Milan, the Ticinese Quarter
iii Kal. Mai (April 29, 1526)

Federico di Padua moved quietly through the shadowed, narrow streets of Milan, careful to walk neither too slow nor too fast, making one last circuit around the Comtesse de Havrecourt's haven before returning to his usual vantage point on a rooftop across the street. As he walked, he kept his own form cloaked in obscurity, indistinguishable from the walls and pavement around it. This was not Camarilla territory, and he was a stranger here. His responsibility — his official responsibility — was the safety of the Camarilla envoy to Milan. His unofficial responsibility was more personal in nature, though no more clearly defined. Being here in secret made either one a dangerous occupation indeed.

He had never liked the word spy.

The Comtesse had returned to her house now, and all seemed calm. But Federico still felt uneasy. Even more than might be expected for only having
been in the city for two weeks, and trying to remain undiscovered by
others of his kind. He had not presented himself to the Prince or elders of Milan yet — he had wanted to get a feel for the city, and a sense of how much threat there was to the Comtesse's unlife. Other than the Comtesse's occasional guest, or those she had gone to visit, he had seen no sign of the Milanese Kindred.

Of course the few he had seen worried him less than the ones he likely wouldn't — until it was too late.

He crossed the street, moving quickly between shadows, and ducked down an alleyway, heading for a back gate and the stairs up to his customary perch. But his uneasiness only grew as he walked warily down the alley, hand now on his sword.

A flicker of motion caught his eye; he caught a glimpse of a cat crouching on the top of a garden wall, pausing just for a moment before leaping lightly down out of his sight. At the same time, he felt a shiver run down his spine...if he had still had any hair on the back of his neck, it might have prickled.

He was being watched.

His neck no longer turned with the same ease as when he still breathed; to look behind him, he had to turn his entire upper torso, which stretched his skin somewhat painfully, particularly where open sores chafed under the padding of his doublet. Used to the constant discomfort, he ignored it. Seeing no one, he ducked into a doorway and leaned back against the arch, where he had a good view of the alley. Then he waited, as still as the very stone, letting himself fade into invisibility in the shadows.

A shuffling figure, cloaked and hooded despite the mild spring night, entered the alley from the courtyard at the far end. It walked slightly bent over, leaning on a staff, moving slowly but deliberately in Federico's direction.

Federico glanced back in the direction he had come, checking to see if he was being ambushed, but so far, the way seemed clear. Slowly, he turned back to watch the approaching figure... and noticed the faint, reddish, glowing glint of eyes beneath the darkness of the hood.

The figure came to a stop a short distance away, leaning on his staff.

"I do not believe we have met." The voice was gravelly, the words calm and unhurried. But those glowing eyes were looking straight at him.

"I am found out, then," he said, stepping out of the doorway into the alley. He forced his tense muscles to relax, stood as tall as he still could, but his hand remained on his sword hilt out of sheer habit. Although cloaked one didn't look threatening, Federico knew well how deceiving appearances could be.

"Was there a reason you did not wish to be found by your brethren?" the hooded figure asked. There was a tone of soft puzzlement in his voice.

Nosferatu, then. Federico wasn't sure if that gave him any advantage, however. "Yes. You're...another guest? Or a citizen?" He tried to see past the reddish glints of the eyes, into the hood....but the shadows there were too dark.

"I have lived here for a long time. Why have you come to Milan?"

"I have business here, a mission which requires secrecy," Federico began, and then realized how that was likely to sound to Milanese ears. "I'm afraid I didn't know of any others of our Blood in this city. I was simply trying to avoid unfriendly eyes." That, he hoped, at least sounded plausible. It was fairly common for Nosferatu to neglect the social niceties in favor of anonymity.

The figure lifted one hand, beckoning him closer. Even the fingers seemed wrapped in strips of cloth, with the tips of talons showing from the bandages. "What business might that be?" he asked. "Come closer. Let us talk like reasonable men."

Still wary, Federico took a few steps out away from the wall. Perhaps the old man could be persuaded to keep his presence secret — nearly all Nosferatu broods had members who shunned the rest of vampire society, and their kinsmen protected them. Where there is one, there is always another. If the local brood would support him...

Then the flesh on the back of his neck prickled again, and he sensed another presence uncloaking itself behind him. Quickly, he stepped sideways and back, his sword drawn and in his hand, his back to the doorway, putting the three of them in a triangle. Not the most effective defensive position, but he knew better than to run. "Run from a vampire," old Signor Van Buren had said, "and you become his prey. Stand your ground, and he becomes uncertain and cautious. Stand your ground, Federico, and you may survive an encounter even with one of the Eldest. And if you do not..." and the misshapen shoulders had shrugged, "at least you died with courage, and you can be sure that running would have done you no good anyway."

The newcomer paused a respectful distance away. A slightly built man, clearly armed under his dark cloak, cold eyes glittering like stars, but his features obscured in shadows.

Not a Nosferatu, this one; Federico was certain of that. "Who are you?" he asked.

The newcomer bowed from the shoulders; his voice was low and husky. His accent was faint, but he was definitely not Italian. "A servant of this city."

"Who is as concerned as I with strangers in our streets," the hooded one continued, drawing Federico's attention back again. "Now, you were going to tell us who you are, and why you are here...?"

Federico glanced back and forth between them. Outnumbered and discovered, he had little choice but to cooperate, for now. "To protect the lady. The Comtesse de Havrecourt."

"And you are...?" the gravely voice asked.

"I go by Federico."

The shadowed hood nodded slightly in acknowledgment. "The lady is under the protection of the Prince of this city, Federico. Is there some reason to think the lady is in danger?"

Federico drew himself up slightly. "If I may be blunt...his Highness' friendship with the Camarilla is one of the chief questions at issue, isn't it? And there are many here of far less honor who have already made up their minds."

"Perhaps you should ask that of his Highness directly...even as the Traditions require?" It was clearly not a question.

Federico hoped his spirit-halo — if either of these could see it — did not reveal how nervous he was at the moment. "I suppose I should."

The dark hood nodded to his companion. "My lord," he said, "I believe Federico wishes to be presented to our lord the Prince."

