Interlude XIII – A Rock and A Hard Place

Luciano Calcolo

Day bled into night, and throughout the city of Iscrimo, people celebrated.

An impromptu festival had erupted across the city, humans and elves and dwarfs and many others releasing the tension of the day with song and dance. Lanterns in a variety of cheerful colors had been set alight, illuminating piazzas throughout the city. The nobility had splurged on food and drink for the people in a grand act of charity (and, perhaps, in the hopes that they might buy back some goodwill) and merchants and cooks set up stalls along streetcorners and open piazzas, food and trinkets handed out faster than most could keep up. Even the poorest of the beggars laughed in good cheer, hidden in their own corners roasting giant rats over the bubbling canals.

Far above the city, curled around the peaks of the surrounding volcanoes, the dragons watching the little people dance below with petty amusement. Tribute would come, they knew, but not today.

Luciano himself sat at the head of a grand banquet that had been swiftly set up before the Basilica di Sant'Giuseppina, the Death of the Daughter a grim backdrop to the merriment of the people below. Grand church bells rung in the Song of Revival, a minor bit of sacrilege that only their city was allowed to get away with. Platters of cheeses, breads, and sweets were arrayed in a modest feast before him, quality secondary to quantity this night. The only true luxury they’d had time to prepare was the Red Boar being roasted over the canal, the great beast so large it could feed a thousand men. Its skin and fur had already been claimed by the weavers and tanners, who fashioned quilts and clothes and all sorts of garments to gift to the warriors who survived and the families of those who hadn’t.

The thought was a sobering one, but it was as it was. Tonight they would celebrate. Tomorrow they would mourn. And the next day they would return to normalcy, the fading fervor of a swift war breaking against the volcanic gates of Iscrimo, as all had before.

Luciano himself just wanted it all to be over with already so that he could rest.

At ninety-four years old, he’d lived through enough conflicts to find the whole affair rote. If it hadn’t been for his own near-death experience, he likely wouldn’t be feeling anything but impatience at the seemingly endless festivities.

Now, he also felt exhausted.

He’d nearly died. Even now, his body churned uncomfortably. Stone stiff around his bubbling organs, it took four different earth mages under his own watchful eye to return his body to a working state. If the girl hadn’t been there to save him, he probably wouldn’t have even been able to do that.

Luciano glanced to his right. It was difficult to do so, as his muscles chinked and his bones slowly calcified. But he managed, grinding down the part of his neck which had cracked earlier to allow his eyes to fall on the girl seated next to him.

Palmira di Firozzi, the guest of honor, and the girl who’d saved his life.

She looked dead on her feet, even though she was sitting. They’d given her a few hours to power nap while they set up the festival—something he wished he could have taken advantage of himself—but that only seemed to do so much for her.

He could relate. As Podesta, he’d been overworked before the Visconti arrived, and that certainly hadn’t changed after. But such was life.

Still, he had his duties, and the girl had earned his favor twice over. Conversation was only polite.

“Palmira di Firozzi,” he rasped slowly, plucking at his own petrified vocal cords to form the words. The girl jumped, blinking the sleep out of her eyes to glance up at him.

For a moment, he was taken aback by her youth. She’d seemed so much older beneath the mask.

“Tell me,” he moved past the pause with practiced ease. “How are you enjoying the festivities?”

“It has been…” she trailed off, her exhaustion making her tongue thick in her mouth. He waited patiently, letting her find the words. “…good. Um, great even. The food has been delicious. I thank you for the honor of sitting here, Podesta.”

“Of course,” he ground out a chuckle, though nothing more. People tended to find his laugh unnerving. “You have done much for this city, in the short time you’ve been here. I do wonder what you will do next.”

The girl nodded, accepting his idle small talk for what it was. “I think… we’re going home, to Firozzi. I think we’ve been gone longer than expected, and I’m sure the guild has been worried.”

‘Home.’ That was what she called Firozzi. Despite having been born here, despite having lived in this city for years. Firozzi was home to her, not Iscrimo.

