A Little Nettle Rash (Magaritte 3/4)

Index: Our Better Wolves

Recap: Just returned from a four-year deployment, Mago Tenente Magaritte Aseni visited the Grove of Libitina where she received her father's skull as a momento. She then joined her friend Vernia to witness a crucial vote over the war budget in the Vericanti Senato. She and her Scarlet Sarks will be heading to the Western Front in just three days and she needed to discuss the political situation with Vernia. Vernia wants to talk about Magaritte's father, however.

They talked about Garibald, of course. And Rabia—there was still that twinge in Vernia. The doings of the Sarks; and the workings of the Ministero.

Vernia told her of the assets and caches she’d sown in Estruey, Curael, and in the Forest of Sam—not even Arolio knew about that one. “But don’t go there unless you absolutely must. Our messengers no longer stop on the river east of Temura—too many have gone missing. And be careful in Temura. You’ll read the reports soon enough. Feritz says your allotment will be to your liking. Right by the river.”

“And the mosquitoes.”

At that point, a brawl broke out on the floor. Five senatori had each other by the throats and the scruff, and fists flailed in tantrums. Artless bastardi.

Vernia folded the brown wrapping into a higher cushion for Margaritte’s father to see better.

Magaritte leaned over as well. Prince Iamchóras had startled awake, and Boudavecca grew bored then left. The Presidente banged the speaker’s stone, and the Alta Guardia separated the five senatori with blunt polearms.

Capitano Mascella rushed in, even on his stiff leg. He wore a silver-gleaming chest plate and greaves over white linens with grey piping; his rapier not yet drawn. He must be nearing sixty now, Magaritte guessed. He had done the handsome thing and shaved his head completely since last she saw him. His beard was fully white except for the two remaining black streaks at the corners of his mouth.

They sent the senatori sprawling on the marble as the Presidente lectured from the Dais and handed down fines. His voice barely made it into the rotunda for all his yelling.

“At least the senatori are ready for battle,” Magaritte said.

Vernia tutted at that. “Barely a third of this class have served in the Companies—and what have the Companies done lately? Of course, they all scurried home for important legislative business when the war came. Must keep the economy chugging, yes? They’re all bleating for glory and honor and unity when they make speeches back home. On their own terms, of course. But there will be bravi out tonight in Perta. The Families have started hiring them for their little feuds again. There will be a crack-down soon, from on high.”

Full conscription or death for every bravi caught dueling. Magaritte wasn’t sure how to feel about that—she had one former bravi to deal with already; but the Cagne would need replenishment. The Eternal Lists already grew.

The men picked themselves up, each party exiting their respective doors. And within minutes they had scrappled up the sunken stairs into the Piazza, a running band of fisticuffs—at least they weren’t allowed weapons on the Sixth Mount. Below, the senatori were uproarious with each other and the Dais. Capitano Mascella openly threatened any other senatori who would like to break decorum. His voice was a barrage into the sky.

“Oh, gods, Vernia,” Magaritte exclaimed. “By all the armored tits of Zhoatlicue, you’ve let the place slide.”

“We shall all sup at her tits, in a year’s time.” She raised her espresso. “It’s only the second fight this season.” She looked down at the Capitano. “He really is one of the last great men still holding it together. I love that man.”

She was much more relaxed with it than Magaritte. A lesson to herself: the Sarks were used to failed regimes, a bit of a specialty, and all that attended them. So, this is what it’s like in your own home. The politics were always harsh, but regular bouts on the floor? murderers sent around as proxies? And if fortune spins back around to bite them now? Better now, before we deplete ourselves.

Magaritte looked over at the ruckus, which began rolling across the paving stones, a tangle of weak fists. So, this was how her Republic lurched toward a second empire, a ten-tongued, two-hundred-armed monstrosity.

The Guardia in the Piazza chased after the senatori, but Magaritte had had enough. She focused a bit, tossed a little casting, and the scrum broke apart, screaming and scratching. A little nettle rash for them if they weren’t going to get her paid.

Vernia turned toward her. “You’re positively glowing, my love.”

Magaritte held out her hand and sure enough, a fuscia aura was on her skin. The Piazza’s defenses had marked her, as had a young guard.

He approached, and they laughed anyways. “Signora Vernia.” He nodded to her with respect and some fear as well.

“Rudalfo,” she said demurely, and he flushed. He was very handsome and didn’t truly know his peril. Magaritte knew that posture of Vernia’s.

“Tenente,” he looked to Magaritte’s glowing skin, and the rank on her epaulets.

“I apologize to the House, signor.”

“It was merely an amusement for the old soldato.” Vernia stroked the skull’s crystal hairline.

That was enough for Rudalfo. His flush deepened, or perhaps that was the reflected glow from Vernia’s skin. All he could do was nod his acceptance. He needed to get out from under Vernia’s presence but not before a prolonged bow.

The two women laughed some more when they believed his pride was out of earshot.

The Presidente closed debate and called a recess; then the vote—those men would not get one. Had Arolio counted on that? His time was soon, and Magaritte had never wished him so much good fortune. The relative gains to the Cagne almost didn’t matter now. Almost. Pay me.

The senatori retreated to their cloak rooms beneath the feet of the two wizardress of Perta. The scribes collected their day’s work and disappeared into the backrooms.

Arolio came to his place at the Dais with his papers. He often liked to magically appear to the senatori when they re-entered. Ministro Arolio was already prepared and planning his next move. He was no wizard, simply a ministero of war, meek and bespectacled, sublimely professional in his grey cloak and blue cravat. He sat without acknowledging the Presidente, and the Presidente ignored it concertedly.

“I spent some time with your father. A few afternoons on the Colanna Verdi,” Vernia began and Magaritte knew from her tone that she would not stop.

“We were at the docks inspecting the new sails for the Aldono Fleet and he was there. He sewed the canvas for the Golden Barge, actually. He was proud of it because he knew it was for the Sarks… you. He wanted to know all about you these last years. I showed him your one letter. I didn’t even redact it.

“I made sure his file was updated with your post—I hoped you wouldn’t mind. And he’d let his pension lapse somehow. He took care of it, though. I had to scold him. But he received the back payments, so he would go eat steak once a month at the veteran’s hall.

“He wrote his own piece for the Lists. He joked about escaping the Cenotaphs—"

She sat upright and breathed. “Not here.”

“No, you’re right. Not here.”