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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"B-but it is my life's work," he answered, looking for sympathy. Adamo made a muffled clicking sound with his tongue under his mask.

"Not much of a life's work if you have no life to go with it," he said, tapping the blade against the man's skin. Adamo seemed to have that habit with their targets - it made them nervous; made them jolt. He could feel it under his arm with each tap. "This could end in your favor, Herr Celtis."

Apparently frightened into silence, the old man could only whimper at the metal against his throat, and Vico, impatient as always, simply began sifting through the old man's belongings, pulling out books and papers, rummaging in drawers and lifting heavy tomes to look between them. He didn't make a big mess, but what little organization the room had was quickly falling into disarray. "Maybe we should just take everything suspicious and burn everything else. That way, if we do not have what we need, we will at least know that the Templars will not take it either."

"Or just burn everything," Adamo said casually as his free fingers pressed gently, threateningly, against a candle on Celtis's desk.

"No! Please! I'll-" Celtis hesitated. "I'll... give you everything. Please, don't burn my works. T-they are no threat." Adamo smiled as he pushed the blade further, more uncomfortably against skin, rather than away.

"Everything. I hope you know what hiding anything will result in."

"Everything!" Celtis repeated, nodding as much as the knife at his throat would allow him to. He was trembling with the effort not to move, and he hardly had the constitution or the will of a fighter; so worn thin was his resolve with his apparent paranoia that he gave in easily.

"Where is it?" Vico prompted, turning to glance over his shoulder, and he slammed the heavy book at his hand with a sharp, clapping sound that made Celtis jump.

"The bedside table!"

"Typical," Vico muttered, moving to the small wooden nightstand. There was nothing there except a lamp and a bible, and as he pulled out the slightly open drawers, he found nothing but used inks and simple vanities, like a small, unadorned mirror and a broken comb that looked like it hadn't been used in years. These were certainly no secrets, and when he emptied out the drawers, there were no elusive messages scribbled on the bottom of the container either. With a muttered swear, he stood up and drew his crossbow, aiming it for Celtis' heart. "Are you playing with me, old man? You should not try my patience."

"N-no, no! Not in the drawers. It is tucked...behind them. In the crack between the drawer and the table back." It was, technically, befitting of a paranoid old man to pull out stops like that.

As Vico rummaged to get the documents Celtis referred to, Adamo loosened his hold, glancing around the room. He even took a step or two away to look at a book shelf.

"Anywhere else?" Celtis was eager to point out where else - his finger shot out at the desk to loose papers. "Dankeschön. More helpful than I thought." With a grin, Adamo patted his cheek, sheathing his blade right next to the man's ear. He jumped, and jumped again when he unsheathed it to again point threateningly at him. They weren't quite done here.

Picking up the pages, Adamo gave each a quick glance over. They spoke of the Order of assassins, and while not all the secrets written were true, enough were to create trouble.

"You could've at least wrote about me, their most handsome member," he tsked.

"Watch your head there, Biagio, lest it grow too big, or there will not be enough room left in here for either of us to breathe," said Vico, with a roll of his eyes. He had a collection of sheets in his hand, and it only grew larger yet as he added Adamo's stash to the top of it. Then, nonchalantly, he nodded at Celtics, still frozen in position in the middle of the room. "Throw him outside and we will burn the rest."

"It is true, though," he protested, even as he grabbed Celtis by the front of the shirt and steered him towards a window that lead outside, rather than the courtyard. The man started to panic again, stepping awkwardly backwards.

"Stop! Wait! I-I told you they're not a threat!"

"Entschuldigung, but we can't take that risk, you see. It had come to my attention that you had plenty of warning after all, Herr Celtis." Now, the back of Celtis's legs pressed against the window sill. "This is what happens when you share secrets that were not yours to keep." Adamo shoved him back, and he fell over the ledge.

The push was more merciful than it seemed - below lied a haystack, which caught the historian's fall. (The fall wouldn't have killed him anyway.) Adamo grabbed a torch from the wall, well knowing they didn't have much time before Celtis ran off to alert someone.

"Ready to go, Alfredo?"

Vico frowned, tucking papers into his bag as he approached the window. He watched as Celtis crawled out of the haystack, clearly frazzled but very much alive, and quietly, asked, "Shouldn't we kill him?"

"No," Adamo answered simply, and held the torch to a book shelf. The paper caught fire immediately, fanning out across the shelves, spreading up and down. He set the torch down on the desk, letting the leftover papers there go up into flames as well. He went over to the courtyard window, perching on the ledge. "Are you ready or not?"

Surprisingly obedient, Vico did not jump after Celtis as the man slinked away, casting fearful glances at them over his shoulder, but his mouth did quirk downward in obvious dislike. Compared to Adamo, he had always been a great deal more merciless, and between the two of them, the Maestro must have thought they balanced each other out - the determination and the heart of an Assassin in two, rather than one. "I am an assassino," he declared, not loudly, but still proud. "I am always ready," he said, climbing onto the window himself and simply pushing Adamo off of it, expecting the other man to catch himself somehow.

