Chapter 6.
Lazy sworls of steam curled around the small room in the gloomy basement as Marché allowed the warmth of the water in the crude metal bath to soak through his muscles and ease the blistered feet and sore hands that were the inevitable consequence of his somewhat less than gentle introduction to the harsh life of adventure and combat.
A large piece of glowing fire magicite rested between his outstretched legs, far bigger than the ones held by Cerran and, thanks to an entertaining hour's browsing in a local magic and curiosity shop early that morning, himself. While its position did make things slightly awkward, it was worth it for the way in which it kept the water temperature at almost scalding levels, and the ruddy glow brought to mind the inside of a furnace.
Monid, as Marché had half predicted, while seemingly accepting him into the clan, had insisted on a sparring session or ten, ostensibly to work out a few kinks, but Marché wasn't deluding himself into believing that it was anything other than an evaluation and a test to see whether he could trust the newcomer to guard his back in a tight situation. He supposed he couldn't really blame the bangaa, since the five had been working as a team since long before he arrived, but it was brutal, punishing combat nonetheless.
'What are you going to do now, boy,' Monid's grin was particularly predatory as he growled his question. 'You're weaponless, and I have the advantage.'
Sadly, it had been entirely true, considering that the bangaa's previous well angled strike with his short-handled, heavy halberd had sent the gladius skittering across the floor and out of his reach, leaving Marché with only his newly acquired shield to protect him. Far too immersed in his combat persona, he hadn't responded, merely setting the metal plate in front of him and standing his ground, watching his opponent for any sign of impending attack.
Monid hadn't disappointed, lunging forward in a manner reminiscent of Ba'Gamnan, although more controlled and without all the spitting and snarling. Over too quickly to think, a swift sidestep, a hook with the inside edge of his shield and a hefty push was all it took to deflect the course of the halberd and give him enough room to slam the top of the shield into the bangaa's jaw, Marché already diving away to retrieve his weapon, rolling to his feet as Monid closed in for more. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought he might have detected a flicker of respect in his opponent's eyes as he did so.
That particular memory, Marché mused as he allowed himself to sink deeper into the steaming water, was one of the few better ones of the day, as although he'd held his own as well as he could he'd still lost quite a few more than he'd won. Knowledge he may have had, but actual physical experience was another thing entirely, and the bangaa had quite a few more years of that than he did. The weight advantage and that bloody halberd hadn't helped either, whether it was jabbing at him with its sharpened tip, sweeping towards him with its wide blade or simply being used as an instrument of brute force to throw him back, it always had the reach on him, and getting close enough to actually do anything to its owner was exceedingly difficult.
Eventually though, Monid had declared his skills passable, which Marché was starting to understand was probably a complement coming from him. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but feel a little inadequate compared to his new companions, no matter how much they praised him. Having Montblanc and Krjn with their deadly ranged accuracy and lethal magic, Cerran with her massive broadsword and healing skills and now the tenacious Monid's skill with a polearm, left him feeling very much like a spare cog. Even the placid looking Ma'kenroh was reputed to wield powerful magics that made the others' look like carnival tricks.
The advent of a sudden rainsquall had driven Marché back inside after that, although the bangaa seemed pretty much immune to the weather. He presumed it must have been something to do with the leathery scales that made up the majority of the bangaa's skin, but Monid simply huffed, mentioned something about putting a bet or two on at the cockatrice fights, and sauntered off down the street, oblivious to the torrential downpour that was bouncing off him with every step. Marché, on the other hand, had sought out the sanctuary of the clan hall basement, home to store rooms, a questionable looking toilet room and the haven of the warm bathroom next door to it.
Indoor plumbing wasn't exactly something he'd expected in this world of swords and sorcery, but considering that he'd encountered airships and firearms as just two examples of advanced discoveries, he probably shouldn't have been surprised. Either way, he was grateful for the relaxation it provided. Ivalice was certainly a strange place though, as everything seemed to come back to magic, rather than science in the end. As far as Montblanc's explanation had gone when he'd asked, even the shots from his gun and the fuel for the airships came from magicite, which in the end was merely crystallised mist, the source of magic itself. What he would have thought of as the common resource of oil was so rare and difficult to obtain that it was only used in the processes needed to construct the airships themselves. Indeed, the majority of Rozarria's oilfields lay abandoned in the Yensan desert on the border with Dalmasca, home now only to howling winds and degenerate sand raiders.