"But not publicly, I entreat you!" Federico said, quickly, and then shut his mouth, fearing he'd already said too much. If I am revealed as a spy, my discovery will make their alliance even stronger against a common enemy. If my presence here is made public, the Prince will have to destroy me to retain their respect...

The newcomer could be seen more clearly now: a beardless youth as short and slender as a maid, with fine, delicate features, his dark hair pulled back in a tight braid. Federico recognized him by description: Jovan Ruthven, the Warlord of Milan himself. Whose slight stature belied his reputation for ruthlessness and ferocity, and whose barbarous clan was the subject of legends from Calais to the Adriatic. Federico felt his very blood chill in his veins.

...And he'd do it too, and gladly, if the Prince orders it. Holy Madonna, I pray for Gilbert's sake if not my own, let not my mission end before I've scarce begun!

"I believe," the Tzimisce said cooly, "that a private audience might be arranged."

"Thank you, my lord," Federico replied, and offered the stiff, military bow of a soldier to a commanding officer. He wasn't sure of the Tzimisce's real rank, but it always was better to show respect.

"If it would please my lord," the hooded Nosferatu added, "I should like to accompany my kinsman, and speak for him, if necessary."

Federico's eyes darted from the Tzimisce to his companion, and back again. Ruthven nodded. "Bring him to the canal grate the back way, then, and secretly."

"I shall do so, my lord."

The Tzimisce's gaze returned to Federico, and a involuntary shiver passed through Federico's misshapen frame, a chill not blocked by gambeson or armored doublet. The Butcher of Ruthenia, a small voice in the back of his head reminded him. What cold heart and savage appetites might be masked by that pretty boy's face and impassive gaze? There had been one of the Hungarian Tremere who swore that the Tzimisce were not true Cainites, but soulless corpses imbued with a demon's malicious spirit. Given the combination of unnatural beauty and barely-leashed menace this Tzimisce presented, Federico could well believe it. For a long moment, it was all he could do to remain standing, to keep from throwing Van Buren's advice to the winds and running all the way back to Vienna.

But then the moment passed, and Ruthven was merely a slightly built, very comely youth, dressed in black, who merely nodded at him. "Go with Hugo, Messere," he said. "I shall inform his Highness you are expected." He did not add what might occur if Federico did not appear — nor did Federico's imagination need embellishment. The Tzimisce's features blurred, became once again indistinct, and he turned and left the alley, his dark cloak swiftly blending in with the night.

Federico waited a moment, and then turned to his fellow Nosferatu. "I am in your debt, my lord," he said, slowly. "You know nothing of me, and yet— "

A snort, from beneath the hood. "I'm no lord, my lad. Just Hugo, called the Hermit by some, and I've never seen reason to correct them. And you're..." Federico got the impression of a close scrutiny from under the shadowed hood. "You're Van Buren's boy, strayed far from home... aren't you?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But how— "

"The Prince is waiting, lad. We'll talk later. Will you come?"

It occurred to Federico that Hugo was giving him a choice. To come and face the Prince's judgment, whatever that might entail. Or to run...to leave Hugo to explain his escape to his lords, and take his chances with whatever pursuit might be sent after him.

But in truth, honor left him no choice; he had a mission here, and he could not bring himself to return Hugo's generosity with betrayal. "I will come."

The dark hood nodded. "Good." From within his robes Hugo brought something, a dark, folded piece of fabric, and held it out. "I'm sorry, lad, but you'll need to be wearing this..."

Warily, Federico accepted it. It was a heavy hood, sewn shut, without eye holes — the sort of hood thrown over the head of those condemned to die on the gallows. He stepped back, nearly dropping it on the pavement. "Must... must I?" he asked, in a voice too hoarse to be his own.

"The way we go is secret, and I am pledged in blood to keep it so," Hugo said. "But I shall guide you well."

Federico hesitated only a moment more, then breathed a silent prayer to St. Antonio and pulled the hood over his head.

Strong fingers took his arm, and drew him to the right, from whence Hugo's hooded form had originally emerged into the alley. "There, now, we shall go this way..."

They walked at an easy pace, Hugo's hand guiding him to turn now and again, his rough voice giving instructions, warning him of stairs or uneven footing. Down stairs, up again, through a garden that smelt of roses, along one of the canals; he could hear the water lapping against stone, smell the dank fetid odor of runoff from the streets. Then back down, deep under the ground. Twists and turns, stairs and narrow, damp corridors, until Federico had quite lost all sense of where they might have been in relation to the city above that he knew. It was doubtless deliberate, this roundabout route, to prevent him from learning its secrets.

Hugo was as good as his word, however, and a good and steady guide. They finally came to a stop somewhere, and Federico was permitted to remove his hood.

They stood in a circular shaft that extended upwards to a flat stone ceiling nearly two stories above. Around the circumference of the shaft, a flight of narrow stone steps ascended up through the tunnel's ceiling, blocked by a massive-looking iron grate. There must have been some source of light, a torch, perhaps, in the room above them, that highlighted the grate with flickering ruddy light.

Something about this chamber was unnerving; the walls were close and narrow, reminding Federico strongly of a dungeon oubliette he had once seen. The place of forgetting... He turned, looking around them, and saw no exit from that place, no sign of how they had entered it, and felt a blood sweat break out under his doublet. The place all but screamed trap; he half expected the walls to begin closing in, or burning pitch to come pouring through the grate any minute.

"Where are we going now?" he asked, trying to keep his growing panic out of his voice. "This is... the right place, isn't it?"

The cloaked figure beside him drew a deep shuddering breath. "Yes. This is the right place. His lordship will meet us here." Hugo sounded as uneasy here as Federico did himself; realizing that did not make him feel any better.

"Is there another exit? I mean, do you know the way back? There has to be another way out—" Federico turned sharply, studying the section of wall where he thought they must have entered, fighting the urge to claw at the stones until they revealed a path of escape.

Hugo laid a firm hand on Federico's shoulder, though his masked face was turned upwards, squinting at the flickering light. "Stand steady, lad, don't let the fear take you," the Milanese muttered. "Think of something else. Something pleasant, something to keep your heart up..."

