The Night Giuseppe Arrived at the Capital
—Lord Giuseppe, we have arrived at the manor house in the capital. —said his escort, his voice muffled by the thick wooden door of the carriage.
Giuseppe opened his eyes.
—Thank you very much for your effort, guards. —said Giuseppe, offering a polite nod—. If it is not too much to ask, could you bring my belongings inside?
—With pleasure, my lord. —the guards replied in unison.
The House of Cortes' residence in the capital was a manor of modest proportions, even small by the standards of the "Who has the largest" competition constantly played out among the capital's high nobility. In a city where marble columns and gold-leafed gates were considered basic necessities, the Cortes manor stood as a testament to a different era.
However, despite its humble size, its value was incalculable due to its location. It sat nestled near the third wall, the innermost circle of the city, where the pulse of the Kingdom's political power beat strongest.
The facade of the manor was built of grey granite, unadorned but imposing. A small front garden acted as a buffer against the noise of the street, and a modest driveway allowed for the discreet arrival of carriages. The simple but elegant stairs led to a heavy oak door.
The entire structure transmitted exactly who the Cortes were: "Nobles of the Sword." They were people of steel and duty, though that did not prevent them from producing some of the finest administrative minds in the Kingdom's history.
Upon entering, the interior reflected the same Spartan philosophy. The floors were made of polished dark stone, cold to the touch but impeccably clean. The walls were not covered in the gaudy, colorful tapestries; instead, they displayed meticulously maintained suits of ancestral armor and heavy wool hangings in deep navy and silver—the family colors.
While the house was a fortress of sobriety, the garden was a sanctuary of controlled wilderness. High stone walls protected a collection of rare flora, arranged in geometric patterns that softened the harshness of the architecture.
There were rosebushes from the western vales, weeping willows surrounding a small, crystal-clear pond, and a dedicated section for medicinal herbs that the Countess herself oversaw. It was a place where the scent of lavender and jasmine drowned out the city's stench, a small piece of paradise.
Giuseppe entered one of the guest rooms. It was a spacious chamber, dominated by a large desk and a bed with a firm mattress. He wasted no time. After his items were neatly placed by the servants, he sat at the desk, lit a heavy tallow candle, and began to write. He needed to prepare the reports for his lord, the Count, while also documenting his own strategic thoughts for the upcoming Council of Nobles.
—My lord, do you desire something to eat? —asked one of the cooks, a permanent member of the manor's staff who had appeared at the door with a quiet grace.
—Something light. Perhaps a portion of grilled chicken breast with a fresh salad and a glass of lemonade. —said Giuseppe, lifting his gaze from the parchment to address the woman.
—As you wish, my lord. —she said, curtsying before withdrawing to the kitchens.
Giuseppe returned to his writing. His quill scratched aggressively against the paper, the sound echoing in the silent room.
—Of the primary concerns I hold —he wrote—. is that the King may consider the short-term aid of the Duke and his partisans more important than the long-term stability of the realm. I foresee that the King has a natural inclination to stop this futile war between the kingdom's nobles once and for all, but one can never be certain. Furthermore, I heard today that tensions on the border with the Empire are growing at an alarming rate.
He paused, dipping the quill in the inkwell.
—Given that they have just won the war against the southern confederation of tribes in a crushing manner —he continued—. it is not far-fetched to think that the moderate faction within the Empire is being suppressed. The warmongers are now the national heroes, the icons whom the youth aspire to emulate.
—This internal pressure for expansion may be the reason for the drastic increase in border incidents. Perhaps some are even being orchestrated by local commanders, acting without the express order or permission of their capital, seeking glory to match their peers.
—On the other hand, it is no secret to anyone that the inflation the Empire is suffering—due to the excessive expenditures incurred by the war—could be one more reason to initiate aggression against a foreign nation. Attacking our Kingdom achieves two primary goals. First, they gain our excellent farmlands, which are more fertile than the earth of the south in average. Second, the Kingdom is much wealthier than the Confederation, at least in terms of current monetary theory.
