Torriani Family Estate
Novara, Grand Duchy of Potenza
A familiar sound crept through the halls of the royal estate. It was a certain, slow-moving click-plop that all the guards, all the servants, and all the attendants had learned to recognize immediately, and apply a name and face. It belonged to none other than the Count Guido della Torre, the heir to the Torriani household. The plop was the sound of his one foot, the click the sound of his cane following. When he was only five years old, he was at a parade when a motorized float went astray, running him over. The wounds were so bad that they had to amputate the harmed leg. It was major news at the time, but since then the duchy had forgotten it. Those who remembered were his mother and those who worked at the large estate. Every time the count moved, the echo of the large rooms and hallways announced him.
As he walked, wearing the traditional royal uniform of Potenza royalty - what most would identify as a military uniform, bearing the familiar Torriani crest on one of the medals. Under his arm was a newspaper he had just finished reading. As he passed a nearby bin he casually dropped the paper inside, not even turning to look. He approached the door, where a royal attendant was bowing smartly at the waist and pushing the door open with his left hand.
"Her royal highness is outside, your excellency," he said.
"Good," was all the count said as he stepped outside, seeing the Torriani family limo waiting at the bottom of the steps. For his sake, a ramp had been constructed right at the middle of the steps. He was thankful for that, as it meant he moved down the middle as true prince and not down the side (like most ramps were placed) as if he was a pauper. At the bottom of the ramp was a chauffeur, waiting patiently as he held the door. The black limo had two flags up from, bearing the Torriani crest, and was flanked on either side by police officers supplied by the Ministry of Law Enforcement.
"Good afternoon, your excellency," the chauffeur said kindly as he opened the door.
Guido said nothing as he stepped inside - with some difficulty. He refused to have help, and most of the newly hired servants were quickly advised by their veteran peers not to offer their hand even if it seemed that Guido was about to fall. When he had managed to get inside and sit down in his seat, he looked across and saw the outline of his sister, the Countess Francesca. When the door was shut, shutting out the light of the outside world, her form was more visible. She was a tall woman, only a year older than the 26-year old count, and had the same dark-brown hair that he did. She was wearing a modest dress with her hair done up in a bun, as was common with much of the Potenzan royalty. Her hands were folded one over the other on her lap, as if she had been waiting for her brother for some time.
"I appreciate the copy of Il Ducato," he said curtly.
Francesca nodded, "I imagine you knew what I wanted you to see."
Guido let his cane fall towards his lap, resting on his stomach as the lower half fell towards Francesca's feet, "Elections. Very clever of him. Do you know why he had to call elections?"
"Why?" Francesca had an inkling why, but did not want to steal a chance for her younger brother to explain himself.
Guido smiled, holding up his finger and pointing towards her, then lifting up his thumb as if to create a gun, "...because fingers were starting to be pointed at him." He put his hand back down and stared out the tinted windows. The limo was moving through the city, towards an event they were expected to attend - one of many that week. So many that Guido cared little what it was about.
"He gave the approval for the economic reforms," he finally continued, "privately, mind you, but enough people knew that it could become more public than he would have preferred."
"So he dissolves parliament," Francesca said, "to get the public's attention away."
"An election is a sloppy way of doing it," added Guido, "but...effective enough. In the olden times, whenever the locals feared supposed plagues of witchcraft, the judge would drag out a whore and have her hung. Finito - the witchcraft problem was 'solved', and the people were satisfied. What our gracious duke did was drag the whore of parliament out and have her hung."
The count looked down, seeing a small speck on his white pants. He flicked it with his finger before continuing:
"Somewhat auspicious. A socialist prime minister and a closet-socialist duke is a terrible pair for a kingdom to have. Right now they've managed to turn against each other."
"But, dear brother," said Francesca, smiling softly on her dark red lips, "who is to say that this socialist whore won't survive the hanging? The people might change their minds...whores have their use, after all."
"Yes, well, that is something we shall have to look into, won't it?" Guido replied. "I intend to make certain that the parliament the nation gets after this election is the parliament it needs."
"How will you do that?"
The count turned to his sister and gave a half-hearted smirk, "There are many parties, Francesca. I have one of them in my sights. A young politician in their midst, a new leader..."
"The greatest leader Potenza has ever had?"
"Come now, dear sister - I said the parliament the nation needs, not the parliament the nation wants."
Guido turned his gaze back out the window. There was a moment of silence between the two Torriani royals, the only sound being the soft hum of the limo's engine. Finally Francesca asked:
"I'm surprised you haven't asked-"
"You're right," interrupted Guido, "forgive me. How is the ailing idiot doing?"
Ailing idiot - that was how Guido referred to his own father, Duke Martino della Torre. The head of the Torriani household had been showing more and more signs of age, as every year his mental health seemed to be on the decline. There were rumors of Alzheimer's, but the doctors had firmly denied this. Guido had shown great impatience with this, and acted as if the Torriani duke was defying God and death just to mock his own son.
"Declining," was Francesca's short reply.
The limo came to a stop as they arrived outside the convention center. Guido sighed, "Perhaps the fool will live another 51 years..." The door opened to the two, and all discussions of government reform came to a halt.