An image rose unbidden in Federico's memory, a young woman bent over a book, her finger tracing the line of text as she read aloud, a few dark ringlets of her hair escaping the confines of her modest cap. Lilika was always so serious, so focused, whether she was reading from some Latin tome, discussing political strategy, or worrying aloud about their missing brother. He could almost wish for her counsel now...save that would put her in danger as well. And Lilika in danger was not a pleasant thought, so he banished it promptly.

A soft voice, speaking some unknown tongue, intruded on his thoughts, drifting down from somewhere above them. Federico looked up, suddenly wary again.

The light coming from above increased, and then he could see the slight figure of the Tzimisce Warlord bending down over the grate. Federico tried to see what the Tzimisce was doing with his hands, but the grate obscured his view. But somehow, knowing they were not, in fact, forgotten, made his earlier fears seem almost ridiculous. Of course, he told himself sternly, Ruthven would hardly leave one of his own minions down in this hole...

"Enter freely, and of your own will; by Earth and Sky and the Dead Water; the way is clear."

"Come, Federico," Hugo said. "Follow me now..." He shuffled forward, and began to ascend the stairs. Federico followed, studying the path before him with a wary eye.

They could only go up so far, however, before the grate barred their way. Hugo turned and handed Federico his staff. "Hold this for me, lad; I'll need both hands here..."

The young Nosferatu took the staff, watching as Hugo pushed back his cloak and his sleeves, took hold of one side of the grate with bandaged hands, braced himself against the steps, and pushed upwards.

God's teeth — that thing must weigh half a ton... Federico instinctively moved forward, to lend his own strength to the challenge — but then, with a rusty screech, the grate began to rise. Hugo took another step up, and then another, with each step raising it higher, until the Tzimisce, who stood beside the opening, could brace it open with a solid oak beam.

"There," Hugo said, with an air of satisfaction. "Come along, lad. The Prince is waiting— "

But as the old Nosferatu turned to take his final step upwards, his foot trod upon the hem of his long robes, and he lost his balance, falling to one side, arms flailing. One arm knocked the oak brace out from under the edge of the grate.

The grate fell.

"Hugo!"

Federico dropped the staff, and leapt forward instinctively, hands outstretched, to catch the mass of iron before it crushed the old man sprawled beneath it.

Sweet Madonna! Give...me... strength... His hands caught and gripped a crossbar, and he bent his head, catching the weight of the iron on his shoulders as he sank to his knees beneath it. Come on, come on... push, use the legs... hold it...must...hold...it...A sudden fire blazed in his blood, radiating out from his heart to his arms, his legs; muscles and tendons that had been shrieking in agony at the abuse were silenced and warmed by it. His legs braced against the stone of the stair, he gritted his teeth, and pushed with all his strength. His illusionary human mask forgotten, his fangs extended from the effort, he shifted his weight and slowly...oh, so slowly...the grate once again began to rise.

The Tzimisce had moved even more quickly than he, but to a different purpose; Ruthven had grabbed Hugo by one outstretched arm and hauled him bodily out from under the edge of the grate, just as Federico had managed to halt its fall. Now, with Hugo safe, he picked up the fallen oak beam, and held it at ready.

Slowly, but surely, Federico pushed the grate upwards, until Ruthven could place the beam once again under its edge. Even then, he held the grate up for just a moment longer, simply reveling in the fact that he could...the heat of the blood burning in his veins like the old heady ardor of battle. But finally he let the grate down, until the oak beam held it in place.

He was about to step up into the corridor, when he remembered something. "Your pardon, my lord— " he murmured quickly, and ducked back down the stairs until he found Hugo's staff, then brought it up with him.

Hugo accepted his offer of a hand up; the old man's grip was strong, but his body was incredibly light, particularly after the feat Federico had just performed.

"Are you able to continue?" the Tzimisce asked. Neither his voice nor his face betrayed his thoughts, or his feelings, if indeed he had any.

"Yes, of course, my lord, my apologies for the delay," Hugo said, carefully smoothing out his cloak and his robes. "Just not as fast as I used to be."

Federico gave Hugo an odd look, a bit startled by his response. But Kindred do not age...

Ruthven, however, seemed to accept the answer as ordinary enough. "Then if Messer Federico will assist," he said, taking his position again by the oaken beam, "we should close this and be on our way."

It was far less work to lower the grate than it had been to raise it; the heavy iron fell back into its accustomed place with a ringing clang.

"Come along, lad," Hugo said. "Walk with me; we must allow his Lordship to lock up..."

Federico was not entirely sure what Hugo was talking about, but he complied, following the old man a little ways down the corridor. Behind him, he could hear Ruthven murmuring again in that odd foreign tongue, and his nostrils caught an acrid scent of something burning. Sorcery. He suppressed a shiver. Devil's business...

The old Nosferatu paused a short way down the corridor and turned to his companion. "That was well done, Federico," he said in a low voice. "Van Buren would be proud."

"Thank you, sir," Federico said, simply. It was almost as if he'd received the praise from Van Buren himself.

They continued onwards. Realizing that they were getting up into the inhabited parts of the house, Federico concentrated on rebuilding his mask, so that those who looked at him would see a semblance of the man he'd once been, not the misshapen hulk he'd become. Maintaining such a guise was easier now than it used to be, but still required some degree of concentration; he had lost it entirely during his struggle with the grate. Oddly, the Tzimisce hadn't even blinked, yet he must have seen— Federico banished the thought. No doubt a man such as the Butcher of Ruthenia had seen far worse things in his unlife; what was one Leper more?

Ruthven caught up with them a few minutes later, just as Hugo paused at a shallow alcove in one of the vaulted cellars. Federico did not see exactly what the Tzimisce did, whether the trigger for the secret door was magical or mechanical, but under his touch, a section of the wall swung out, revealing another narrow, ascending stairway built into the thickness of the wall.

"Wait upstairs," Ruthven said.

Hugo nodded and entered the stairway. Federico followed. The passageway was so tight that his shoulders brushed up against the walls on either side; he found it easiest to ascend slightly sideways. They had gone no more than three or four steps when the hidden door closed behind them, plunging the stairway into total darkness.

