Chapter 5: Fruitless Efforts
Maes Hughes was a criminology major. As a matter of fact, he was the only criminology major in the whole third-year class. When he had enrolled in the Academy, seeking a change from the monotony of life in the enlisted ranks, he had originally thought to major in psychology. It seemed an interesting subject, and he understood people quite well. Then he had taken a course in the history of organized crime, and his academic aspirations had changed. Criminology was much more fascinating than psychology, and though it wasn't really something that would be of use to a soldier, Maes enjoyed it. University, after all, was meant to be enjoyed, and though Maes would never have had a chance at higher education without the military's aid, that didn't mean that he had to devote every waking moment to serving the establishment. He was allowed to enjoy his studies.
This term, he was taking a course in deduction and induction – the two types of reasoning of most use in criminal investigations. It was a difficult class, since its purpose was to teach one how to think, instead of what to think, but he was enjoying it. Maes wasn't as bright as some people – certainly he lacked Roy Mustang's fierce intelligence and analytical genius – but he was clever enough. His mind was adaptable, and he took quickly to the new concepts.
Deductive reasoning involved the formulation of a theory, which one then narrowed to a hypothesis. Through observation, one tested the hypothesis, and then either confirmed it or disproved it. It was a very scientific method of thinking, and it was the kind of reasoning that Maes knew Roy favoured. With his training in the science of alchemy, the younger cadet was used to thinking in abstracts. He had a philosophical streak that Maes lacked, and that often reared its head at the most inopportune times. Deduction suited him well.
Maes, however, favoured inductive reasoning. One made an observation that piqued the curiosity. From numerous observations, a pattern could be picked out. Then one formed a tentative hypothesis that could be explored, modified, and tested until a conclusion could be reached. It was a pragmatic approach, a hands-on way of approaching a mystery, and it appealed to Maes' practical nature.
When he had noticed that Roy was absolutely exhausted, that had been an observation. Further encounters with his enervated friend had made it plain that something was going on. Maes' first theory had been that he was sneaking out for some reason, but then he had found an employment pass in his friend's jacket pocket when Roy had had his back turned. From there, Maes had gone to his contact in the records office – a friendly desk sergeant who was all too happy to oblige a fellow veteran of the southern campaign – and learned the place of Roy's employment and the hours that he was permitted to be out.
Maes had threatened to visit him at work, and he was a man who followed through on his threats. So it was that on a Tuesday evening in late January, he bundled himself up in his military greatcoat, saluted the third-class cadets at the gate, and set off into town. He had toyed with the idea of hopping on the streetcar, or even flagging down a taxicab, but then he had decided to get a feel for just how far Roy was walking. It was almost three miles from the Academy gates to the seedy tavern on the wharf, which Maes covered in twenty-six minutes at a brisk march. It would have been a much longer walk for a civilian, of course, but Roy could certainly make it within the half-hour he allowed himself.
The bar itself was a disreputable-looking establishment practically on the waterfront. Maes stepped into a cloud of tobacco smoke and fumes of cheap gin. There arose a steady din from the inebriated river men, who sprawled around crude wooden tables or leaned uncouthly against the bar. Maes was hardly a blushing debutant: he had seen soldiers at their worst, and been one of them, too. Even by those standards, however, this was an unpleasant place. It was noisy, and malodorous, and the customers were rude and offensive.
"Hey, tin soldier!" one of them shouted thickly as Maes removed his greatcoat and navigated to the back of the room, where there was an unsteady-looking table vacant.
It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the murky atmosphere, and his ears about twice as long to adapt to the noise. Once this was achieved, however, he soon spotted his friend.
It wasn't hard: he was the only server in the place, and the customers kept him hopping. Dressed in the tatty trousers of his one civilian suit, which was of questionable providence, and one of the shirts Maes had given him when he first came to Central, Roy ran back and forth between the bar and the tables with such speed that Maes could not tell from one moment to the next which quarter of the room he might be found in. Cries of "You, boy!" and "Over here!" and "More whiskey!" cluttered the air, but somehow Roy managed to keep them all straight.
