To Commit Heresy

by Frantic Author

Tanya Degurechaff wished for simple things in Ivalice. A warm bed, a fine meal, and a roof over her head. And that's just what she was after when she joined Gariland Magic Academy.

13. 13: A Secluded Meeting

"The King is dead. Long live the King."

- Duke Goltanna, upon the death of His Grace, King Ondoria Atkascha III of Ivalice, -2 AU.

PART II: THE BRAVE AND THE UNJUST.

Chapter 13: A Secluded Meeting

Dycedarg Beoulve watched patiently as his liege-lord guzzled another glass of the finest wine the Beoulves could offer, a half-smile across his lips. His own wine lay untouched on his desk, the last tendrils of sunlight crossing it from the cathedral window behind his chair. The desk had been his father's desk, originally - and his father's before that, and his father's before that, and so on. It was a desk that represented the Beoulves' legacy, an unbroken line of succession that dated back a thousand years.

And yet, the Beoulves remained subservient to their betters. Such as Duke Larg, greedily drinking a vintage that had taken Dycedarg six years to acquire.

"Ah," the blonde man let out a happy sigh as he took a deep breath, stopping in his drink. "As always, Lord Dycedarg, I must ask you to give me the name of your procurer. This vintage is finer than many at the capital. With such a man at your side, how is it that these Beoulve vineyards are anything but the best in all of Ivalice?"

Dycedarg smiled politely in response, raising his glass to Duke Larg.

"You have my thanks, but my procurer is a… private person. He's busy with work of a more… delicate touch than wine at the moment."

"A shame," Larg said, shaking his head. "Truly a shame. But why have you called me here, Lord Dycedarg? It cannot simply be to drink your wine and enjoy your company, can it not?"

Dycedarg shook his head, picking up his glass of wine and turning to face the window. Outside, he could see Alma on the grounds, roaming about Eagrose with a carefree smile on her face. He idly rotated the glass of wine, watching the red liquid turn as Ama spun in circles.

"Plans change, Duke Larg."

"Always plans, plans, plans with you Lord Dycedarg!" Larg laughed, a rich and full sound that echoed through the room. Dycedarg remained quiet. "You're so terribly grim it frightens me at times! Despite the rumors, that ice-hearted stepmother of yours rubbed off on you, didn't she?"

Dycedarg gripped his glass a little tighter, taking a deep breath. Balbanes' second wife was anything but the bearer of a heart of ice. She was warm and loving, endlessly encouraging both Dycedarg and Zalbaag. Dycedarg had nothing but fondness in his heart for his father's late love. It was not her fault that Balbanes had given up. Had thrown away his ambition.

Had become weak.

"Let us not speak of family," Dycedarg said, glancing at Larg over his shoulder. He turned back towards the window, watching Alma. He could remember the day she was born, the heartache-filled smile on his stepmother's face as she held the little girl up to Dycedarg. He'd touched his newborn sister, and his stepmother had clung to him for a moment. And the words she'd said were ones that Dycedarg was incapable of forgetting. "This is a time of action, is it not?"

Larg smiled, with too many teeth for Dycedarg's liking.

"Aye, aye," Larg said, raising his glass. "The king is dead, after all! Praise be to Orinus, long may he reign!"

"Orinus? Surely you mean Ovelia."

The smile slipped from Larg's face, as he stared at Dycedarg with confusion in his eyes.

"Ovelia? I thought you were planning to discard her, Lord Dycedarg."

Dycedarg smiled, swirling the wine in his glass.

"Why would I discard such a useful piece? Ovelia will serve us well in the coming days, you know."

The head of house Beoulve was a man of ambition. He was born with silver in his mouth, and raised with steel and sorcery at his side. Balbanes himself trained Dycedarg, much as he did Zalbaag, but Dycedarg had no need of the lessons Zalbaag received. What good were swords, when a quill could wreak ten times the havoc?

"Dycedarg, my son…"

Dycedarg seized on the memory that was whispering through his mind and jammed it back where it belonged, turning to face Larg with a raised eyebrow.

"Have you heard of Dorter?"