I should have grabbed a torch... Instead, Federico concentrated on following the sound of Hugo's feet on the stone, and his scent — sweet, vaguely sickening, like a wound allowed to fester. Perhaps the old man had been a leper in life, too — although the agony of the Becoming could mortify the flesh of even the strongest of men, as Federico had cause to know.

"Now, here we are," Hugo said from somewhere ahead and above him. "If I can find the latch... ah. There it is." There was a soft snick, and a faint light spilled down the cramped stair, causing Federico's eyes to smart until they adjusted back from the total darkness.

Blinking slightly, Federico followed Hugo out into the room above, finding their way out from behind a great woven tapestry, and letting the hidden door close behind them.

The difference between the room in which they now stood and the narrow, dank cellars and stairs and secret tunnels from which they'd emerged was breathtaking. Their feet rested coolly on smooth terra cotta tiles; around them the walls were painted with frescoes or hung with more tapestries. The beams supporting the ceiling above had been painted and gilded with a rich profusion of laden grapevines, and bore carved rondels at every crossing in the shape of golden roses. The furnishings were as rich as the room itself; a massive cupboard of teak, the doors of which bore delicate inlaid disks of filigreed ivory, and a polished table on which there sported a matched trio of muscular bronze horses, their manes and tails flowing behind them. A number of chairs of carved oak, with embossed and gilded leather seats, and bearing eagles' heads on the armrests, lined the walls, along with a pair of less luxurious benches. There were no windows, but there were doors on either end of the long room; both were closed.

By some unspoken accord, both Nosferatu eschewed the fine chairs in favor of the simpler bench on the far end. Federico was acutely aware of the mudstains on his boots, his doublet with its ground-in dirt and fraying seams. The opulence of his surroundings made him feel even more the Leper — unclean, uninvited, and unwelcome.

Hugo seemed no more at ease; he had carefully wrapped his cloak around himself as he sat down, one bandaged hand still holding on to his staff, so that as little of him came into contact with the room as possible.

Federico sat beside him, lifting his sword so that the scabbard rested on the bench beside him. He knew they would have to wait for a while — how long depended on how much the Prince wanted to impress on him how unimportant he, Federico, was. There had been one Ventrue Prince in Amsterdam who had kept him waiting for three entire nights, while readily receiving every other petitioner within an hour or two of their arrival. Had Gilbert not arrived and interceded for him, he might be waiting there yet.

"Will she speak for you, this lady you serve so diligently?" Hugo's rusty voice broke the silence between them.

"I...I think she will," Federico replied, trying to sound more sure than he felt. After all, admitting that she knew he'd been here for an entire fortnight without Presenting himself properly, when she could have easily arranged it for him, would put her at a distinct disadvantage with the Prince. And while the Comtesse had been courteous enough to him the few times they had spoken, and certainly thought him useful enough, guarding her from the shadows, to accept censure on his behalf might be more than she felt she had contracted for.

"This is your secret business, then? Guarding the lady? Or is there more?"

"No," Federico answered. "I mean... there's nothing more." He did not trust himself to look Hugo in the eyes as he answered. Deception did not come easily to him; he had never been good at it.

"Well, shouldn't be any difficulties, then. I'll let the others know."

"Others— ?" Federico started to ask, but fell silent almost immediately, as the door on the far side of the room opened and Jovan Ruthven entered.

The Warlord had discarded his enveloping cloak, but he did not wear the Italian court fashions; his garb was somber and flowing, and looked almost Turkish, save that he wore no turban. A pair of elegant Eastern swords were sheathed across his back, with dragon-headed hilts that jutted up over his shoulders, and his hair was as long as a woman's, bound in a single tight braid that reached down past his waist.

"My lord," Federico rose to his feet respectfully, and bowed again. Beside him, Hugo did the same, leaning on his staff.

"His Highness will see you now," the Tzimisce said. "I must ask, Messere, that you hand your weapons to Hugo, and then come with me."

Obediently, Federico unfastened his sword belt, removed the dagger from his boot, and handed them all to Hugo, who accepted them gravely, buckling the belt around his own waist somewhere under his enveloping robes.

Following the Warlord's slight form, they emerged out into a corridor. Federico made sure his mask was as steady as he could make it.

The hooded, bent figure of the old Nosferatu was gone as well; in the same place stood a short, slightly stooped old man, with a yellow hat and a long beard, wearing clothes two centuries and half a continent out of fashion, leaning on his staff.

Jew. Hugo recognized the proscribed hat, and wondered why Hugo still wore it — to mark himself as a member of a despised minority, even among undead. But we are already despised, he reminded himself. On this side of the grave, with our curse... who is more truly the more wretched, Jew or Nosferatu?

The palazzo seemed deserted — Federico saw neither mortals nor Kindred loitering or watching as they traveled through. Only a pair of mortal guards at the end of a corridor, and they merely saluted the Warlord before standing aside, one opening the door for their passage.

Beyond that was a small antechamber, and then a narrow hallway. A mirror hung at the end of that hall — an odd thing to be sure, in a Lasombra house. Federico did not look too closely, at either himself or his clanmate.

The Tzimisce knocked once on a pair of double doors, then opened them. "Your Highness, Messer Hugo, and Messer Federico."

The two Nosferatu entered. This room was as fine as the one they had been in before — possibly more so, with a high arched ceiling, two tall windows, and numerous candles in bronze stands for light. On one end of the room, there was a high-backed chair of carved oak. In front of that chair, facing them, stood the Prince.

Marius dell' Aquila. Federico recognized him, though they had never actually met; it had been Gilbert who had talked with him at Thorns. But Federico had heard him speak — a speech that had scalded the pride of no few of that distinguished audience, and yet Federico could not argue with some of its most basic points. A man who had never been counted among the anarchs, yet had been sympathetic to their cause — and whose current political stance outside the Camarilla's alliance was certain to lead to further bloodshed among the Kindred of Italy.

Federico bowed, awkwardly, but as low as courtesy required. "Highness." Beside him, Hugo — who had dropped his Mask and was once again his hooded, bandaged self — bowed as well.

