The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [70]
“Good show, sir,” said Manuel, taking another pull from the bottle. “So you’ve led my countrymen to victory over your countrymen and your former masters, and all for the fucking Milanese.”
“All for my fucking self,” said von Stein, opening his desk again. “And the Kakerlake King, of course—the Milanese stay fucked and French, which is perhaps redundant. If you’re really interested in politics you ought to pay more attention to whom you’re working for, Manny. As for countrymen, well, your countrymen are my countrymen, and the word is Maximilian had even more Swiss marching this way than us, so be thankful they changed their minds and went home before brother had a chance to slay brother, eh? Or might you have relished the chance to stick it in some Basel-backer, or whoever you Bernese are squabbling with this week?”
“All members of the Confederacy are Swiss,” Manuel said numbly, suddenly wondering how many of the saints he had martyred along the road to Milan were cowherds or merchants’ sons from the next canton over and not, as he had previously assumed, Imperial. Both sides were paying, so why should he think all the Swiss would gravitate to one foreign banner instead of whoever approached them first? And why the fuck should it matter if the boys—the men, he corrected himself—if the men he had killed were confederates or not? They were saints just the same …
“— Manny, and we both know who’s in charge here.” Manuel might have sighed at von Stein’s redundant tapping of his own chest if the man’s other hand had not taken another saltpeter-soaked cord out of his desk and lit it on one of his gauche purple candles. Manuel might have snatched the gun away but he was a little drunk and by the time he fully registered what was happening von Stein had picked up his pistol and cinched the sputtering cord into place after cocking the hammer. Then he stood and moved around the desk as Manuel finished the bottle, the artist’s hand around its neck to bash von Stein if he got crazy. Manuel had listened to far too much of the man’s shit today to allow himself to go quietly and—
“The campaign’s over,” von Stein said. “For me, at least. I’m going home, and suggest you do the same. The Emperor’s fled and Milan’s saved, which means we’re finished.”
“But I haven’t got enough money yet!” Manuel protested.
“Then find a new master,” von Stein sniffed. “Or go back to painting. Everyone else will be nipping off, and those who actually helped defend the city earned more than enough to be happy for quite a few years to come, so you might be lonely if you stay.”
“Defend from what!? You said the fucking Imperials never showed up!”
Seeing von Stein’s expression, Manuel shifted his approach.
“I would’ve helped!” He stood to face von Stein, the bottle still gripped in his left hand. “You sent me away or I would’ve been here, you know it!”
“I do.” Von Stein nodded. “But you weren’t, and you disobeyed my orders. I’m a gentleman, Manny, not a cheap, cheating little peasant, and if you had done as I told you I would have paid you for it, even though it would have pained me, knowing as we do now what a fraud that Kahlert turned out to be. So if you had followed orders you would be just as rich as if you helped guard the city, if not more so, but instead you played the martyr, strolling in here with your head held high like you’d just fucked the Duchess of Ferrara and her daughter instead of losing a little girl and getting all your men killed. You Bernese can’t take a punch to the nose or a hard shit without slapping yourselves on the back.”
“What am I going to do?” said Manuel, as much to himself