“…and the people have to hear about these atrocities that are occurring daily. This is not a simple problem as Worchester shamelessly claim here as we speak – ”
“Excuse me, but I earned my title as doctorate of philosophy. It is Dr. Worchester.”
“– as we speak in this limited – ”
“Dr. Worchester. I demand my title to be – ”
“– if I could be allowed to finish my part – ”
“Mr. Elenga, if you could give the courtesy of addressing your opponent as he desires, it would elevate the level of the convers – ”
“No sir; I will not credit his pseudo-title that he has procured from one of his pseudo-edu complexes. A fake diploma and a work that is comprised of plagiarism and insignificant garbage does not entitle him a doctorate, nor would he deserve such should he made an actual academic study in whatever field he would choose to poison.”
“You hear what we are dealing with. Fortunately the people will not listen to someone who despises the voice of theirs by default – ”
“You are not the voice of the people. You are the voice of your company, one of the many that is just selling a different product.”
“And what product that might be?”
“War. You are buying lives and selling death. You are a shameless agitator to incite hatred among the people to instigate a mass-war against – ”
“I cannot accept such accusation, but it is true that we are against those unnatural beings crawling among us. They do not deserve such rights that you ridiculously defend – ”
“Those are humans, too. Whether born in natural conditions else produced, we are all humans.”
“Unbelievable. After hours of discussion you regress back to this pedestrian view that we are all equal supposedly. Mimetics are not our equals, sir. They are artificial products, created by our minds, made by our hands, bound to our will. We do not need them, yet thousands are made every year. They are used by the thousands. They are destroying our way of life in thousand ways. Their production should be regulated further to minimum and their current numbers have to be – ”
“I know what you claim, everybody knows what you are. The mass eradication of populations – ”
“They are not humans. We are.”
“– of populations, showing what kind of human you are.”
“I am exactly the kind that people want. The Defenders of the Humanity Group is a company with the sole purpose – ”
“– of selling misery, war, death. You do not need to cut into my time to brag about your corporation. It is common knowledge you are the shell-comp of the Sword paramilitaries – ”
“I beg your pardon, sir? We are not a shell-comp. We are a legitimate business, registered in the West Index, operating in the Greater York Stock-Ex, representing two-percent of the constituents in the Board-Gov. We have high-ed programmes and we have no affairs with such – ”
“– and you are unable to wait for and listen to your opponents in a discussion. You are just a petty board-exec of a lowly scam-firm that operates by the legal esc-clau to brainwash the people and to sell arms for more profit. You are only a cacophony-machine.”
“How dare you! I am a human!”
“Gentlemen, I think we are diverging from the topic. There is no need to reduce the discussion into pers-attacks. Mr. Elenga, please conclude the point you were making.”
“I am a human! I demand an apology!”
“I am not giving any apology for what your quality is, but yes, you are a human of naturally-born kind.”
“Dr. Worchester, please allow your opponent to speak.”
“I protest, Mr. Covarrubias. Mr. Elenga is making baseless accusations and – ”
“Please, Dr. Worchester. Mr. Elenga, please continue.”
“I was about to conclude with the atrocities made against the humans of artificially-born kind. Since eight years we have been able to make significant gains in improving their livelihoods and advocating for their rights, yet at the same time the crimes against them have multiplied by seventeen times more than before. This figure we were able to gather from the public-arch, but I am afraid it covers only the registered incidents, and only limited to LA Charter of the Board-Gov. After the dissolution of the Nightspec – ”
“A dark decision that was. We need those heroes of the humanity back.”
“Dr. Worchester, please do not cut in. Do continue, Mr. Selenga.”
“It is very interesting to see the board-exec of the Defenders Group to speak highly of a pseudo-legal unit that had been in conflict again with them when it was full-func.”
“We had our differences for the method of fighting against the mimetics, but those units were still doing the righteous job – ”
“– which was hunting down human beings.”
“No. Mimetics were not, are not, and can never be considered humans.”