"Messeri." The Prince stepped back and seated himself in the chair, the very act raising it to the status of a throne. He was a young man — at least in appearance — dark-haired and handsome, with the easy arrogant grace of one privileged with wealth and noble rank from birth. But no mere mortal could have worn the shadows themselves as adornments to his court finery, nor commanded the attention of every Cainite in the room just with the lift of one beringed finger. Whatever Marius dell' Aquila had been at Thorns, he was now a Prince, and Federico did not need to feel the authority in the Lasombra's dark stare to know whose pride he dared not offend.

The Warlord crossed the room, his boot heels making practically no noise on the tiles, taking his place off to one side where he could keep a wary eye on his liege's visitors. Behind them, the doors to the room closed with a soft snick.

The Prince studied them for a moment more, then casually leaned back in his chair, one elbow resting on its carved and cushioned arm. "Messer Federico. You have recently arrived in our city?"

"Yes, your Highness."

"When did you arrive?" It was clear he already knew the answer, knew exactly under what circumstances Federico had come before him — but was going to make sure Federico made a full confession before determining what response to make to it all. It was annoying, but it was also his right — and Federico wanted to appease him, not annoy him further.

"A fortnight since, Highness."

"And you have been in our city all this time, and not presented yourself to us, as per the Traditions of Caine?"

Federico was aware of the Warlord, his face all the more eerie for its unnatural and delicate beauty, watching him with unblinking eyes — and probably watching to see if I'm lying, too. Hugo stood quietly beside him, a step or two behind, listening carefully.

"Yes, your Highness."

"I would be interested in your explanation."

"Your Highness... I was charged with the protection and safety of my lady, the Comtesse de Havrecourt."

"How odd that you say that. The Comtesse has never mentioned you."

That stung — especially since it was likely true, and not merely for reasons of security. Even had secrecy not been of concern, the Comtesse would doubtless prefer her unsightly guardian never need be mentioned or acknowledged. Federico steadied himself and said as evenly as he could, "With so many here who might wish her harm...I thought I could be more effective protection if my presence were unknown. It was my own decision, your Highness."

"You decided to ignore Tradition...a tradition that even the Camarilla claims to honor?" The Prince pronounced Camarilla as if the word referred to lawless brigands; it was all Federico could do to keep silent against the implied insult.

"My duty was to the lady, Highness. Her safety was more important than my own."

"Your lady is under my express protection, and that of my lord Jovan. Your duty, however nobly intended, has placed you in a rather difficult position — and outside that same protection I have extended to your lady. "

Which put him at the Prince's mercy, and Federico knew it. But there was nothing more he could say than the truth. "Yes, Highness. I... I felt it necessary, until I could verify her safety for myself."

The Prince and the Tzimisce exchanged a glance; the Warlord stepped forward. He barely came to Federico's shoulder, yet his demeanor of self-possessed authority and restrained ferocity was no less intimidating for all his slight stature. Given the Warlord's reputation, Federico did not doubt that impression for a minute.

"In your judgment, then, Messer Federico," the Tzimisce said, in a voice as smooth as silk, "are the Comtesse's protections sufficient for her safety?"

"Yes, my lord," he admitted. "For the present."

"And since your lady is so well protected, she no longer is in need of your services here."

"At present, my lord, perhaps not...But I fear not all of the Blood in this city hold His Highness' express protection with the same regard, and see my lady's presence here as a danger...that the differences between your Highness and the Camarilla might yet be resolved. And I cannot predict how well those defenses may hold if actually put to the test — which, from what I have observed, has not yet happened."

The Warlord's eyes narrowed, their dark depths glinting auburn. "I would not dismiss those defenses so lightly, Messere," he said, coolly. "They caught you."

But it took you two weeks to do so, Federico almost said, and bit down on his retort. "Fortunately for my lady, and Your Highness," he said aloud, "I am merely her ladyship's humble servant."

"Sent by whom? Who employed you?"

"No one sent me... I...I was recommended to her Ladyship as a guardian, who knew something of Italy, and could serve with discretion. I've served in that capacity before, my lords, I was a soldier even in my breathing days."

"A condotierre, then." the Prince commented.

Federico's spine stiffened in response to the disdain in the Lasombra's tone. "Yes, your Highness."

"No, I think not." Marius dell' Aquila leaned forward a little, his dark eyes intent. "That would imply that your — services — are for hire... and I've seen enough condotierri change employers for the right price. What's your price, Federico? What did a Toreador Comtesse have to offer you that was worth risking your immortal life? Whatever it is... I assure you, I can better it."
.
Federico was silent for a moment. "My immortal life, whatever worth I put on it, is in your hands now, your Highness," he said finally. "My honor, however, is beyond price."

"Beyond price..." the Prince repeated. "Not a very practical attitude for a mercenary, is it?"

A door opened to the right of the Prince's throne; a mortal servant entered, bearing a folded parchment. He approached his master with no little hesitation, as if fearful of interrupting anything, but the Warlord motioned him forward, striding over to take the parchment, glance at it, and then hand it, still unopened, to the Prince. The servant bowed low, and then gratefully retired, closing the door behind him.

The Prince unfolded the parchment, read it, and then handed it to Ruthven, who read it as well, and nodded.

Marius dell' Aquila leaned on one elbow again. "It seems the Comtesse values you after all, Messere... she has acknowledged you as her servant, and requests...leniency...on your behalf."

That the Prince had even asked the Comtesse about him was promising; that she would go so far on his behalf as to request leniency... well, whether that would gain him anything remained to be seen. "My lady is most gracious," Federico admitted.

"Yes, she is," the Lasombra agreed. "So... you are not a mercenary, Messere, and the Comtesse evidently considers you of some value... but you are not, I think, in her sworn service..." He glanced towards Jovan Ruthven, and the Tzimisce gave the slightest shake of his head. The Prince's gaze returned to Federico. "The question remains then... whose service are you in?"

Federico hesitated, but only for a second. "I serve the Comtesse de Havrecourt, my lords. As I've said—"

"So you have said," Jovan Ruthven said in his deceptively soft voice. "And I still do not believe you. We will have the truth, Messere — you might as well come out with it now, and save yourself a good deal of discomfort."

That was not an idle threat, and Federico knew it.

"I serve the Camarilla Council," he admitted. "But all I was charged with was the safety of my lady, I swear it on my honor, my lords. I am not a spy."