Eventually, with the skin on his fingers and toes shrivelled like prunes, and mindful of the amount of power he was draining from the magicite, Marché hauled himself out of the bath feeling refreshed and revitalised. He dressed slowly, eschewing the heavy leather breastplate that usually rested under his tunic, not seeing the need for the uncomfortable protective armour in the safety of the clan hall. Making sure to clean up after himself, he made his way up to the common room, idly noting the incessant hammering of the rain on the windows as he hung the breastplate on a free rack before joining Montblanc and Ma'kenroh at the table. Cerran had left on her own personal mission that morning, immediately accompanied by her close friend Krjn; to bring the body of the fallen warrior back to Sprohm for a proper burial.
'Good afternoon, kupo,' Montblanc looked up from the stack of parchment set in front of him, which appeared to be various official announcements, new local bylaws and postings offering work or requesting assistance. 'Are you feeling well?'
'Yeah,' Marché levered himself into a seat, stopping only to dump some herbs from an earthenware vase into a mug, before pouring some hot water from the kettle over the fireplace over them. The resultant chai tea wasn't what he was used to, but he was quickly developing a taste for it. Milk and sugar, of course, were nonexistent, and considering he hadn't seen anything even resembling a cow since he had arrived, he didn't like to speculate as to the likely alternatives even if they did exist. 'Monid didn't pull any punches today though, so I think I've got a few more bruises to add to the collection.'
'I asked him not to do that,' the young moogle looked disappointed as he shook his head. 'He should have taken our word as to your skills, kupo.'
'Don't worry about it,' Marché shrugged his concerns off as he swirled the water in his mug, allowing the flavour of the herbs to be released. 'I don't blame him for wanting to know whether he can trust me, and I need all the practice I can get.'
'But you are good, kupo,' the expression on Montblanc's small face was disbelieving at the downhearted tone in Marché's voice. 'Look at the way you handled those worgen, and Cerran says you took down at least thirty of those skeletons.'
'Yeah, but they weren't very good,' Marché sipped his tea, the herbs and spices teasing his senses as he leaned back into his chair. 'Even then, Cerran took out far more of them than I did, and without her spell at the end, I'd be dead.'
Surprisingly, the main response from the young moogle was a laugh, bat-like wings flittering back and forth as he shook in mirth, and even Ma'kenroh, absorbed in some detailed looking research paper, raised his head to see what was going on. Marché, on the other hand, couldn't help but feel slightly disgruntled.
'You really are putting yourself down,' he finally got himself under control to respond to Marché's concerns. 'Most soldiers in the army would be hard-pressed taking on one worgen, kupo, and every mercenary I've met would have either abandoned Cerran and run for their lives as soon as they saw the first of them appear, or wouldn't have lasted ten minutes; that's why hunters and clans exist.'
'Really?'
'Indeed, young one,' Ma'kenroh's deep, melodic voice broke into their conversation, proof in itself that despite his distracted nature, he had been paying attention to what was going on. 'Cerran is a powerful warrior, and her weapon is specifically designed for what she chooses to call crowd control, but she could not have stood alone in that fight; you held your ground well.'
'He's right, kupo,' Montblanc's voice added to the argument against his negative feelings. 'You should know too that bows and guns take time to reload and don't work well in close combat, so we might have been overrun by those worgen if you hadn't been there to keep them away from us.'
'Thanks guys,' Marché smiled as the two at least erased some of his worries about his place in the clan, although some niggling doubts did remain as he remembered the way that Cerran reaped her way through the enemy like someone cutting down weeds with a scythe. 'You'll let me know, though, if I start to slow you down?'
Twin affirmations met his request, although he could tell that both thought it unnecessary. Time would tell though, but it would seem that whatever force had brought him to Ivalice had gifted him with more innate skills than he could have hoped for. Maybe he'd try his hand at magic next, because calling fire and lightning bolts down from clear skies, healing wounds and destroying hordes of undead could only be described as incredibly cool. Strange though, that he hadn't felt the tingle of the mist that Krjn had said was present everywhere in the land. That was something he would worry about later though, as he got up to add some more water to the herbs in his now empty cup.
They sat and talked for a while, Marché helping his moogle friend browse through the various hunts and offers of work that he'd collected, while Ma'kenroh padded to the doorway, standing watching the torrential rain hammering down on the cobbles in his own enigmatic manner. Some of the jobs were too far away to be profitable, requiring extensive airship travel that would effectively wipe out any profits, while others were simply too distasteful to be considered. The offer to spend the next two weeks helping to clean blocked storm drains in Sprohm's sewer system was swiftly placed on the rejection pile.
