Chapter 6: Case Closed
Riza squeezed her right hand with her left, trying to restore feeling to her fingers. By the end of the work day they were always numb and stiff. Unfortunately, sensation usually returned around the time Mr. Mustang started studying her back, in the form of agonizing cramps that settled deep into her joints and coursed up her wrists into her forearms. Even when she lay perfectly still, Riza fancied she could feel her hands moving and her fingers working as they twisted wire over and over and over again.
She sighed softly, and her breath came out in a puff of steam. The evening air was bitterly cold, and a fresh, slick layer of snow had settled over the pavement. Riza hugged her mother's old shawl around her shoulders. It was badly worn and not very warm, but if she folded it four times instead of two and wrapped it about her head she could keep the wind out of her ears, at least.
Riza looked over her shoulder at the darkened awning of the factory. She hated waking up each morning and dragging herself out of bed just to come here. The other girls were all much older than Riza: most were seventeen or eighteen, and one was twenty-six. Girls of Riza's age were mostly still in school. She didn't know if any of them had a job... but it was no use lamenting the fact. She should be grateful that she had work, and that she could make a little money to contribute to her upkeep. And that was that.
It was six o'clock, and the streets were not yet dark, but Riza walked as quickly as her weary young legs would carry her. She had no desire to repeat her encounter with the drunk who had grabbed her and touched her in inappropriate ways. As she rounded the corner near her tenement, she stopped short. There was a soldier leaning against the wall of the building, his hat low over his ears and his greatcoat wrapped snugly around him.
"Mr. Mustang!" Riza exclaimed as quietly as she could, running up to him.
He raised his head and greeted her with a radiant smile. "Riza!" he said.
She looked around warily. "S-should you be here dressed like that?" she asked.
"I had to – I couldn't wait," he said. Riza realized abruptly that there was a large, flat box under his arm, and the twine handles of a big paper bag looped around his wrist.
"Get inside," she scolded under her breath, nodding at the tenement doors. It was dangerous for them to meet, for it was against the rules for him to sneak out like this, and might lead to his expulsion from the Academy if it ever came to light. Riza knew that it was dangerous for her, too. She was the custodian of a terrible secret that was coveted by the military and by other alchemists. If anyone ever found out the purpose of these visits, she might be placed in jeopardy. She could not take the risk of allowing her father's research to fall into the wrong hands.
Roy held the door for her, and then followed her into the dark corridor. Riza was just about to run up the stairs when she heard the familiar creak of her landlady's parlour door. The old lady stepped out, seeing Riza first. She almost smiled, but then her eyes fell on Mr. Mustang.
"Soldier?" she cried. "You bring soldier here?"
"No, Mrs. Leung!" Riza said, shocked by the consternation on her landlady's face and the high-pitched horror in her voice. "No, I—"
"He bring you?" the old lady demanded. She wagged a finger viciously at Mr. Mustang. "She good girl!" she cried stoutly. "She not do anything wrong!"
"No, Mrs. Leung, it's me," Mr. Mustang said with remarkable calm, tilting his head up so that she could see his face under his hat. "It's just me."
Her narrow eyes widened. "You soldier?" she gasped. She turned on Riza again. "You bring soldier here? Every night he come here? Wicked girl! Wicked girl!"
She looked ready to burst into tears – or to slap Riza across the face. But Mr. Mustang dropped his parcels and caught her wizened hands in his.
"Mrs. Leung, I'm not here to make trouble," he said softly. "I'm not, I promise. I'm not even a proper soldier: I'm just a cadet."
She stared at him. "Not... not send me away?" she asked.
"No!" Mr. Mustang cried mournfully. "No, of course not! I'm only a cadet. I'm just here to see Riza."
"Please, desert so far... not send me away," she implored breathlessly.
"No, I'd never do that," Mr. Mustang said. "I promise."
He released her hands, and she drew them back into the sleeves of her ragged silk robe. "You soldier..." she repeated, but it obviously meant something different this time. Her tone was suddenly soft and wondering, almost bewildered.
"I'm s-sorry," Riza stammered softly. "I should have told you..."
"Soldier," Mrs. Leung repeated, watching Mr. Mustang from the corner of her eye. Then she frowned. "You hurt her, I hurt you."
Mr. Mustang smiled sadly. "I'm glad," he said.
"Glad?" Riza breathed. He was glad to be accused of trying to hurt her? Glad to be threatened by her landlady? Glad?
He nodded. He drew out a handful of coins and held it wordlessly out to Mrs. Leung.
She looked at the money, and then at the young soldier, at Riza, and finally at the coins again. She shook her head. "No pay," she said. "I not say anything. Is secret. She good girl." She fixed Riza with a firm gaze. "You good girl."