"The rebuilding, you mean? Ah! You must mean your younger brother, what was his name…? The scion of the Beoulve line, correct? The prodigy?"

"Aye."

When Ramza had returned, amidst a whirlwind of rumors - of his death, of betrayals, and so many other words - all he had asked was that he be put in charge of the rebuilding efforts, and that the girl Dycedarg had spoken to be cared for. He'd taken his leave with her, heading straight for Dorter with a scant number of men, some of whom Dycedarg had even recognized. Wiegraf's eyes had been like arrows, piercing him from a hundred paces as he had seen his brother off. Still, Dycedarg had said nothing.

It would be good for Ramza to be betrayed a few times. Especially if it was by a confidant such as Wiegraf Folles, the peasant knight.

"What of it? I've heard tales that Dorter is almost half the size of Gariland now. A real trading outpost you've got on your hands, Lord Dycedarg! Or, that your brother has on his hands, I suppose."

Dycedarg was unsurprised by the Duke's… shortsightedness. The White Lion had grown powerful on the laurels of his betters, and seemed to care little for anything other than filling his own endless gluttony. Riches, food, drink; despite the Black Lion being the fatter one, it looked to Dycedarg as if it was the White who was filled to the brim with desire.

"Who do you think supports us, Duke Larg?"

"Supports us? Why, all of Gallione, I suppose," Larg said with a frown, looking at Dycedarg as he leaned back in the chair. "All of the states that are part of the Order of the Northern Sky, really."

Dycedarg smiled, looking out the window.

"For every man wielding a sword, Duke Larg, there are a hundred peasants holding a pitchfork. It is not by divine right that we rule, but by the providence that we give to those beneath us."

Duke Larg stared at Dycedarg, not saying a word.

"If I were to declare tomorrow my abdication from my seat, the nobility would mourn, but the peasantry? They would square up their shoulders, and continue with their duties."

Dycedarg looked out, past Alma, past the grove of trees, towards the castle town that rested at the foot of Eagrose's grassy hills.

"Did they not mourn your father, Lord Dycedarg?"

"Aye," Dycedarg said quietly. "They did."

They did not know the man. They knew the idea of the Siegebreaker, the name Balbanes. They knew of the smiling man who walked through the castle town, and gave gold coins to beggars. They did not know of his plans behind closed doors, the pride in his eyes as he told his eldest son of his plans to commit treason.

"Protect them, Dyce. Please, protect them."

The whispers of a woman with a heart made of fire, spoken in hushed tones as she clutched his hand ran through his mind, and his eyes fell towards Alma. His breath caught in his throat for a moment before he recovered.

"Do you pay no attention to those we rule, Duke Larg? There's a name that's constantly on their lips."

Dycedarg turned to face his liege lord, who scratched his beard with a frown. A small smile crossed Dycedarg's face, as he took his first sip of the glass of wine he'd been holding, inhaling the fragrance with closed eyes before he let out a breath.

"The peasantry cares not for me, nor for Zalbaag. To them, we are relics of a bygone era - a time where war was common, and men fought for king and country. They think us out of touch, a lost cause to even approach with a request."

Dycedarg paused for a moment, feeling the wine run through his body. It was a faint heat, pulsing through his skin like mana, and he took a breath before continuing.

"Instead, they go to him. Ramza. Twiceborn, they call Balbanes - that he imparted his spirit to his youngest son as he died."

To Dycedarg, that was a private sort of joke, and he let out a small chuckle at the thought. Ramza was nothing like Balbanes. The political acumen that the man had imparted to his firstborn son was staggering; without the groundwork that he had laid, none of this would have been possible. And now, plots that had been crafted by the man himself and his son were at long last coming into fruition.

"All I wish for you… Is your happiness..."

His mind slammed the gate shut once more, locking it away.

"I have no need of Orinus, a puppet whose strings are easily cut. My brother is a vastly superior one - skilled at warfare, honour bred into his very bones, who always looks to me, Duke Larg. And who do I look to, in times of strife?'

Larg's eyes went wide, and his look of confusion smoothed out across his face into a wide, wide smile.