A couple of them did look promising though, one involving bringing in a gang of pickpockets that had fled into the wilderness just one step ahead of the local watch, and the other needing a caravan guard for minerals being transported over the main mountain pass to the palace city of Bervenia. Both looked promising to Marché's untrained eye, although since the incident with Ba'Gamnan, Marché was still unsure as to whether he could use his weapon against another sentient being in actual combat. Overgrown wolves and walking skeletons were one thing, but people were quite a different proposition altogether.
In the end, Montblanc put the escort job to one side for Monid, who hadn't been experiencing much luck finding work for the past few weeks. At the very least, he was determined to give the bangaa first refusal, and Marché wasn't about to argue with him. Everyone deserved a decent chance to earn a living after all. The other bill they resolved to save to discuss over dinner, as it would take more than one or two of them to bring the criminals, petty though they were, to justice.
Business taken care of for the day, Montblanc rooted out a bowl full of pungent-smelling nuts, which he proceeded to crack open with his teeth and devour with relish, while Ma'kenroh returned to his research paper and several pieces of crudely hacked-off bread and a round of soft, creamy cheese. Politely declining the nuts, which smelled utterly vile, he accepted some of the nu mou's offerings before taking his place at the door, chewing contemplatively as he watched the rain slowly easing off, the sun reflecting off the wet cobblestones as the inhabitants of the city slowly made their way back out into the streets to continue their comings and goings, the sudden shower dying away as quickly as it had arrived.
As he leaned against the doorway, Marché's thoughts turned to the two female members of their group, probably on their way back down the mountain at that point if things had gone smoothly. Krjn was an enigma, and one that he didn't think he'd be figuring out any time soon, which made her friendship with the open and cheerful Cerran all the more intriguing.
Cerran herself, he was coming to realise, had almost as many layers and puzzles as Krjn had, coming across as carefree, mischievous and spirited, but under that open personality was a hint as to a painful past and a hard core of religious faith, as clearly evidenced by her desire to see the unknown warrior properly honoured. She and Krjn had already left on her self-imposed quest by the time he roused himself for the day, otherwise he would have undoubtedly volunteered to go with her.
'Hey, Montblanc?'
'Yes, kupo?' the moogle looked up from his snack, remnants of the nutshells caught in the normally impeccably groomed fur around his mouth. Marché smirked at the sight, the scene a contrast to the moogle's usual fastidiousness.
'Why don't we go down to the market and get something nice for dinner tonight, so Krjn doesn't have to cook when she gets back.' In truth, he was feeling a little guilty about not helping her and Cerran in their task, even though he suspected the two of them appreciated spending some time to talk freely and re-acquaint themselves away from the male members of the clan.
Montblanc looked down at his half-finished bowl with no small amount of chagrin before shrugging and pushing it away, jumping down from his chair to join Marché at the door. He paused just long enough to load his ornate firearm into the holster at his belt, the oversized weapon seeming almost comically large on his small frame. Marché himself briefly considered the merits of pulling on his leather breastplate, but quickly discarded that idea. It wasn't as if he was planning on getting into a fight, and the inside of the city seemed safe enough with the local watch around.
'It sounds like a good plan, kupo.' Montblanc's antenna and pom-pom swished back and forth as he spoke, and Marché had the sudden mischievous urge to bat it back and forth like a cat playing with a ball of string. Luckily, he managed to rein in his instincts before they got him into trouble, but it brought a smile to his face nonetheless.
They made a strangely mismatched pair, Marché mused as they slowly made their way through the city, passing shops selling everything to be expected for mining and industry, whether those things were tools and heavy-duty clothing or medical supplies for when things went wrong. Overhead, a ponderous-looking transport slowly raised itself out of the aerodrome, before swinging its bulk around and accelerating off towards the south-east. Telrys was probably aboard that ship, heading towards Cadoan and the awaiting dean of the university. Marché just hoped he'd get the chance to fly on an airship himself before he returned home.
'So, why did you form the clan, Montblanc,' Marché couldn't help but be curious, given Krjn's somewhat cryptic comments about how they'd all lost their way. 'I mean, I know you accept all these missions to get enough gil to get by, but there's more to it than that, isn't there.'
'There is, my friend, but it is not a happy tale.' Montblanc appraised him with a serious expression as the two walked on. 'My brothers, sister and I used to have a good, kindly master, who took us in and taught us all the trades we wanted to know about.'