The Warlord clearly did not believe him. "If a Camarilla Prince were to discover a Milanese agent in his city, without his leave or permission," he asked, "and that same agent made claims that his sole purpose was to guarantee the safety of our own ambassador, what do you think that Prince would most likely do?"

Federico knew better than to guess, given the circumstances. "I could not answer for such a Prince," he said. "One could only hope for a fair judgment."

"One could hope," the Warlord replied, "but in at least one such case I know of, the agent was executed promptly, in the presence of the ambassador, so that the message of what happened to spies in that domain would be made graphically clear."

Federico chose not to argue the point; it was all too likely a scenario. Princes tended to be suspicious men, and the blood of foreigners was far easier shed than that of their own subjects — although the weight of such a judgment would not be lost upon them. For the price of a stranger's life, a Prince might buy himself some domestic peace.

"Fortunately for you, Messere," the Prince interrupted, "this is Milan, not Bruges — and I am not Hardestaadt."

Federico was not given to bursts of inspiration, but something Gilbert had said, back in their rooms at Silchester, suddenly echoed in his memory. They're a proud lot, the Lasombra are, and he's got that in full measure. But in chess he plays a fair game, and he made it no great shame to lose to him...

"I submit myself to your Highness' judgment," Federico said, dropping to one knee. I am Nosferatu, he reminded himself, not without bitterness. Pride is a luxury I can ill afford. For his own sake, and my lady's, may Gilbert's judgment prove sound...

"You are already subject to that judgment," the Warlord reminded him. "Do not interpret his Highness' mercy thus far as weakness—"

"Jovan." The Prince's voice was soft, but firm, and the Tzimisce fell silent, bowing slightly in his liege's direction.

The Prince was quiet for a moment; Federico held his position, and waited.

"Federico. Rise."

Federico did as he was commanded. The Prince regarded him steadily, so intently that Federico almost feared that his Mask had fallen, and the Lasombra's eyes could pick out every festering sore and twisted joint of his monstrous form.

"You serve the Council, then," the Prince continued. "An archon...? Like Gilbert d'Harfleur?"

"Yes, Highness," Federico bowed, hiding his face; lest the flush he felt in his blood at the mention of that name be apparent to the Prince's sight. That Marius dell' Aquila remembered the man he'd once beaten in chess, in a faraway land, years before... hopefully, that boded well for them both. Otherwise — well, the Prince had the weight of the Traditions on his side, he could do as he willed.

"Understand, Messere, that I take Mademoiselle's safety as seriously as you do. However, I cannot condone a flagrant disregard for our Traditions or my authority in this city by any representative of the Camarilla."

"Yes, my lord." Federico had no intention of disputing dell' Aquila's authority.

"Have you observed anything that led you to believe the Comtesse is in danger from any particular party, Messere?"

Federico hesitated. "No, your Highness, I have not," he admitted. "But I am certain there are those who do not understand your Highness' welcome of our Ambassador. Who would much prefer your Highness be embroiled in war rather than engaged in diplomacy. And who might be easily incited to rash actions that would make diplomacy impossible. I am also certain that your Highness does not have men — Cainites enough, " he amended, "to guard my lady and prevent them. If I may be so bold, my lord, I submit that permitting her a competent guardian and thwarting such an attempt will stand you better in the eyes of your people — and the Camarilla — than executing justice on her murderers after the fact."

"A competent guardian — meaning you, I presume?" The Prince's eyes bored into him; Federico fought the urge to drop to his knees or plead for mercy. Either Marius dell' Aquila would permit it or he would not — but Federico was not going allow himself to feel shamed for pursuing his duty in this matter.

"A word, your Highness—" the Warlord said, and stepped up to the Prince's side; whispering in his ear. Federico's hearing was acute, but even he could not make out what was being said; perhaps the Tzimisce was using some verbal code. But whatever it was, the Prince clearly did not agree.

"Thank you for your concern, my lord," Marius dell' Aquila said calmly. "Be assured I will take all factors into consideration."

The Tzimisce bowed slightly, and retreated back to stand near Federico, his features showing nothing of his thoughts, save the cold suspicion in his eyes.

Federico felt a shiver run down his spine at the Tzimisce's gaze; it was if he was already being measured for thumbscrews. He'd rather see me dead; that is, after all, the most prudent thing to do...

"If I may, your Highness?" Hugo spoke for the first time.

Federico felt the weight of the Prince's gaze pass from himself to his hooded companion — although Hugo seemed far less bowed by it, or the Prince regarded him far better. Most likely the latter, since the Prince nodded, granting Hugo's request.

"I speak for my kinsman, your Highness. If your Highness permits him to fulfill his obligation to the lady, I shall stand surety for him, as any Sire for a childe. If he calls for aid, I shall answer; if he betrays his trust — which I do not believe he will — I shall do what is necessary."

Federico shot a quick glance at the old Nosferatu, startled — it was no light promise he was offering, particularly since he was unaware of the full nature of Federico's business in Milan.

Then the Prince's gaze returned to Federico. "I can see some value in your presence here, Messere, now that it is known — I certainly desire to provide to the Comtesse de Havrecourt all the protection I can, and your duty fulfills both our pledges. To that end, I will accept Hugo's pledge on your behalf."

Federico bowed. "I thank your Highness."

"However," the Prince continued, "I would require a pledge of you as well; as I'm sure you understand, your presence in Milan causes me no little concern."

"Yes, your Highness?"

"That your presence here is solely for the purpose of guarding the Comtesse de Havrecourt, and for no other purpose, either of the Camarilla Council, their Justicars, or your own...and that you will cooperate fully with Signor Ruthven and Messer Hugo as to anything you discover of importance."

Federico had no choice but to agree, and he knew it — despite his conscience twinging silently somewhere in the depths of his soul. His duty to the lady came first. Even Gilbert would have said so, though perhaps no more willingly if their places were exchanged. He bowed his head. "I so pledge, your Highness."

"And in keeping with the Traditions, and to acknowledge Messer Hugo's pledge on your behalf, you will present yourself publicly in our Court tomorrow evening — under what name and purpose you and Messer Hugo determine acceptable — as a lawful and known resident in our Domain. So we have required of all your Blood who seek sanctuary in our city, and so all will know you are here by our forbearance."

