"It would be my pleasure," I said. I fidgeted for a moment, looking at the overly large blade on Charlotte's back and watching the author scribble. "Why do they call you Unkillable? I mean, I was unkillable once, but that was more of an accident than anything.”

  Charlotte sighed and shook her head. "I think some things are better left unsaid. Why don't you tell me more about working for Death?"

  "Actually, I'm more interested in how it is that I came to meet Machiavelli and a time walking half giantess with her journalist companion in the same day," I said. "This is one of those things that has me thinking Life got involved. She's tricky like that…Maybe it will be easier than I thought to figure out what she wants from me."

  Time of Death

  At the end of my watch—for which I felt extraordinarily unqualified, but considering the worst thing I had to fend off was a goat, I was still pleased—I managed to follow the precise instructions Machiavelli gave me for how to get back to his house. I was stumbling along the darkened cobbled streets and wishing for Google Maps. I felt the familiar weight of my phone against my leg and took a deep breath. It would be of no help to me. My familiar comfort was nothing more than a weight in my pocket. Then, glancing at the street, I found I recognised it. Not only that, but Machiavelli was standing in the doorway, waiting for me with an amused smile.

  My shoulders straightened at that tiny victory. It was silly, really. I’d not only had Machiavelli go over the directions with me three times, but he walked me from the house to the guardhouse. After receiving my measly pay for a night’s work, I had managed to make it back to my destination without any help. Money in my pocket and that tiny victory had me feeling like I could take on a particularly irked hobgoblin.

  The result was that I was fairly sauntering up to Machiavelli as dawn hit. He looked at me with a smirk. "I take it things did not go too badly?" He asked.

  I shrugged. "I think I might have accidentally let in a girl and some chickens, but otherwise it was fairly quiet. I'm surprised that your city is so free with their guard positions."

  Machiavelli turned and gestured me inside. The little house was connected to the buildings next to it and I expected it to be much like the pub from the day before. But this was cosier and somehow more comforting, as well as amazingly extravagant and exactly what I would expect from the height of the Renaissance. The floor was stone except for where a few small handwoven rugs had been laid down. A cat lay on those, claws happily tearing apart good craftsmanship. A wooden table with vines carved up the legs sat in the far corner of the room, next to a fire with an iron grate, probably for cooking of some sort. There were several dead birds, all plucked, sitting on the table. A small wooden icon hung on the wall next to the stairs. In all, it was far more comfortable than I had anticipated. Except for the lack of running water, the lack of modern cooking supplies, it felt much like my own home.

  "We have had some difficult times recently," Machiavelli explained after a moment, apparently considering my question to be a serious press for information. He didn’t bother to elaborate further. I had a feeling that the French were not the only problems facing this city.

  He led me up the stairs to a room with a small bed, also intricately carved but somehow still simple. "This is for you.”

  With that declaration, he sighed and shook his head, leaning against the doorframe. “There have been political machinations that have made Florence perhaps more vulnerable than otherwise. The Medici are struggling against Savonarola, who has been off causing them a few problems. That unrest trickles down to the rest of us comparatively lowly sorts. So, the city guard must get its people where it can.”

  “You’re going to have problems if they keep it up,” I pointed out. Machiavelli nodded, giving me a mischievous grin.

  “It will not be boring, that is certain,” he said. “Now, get some sleep. I have things to attend to and you look as though you will collapse at any moment.”

  I nodded and before I could formulate a properly grateful response, Machiavelli was gone and I was asleep on an extraordinarily uncomfortable bed. It didn’t occur to me until I woke up some seven hours later, that I had been awake for approximately forty-eight hours. Going out with Life and Death, being transported to Italy, where I was chased, became probably drunk, then sat up all night guarding a city that wasn’t even my own with a half-giantess…it had been a rather busy couple of days.