“Dr. Worchester, please do not interrupt. Mr. Elenga, please continue on your point without engaging tertiary comments on your opponent, sir.”
“They were nothing but murderers with the legal protection provided by the Board-Gov of the republic. The people of LA were jubilant when that unit was shut-down, on the contrary what Worchester claims. But the firms, corporations, companies, groups, associations, enterprises, conglomerates of global indexes still find other ways to exert control on them, since they see them as their merchandise. The problem starts from this basis, then goes on with minor incidents but over global scale. The result is that the tragedies continue happening, whether caused by legally accepted death-squads else unlawfully by individuals. I have not even started to discuss the figures from the other charters. We need to push for structural changes in the legislation, and we need to establish counter-exec branches in order to protect humans of all kinds, and we definitely have to halt the functions of the paramilitary companies just as those of Worchester here. They are all illegal, unlawful, and dangerous. They are selling arms in mass proportions and they are indoctrinating a deadly cause to hundreds, which will lead to another collapse of our society.”
“Your accusations are baseless and petty – ”
“On the contrary, ours are based on the facts gathered from the reports of innumerable atrocious incidents. Any prosecution against these criminal acts is buried under the bureaucracy of the Board-Gov, and the ongoing procedures are effectively silenced by its exec-firms. In West Index, the ter-org Sword is the prime example. Any small- to mid-scale attack by these groups, which causes numerous deaths of humans of all kinds, is prosecuted by law, yes, yet only a couple of them can be processed conclusively and the justice is not served. Almost all are defended and protected and supported by the firms like the group of Worchester here. The Defenders Group provides massive holo-media support, as well as legal protection.”
“It is our civic duty to provide those concerned citizens in their legal cases. Every individual is entitled a lawful procedure in the court. I expect Mr. Elenga would have known this.”
“Please, Dr. Worch – ”
“No. Mr. Elenga, you are a hypocrite. You accuse the people fighting for humanity, but you are blind to actual ter-orgs of those – ”
“Your simplistic arguments do not change the grim situation we are – ”
“Mute.”
The shower of the dark is ending, and as the water droplets tapping on the windscreen are slowing down, the rain is losing its strength with the growing midnight. In a couple of moments, the clouds of the ash will make their last stand over the skies, and the silence of the bright will glimmer through the dispersing cumuli.
He takes a small, square, light blue paper out of his left pocket. The smell of the coat brings the wet from the hours before, the sound of the seat fights against the raindrops beating the window, the night of the alley still hides the sky-ride parked in the narrow corner. He should have been patrolling the blocks of the upper-north districts as per his directives, yet he is waiting in the alley, in the sky-ride, in the night, looking at the boulevard shining with holo-neons, light-boards, headlights, lum-screens, sky-plays, hover-blazes, ground-flashes. Looking at all, but focusing on one door, flaring with a lambent blue.
He folds the paper into two, then its corner, and then the other. Further folding the corners into a wedge shape. The edges down, then unfolding and pulling over. He opens the half into a diamond shape, folds the tail, then unfolds all back to the first folding. New tail down, then pushing back into the half, now three tails. Pushing the first edge down again, and then his eyes of grey-brown roll towards the silent neon-rad on the ride-terminal. The disc-prog still continues with the two debaters now moving their hands against each other to back-up their words, while the presenter is trying to calm them down. The eyes of grey-brown jump to his own hands holding and folding and pushing and pulling the paper, then to the windscreen. The drops glide down, the shining of the electric bright bounces through the tiny rivers on the window, and the focus is back on the door on the boulevard again.
The door opens. The hands stop, the brows are down, the eyes of grey-brown are locked on.
It has been twelve days since the report of the complaint. It was registered as a domestic disturbance, by only an insufficiently short tel-seq, then it was archived with no further process. It was decided no investigation was required, since it was made by a mimetic.