"I see. You plan to betrothe them. But what of Gaffgarion and his lot? Are their orders still intact?"

Dycedarg looked out the window once more, towards a grave atop a high hill.

"Every hero needs a villain, Duke Larg."

The bustle of Dorter was impressive to Zalbaag's untrained eye. He had spent much of his life in various academies, surrounded by students and teachers, and then had been thrown straight into the strife of combat. Anointed for protecting his squadron against nigh insurmountable odds, Zalbaag Beoulve was a man who was familiar with the dangers of cities, particularly in times of siege or occupation. Around every corner, a trap. Every smiling face could just as easily be a knife in your back. He preferred the quiet of a library or training yard to the loud sounds of people that filled the city to the brim.

The streets were packed with bodies, some from construction, others selling, and others still buying. Even as Zalbaag moved, he had to duck to the side to avoid five men marching down the street with massive stones they carried in carts across the newly made street of bricks. He arched an eyebrow, watching them go silently.

If he was being honest, he was rather impressed. Dorter had been a burning wreckage of a city under a year ago, with thieves and cutthroats running the streets. For a supposed city of trade, it was like walking into a pit of hell. But today, everywhere he looked were people smiling brightly, people walking the streets with a skip in their step, and a name on their lips.

Beoulve.

He had attracted a few glances himself, and had made sure to stand up taller than normal, waving politely at a group of women who had passed him by with a stolen glance. The brunette in the group had bright green eyes that went wide, and she giggled as she whispered to her friend, waving a dainty hand back at him.

It was peaceful. It was serene.

It was such a shame he was going to tear Ramza away from it all.

Zalbaag walked towards a building situated behind a fountain, staring up at it. The building itself was the most rundown of any in the city; the work clearly unfinished, construction crews milling around about it as the foreman barked orders. It was near the center of the town, and the building was covered in scaffolding from construction. Tall planks of wood rose towards the sky, and men walked up and down them with carts filled with stone, sweat pouring down their brows as the sun beat down on them. Zalbaag ducked underneath a sheet that covered the entryway, and the insides of the building were even worse. All the wooden floors had been ripped out, leaving nothing but dust and stone for him to walk on. He could hear the murmur of voices deeper in, and he followed them, hearing them get louder and louder.

"Beoulve," a dry voice asked, high-pitched and slightly annoyed, "A man is alone on the roadside, holding out a cup for coin. What do you do?"

Zalbaag heard the soft voice of his brother reply, the scratching of a quill against paper barely audible over the sounds of construction outside.

"I give him a single gil-"

A barking laugh interrupted him.

"He pulls out a knife and stabs you in the chest, revealing his true colors as an Ordallian spy, come to ravage Ivalice in a second invasion."

There was a pause, as Zalbaag continued to move forward, now approaching the door that the voices were coming from. It was slightly ajar, and he could see a small blonde figure leaning against a desk, while another blonde sat behind it, looking up from a paper with an arched eyebrow.

"Degurechaff, are these scenarios of yours mere jest, or is this a closer look at your thought process?"

The girl crossed her arms.

"What if it's the second, Beoulve?"

Ramza shuddered, turning his head back towards the paper on the desk, as he dipped his quill in ink.

"...How horrifying."

Zalbaag knocked on the frame of the door, and both of them turned, a pair of silver and green eyes staring at him. One set with apprehension, the other with curiosity, before a flash of recognition ran through both - and Ramza stood up with a wide smile.

"Brother! Please, come in! Forgive me for the mess," he said as he rounded the table, opening the door in full. Zalbaag could see that Ramza's desk was covered in papers, and a bookshelf that was filled with hundreds of pieces of parchment - and, of course, books as well - had lined the wall. Behind the desk, was a massive circular windowpane that had yet to be filled with glass, letting Zalbaag feel the refreshing breeze as he entered the office, giving a nod to the girl in the corner, who blinked before saluting smartly, one hand crossing her heart and the other behind her back.

"Lord Commander, sir," she said, her spine straight as a rod. "It is an honor for the city of Dorter to be allowed the privilege of hosting you. Please forgive our poor accommodations, the ci-"

"At ease, soldier," Zalbaag said, waving a hand. "I care not for formalities when visiting my brother and his friends. You needn't bother with the pleasantries."

