing of the subject’s guard. He could only hope that the mark wouldn’t be able to link him back to his master.
Calling Oreste, Giovanni decided, as he navigated a rope line with care, gritting his teeth against the growing pain from the arrow wound in his flank as the painkillers began to wear off, was probably just pragmatism. It would have been just like Lorenzo to notice that he was wounded. And besides, perhaps Giovanni himself was just being sensitive. Oreste might just have been called for a different sort of matter. Lorenzo would not allow all of his assassins, hired or not, to remain idle.
So decided, Giovanni was in a better mood when he dressed his wound in the safehouse, resting fitfully until the morning, then somehow managing to drag himself to the bank to work.
Days passed until Giovanni was fully healed again, and still no missive came from Lorenzo. Puzzled, Giovanni took to checking the pigeon coop on the roof of the tailor’s shop twice a day, then thrice. The pigeons were going fat and bored. Now concerned about his master, but unwilling to disobey a direct order, Giovanni scribbled a polite query and attached it to the foot of a pigeon.
The answer returned within the hour. I have no use for you at present. Await further orders.
After another week of inaction, Giovanni was beginning to chafe. Uberto seemed amused at his impatience, when the assassin complained to his old friend. The gonfaloniere was busy drafting submissions to the Doge, his famous mind clearly adrift in precedent and process, and he shot Giovanni a long and thoughtful stare when the assassin finished.
“So your master has no one for you to kill. Then you should rejoice, no?”
“If you put it that way,” Giovanni grumbled, then added, when Uberto smirked, “Surely there is something. The last mark that I was asked to assassinate, there were other links in the chain that would bear watching, at the very least.”
“Well then, perhaps Oreste is doing the watching.”
“Oreste can barely draw his blade without bleeding himself.”
The Price of Failure [1/?]
Giovanni had braced himself for sharp words or even anger, but the unexpected silence and faintly pursed lips were somehow worse. Lorenzo turned his eyes back down to his ledger, and as the minutes ticked by, Giovanni weighed the feasibility of attempting to apologize again. Lorenzo tended to treat repetition with impatience.
Eventually, Lorenzo tapped the tip of his quill against his mouth, drawing Giovanni's attention, as usual, helplessly to the thin line of his lips. The assassin couldn't outright recall when was the last time that Lorenzo had allowed him a lover's kiss; sentimentality bored the ruler of Firenze. "Leave."
Giovanni had been expecting as much. Swallowing guilt and bitter self-disappointment, Giovanni bowed deep. "Very well, Altezza."
"And tell the guard to call Oreste."
That drew Giovanni up short. Oreste was one of the Medici's hired blades, and he was fairly decent at his work, but he would hardly succeed where Giovanni had failed. "Altezza, Oreste is-"
"Go, Giovanni," Lorenzo said coldly, annotating his ledger, and swallowing his retort and his hurt pride, Giovanni bowed again, padding silently for the door to the room rather than leaving via the window. Just before he opened it, Lorenzo added, as an afterthought, "And do not come back to see me until I send for you."
"Si, Altezza," Giovanni said, as meekly as possible, somewhat puzzled at the reminder. Not seeing out Lorenzo unless he had orders sent to him was, after all, business as usual. He murmured Lorenzo’s orders to the waiting guard, then pulled himself up onto the roof, ignoring their stifled whispers of astonishment.
It was a pleasant night, cool and crisp with a fresh easterly breeze, but as Giovanni walked slowly back towards his apartment, heavy hearted, he found that he could not enjoy it. Lorenzo’s ire was not new to him, nor disappointment, but his failure had been fairly spectacular by all counts, and all due to a miscalculation on the changing of the subject’s guard. He could only hope that the mark wouldn’t be able to link him back to his master.
Calling Oreste, Giovanni decided, as he navigated a rope line with care, gritting his teeth against the growing pain from the arrow wound in his flank as the painkillers began to wear off, was probably just pragmatism. It would have been just like Lorenzo to notice that he was wounded. And besides, perhaps Giovanni himself was just being sensitive. Oreste might just have been called for a different sort of matter. Lorenzo would not allow all of his assassins, hired or not, to remain idle.
So decided, Giovanni was in a better mood when he dressed his wound in the safehouse, resting fitfully until the morning, then somehow managing to drag himself to the bank to work.
Days passed until Giovanni was fully healed again, and still no missive came from Lorenzo. Puzzled, Giovanni took to checking the pigeon coop on the roof of the tailor’s shop twice a day, then thrice. The pigeons were going fat and bored. Now concerned about his master, but unwilling to disobey a direct order, Giovanni scribbled a polite query and attached it to the foot of a pigeon.
The answer returned within the hour. I have no use for you at present. Await further orders.
After another week of inaction, Giovanni was beginning to chafe. Uberto seemed amused at his impatience, when the assassin complained to his old friend. The gonfaloniere was busy drafting submissions to the Doge, his famous mind clearly adrift in precedent and process, and he shot Giovanni a long and thoughtful stare when the assassin finished.
“So your master has no one for you to kill. Then you should rejoice, no?”
“If you put it that way,” Giovanni grumbled, then added, when Uberto smirked, “Surely there is something. The last mark that I was asked to assassinate, there were other links in the chain that would bear watching, at the very least.”
“Well then, perhaps Oreste is doing the watching.”
“Oreste can barely draw his blade without bleeding himself.”