For the first four days, he had been to the place for short periods. A sleazy establishment, lower ends of high-class, operated by a small ltd-comp, the boss is the head of a local clique, one of the many in the district. He had been able to analyse the source of the complaint. Diagnosis showed the routine abuse by the customers on the workers, buying the time for pleasure on their bodies, accompanied by the dance and the music and the food and the drinks. The mimetics showed little sympathy for his search-quests, except one with the eyes of grass green. The mimetic-male was too hesitant to talk to him, despite not noticing what he actually is, and the info-flow was scarce due to customers keeping their dismissive attitudes. Yet the source of the complaint was obvious, showing greater amount of damage with injury marks on her face but concealed by the make-up. She has the eyes of pink lace.
He sees four people exit from the door, while three others enter.
No more notable activities around the place visible from the corner he has stationed at since the night shift, apart from the glimmering, bouncing, beaming lights of the boulevard filled with people. The hands return to play on the paper, the brows relax back to the normal, the eyes of grey-brown are becoming dull in the emptiness of the idle flow of time. It has already been past the midnight.
Day thirteen.
The two figures in the disc-prog continue in their heated discussion, with the third one trying to moderate them, but he is losing the control now it seems in the neon-rad. His eyes of grey-brown move over the ride-terminal to the stream-screen.
“End stream-news. Scan for incidents. Midnight shift.”
Scanning.
Going over the first edge again, forming the nose. Folding both the lower ends, then pushing the other sides inside. He folds the nose backwards, and then pushes the nose downwards. One tail, two wings, neck, nose, ready. Last touch; folding the down-ends for a flat bottom. He puts the swan on the ride-terminal.
Scanning complete. Hundred sixty-four registered incidents.
“Array ongoing incidents.”
Ninety-three ongoing incidents.
“Narrow down to north and west zones.”
Twenty-one ongoing incidents in north and west zones.
“Search for incidents requesting field officers.”
No results.
“Abort.”
He gives a mild breath out in the form of a sigh, while watching the leftover rivers on the windscreen, now dwindling in the dying midnight rain. His left knee starts to ache again, it has been hours sitting. Rubbing the patella, reaching the femur, down to the tibia, his eyes of grey-brown jump from the window of the sky-ride onto the stream-screen of the terminal, reset to showing the incidents over the entire map of LA with dazzling green, blue, yellow indicators.
There is only one with the red.
“Display the critical incident.”
Warning. Out of the assigned patrol-mission zone.
His brows move down slowly in the frowning of the moment.
“Override. Ramirez Hữu Liêm, Captain, Bureau de l’Est 14, Xin Valley. Midnight shift, patrol support, Ningaabii'an District. North and west zones.”
Overriding the protocol.
One second has been enough, but the silence continues for more than five, reaches ten, then enters the period of no response forcing him to change his position on the seat. His right hand reaches the terminal, pushes the buttons to enter the spec-search parameters.
Error. Unable to recognise the commands.
He leans towards the terminal, starts to write the commands to retrieve the situation, now with both hands. The text-stream flows up the screen, while the map is reduced to the corner and zooming in over the centre of the red indicator.
LA Off-port, incident registered at 17:38, local units in operation at 17:43, additional units arrived at 18:01, reinforcements arrived at 18:56.
“List unit roster.”
Searching. All district-units including tactical teams are at the area of the incident.
“Check port-comm summaries of the incident.”
Error. No port-comm exchange has been registered.
“Check local dispatch summaries.”
Again one second, continues to five, reaches ten, but this time, an abrupt response is delivered.
Access denied.
One second, five seconds, and ten, but for processing in his own mind. His hands are over the terminal, ready to push the buttons. From unresponsive to unrecognised commands ending in denied access; the incident is meant to be suppressed as he tries. Soon it will be restricted for public scrutiny following the pattern, he knows.
He enters the commands to access the arch-terminal. He provides the priv-cred, secures the connection, inputs the available information, finds the records. Starting the search-eng for the available summaries of the incident, and those of field-comm, port-comm, inner-comm are displayed. After initiating the retrieve-proc, he selects to play the inner-comms, the ones dispatched in an unusually frequent amount.