At least initially. As the clock on the wall creeped past ten and inched towards eleven, Roy's steps became less self-assured. His pace slowed, and he seemed to have more and more trouble keeping the orders straight. Once or twice the barman swore loudly at him, garnering hoots of entertainment and approval from the drunken audience. As he slowed down, Maes noticed something else, too. Whenever a table was vacated, or a nearly-empty glass shoved away, Roy would pick it up and drain the dregs quickly and surreptitiously.
The tavern served food, too, or at least what purported to be food, and more than once Maes spotted Roy sneaking a bit of half-gnawed bread or a slice of fried potato into his pocket, to be wolfed down when he thought no one was looking. Maes frowned in puzzlement. Why should Roy be hungry? It was true that first-year cadets were not permitted second helpings at meals, but the Academy hardly starved them.
By midnight, the business was slowing down, and Roy vanished more often into the back room, emerging with damp sleeves and dishpan hands whenever the barkeep shouted for him. Maes could see his energy flagging by the minute, and finally, as Roy shuffled past on his way back to what Maes assumed was the kitchen, he reached out and caught his sleeve.
"Can a guy get a little service around here?" he demanded.
"Of course, sir; I'm sorry, sir," Roy mumbled meekly. Then he turned and saw who had hailed him. He blanched. "Maes?"
The older cadet grinned enormously. "In the flesh."
"I can't talk," Roy said. "I have work to do..."
"Yeah, I know. Can I get a single malt?"
For a moment, Roy looked absolutely startled, but then he smiled. "Sure."
He moved towards the bar, and a minute later returned with a glass of whiskey. "It's not very good," he warned as Maes took a mouthful.
"You get off at two?" asked Maes.
"Yes..." Roy said hesitantly. "You're not staying 'til then, are you?"
"Why not?" Maes asked. "We can walk back to campus together."
"I don't want you to," Roy exclaimed. "I mean... I need... I..." He looked absolutely terrified. "Maes, you can't..."
"What's wrong?" asked Maes, frowning. "Are you trying to hide something else?"
The dark eyes widened and Roy's mouth twitched spastically. He was about to speak when someone on the other end of the room hollered for him. Roy flinched and flushed, as if he was ashamed to be seen like this, at the beck and call of maudlin drunks. Maes wasn't sure that he was comfortable with this perspective on his friend, either, but he tried to smile as Roy rushed off.
Maes sat there nursing his drink until the bartender called last orders and ejected the last few patrons. Then he waited in the street, biding his time until Roy should come out. Ten minutes turned to fifteen, and then to twenty. By oh-two-thirty, he was starting to wonder if his friend was ever coming out. He had scoped out the premises prior to entering, and he knew that there was no back door, but it occured to him now that Roy was an alchemist of no small skill, and could doubtless create a door if he needed one badly enough. Maes hurried around into the alleyway behind the tavern, and smiled wryly to himself. Roy had come up with a much simpler method of escape. There was a small window set high on the wall, probably opening on the restroom. It was open and swinging a little in the wind off the river. A damp footprint of a military boot was visible on top of a barrel beneath the unconventional exit.
Maes returned to his dormitory that night a little discouraged... but more amused. The mystery would not be solved tonight.
discidium
It was a Wednesday afternoon, but instead of drilling with the other cadets, Roy was waiting at the gates. The summons had arrived via the Major General's office that morning: Brigadier General Grumman wanted Cadet Fourth Class Mustang to take tea with him that afternoon. Since any such invitation from a senior officer was tantamount to an order, Roy was excused from his usual duties. Brig. Gen. Grumman was the officer who had sponsored Roy's application to the Academy. He was also Riza Hawkeye's grandfather.
Roy was nervous. He had not informed the general of his son-in-law's death, much less the fact that his granddaughter was living in poverty practically on his back doorstep. As he waited for the motorcar that was being sent to fetch him, Roy tried frantically to work out how to impart this news.
What he should have done was go to Grumman at once. He had wanted to, but Riza had begged him not to. Roy had understood her reluctance to throw herself upon the charity of someone she had not seen since she was five years old, especially since she did not seem to remember what a wonderful man Grumman was. Still, he wished that she would give in. He hated to see her in that wretched little garret, knowing that it was his fault because he couldn't provide for her.