It wasn't until they had jumped off the roof of the abbey and slipped back into the abandoned streets that they heard the clamor of bells, loud and ugly. "Find them!" a soldier bellowed, much too near for comfort. How had they arrived so quickly?!

"Merda, maybe you were right."

They were flooding out of a building down the road - a guard tower that was just out of their sight due to the night. The building now was lit and impossible to miss, someone sounding a giant bell that hung from the top of the tower.

Adamo didn't skip a beat - he started making a run for it.

Keeping a hand on his bag to steady it and to keep the papers from flying out, Vico did the same, taking a step to fall into a sprint alongside Adamo. As always, their chances were higher on the roofs than on foot. The guards had limited sight, even more narrowed by the fact that it was night (it could work to both their advantage and disadvantage, at times). Vico kicked off the wall and pulled himself onto its roof, heading in the general direction of the inn, but not too quickly, because they would have to lose their pursuers first.

It was an unlucky error - glancing back to make sure no one had followed them (and indeed, the yelling of foot soldiers had grown a little distant), Vico didn't turn around fast enough to see an alerted archer pull his crossbow back and aim. It was only by instinct and pure reflexes that he heard the whoosh of a bolt cutting through air, a sound that Vico himself was familiar enough to recognize immediately, and he automatically dropped into a roll to avoid it running him right through the head. Though he had dodged, it had halted his progress, and as the archer notched another round of ammunition, he shouted for his comrades in boisterous, harsh-tongued German.

"Vaffanculo!" he hissed, under his breath, already pulling his own crossbow from his back to retaliate.

Having been right behind Vico, Adamo was almost the victim of that arrow. Instead, he dropped down - too frantically to be graceful as usually, and stumbled right off the roof. He groaned as he fell right to the ground, the impact knocking the air out of him. But there was no time to wait around and worry about if you could breathe. If he stuck around, he certainly wouldn't be for long. He rolled to his feet, immediately bounding off the wall back up to the rooftops where Vico was, drawing a throwing knife from his belt. (Crossbows took too long for his liking.) He flicked his wrist, and the knife went whizzing through the air. It didn't hit the guard dead on like he would've hoped, but it dug deep into the man's arm - good enough to stop him for however long Vico needed to arm his crossbow.

Certainly long enough - Vico took advantage of the extra second Adamo had bought him to perfect his aim, and whereas the enemy's bolt had skimmed past his face to hit the building to his left, the assassin's arrow struck clear in the center of his chest, and the archer fell backwards, clutching uselessly at his chest and the red stain quickly blooming there, with a gurgling noise. Then, he turned, reaching down to pull Adamo up and to his feet.

"Rapidamente," he muttered, casting an irritated glance at the glow of torch firelight that was quickly gaining ground behind them. This was no good - together, they were too big of a target, they attracted too much attention. "Adamo, let's split and reconvene," he said, pushing the other man to one side while he darted off in the other.

Of course Vico would push him in the direction opposite the inn, where he would need to make a clever roundabout to make his way back. But there was no time for complaining. Adamo hurried down the street before taking a sharp left, weaving through alleys. As he grew far enough away from the guard tower and its spreading archers, he pulled himself back up to the rooftops. There was no way the guards could match the speed of the assassinos (except for those damn twig looking ones, but Germans were a little stockier in build, thankfully).

It figured that Adamo would, once again, leave Vico in time's hands to wait for him, left to wonder if Adamo got taken down or captured and taken prisoner, or even worse, got his pretty face cut up. (Vico would surely miss it.) But the man soon stumbled into their room, rolling across the floor less gracefully than he usually might, considering he just let himself stay flopped onto his back on the floor. When he got far enough away from the guard tower, he had grown careless, thinking no one in the area would recognize a man in the shadows minding his business. One did, and immediately attacked - Adamo got away with a fairly deep cut to his arm, losing the man's trail instead of sticking around to finish the job. (That'd only attract more guards.) On top of that, the fall from earlier had left a terrible ache in his back and hip. The pain was being to settle in through the departure of the adrenaline.

Despite that, he still had room for his usual self.

"Miss me?" he asked breathlessly from the floor, looking up at Vico with a grin.

For a long moment, Vico didn't even answer. He had a notched bolt pointed in Adamo's direction, afraid that the intruder had been a quick-witted soldier that had followed him up, and the reason for his alarm was obvious. The other assassin was doing just as poorly, having pressed himself into a dark corner of the room to escape notice, but there was a faint trail of blood leading from the window in the form of a few drops here and there. "I will let you guess the answer to that yourself," he said, somewhat breathless, because he had only just beaten Adamo back to the room by a few seconds. "By the fact that I almost shot you clean through between the eyes."

He settled back, the weapon falling to the floor at his side with a dull thump. Vico was slouched against the wall, sitting to favor his right leg, because the arrow sticking out of its side, a few inches above the knee, probably made everything else a little...uncomfortable. The German guards were fast, he would have to admit that much. They were on surprisingly diligent alert considering Cologne was nowhere near as tumultuous as Rome.