“She jumped! The assailant jumped out of the window!”
“Report the number of casualties! Report the numbe – ”
“No casualties! Request for immediate back-up! The assailant jumped off the fifth floor!”
No suspects, but the perpetrator has been already identified, yet too many units. The midnight has exited the border of interesting and is approaching the realm of strange. While the voices of the inner-comm-rec are blasting inside the sky-ride, he straightens himself on the seat, begins the routine of the buttons, knobs, levers for fuselage-purge, eng-clean, windscreen-disp, master-headlight, vtol-eng, thruster-eng.
He stops, pauses the inner-comm-rec, then replays the last one.
“Report the status of the assailant!”
“Scan-far inconclusive! That was not a – ”
“Repeat the last comm!”
“She was not a human!”
The engines roar in the alley, the headlights boom through the dark, the sky-ride levitates between the monstrous buildings, then bolts into the midnight.
CHAPTER I - Part II
"Your Majesty?”
He inadvertently looks upon down, his eyes of the wine brown fall from the heavens of hope to the desolate deeps of desperation, his fists are clenched on the arms of the seat.
It takes only a moment, then his eyes of the wine brown regain their strength and lock on the eyes of the light brown and gaze on them until his servant understands to silence himself before him. His Majesty. His excellency. His emperor. The emperor without a throne.
His gaze seizes, resolves in dull, is drown in the memories. He remembers the day when the city fell, and it was not by the Turks as they feared, but before the Latin invaders. The Venetians brought thousands of infantry, by land and from sea, and with their poleaxes and their swords and their spears and their daggers and their maces and their armours and their shields, to fight against them, the last allagions of the empire. The empire of a single city. The city, the queen of cities, and now only a frontier in the Domains of the Sea for the Venetians.
Georgios, Loukas, Isidoros; all made valiant efforts in their fight during the siege. Loukas fell by an arrow, Isidoros was slain by the sword of a mercenary from Frankish lands, and Georgios has been recovering from the wounds he got ever since the fight on the walls of the Golden Gate. The Patriarchate fled to unknown lands to the north, whereas a synod of bishops from lesser episkopie was convoked in the Morea immediately after the fall, coronating him for the imperial throne. He remembers how he laughed in tears by hearing this, then succumbing to silence until he could get up from the bed he was laid on for his own wounds. His coronation had only one meaning: Ioannes was no more.
Andronikos had passed away decades ago. Poor boy never received any fortune from the God All-Mighty, and he could not hold Thessalonica, and he could not fight against the leprosy he contracted. Demetrios, whom he could never forgive for all the troubles he caused, was lying in blood on the battleground of the siege last time he was able to see before his eyes of the wine brown were covered in dark after the wounds he sustained. The city defences surrendered after the siege lasting more than a year, but months before that day they received the heralds from the Morea, informing that the castle of the peninsula had fallen, and that Thomas was captured as hostage of the Duke of Nasso, and that Theodoros died of the plague.
The last effort of them was to ram through the blockade on sea for Ioannes, to flee him to the court of the Komnenos, should the city fall. He did not even bother to ask what fate his brother met when he opened his eyes of the wine brown and was presented the crown. It was already impossible to defend the city on land, and it was unthinkable to defeat the Venetians on sea, yet his brother boarded that ship, with the last smile he gave to him.
Doge Francesco Foscari sent envoys, and they told him that they were of his personal council, and that he and his brother would be left to rule over the Morea, and that the Patriarchate would be left free in their jurisdiction. Now only a vassal of the frontier in the Domains of the Venetians, the seat he is sitting on is no more different than that of their cousins in Montferrat as vassals for the dukes of Savoy.
“Your… Majesty?”
He tries to brush off the memories of pain. A year passed since then, and now his servant is looking at him eagerly to learn about his decision on the matter at hand.
Your Majesty. He is still addressed as such, as he still holds the title. The emperor without a throne, the emperor without an empire, the emperor of a simple, single, insignificant seat.
