The pleasure palaces of the Levantian Assembly hang like loosely strung beads in the skies between Rozarria's northern border and Archadia's western edge. Gracious hosts to all and beholden to none, they are a veritable Balfonheim of the skies. A fleet ripe with vices to be discovered, courted and indulged, the ships so lavishly adorned that they can blind unwary pilots caught in the glare on sunny days. At night, they glitter brightly enough to outshine the stars.
The ships are in constant competition with their fellows, each more lavishly appointed than the last. The Harmattan has its own racing track for skybikes twining in and around its heights, and a high wire act in between the buildings, nothing but a slender rope between the performers and the sea glittering far below. The Pampero contains a menagerie of wild beasts from all the corners of Ivalice, and detailed replicas of fantastic treasures from across the ages.
The Mistral is, at least for the moment, the most elegant and exclusive casino, with a terraced path of floors pressed with golden, shining murals, leading up to a selection of private decks for those with the means or the nerve for the most spectacular bids. Waterfalls spill from hidden mechanisms on the walls surrounding the gaming tables, with flowers bursting from every pillar and post, a hanging garden in midair. All the dealers at the highest tables are viera, hired for the season at some surely absurd cost, adding a particular air of elegance and refinement to the already stunning surroundings.
It's the perfect place, really, to be down a quarter of a million gil.
Al-Cid slowly flips up one card and then the next, a few extra seconds only delaying the inevitable, and the viera moves with dispassionate precision, scooping away another fifty-thousand of his gil with a sweep of her hand.
"So much for that Rozarrian luck, eh?" Lord Courtenay winces sympathetically, even as a few chips are added to his own pile, one that's been casually growing for the last hour or so. At his side, Lia does not sigh or shift in her chair, though Al-Cid is beginning to bruise where she keeps discreetly kicking him under the table for every poor hand. No doubt she is comparing his luck to her own, stuck here being ogled by men who prefer money to manners when she could be off on any number of more exciting tasks. Al-Cid does wonder how Rosaline is getting along - and he can pretend that the moment's distraction is what costs him another ten-thousand gil, but there's little point to it.
Lia's next kick lands perfectly in line with the last, astonishingly painful for the space she has to work with and Al-Cid shifts in his chair to at least provide her with a fresh limb to aim for.
Any noble worth glancing at in the Levantian has an entourage, though few are quite as openly shameless as Al-Cid is, the lovely faces and matching outfits of his 'Four Roses' still noteworthy even amidst this splendor, with at least one of the girls is attached to him at all times. The suggestion is that they are his bodyguards, though that rarely comes without a laugh - to guard him from what? The bartender and the dancing girls? The tables where he sees fit to squander the family fortune?
Al-Cid is embarrassing at roulette, humiliated by dice, and there was a moogle game with small, colored stones where he could have simply handed his money across the table to the same result. The kindest thought is that the Queen dotes on her youngest son. The less complimentary is that he stands entirely unfit for any more noble purpose.
If he were the sort of ambitious man who craved respect, if it grated that he was not seen as a man of power - the tenth son, with five princes and four princesses between himself and the throne - his life would be unbearable indeed.
His mother does hold him in her favor, true, but the Queen has never had much use for that which is not useful. He is neither being groomed for the throne or handsomely wedded or engaged in some venture of industry - Al-Cid is ridiculous and absurd, which makes him harmless - which means no one expects more from him, or notices except to laugh. He may throw around large sums of money as he likes, and no one pays much attention to just where his coin lands.
His Roses are treated as empty-headed ornaments, when they were hand-picked by the Queen for a rather exceptional range of skills. If they had other names before they'd pledged their service to the throne, he does not know them. It is in the best interests of all involved if he stays foolish, providing the excuse and the cover for the girls to do their work while he makes a proper distraction of himself.
