Mi Amor... Me Haces Furioso
Madrid, c. 1660s.
Malik quirked an eyebrow as Altair adjusted a great feathered hat upon his head.
The Grandmaster peered into a polished Venetian mirror and looked down at his coat, a heavy wool garment fastened up the front with dozens of small buttons; the sleeves, too, were rimmed with buttons and buttonholes, most of them undone.
He straightened the lace at his cuffs and picked at the blousy material of his shirt sleeves fastidiously, then pulled his red cloak tight around his shoulder. He gave his companion a smile, picking up his tan hide gloves from the back of a chair. "Aren't you going to dress?" he asked, looking Malik over with some small measure of amusement.
"I despise this decade," Malik said. "And I despise you, not in small part because you clothe yourself in such ridiculousness and expect me to do the same."
Altair gave him an infuriatingly placid smile. "Hide in plain sight, brother," he said. "I believe you know as well as I do the second tenet-"
"Very well," sniped Malik, standing in his undergarments in the bed chamber. "Then I shall dress as your servant in public, and in private I shall beat you each night."
With a chuckle, the Grandmaster nodded. "I shall look forward to it."