Chapter 36

"You shouldn't have, Major. I mean that. Seriously."

Miles smiled to himself. She could deny it all she wanted. She could scowl as much as she liked. She could be as brusque and cold as she liked, but he never forgot her birthday.

"I just wanted you to see an example of Ishvalan craftsmanship, ma'am."

In the northern reaches of Briggs, if you blinked, you generally missed autumn. It was already snowing. Major General Armstrong sat in the relative comfort of the radio room and admired the teapot in her hands. It really was lovely. It was a deep maroon and had a slight grain to it. An intricate geometric pattern spanned the pot's middle, matching the same pattern on the set of four matching cups.

"What are these characters on the bottom?" Olivier asked, tipping the pot upside down.

"Those are the equivalent of a 'D' and a 'K' in Ishvalan," Miles replied. "They stand for Damyan Kafik, the artist who created these pieces. Although there really ought to be a 'V' as well. His sister is the one who painted the design, but she's too modest to take any credit."

"They seem to be a very talented duo." Oliver set the teapot down in front of the transceiver and fitted the lid back on top. "Have they actually started turning a profit?"

"Yes, they have. A number of our soldiers have placed orders for tea sets and dinner sets to send to their families. Damyan's beginning to find it hard to keep up, but he's enjoying every minute of it."

"Sounds very positive. And the building? How is that shaping up?"

"It's progressing. They've gotten a good start on the Great Temple, but that's going to take several years to complete. Another team has been assigned to plan out the housing," Miles said. "They're following the same design as Ishval had previously. It's like a big wheel with the district of Gunja in the center and the Great Temple at its heart. The other five districts radiate out from there. It used to be that the higher your social status was, the closer to the center you lived."

"Used to be?" Olivier asked. "How is that going to work out now?"

"It's gotten a little complicated," Miles replied with a wry smile. That was something he was thankful to not be involved in. "There are those who feel very strongly about being as close to the center as possible. There are still a number of prominent families represented among the survivors. Andakar is trying to convince them that it doesn't matter, but some are a little harder to convince than others. For the most part, though, people tend to listen to him, since he's a descendant of the nobility from the Age of Princes."

"This is before that earthquake?"

"Yes, ma'am. There was the ruling family, of which there are no direct descendants, but apparently the wife of the last prince of Ishval was a daughter of the House of Ruhad, Andakar's family."

Olivier's brows rose. "Hm! Did you realize you were in such elevated company?"

"There is something about him, I'll admit," Miles replied. "But his personal philosophy is much more egalitarian. There are a couple of others who claim nobility who don't necessarily display it. There's one fellow, Stanno, who is a descendant of the noble House of Dreva, but he's a complete waste of space."

"Noble is as noble does."

"Exactly," Miles said with a nod. "But how are things up north, ma'am? I haven't heard much."

Olivier leaned back in her seat. "It's quiet, but it could the calm before the storm."

Miles frowned. "Is it?"

"Our operatives in Drachma have reported that there has been a surge in the production of weapons. After your stunning victory over the Drachman invasion force—have you received any sort of commendation for that?" Olivier demanded.

"I was just doing my duty, ma'am."

"Horseshit! Mustang gets a promotion for getting himself blinded and you get nothing." the general growled. "There ain't no justice, as they say."

Miles lifted a shoulder. "They also say that the wheels of justice grind exceedingly slow but exceedingly fine."

"Whoever 'they' are, they're a bunch of assholes! At any rate, Drachma is in the process of rebuilding its forces."

Miles leaned closer to the transceiver. "Any time frame?"

"Hard to say. Within a year, a couple of years, perhaps." Olivier smiled grimly. "'They' also say that revenge is a dish best served cold."

"Everything up there is cold, ma'am."

Olivier looked down at her teapot and traced her finger along the design around its middle. "Almost everything."

"My family had the same house just yards—feet practically!—from the back gate of the Great Temple, for generations!" The woman drew herself up with haughty indignation. "I could have shown you where the foundations were, but no-o-o!" She sniffed. "It's all been dug up and scraped flat. My family's house, mind you!"

Scar simply couldn't muster up very much sympathy. "Don't you think you ought to be grateful simply to be alive, Zhaarana?" he asked her.

"Yes, yes, of course!" she replied testily. "Praise Ishvala for His mercy! But why should I have to live next door to someone who used to live all the way out on the edge of North Wahir, eh? And why is my house going to be so small, eh?" She jabbed the building plans spread out on the table with her finger.

"Because it's only you and you're niece, Zhaarana," Scar replied with thin patience. "We have to accommodate families according to their needs and their potential growth. If your niece marries—" The mousy young woman who stood mutely beside her aunt was probably desperate to escape her clutches. "—she'll be leaving home and you won't need a large house." The plans for his house, one he had not foreseen the need for until a few weeks ago, indicated quite a potential for growth. He wasn't going to tell her that.