'What happened?' Marché couldn't help but press, as the moogle paused for a few moments, seemingly to gather his thoughts.
'Yiazmat happened, kupo,' his voice was hard and grim, or at least as far as his customary squeak could get. 'Lord of all the wyrms in the world, he fought it off for days to protect us, but in the end it defeated him, and ever since I swore I'd defeat it in kind.'
'I'm sorry, Montblanc, I shouldn't have brought it up.' He truly was sorry that he had reminded his friend, but he was glad that he knew. Suddenly a lot of the hints he'd received in conversations with Krjn and Cerran fell into place, from Krjn's assertion that the clan had a higher purpose, to Cerran's reasons for leaving the temple.
'No kupo, you have a right to know if you're going to join us.' Montblanc gave him a reassuring smile as they turned the corner to enter a large marketplace. 'I found others along the way who'd also been touched by Yiazmat, and together we formed the clan in the hope to defeat it someday, but I think our friendships were the best thing to come out of it.'
'I'll help you,' Marché's impulsive declaration didn't particularly come as a shock to him, given how close he'd become to his new friends in such a short amount of time. 'I mean, I still want to get home, but as long as I'm still here, I'll help you as much as I can.'
'Thank you, kupo.'
Nothing more needed to be said as the two of them walked amongst the market stalls, nothing like the colourful bazaars of Cyril, with their spices and animated haggling. Here, every booth seemed to reflect the drab grey nature of the city, with dull canvas protecting them from the elements instead of the vibrant silks and threads. Fortunately, their inhabitants were friendly enough as Marché selected various vegetables and pulses to add to his growing hoard.
'What are you planning, kupo?' Marché couldn't help but notice that the young moogle never referred to anyone by their actual names, preferring the honorific that seemed to define everything he spoke of. From his limited contact with others of the race, this trait seemed to be pretty much universal.
'I was thinking about a fish stew,' he called back, as he added several ripe tomatoes to his bag, before adding a few handfuls more for good measure. He smiled as he caught his friend's look of protest. 'Don't worry, I'll make one without the fish for you.'
'You can really cook?' Montblanc's tone was somewhat sceptical.
'Of course I can,' Marché tried to inject some reassurance into his voice. In truth, campfire experiments aside, he was quite a good cook. Not to Krjn's standard, that was for sure, but with Doned incapacitated as he was, quite a lot of the household chores fell to him, and it was often a case of cook or go hungry. 'I cooked for my family all the time back home, so don't worry about it.'
Traffic in the cramped marketplace was surprisingly sparse, considering the size of the city, although some of that could probably be put down to the recent rainstorm. All in all though, Marché had to say that he preferred the life, colour and vibrancy of Cyril, despite the boiling heat that beat down on the inhabitants and washed in from the shifting sands of the desert. He idly wondered how the innkeeper's niece was doing, before moving onwards through the stalls.
A rather hefty and mean-looking fish completed the pending masterpiece, although the jovial fishmonger assured him it was an excellent feast. Considering the price he paid for it, Marché secretly thought that it had better be. It certainly made for good entertainment anyway, as he crept up behind his smaller friend, who was wrestling with a breadstick almost twice the size of him. The appearance of a large grey fish, replete with gaping mouth and teeth at a distance of a couple of inches was almost enough to scare the young moogle out of his skin, and the shrill exclamation had heads turning from halfway across the marketplace.
'You're worse than Cerran, kupo,' Montblanc rubbed at his behind as he picked himself up off the floor. 'Isn't one prankster enough for one clan?'
'Sorry,' Marché tried to get his laughter under control as he stowed the outsized creature in his bag, relieving the moogle of his burden of bread and signalling to the stallholder to add a large round of cheese as well. It was, perhaps, quite a bit to spend at once, but he had just been paid, and the thought of making something the others would enjoy was rather satisfying. 'I just couldn't resist.'
They laughed as they continued to browse through the stalls, although Marché was happy with his haul for the day. His attention was briefly caught by a display of highly polished weaponry, presided over by a heavily muscled hume with an intimidating moustache and numerous shiny burn-scars covering his arms, even going as far as to try out one particular gleaming sabre for balance. Despite the fact that it only held a single edge, it certainly had a good foot of reach on his gladius and was lighter too, feeling swift and deadly in his grasp.
It was with a certain amount of disappointment that he returned it to the rack, however, after seeing the price tag. Monid hadn't been joking when he complained about the current price of weapons, and even after receiving his first two mission payments, he didn't have nearly enough. Perhaps he would be able to revisit it after Krjn bartered the gemstones he received from Professor Auggie, but even then it would probably be out of his reach for the moment.