Riza felt tears prickling in her eyes, though she could not understand why. Mr. Mustang was gathering his packages, and Mrs. Leung turned around and vanished into her parlour.
"S-she's a nice lady, really," Riza said.
"I know," Mr. Mustang agreed. "It's nice to know that... well..."
He couldn't finish saying it, but Riza didn't need him to. She understood: it was nice to know that she had Mrs. Leung watching over her when he was not around. Riza was glad of that, too. More importantly, she was glad to know that Mr. Mustang cared enough to worry about her.
They ascended to the garret, and Mr. Mustang locked the door. Then he set the box and the bag on the bed, took off his hat, and slid out of his greatcoat.
Riza's breath caught in her throat at the sight. She had not seen him in his uniform since they had come to Central. He cut a fine figure in the smoky blue jacket, the pressed blue trousers and the gleaming black boots. When Riza had been smaller, she had read novels about dashing young soldiers who fell in love with beautiful girls and had grand adventures. Just now, Mr. Mustang looked as if he might have stepped from the pages of one of those books, with his uniform and his dark hair and his alluring eyes and his enormous smile...
His enormous smile?
"Riza, I have money!" he cried, clearly unable to contain himself any longer. He took a fistful of bills from his pocket and pressed them into her hands. "Seven hundred and ninety sens!"
"Seven hundred and—"
"It was fifteen hundred, but look!" He whipped the top off of the long box, and pulled out a coat. It was of caramel-coloured wool with a fleece lining in the hood and cuffs. "Try it on: I hope it fits!"
He held it out for her, and Riza, too startled to disobey, slid her arms into it.
"It's second-hand," he admitted with a tiny hint of regret. "But it's whole and clean, and—"
"It's beautiful," Riza breathed, snuggling into the soft cloth and fumbling with the buttons. Mr. Mustang turned her around by the shoulder, and fastened them deftly. "But where did you get the money?"
He wasn't paying her any attention. He had the bag in hand now, and he pulled out a loaf of bread and a little jar of strawberry preserves. Then out came a box.
"The lady in the shop thought these would fit," he said. "I told her how old you were, and how tall, and she said they'd fit. They're not pretty, but they'll be warmer than those silly little things."
He nodded at her pumps, which she had bought almost eighteen months ago because they were the cheapest shoes in the dry goods store in her home town of Hamner. They had never been warm or comfortable, and they were now worn almost through, and they pinched her feet. Hoping against hope that she understood what Mr. Mustang was saying, Riza lifted the lid off of the box.
He had bought her a sturdy pair of brown leather shoes, with laces and a tongue. Riza sat down on the floor to try them on. "They're a little large," she said, wiggling her toes, which had not been so free in a long time. "But I'll grow into them," she added hastily, lest he should think her ungrateful. "Where did the money come from?
Mr. Mustang looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Riza, do you remember your grandfather?"
She regarded him blankly. Riza had the dimmest recollections of a grandfather – her mother's father, she thought. He had been in the military; she recalled that much. Beyond that, she knew nothing of him. Her father had never spoken of him, and as the years had passed Riza had all but forgotten that she had any such relation. When her father had died, Mr. Mustang had suggested that she might go to live with her grandsire, but Riza did not want that. All her life she had been at the mercy of a bitter and dictatorial old man. Her father's death had offered her a chance to have a life of her own, and she did not want to trade her new freedom for a fresh prison. True, her living quarters were poor, she relied upon Mr. Mustang for food, and she worked at a dull and difficult job, but at least she could to some extent make her own choices, instead of having some grandfather she did not even know making them for her.
"Your grandfather," Mr. Mustang repeated. "Brigadier General Grumman. He sponsored my application to the Academy... and I went to see him today."
"I don't want to live with him," Riza breathed. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. She had trusted Mr. Mustang. Had he betrayed her?
"I know that," he said; "but I had to tell him that your father was dead. I couldn't keep that from him: he's a superior officer, and he's been good to me."
Riza could not fathom any relation of hers being good to anyone. Her father had not shown her any kindness since she was practically still a baby, and she remembered her mother's strange fits of rage. It was inconceivable that her grandfather should be any different.
"He wanted you to come and live with him, but he's leaving for the western front." Mr. Mustang mussed his hair with an absentminded hand. "I told him you were happy where you were."
"Did you tell him where I am, too?" Riza demanded, a little anger creeping into her tone. He had no right to do this! He had no right to turn her over to some hateful adult who might come and carry her away to wait upon him!