He will admit, it is hardly taxing to suffer through extravagance, good food and wine and occasionally quite lovely company. Al-Cid is unsure of just what would happen, if he suddenly developed an untimely sense of ego, and was deemed a threat to the throne. He likes to think, after all their time together, that his beautiful Roses would at least give him a few minutes' head start.
The rich and important are as like as anyone to have their share of ridiculous children, those too far down the line of succession to ever be properly attended to, yet too wealthy to think of any proper profession. There are as many Archadian faces here as those from his own empire, the debauched and demanding children of Bhujerba and Dalmasca and even those few of Nabradia with new homes on distant shores. Wealth erases such silly concerns as borders and allegiances, and he has gained quite a few secrets without even asking, from the daughters of Archadian generals seeking to impress him, to scandalize him or in a moment's rebellion against the family bonds. The lesser sons of the greatest men in Archades will spill secrets as avidly as thousand-gil wine across the floor, toasting to the gods of wine and song alongside Al-Cid Margrace, the tenth son, the useless heir.
He has served his country quite well, in his own way.
"Oh, dear gods Margrace, look out below." Courtenay laughs, flipping over his hand. The house wins, and yet another hefty cut of the Rozarrian budget finds itself in their possession. Lia's kick seems more out of habit than actual malice, while she sips at her drink with an affected boredom that is truly not all that affected.
At times the best way to tell his girls apart is how they hurt him - Lia and Rosaline preferring immediate and subtle retaliation while Vidonia will bide her time, and punch him once they're behind closed doors. Dulcina has never punished him, which is to his benefit, Al-Cid only vaguely curious If there'd be enough of him left to apologize.
A moogle appears, with yet another bottle of wine, and Courtenay eagerly waves him forward. It has not escaped Al-Cid's notice that, despite his string of good luck, the Lord is more than a little in his cups. Courtenay is not one of his informers, unwitting or otherwise. He hails from a high Archadian house, but not one of particular interest to the Rozarrian crown. He is one of the few who seems quite aware that Al-Cid's uselessness is paired with a fair measure of opportunity, but if anything he treats it as a private joke, and they have always found reasons to be friends.
"You're in high spirits today, my friend." Al-Cid says, and Courtenay laughs, swirling the wine in his glass with what almost seems a nervous air.
"Oh, didn't I mention? We're celebrating! You're no longer looking at the greatest card sharp aboard this floating jeweled codpiece, but a man far improved." He throws his arms out, extravagantly. "Behold, my gentle lord, the newest petty officer and makeshift ballast aboard His Imperial Majesty's Inestimable and Remarkably Cramped Light Cruiser - the Shiva. Gods help us all."
"You're telling me you signed on?" he laughs, as Courtenay shakes his head in weary dismay.
"Despite all my best attempts at incompetence, Father went and purchased a commission. I can't imagine what that must have cost I had thought the shield of three brothers already in service to our esteemed country would be enough to spare me, but it seems it is not to be. At least Caris has the decency to be aboard the Leviathan, so I might run into him only when he wishes to measure against my inadequacies." Courtenay frowns, tugging at a bit of his long hair only to stare at it pensively. "They're going to make me cut it, you know. I actually like my hair."
A vow of service is practically the kiss of death among the young Archadians of his acquaintance, trading a life of wine and women for eternal duty and obligation. Certainly, the Rozarrian Armada is no place Al-Cid ever wants to be but Archades treats its army like the sole calling from their true god. If a man should fail as a soldier, obviously he has failed as a man.
"The Shiva is a good position, at least." The smaller crafts and ground troops suffer as they always have, but no one has ever actually sunk an Imperial cruiser in any engagement, they are truly built to last.
"Ah yes, my new life in a tin can, telling all the other little tin cans to stay in line. Margrace, I tell you, I can hardly wait."
"I cannot imagine how being paid to look the other way could possibly work in your favor." Al-Cid smirks, and Courtenay looks a bit relieved even as he frowns back. It strikes him that he might be the first one to know of this, that Courtenay has waited to tell him first. How strange it is, having enemies for friends.
