V—Papero Braigo of Florencia

With each step, something upon him jingled, weather they were little bits of armor within his blue cloak, or his sword knocking about within its slightly loose scabbard.

He came into the Florencian side of the House of Gates.

“Papero?” a young man asked, his tone sounding surprised.

He turned to regard the man. It was Michael, a young lord of House Rello. With a sweeping bow, he said, “None other, young lord.”

“As always, Papero, you have a mysterious smile on your face.”

“Do I?”

“Indeed,” Michael said, sweeping back a lock of his short blonde hair. He was wearing a calf-length green coat, an inner vest of white and white trousers with black boots. At his hip was a long dagger. “I thought you would not respond to our Empress’ summons.”

“And why ever would I not? Do you think me disloyal?”

“Of course not!”

The ante-chamber of this entrance was wide, a hall leading both west and east with a massive door straight forward. It was open, a porter standing at attention to receive guests into the main drawing room.

“I just thought,” Michael continued, “that perhaps—with your journeying, you might not have received the summons. I have to say I am quite happy to see you here.”

“Thank you, Michael. It pleases me to see you as well. How is your family?”

“Quite well, my lord, though…”

“Yes?”

“We are all quite confused.” The young man lifted his arms slightly.

Papero nodded.

Indeed, he thought. Another attempted parley. They have all failed up to now.

“Perhaps peace can be attained this time,” he said.

Not likely.

“Last time I met Lucian nobles, they sneered at me,” Michael said hotly. “I hate them.”

“Now, now,” Papero said. “They hate us as much as we hate them. We have all been killing each other since time immemorial, have we not?”

“Well yes, but—“

“But what? They started it? We started it but they were the aggressors? They started the war, but it was us Florencians who took the fighting to a whole new level of vicious violence?”

“I—well—it’s…”

“Indeed,” Papero said with a smile. “We kill each other because at the time in our histories, it is our culture to do so.”

Michael looked at him with wide eyes, his face reddening. “That’s not true!”

Papero smiled, walked up to the young lordling and put a hand on his shoulder. “Bother yourself with the particulars of our impossible history, my boy.”

Then he passed Michael by and was admitted into the main drawing room on the Florencian side.

There were his kin and countrymen everywhere, young and old, angry and meek, hot-blooded and cold alike.

With a sigh of delight, he strode in.

If half of them knew my dealings with Lucian nobility and common folk alike, they would find the nearest lamp post and hang me.