circle7 | the historian's secrets (cologne)

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the historian's secrets (cologne)

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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"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."

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.

"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.

"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.'

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."

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.

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?"

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."

His eyes narrowed, but to his credit, Vico kept his calm, shrugging carelessly. When he wanted to be, Vico was well-suited for deception. It was just getting him to want to that was the problem. "When is there never something to talk about in Italia?" he answered easily, taking a big swig of the German cow-piss they passed off as beer and managing to not even flinch this time. He held his drink well; it was just the taste he abhorred. "There is so much, I am tired of hearing it! Which is why I have come to Germany expecting to hear something of a different tune, signore."

The German glanced over the Italian. He had his fair share of grumpy customers; this was nothing new. He just shrugged one shoulder, putting a glass down and picking up an ornate stein, starting to clean it with a cloth carefully.

"The occasional commotion. Nothing unusual."

At this point, Adamo wasn't sure if he should focus more on Vico's temper or his drink. He didn't seem like he was going to lose it, but being around all things German seemed to be putting him on edge, and it looked like the drink wasn't exactly working out for him. Well, alcohol would work on anybody, but beer was weaker than wine, and considering his opinion of its taste, Vico was sure to take a while.

Adamo cleared his throat. "That's good to hear, for once. You are right, Alfredo," he said, patting Vico on the shoulder, "sometimes there is too much going on in Italia. It is nice to get a break."

A sharp look was the only indication of what Vico thought of his new nickname, although it was sewed so seamlessly into the rest of his seemingly good-natured expression that only Adamo would be able to tell. "Germania is so much more quieter, you see? I told you, Biagio, it will be a nice change of pace. We won't have to worry about everyone peeking over their shoulder like they are hiding secrets here." He clinked his glass against Adamo's glass for good measure, jostling around the liquid in both their cups before taking another sip.

"Oh, every country has their share of those," the bartender remarked, eyes fixed his new endeavor. It was so shiny by the time he was done with it that he could probably see his own ugly reflection in it, Vico thought. "They are not unique to just your country - there is that old man Celtis, and his brothers. They have been skulking around like there is a price on their frail old heads." It was a careless remark, just a bartender making small talk, but Vico straightened.

Aside from the glare Vico got in return when the bartender wasn't looking, 'Biagio' was much more casual about this news. He didn't look at the bartender, only down at his drink as if it was more interesting than what the man had to say, taking a swig before he responded.

"Isn't he a historian? Why would they need to worry about something like that?"

Vico kicked him under the table, but not soon enough for the bartender to shoot 'Biagio' a curious glance. "How did you know he was a historian?" he asked.

Looking down at his cup as if appraising the beer, Vico shrugged. "A few of his works have made their way to Italia. We have read a few of his accounts - he is very thorough. You're right, Biagio, I do recall hearing that he hailed from this part of Germania - I didn't even realize it was the same place." He laughed, as if sharing his own private joke with himself, and drank the last of his sizable cup in one go, setting it down with a satisfied, "Ah," and wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. "This German birra is certainly different from the stuff you get in Italia!"

The sudden exclamation was enough to draw the attention of the bartender away, because business was business, and a prospective penny to earn was much more important to a simple man than the fate of a paranoid old bookworm in the outskirts of town. "Finest in the land," the portly man said with a smile, misunderstanding Vico's not-quite-lie. "Will you be having another?"

"Not if I want to have room for supper, but perhaps after that, eh?" Vico grinned back.

Adamo chuckled at the two then kicked back the rest of his own drink. Sometimes Vico's sarcasm was more amusing than it was bothersome, but Adamo took a lot of things about the other man in stride.

"Speaking of supper, we ought to find a good place to eat. Something authentic, si?" He actually looked excited at the prospect of having something that wasn't Italian food. Then again, his tastes varied much more than his companion's. "Any recommendations?" he asked the bartender.

"Well, normally I'd recommend our own food here, but..." He looked around, as though making sure the chefs weren't around. "Coming all the way from Italien, you should try somewhere better. One second." Stepping away from the two, he reached under the bar for something. The motions of his arm almost looked like writing for a moment, and it was confirmed when he handed Adamo a note. There was a crudely drawn map on the front of it with an X marking their destination. "There you are. Tell them Winfried says hello, ja?"

