"What tells you there's no competition?" Cesare winks, then has a deep gulp of wine. "But, seriously. One of the reasons I never vied for Milano is that the weather up there is atrocious. Much as I liked Leonardo's work up there; I can do without frostbite, and so could my men. But you have a point. Intrigue was ripe up there. Mantua. Milan. Venice. All those chilly shitholes. Pardon my language," he burps discreetly. "I prefer plotting where my toes can curl in sunbaked earth, Master Xellos. Picture, if you will..." his voice grows dreamy, "picture a breezy loggia, four or five storeys above the stink of the street, swept by a gentle, warm wind, framed with silk drapings to guard you from prying eyes and mosquitoes, your bare feet on terracotta, your hand trailing lavender, jasmine, and hibiscus? That's the way to plot. Not in stuffy vestibules and behind double doors."