Ah, Goddess, what had they done to drive away such a shining star?

Oh, right, it was the Visconti. The reason they couldn’t have nice things.

Well, they were gone now, just another reason to thank the girl. She’d gotten rid of those pains in the ass more efficiently than he’d been able to in twenty years. Murder, who knew?

…He hoped he wasn’t next. Good thing he was immune to fire.

The girl was fidgeting beside him. Ah, right, he’d lost himself in thought again. That he couldn’t blame on the injury unfortunately, that was simply age.

“Tell me about your home, Firozzi,” he said at last, relaxing into his chair. “I admit I’ve never been so far south. I’ve always wondered, is the city truly built on a red river?”

She perked up, speaking slowly yet enthusiastically. She told him of the river that ran through the city, of the Red Sap festival and All Saint’s Day. She told him of the best food stands and restaurants, which ones were cheap and which ones to avoid. And she told him of the dragon Vesuvius, which dominated the Old District.

Her voice grew more animated as she spoke, and Luciano smiled as he listened. He had not been able to travel much these past decades, but listening to her speak he could almost imagine the winding streets and the red tile roofs. She seemed to come back alive as she spoke of her home, her passion nearly enough to make the old man envious.

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Ah, youth. They burned so brilliantly.

Time would tell if this flame would last, or if it was just another to be snuffed out by the cruel march of time.

--

Hours later, once the celebration had begun to wind down and the revelers finally started going to sleep, Luciano took the opportunity to bow out, returning to the l'Insieme to rest.

Or at least, he would eventually. Unfortunately, he still had one last issue to deal with tonight.

A ‘man’ was already waiting for him as he entered his office. ‘He’ lounged in the Podesta’s chair, draped in rich robes of red dragonscale decorated with ivory chains spanning from shoulder to navel. Wide rosy lips grinned on a pale face that was just a shade off of natural, which nearly distracted from the slitted red eyes that sunk into his face. Atop blood red hair stiff as straw sat a truly fabulous hat, the only part of his outfit that saved him from looking like he was a vampire wannabe who was trying too hard.

The thing across from him looked like a man, from a certain point of view. But Luciano had dealt with Dragons for decades, and he knew their vices. The living flesh before him was a mere puppet, nothing more.

“I do hope you’ll let me sit down, Ticino, or this will be quite the short meeting,” Luciano sighed, closing the door behind him. “Unfortunately, one of us has knees he actually uses.”

“You speak my name too easily, boy,” the dragon scoffed, narrowing his eyes. “Reign in your cheek, lest I remind you where you stand.”

“I stand in my office,” he groused, rolling molten eyes. “Something you seem to have forgotten, dragon.”

With a flex of his will he caused the basalt chair to melt into the floor, leaving the dragon to fall on his fake ass. The bubbling basalt flowed over to where he stood, reforming the chair and allowing him to finally sit with a sigh of relief.

“What relentless gall,” the dragon rumbled, as he regathered his dignity. Not that he had any before the Podesta—he’d once broken this very dragon against the walls of Iscrimo in decades past, and seen him beg for his life before his own ruined ambition.

And now here he stood, once more an ally and enemy both.

“We are allies now, this is true,” the Podesta groused, not even managing the energy to glare. “And that means we are equals. This is my home, Minister Ticino, and I expect to be respected in it.”

“Allies? Respect? Please,” the dragon wearing the flesh of a man grinned, face splitting just a bit too wide. “You could not keep me from this city forever, Podesta. You could not even keep out the elves. Only those who are strong are deserving of respect—and before me I only see a little boy who’s finally learned the proper lord to bow to.”

The Podesta narrowed his eyes. What arrogance, even in his supposed victory. Absently, he flicked a finger, and the dragon stiffened as he felt a basalt spear tap his chest. Not the chest of this meat puppet; the chest of his true form, the dragon’s real body resting a mountain away.

But a mountain away was not enough to hide from him. The late Demon Lord Brunhildir could attest to that.