That was less comfortable — to maintain his guise in front of so many, some who might be able to see through it to his true form, was a fearsome prospect. Yet it was not an unreasonable demand from a Prince's point of view, and again, he had no choice. "Yes, your Highness."

"Very well, then," Marius dell' Aquila leaned back in his chair. "You have our leave, then, to remain in Milan, in fulfillment of your duty to the Comtesse. But know this: if I discover any other Camarilla spy or agent in Milan without my leave, I will execute them as soon as they are caught, Messere, and hold you accountable. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear, your Highness." Although the Prince was not exercising the full power of his dark gaze, Federico did not doubt he would carry out his threat — if he was to remain Prince, and keep order in this nest of anarchs and rebels, he had no choice but to be harsh in his judgments. Federico could only hope that no other such agent had been sent, or that he could discover such an agent before the Warlord did. Or at the very least, that no one had told such a spy about him.

"Then you may return to your duties, Messere. Do not hesitate to call on Hugo or my lord Jovan if you do discover a plot or danger to your Lady. You need not fight or die alone in her defense — I have promised her my protection, and I will honor that pledge."

Federico bowed again, lower now that he was being dismissed. "Your Highness is most gracious," he said. "On behalf of the Camarilla, and the Comtesse, I thank your Highness for his mercy and understanding."

Beside him, Hugo bowed as well. "Highness. My lord." and then ushered them both out of the Prince's presence.

Federico did not relax until they reached the antechamber, where Hugo paused to reconstruct his mask of mortal flesh, and to return his sword and dagger to him. But when Federico started to speak, the old Nosferatu held up one bandaged finger to silence him, eyes flickering once back towards the Prince's chamber in warning. "Come along, lad," he said, softly, "I'll show you out."

Hugo led, and Federico followed, through the silent halls of the palazzo, back to the hall where they had waited before, and the secret stairway behind the tapestry. Going down the stairs in near total darkness was difficult; Federico held his hands out against the stone wall on either side to guide him.

At the bottom, Hugo fumbled with the latch, and then opened it into the same corridor. Here he paused, long enough to light a small candle-lantern he took from somewhere under his robes, a faint, but welcome bit of light in this subterranean labyrinth. Then he took the faceless hood out of his robes again and held it out.

"I am sorry, Federico," he said. "The ways to our own halls I will show you, but this way I am pledged to keep secret."

Federico remembered the oubliette, and could not suppress a shiver. But he accepted the blind hood, and tied it on again. Hugo took his arm. "This way, then."

But as he followed the older Nosferatu's guidance, it became clear they were not merely retracing their route of earlier that evening. Hugo led him through several underground ways, one at least that sounded like it was wide and open, for their footsteps echoed somewhat, and Federico could feel a difference in the air about them. As before, Federico suspected it was a deliberately confusing route; Hugo was taking no chances. But finally, he heard the grating of rusting hinges, and a heavy door being opened before them. Federico could hear water lapping against stone, smell the fetid dampness that always indicated proximity to one of the canals.

"You may unmask yourself now, lad," Hugo said, and Federico did, gratefully. They stood on a narrow wooden pier built along the sides of an underground waterway. Federico could just barely make out where a small, flat-bottomed boat bobbed on the dark water.

The old Nosferatu patted the archway where they stood with one bandaged hand; it was closed with a heavy iron grate. "This is one of the entrances to the warren," he said. "This passage leads to a wine cellar. The entrance is behind the casks under the sign of the lion. Don't go too far unless you have a guide, though. The guardian has been known to be...overzealous. But one of us will come if you wait."

"The sign of the lion," Federico repeated. "I'll remember that. Thank you." It was no small gesture, that bit of information; one could never predict when such a shelter might be invaluable. "Is this the canal, then?" He pointed down the tunnel in which they stood.

"The inner ring, yes." Hugo squatted down on the edge of the pier, grabbed hold of an iron ring with one hand, and carefully lowered himself into the boat. "In you get, unless you wish to swim back."

Federico followed, settling down on one end as Hugo untied the rope moorings and took the pole from the bottom of the boat to push off. The little boat moved smoothly, nearly silently, out into the darkness of the tunnel.

The tunnel was not long. They soon emerged into the open, though the canal's side walls rose up nearly five feet from the water level on either side of them. Federico glanced back the way they had come; the tunnel's roof was far too low for a barge to pass under; it had to be the northern end of the canal. He wasn't sure where the water went from there, whether it rejoined the Castello's moat, or simply ended. It was something that might be useful to know.

They passed under a bridge and by a pair of moored barges before Hugo pushed them over to the side, where a narrow set of stone steps ascended to street level above. "You'll be able to find your way from here, I imagine," Hugo said, He held the boat steady as Federico rose carefully to his feet, then climbed out onto the steps.

"I have not thanked you," he said, turning back to face Hugo, "for your words to the Prince. I am in your debt, Messere — I can only hope I prove worthy of your trust."

"So do I, lad." Hugo gave him a steady look from behind his mask. "You're far from home, Federico. But you're only as alone here as your secrets make you."

"I am not a spy," Federico repeated, wearily.

"Oh, I know what you're not, lad, or I'd have never spoken. It's what you are that is the puzzle." He lifted the pole again, preparing to push off. "But we shall speak of that another time. The night wanes, and you have your duty, and I must tend to mine. Meet me here, on this spot, tomorrow, an hour past sunset," he said, "and I will take you to his Highness' court."

Federico nodded; there was nothing more he could say. "I'll be here. God keep you, Hugo." He watched until the small boat vanished into the darkness before he ascended the stairs.

He discovered he was but two streets away from the Comtesse's haven, not far from the alley where Hugo and the Tzimisce had surprised him only a few hours before. He paused on the canalside only long enough to be sure of his bearings, in order to find the right section of tunnel again. If he was desperate enough to seek such a refuge, he would not be able to afford any lapses of memory.

Then he sought the shadowed side of the alley, and began to make his way back to the Comtesse's haven, and his own.