—We trade primarily in precious metals, not through barter or the "You owe me one" system common among the tribes. This means they may seek to seize our national and local reserves of gold and silver to alleviate their inflation, melting our coins to mint their own with a higher precious metal content to stabilize their legal tender.
—Therefore, based on the limited information available, my opinion is that we will be in open conflict with the Empire within no more than two years. The timeframe is broad, but considering they have just emerged from a war and are still pacifying newly annexed territories, it may take some time before any serious aggression is launched against our Kingdom.
—Despite this, and keeping in mind the nature of His Majesty Frederick, I intend to appeal to national unity against the external enemy. The goal is to dismantle the practical-economic argument of the Duke of Susa and the Marquis: the idea that we must keep them happy and ignore their petty schemes to ensure their support in the preparation and in the war itself.
Leaving his writing, Giuseppe stood up to stretch his aching muscles. Just then, a knock at the door signaled the arrival of his meal.
—My lord, with your permission. I have brought your dinner. —said the cook.
—Thank you for bringing it to the room, Mistress... —he said, pausing as he tried to recall her name.
—Sacha, my lord. —she said with a respectful bow, placing the tray on a side table.
—Thank you, Sacha. —said Giuseppe. He then glanced at his escort, who had been standing silently in the corner of the room.
The guard stepped forward immediately. With practiced efficiency, he took a small piece of the chicken, a portion of the salad, and a sip of the lemonade. He chewed slowly, his expression neutral, and swallowed. For five minutes, the room fell into a heavy silence as Giuseppe watched the guard, waiting for any sign of a tremor, a change in skin tone, or a sudden shortness of breath.
—No problems, my lord. —the escort finally said.
—Excellent. —Giuseppe replied, and only then did he proceed to devour his meal with the hunger.
...
Morning arrived with the pale, cold light characteristic of the capital. Giuseppe woke early, long before the sun had fully cleared the city walls. He took a quick, bracing bath in cold water to sharpen his senses and headed downstairs for the breakfast the cooks had prepared: scrambled eggs, thick pancakes with honey, fresh orange juice, and a selection of seasonal fruits.
—Gentlemen, today we head toward the manor of Duke Baranoa. We leave in fifteen minutes. The Duke is a man who values punctuality above almost all other virtues. —Giuseppe announced to his men.
—At your command, my lord. —responded the guards. Some were eating hurriedly, while others stood as sentinels, the two groups rotating so they were never caught off guard.
The journey to the Duke's estate was short but transformative. As they moved closer to the Royal Palace, the architecture shifted from functional stone to an explosion of opulence by the nobles.
—We have arrived. The moment of truth —Giuseppe thought to himself as the carriage pulled up to the gates. He stepped out and straightened his cloak—. Good morning, respected knight. I am here representing Count Cortes of Pastto. I am Giuseppe Milano, and I have an appointment with the Duke —he said, maintaining his habitual "poker face."
—A moment while we confirm. —said the Guard of House Baranoa, whose silver-plated armor was so polished it acted like a mirror.
While he waited for confirmation, Giuseppe took a long, calculating look at the Duke's manor. It was the physical manifestation of ancestral wealth. A vast mansion in the traditional high-gothic style, it sat literally outside the walls of the Royal Palace, a location so prestigious it was reserved only for the highest tier of the nobility.
The walls were made of white marble that seemed to glow, accented with gold leaf and intricate carvings of lions and eagles. Tall, narrow windows with stained glass depicted the Baranoa's glorious ancestors. It was a place where every brick whispered of power, shared only by other dukes, lateral members of the royal family, and the occasional merchant-noble who had enough money to brag about it.
—Lord Giuseppe, you are welcome to enter. The Duke is expecting you in his study. However, you must leave all weapons here before entering. Security protocols. —the guard stated firmly.
—Of course. Lead the way. —said Giuseppe, his voice calm.