A/N: Hi, this is Elly3981, co-writer and editor for Falchion1984 and I'd like to apologize for the wait in updating this story which has been a long-term project for both of us. We would like to thank those who have been following our story since we started it for your patience and hope that we don't disappoint with this latest installment. Like the last chapter, this one also turned out longer than we thought so we've decided to split it in 2-3 parts. As I am currently editing the next chapter, it will be out shortly so look forward to it. In the meantime, we hope you enjoy what we've got and please review! Once again, I would like to thank Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible. Please follow our story on Archive of our Own that includes some illustrations we can't post on Fanfiction dot Net.
Chapter 17: To Court a Duchess
Though it has been said often, and by a veritable infinity of voices, it nonetheless bears repeating that Lesalia's leading commodity was not its glittering gold, its gleaming jewels, its beautiful music, its breathtaking art, its moving plays and operas, or its stately gardens.
Its leading commodity was gossip.
And, following the first ball in which the new Duchess of Lionel had made her debut on the social stage, this veritable epicenter of tittle-tattle, conjecture, whispers, canards, tidbits, and hearsay was in rare form.
Whether the words escaped the lips of those who had seen the enigmatic duchess face-to-face, from a distance, or only vicariously through the heated recollections of fellow gossipers, each and all said the same thing.
Tales and songs of Duchess Catherine Seymour's beauty had fallen utterly short.
Up and down the streets echoed accounts of her stunning blue eyes and the inviting, rosy hue of her cheeks.
Many an avenue rang with admiration of the silken coils of crimson that were her hair, woven into elegant braids that framed her generous breasts and reached out like an extra hand to offer a parting caress to a suitor as their paths diverged.
Accounts of her angelic voice resonated down boulevards like so many pealing bells, some longing to hear that same voice reach a new crescendo whilst engaged in... Activities best not discussed in public.
"Really, now!" an older woman, likely the mother of one of the duchess's would-be suitors, exclaimed as she chastised a younger man who'd been speaking in excited tones and... Lurid words. "Just because I told you I wanted some grandchildren doesn't mean I wanted all the details!"
The young man in question blushed as he'd belatedly realized just how unseemly he'd sounded after getting carried away with his burgeoning obsession with the mysterious duchess. And, when he noticed that several of his fellow contenders were stifling laughter behind their palms, he blushed much more profusely.
Yet, amidst all the awe, wonderment, infatuation, lust, and hopes that affection may yet bloom, there was also perplexity that, though many eligible bachelors had flung themselves at Duchess Seymour's feet - literally, in one or two instances - none of these earnestly urged suits had any discernible effect. Oh, granted, Duchess Seymour had shown no obvious sign of repulsion or distaste towards any who'd approached her, and she had conversed politely and danced with each and all prospective suitors.
But, that was all.
There had been compliments aplenty heaped upon her, and yet there had been no blush nor shy giggling to denote that such words had proven sweet to her ear. There had been finely attired men, who nigh-literally wore their wealth in order to eclipse their peers, and yet there had been no overt sign that the duchess had noticed such copious finery. There had been tales of men who'd won their wealth, rather than inherited it, and more than a few of these tales involved feats of great courage, and yet, even though the duchess had likely been moved by those who'd aided people in need amidst their derring-do, the words she'd offered in reply had been few and betrayed no hint of desire for those who had authored their own tales of heroism and fortune.
So, a horde of suitors had descended upon the duchess, each and all afire with dreams of claiming her hand, and yet all had come away without eliciting so much as a glimmer from those sky blue orbs.
Most were keen to try again, too inflamed by passion and ardor to admit defeat so easily, while others, whose egos were more fragile, had ended the disappointing night by seeking solace at the bottom of a tankard of ale. All, however, were most confused by these events.
With so many fine men to choose from, how could every last one of them have failed so miserably, and for no discernible reason?
Yet, for all the babbling voices that overflowed the city and filled every ear to the brim with tales of the Duchess of Lionel and the inexplicable failure of even one of her admirers in winning the barest hint of her good graces, none could provide an explanation.
All they could do was wait until they could make another sally for the duchess's attentions, whiling away the time in gossip as the sun meandered its way across the sky with agonizing slowness.
SSSSSS
As Izlude made his way down the cobblestoned street, passing what felt like the hundredth gaggle of people conversing about Duchess Seymour, he brought up a hand to his mouth, seemingly stifling a yawn. One might mistake his gesture for one of either indifference towards the gossipers, or the subject of their gossip, or for the simple fatigue that tempted early risers to linger abed a little longer.
As was aforementioned, however, such assumptions would be a mistake. With so many young men vying for Alma's hand - unsuccessfully, much to his relief - displaying too much interest in the Duchess of Lionel might raise unwanted questions. And, though the disguised knight blade did believe his persona as Damien Mitchell could hold up under scrutiny, he wasn't anxious to test that theory needlessly.
So, feigning indifference towards the gossip while, in truth, hanging on every word, he made his way back to the tailor shop where he knew, or at least hoped, that Pat Mowett, the chief tailor, would have his clothes and ceremonial armor ready for the ball. Though his belated arrival made it impossible for him to attend the first night, the local gossip suggested that his fellow suitors had little to show for arriving first. What's more, there were still two more galas, and Izlude hoped that he would soon have all he needed to capture the attention of Duchess "Catherine Seymour".
Still, by the sound of it, though his fellow suitors had made little progress, they wouldn't give up so easily.
Not wanting to wade through a horde of would-be-suitors while picking up or being fitted for clothes, and having to deflect or bluff his way through a hail of potentially explosive questions, the knight blade thought it best to check with Pat as soon as the shop opened. Although the chief tailor had assured him that the majority of the young men seeking the hand of the duchess had already come and gone, Izlude decided not to take any chances. Since the inn where he was boarding was nearby, Izlude chose to leave Nelly in the stables and walk back to the tailor shop. After so many days of travel spent in a carriage or saddle, he felt the chance to walk would do him some good.
And, after having borne the knight blade hither and yon during his journey, including the attempt to outrun a veritable wall of surging floodwater, Izlude imagined that Nelly would appreciate a day of rest.
Apart from getting the blood flowing to his legs, which had once felt so numb that he sometimes wondered if they were still attached, he also relished the chance to see Lesalia while the ball was a ways off.
And, what he saw gladdened his heavy heart.
The city where he'd grown up had changed, that was true, and much of what he remembered from the halcyon days of childhood had been lost to the flames of war. Yet, what remained, and what had risen from the ashes, teased a smile from his lips. Here and there, some shops and businesses from bygone days had managed to weather the storm and, though their store fronts were battered and traces of soot yet lingered, they did a brisk business. In other places, those establishments that had failed under the weight of poverty and bloodshed had been replaced by new ones, the rubble of prior misfortune having been swept away, mostly, and newly minted proprietors were showcasing their wares with pride.