They knew who he was now, there was no helping it. And why he was here, at least, on the surface. Part of him could scarcely believe he'd managed to escape such a confrontation unscathed. Despite what Gilbert had said of him, Marius dell' Aquila was still a rebel, all but at war with the Camarilla — and mercy to an enemy agent was not to his advantage. The more cynical part of him wondered whether the Prince was merely holding him in reserve, for when his "discovery" and subsequent execution as a spy might serve him better politically. Although in that case, it would have been just as expedient, and far more pragmatic, to keep him staked and secure in some dungeon until such a dramatic gesture was deemed advantageous.

If he were truly a spy, his usefulness would be over now; there was no doubt that he would be watched. Hugo and the Warlord would see to that. And Federico was certain there would be other Camarilla spies — with far better means of hiding their true nature — sent to Milan. The city was teeming with strange Kindred, with more arriving every night, all claiming allegiance to the anarch cause. It would be impossible to prevent infiltration — and if even one such spy was discovered, the Prince had declared that he, Federico, would pay the price for it as well. At least that declaration had been made in private — it gave the Prince more freedom in its interpretation. Though whether that would work in his favor, Federico did not yet know.

The sky was already lightening; Federico quickened his pace as he approached the safety of his daylight refuge, across the alleyway from the Comtesse's own haven. He let himself in through the garden gate, only to be greeted by a sleepy squawk from the top of a portico. He looked up, his mood suddenly lifting at the sight of a pair of hunched white shapes perched up on the second-floor railing.

He pursed his lips, imitated their squawk, and raised his right arm. One of the two shapes spread out a truly impressive wingspan of snowy white and glided gracefully down, curved talons sinking into the sleeve of his doublet. Bright eyes peered at him from a sharp-beaked face, bare save for a delicate mane of pale gold feathers. The vulture gave a pleased little chirp and nibbled affectionately at his fingers as he stroked her breast feathers. "Eurydice, what a good girl you are, what a beautiful lady..." he murmured softly. "All the way from Genoa, and so quickly too! And you brought me something, didn't you?" He could see the message cylinder attached to her leg; he could hardly wait to get inside where he could open it in safety.

He lifted his arm, so the vulture could hop up to her favorite perch on his shoulder. Then he looked up and whistled at her companion. Orpheus, get down here, you lazy lump. Or you'll get no supper from me.

The second vulture bestirred himself at last and swooped down as well. Federico carefully balanced him on the other shoulder, bade them both be quiet, and went inside.

His haven was a musty, forgotten storeroom up under the eaves of the roof, accessible from inside the house only from a single low door, hidden behind a sooty, half-burned tapestry. Federico slipped upstairs as softly as a whisper, behind the tapestry, and into his little room.

It was still dark inside, though through the shuttered window, he could see the first stirring of dawn. He coaxed the two birds to their accustomed perch on the back of a bench and lit two of his precious candles before returning to Eurydice and untying the message from her leg. He laid the carcass of a rabbit he'd been saving (three days old and getting a bit ripe) on the floor near the door, and set a pan of water on the floor as well. Orpheus, who had a tendency to think with his stomach, promptly hopped down in hopes of getting first dibs. However his larger mate, her primary duty now discharged, followed and soon reminded him of his chivalric duty to wait his turn.

"Behave yourselves, now." Federico told them. "And keep it quiet, no squabbling."

He sat down at the table, his eagerness to see Lilika's message temporarily overpowering his need for rest. Carefully, he unrolled it and held it over the candle's heat until the letters began to appear, first faintly, and then dark enough to read.

Dear Federico,
I hope you will forgive me for writing to you a few nights earlier than we had planned - but I cannot help but worry for your safety, and Eurydice seemed eager to make the trip. It has certainly been long enough since you left Genoa - please, please write back promptly and let me know how things are with you. Have you found a safe haven? How is the Comtesse? She'd better treat you well, that's all I have to say. How is Milan - is it truly as bad as they say?

Our brother Jean has still heard no word from Gilbert, nor have I - he seems to feel something terrible has happened. I can only pray he is being overanxious, but I cannot help feeling anxious myself. Please let me know promptly if you have located him, or hear anything at all.

Things here have not changed much since you left. Prince Geoffroy has not held an open court in over a month, and spends all his time locked away in his apartments. He sees no one but the Lady Druscilla, and she will say nothing more than he is engrossed in study and is not receiving. I do not know how long his Lordship Vortimer will be content with such an answer, however. The mood in general here is tense; I have heard at least four reports of hauntings or shadowy figures lurking in the corridors of the Castello, though I could find no trace of any such thing, nor have I seen any apparitions with my own eyes.

I also heard from Jean that the Tremere archon Lord Marcus has been sent to Italy, to confer with his brothers in Florence, though for what purpose he was unable to discover. The Tremere here are annoyingly mute on any subject touching Lord Marcus, although I have observed they are likewise mute on many other topics as well, particularly those pertaining to their own clan. At any rate, I doubt that Lord Marcus plans to visit Milan, for which we should both be grateful. I met him briefly, and there's something about him that unnerves me and makes me wish I had a sword in my hand.

Do write back to me soon, Federico - do not let me languish here with worry as to your welfare and condition. With affection, I remain,

Your friend and comrade in these dangerous times,
Lilika

Federico read the letter twice through; he could almost hear her voice, with its lilting accent, as he read her words. The clear concern in it was balm on the wounds his pride had taken that night. With affection...your friend and comrade. With affection... Those words touched off a warmth within his unbeating heart, and nearly brought blood-tears to his eyes. He had to remind himself to not lose his perspective, that those words were all he could ever expect, written from a safe distance. It felt so good to hear — however remotely — a friendly voice.

But it was late...weariness dragged at his bones, fogged his mind. He carefully folded the letter, and when he had laid aside his sword, doublet and boots, he unlatched the shutters for the vultures to come and go as they wished, and blew out the candles. His bed was inside a large chest, lined with straw and padded with an old blanket; not quite long enough for his full height, but safe against the light. He lowered himself into the chest and tucked the letter under the pile of stained and folded linens he used as a pillow. Thus protected against unhappy dreams, he pulled the lid shut, and let himself sink into a deep, exhausted sleep.