The dragon licked his lips in a distinctly inhuman way. A nervous tick which did not translate well. “Remove your spear, Podesta,” the arrogance had seeped out of his voice, replaced with a grudging respect. “You have made your point.”

The Podesta hummed, and did not. Dragons were inherently prideful, a sin they shared with the elves. It was always good to keep a reminder of their imminent mortality on hand when negotiating with them.

“It is, I feel, pertinent to remind you of our deal, Minister Ticino. Iscrimo is to be your ally, not your subject.” An ally which paid tribute to a foreign power, true, but that did not need be said out loud.

“Yes, so you have said,” the dragon rumbled, rubbing at his chest. “And it is something the Cantons acknowledge. Iscrimo is to join the Cantons as a free republic, under no dragon’s rule.”

The Podesta smiled kindly, pulling his spear back an inch, much to the obvious relief of the puppet before him. He imagined this would not be the last time they would have this conversation.

“But what of the last Visconti?” the dragon asked, narrowing his eyes. “Even now he is imprisoned, is he not? I should remind you, they were also part of our deal.”

Indeed, the Visconti. The despicable ‘Dukes’ of Iscrimo had disgraced the city for twenty years, from the first traitor Aventio to the uncrowned Ado. He’d been trying to get rid of them for years, but their elven connections were firm in their protection. Not even the offer to trade them out for somebody mildly more competent—or even less evil—had worked. Under the rule of the elves, the Visconti were there to stay.

Until Aventio burned to death in a house fire.

And that had given him an idea.

As the Podesta had worked to rebuild his political power in the wake of the first Duke’s death, he’d reached out to an old enemy-turned-potential-ally with an offer. A few murders in the night, a few scapegoats thrown to the elves, and in exchange ever-cunning Ticino could add the city’s inheritance of the Visconti wealth to his treasury. While not a foolproof plan, it was one in which they were unlikely to be caught.

After all, when a man dies of poison, who blames the Dragon?

Then that girl had come along, and suddenly their plans had been expedited.

“The Visconti have been declared enemies of the state,” he said at last. “And, unless the Cantons would have some to reason deny us, I don’t see why we couldn’t simply take their wealth as penance.”

The sneer on the dragon’s face meant there likely would be others in the Cantons who’d see him deprived of that wealth, and that he’d be spending the next few months greasing draconic hands to see all of the Visconti’s assets end up in his horde alone.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” the Podesta chuckled darkly. “I don’t believe we planned to deal with a siege for another week, or am I mistaken?”

“They moved faster than we anticipated!” the dragon growled, for once looking abashed. Ah, this was likely mere incompetence, not more aggressive ambition. “Be grateful we pushed the majority of them north instead! If the whole army had come south, even my allies on the council might have baulked at coming to save your petty little village!”

“Truly,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Then I suppose I must thank you. Without a fortress like Iscrimo, the elves will die by the droves keeping that army at bay. It will buy us the time needed to consolidate our own positions, before the Empress can make her move.”

It was a dark thought, but these days he had no love lost for the ‘Empire’ which ruled to their north. After the half-elven Roisuisses died out, it seemed any love for humanity the elves had died with them. Now all those long-eared bastards cared for was conquest and domination.

To think, even half a century ago he’d been married to an elf. It was incredible how time seemed to sour all things.

Time was such an unfortunate fact of life, wasn’t it? People grew, people aged, people changed. Even he, powerful as he was, was not immune to the relentless march of time. The Podesta—Luciano Calcolo—was one of the most powerful humans on the continent. But he was still, above all else, human. An old human, who even with his magic of stone and fire was likely not much longer for the world.

So he had made his choice, as had the Primavera and the Autunno and many other petty nobles besides. Better dragons than elves, better Ticino than Visconti.

Now if only Palmira di Firozzi had never stepped foot in his city, so that he could never have seen the possibility of a better future. A future without compromise.

A future beyond himself, a future for Iscrimo alone.

Ah, Ambition. It truly was the sweetest poison.