The markets had seen better days, for the stands and goods were not as lavish as Izlude remembered. Yet, what did that matter when weighed against the fact that, where once these markets were empty of goods and those few who'd visited them despaired of finding their next meal, there were now many a staple product at hand and priced well within the means of those who, though still bruised and bleeding from war, yet stood unbroken.
It would be some time before the cobblestoned streets were mended, let alone shining like great streams of silver as they'd once been reputed to. Yet, the sight of children playing freely, even as they stumbled in the ruts, made that imperfection seem a small thing indeed.
After some rumination of these signs of healing, so small and yet so uplifting, Izlude once more found himself thinking that, however his bid for Alma's hand ended, he was glad that the Pisces Stone undoing his death allowed him to see days like these. Still, though he wished he could watch this panorama of rebirth at greater length, there would time enough for that later, once he had reunited with his one true love.
As soon as he stepped inside the shop, the knight blade noticed that, contrary to his and Pat's expectations, there was another customer seeking the chief tailor's services. The customer was a young man, who had quite a bit of boyishness still in evidence as his eyes, bright with intellect and youth alike, darted back and forth between his reflection and the attire offered by the shop. Though the face swiveled much too fast for Izlude to attach a name to it, the machinist attire he wore soon called to mind the name of a man he'd battled against and then trailed some months before.
It can't be… Izlude thought. Surely, it couldn't be Mustadio Bunanza, the young man who'd been in Ramza's company when he was shadowing the accused heretic months earlier, could it?
The last time Izlude saw him, Mustadio had sported a short ponytail, but this young man had nothing of the sort. What's more, though the young man had the same short blonde hair, it was cut differently than Izlude remembered, and slicked back in a manner that called to mind stories of the airborne corsairs that pillaged and plundered amongst the clouds in the Ivalice of antiquity. Wanting to confirm his suspicion, but without arousing any on the other man's part, the knight blade composed his words carefully before questioning him.
"Excuse me, sir," Izlude began politely. "I hope you will forgive me for asking, but are you also here to acquire some clothing for the ball at the castle?"
At the sudden inquiry, Mustadio jumped in surprise, spinning in the air and landing, somewhat clumsily, to face Izlude. Pasting on an apologetic grin, which was not entirely feigned, Izlude found himself wondering at just how effective the holy stone's disguise would prove. But, a moment later, he shook off the notion. After all, if it had fooled Donavan, who'd known Izlude man and boy, it ought to prove more than a match for Mustadio's scrutiny, especially since, though they had crossed paths at the battle at Orbonne Monastery, several months and many battles had since passed. Izlude very much doubted that Mustadio would recognize him. After all, the knight blade barely recognized the machinist, and that was largely due to him lacking his customary ponytail.
"Oh, you startled me, sir!" the young machinist gasped as he placed a hand on his chest.
"My apologies, sir, I shouldn't have sneaked up on you like that. Please, forgive me."
Mustadio gave a light-hearted laugh. "It's quite all right, I don't mind. To answer your question, yes, I did come to pick up some clothes I ordered made for the ball tonight. How about yourself?"
"Same here. I take it you're keen on catching the eye of the new Duchess of Lionel?"
Mustadio shook his head, though this hardly came as a surprise. In fact, Izlude was rather hoping that that the machinist had different plans, and not just because Izlude had quite enough competition for Alma's hand already.
After all, if Donavan's tale was to be believed, Izlude might very well be speaking to his future brother-in-law.
Well, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, his more rational mind warned.
But, then again, the knight blade had heeded that voice precious few times since falling in love with his own captive. Still, Donavan's story had painted quite a picture, of how Meliadoul had returned from the war, her family lost and with the bittersweet taste of vengeance having proven unsatisfactory, until a certain machinist's fumbling had put a smile back on her face.
Of course, that, and Mustadio being a brilliant machinist and a crack shot with a gun, was literally all Izlude knew about the man. And, what sort of brother would he be if he didn't vet his sister's admirers?
"Oh, no. As lovely as the Duchess is, I've got my sights set on another fine lady," Mustadio declared, and it was all the knight blade could do to keep his expression from betraying more than casual interest.
Izlude raised a brow. "And, if I may ask, who might that be?"
The young machinist blushed, as though recalling how he'd been noticed by the prettiest girl in the city...which, Izlude had to admit, wasn't far from the truth.
"Believe it or not, my heart is set on Dame Meliadoul Tingel, the new commander of the Knights Templar."
So, it is as I suspected… Izlude mused, his inner voice taking on a vaguely sinister edge as he elected to press Mustadio for more details. Having met the machinist only once - and when the pair had been quite intent on killing each other, no less - Izlude was more than a bit curious as to whether Mustadio was good enough for his older sister, especially since the normally indomitable Meliadoul was surely vulnerable and lonely after having lost her family...Izlude's secret resurrection notwithstanding.
Besides, although it was normally uncharacteristic of him, the knight blade couldn't help teasing the other young man a little.
"Dame Tingel? That's quite ambitious of you. I hear she's quite ferocious."
Instead of being put off by Izlude's remark, Mustadio simply scratched the back of his head and laughed, albeit nervously.
"I know she's no frail maid. And, that she's a wealthy noblewoman in her own right while I am but a humble machinist. And, I swear, when I decided to see her after the war, and found where she lived, just knocking on the door of that huge estate must've given me a gray hair or two. Heck, even the old gardener made me nervous with how I could always feel his eyes on me."
"Old Donavan may chatter like a magpie, but he's harmless," Izlude blurted out reflexively, only belatedly realizing just how ill-advised such words might prove.
After all, though it made perfect sense for Izlude Tingel to know that Donavan loved gossip as much as any native-born Lesalian, explaining how Damien Mitchell knew that wouldn't be nearly as simple.
The knight blade began to fumble for an explanation that might snuff out the perplexity even now gathering in Mustadio's inquisitive eyes, and then nearly kicked himself when he realized he already had one.
Yup, just made for spycraft, I was, he mused self-deprecatingly.
"I stopped by the Tingel estate on behalf of the Knights Templar," Izlude said, taking pains to inject casual amusement into his words. "Dame Meliadoul was out, but the old gardener insisted on entertaining me as best he could. He told me about the time you and she had spent together and..."
Recalling such hilarious oddities as Mustadio cooking Meliadoul lunch, and getting a goodly portion of the meal on the ceiling, Izlude felt his throat seize up with laughter until, unable to hold it in any longer, he let out a guffaw so thunderous that it caused his eyes to water. His vision cleared in plenty of time to see the machinist glaring at him, which stopped Izlude's mirth cold and caused a jumble of apologetic words to tumble from his lips before he noticed that Mustadio's seemingly downturned lips were subtly tugging upwards at the corners.
The machinist, it seemed, had a far thicker skin than his boyish looks would suggest. And a greater degree of deviousness as well, if he'd elected to trick Izlude into thinking he'd given offense.