'Hey, you need a permit to sell that!'
The bellowed accusation that shattered the subdued atmosphere of the marketplace was coarse and nasty, attracting the attention of everyone within earshot. Marché noticed immediately that the few bystanders that were around made themselves scarce extremely quickly and most of the stallholders looked on with worried expressions.
The cause of the disturbance was immediately apparent, two armoured bangaa with wicked looking spears menacing a pimply-faced young man pushing a small cart. Jars full of what appeared to be the internal organs of various animals, preserved in viscous looking liquid filled it to capacity and a small, crudely made sign bore the legend Popack's Potions Proprietor.
'Yeah, potions ingredients are regulated goods, don't you know.' The second bangaa also seemed to want to get in on the act, picking up one of the containers and appraising it with a critical eye. 'Selling them without a license is a flogging offence, if you're lucky.'
The young man's face had drained of all colour as he attempted to stutter out an explanation, his only spark of defiance coming when his tormentor flung the jar back into the cart where it shattered with an almighty crash, taking out two other containers in the process, the smell of vinegar spreading outwards from the destruction.
'But sir, my merchandise!'
Any further protestations, however, were quickly silenced as the first bangaa's scaly hand curled around his throat, spear raised in an obvious gesture of threat. Marché's hand was on his weapon before he had even thought the situation through, a couple of inches of his blade already out of its scabbard before Montblanc's hand on his arm stopped him short.
'Don't kupo,' the moogle's expression was clouded with fear as he looked up at his friend, and his tone was urgent and shrill. 'They're the Judgemaster's personal guard.'
Marché's draw faltered, and he looked over towards the commotion with a torn appearance. On the one hand, the actions of the two armoured thugs were barbaric, the threat of deadly force over nothing more than a lack of paperwork, but on the other he knew how Ba'Gamnan had been treated by the judge in Cyril, and he had no desire to face the same fate.
'But I've paid for the permit, good sir,' the merchant choked out, the hold around his neck loosening only slightly at his attempt to explain. 'They said there was a backlog!'
The bangaa growled softly in his throat, as if trying to find something wrong with the young man's tale, and Marché watched on with his hand still paused over his weapon. The tension remained heavy in the air as Montblanc looked on worriedly, seemingly understanding that he wouldn't be able to stop his larger companion if Marché decided to take action. If the bangaa planned on using that spear of his then violence would undoubtedly follow.
'Bah, you'd better be telling the truth, hume.' Marché's hand relaxed as some of the tension bled from the air, the bangaa looking almost disappointed at the revelation. 'The only reason I don't destroy that garbage wagon is the smell it would cause.'
With that the merchant was forcibly hurled through the air to land with a thud on the cobblestones next to his cart, groaning softly and massaging his neck. One look at the two still stood before him was enough to spur him into action though, scrambling to his feet and pushing the cart out of the square as fast as his legs could take him, the laughter of the two bangaa following him as he ran. For their part, the two glowered at the surrounding witnesses, their gaze lingering on the still fuming Marché, before shambling off in the opposite direction, their heavy armour clinking as they went.
'How the hell can they get away with that?' Marché's fist was clenched as he glared after them, their silver and blue capes giving them an air of authority as bystanders melted out of their path.
'They work for the Judgemaster, kupo.'
Marché had never heard of this Judgemaster before, and from the behaviour of the two armoured thugs that had terrorised the young merchant he wasn't sure he wanted to become any more acquainted. The title stank more like Witchfinder General than anything else, and the attitude of the two bangaa had clearly conveyed the impression that such casual brutality was commonplace.
'All laws come from the palace and are enforced by the judges, kupo,' Montblanc began to explain, seeing the unspoken question on his friend's face. 'Every city has at least one, to determine guilt and pass sentence, and the Judgemaster controls them all from his place at the Queen's side.'
'That's tyrannical.'
'It didn't always used to be this way, kupo.' Montblanc kept his voice hushed, his eyes casting around the square for anyone who could overhear as he spoke. 'Only the Archadian empire had judges and the courts ensured that everyone got a fair trial and their chance to be heard.'
'What happened?'
'The palace deemed them too inefficient at suppressing opposition and enforcing the law and abolished them.' He turned his face towards the imposing fortress that backed against the high mountain wall, pointing out a regal-looking banner proudly flying from the highest turret. 'He's here right now on an inspection tour, making sure that the palace's will is obeyed.'
