the historian's secrets (cologne)

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Vico brushed into the room with a clear air of irritation, obvious from even the sound of his footfall as he stomped up the stairs, and clearer yet when he all but kicked open the door and slammed it shut again, throwing his heavier weapons onto one of the beds of the room they had rented during their (hopefully) short stay in Germany. Foreign missions, higher in priority, also cost higher, in terms of resources and time spent, and it was customary for recruits to be gone up to an entire week while carrying out the Brotherhood's orders in unfamiliar lands. There was situating, scouting, and planning involved, all made more difficult because neither of them knew the streets of Cologne quite like they knew those of Romagna, and the patience required in the preparation stage of the mission was wearing on Vico's not-quite-infinite supply of patience.

When he pulled down his hood, mussing up the brown curls on the top of his head, Vico rubbed at a particularly impressive bruise forming on his left cheek, small, compact, and shaped like a rounded rectangle. They had seen enough of such bruises to know that it was probably the work of a well-timed and well-aimed punch, most likely one that Vico had returned with just as much accuracy and probably three times as much force. "These Germans are more skittish than the pigeons in Italy," he muttered, as means of explanation, perhaps. "They jump at every little thing, it is ridiculous!" He waved an arm, expressive as his Italian blood made him, and threw it up at the ceiling as if cursing some imaginary god up there. "You so much as breathe the wrong way and they start pointing their spears at you!"

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Adamo simply looked amused as he carefully set his weapons onto the opposite bed, settling at the foot to appreciate the room. Even the small inn's room was much different than Italia's. While Vico ranted, he wondered if the tavern had any good German beer to offer. Maybe he could drag him downstairs and ease him over a drink.

"You are overreacting, amico," Adamo said, standing to lean against the window sill, looking out at the view. There wasn't a scratch on him, unlike his friend. "You bumped into a guard and started spouting off in Italian. Of course he's going to take the defensive."

Luckily for Vico, Adamo had a bit of experience with German; just enough to calm the two men down and settle the dispute. They were both reluctant - understandably so with their manlike pride - but eventually let up. Adamo still had to half-drag Vico to the inn, however.

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"Of course I would spout Italian!" Vico bellowed explosively. "I am Italian! What do you expect to start spouting, French?" He scoffed the word, as if being French were the most preposterous idea of all. "It is like they have never seen anyone other than their pasty German hides!" It was probably good, in a way, that Vico's knowledge of German was so poor - if he had shouted that so loud in a language the innkeepers had understood, it was very likely they would be both sitting on the streets on their asses right now.

He threw down his sword on the covers like he was taking it out on the poor, innocent mattress, and proceeded to kick the side of the bed for good measure.

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Before the innkeeper could be alarmed by the constant thudding coming from their room, Adamo took the man by the shoulders and dragged him a good few paces away from the bed. Poor thing. It didn't deserve Vico's wrath.

"You're going to get us in trouble, Vico," he said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Now, we have a good while before our informant shows up. Why don't we go get a drink?" (Because that surely wouldn't end in a bar fight.)

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Allowing himself to be led away, Vico shot a distasteful glance at the door. "In a bar with drunk Germans. Even better."

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"It's barely evening, how many can there be? Unless you go carelessly running into them, then everything should go smoothly, if you ask me," Adamo said with a grin, pulling Vico towards the door.

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"And that is precisely why I don't ask you for many things," Vico responded just as quickly, shrugging off Adamo's arm as he made his own way down the stairs. There was still a dagger strapped to his belt underneath his tunic, and a few throwing knives hidden against the inside of his boots, just in case the Germans were as bad inside as they were outside the tavern. Vico even managed not to stomp down the stairs this time, pulling himself into a stool by the bar and suspiciously eying the other patrons by force of habit. "Call me the strongest they have - since it's German, it will probably taste like piss either way."

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Adamo rolled his eyes as he locked their room, catching up to Vico with swift steps, claiming a seat next to him at the tavern. There were a few people spread amongst the tables, holding giant mugs of beer. Some of the languages were not German, Adamo realized, and he nudged Vico with his elbow.