"Oh, very funny," the knight blade snorted, though he was not truly displeased at Mustadio's impishness.
After all, such antics had reportedly put a smile on Meliadoul's face, which was surely no simple task of late.
Still, though the machinist seemed like a decent fellow, Izlude decided he needed to learn a bit more about him.
After all, what sort of brother would I be if he didn't haze...I mean vet a man vying for my sister's heart? He thought playfully.
"So, did you met Dame Meliadoul during the war?" he asked, taking care to keep his tone one of friendly, but casual interest.
"Yes," Mustadio confirmed. "I fought alongside Drake Seymour, the new Duke of Lionel. Dame Meliadoul joined us for a time, and..."
Here, the machinist's words trailed off and a dreamy, boyish grin dawned on his features. This, the knight blade found surprising since, even though the information provided by the church about Ramza and his companions could be called dubious at best, he was well aware that each and all were seasoned combatants. Incongruous though it might seem for someone who'd seen too much death in too short a time, it was nonetheless endearing that such a young man with such a tumultuous past still had it in him to blush and gush over a pretty girl.
"And, I just couldn't get her out of my head," Mustadio went on. "She's smart, and brave, and..."
"Pretty?" Izlude asked, as much to egg the simpering man on as to assess his intentions.
"Beautiful!" Mustadio blurted out, loudly enough that Mowett glanced over irritably. "Her eyes, her hair! And, her smile? Ahhhh! I swear, I'd been trying to make her smile, just once, since I'd met her, and finally seeing it made me as giddy as a schoolboy."
"And, how's that different than usual?"
"Oh, shut up! But, seriously, ever since I first laid eyes on her, I was enchanted!"
"Even when she was trying to kill you?"
Again, the knight blade had been so heady with the simple pleasure of riling Mustadio that his tongue escaped the grasp of his better judgment. Though he'd witnessed the battle between Ramza's band and Meliadoul's retinue of Templars, and though the memory of his sister's brush with death yet haunted his nightmares, Mustadio might find it hard to believe that Damien Mitchell just "happened" to be in Bervenia to witness it.
But, rather than an expression of perplexity or suspicion, the machinist's face betrayed only an inexplicably mild annoyance.
"I swear, these Lesalian gossips have no boundaries!" Mustadio groused. "Donavan letting that slip to a complete stranger behind our backs? I can't believe it!"
That makes two of us, Izlude mused, genuinely uncertain as to whether he meant that Donavan hadn't been more reticent about Mustadio after hearing that or that Izlude could've possibly gotten that lucky.
The stone gave a warm pulse in his pocket, and the knight blade got the strong mental impression that the stone's enigmatic consciousness was giggling at him.
Still, Izlude brushed it off and, after eyeing the gun on Mustadio's hip, he concluded that he had dodged a bullet. In more ways than one.
"It is true that there was a...terrible misunderstanding between us and the Templars," the machinist continued, and Izlude could not help but wonder at what manner of cover story the cunning Delita would weave to explain away the "misunderstanding". "But...even when I was ducking and weaving away from Meliadoul's blade, all I could think was 'what a woman!'"
I might be getting more than I bargained for with this line of questioning, the knight blade mused, somewhat disconcerted by the ardor blazing in Mustadio's eyes.
"When she did join us, though, it didn't take long for me to see how sad and lonely she was," the machinist said, sobering. "Not long before, her younger brother was killed in the Riovanes Massacre."
"I heard about that, it was a terrible tragedy," Izlude intoned sadly, and feelingly enough to elicit a curious glance from Mustadio. "I served there, as a knight of the Order of the Wyverns, before I resigned my post. I had a lot of friends in Riovanes Castle, and many of them didn't survive."
The knight blade's eyes misted a bit as he recalled Sir Justin and the true Damien Mitchell, whose name and face he had appropriated and who Izlude privately mourned since no one else did so. Mustadio seemed to assume he'd been referring to the other Wyvern knights who'd been killed and merely nodded in respect.
"I tried to cheer her up with a womanly trifle, some tynar rouge," the machinist went on, scratching the back of his head self-consciously. "I'd actually meant it for another woman, but she was already on another man's arm by the time it reached me. So, there I was, re-gifting a tube of lip rouge to a noblewoman on the off-chance it might cheer her up a bit."
Here, Mustadio's lips curved in the smile worn by one who was far removed from the present moment, savoring something delightful.
"The amazing thing is, it worked," he continued. "She didn't let it on at the time, but I learned she still had the rouge when I went to see her. She even agreed to wear it when we attend the ball together."
"So, Donavan was telling the truth about that," Izlude commented, injecting amazement into his words. "Is...the rest of his story true."
"Well, yes. But, in my defense, she besmirched me and my weapon. Professional pride was at stake!"
The machinist punctuated his words by clapping his hands to his hips and puffing out his chest, no doubt in an attempt to appear bold...but Izlude couldn't help but envision a young lad who'd pilfered a cookie from a batch made for guests under the guise of making sure they'd been baked properly.
Much like Ramza, Mustadio's boyish looks ran quite a bit of interference when he strove to be taken seriously.
"I wanted to make a point to her, but it turns out I made a bigger one than I expected," the machinist continued, and looked like he was about to launch into a drawn out monologue before he apparently reconsidered. "Out of curiosity, how much do you know about guns? How to load them with shot and powder, and the proper stance to use when firing them, for instance?"
"Not a clue," Izlude admitted.
"Yeah, Meliadoul was the same. Loading a gun is tricky business, especially in the middle of a battle, so I decided to prove that point to her. She was in the middle of loading the gunpowder - incorrectly, I might add - before I realized something. I'd loaded and fired my guns so many times, even before the War of the Lions, that it's practically a reflex. But, when I saw Meliadoul loading too much gunpowder, which could've caused the gun to explode in her hand, and then using the wrong stance and getting thrown over backwards by the recoil, it reminded me how I needed to learn how to use a gun properly way back when. That all seemed so long ago, that I'd practically forgotten."
"Understandable. I can barely even imagine a time I didn't know how to use a sword."
"Yeah, exactly. The thing is, just like swords, guns can do a lot of damage if they're mishandled. In fact, it's even truer for guns. Apart from how the gun could explode if you use too much gunpowder, the bullet could fall short if you put in too little. Suppose you're trying to fire at a distant enemy, past an ally, but the bullet falls short and hits your ally instead? And, the black gunpowder currently in use fouls the barrels, making them harder to load and even risking a fatal backfire unless they're cleaned, thoroughly, every few shots."
Should I be worried about my sister being widowed too soon? Izlude asked himself, more than a bit startled at the machinist's words, and that he hadn't blown his own head off by now.
"Sounds hazardous," he said dryly.