"Were you followed?" he asked, fighting a hiss as he shifted. "Get away from the window before everyone in Germania sees you lying there like a sitting duck."

"I'll take that as a yes," he said fondly, grunting as he pushed himself back up. He leaned against the edge of the window, closing the shutters before leaning his back heavily against the wall in the shadows. His eyes slowly adjusted, and while he noticed the blood, he hadn't noticed the arrow. His mouth tucked into a frown, and he grabbed some things from the bed before padding quietly across the room to Vico. "I wasn't followed. Here, let me help."

Vico clamped a hand around Adamo's wrist before the man could pull the arrow out, with a look that wasn't exactly distrustful, but instead seemed say, If you fuck this up I am going to stick it so far up your ass you will be vomiting up splinters for weeks - or something to that effect, since Vico had always had a way with words. Slowly, finger by finger, he forced himself to let go, and covering his mouth with his hand, gave a nod.

Adamo simply nodded back, figuring humor at the moment wouldn't be a good idea.

Kneeling down, he let what little light was in the room illuminate the wound, fingers brushing up to the top of the arrow. This was the easy part - snapping off the end with a small crack of splintering wood for a smooth exit. The tip was not like the bolts of an arrow, though; it was smooth, only a little wider than the wood itself, but it would still irritate the wound if it went an opposite way of its entry, and that small difference in width could still hurt. Best not to push it with a person like Vico.

"Feel free to punch me if you must," Adamo said, perhaps trying to be funny (or maybe he meant it), yanking the stick straight out.

Vico didn't have time to respond, and he didn't have the hands to offer in a punch, either. One was gripping the handle of his crossbow so hard it might as well have fired it straight into the opposite wall, and the other was serving as a gag. He bit into his palm, leaving a mark even through the heavy leather of his gloves, and used that temporary sting to distract him from the feeling of something solid and foreign sliding through the inside of his leg. The whole ordeal, however, was unsurprisingly quiet - they were assassins, after all.

His eyes were hazy with pain and blood loss when he finally opened them, Adamo already in the process of tying up the wound to staunch the bleeding. It must have been luck, because the arrow had not stricken anything fatal, and given a few weeks time (and perhaps a few visits to the oh-so-beloved doctors), there would only be a scar to mark its memory. He settled back against the wall, uncharacteristically quiet, and simply stared down until Adamo drew away. Then he slowly raised a hand and...

...Pressed the thumb right into Adamo's cut. "Oh. Sei feriti."

The silence was almost a nice change, apart from the reason for it. While tending to Vico's injury, Adamo was so focused that he wasn't even considering his own. Of course, what kind of friend would Vico be if he didn't remind him?

Adamo's hissed as the intrusion broke his focus, arm flinching away, hands withdrawing from the knot of bandages he just finished tying. His other hand covered it, his palm wet with the blood. Part of him almost believed that Vico knew already, and was doing this on purpose. He searched his face for any sign of a grin or smirk.

"Si. I hope you are not being sarcastic."

A telltale pull of one end of his mouth gave Vico away. "Ah, I would not have expected it, from a man of your skill and aptitude," he remarked, sitting up and taking the bandages from Adamo's dirtied hand. "Turn around, it is my turn."

"Tch. He got lucky, that's all. I was in a hurry."

Putting the bandages within Vico's reach, he turned sideways where the wound was facing the other man. He took off his bracer sliding the reddened sleeve up to clear the area. (His sleeve, too, needed some repair - but he lacked the materials for that.) It looked worse than it was, the blood having smeared across the skin from not tending to it. The cut itself was fairly smooth, and while deep, the bleeding had stopped for the most part.

Though he spent a few moments simply inspecting the wound, turning the arm less-than-gently from side to side, Vico also made quick work of wrapping it up, staving off further bleeding and hopefully putting off infection until they had the chance to ride back to Romagna. The blade had sliced neatly across, and thankfully Adamo did not seem to have rolled around in the mud afterward, so there was little to clean. At most, it would make two-handed sword-wielding a pain in the culo for a while, but otherwise, Vico did not spare much worry for it.

When he was done, he dragged himself up to his feet, heavily leaning his weight on his good leg as he did so. Stubborn and proud, he didn't ask for help, but either way, the pain was inevitable. "The ride is going to be hell," Vico said with a small laugh as he dropped himself onto the bed, wincing when the impact shot a jolt of pain up his side. His eyes were closed; the weariness of the day had to be catching up to him, and like he had been as a child, Vico did not deal well with sleepiness. It almost always came out the victor.

"Vai a dormire, amico," Adamo said, though he well knew he hardly had to tell Vico that. He made sure to stash their weapons and evidence of any wounds away, just in case, before going to his own bed to rest off the day. The bed didn't offer the same comfort as the one at home, but it was welcome nonetheless, and sleep took hold almost as quickly as it did Vico.

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the historian's secrets (cologne)

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