She relaxed, but only slightly. Her eyes still darted around the room, and her fingers twitched every time she heard a sound from outside, as if she was preparing to reach for a weapon that wasn't strapped to her person.

"Forgive Degurechaff brother," Ramza laughed as he spoke, moving back around the desk to sit down. "She has yet to learn how to… relax?"

"I am plenty relaxed, Beoulve. Did you not see what I did yesterday?"

"You read a tome on economics for four hours."

She nodded, reverently. A small smile appeared on her face as she turned to the bookshelf.

"Indeed, Beoulve. A most relaxing time, would you not agree?"

"Degurechaff, you read a book on economics, and then proceeded to drag Delita and Vinya in here to start a debate on if its topics were applicable to Dorter."

Zalbaag watched the byplay between the two with mild interest. He'd heard of his brother's… paramour? Adjutant? Second? It was hard to tell who was what around Ramza, at this point. The rumors swirled thick and heavy, reminding Zalbaag much of their father during the war. Without concrete evidence - such as Ramza telling him directly - he doubted that he'd be able to understand much of his younger brother's life.

"Be that as it may, it is not without purpose that I stand before you, Ramza," Zalbaag said, and the two turned to him. "Our Lord Brother has a request of you."

"A request? From Lord Dycedarg?" Degurechaff said, tapping her cheek with a frown. "What could he possibly want of this meagre town?"

Zalbaag blinked, staring at her with a confused expression. Meagre was not the word he would have used to describe the current state of Dorter. A work in progress, perhaps; but Degurechaff and Ramza had nearly razed the city to the ground. The amount of people in it alone was impressive in and of itself.

"Ignore her, brother," Ramza said, giving Degurechaff a withering look. "Degurechaff and I have… a difference of opinion, about Dorter as of late."

"It is hardly my fault you are adamant in your decision to give near anyone who walks into the building a job, Beoulve. Let me ask you a question."

Ramza slumped down in his chair.

"Let us say that you are approached by a man in a tavern. He says he knows the location of a treasure that without your aid, he may never find. It is located in the middle of nowhere, and he requests your aid, in exchange for a portion of the prize. What do you do?"

"Naturally, I accept, and accompany him!" Ramza said, his face brightening up. "Together, surely we will be able-"

"Bzzzt!" Degurechaff made a sound like a lightning bolt, glaring at Ramza as she crossed her arms over her chest. "You've been tricked by a bandit, who steals all of your money and leaves you to die in the middle of nowhere. Do take better care of yourself, Beoulve."

Ramza let out a hopeless sounding sigh, and Zalbaag chuckled. It seemed that his brother, in spite of everything, was in surprisingly good hands.

"Nevertheless," he said, "Dycedarg does have a task he desires from you, Ramza."

Both of the two nodded hesitantly, although he could see the girl wince as she sat back down on top of the desk, making Zalbaag wonder what could be hurting her. Was she still recovering from some sort of injury?

"In truth, it is a simple enough job - easier by far than dealing with the Brigade. Have you heard of Goug?"

"The mechanical city? What of it?" Ramza asked, his eyes darting between the paper on his desk and Zalbaag. Zalbaag could empathize, however - any man who was capable of holding a blade would naturally prefer it to sitting behind a desk, flicking through papers day after day. The monotony would get to any person, no matter how patient they were. Even worse, it was quite easy to fall behind, and simply let it pile up until it was impossible to ignore. "I cannot find any agreements we have with them, but if you give me a moment-"

"Those agreements are ancient, and scarce worth the paper they're printed on," Zalbaag said, waving a dismissive hand. "And with the company there-"

"Company?" Degurechaff broke in, tilting her head to the side. "What sort of company?"

"Ah. The usual sort, I suppose," Zalbaag frowned as he spoke, going over the vague information Dycedarg had given him in his head. "Baert Trading Company. A decent enough sort, from what I've heard at least. Dycedarg wants you to broker a trade agreement with Goug. Arms, men, spellcraft; whatever they have, Dycedarg is more than willing to buy."