"Yeah," Mustadio admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "In hindsight, challenging Meliadoul to prove her claim about guns being an easy weapon might not have been wise. But, after that, something occurred to me. I know how to use guns, even how to build and maintain them. But, I'm not the only machinist in Ivalice. There are hundreds of others and, sooner or later, all of them are going to figure out how to build guns and will likely start selling them."
"I say again, sounds hazardous."
"It is if you don't know what you're doing, and a lot of people don't. But, like I said, sooner or later, there are going to be a lot of guns for sale. And, as a machinist who knows and respects the technology, I figured I ought to do something to make sure that technology is used properly. So now that the war is over, I've become an entrepreneur of sorts."
The knight blade, never having heard such a word, was confused. "Entrepreneur?"
"An aspiring businessman, or businesswoman."
"And what kind of business are you trying to build?" Izlude asked curiously. "And, how does it relate to making sure people who buy guns don't kill themselves?"
"Well, before I came here, I spent the last few days in town trying to find someone to invest in my new line of firearms and accessories. Powder horns, ammunition pouches, holsters, ramrods, bullets, gunpowder, and a chemical concoction I recently discovered that lets you scour the barrel clean without having to disassemble the gun. Apart from that, I've also been reaching out to those machinists who are selling guns, as well as those who are selling the guns they build to weapon smiths for resale, advising them of my concerns and their professional obligations to listen. Customers killing themselves with your merchandise can't be good for business, after all."
Since Izlude, privately, shared his sister's assertion (former assertion, perhaps) that the gun was too un-chivalrous a weapon for his use, a fair bit of the machinist's speech went over the knight blade's head.
Still, he had to admit, despite Mustadio's boyish appearance calling to mind a child fussing over a gadget the way most children did over toys, his speech had shown that he possessed a strong sense of responsibility for his creations, as well as a keen respect for what they could do in unsuitable hands.
Not unlike how a knight respected his or her sword, and how and why it was repeatedly drummed into them never to use their blade recklessly or for foul purposes.
He could stand to be a bit less circumspect, though¸ he mused sourly.
"So, I've also been having my findings on guns printed and have been urging that they be sold with each gun," Mustadio continued. "I swear, I don't how we got on before that new printing press was invented. Not everyone is taking me seriously just yet, but those that do have agreed to include my 'manual' with each sale. So, apart from that, and the guns and accessories I've been selling myself, I also earn a cut of the proceeds from each sale of my manual, as per my contract with my publisher."
"I see, and it's quite impressive you've been able to accomplish all that so quickly. But, now that the war is over, would that kind of business be successful?"
"I'm sure it would," Mustadio insisted, his words ablaze with youthful determination. "Even if there is no war, people may still need or want firearms for hunting, sports shooting, or even to protect themselves from roaming monsters or defend their homes against bandits and thieves. I'm pretty sure King Delita would be interested in having them for national defense as well. From what I heard, the Romandan handgunners and pistoliers have already proven that during the Fifty Years War, even if they were thrown back. As it stands, the country is still vulnerable; it's a miracle Ordalia didn't attack us again while we were in the middle of a civil war."
"That does make sense. But, I can't help but wonder if what you propose might not suffice. People might pay for your manual, yes, but that doesn't necessarily mean they'll read it. Especially since there's no shortage of people in Ivalice who don't know how to read. And, you said yourself, a number of people who will likely sell guns have disregarded your advice."
Mustadio nodded. "I know. That's another reason I want to attend the ball, to make a proposal to the king. A knightly order wouldn't hand out their armor and swords to people who haven't proven themselves, so the same might need to hold true with firearms. Maybe some sort of system will be needed to determine ones fitness to sell and/or own guns, not unlike how prospective blacksmiths and apothecaries are tested before being allowed to ply their trade. We might also need a way to evaluate those who wish to buy guns, to make sure they can use them properly. You wouldn't give a sword to someone who holds it by the wrong end, and the same might hold true for someone who can't aim a gun or who will spook and shoot at just about anything...even the ones they seek to protect. Still, I am a machinist, not a legislator. I'm hoping that King Delita will let me meet with his council and, between us, we can figure it out."
"I wish you luck on that," Izlude said as he listened with interest, somehow not surprised at the sincerity of his own words. "I can picture that doing a lot of good, but suppose it doesn't earn you a living? Do you have any other ideas in case that happens?"
The machinist nodded, almost smugly. "As a matter of fact, I do," he answered as he pulled what appeared to be a slice of folded leather.
Curious, Izlude asked, "What's that?"
Mustadio grinned as he unfolded the slice of leather to reveal several compartments cut into the material, neatly sewn as though by a masterful leatherworker, before pulling out several bills of Ivalice's newly devised paper currency.
"I call it a 'wallet'," the machinist said proudly. "When I first made it, I originally intended it to be a replacement for the powder horn and ammunition pouches I used during the war. This buttoned pouch here would hold extra bullets while the largest of these leather slits, which were originally sewn shut save for a small section at the end, would hold gunpowder. I had hoped that the gunpowder could be poured into the gun, but I was dismayed when I found that it was too small to hold enough and what powder I could get in there wouldn't pour out the way I wanted. I was going to throw it away when a thought came to me. I undid the bindings that held the slits closed and I stuffed several of my paper gil bills inside, and it ended up being a perfect fit. The bullet pouch also held my coins quite securely."
"That's quite an impressive discovery, considering it was an accident," the knight blade remarked, impressed despite his deprecating tone.
"Hey, you'd be amazed how much has been discovered by accident. Still, since the new paper currency is becoming so widespread, there will be plenty of demand. I'm sure that, as paper money replaces coin gil, every man and woman in Ivalice will be wanting one of these wallets to hold their money. Personally, I found it so much more convenient than wearing pouches of coin gil on my belt, not to mention lighter. When I consulted a leather worker I know, he also suggested that various designs were possible. Take this one here."
Mustadio held the wallet up for Izlude to see and then folded it in upon itself again. Much to the surprise of the knight blade, who most often worked with boiled leather that was hard enough to turn a sword blow, the leather not only yielded to the machinist's touch, but remained folded into a thick, palm sized square until Mustadio unfolded it again.
"This one is made of pliable leather, allowing it to be unfolded so you can pull out the money you need and then folded up so that it can fit in your pocket without taking up much space," he explained. "There are other, more ostentatious designs, but this one is aimed at those who favor functionality over style. Apart from that, I also have an invention which I call the 'alarm clock'. It keeps track of the time through a mechanism that can measure it with greater precision than a sundial or an hourglass. You can also set it to ring very loudly at a certain time, which works wonders for waking up heavy sleepers in the morning. I used a prototype during the war and it worked very well...it likely woke up half the province, but at least the concept works."
Recalling what he suspected was the device in question, and how it's reportedly rousing half of Favoham was quite believable, the knight blade gave a nod and a smile even as the mere recollection made his ears ring.
"That's amazing!" Izlude exclaimed. "Do you have another of those wallets? I could use one."