The vehicle pulled up to the gates, and the second-year cadets waved it through. Roy swallowed hard, and climbed into the front passenger seat, glancing sidelong at the sergeant who was driving.
"Thank you, sir," he said softly.
"You're welcome," the NCO replied as he turned the vehicle around and took off towards the city.
Roy had never ridden in an automobile before, but at the moment he was too preoccupied to enjoy it. There was the matter of keeping Riza alive on the pittances they earned. More pressing at the moment was the question of facing her grandfather and trying to keep her secret as she wished him to. And, as always, the matter of the cipher...
Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis, voca sua cum benedictus... confutatis maledictis...
"Voca me cum benedictus," the NCO said.
Roy gasped a little. He hadn't realized that he had spoken aloud. He was so tired, despite the extra sleep he had had by Riza's gift five days ago. If he kept making stupid mistakes like this...
"It's voca me, not voca sua," said the driver.
"No it's... wait, you've heard it?" Roy gawked.
The man nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. "You see, voca me is 'call me', and voca sua is—"
"'Call her'," Roy whispered.
"Exactly. Do you like Mozart, then?"
"Who?" Roy said blankly.
"Mozart. That's from his requiem..." The enlisted man glanced at Roy as he rolled to a stop.
"It is?" Roy asked. He had known that the words on Riza's back were scraps of Latin verse, but it had never occurred to him to wonder who had written them. Perhaps that was important. At the very least, it was a new angle to explore. "Who is he? And... what's a requiem?"
"A death Mass," the soldier told him. "It's a tradition from a dead religion. Some people think Mozart was a practicing Christian, and some think it was an academic exercise. He was a composer, and he lived in South City almost a hundred and fifty years ago. His work isn't well known, but it's fascinating. The university orchestra sometimes performs some of his pieces."
An eclectic composer of Amestrian stock? Little known and possibly a follower of a creed that had been extinct for centuries? It was certainly something that no average alchemist would know.
"You said his name was Mozart?" Roy asked, trying to fix it in his mind.
The soldier nodded. "Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart."
It was as if several pieces of the impossible puzzle fell together at once. Lupus, latrocinium. Wolf, group or team or band or gang. Wolf gang. Wolfgang. Roy's heart sprung to his throat. "Please... what else can you tell me about him?" he implored desperately.
discidium
Brigadier General Leslie Grumman owned a handsome flat in the presidential district, as befitted a man of his rank. Most officers of similar station dwelt in large houses with space for their families and room to entertain dignitaries. Grumman had lived alone since his daughter's marriage, and he did not care for hosting sombre dinner parties, so he had no use for a larger place. His apartment with its large windows and its view of the river suited him just fine – when he was allowed to live in it.
His most recent promotion had come as the result of a mishap on the southern front, out of which he had come with his honour and most of his subordinates. The new rank had carried with it a desk job at Central Headquarters, and Grumman had hoped to stay clear of the battlefield for a time. The higher-ups had other ideas. He was to depart tomorrow on a three-month tour in the west, where Amestris was embroiled in conflict with Creda. His duties were mainly ornamental: he was essentially being sent as an ambassador of goodwill from the General Staff to the troops on the front lines. The expectation was that the quirky and spirited general would make speeches and raise morale and generally make a nuisance of himself. Grumman could not figure out why they didn't just send some damned politician, or at least a Brig. Gen. who had a little ambition.
When he had learned of the assignment, Grumman had made immediate arrangements to spend a little time with Roy Mustang. The sable-haired cadet was a special favourite of the general's. He had been the ward, so to speak, of Grumman's son-in-law, and the aging officer remembered him as an emaciated little boy with feral eyes and a terror of strangers. Now he was a quiet young man, filling out nicely and full of youthful ideals and grand dreams of a better tomorrow. In the atmosphere of jaded formality that characterized Central HQ, it was so refreshing to see someone brimming with such potential.
This afternoon, however, the boy was almost silent. Grumman had not seen him in months, for his schedule left little room for socialization. On the eve of deployment, he had decided to send for the boy and enjoy one of the privileges of his rank. To his dismay, the lad was not good company at all today.
"You've been staring at that biscuit for five minutes," Grumman commented wry. "Are you waiting for it to grow wings?"