"Of course not. I wouldn't do that: I promised you. I just said that a friend was looking out for you, and when he asked if you needed anything, I said a coat and new shoes. Then he gave me the money and let me go." Mr. Mustang was watching her anxiously, waiting with bated breath to gauge her reaction.
A moment ago the coat had seemed so soft and wonderful. Now it felt like an unwanted weight on her back. Riza began to undo the buttons as well as her sore hands would allow. "I don't want charity," she said belligerently. "I thought you'd understand that."
"It isn't charity. He's your family. It isn't charity if it comes from family," Mr. Mustang said. "Ev-even sensei took things from your grandfather."
"He did?" Riza did not remember this, either, but after all, Mr. Mustang was older than she. Perhaps those days before her mother's death were more clearly defined in his mind.
Mr. Mustang nodded. "Besides, if I gave the money back he'd worry about you, and he might even try to look for you."
Riza narrowed her eyes to slits of suspicion. He was manipulating her, she realized: playing upon her convictions and emotions so that she would keep the coat and the shoes. But it was true that she did need them so badly... and perhaps it wasn't charity if it came from family. "All right," she said at last, a little charily. "I'll keep them."
"Good." Mr. Mustang picked up the bills, which had fluttered to the floor. "There's something else."
Riza waited, wondering what strange revelation would come forth now. The words Mr. Mustang spoke next were the most unexpected syllables he could have uttered, and the most welcome. They meant more to Riza than the money, or the coat, or even the shoes, for they signalled a small victory in the long, bitter and until this moment futile struggle in which the two young conspirators had been locked for months.
"I think I have a lead on your father's code."
discidium
A week passed. The discovery that the verse had been used in a requiem written by a composer who had lived in South City more than a century ago proved less useful than Roy had hoped. He did manage to find a copy of the music in the vast library at the National University, and he compared the original text to the words on Riza's back. The tattoo incorporated only fragments of the requiem, and there were subtle changes. Furthermore, there were some lines that did not appear in Mr. Mozart's composition, and where these might be found Roy did not know. Still, he had to be on the right track, for the clue of "Wolfgang" fit too perfectly to be a coincidence, and was too esoteric to be a red herring.
His visits to Riza were shorter now, for he needed to spend less time staring at the tattoo. He had it committed to memory, and was quite certain that he could draw it without reference. He did not dare to, of course, for the whole point of having it upon Riza's back was that it protected Hawkeye-sensei's research from falling into the wrong hands. Roy was not about to negate that by leaving copies strewn around a crowded barracks.
Though he had less need to see the tattoo, he still needed to see Riza. He had to reassure himself that she was well, he had to bring her food, and he needed her company. Quiet though she was, her very presence kept him grounded. She was a living reminder of his goals and of all that he still had to overcome if he ever hoped to achieve them. When he was with Riza, the unbearable struggle seemed a little less impossible.
Still, he was now creeping back to the Academy at four in the morning instead of half-past five. The extra ninety minutes of sleep was a godsend, and Roy no longer felt perpetually on the cusp of a nervous collapse.
He slid open the door of the barracks and slipped inside. Now that Mrs. Leung knew that he was a cadet, he was able to wear his greatcoat on the visits to Riza. While this mattered very little when he was in the tenement, it made the long walk home infinitely more comfortable. He stripped off the coat as he moved on tiptoe down to his cot.
"Where have you been?" a voice hissed from the darkness.
Roy coiled like a snake, every muscle tensing as he shied away from the shadowy silhouette sitting semi-prone upon his cot. In the orange light filtering from the lamps outside, he caught a glimmer of an eyeglass lens.
"Maes!" he yelped in a whisper that came out far too loud.
A low chuckle sounded from the bed. "Who were you expecting? Master Sergeant Wickersham?"
"Damn you, be quiet!" Roy drew nearer and hung his greatcoat on its hook. "You're not allowed in here after curfew!"
"And you're not allowed out after oh-two-thirty," Maes countered. "Yet here we are, creeping along 'til four, and Cadet Mustang's not in bed."
Cadet Drosselmeyer, who slept at Roy's left, mumbled something in his sleep. Roy tensed and watched his dark form anxiously, but Maes did not seem to pay it any mind. He continued in a low, mildly amused tone.
"When you gave me the slip last week, I was really hurt, you know," he said, just sarcastically enough to let Roy know he was only teasing. "Here I'd used a whole night off so that we could walk home together – and you climbed out a bathroom window and took off without me!"
"I told you I didn't want you to come," Roy hissed, starting to remove his civvies. "It's none of your business where I work."