"Unfortunately, this is the only one I have for now. But, if you want, I can make you one like this later. But, trust me on this, you should talk to my leatherworker partner if you want one that's decorative yet functional."
"I'll consider that, thank you."
"No problem, and I appreciate your kind words. Since you're also going to the ball, I'm sure we'll be able to meet again. I really think that, over time, I can design fancier, more eye-catching wallets for men and women. The alarm clock is also likely to sell well, if I can...refine the concept."
"That sounds like a promising business, especially since your goods will surely prove quite popular. I believe that, if this works as well as I expect, the king will have good cause to agree to or at least consider your proposal regarding guns."
"Thank you, sir. I'm glad at least one person approves of my ideas," Mustadio smiled.
Mustadio's gaze darted away for a moment, and Izlude noted that the machinist was tugging at his collar.
"I'm just hoping I don't mess this up," he admitted, and Izlude was aware of just how grand an understatement that was, since he was betraying such anxiety to a stranger. "I know, you're probably asking why I'm bothering with this when I could just as easily live off of Meliadoul's fortune, but I don't want that. I want to make something of myself, prove myself to her...even if I've done at least some of that already. It's no secret that she's practically slumming by being involved with someone like me, and I know there's going to be some people here and there who will thumb their noses at me no matter what I do. But, I want to try anyway, try to be a man she can be proud of."
I think you just might manage it, Izlude mused, impressed by the gumption the machinist had lurking behind his jangling nerves.
"Well, I think your ideas are brilliant, and I see no reason why the new king wouldn't consider them. And, as for Meliadoul, I think she is a very lucky woman."
The disguised knight blade could swear that Mustadio was blushing to the tips of his ears. Still, Izlude had to admit, he was impressed with the machinist. Having been born into nobility, Izlude was well aware of how pervasive it was for marriages amongst the nobility, and even some in humbler classes, to be arranged between boys and girls who'd never even met, let alone loved one another, and that most such matches had more to do with money than anything else. And, though marriages between nobles and well-to-do commoners was an emerging phenomenon, Izlude was wise enough to know that, in quite a few such cases, it was just as likely that one spouse was after a new pedigree with which to ply Ivalice's social circles while the other had eyes only for the size of their combined fortunes.
As for Mustadio, he was a case as unique as he was uplifting.
He'd known Meliadoul only a short time, and the two had met when he was on the wrong end of her sword. And yet, when he'd seen how sad and lonely she was after Izlude's supposed death and learning of her father's fate, he'd given nary a thought to trying, fumblingly, to cheer up the woman who'd nearly impaled him.
Then, when he'd seen that revenge had proven a fleeting balm for Meliadoul, he'd taken it upon himself to help her through her grief. What's more, though Mustadio could easily live out his days in luxury if he managed to get a woman of Meliadoul's wealth on his arm, he would not abide such, and sought to prove himself by earning his own fortune with his wits and his hands, even knowing that some of Meliadoul's blue-blooded peers would remain unimpressed.
Meliadoul would be a very lucky woman indeed if Mustadio succeeded in his unlikely bid for her hand, and Izlude hoped he could reiterate that point again someday. Perhaps while wearing his true face and speaking with his true voice.
"That...that's quite a vote of confidence," the machinist admitted, though he sounded more centered than his ever-reddening cheeks would suggest. "I swear, I must sound like quite the fool in love."
"There are plenty of fools about, but those are the best kind," Izlude affirmed feelingly. "Take me, for example. I've never even met Duchess Seymour, and all I know about her is the stories I've heard. But, all it took was chancing upon a portrait of her in an art shop, and I was ensnared!"
Despite the inevitable haze of ardor that engulfed him as he recalled his beloved Alma, Izlude yet had the wherewithal to parse his words carefully, as well as to make sure his embellishments mirrored the truth closely enough so as the machinist wouldn't notice any signs of deceit.
Izlude knew Alma Beoulve intimately - very intimately, in fact - but had never met her newfound persona of Duchess Catherine Seymour. And, since letting on that he'd known "Catherine Seymour" already, let alone from when she'd still gone by her given name, would be much too hazardous when speaking to someone who knew her and might raise questions he was ill prepared to answer.
"You and half the kingdom," Mustadio quipped. "Still, those stories aren't too far off the mark."
"Ah, so you've met Duchess Seymour, then?" Izlude asked, hardly needed to feign excitement.
"Yes, once or twice. She's a very pretty girl...yeah, I know, that sounds pretty underwhelming. But, in my defense, my eye was elsewhere."
As the machinist's words trailed off, an idea occurred to Izlude. Though the knight blade now had an overwhelming amount of evidence that Alma was alive and well, he knew only so much about how she'd been getting on under her new identity and in her new home. Perhaps Mustadio, who knew her personally, might lend him truer insight than the copious gossipers?
And, even if he couldn't, there was no sense running the risk that Mustadio's gushing might subside enough for him to wonder why a prospective suitor for Duchess Seymour's hand hadn't asked one of the duchess's friends about her.
"Would you mind telling me what sort of woman she is?" he asked, having no need to feign eagerness for even the most trivial revelation.
"Well, I mostly know her through her brother, Drake," Mustadio admitted. "But, if you're asking me if she's as pretty as they say, the answer's yes. And, she might sound like a dainty flower, but, from what I've heard from Drake, she must be made of sterner stuff than anyone gave her credit for. I'm guessing you've heard about Lionel Castle's new "staff"?"
"The orphans she took in and employed? Yes, I have. And, that must've been no small deed so soon after the war."
"Did you also hear that the first boy she took in was the spitting image of a man she fell in love with, but who'd died in the war?"
The knight blade was not a man who was easily startled, nor was his reserve known to desert him, even in the face of danger. Yet, the machinist's words nearly caused his lower jaw to literally fall open.
Though Mustadio had been wise enough to not mention the name, as Alma surely had as well, there was no doubt in Izlude's mind who this boy must resemble.
And, the revelation nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.
For a moment, he found himself wondering if Alma being able to take such an orphan under her wing might mean that she had gotten past the sorrow of his death, but he shook off the notion a heartbeat later. Would the stone, or the shades of his parents, have orchestrated his journey back to the realm of the living if his quest had been doomed from the first? No, he could not believe that, nor could he find it in him to believe that the same woman who'd bound his heart even as she herself had languished in chains would so quickly forget the love they had shared.
He kept faith that he would win Alma's hand and mend the heart that had been rent as surely by Hashmalum's claws as Izlude himself had been. After all, what was the alternative?
"Hello?" Mustadio called out, waving a hand in front of Izlude's face. "You still there?"
Jolted back to awareness, Izlude spluttered and blurted out "Sorry, I was shocked by your story."