Young Mustang stiffened and looked up. "I... no, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I was just... thinking..."
"About what?" asked Grumman. "It looks like something serious."
"It is," Roy said. "I mean... it's just a little awkward."
Grumman nodded sympathetically. "Sometimes it helps to get it off your chest," he said.
"Sir... I... I should have told you sooner," Mustang murmured. "But... but Hawkeye-sensei is dead."
The words fell like a pall over the table. Grumman set down his mug of tea. "Mordred?" he said. "Dead?"
The boy nodded. "It was a disease in his lungs. He bled to death, and..." He shuddered.
Grumman was torn between two priorities. The need to comfort the boy, who had lost a man who had been his alchemy teacher and his surrogate father fell to the wayside. "Where is Riza? Why didn't anyone tell me? She must come and live here, with me."
For an instant, anguish swam in the charcoal-coloured eyes, but then Mustang looked away. "S-she doesn't want to," he said softly.
"She has no choice!" Grumman protested. "She's only thirteen. Well, nearly. She's still a child, and she's not old enough to decide what's best. Where is she? I'll send for her at once."
The boy shook his head. "She doesn't want to live here, sir," he said firmly. "I promised... I promised that I'd respect that."
"Where is she?" Grumman asked frantically. Was she well? Was she safe? His beloved granddaughter, orphaned by her one remaining parent... it was his place to take her in. It was his duty to care for her. His duty and his joy: more than anything he wanted to see his little sweetpea again. Though of course she was not so little anymore... "Where is she, Cadet?"
"Please..." Mustang whispered. "Please, I promised... don't make me disobey a direct order, sir."
Grumman wanted to take him by the shoulders and prise the truth from his lips, but the boy's desperate quietude gave him pause. Roy was obviously in anguish, torn between a promise made to someone he loved as much as Grumman did, and an obvious desire to come out with whatever was burdening him. And there was more. Grumman was leaving tomorrow. He could not take a child with him into a war zone, and Riza could not stay here alone. There was no time to make other arrangements. If she was safe and well, there was no reason to uproot her or to force her loyal boy to betray his confidence. The brigadier general closed his eyes.
"Is she safe?" he asked.
Mustang nodded. "I'm... she's... a family friend is looking out for her," he said, and whatever the truth was Grumman could see that he was equivocating. "She's safe. I made sure she was safe."
There was fervour in his voice, and that calmed the old gentleman more than even the truth might have. Grumman sighed softly. "Does she need anything? Is there anything I can do for her?"
Hesitation. He could almost hear Mustang's mind turning over as he weighed his options. At last, he moistened his lips with his tongue.
"Money," he said softly. "A little money. She needs new shoes a-and a winter coat. Please, sir..."
Grumman reached wordlessly into his billfold and pulled out three five-hundred-sens notes – all the cash he had on his person. "I'll draw up a bank draft, too," he said. "She's my only family, my boy. Whatever she needs, I'm only too glad to—"
He stopped. The young man was staring at the money in his hand, almost rapturous. He got to his feet as if in a trance.
"T-Thank you, sir," he said softly. "Thank you... May I go now, sir? I'm not really in the mood for tea."
He was going to her, Grumman realized. His stomach lurched uneasily. Riza trusted this boy, who was not even of her blood, with the secret of her whereabouts, while effectively hiding from her own grandfather. How much had she changed from the sweet little girl he remembered?
"These friends she is staying with... are they good people?" Grumman asked.
Mustang nodded. "I think they are," he breathed, not meeting his superior's eyes.
"Run along, then," Grumman said. "They're not expecting you back at the Academy until five. Do you want me to call Sergeant Falman back to drive you?"
Mustang shook his head. "No, thank you, sir. I... I have to go. I..."
Grumman waved him off. "Go. Tell Riza I love her. When I come back to Central, I hope she'll consent to see me."
"I hope so, too, sir," Mustang whispered. Then he turned crisply on his heel and hurried from the apartment.
Grumman stood alone in the dining room, staring mutely at him. Riza did not want to see him. Why? What possible reason could she have for hiding from him?
For the first time in his fifty-eight years, the Brigadier General felt impossibly old and heartsick.