With a smile and nod, Winfried went to the other end of the bar where another customer had sidled up. Adamo looked at the map, eyes narrowing. There was another X on the map as well, covering what looked like a C. "Huh," he mumbled, then got to his feet. "Well, let's go, Alfredo."

Vico's expression darkened like the sky before heavy rainfall at the sight of the map. "Why, you little-"

Knowing his friend better than that, Adamo slapped a hand down on Vico's wrist before the other man could lift his glass and hurl it at their bartender-slash-informant. Instead, the bottom of the glass rattled loudly against the surface of the counter, the trouble dispersed before it could even begin. Vico shot an almost betrayed look at Adamo and slowly, throwing a narrow-eyed glare at the bartender, pried his fingers from the mug handle. Having been forced to make a fool of himself and worse yet, having to drink that abomination the Germans called beer was just the perfect end to a less-than-perfect morning, but he (finally) let his professionalism take over.

"...Herzlichen dank, signore," he called back at last, getting to his feet and rolling up the map to tuck in his belt, but just because he was professional didn't mean he was above not paying for that glass of garbage.

Adamo was wearing a frown, for once, but did nod at the bartender. The man looked confused, but unlike some, had the decency to shrug it off. He set down a couple coins for the both of them, then followed Vico outside. Once they were out in the dark of night, the sun having set since they arrived at the inn, Adamo gave Vico a good thump to the back of the head.

"You need better restraint, Vico," he said, looking none too pleased.

It seemed as though Vico understood that his temper had been off the handle there, considering he didn't try to retaliate. Bringing a gloved hand up to his head, he merely rubbed the spot, frowning to himself as he kept his eyes forward. "I just don't like Germania," he muttered. The people here were colder, and there was something deeply unsettling about not knowing where one could hide in every street if worse came to worst. Even if they scouted, there was no way that Vico could know this place like he knew Romagna, like the back of his hand, and even if adaptability was part of being an Assassin, that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

He pulled the map out from his belt as they pulled into a less busy alley, dim light from a lamp overhead lighting their vision. "He is close by," he remarked, trailing a path with his finger. Cologne was sizable, but it certainly couldn't compare to Rome, and they could make good time without the constant vigilance of guards on alert. "But we should not act until we have seen his routine. And since you led us out so quickly, we will have to climb back up for our weapons, or we will look like fools."

Well, if he wanted to talk business first, that was fine. Adamo didn't feel guilty, but he did catch on that the man was simply in need of some reassurance. It wasn't hard to gather that he rarely took missions that strayed from Italia; he wore it right on his sleeve.

"All I need are my hidden blades, brother," Adamo said, smiling as he leaned against the wall of the alley. The expression was much more natural on his features. "Why don't we eat first? It has been quite a few hours since we last ate. It won't look as suspicious."

"If you are hungry, go eat," Vico said, dismissively waving a hand. "I am going to wait until all that German slosh is out of my system."

Adamo shook his head, pushing off the wall with his foot.

"You worry too much, you know. We have amici here as well. Winfried just proved that, si?"

Turning his back to Adamo, Vico began scaling up the wall. Their window was clearly visible right above them, and he had left the window open for specifically this purpose. "I am not worried, amico," he said, saying the last word a little bitingly. "I just have no appetite for German cuisine quite yet, especially after what they served me and tried to pass off as a drink."

"I was not talking about that," Adamo scoffed, crossing his arms. Vico could be so difficult. "Fine, I will get food and come back. Listen for my whistle."

The room was quiet when he returned - a rare indulgence, since most of the time, silence was difficult to attain with Adamo around, garrulous as he was. Vico found his ire quickly soothed in the temporary tranquility, and he settled onto the bed (a little too soft, but what could you really expect from Germans anyway) with a soft sigh while lifting his crossbow onto his lap. As he leaned back against the wall, he busied himself with simple weapon maintenance - tightening the spring, adjusting the tension - while he waited for Adamo's signal, falling into a rare spell of calm.

As was common with Adamo around, Vico was left waiting a little longer than he ought to be. The whistle was clear though, right below the window in the dark of the alley. Along with a whisper:

"Could you toss down my sword? You know. Just in case."

With a smirk, Vico appeared at the window and did as he was told. He threw down the sword - unsheathed.

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