"Yeah, so was I," the machinist admitted. "And, that boy had tried to steal from her, no less. But, I heard she's got him on the straight and narrow nowadays. Heck, she even got him included in her retinue when she came here. Must be quite the smooth talker to pull off both of those things, huh?"
Oh, you have no idea, Izlude mused, recalling just what Alma had talked him into.
"So, you still impressed?" Mustadio asked shyly.
"Impressed? Try awed," Izlude shot back, before graciously offering a hand. "It occurs to me that I never introduced myself. I'm Damien Mitchell."
The machinist, after gasping out what sounded suspiciously like the phrase "the Ghostbuster of Gollund", clasped the proffered hand and replied "Mustadio Bunanza."
"It's a great pleasure to meet you."
Properly, this time, the knight blade added mentally.
Before Mustadio could muster the words to answer, both men were interrupted by the sound of someone nearby clearing their throat. Turning, they saw the chief tailor and owner of the shop himself with two sets of clothes draped over his arm.
"Excuse me, sirs, forgive me for interrupting, but I have the clothes you both requested. As for you, Sir Damien, the smith told me that your ceremonial armor should be ready by noon today. Is that acceptable?"
Izlude nodded. "Yes, of course. I'm very grateful that both of you were able to get my clothes and armor ready today."
Pat smiled. "It's no trouble, sir. Customer service is my number one priority, after all. Would you and Master Bunanza like to try on your clothes just to make sure they fit? I am confident I got your measurements right, but, if they need to be pinned, it's better to do so now rather than later. Especially with such an important event coming up."
"Yes, of course," Izlude said as he took the clothes Pat offered. After giving Izlude his clothes, the chief tailor handed Mustadio his.
"The dressing rooms are at the back of the shop. If you two gentlemen would be good enough to follow me."
"Please lead the way, Mr. Mowett," the machinist said politely. And without another word, the two young men followed the chief tailor to the back of the shop where the dressing rooms were located.
A quick inspection of his clothes revealed that Pat Mowett came by his reputation rightly. Though much of what he wore would be covered or overshadowed by the armor, he was quite please with the doublet. Meant more to impress than for actual fighting, the padded leather was daubed a rich green and was nearly as smooth as the supple material of Mustadio's wallet. The sleeves stopped just past the forearms, where they gave way to decorative bracers finished with intricate patterns. The leggings, a finely woven work of green colored wool that was partially devoured by boots of gleaming black, were no less impressive. Rounding out the apparel was a cape of emerald silk secured by a brooch which featured the emblem of the Wyverns.
Used to having a page or another humble, low ranking Templar to assist him, it took Izlude a fair bit of time to don the elaborate garb, especially the cape, as he was not used to wearing one rather than his customary tabard.
As for figuring out that the brooch was meant to fasten the cape at the shoulder rather than the throat, the knight blade was willing to chalk that up to an accident.
When he emerged - with some small reluctance, as he was far from certain he'd donned his garb properly - he saw that Mustadio had emerged much sooner. And, the machinist's choice of garb was...interesting.
If his new haircut had evoked tales of the long lost sky pirates of ancient Ivalice, Mustadio's new garb had greatly furthered the impression. He wore an embroidered golden and olive vest over a shirt with a commandingly high collar. Tight trousers of black leather vanished into high boots with golden buckles while a pair of belts encircled his waist. Upon one, two pistols and a cutlass rested, lending an eerie counterpoint to the grinning skull bisected by crossbones that shone from its silvery buckle. From the second belt dangled a collection of pouches, their purpose hinted at by the buckle, which bore a strong resemblance to a treasure chest. Over this flamboyant ensemble, he wore a seaman's jacket, festooned with copper buttons - which, Izlude suspected, didn't actually button anything - and coattails that would snap like banners in even the softest breeze.
It was, in short, the most needlessly flamboyant and ostentatious thing he'd ever seen, even after growing up amidst the profligacy of Ivalice's noble classes.
After blinking in stupefaction for a moment, Izlude asked "Is the ball perchance a costume or themed party? Or, is it taking place on a barge out in the ocean?"
The machinist reciprocated Izlude's dumbfounded blinking for a second before bursting into laughter, which likely acted as a mask for a sudden resurgence of his earlier self-consciousness.
"Well, I think it's no secret that my machinist's garb isn't exactly 'dashing'," Mustadio admitted, his expression utterly at odds with his swashbuckler's garb. "So, I thought I'd try a new look. Do you think it will help?"
"Well...," Izlude began tentatively, genuinely torn between wanting to advise Mustadio truthfully and his worries that relaying what he really thought of the too flashy garb might see Meliadoul attending the ball alone. "This might work for the ball. But, when it's just you and Dame Meliadoul, don't be surprised if she wants you as you are. That's the man who put a smile back on her face, remember?"
Mustadio seemed more than a bit surprised by the words and since Izlude would be meeting his love wearing a face that was not his and speaking with a voice that was not his own, the knight blade was all too aware of his ironic his advice was. Still, the machinist nodded his understanding...even if he still seemed bent on wearing the corsair's ensemble to the ball.
This, in turn, caused Izlude to recall that, before and after crossing the threshold of adulthood, Meliadoul could deliver a nasty left hook when Izlude got her riled enough.
"You both look great!" Pat exclaimed, surprising Izlude somewhat, as the chief tailor smiled proudly at his work. "How do they fit?"
"Mine are perfect," Mustadio answered. "What about you, friend?"
"Everything fits perfectly," Izlude answered. "Except the cape, that is. It's a bit loose."
"Ah, well that was intentional," Pat assured him. "It will fit perfectly when you don your breastplate. If it were any smaller, the cape would be too tight."
"Ah, that makes sense. Please, give me your price and I'll be on my way."
"Well, for you, the total price for your clothes is 2,000 gil. For Master Bunanza, it will be about 1,000."
"Right away," Izlude said and without hesitating, the knight blade drew twenty 100 gil bills from his pocket and handed them over to the chief tailor. After Izlude paid, Mustadio followed suit.
"Thank you for taking the time to make these for me on such short notice," Izlude said.
"Same here," Mustadio added. "I really appreciate it."
"You're welcome, sirs. I wish you both good luck at the ball tonight. Now if you'll excuse me, I must meet with an associate of mine to take care of some business."
"By all means."
The chief tailor bowed and, without another word, departed. Both young men quickly changed back into their normal clothing and, meeting once more before leaving, Izlude offered Mustadio his hand.
"As I said, I'm very honored to have met you, Master Bunanza. I wish you good luck in your endeavors. And, when you have one available, I would very much be interested in buying a 'wallet' from you."
Mustadio smiled. "Please, call me Mustadio. Machinists need quite a reputation before they get to be called 'Master', and that might take me a while. Still, I'm honored to have met you too, Sir Damien. We'll keep in touch and good luck with the ball tonight. I'm sure someone like you would be a fine catch for the Duchess of Lionel. As for me, I've got a ways to go before I become someone worthy of Dame Meliadoul Tingel."