"Don't you start making the best of things now, or I'll never get through this bottle."
The viera keeps dealing. Courtenay keeps drinking. Al-Cid manages to take a few paltry hands, but for the most part it continues to be an utter debacle. Courtenay wins enough that he wonders how much it might take to buy himself back to freedom, but they both know he'd never truly dodge his fate. Even here at the margins of social obligation, there are orders that cannot be denied. If the Queen summoned him into such service, Al-Cid might doubt her faith in him - along with her good judgement - but he would not run.
"I suppose it is as good a place as any to wait out this ridiculous war. You know, we ought to put something down, for the end of all this." Courtenay says, and he's no longer smiling quite so brightly. "Whichever one of us wins, he owes the other a drink."
"Should that not be the other way around?" Al-Cid laughs lightly. "Besides, I do not think it will be as bad as all that."
Courtenay looks at him soberly.
"But why else are you here?"
The situation has been tense for years, ever since Archadia moved on Nabradia and took Dalmasca, since Nabudis - and there is still no clear measure of Nabudis, whether it stands as a mark of sheer Archadian brutality or only that none of them are truly in control.
All that matters now is that on the very day that Vayne Solidor became Lord Consul, the Alexander made its first successful flight across the Nam-Yensa Sandsea, sailing straight over the Jagd sands and stopping a mere fifty miles from the Rozarrian border. The largest, most powerful ship in the Archadian fleet can now go anywhere it wishes, and has thrown into stark relief just how much of Rozarria has been protected by nothing but sand and stone.
The Queen stands opposed to escalation now more than ever, making only those advances that they must to counter the Archadians. She is determined that if it be war, it will not be Rozarria to draw first blood, though such prudence has cost her in the court. Al-Cid has heard the mutters of discontent, suggestions of weakness and cowardice and even more pointed threats, that it is only a matter of time before one fleet or another takes matters into their own hands. One volley, one mistake - the whole border waits for that first shot like a runner at the starting gate.
The Rozarrian Empire does not have a history of stability - if anything, the threat of the Archadians have kept them united when they might have wished otherwise, but the calls to action now are downright frantic, demanding a swift and furious first response.
Al-Cid can see the sense in it, that if Archadia is not stopped here and now there may be nothing left that can, but those who shout the loudest and ask for the most also have no clear end in sight. No border drawn, where Archadia must be pushed back to ensure their security. No clear measure of what will happen, when the Archadians surely match such aggression with their own. The Empires have territory between them that has been in dispute for centuries - there will never be an outcome fully in Rozarria's favor, which means only a never-ending war in the service of those with their eye on the throne.
The Rozarrian Empire could endure such a foolish bloodletting, but the line of Margrace will not survive.
"My apologies, I've gone and spoiled the mood." Courtenay says.
"No, not at all." Al-Cid says, throwing down another losing hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vidonia stroll by on the deck below, taking no notice of him, though her presence is the sign that Rosaline has finished with her work. "As the table proves, I am capable of doing that all on my own. It may be prudent that I retire, though. Otherwise I might find myself conscripted, and aiming at you from the other side of the clouds."
"As you say, I am sure you'd find a way to make it work in your favor." The Archadian smiles, but there's a sadness in it too - this is goodbye, and for who knows how long. "Take care of yourself, Margrace. You know I live to see you lose your shirt at the tables."
"You and every lady from here to the coast." Margrace says, but the words are empty foolishness and they both know it- all a script they must follow even as the shiftless sons of privilege, and even if the ending satisfies no one. "Be safe, my friend."
The Queen keeps an apartment in the penthouse at the Pampero, though she herself has never visited,and when Al-Cid arrives Vidonia and Rosaline are already there. The former tosses him a bag loaded down with chips while the latter is reclined on the sofa, glaring with real venom at a piece of crystal on the table. Rosaline has a bevy of scientific accreditation from the most prestigious institutions in the Rozarrian capital, and is almost certainly the smartest person within a hundred miles of the Assembly.