"Whatever for?"

Zalbaag looked at the two of them. Their features may have been sharp, but they had soft faces, not worn old by time and strife. Hands that were unblooded by the horrors of war itself. Zalbaag was unused to it, if he was to be truly honest with himself.

His entire body had been drenched in it during the Hundred Year War.

"War, Ramza." he said. Degurechaff's eyes flicked up to him, and a flash went through them that he wouldn't have noticed had he not been examining the two so closely. Ramza's face fell, before hardening like a stone, his fingers clenching tightly around his quill.

"Who could our brother possibly be warring with, Zalbaag? Are we not a unified country?"

Degurechaff let out a small laugh at that, and Ramza shot her a glare, but she ignored it, instead preferring to examine the bookshelf on the far wall.

"Do you believe that the Dukes Larg and Goltanna see eye to eye on every aspect of Ivalice, Ramza? It would be a lie to claim that even those closest to them do. Men of power do what they will. It is our duty, as knights, to follow their orders."

"I will not condemn the people of Dorter to suffer simply because it is required of me as a knight," Ramza said as he looked down at the paper before him, scribbling something into the margins. "I will not have Dorter used as a bargaining chip that fans the flames of war."

"Does Goug have mechanists, Beoulve?" Degurechaff said, crossing her arms. "Having ten of those on hand would vastly increase the speed of the reconstruction, would it not?"

Ramza let out a long-suffering sigh, and Degurechaff arched an eyebrow in response.

"Honest coin for honest work. We will go to Goug, and broker an agreement. A favorable one for all parties - Dorter, Goug, and Gallione itself. An improvement all around, wouldn't you agree?"

Ramza looked down at the paper before him, and let out a sigh.

"Aye," he murmured. "I suppose you are right. Tell Lord Brother that we will fulfill his task as fast as we can."

Zalbaag nodded, before turning on his heel and walking out the door. Little more needed to be said, but he still looked back, and saw Ramza's gloomy face as he stared at the paper, and Degurechaff's cold, cold eyes following him as he walked. Like two pieces of silver, they watched him, with not a flicker of emotion in them.

What devil did Ramza seem to keep at his side?

He shuddered, and left.

"It appears your brothers only speak to you when they want something, Beoulve," I said as I watched Zalbaag leave. The man was extremely competent at his job, albeit trapped by that damnable thing called corporate loyalty. To be fair, it was not as if we were not coworkers, in a way - all of us were working for the betterment of Gallione. As such, his request was neither unreasonable, nor was it untowards; a city such as ours would have a natural need for the help of the engineers' city. I had read quite a bit on Goug, and the armaments they claimed to be capable of inventing reminded me far more of my previous life than this one. "Is 'dropping by for a chat' not a thing in your family?"

"Alma's come by more than once, Degurechaff," Ramza said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his back, his fingers crossed as his arms arched upwards. "I can't say she's ever asked anything of you or I."

"She did ask for pastries once."

"Aye, but those were a gift from the bakery. Are you truly begrudging her for taking a few?"

"Six is not a few, Beoulve. That is a half-dozen."

Dorter was, to be blunt, a mess of a city. The construction was rampant and inefficient. The people were constantly badgering Ramza or myself for help, often with meagre bribes such as food or service. The resources of the city were scarce, and the surrounding area was not much better; there was little of value other than people that walked through Dorter, and people were, overall, a drain on the economy in such a medieval era. If one wanted to bolster Dorter, we would need trading partners that offered luxury goods, or things that other cities nearby didn't have. Such as, for example, machinists.

"It would be of great aid," Ramza said the words quietly as he stood, turning to face the grand open space where the construction had placed a massive circular window. He stared out, at the people who were scrambling around below, his shoulder resting against the wooden planks that held the entire monstrosity together. "To have men as brilliant as those of Goug at our side."