At the sound of his sister's name, the knight blade could not help but smile. "You may call me Damien. And, I have faith in you too, Mustadio. I hope we'll meet again soon. Farewell."
"Farewell, Damien."
SSSSSS
Though he had likely breached some decorum of masculinity in deciding so quickly, and while dishing out practically nothing in the way of intimidation or humiliation, Izlude found himself quite pleased with his potential brother-in-law.
After parting ways with the young machinist, Izlude stopped by a nearby cafe for brunch, taking care not to let the gift box containing the clothes Pat made for him out of his sight for more than a heartbeat. This time, the knight blade dined alone, well and truly lost in thought. While the likelihood had been, very, strongly pointed out by Donavan, his encounter with Mustadio had corroborated the tale.
Not only was he finally going to get his chance to see Alma again, he may also come across his sister as well.
And, while the thought of such a reunion gladdened his heart just as surely as did the idea of someone like Mustadio courting his sister, it also worried Izlude as well. After all, though the Pisces Stone had, literally, undone his death, granted him a disguise by which to move about unrecognized, saved him from a second death more than once, and offered its own oblique counsel when he was uncertain what to do or when his determination wavered, he still had no idea how, or even if, the stone could restore his true face.
Granted, the stone had performed many wondrous feats that had allowed him to survive and get this close to his goal, but it also seemed to act purely of its own volition, some inscrutable mind with inscrutable motives guiding him along, and to what end, he could not say. What's more, he hadn't the faintest inkling of how to bend the stone to his will, and genuinely feared for his soul if he tried.
It had weighed on him for some time whether or not he'd wear the face of Damien Mitchell until he died for the second and final time, but, until now, he always had something or other which demanded his attention. First, it was following Ramza and his band so that, when they found Alma, so would Izlude.
Later, it was finding information and coin by which to finance his bid for Alma's hand. And, after that, it was reaching Lesalia in time to attend the galas where his beloved unwittingly awaited him. But now, so close to seeing both his love and his sister again, he still had no idea how he would be able to convince either Alma or Meliadoul that he was indeed the supposedly dead Izlude beneath the face of a stranger. And, he had even less of an idea how he was going to explain his surviving the massacre at Riovanes, even if either woman did believe him.
Convincing Alma, now that he thought about it, would prove no small feat, especially when he had literally expired in her arms after exchanging what both felt would be their final words to each other.
While it was possible that the stone would undo his disguise when it "felt" like it, the knight blade decided not to rely too heavily on that chance. One thing he did have going for him in that regard were his recollections of their fondest memories together; of the halcyon days of his and Alma's mutual seduction, and of him and Meliadoul as children. Most of what sprang to mind, no one other than them, Sir Justin, or his and Meliadoul's parents could possibly know.
Of course, that still left open the question of when to reveal himself. Doing so at the ball itself was out of the question; even if his story was believed, it could cause a scene that might jeopardize the secrecy of his and Alma's new identities. As for Meliadoul, Izlude felt it best not to reveal himself to her until he was confident he could provide answers to the questions he knew she would ask. The knight blade only hoped that his hot-tempered sister would give him a chance to explain himself rather than strangling him on the spot for not making himself known to her sooner. Even as an adult, craven though it might sound, he still feared her temper.
It also occurred to him that the Pisces Stone itself might help to back up his claim, especially if Malak had also been raised from the dead by another Zodiac Stone. Still, and even though Izlude didn't dare let the stone out of his sight, he was not unaware of the risks he'd run by taking it with him. It stood to reason that Duke Drake Seymour, known to but a few as Ramza Beoulve, would also be in attendance.
Izlude wasn't exactly thrilled at the notion.
Granted, he now had ample cause to believe that the former Beoulve was not the murderous heretic he had gone to his supposed grave as, but the knight blade suspected that, by now, Ramza had most, if not all, of the other Zodiac Stones...and was surely aware that one was missing.
Ramza might react...badly if he saw a strange man flashing around one of the stones that could turn men into demons, and that was discounting his reaction to Izlude and Alma sleeping together before marriage.
On that cheery note, Izlude finished his brunch of clam chowder, chased it with a fortifying swig of wine, and left both payment for the meal and a generous tip. Still uncertain of how best to reveal himself to Alma and Meliadoul, Izlude headed to the armor smith's shop that Pat told him about. If the smith lived up to Pat's recommendation - and that veritable cornerstone of Lesalian fashion did not give such endorsements casually - then he would have his ceremonial armor ready. As with his doublet and cape, Izlude was sure the breastplate was going to cost him a small fortune as well; but, it didn't matter since he had enough money to buy half the shops in town if he wanted.
As soon as he arrived at the smith's shop - one of many in Lesalia, and one he was fairly certain had opened after the war had ended - Izlude approached the front desk which was being tended to by a boy in his mid-teens.
"Excuse me, young man, are you the owner of the shop?" Izlude asked politely, despite knowing full well that the boy wasn't.
"No, sir, I am not. I am but a humble clerk," the boy answered, though he sounded more than a bit flattered by the misconception. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm actually here to pick up the breastplate I ordered yesterday. Is it ready yet?"
"Ahh, I see. You're Damien Mitchell, right? Of the Order of the Wyverns?
Izlude nodded. "Yes, that's me."
"I thought so," the boy said. "My boss is currently busy with another project, but he did inform me of your arrival. You actually came just at the right time; he finished your armor a little early and told me to have it ready for you by the time you arrived. Please wait here while I get it."
"Of course."
Nodding, the boy went to the back of the shop and a few moments later came back with a gleaming silver-toned breastplate with a symbol of a wyvern, perched and alert for prey, emblazoned upon it.
"Would you like me to help you try it on to make sure it fits, sir?" the boy offered.
"Yes, please, if you don't mind," Izlude accepted, moving towards where the fitting room was supposed to be, only to find an empty doorway leading into a room that was half lacquered wood while the rest was bare stone.
"I am sorry about that, sir," the clerk spluttered when Izlude's perplexed gaze locked upon him. "Normally, we could do this in a fitting room, but this shop is fairly new and much is still being built. So, I hope you don't mind trying it on right here in the middle of the lobby."
"Not at all. I've had to make do with worse."
Relieved that Izlude was not going to fuss over the lack of privacy, the boy let out a comically deep sigh of relief, which Izlude pretended not to notice, and went to work helping Izlude strap on his new armor over his clothes after the knight blade quickly donned his new doublet. Much like the golden plate of the Templars, donning this ceremonial armor meant negotiating a confusing array of straps and buckles, most of which couldn't be reached without assistance.
The clerk, rather zealous in his eagerness to make Izlude overlook the incomplete shop's shortcomings, quickly helped tighten the straps and secure the buckles, even those within the knight blade's reach, which harkened Izlude to bygone days when pages of the order or servants used to help him to don his templar armor piece by piece.