  I woke with sunlight streaming through my eyes. My mouth tasted like old carpet and I realised, only after instinctively moving to put my glasses on, that I was not in a place where that would be a good idea. I sat up and looked around, hoping to find a washbasin or something. I had a feeling a toothbrush would be way, way out of the question. Actually, I didn’t have any idea what people did for their teeth in 1494, but given the teeth I had seen thus far, I had a feeling it had little to do with toothpaste and floss. I did spot a basin and pitcher, which was half-full of water. I poured it out over my head, shocking me into alertness, then used what little remained to swish around my mouth and prayed for the best. Hopefully I wouldn’t be here long enough to require what these people used for a dentist.

  Then, I spotted something sitting on a stool by the door. It was a pile of fabric. Actually, it was several different fabrics. I went through the pile and found a whole collection of fairly interesting pieces of clothing that I assumed I was meant to wear. By the time I figured out what went where, I was sure I looked like a fool. Compared to the clothing Machiavelli was wearing yesterday, this felt…uncomfortably risqué. I had a tunic doublet thing which dipped quite low on the chest, revealing the shirt beneath. The tunic doublet thing that the other men I had seen wearing went almost to their knees. Mine did not. It hit about mid thigh and left the rest of my legs—thankfully covered in a strange pair of beige-yellow tights or leggings or something. The worst part was a codpiece, which presence was enough to make me want to beat Time quite thoroughly.

  I tugged the doublet as far down as it would go in a desperate attempt to retain my dignity while trying to tug my boots higher. I felt like I was in a Shakespearean play, prancing about for everyone to see. Not particularly masculine, let me tell you. The leather jacket armour thing had been far better than this, even with the old sweat smell.

  After a few moments of trying to make the clothes better, the door opened and Machiavelli peered in. He saw me awake, standing, looking like a fool, and nodded. “Good. You look normal, now. You must have been out of touch for a very long time to wear such obviously foreign clothing. No one will trust you unless you can act like you have at least tried to adopt our customs.”

  I gave a weak laugh and resisted the urge to try and reposition the codpiece. “Yeah. Scandinavia. We, ah, get colder weather there than here. It’s…different.”

  All I received for that response was a raised eyebrow. My host shook his head then retreated, obviously intending me to follow. I did. Downstairs had changed in the few hours that I had slept. Now there were papers and things strewn about the table instead of the dead birds. I saw something that looked suspiciously like verse, which Machiavelli swept up quickly, eyes fixed on the table. Interesting.

  He sat and pushed a plate of bread with some cheese in my direction. “So!” he said, perhaps too brightly. “What is it that brings you to Florence? We had little time to talk yesterday, with all of the events that seemed to befall you. Are you here to perhaps trade? Or are you a French spy?”

  I spluttered at that last one, nearly choking on the bread. Machiavelli poured me a glass of watered-down wine and I drank it eagerly before I realised what it was. That made me cough all the harder. Eventually, I managed to get my lungs under control. I looked up and glared at Machiavelli, who was doing a poor job of trying to conceal his laughter. At my look, he burst out into full belly laughs.

  “Your face! Oh, what a sight!” he said, pointing at me. I sighed.

  “Why would you do that to me?” I asked, sniffing. Machiavelli shook his head, still lost in the throes of laughter. “I’m not a French spy.”

  “I did not believe you were,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “You dress like a foreigner, get lost at the drop of a hat, and your idioms are unusual. No French spy would be so careless in their execution. Not to mention, you nearly got your head taken off by that woman yesterday. A woman!”

  I frowned and tore off more of my bread. Right. This was before the whole feminist movement. Way, way before. “Women can be quite dangerous,” I said, wondering if it would be possible to instil a sense of decency into the past.

  Machiavelli nodded. “Indeed, sir! I have met many women whose minds are as subtle as snakes. But never before have I seen one wield a greatsword of that size. She looked quite formidable.”

  I settled for the half victory and finished off my food. “You wouldn’t happen to know where, ah, Lorenzo de Medici lives? I’m meeting that woman—Charlotte—there later. She has some business and wants my help.”