"Indeed," I said, turning away from him to examine the bookshelf. I selected a book of history, flipping through it until I could find a few passages on Goug's history. It was boring, almost uninteresting - Goug was a city founded by people with a love of studying machines, but the city itself had existed for many years before any of us had arrived. They were a bastardization of engineers in my previous life, a bizarre mixture of archaeologists and engineers that were universally called 'machinists'. Men of machines. "Are you worried, Beoulve?"

"Perhaps a little," he admitted with a laugh. "Dorter… We've spent six months here, Degurechaff. Six months of rebuilding, and what have we to show for it?"

A half-finished city, half-hearted plans, and half-accomplished goals. I could feel his frustration, as it mirrored my own; our own goals were almost impossible to even begin to plot - we were simply too busy for it. The rebuilding effort took up the vast majority of our time, and dealing with people took up the remainder. And even beyond that, Dycedarg had seen fit after our 'graduation' to throw half the damn squadron halfway across the country! Couldn't he see the value in keeping everyone close together!? I worked so hard to train all of them, and he just takes them away from me without blinking an eye?!

Our plans were worthless, because our superiors had vastly more complex ones. What good does a connection between Dorter and Goug do, for Eagrose? For Gallione? For Ivalice? We'd have to cross the Mullonde strait simply to access it, let alone to open negotiations, which were likely to take months on end.

I'd heard the rumors. It was impossible to ignore, with the way they were so damn open in their grieving. Even Ramza had worn black for a day or two, a somber look on his face.

The king was dead. A peaceful death, in his sleep, but dead nonetheless. A dead king, and two dukes who each hold one half of his progeny. Orinus, the younger one, and Ovilia, the eldest. One in the north, and one in the south.

I was not well-versed in medieval history. I preferred the more contemporary ones, which were better studied and, to be blunt, easier to understand. The madness of kings and queens is one that only they can understand; even in my understanding of corporate structure I was left confused at monarchism as a construct. Monarchism is a system that can only work if everyone involved is loyal, competent, and true. As a former corporate slave, the one thing I can hold in my heart is that such things are certainly impossible. Not everyone in your corporation will be loyal, nor will they all be competent. Competency is valued, but loyalty is an attribute that can be easily discarded. To whom are you loyal? The paycheck that the company gives you? The company and you are not friends; you are being paid for a service. This is signaling theory, in action.

The company sees that you have the ability to complete the tasks it desires of you, and it approves of this. The company sees you strive to better your workplace, and it promotes you for it. But the company will naturally feed you lies and deceitful nothings in an attempt to make you do more. Reach higher! We're a family here! Strive for excellence! These are all things I myself have said, as a manager of human resources.

Naturally, I do not believe in such absurd falsehoods. If a limb is gangrenous, you do not allow it to fester, you cut it off at the source. Family? How absurd. The only camaraderie you have in a corporation is your fellow peers, who can all empathize with the mutual suffering you slave away under from the higher ups.

"We need them, Beoulve," I said bluntly as I looked at him. "We need their intelligence. More than that, we need their manpower. You've already agreed to make the attempt, is it so terrible to try a little harder?"

Ramza's eyes flicked past mine, before he turned away once more, staring out the window.

"If you're so focused on that damned glass you can't come up with an answer, I'll pay out of pocket to have it removed."

"Perish the thought! Degurechaff, paying for something that has no practical use?"

"It'll be easier to shove you out of it if there's no glass."

Ramza looked over to me, a lazy smile on his face.

"Aye. It would be. As usual, you're correct Degurechaff."

His eyes hardened as he looked back out the window, and when he spoke, it was with authority in his voice.

"We will go to Goug, then. We will acquire your machinists, your manpower - perhaps even make a few friends along the way."

"People you recruit at swordpoint are not your friends, Beoulve. They're just allies who are waiting to kill you."

He grinned at me, and I had a moment of deep, long-suffering horror.

"You're not bringing the damn Corpse Brigade along."

"Well not all of them obviously," Ramza said, waving a hand. "A few would be of great aid, though. Milleuda is needed here, however. The guard is still not up to standard."