Novara, Grand Duchy of Potenza
A familiar sound crept through the halls of the royal estate. It was a certain, slow-moving click-plop that all the guards, all the servants, and all the attendants had learned to recognize immediately, and apply a name and face. It belonged to none other than the Count Guido della Torre, the heir to the Torriani household. The plop was the sound of his one foot, the click the sound of his cane following. When he was only five years old, he was at a parade when a motorized float went astray, running him over. The wounds were so bad that they had to amputate the harmed leg. It was major news at the time, but since then the duchy had forgotten it. Those who remembered were his mother and those who worked at the large estate. Every time the count moved, the echo of the large rooms and hallways announced him.
As he walked, wearing the traditional royal uniform of Potenza royalty - what most would identify as a military uniform, bearing the familiar Torriani crest on one of the medals. Under his arm was a newspaper he had just finished reading. As he passed a nearby bin he casually dropped the paper inside, not even turning to look. He approached the door, where a royal attendant was bowing smartly at the waist and pushing the door open with his left hand.
"Her royal highness is outside, your excellency," he said.
"Good," was all the count said as he stepped outside, seeing the Torriani family limo waiting at the bottom of the steps. For his sake, a ramp had been constructed right at the middle of the steps. He was thankful for that, as it meant he moved down the middle as true prince and not down the side (like most ramps were placed) as if he was a pauper. At the bottom of the ramp was a chauffeur, waiting patiently as he held the door. The black limo had two flags up from, bearing the Torriani crest, and was flanked on either side by police officers supplied by the Ministry of Law Enforcement.
"Good afternoon, your excellency," the chauffeur said kindly as he opened the door.
Guido said nothing as he stepped inside - with some difficulty. He refused to have help, and most of the newly hired servants were quickly advised by their veteran peers not to offer their hand even if it seemed that Guido was about to fall. When he had managed to get inside and sit down in his seat, he looked across and saw the outline of his sister, the Countess Francesca. When the door was shut, shutting out the light of the outside world, her form was more visible. She was a tall woman, only a year older than the 26-year old count, and had the same dark-brown hair that he did. She was wearing a modest dress with her hair done up in a bun, as was common with much of the Potenzan royalty. Her hands were folded one over the other on her lap, as if she had been waiting for her brother for some time.
"I appreciate the copy of Il Ducato," he said curtly.
Francesca nodded, "I imagine you knew what I wanted you to see."
Guido let his cane fall towards his lap, resting on his stomach as the lower half fell towards Francesca's feet, "Elections. Very clever of him. Do you know why he had to call elections?"
"Why?" Francesca had an inkling why, but did not want to steal a chance for her younger brother to explain himself.
Guido smiled, holding up his finger and pointing towards her, then lifting up his thumb as if to create a gun, "...because fingers were starting to be pointed at him." He put his hand back down and stared out the tinted windows. The limo was moving through the city, towards an event they were expected to attend - one of many that week. So many that Guido cared little what it was about.
"He gave the approval for the economic reforms," he finally continued, "privately, mind you, but enough people knew that it could become more public than he would have preferred."
"So he dissolves parliament," Francesca said, "to get the public's attention away."
"An election is a sloppy way of doing it," added Guido, "but...effective enough. In the olden times, whenever the locals feared supposed plagues of witchcraft, the judge would drag out a whore and have her hung. Finito - the witchcraft problem was 'solved', and the people were satisfied. What our gracious duke did was drag the whore of parliament out and have her hung."
The count looked down, seeing a small speck on his white pants. He flicked it with his finger before continuing:
"Somewhat auspicious. A socialist prime minister and a closet-socialist duke is a terrible pair for a kingdom to have. Right now they've managed to turn against each other."
"But, dear brother," said Francesca, smiling softly on her dark red lips, "who is to say that this socialist whore won't survive the hanging? The people might change their minds...whores have their use, after all."
"Yes, well, that is something we shall have to look into, won't it?" Guido replied. "I intend to make certain that the parliament the nation gets after this election is the parliament it needs."
"How will you do that?"
The count turned to his sister and gave a half-hearted smirk, "There are many parties, Francesca. I have one of them in my sights. A young politician in their midst, a new leader..."
"The greatest leader Potenza has ever had?"
"Come now, dear sister - I said the parliament the nation needs, not the parliament the nation wants."
Guido turned his gaze back out the window. There was a moment of silence between the two Torriani royals, the only sound being the soft hum of the limo's engine. Finally Francesca asked:
"I'm surprised you haven't asked-"
"You're right," interrupted Guido, "forgive me. How is the ailing idiot doing?"
Ailing idiot - that was how Guido referred to his own father, Duke Martino della Torre. The head of the Torriani household had been showing more and more signs of age, as every year his mental health seemed to be on the decline. There were rumors of Alzheimer's, but the doctors had firmly denied this. Guido had shown great impatience with this, and acted as if the Torriani duke was defying God and death just to mock his own son.
"Declining," was Francesca's short reply.
The limo came to a stop as they arrived outside the convention center. Guido sighed, "Perhaps the fool will live another 51 years..." The door opened to the two, and all discussions of government reform came to a halt.