"No, but the brass would be fascinated to know that that's not all you're doing on your late-night forays. Tell me one thing: how do you get through the gates two hours after you're supposed to be back?" Maes sat up a little and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Roy's eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he could see that his friend was wearing regulation pyjamas, standard-issue sandals and a plaid dressing gown.
"Sergeant Mowatt likes me," Roy said. The doorwarden took the midnight watch on the front gate: the only shift that was not manned by second-year cadets. He was an amicable old soldier, and Roy quite liked him, as well. "He's turning a blind eye."
"How sweet of him," Maes said dryly. "Now, are you going to tell me what keeps you out an extra two hours every night – and incidentally makes you look like the walking dead – or am I going to have to try to tail you through the alleyways and public restrooms of Central until I find out myself?"
Roy was cornered. He knew his friend well, and Maes Hughes was not the type to give up on anything or anybody. Once he set his mind on something, the bespectacled tinker's son had a way of pushing until he achieved it. If he was determined to find out where Roy went when the shift at the bar was over, then find out he would. No matter how evasive and elusive Roy was, Maes would catch him eventually. The only hope, then, was to derail the older soldier's determination.
"It's personal," Roy said.
Maes grunted, clearly unimpressed. "Personal?" he echoed with good-natured scepticism.
"It's..."
It would be so simple to tell the truth: to say that he was working on his sensei's code. The confession was on the tip of Roy's tongue when one of the cadets on the other wall stirred so that his cot squeaked. The room was quiet, aside from the baseline whisper of rhythmic breathing and the sound of the handful of cadets who snored, but that meant nothing. Someone, of the ninety-nine people with whom Roy bunked, might at that very moment be lying awake, listening to the whispered conversation. Bad enough if someone overheard talk of sneaking back after hours. If they learned that Roy was dabbling in dangerous and largely unknown alchemy, there was no telling what repercussions there might be. The thought was a paranoid one, but not without a grain of rationality. Roy was well-versed in the history of his art, and there had been men killed for alchemical secrets before this. He would have gladly taken the chance with his own life in order to maintain his friendship with Maes Hughes, but he was not willing to risk Riza's. Riza's...
"It's a girl," Roy said, blurting out the first lie that came to mind. "After I'm done at the bar, I go to visit a girl. You know: like Eli."
There was a moment of stunned silence. "Like Eli?" Maes echoed. Eli Hughes was the third of his elder brothers; a glassgrinder and a consummate womanizer who had often tormented his younger brother with tales of his conquests.
"Exactly," Roy said, a little too emphatically. Drosselmeyer thrashed a little against his pillow, and then fell still again.
"Oh."
Another silence.
"Maes?" Roy ventured at last.
"Don't worry, you haven't killed me," Maes chuckled. "It just wasn't what I was expecting. I mean, you're only seventeen..."
"So?" said Roy. "Lots of guys my age have—"
"Stop right there!" Maes hissed. "Let's get one thing straight, buddy. I'm thrilled you've got a little... companionship, but I don't want to hear about it! Okay?"
"Fair enough," Roy said. It seemed a little too good to be true, this sudden assertion that Maes didn't want to hear about it.
Roy tested the waters again. "Now do you see why I want to keep it quiet? And why I don't want your company?"
"Believe me, I don't want your company while you're up to antics like that!" Maes laughed softly. "I'm sorry I pushed you so hard: I thought you were doing something else."
"What?" Roy asked.
"I don't know. Robbing filling stations or counterfeiting bank notes or hauling contraband on the docks or something," Maes said. "The way you were talking about money, I figured maybe you'd got yourself into trouble."
"Nope," Roy pledged. "Definitely not."
"All right." Maes adjusted his glasses with the first two fingers of his right hand. "Why didn't you just tell me?"
Roy could find no answer. After a moment's silence, however, Maes came up with one of his own.
"Embarrassed, right?" he said. "You don't have to be. I'm not going to think any less of you... unless she's a really ugly girl or something."
"She's not," Roy said truthfully, an image of Riza's corn-coloured hair and deep, mournful carmine eyes flashing briefly through his mind. "She's beautiful."
"Well, I hope you introduce me some day," Maes said, getting to his feet. "For now, I'm going to bed. You're shaving years off my life with these games, you know."
He punched Roy's shoulder amicably, and then shuffled out of the barracks. Roy stood frozen to the spot until he heard the door slide shut. Then his knees gave out and he sank down onto his narrow cot, relieved beyond telling. He couldn't believe it. On the spur of the moment, he had come up with the most useful lie he could have ever imagined.
The guilt, of course, came swiftly on the heels of the victory. He had lied to Maes, to his best friend, for no other reason than because he was himself afraid of the truth. What kind of a person was he?