“I have been reduced to a mere patrician of the Republic, Ioulianos. There is no more need to address myself as you do.”
The servant looks at him with his eyes of the light brown open wide and flickering and shaken. He gulps loudly and breathes heavily and moves his neck tensely.
“Your Majesty. You are still the Emperor of the Romans, no matter what doge, what pretender, what bishop might say otherwise. You will always be our emperor, and I shall serve Your Majesty until the last of my days.”
It is not wise to speak in despair aloud, he reminds himself the words of his friend Georgios. Even though he knows there is no gain in further bothering for his advice on the matter, for his friend has to rest, the eyes of the wine brown are moving up and down, looking for him in any way, to no avail. He himself has to decide.
The Doge is seen as the conqueror of the empire, and the bishop in Rome supported him, and the Habsburgs praised him. The attempts for a union of church are no more to be uttered in their presence, and the palace in Vienna is recognised as the only crown ruling over the Romans.
The Albanian king cannot be of help, as he was taken hostage by the Serbs after the war for the city. The Wallachian voivode cannot be of help, as he himself has been looking for allies to defend against the Hungarians. The Serbian despot cannot be of help, as he was also defeated in the war for the city, and now they have their own fight for survival.
Thomas has been stubborn in planning for a rebellion, but his brother is unable to see that is futile. By Thomas’ pleas, he even managed to send envoys to Mehmed, to gain his support against the Venetians, but the court of the Turks responded by invading the Serbian kingdom, to seek revenge against Skanderbeg held hostage by Lazar of the Brankovic. Georgios has been cautious in advising him, but his friend is still hopeful for the days to come. By Georgios’ encouragement, he was presented with daughters of the nobles in the Morea to choose from as a wife.
We have lost our city, but the people will follow you, should you lead them, he hears his words as if they are said now,
but you need an heir. Devastated after the death of Theodora, and shattered completely after the death of Caterina, it was hard to marry again, and now it seems impossible for him to choose yet another bride, more so after losing most of his family, his empire, and the city of his namesake.
He breathes sternly, closes then opens his eyes of the wine brown quickly, then repositions himself on the seat briefly.
The matter at hand.
Two factions approached to his court in the Morea, asking for his support in their own causes. The Doge is feared as the conqueror, but he is not without enemies, and the Venetians are getting closer to a fight between themselves it seems. The one from the Council of Ten was smiling while presenting his cause, yet those eyes of the amber were screaming in desperate fury, Konstantinos remembers. The other one from the Circle of the Doge was weak in figure, yet each word of him was said in absolute confidence, Konstantinos recalls. And those eyes; he can never forget them. And the matter at hand; the Doge has many enemies, even those he is unaware of. It is certain.
The Doge will fall.
“Very well, Ioulianos.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty. I shall send the word of yours to our friend in the Circle,” the day is shining in the eyes of the light brown of the servant.
“No need. Tell the men to release the son of the Doge. That is enough of an answer.”
*
“May the night shine upon you with many stars, Lord Jörg.”
It was a long day of walking, meeting, talking, writing, whispering, waiting, eating, listening, speaking, and finally he is able to return to his chambers. The guards are in the hall downstairs, he reminds himself, the heralds are sent, he reminds himself, the night of sleep awaits, he reminds himself.
But he is looking at the eyes of the amber now. The door is shut, the window is open, and Sebastiano is in his chambers, looking at him back.
“What is the meaning of this?”
He shudders, quickly moves his right hand inside his robe, feeling the hilt of the dagger. He shudders, immediately realising who those assigned to protect him are. He shudders,
I should have brought my own houseguards.
The eyes of the amber open wide, the lips fall down, the brows raise in dismissing the question: “You would not be able to awake this morning, had I wanted so, Jörg. There is no need for that.”
The eyes of the brown remain vigilant, the lips are tightened, the brows are down in the danger of the words: “This is highly unpleasant. I thought we were friends, you gave your word.”