  I think I managed to stun my host for the first time since meeting him. Machiavelli’s eyes bugged out and his mouth gaped open and shut like a mute parrot. After a moment, he closed his mouth and just stared at me. I waited.

  “You obviously have a death wish.”

  Well, yes, I was asking to be led into a den of vampires, but I didn’t think that Machiavelli knew that. Besides, it wasn’t like I hadn’t dealt with vampires before, in the future. A few well-placed compliments, a few suggestions on how to improve their image recognition and poof, they practically fell at my feet. After trying to kill me. Still. This time, though, I would have Charlotte the Unkillable and her strange companion to help. It might not be rock troll battle magic, like my assistant Yolanda had, but I had a feeling it would do in a pinch.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked. “I thought you said the Medici were more benevolent than their reputation suggested.”

  “You misunderstand. The Medici fairly run Florence. They are bankers and merchants in a city built on trade. If you come across them in the street, they are not likely to do you any harm; they may even buy from merchants and tradespeople. Dealing with them personally, however…They do not have the full authority of the Church behind them, not with Savanarola, but they certainly have enough power to stand up to the aspects of the Church they dislike. Anyone who can do that and still live—and live well—is a force to fear. I may be from a land-owning family, but I am poor and have no real presence as anything more than a scribe. I would not be able to see them if I scraped my forehead on the stones at their door. You, a foreigner, with no real product to trade, would not be allowed near. Not with all the unrest that Savanarola has been raising. My advice is: if the Medici are your business here in Florence, find another business.”

  All this and they were vampires. Yeah, maybe not my best idea. Still, I had little choice unless I wanted to walk away from Charlotte’s assistance and instead slit my own wrists to try and gain Death’s attention. I doubted that would work very well.

  “Unfortunately, the matter is fixed,” I said. “I have, ah, reasonable confidence that things will go well. Ish. All I need is a point in the right direction. Please.”

  Machiavelli ran his hand through his chin-length hair. He looked around his house, then looked over at me. After a few moments, he frowned and pointed at me accusingly. “Very well. I shall help you. But I warn you now: this will end poorly. One way or another, this will end very poorly.”

  I nodded and fixed a falsely-bright smile on my face in the hopes of being encouraging. “I am extremely familiar with the concept.”

  Machiavelli responded with a skeptical look. He rose and grabbed an overcoat, which he tossed to me, then put another on himself. “Follow me. And try not to get lost.”

  I scrambled to my feet, stuffing the last of the cheese into my mouth, before hopping out the door on one foot and trying to put the overcoat on at the same time. I paused and grabbed some supplies, stuffing them into my pocket before following Machiavelli out the door. So far, I’d been twenty-four hours in the past on a quest to fix the relationship between my boss and his wife, and no one was dead, dying, or maimed. I had no technology, no running water, no glasses and no idea what I was doing. I think things were off to a fairly good start.

  Charlotte and her journalist friend met us outside the Medici main palazzi—what the very rich people called their houses, apparently. It was more than three times the size of Machiavelli’s house and far more extravagant. Charlotte wore a long shirt over mens’ hose and some sort of tunic thing that looked like it came from Scotland, and the journalist author lady—she needed a nickname, because I really wasn't going to call her The Author—wore something a little bit more normal for women of the time: a dress with all the appropriate frills and folds and things I knew nothing about. At least, she looked normal. Ish. Charlotte's giant sword was still strapped across her back, though I had a feeling this would not necessarily go over well with the people we were going to meet.

  "Why did you bring this person with you?" Charlotte asked, pointing at Machiavelli. He took the accusation in stride and simply held up his hands, yawning.

  "I was brought along because Cal Thorpe is exceedingly poor at direction, and because you all seem to be inclined to get into rather a serious amount of trouble. As I like to make a point of knowing what goes on in my city, it seemed only prudent to come along." Machiavelli looked at Charlotte with a wan smile. The Author—curses she was going to be called Mary—raised an eyebrow.

