"A lemur." Cesare stares on, quite unamused. "Very well." Somewhere far off, a bit to left, Miquel is neighing. Probably holding his belly, too. You know I don't take well to jokes at my cost, he reminds him, and Miquel sniffles with laughter. Oh, no, I know, tongues nailed to doors and all that. Followed by more laughter.
"Mh, well, the sentiment was penned by my father's favourite poet, the immortal March. He makes things out a bit worse than they are," Cesare answers evasively. If he looks a bit shifty, oh, then he knows it. "And it's just a road. Machiavelli is rumoured to have said he'd rather land himself Hell - because there, at least, he'd be in the company of princes and popes. Should I claim anything less?"
gods, I'm sorry, he's infuriating, I know- [beddy for the scribe]