Marché followed his smaller friend's gaze up towards the intimidating stronghold that overlooked the city, his expression hardening. In Cyril, faced with two murderous bangaa, he had been glad of the judge's help, going so far as to defend him against the complaints of the locals. Now, however, he couldn't help but wonder if his gratitude towards the man had been misplaced, and what other acts his troops engaged in while upholding the law.
'Let's get out of here.'
The mood was somewhat more subdued as they made their way back across town, but at least the weather held off as they carried the spoils of their shopping back to the clan hall. A nice rainstorm would have been all they needed to round off the sour note that the confrontation in the marketplace had brought to their day.
Ma'kenroh met them at the door as they returned, seemingly engaged in one of his favoured activities of standing watching passers-by and thinking who knows what. Together they returned to the warmth of the living area, Marché unloading his shopping on the dining room table and readying knives, pots and pans as he stoked the coals to bring the range up to temperature.
'Have you seen Cerran and Krjn yet?' Marché glanced over to Ma'kenroh as his knife quickly divested the murderous-looking fish of its head and tail as he questioned the nu mou, infinitely glad that the fish had come already gutted and cleaned. That particular task was not one he remembered with any fondness from his times fishing at summer camp.
'Krjn returned briefly some few minutes ago, hume-child, although she left immediately after to barter the spoils of the day.'
Marché nodded his understanding, returning to preparing the ingredients for the night's meal as his mind wandered to the thought of how much he might get for his share of the gemstones that he and Cerran had obtained from the garrulous old Professor Auggie. It wasn't as if he particularly needed anything new, but it was always good to have a bit of money stashed away.
'Do you need any help, kupo?'
Fingers already moving on to his next task, Marché politely declined the moogle's offer, particularly given the way his friend's tiny wings were fluttering back and forth in excitement, almost generating enough power to lift his body from his chair. Such enthusiasm could only spell trouble. Soon enough, one extremely large pot of rich, tomato heavy fish stew was simmering nicely on the stove, next to one significantly smaller pot for Montblanc. His work done for the moment, Marché allowed himself to relax at the table, deliberately browsing through the stack of new bylaws Montblanc had been browsing earlier, mindful of the unforgiving nature of the judges and their enforcers.
'Bah!'
The clan hall door swept open with a bang as a familiar bangaa flung it aside as he stalked in, causing Ma'kenroh to look up from his book, blinking in surprise, while Montblanc almost fell of his chair in shock.
'Don't do that, kupo!'
'Bah,' Monid growled again, before grabbing at an earthenware tankard and drawing off a full mug of beer from a small cask. He sat himself down at the table, taking a huge swig before grumbling under his breath.
'Didn't back a winner then?' If he hadn't got to know the bangaa slightly better over the course of the morning, he might well have been intimidated by Monid's approach, but Marché was quickly coming to learn that most of the gruff attitude was a front. He also wasn't sure he liked the sound of the cockatrice fights that his clan-mate had mentioned, but bangaa as a race seemed to possess a significantly feral side to their nature that he would just have to get used to if he was to continue living under the same roof as Monid.
'Bloody critter couldn't provide any decent sport if you rammed a lightning bolt up its arse.'
'Sport, my friend?' Ma'kenroh's soft voice was disapproving as he eyed the new arrival over his book. 'Forgive me, but I fail to see what sport can be found in goading a pair of flightless birds into madness to wager on which will peck and claw the other to bloody scraps and shreds the fastest.'
'You stick to your pleasures and I'll stick to mine.'
Marché refrained from commenting as the two argued back and forth, although he couldn't help but grimace at the images his mind conjured. Judging from the look on Montblanc's face, he also didn't share Monid's enthusiasm, but chose to keep quiet either to keep the peace or because he knew that arguing with him was futile. Tasting the progress of the stew, Marché shook some more salt into it before covering it once more, returning to the table just in time to catch Monid's next volley of complaint.
'Blasted Judgemaster didn't help matters either,' he paused only to rise from the table to refill his empty tankard and return to his seat. 'Blocked the road for a good ten minutes while he and his lackeys passed by; you'd think his bollocks were made of nethicite the way he carries himself.'
'Kupo!'
Marché smiled at the moogle's disapproval before picking up the advertisement for the job they'd been saving for Monid.
'This should improve your mood some,' he slid the parchment across to his clan-mate, who took it with a questioning expression before reading his way down the advert, his eyes pausing when they reached the promised payment.