  "Everyone, this is Niccolò Machiavelli. Niccolò, this is Charlotte the Unkillable and her strange writer friend, known as The Author. I've decided to call her Mary." I gestured to each person at the introduction, and all three fell silent, staring in disbelief.

  "Machiavelli?!" Charlotte demanded, her hand twitching in the direction of her sword.

  "The Unkillable?” Machiavelli asked, looking Charlotte up and down like she was some strange piece of modern art.

  "Mary?!" Mary spluttered, glaring at me. "There was nothing wrong with my—"

  "I wasn't going to call you The Author. If we get into trouble, I'm not going to yell out ‘The Author, run!’ So you get to be Mary. And if you don't like it, you are welcome to offer an alternative," I said, effectively shutting down all lines of questioning between all three of them. Charlotte stared, Machiavelli looked impressed, and Mary frowned. But they all seemed to get along well enough.

  Charlotte huffed and turned towards the entrance of the extremely large stone building. It seemed to be a collection of rooms around a central courtyard, with a delicately dripping fountain in the middle. Don't ask me how it worked, because honestly I hadn't even expected them to have running water. The stones in this building were well polished and gleaming. Compared to the rest of the city, this was an extremely wealthy neighbourhood.

  Charlotte took the lead, marching straight into the courtyard. Mary and Machiavelli followed behind her, leaving me to bring up the rear. I took one last look over my shoulder at the setting sun behind us and figured that this was a really bad idea. Unfortunately, it was the only idea we had.

  Charlotte banged her fist on the door, not moving away as it sprang open and revealed a man wearing some sort of leather arming jacket and carrying a thin sword. The armour was far better quality than what I had worn the night before at my city guard post, and I got the impression that this person actually knew how to use that sword. Though, compared to Charlotte's massive blade, I doubted it would do much damage.

  However, I was eminently capable of being stuck with a sword, so I figured I’d avoid a confrontation.

  "Identify yourselves," the man said, putting his hand on the hilt of his blade. Charlotte opened her mouth to respond and I decided that this was perhaps more my territory than hers. I pushed past Mary and Machiavelli and stood beside Charlotte.

  "I am Cal Thorpe and these are my companions, the lady Charlotte, her…maidservant Mary, and Niccolò Machiavelli, a well-known writer and scribe. We wish to speak with your masters, the Medici. And, before you inform us that it is in fact quite late for such a meeting, please tell them that we would prefer this remain more discrete. Our business does not necessarily involve the people who walk the streets of Florence, but the ones who work beneath the surface," I said, pulling out every fancy vowel in my repertoire and doing my best to sound like I knew what I was talking about. I didn't. The last time I had managed an audience with the vampires, they had kidnapped me because of my skill at marketing.

  The guardsmen looked at me like I was a little crazy. I really hoped that whatever magic Time had used to make my words translate properly worked with subtle requests. Otherwise I was just going to have to come out and say something blatantly rude about blood drinkers. Given that we were trying to be discrete, going around shouting “vampire” would cause a good deal of panic. That would be unfortunate.

  The guard growled for a moment, but jerked his head in an angry nod and then retreated back into the maze of buildings around the courtyard. He slammed the door behind him, preventing us from following. I looked at Charlotte and she frowned down at me. “I was going to introduce us. Demand entry. You didn’t need to interrupt with your ridiculous word-twisting request. They won't see us if you talk like that,” she said flatly.

  "Trust me, this is much better than breaking down their door. Relations with people, making sure that our best foot is forward and that people see the image we wish them to see, that is my specialty. You don't want to meet with these people after having broken their door. They will take it out of your hide," I explained.

  Machiavelli looked at me with the equivalent of the arms-folded-skeptic look that I usually got from Death when I said something particularly human.

  "And how would you know so much, Cal Thorpe? After all, you have supposedly been out in the world for a very long time, supposedly so far out that you have no idea of our customs or our way of dress or anything. Yet you are, surprisingly at ease and claiming you know the best way to talk to the likes of the Medici.”

 

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