"Huh! If she marries! She's plain as plain, poor thing!" the elder woman pronounced as though she was somehow doing her niece a favor.

Two of the architects, one Ishvalan, the other Amestrian, stood off to one side, keeping their heads down over their blueprints. They were technicians and perfectly amiable people, but they knew what their limitations were. They were more than happy to let Scar handle the public, and they had a quiet side bet as to when he would finally lose it.

Scar's expression and tone darkened. "Zhaarana, if you're not satisfied with the house that is being built for you at the government's expense, you are free to return to wherever in Amestris you were living before."

The woman stared at him incredulously then threw a hand in the air with dismissive contempt. She stormed out of the tent, rattling off something scathing in Ishvalan. Her niece scurried after her like a baby quail after its mother. As they were leaving, another woman stepped past them into the tent, and Scar's frown of irritation softened to a smile of recognition.

"Avizeh!" he greeted her, then added, "Ah, your pardon! Zhaarana Avizeh!"

The woman smiled and held out her hand to clasp Scar's. "Oh, now, I told you already, there's no need to be so formal, and I wouldn't dream of putting on airs."

"You're not a servant anymore, Zhaarana," Scar reminded her.

"No, my dear, but I am a friend, aren't I?"

Scar nodded. "Of course you are." He gestured toward the building plans. "Did you want to see where your house will be?"

Avizeh waved her hand. "Oh, I'm sure it'll be fine, although I might bring Nimir and the kids to take a look." She jerked her head toward the door and lowered her voice. "As long as I'm not next door to her." She sighed. "I suppose it's hard to go from being quality to just being ordinary."

"Hm. Quality is a relative term," Scar remarked.

Avizeh beamed a smile at him. "You haven't really changed much, you know that? You always were a champion to us poor folk, one way or another." Her smiled grew a little sad. "Your parents would have been so proud of you!"

Scar considered her words. He hoped she was right.

He left the tent and made his way home. He had papers to grade and a lecture to plan. They were starting to run out of pencils at school, and he made a mental note to order more the next day. The translation of The Chronicles of Rihir were ready for publication, and Saahad Bozidar wanted him to take a final look the manuscript before it was sent off to East City University Press. Suddenly there didn't seem to be enough hours in the day.

When he reached their camp, dinner was being prepared. Rada looked up and gave him a smile. She set down the bowl she had in her hands and went over to him, slipping her arms around his waist as he gathered her close to him and breathed in the smell of her. He never imagined the combination of wood smoke and army surplus shampoo could be so arousing.

He had never sought a tempestuous life, but neither did he seek a quiet one. What he had desired was to simply do God's will; whether he had been successful in doing that remained to be seen. All he could do now was be cautiously grateful. He had the feeling God wasn't done with him yet.

The dark theater had gone quiet except for the mournful dirge played on the piano up at the front. Roy's fingers curled over the ends of the armrests on either side of him, gripping them tightly as he stared at the screen. Coffin after coffin after coffin trudged across his vision. It was a scene that had jumped right out of his nightmares. The intertitle said The Ishvalans Lay Their Departed To Rest. The film had moved disconcertingly from cheerful scenes of smiling Ishvalan children and Amestrians and Ishvalans playing football to images of bleak desolation, piles of lifeless rubble, jagged remnants of buildings stained with what might not have been detectable to the untrained eye. Roy immediately recognized them as scorch marks.

The final scenes depicted a celebration. Life Begins Again! the intertitle declared. A line of people, both Ishvalan and Amestrian, danced past the camera. A tune that was probably not Ishvalan, more likely whatever the pianist thought was appropriate, tinkled merrily along with the dancers. There was shot of a couple of very attractive Ishvalan ladies who seemed to be sharing a secret with each other. They caught sight of the camera, and one of them, quite a beauty by any standards, looked a little wary for a moment, then an almost playful smile grew on her face. This elicited whistles from the male members of the audience, something Roy might have joined in on at one time, but at the moment his heart was still pounding and a cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

The screen announced that the film had come to The End and that it had been a proud Cruikshank Brothers Production. Then the curtain lowered to mark the break until the main feature began. The audience applauded and hummed approvingly. Mr. Oderkirk's project seemed to have left the desired impression.

"I don't think I saw him anywhere," Riza leaned over to whisper.

"What?"

Riza leaned a little closer. "You-know-who. I didn't see him."

"Oh." Roy forced himself to calm down. "N—no, I didn't either," he whispered back.

Riza grew immediately alert at the tension he couldn't hide. "What's wrong?"

Roy shook his head. "Nothing."

Riza didn't reply, but she didn't have to. She put her hand over his, prying his fingers off the armrest so he could have something warm and soft and alive to hang onto. "It's all right," she whispered. "You're doing everything you can."

Coffin after coffin after coffin. "Will it ever be enough?" he barely whispered back, almost to himself.