'Not bad, pretty good pay and I know the caravan master too.' Monid's expression turned into a grin as he appraised the offer of work. Looking up from the job offer, his snout twitched towards the range. 'What's cooking?'
'That is exactly what I was about to ask.'
All heads turned towards the door at the new entrant to the conversation as the lithe form of Krjn hung up her bow before making her way over to the kitchen range, expertly appraising the contents of the huge pan that Marché had set to simmer. She sniffed experimentally before raising an eyebrow at the others present in the room as she did so.
'Kindly reassure me that our glorious leader had no part to play in the creation of this, for it smells far too appetising for it to poison us all.' A teasing smile graced her features as both Marché and Monid laughed at the moogle's protests, experience having taught that, like Cerran, Montblanc couldn't cook to save his life.
'Nah, that'll be Marché's,' the rowdier, cheerful voice of Cerran echoed her companion from the doorway, ditching her massive sword with a clatter as she shut the door behind her, launching herself into one of the comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace. 'He's almost as good at cooking as you, Krjn.'
'We shall see.'
There was a warm camaraderie about the way the clan came together each evening, Marché decided as they laughed and bantered back and forth over the table in the warmth of the clan hall, bowls of the rich stew, crusty bread and cheese disappearing rapidly under the weight of their appetites. Marché couldn't help but feel a warm glow as more than one complement was directed his way. It certainly made a difference from the thanks he could expect to receive back home, where all he could expect was another sarcastic little housewife comment from Doned. Thinking of that sparked a brief flash of guilt at the fun and laughter he was experiencing away from them, but quickly shrugged it off as Krjn and Monid drew him into a discussion about their journey from Cyril.
'So, have we got any jobs lined up?' Cerran's enquiry was directed across the table to Montblanc, deep in conversation with Ma'kenroh.
'Just the one, kupo.'
A disappointed sigh could be heard from several places on the table as the moogle hopped down from his chair to retrieve the sheet of parchment that had been moved to one side to clear the way for their dinner, and it was with a downcast look that he returned to the table, detailing the local watch's request to apprehend the party of minor criminals.
'Isn't that the judge's job,' Cerran groaned, somewhat uncharacteristically for her usual temperament. 'I mean, I know I don't like them much, but they're meant to be the ones sorting out pickpockets in town, and the pay's barely more than chocobo scratchings.'
'A fool's errand.' Krjn's tone was nothing but dismissive and contemptuous, leaving no doubt as to where she stood on the matter. 'Petty thieves all, they'll have melted away back to their farms and villages by now, leaving naught but a cold trail.'
Marché remained silent, understanding that his two friends probably knew more about this type of work than he did. Work they may well need, but the bounty had clearly stated that payment would be issued on capture, and without a trail to follow, all that they would be signing up for would be several days in the wilderness following footpads that were no longer to be found.
'A good job I picked up this then, isn't it.' Monid's grin was wide as he reached into a pocket, pulling out a crumpled and stained piece of parchment that he tossed onto the table, where it was immediately snatched up by Cerran.
'Seems like a band of enterprising young lads have set up camp out in the Nubswood and have taken to raiding nearby estates in force, making off with anything that's not nailed down.' Monid drained the remainder of his tankard before continuing as Cerran scanned the parchment, evading Montblanc's enthusiastic attempts to divest her of it, her interest peaking as she reached the proposed payment. 'A couple of mates of mine work out that way and aren't too happy with getting clubbed over the head every couple of weeks, so they posted a bill.'
'So we get to go down to the Nubswood and explain a few things to them,' Cerran concluded, finally surrendering the parchment to an excited Montblanc. 'Well, it's outside the judge's jurisdiction and the pay's not too shabby, so sounds good to me.'
'Was going to suggest we take a run down there tomorrow, but since you set me up with that caravan job you should be able to handle it without me.' Monid belched loudly, drawing exasperated looks from everyone but Cerran and Marché, which he roundly ignored. 'Provides more sport than a gang of phantom pickpockets anyway, and we know where this lot are holed up.'
'It is decided then,' Krjn's words were more of a statement than a question, effectively sealing the deal as she made her own perusal of the job offer. In truth, Marché wasn't sure how he would fare when facing living, breathing people in combat, but he certainly wasn't about to reveal his insecurities to his new companions. He would just have to handle the situation as best he could when it came to it.
That settled, Krjn and Ma'kenroh moved to clear the table as the rest moved to more comfortable positions in the chairs scattered round the open fireplace, which roared and crackled into a hearty blaze as Cerran added more fuel. This done, she allowed herself to sprawl out in one of the armchairs, uncaring of how ungainly or unladylike she looked as she closed her eyes and sighed in contentment.