"See? They're not even German," he boasted in a whisper, face pointed in the direction of who he meant, but eyes elsewhere - the large framed man behind the counter, cleaning a glass. When he caught sight of Adamo, he walked over, saying something in German. Adamo responded in kind, holding up two fingers. It was a harsh language compared to his usual Italian, which rolled off the tongue with accents and flourishes, and if Adamo hadn't been used to it, he might've seen what was so unappealing about German to Vico's ears.

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"They are probably French, then," Vico retorted, unrelenting. Apparently satisfied that the other patrons posed no real threat, or, that they were safe enough to at least turn their backs on, Vico swung around in his seat and leaned his elbows onto the counter. He almost didn't catch the mug as it was slid down to him - a German thing, perhaps, and he looked faintly startled as the glass bumped heavily against his arm, lightning-fast reflexes being the only thing that saved him from having to wash German alcohol out of his clothes for the next few hours.

The liquid inside the glass was dark in color - somewhat transparent as he sloshed it around the sides of the cup, but opaque when pooled at the bottom. There was a light froth thinning out at the edges, and it was an unappetizing dark brown - no deep reds, or pale golds customary in Italian wine. "Che cosa è questo?" he asked.

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"Birra. If you don't like it, I'll have it," Adamo said, picking up his own mug. It was hard to say if that look of amusement he had up in the room ever left his face since then - Vico was so out of place here, it was almost hilarious. He gave him a good pat on the arm before raising his cup to his lips, taking a long swig. He gave a pleased hum as he set it back down. Wine was already impossible to compare to beer, and Adamo certainly had quite the palate if he had room for Italian wine and German beer. There was no subtle sweetness to it, no distant taste of fruit - it was bitter, but smooth, not at all on the Italian definition of 'refined.'

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In direct response to that, Vico swung the cup up to his lips, taking a hefty gulp before setting it back down with a heavy thump. It was hard to read his expression - it seemed as though every single one of his features was caught in a different emotion. One brow was knit, the other raised, his eyes were darting to the side, his mouth was set into a thin line. If anything, the only concrete thing was that he looked somewhat thoughtful.

Then, as if the spell had broken, he looked up, and said with pure confidence, "I was right. It tastes like piss."

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Adamo laughed.

"Of course it does. You've never had it before. Keep drinking, you'll warm up to it." As if in challenge, he raised his drink again, taking a big gulp.

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That sort of roundabout logic clearly didn't appeal to Vico, but he took Adamo's advice and continued nursing the foul-tasting drink. They stood out amongst the other customers, with dark hoods drawn up high over their heads despite being inside, but the rest of the patrons stood out in their own ways too, for it seemed that Germany, just like Italy, had its fair share of eccentricities. There was a woman making snide remarks about the man she was sitting at in the corner, spouting comments in accented English that could make even the courtesans blush. There was a fellow in a hat over to the side, eying everyone's waists - no doubt a pickpocket, looking for prey. He'd find easy pickings in the couple in the center, trying to keep their heads down low as they conversed and sticking out all the more for it - they were clearly new and had the bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked look of people who the world had treated well.

"Tell me, sir," Vico spoke up, finally making use of his accented but not entirely poor German, as simple as his vocabulary was. The bartender looked his way, hands still moving as they dried another glass. "What is the news around this part of Germany lately?"

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Vico's accent was curious enough - and recognizable enough - for the man to pay little heed to the question, and more to his origin. "Italian, huh?" he responded in gruff German. Adamo carefully watched the two. You never knew with Vico; he could fly off the handle at anything. "Nothing interesting around these parts. I've heard Italien has more to talk about these days."

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Compared to their wild chase last night, morning in Cologne came peacefully. People began filtering into the streets come first light, even before the birds began their chirping from the rooftops. These were sounds that Vico was used to, even if the voices outside were speaking a language other than Italian, and so, these were also sounds that Vico was entirely accustomed to sleeping despite of, also.