The eyes of the amber are silent, the lips stretch for the smile, the brows relax. The guest of the night turns to the side, walks towards the table, reaches the carafe, takes it, and smells its content. “Genoese wine? Of Caffa, I suppose,” smirking at the host of the chambers, “You should take care of your taste, Jörg. This is only slightly better than dog’s piss.” Grabbing two cups, “Well at least the carafe is Venetian. A fine Murano. They are getting even better, thanks to the arrival of glassmakers from Constantinopoli, too.” Pouring the wine into the cups carefully, then leaving the carafe on the table after smelling the liquid inside one more time, “Oof, it definitely has a quality,” grabbing the cups again but now full of wine, “…of sewer.”
The eyes of the brown focus on every step, the lips are carrying the burden of the clenched jaws, the brows are knitted. The eyes of the amber approach slowly, cups of wine in both hands, and when they arrive one step beyond, the eyes of the brown freeze, holding the breath. The cup in right hand is brought forward.
“Wine?” the smile follows the question. The hilt is slowly released, the hand is raised to take the offering, the eyes are locked on each pair. The empty right hand moves back, now the cups are held by the two. The cup recently taken is slowly raised one moment towards the lips, but immediately stops.
The eyes of the amber are squeezed under the frowning brows and the pursed lips: “Here, let me calm you down.” The cup is taken back readily, the other hand jerks instantly in the flash of the move, yet retains the position. Drinking from the cup that was offered a moment ago then taken back, the nose and the lips under the eyes of the amber grimace: “Aah. The only harm it has is its disgusting taste. You should really have Amarone instead,” then the cup is handed back. Reluctantly grasping the cup once again, the eyes of the brown open wide in astonishing alert of the night.
Turning his back to the nervous host of the chambers, the unexpected guest walks towards the window, while taking another sip of wine, now from his own cup.
“What do you want?”
“To talk,” replies the guest, without turning his face. The host regains his confidence in the situation: “Then it would be better if we meet in the morning, Sebastiano.”
“On the contrary, we have to talk now,” the words follow hastily, “I need knowledge… of reliable sources, and you have it.”
Frowning in questions, but feeling the exhaustion of the guest, “It is your misfortune that the Doge is still in power after your efforts.” The words end with the utmost certainty, relieving the responsibility: “I answer only to the Emperor, and only to him. It was already decided, and it was you approving the agreement. I cannot be accused of having better relations with the Doge nowadays.”
“Yes,” the reply cuts in but with tired voice. Immediately it is pulled back to the intimidating seriousness: “I am not accusing you for any of it, Jörg. I was the one accelerating the process, hoping the Doge would hesitate in return. He was the one wanting to keep the Royal Palace as a friend, instead of a foe, yet stalling in replies for an alliance,” the words are flowing as if they are said in a confession. “After the conquest, I actually expected him to oppose the coronation of Frederick. That would have increased the pressure on him before the trial, but he accepted and supported and congratulated your emperor readily.” The host is amazed by what he is hearing. The guest is still looking through the window, watching the night of the island, with his back still turned to him.
“He is growing in power.”
The guest shakes his head, “Growing? You mean the arrival of the bürgermeister of Regensburg? That is not that much of importance.”
“But your case against him –
“His son is dead. Executed in Crete.”
The host opens his eyes of the brown wildly, shaking uncontrollably, focusing on the guest impulsively.
“Yes, every plan undergoes certain pitfalls on its course, but I did not become a member of the Council of Ten by failing in my plans at such unseen occurrences. I was hoping to hold his son as an exiled convict in the Morea for leverage awaiting the trial, but Konstantinos surprised me. Yet this led to newer opportunities. I had to give that order. The Doge can gather as much ally as he wants in his so-called league, or circle, or council, or what else he wants to name it. He can fool everyone by arranging festivities and bringing artists from all Latin lands to enjoy. He can boast about that puny treaty he made as much as he wants. Now a broken man, the Doge is. A new trial awaits him.”
“For what?”
