Chapter 69: Chapter 68. Theatrical Acts
As Gerhard sat down, Anton stared at him in disbelief but didn’t move to stop him. The chancellor pulled a small tin box from his coat and opened it, revealing a lump of dark clay. "Make a noise," Gerhard murmured, pressing the black key of the chamber into the clay, shaping it carefully, with care.
Realization dawned on Anton’s face. He hesitated only a moment before grabbing one of the chairs and hurling it against the wall. The loud crash echoed through the chamber. "I would never tell you anything! We did nothing wrong!" Anton’s voice thundered, the perfect sound of a desperate prisoner.
Sarah de Wyndham flinched, confusion and fear flickering in her eyes as she turned to her husband, then back to the silent chancellor, who only looked up briefly and gave Anton a discreet thumbs-up before gesturing for him to continue. "Good," Gerhard murmured under his breath, adjusting the clay to capture every groove of the key.
When the echo of Anton’s outburst finally faded into the stone walls, Gerhard took out another small tin box, this one filled with dark clay. Without lifting his gaze, he spoke evenly, "You’ll talk in the end."
The words were cold and detached—exactly what the guards below would expect from the emperor’s right hand. Yet the calm precision of his movements told another story entirely.
He drew another key from his pocket, one of several he carried. "For the rooms below," he murmured under his breath. Anton understood and threw another chair, the crash echoing through the tower.
"I’ll never tell you anything! We didn’t do anything wrong!" Anton shouted, voice rough and defiant.
Gerhard pressed the key into the clay, his fingers steady as he shaped the mold. Sarah finally realized what was happening—the act, the deception, the reason behind Gerhard’s composure. Straightening her posture, she joined in, her voice trembling with just enough fear to sell the illusion.
"Stop! Don’t hurt my husband!" she cried. Gerhard looked up, briefly impressed. He gave her a discreet thumbs up before turning his attention back to the mold. Her scream echoed through the chamber, traveling down the spiral of the tower until it reached the guards below. The knights imprisoned in the lower cells stirred, growing restless.
Then came Anton’s next line, the signal they had planned without ever truly planning. "We’re bound by our oath to stay loyal to Borgia!" The coded phrase that ensured the safety of their lords made the locked knights react instantly. Shouts and the clanging of iron bars filled the air as they began to riot, drawing the guards’ attention away from the upper chamber.
"You’re supposed to be loyal to the throne!" Gerhard barked back, slamming another stack of tin boxes onto the table for effect. "Melt this."
"To that foolish emp—" Anton stopped mid-sentence when Sarah grabbed his arm, eyes wide in warning. "Ah... that came out wrong," he said quickly, sinking onto the stone ledge beside the table.
"He’s foolish," Gerhard murmured, his tone softening just enough to reveal the truth beneath the act, "but still the emperor." He pressed the final key into the clay and closed the tin. Below them, the noise of the knights’ riot had reached its peak, enough to mask any real conversation.
"This one’s for your chamber," Gerhard said quietly. "The smaller molds are for your men below. The Grand Duke will send her people soon. When they arrive, make sure you’re ready, and make it look quiet."
Anton took the molds and the small stack of tin sheets from his hands, his brow furrowed. "Why are you doing this, Chancellor?"
Gerhard paused, straightening his coat. His voice dropped to a low whisper. "I’m greedy," he said. "But I protect the South above all else. The empire is growing weaker every day... and the Grand Duke is the only one strong enough to ensure its safety."
Gerhard set the last tin lid down with a small, satisfied click and wiped his hands on the hem of his coat. The riot below still rattled the tower, but in the hush of the upper chamber, the tension snapped like a wire. He pushed back from the table and folded his arms for a long moment, watching Anton with a look that was all business.
Then he stepped forward and dropped his posture into a loose fighting stance. "Now," he said, voice low and steady, "you punch me seriously, and I’ll do the same. We need blood, Viscount."
Anton stared at him for a heartbeat, surprised and cracking into a grin. "Now you’re talking." He rose, heavy boots scraping on the stone, and squared up.
They moved without hesitation. Anton lunged first, fast and raw, driving a shoulder into Gerhard’s midsection and following with a glancing blow to the ribs. Gerhard took it, turned with it, and slammed his own fist against Anton’s forearm. The sound of flesh on bone echoed oddly in the small room.
They traded strikes close and ugly: Anton’s knuckles thudded into Gerhard’s jaw; Gerhard answered with a palm to Anton’s sternum that knocked the wind from him. A chair toppled, clattering across the floor. A shard of ceramic from a smashed tray cut a shallow line across Anton’s brow; blood welled bright and quick. Gerhard’s lip split on a counterpunch, a thin line of red darkening his chin.
Neither of them fought clean; this is a brawl for purpose, not pride. Breathing hard, they traded another series of blows: slashes, shoves, and a brief grapple by the table. Sweat and blood made dark patterns on their sleeves. For all the violence, there was a sharp rhythm to it, a grim cooperation.
Finally they staggered back, chests heaving. Anton wiped his brow with the back of his hand and laughed, half-crazed and fierce. "You wanted blood," he rasped.
Gerhard touched his own bleeding lip, nodded once, and met Anton’s grin. "One more, let’s go."
Anton squared once more, eyes bright. He moved in and struck full force, fist crashing into Gerhard’s ribs with a sound like a snapped branch. Gerhard grunted, took the blow, and returned it with equal force. The impact knocked them both off balance; blood mixed with sweat and stone dust as they breathed in short, hot bursts.
They stood there a moment longer, bruised and bleeding, and when the pain settled into the bones, they both understood why: this isn’t violence for violence’s sake. It’s a commitment. It’s a pact sealed in muscle and iron.
Anton straightened, hand pressed to his split brow, and gave Gerhard a curt nod. "Are we done?" he asked, voice rough.
"Yeah. That’s messy enough," Gerhard panted. Anton hauled him to his feet, bearing some of the older man’s weight as they leaned together for a moment.
Gerhard steadied himself, spitting a little blood and wiping his face on the back of his sleeve. He pressed a damp cloth to his jaw, pressed his bruised knuckles, then smoothed his coat as if to reclaim a scrap of dignity.
Gerhard met Anton’s eyes, calm again despite the red on his lip. "Get ready in two days," he said simply. "When Borgia moves, she’ll come for you quick." He reached into his pocket, palmed the original iron keys, and left.