"Worthless junk. The whole stash, little more than ballast."
Al-Cid had hardly bothered to get his hopes up, but the disappointment stings even so. It is not the first time an ambitious man has claimed to be dealing in Nethicite, nor the first time Rosaline has proved otherwise. A spiteful part of him hopes the man might still attempt to prove his product, sail the Jagd with his crates full of nothing and clear the skies of one more fool. The Queen will not be pleased, this had been a more promising lead than the last, but Nethicite continues to act as a phantom thorn in their side, impossible to ignore but just as impossible to possess.
"At least I stole his cufflinks" Rosaline says, letting them clink across the tabletop. Tiny golden cactuars with diamond eyes. The perfect trophy for such a waste of time and coin. "So how much did you lose?"
Lia makes a very impolite sound, and Al-Cid ignores her, preferring to count out Vidonia's spoils instead, letting the chips spill across the tabletop. The girl truly has a knack for victory.
"You know," Rosaline says, "you can maintain your cover without losing every gil in the royal coffers. Your Highness."
"I have heard as much. Where is Dulcina?"
"Gathering information at the Harmattan, for whatever that's worth." Vidonia says. "It's not like we don't know what's going on out there, there's just nothing we can do about it."
It's been little more than a week since Vayne Soldior became Lord Consul of Rabanastre, and all of Al-Cid's Resistance connections have already dried up, anyone not killed or imprisoned during the ill-fated attack on the Palace no longer so certain that revolt is worth the trouble. It's difficult to encourage an uprising, with the memory of the Ifrit still hanging overhead, and Al-Cid never had much to offer them in the way of formal support to begin with. It had been a matter of causing annoyance more than any real change, throwing money in to keep the Archadians busy with chasing rebels rather than working to lock down their borders.
He has all but abandoned the endeavor, useful enough with two years of instability but with Vayne Solidor in command - the man is a bastard, but an inconveniently competent one. Archadia has two faces, the soldier to tear down the world and the bureaucrat to remake it in an Imperial facade. Vayne keeps his faculty in the former somewhat hidden, but he is an open master of the latter.
Al-Cid can hardly blame Dalmasca, already with their fill of being caught in the middle. The best that he could ever offer them was a chance to rise up against Archadian tyranny, not so much the actions of a Lord Consul whose measures are mild, measured and even conciliatory. The Nabradians never really trusted him, and the Dalmascans even less so - for all Al-Cid had funneled money and resources to the rebels, he'd never gained entrance into their inner circle.
He has often cursed himself for a fool, a stupid boy too young to take heed of the opportunities to accompany the ambassadors to Rabanastre, long before the war. He thought there'd been no reason to care for a princess bound to another, from a small country of no real consequence, but since her apparent death Princess Ashelia has been all but deified, and Dalmasca has proven to be of rather more than consequence. If only they had trusted him, if only he had found her before the Archadians did.
"So what do we do now?" Lia says. "Back to the border?"
"No." Al-Cid shakes his head. "I believe the Queen will recall us to the West, to determine which of our own ships she ought to keep the closest watch on."
"It's not going to stop them." Rosaline says.
Of course it won't. Al-Cid knows the tale of what Raminas was hiding, although it's difficult to believe he could have such a power and still allow his country to be overrun. It's hard to believe the rumors, that the Archadians not only have the princess but the Dusk Shard as well - and once that becomes common knowledge, with the spectre of Nabudis still so fresh even the Queen will not be able to keep the fleets from moving
Al-Cid has met with his sisters and brothers in this very apartment, with their families in tow on holidays; for birthdays and engagements and excited announcements of a new addition to the line of Margrace. He cannot begin to count the cousins and nieces and nephews who are attached in some way to the Armada. For all his supposed skill at intrigue, Al-Cid does not know which of them will be in the most danger, or where the worst blow will fall. At the moment he lacks any interest in pretending his failings are at all charming, that he is anything other than impatient with himself.