“Conspiring to start unlawful wars, on top of bribery and corruption.” The words stop in the dead of the night, silently disperse through the stars, gently dancing over the candle lights. Turning back, drinking from the cup, the guest looks at the host, but with a smile under his eyes of the amber narrowed down violently.
Suddenly realising the meaning, the eyes of the brown frantically shake, then move from one side to the other, then stop in hopeless focus.
“Calm down, Jörg. You are not part of the trial,” the eyes of the amber approach.
“Then why are you here? Why do you speak of your plans to me? I am not part of the Circle. You should talk to your confidant – is it Mestre?”
“That merchant? Huh. Giving enough ducats, he can talk to anyone, as he does to you, but he cannot keep any secrets, as he does with you.”
“Then… The Patriarch?” the eyes of the brown ask further to gain more time.
“The Patriarch? No, Jörg. That man is terrifying, I agree, and he cannot be trusted.”
“And it cannot be Achille?” the eyes of the brown struggle to understand, yet feeling the panic.
“Aah. Again, he is also careless about whom he speaks with, provided he is given a title and a piece of land. Those you have been talking to in your own affairs; none is important. All I need is you, Jörg; your help. Despite not being part of it at all, yet crucial you are, for now, for my plan, for the Serene Republic.”
“I… I do not understand,” the eyes of the brown stretch anxiously.
“Just as you are, I am also in need of knowledge. A simple question, at first: To whom did you send the heralds this day?”
The eyes of the amber are now staring at him. The eyes of the brown are still in the turmoil of the moment, unable to follow the routes laid behind the question they are directed with, the host silently breathes, yet fast.
“I answer only to the Emperor, and only to him. You do know this.”
“Excellent. Exactly.”
The generous smile sits on the lips under the eyes of the amber, and in return, but after longer than a brief moment, the eyes of the brown relieve from their worried position.
“And you wrote every word you had heard, whether at the docks, else in the villas, otherwise on the streets of dark. Yes?”
“I serve His Majesty as much I can muster in my capacity, as he expects from me.”
“Excellent. So I suppose.”
Now the smile spreads into the room, weakly shared also by the lips under the eyes of the brown. The air in the chambers becomes thinner, the light from the candles floats from the walls, the songs of the night chant through the island, heard through the window, flowing through their ears.
The cup is raised and brought forward before the eyes of the amber: “Then a toast. In honour of the falling Doge. The rumours of conspiring to expand the Domains unlawfully beyond the Adriatic coast are surfaced for so long, they have been in whispers among the many for so long. This already gives ample reason for a new trial. A conclusive one, this will be.”
The other cup hesitantly follows before the already raised one. The eyes of the brown are still in the mist of all the words of the night, yet the last exchange brings the attention to the focus: “So you will make your case based on this, I see. His Majesty will be also pleased, and he will never forget those who help his cause,” and the cups reach the same level in celebration of the moment, and the smiles are shared in joy of the agreement, and the wine is drunk in comfort of the announcement. The lips under the eyes of the amber smile broadly after enduring the dreadful wine, “Do you feel it too, Jörg, when one nears so close to what is desired, when the plans match the vision one may have, when the days to come reach the border of horizon; that border?”
After the sips of the toast, the eyes of the brown are softened, “I would like to help further as I can, Sebastiano. The words of this night will reach the Royal Palace, I assure you,” but the response arrives in return immediately: “No.”
“Then what do you need?”
“A scandal.”
The eyes of the amber are half-opened, not for enjoying the wine, but by the confidence of knowing what must be done, and the smile beneath is retained.
The brows over the eyes of the brown frown, accompanied with the questioning smile of the lips.
Unable to realise it before the dagger cuts through the air from below, entering through the throat, piercing through the mouth until the edge reaches the back of the head, the eyes of the brown remain open in savage bewilderment against the eyes of the amber, then they are lost in the darkening of nothingness.
[*] The Border of the soundtrack album for Sicario (d. Denis Villeneuve) by Jóhann Jóhannsson (2015)
Edit 27.01.2024: Corrected formatting, semantic, punctuation, grammar mistakes.