Milleuda Folles was a bit of a controversial figure, at least in my eyes. After Ramza returned, she had treated him with an almost cultish reverence. It made my skin crawl, the way she went on about him with shining eyes, babbling to whichever of the damn guardshouse she could find about the 'legendary knight', Ramza Beoulve, who bravely stood against injustice even when it seemed impossible, who was able to free the Corpse Brigade and grant them work. Admittedly, it wasn't only her; most of the Corpse Brigade, at least, the ones on our payroll, treated Ramza with entirely too much respect. I have no problems with respecting your superiors, but isn't this a little much? You're making him a damned lunch every day! And you didn't even include one for me! I was there too, you know?! In fact, without me you would have never even gotten to meet Ramza in the first place! You should be grateful that I didn't manage to hit you!

"You're not going to go alone," I clicked my tongue, folding my arms with narrowed eyes. "Who else?"

"Wiegraf and Delita, of course."

Wiegraf was obvious. We needed muscle, and what better example of muscle than Wiegraf Folles, the peasant knight himself? Anointed by the Siegebreaker, standing by his youngest son. It was a devilish bit of poetic irony; the peasant turned criminal had once more returned to the side of righteousness because of the acts of the son of the man who gave him a knighthood.

If only Ramza or Wiegraf cared at all about that sort of thing! Ramza was probably only bringing Wiegraf because he liked him and wanted him to have a bit of a vacation! That's not a real reason to bring someone along, Beoulve you idiot! And you're bringing Heiral too!? What purpose could he possibly serve anyways?! Do you plan to have him say some idiotic joke in the middle of negotiations, to 'ease the tension'!?

I pinched the bridge of my nose, already feeling a headache coming on. There was only one real solution here, but I didn't like it one bit. I looked forlornly at the bookshelf - I was only half done with it, and already I'm going to be dragged away.

"Absolutely not," I said. "None of you are at all competent at negotiations. There's only one person here even remotely good at them, Beoulve."

He stared at me.

I stared back at him.

"Is… is this another one of your jokes?"

He was clearly ignoring my impressive track record of successful negotiation efforts. Just yesterday, Vinya and I had convinced the sweetmaker to sell to us at half price.

"Look at my face, Beoulve. Does it look like I'm telling a joke?"

He peered at my face for a moment, biting his lip as he scrutinized my features. He leaned in a bit closer, his hand on the back of the chair that he'd been sitting in. His eyes scrunched up, and then his shoulders sagged, and he shook his head.

"...To be honest, Degurechaff, I still find it hard to tell when you're merely making a jest."

My sense of humor was as impeccable as my negotiating skills. It was a pity so few people were able to appreciate them. Vinya always laughed at my jokes! So did Algus, for that matter! It's hardly my fault you're an idiot, Ramza!

"I am not," I said, staring at him with a dour look on my face. "What we are asking of Goug - through this company, is far more then they're likely to be willing to pay. They'll probably try to deceive us. Trick us. Entrap us in a deal that we can't possibly fulfill. I refuse to be hanged by a rope that someone else put around my neck."

Ramza blinked, and then a quiet chuckle emitted from his lips, as he nodded his head in acquiescence.

"Aye, Degurechaff," he said, stretching his arms as he stood from the desk. "I suppose you're right."

I'm always right, idiot! You're just too dense to see it immediately!

"Then let us be off," I said as I spun on my heel and marched out the door. "We've men to collect and a voyage to plan. I don't want to spend more than a week on a damned boat."

"Degurechaff, I'm fairly certain the voyage is half a month's journey-"

"No more than a week!"

My perpetual lateness was just to prepare you for my speed in the future. It was a trick. I deceived you.

If there are any problems, please tell them to me and I will edit them out! Or just yell at me incoherently, I'll probably screenshot your post and send it to my friends and call it 'based'! I'm very skilled at deciphering incoherent nonsense. That is why I am a Ward loremaster.

All jokes aside, welcome to ~part 2~. As I said previously, part 2 will expand a lot of the FFT side of things, and also leave the entire plot behind. I'm also inventing motivations wholesale! Please do not get upset at them, but if you do, I'll probably explain it anyways!

See you in (hopefully) two weeks! Or maybe I'll even interact again. You can never tell what I might do, that is why I am so dangerous.