The door clicks open quietly, Dulcina entering the room, and she waits until it closes behind her to speak.
"Ondore has the princess. Ashelia of Dalmasca is no longer in Archadian hands."
He has asked before, how she comes to know all she does, but Dulcina has told him he might either learn what she knows or how she knows it - and whatever her methods, she has never been wrong.
Al-Cid himself has pressed the point to Ondore that Bhujerba is strong enough to stand on its own, but the Marquis has always demanded more protection than Rozarria could give no way for the Empire to help them with an open rebellion and still remain neutral against Archadia. It is quite a drastic move for him to suddenly give shelter to a rebel princess, and the bonds of family were never enough to move the Marquis before now. What has changed? What does he know, that they do not?
As if Al-Cid does not know the whispers at the edges of so many conversations, words too much like fairy tales to speak aloud. The Dusk Shard. The Dawn Shard. The Sun-Cryst.
"He'll need us to take the princess." Lia says. "Ondore's got nowhere else to put her - she has to come to Rozarria."
If he plays this correctly, it might very well prove his chance to make up for at least a few of the foolish oversights of his youth. It's been said that Ashelia of Dalmasca is quite lovely indeed.
Al-Cid expects Dulcina to elaborate on her news, but instead the girl is reading over a short letter, and when he moves to ask her what it is she hands him the envelope instead. He is left staring at a very familiar crest that leaves him wondering just how many bottles of wine they'd actually managed to kill at the tables. The girls pass the note to each other as he tries and fails to look over their shoulders.
"How did you even get this?"
"Hand-delivered. The courier was definitely from his retinue."
"It's not real."
"It's meaningless even if it is."
"I would say it's a forgery, but what would be the point?"
Al-Cid listens to the girls argue back and forth, while the winding serpents on the seal seem to look back at him in a wordless challenge.
"So, we finally gain a formal acknowledgement from House Solidor? Fortune shines on us this day."
Strange as it is for the heir to the Archadian throne to be sent about like any other son, he has met Vayne out in the world, the both of them playing border games through the proxies of proxies. Vayne is aware of his interest in Dalmasca and in the Nethicite, but this is the first time he's actually bothered to call him out.
Finally, the note is passed over to his hands, and what is already baffling makes even less sense the longer he looks. Al-Cid is simply not important enough for this sort of intrigue. Certainly, his death would not go unmourned or unavenged, were he to be drawn into some kind of trap and assassinated, but it would not stir the empire to any great foolish action. Archadia is nowhere near as clever as they believe themselves to be, if they wish this to tangle him in some intrigue, and by it implicate the Queen. His mother has always stood happily by to disavow all knowledge of his behavior, should a scandal threaten to tarnish her throne.
Yet what else is to be had in a letter from Lord Larsa Soldior?
The note is plain, not of their usual over-elaborate style, and almost certainly penned in the young lord's own hand. Larsa seeks a meeting, private and clandestine, to speak of peace. Of all things, to find an accord between their empires that might prevent the war. It seems he is finally stepping out of the shadow of his elder brother - and that a long shadow, indeed.
At the surface, it seems no less than a fool's errand. Peace at this late stage is like to be all but impossible, too many men with too much to gain to bother with a reasoned response. Larsa Solidor is a child, even if he is the favorite of the court he wields no real power - but these are all the arguments of a man with something to lose. Al-Cid has always been meant to chase after subtle rumors and foolish possibilities. It is no less than the bidding of the Crown that he reach for the impossible. Even if the boy cannot meet his most ambitious goals, Larsa is still second in line for the Archadian throne and only a true fool would ignore such an opportunity.
"On what neutral ground does our noble lord wish to meet?"
If the girls are at all surprised, it only lasts a moment, although they are far from enthusiastic.
Lia frowns. "He can't possibly have the authority…"
"Well, then we have much in common." Al-Cid says, and smiles.