'Well, at least we all have some paying work for once now,' Monid celebrated their good fortune by returning to the ale barrel for another tankard, while Montblanc removed a dusty bottle of wine and an elegant decanter of some rose-coloured spirit from a low cupboard, precariously bringing both over to the circle of chairs around the fireplace as the two bottles warred with the moogle's small stature. 'That's something to celebrate, if anything is.'
'Indeed,' Krjn dried her hands from the task of washing the various bowls and cutlery, the sage slowly padding over behind her. 'If we are to be speaking of a well-deserved reward for a job well done though, I would say that we have one other thing to commemorate.'
Marché and the rest looked on curiously as she headed for the doorway to where she had left her bag, while Ma'kenroh settled himself on what looked to be a large beanbag. Swiftly untying the knots, she drew out two drawstring bags that she tossed in the direction of Marché and Cerran, who both caught them effortlessly. Marché couldn't help himself, slightly loosening the drawstring to peek inside he was greeted by the unmistakeable gleam of gold. Eyes widening rapidly, he quickly looked to Krjn for an explanation, who was happy to provide one.
'Your payment for the gemstones you retrieved during your little jaunt up into the mountains the other day, a little over two and a half thousand gil in total.' Both humes present caught each other's gaze and could only stare in shock at the amount. Once split, the sum of over twelve hundred gil each would go a long way to giving the two of them a certain amount of financial security for the coming months, even if they chose to indulge themselves a bit. Krjn, however, wasn't finished with delivering her news. 'Each.'
It was, perhaps, indicative of the shock this particular announcement brought that Montblanc could not even squeak an excited 'kupo' in response, although Monid more than made up for it with a coughing fit and a spray of beer that reached the other half of the room.'
'Each!'
'It would seem that your professor is more generous that could have been hoped for,' Krjn helped herself to a delicate glass of the rose-coloured spirits Montblanc had removed from the cabinet before taking up the entire length of the sofa as she stretched herself out. 'Either that or he does not realise the true value of what he has given, which is an unlikely prospect given that such matters are his specialty.'
'So what are you going to spend yours on, kupo?' Montblanc's high pitched squeak gave away his excitement. In truth, Marché couldn't think of anything that he particularly needed, as his pack and effects were all he needed for the road and his gladius, shield and breastplate were perfectly serviceable. Try as he might though, he couldn't help but cast his mind back to the long, elegant sabre he had tried out at the weaponsmith, remembering its perfect balance and the lethal way it cut the air with each swing. Cerran was still staring at her bag of gold with a stunned expression on her face, as if she couldn't believe her luck. It appeared that good deeds were occasionally rewarded after all.
'Well, I was thinking about that sword I tried out in the marketplace, but my own works fine for me, so I'm not too sure about it.' With the windfall he'd just received, and the job they had lined up, the price of the weapon wouldn't even come close to endangering his savings. Still, he couldn't help but feel a distinct attachment to the gladius that had saved his hide on several occasions.
'I say go for it kupo!'
'Aye, there's no such thing as luxury when it comes to a good weapon, as that's the only thing between you and a nasty death.' Monid had regained his composure after his explosive coughing fit, and was in the process of drawing off a couple more tankards of ale from the barrel, as well as topping up his own. 'Sometimes it's best to stick with what you're comfortable with though, so give it some thought.'
'Thanks guys, I think I will,' Marché grinned at the pair of them, putting his new-found wealth to one side for the moment.
'Enough of all that though, as I think this calls for a toast,' Monid dumped the two extra tankards in front of Marché and Cerran, before theatrically raising his own into the air. 'To Professor Auggie and his wandering scribe, who have made the rest of us regret we didn't follow Cerran's example and chase this hothead up that damned mountain, may we all find such generous benefactors to shower us with gil.'
'Here, here.'
'Indeed, friend bangaa.'
'Kupo!'
Marché and Cerran laughed as three tankards clashed together, the others adding their own comments as they raised their own, more refined beverages. The brew that the bangaa had supplied was bitter, and carried not nearly as nice a taste as the mead that he had experienced in The Jolly Seeq, although it did seem to get more palatable as time went on. Outside, the world faded into darkness as six unlikely friends talked, laughed and drank late into the night, allowing the worries and problems that had plagued them to be washed away by the warmth of their companionship. Marché could only wish, much later of course, that someone had taken the time to warn him about the hangover.