The pain had woken up a few times in the night, and he had spent a few minutes every time just gritting his teeth and waiting for it to subside. By some grace of the heavens, it always did, and overcome with tiredness, he had fallen asleep just as quickly. His last bout of fitful sleep was apparently a very good one, because even when the mid-morning rays of light began filtering through the shutters, Vico was still softly snoring away, a pillow pulled over his head and the inevitably-mussed hair on it, face down in the sheets. He was not a sprawler, but he slept like a log.

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As Adamo returned to the room, he rubbed his arm gently, closing the door silently behind him. Unfortunately he liked to sleep on his left side, and his arm made that difficult throughout the night. He eventually settled on his stomach, but then his back became agitated again. A couple of times Adamo thought his constant fidgeting had awoken Vico, but realized soon enough that it was something more significant; the arrow's wake left through his leg.

While it certainly wasn't a cure, small comforts like food when you hadn't eaten since the last evening should be nice. He walked up to Vico's bed, nudging him by the shoulder, setting down a wooden plate with sausage, cheese and bread on the nightstand.

"Hey. Svegliare."

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Adamo was greeted with a groan first, before sluggishly, Vico pulled the pillow away from his head. It was no less difficult to make out a face from the mess of hair below it (with all these missions lately, Vico's bird's nest that he called his hair was getting a little long), but he cracked an eye open, glancing first at Adamo and then, more pointedly, at the plate on the nightstand, attention drawn by the smell.

"German food," he declared, and though he tried to sound sour, his interest was clearly piqued. Vico pushed up to his elbows and yawned. "You ate already?"

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"Just be thankful I turned down the sauerkraut," Adamo said with half a grin, padding across the room to sit on the edge of his bed. Vico's hair was just as poofy and prominent from a distance. "I did. Figured you needed the rest, so I waited. Talked with our amico Winfried, as well. Says we should be clear to leave. His friends are providing distractions around the town."

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Taking the plate from the table and with some difficulty, but only a little, sitting up, Vico eyed the German sausage before biting off the end. It was not as rich as the Italian renditions, but there was a strange mix of spices in it, coupled with the rarer cooking method, that actually was pleasing to the palate. In fact, it was actually good, and Vico frowned down at the meat on the end of his fork with some degree of suspicion, considering it was, after all, German. Busy chewing, however, he did not voice it, and goodness knew Adamo had had enough of his nationalistic griping for the week.

"Horses?"

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Adamo interpreted that glance down at his food as distaste, but simply shrugged. If Vico wanted to complain, he would complain. (He was surprised when he didn't, actually.)

"One," he answered, starting to pull on the rest of his outfit. He went downstairs with his undershirt and breeches rather than his hooded shirt and belt, as not to raise suspicions. "For you."

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"I am going to leave you in the dust," Vico declared, high-handedly, rather than complain about how that treatment was unfair or what an insult to his pride that was. Those were petty, trivial arguments left to men with greater pride. Vico had long since learned to accept what graces were given from living in the poor districts. With a vicious bite, he downed the rest of the sausage and flashed a smirk at Adamo. "And then I will collect all the reward money for myself, and you will be too poor to go seek out your 'Maria's."

I am reminded of that pickle sassy creed. you are such a turn off vico

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"Is that how you treat your best friend?" Adamo said with a pout as he fastened his belt around his waist. "Honestly. I could leave you for those German guards."

I was not aware Vico was supposed to be turning you on here.

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"You mean, after they are done with you?" Vico asked, brows raised innocently while he spooned the rest of the plate's contents into his mouth.

why do you think he got him sausage-

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"Now why would I get myself caught?"

BECAUSE IT'S GERMANY

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"Because you could not get a foot past the gates with a face like yours. You would walk right through and the bells would start ringing, because you, amico, would simply have, 'I just sold my friend to the enemy because I am a bastardo' written all over it."

and what a good excuse it is

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"And what a handsome bastardo I am," Adamo said as he turned with a grin, even as he very well knew Vico did not like talk of betrayal and traitors. "They might just let me go with a slap on the hand and a 'don't do that again.'"