In fact, as part of his own training, and since his parentage afforded him no special treatment, Izlude had been in the young clerk's place quite a few times when he was a boy. After all, and as the oh-so-eloquent knight devout Sir Keith McGregor had put it, a knight could be the finest warrior to ever swing a sword, but if his armor fell off because he let the straps rot and break, he'd be just as dead as if he was holding his sword by the wrong end. Thus, having would-be Templars strap on the armor of their superiors was, in equal parts, a lesson in both humility and responsibility.
A page who was careless with maintaining and securing a knight's armor was gambling with another's life, and the consequences went well and truly beyond whatever disciplinary action the order might come up with.
"How does that feel, sir?" the boy asked after he finished tightening the last strap.
"It's a perfect fit, thank you," Izlude answered as he drew back, experimentally flexing and pacing to and fro. He had to admit that whoever crafted it was indeed skilled, for the breastplate felt almost as comfortable and flexible as the suede jerkin he'd often worn while out hunting. Whereas ceremonial armor was typically more frills than steel, and this armor certainly looked like a display piece, his discerning eye could readily discern that underneath the ostentatious touches was robust plate that struck an admirable balance between being light enough to maneuver in and yet sturdy enough to turn aside a blade.
Though Izlude would rather not test such an assertion, he felt he'd trust it to keep him alive in a battle.
"You're welcome. I'm glad you like it; father takes great pride in his work," the boy said, his smiling face betraying no small amount of pride as well.
"Oh, the smith is your father?" Izlude asked curiously.
"Yeah, he is. And, I'm his apprentice. I've made some pieces here and there, but I still have much to learn. None of my works are good enough to sell. At least not yet."
"Well, you're still very young and you've got plenty of time to learn. Experience is something that can come only with time and practice. I'm sure you'll do just as well as your father. So, how much do I owe you?"
"Let's see…," the boy muttered as he fished a note out of his pocket. "Ah, here we go. Father says he wants about 1,500 gil for this piece. Normally, we would only charge you 1,000 or so, but Mr. Mowett did say you needed it on short notice, so…"
"Say no more, I understand completely," Izlude said as he took sixteen 100 gil bills from his pocket. "Here, this is 1,500 gil for the armor and 100 for you since you've been so good to help me get my armor on."
Either the boy was not accustomed to receiving such lavish gratuities, or he usually didn't receive them at all. Either way, at the sight of the 100 gil bill that was meant for him being pressed into his hand along with the payment for the armor, the boy's eyes widened and his lower jaw fell open.
"Sir...that...that's mighty generous of you! Really, you shouldn't have!"
Izlude laughed light-heartedly, suddenly recalling a time when he would get nearly as flustered at such a gesture. "Think nothing of it. I wish you the best of luck in your tutelage; I'm sure you'll be just as good as your father someday. Please, give him my thanks as well. Also, before I go, can you help me remove my armor?"
"Of course, sir," the boy answered. "But, what about when you attend the ball? If you want, I can come to your residence and help you put it on again...provided, of course, that you don't live too far away."
"Actually, I'm not from around here," the knight blade replied, parsing his words carefully. "I'm actually from Yardow. I'm just staying at an inn nearby. But, if it's not too much trouble, I would appreciate your assistance again. Will you be able to do it tonight?"
"Absolutely. What time do you plan to arrive at the ball? I would need at least five to ten minutes to help you put this back on."
"Well, I was told that the ball will begin shortly after sundown, it that helps."
"I see. It's no problem at all, just let me know which inn you're staying at, as well as the room number, and I'll be there in plenty of time to help you get ready. But, I have to warn you, sir, you might want to be there a bit earlier than that. I've heard tell that King Delita is going to cut off the flow of suitors to the castle tonight."
When he heard that, Izlude was startled. "What? But, I was told that the ball was going to be for three nights, and tonight is only the second night."
The boy sighed. "Be that as it may, sir, the suitor pool is growing larger and faster than the king expected. The castle ballroom can only hold so many people, and that's leaving aside the expenses this ball is generating. It sure has the rumor mill a-churning that the king would spend more money on his cousin's social debut than he did on his own coronation. But, I digress. The point is that he has begun turning men away at the door, so I'd not dally if I were you."
"All right… I understand. Thank you for letting me know. By the way, I didn't catch your name."
"Oh, I can't believe I forgot!" the boy laughed self-deprecatingly. "My name is Thomas, but you can call me Tom."
Izlude smiled. "Thank you, Tom. So, I'll see you before sunset? I'm staying at the Keystone Inn and my room number is 25."
"I'll keep that in mind, Sir Damien." Tom said as he quickly loosened the straps and undid the buckles of Izlude's armor before carefully packing them into a strongbox.
"Good," the knight blade said as he hefted the strongbox with the breastplate onto his shoulder while tucking the one with his clothes under his arm. "See you tonight, then, Tom."
"You too. Bye for now."
SSSSSS
Great, just what I need… Izlude inwardly fumed after leaving the smith. Although he knew there would be a considerable number of young men vying for Alma's hand - indeed, one could not throw a cabbage without expecting to hit such a prospective suitor - the knight blade hadn't expected that there would be so many that King Delita would have to start turning suitors away; and on the second night of the ball, no less.
Well, I guess it's not too bad. I should be grateful the king hadn't started turning away suitors on the first day… the knight blade reminded himself, even the notion of it causing his stomach to drop.
Had that happened, then it would've been literally impossible for him to attend the ball, for lacking proper attire would've seen him barred from entering and all the money in the world could not have seen Pat or Tom's father prepare his clothes and armor in so short a time.
And, had that happened, Izlude's long journey might have been in vain. Even if another opportunity to see Alma had presented itself, who could say that one amongst her horde of suitors wouldn't catch her eye in the meantime?
After all, his dying wish - or, at least, he'd thought it that at the time - had been that she not forget him, not that she mourn him forever.
The streets blurred by, as did a number of people yelling imprecations about him barreling past them, as Izlude raced back to the inn. Once he was safely within his room, Izlude set the boxes containing his clothes and armor on a nearby table and blew out a ragged breath. Though his mad sprint hadn't left him particularly winded, he nonetheless heaved ragged breaths and broke out in a cold sweat as it sank in that his reunion with Alma was but hours away, and that his window of opportunity was quite narrow.
He pointedly reminded himself of how lucky he was that Thomas offered to help him don his armor before the ball, as it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for him to do so alone. Realizing that he still had several hours before the smith's son arrived and that his jangling nerves would not relent, Izlude decided that a warm bath might help to calm him and, afterward, he could while away the hours by going over his cover story one last time.
Once the warm suds had calmed his racing heart as much as could be expected - which, to Izlude's chagrin, wasn't much - he began ruminating over likely questions which would arise during the ball as well as be skimming through the tome he'd acquired on the caravan regarding the history and culture of Romanda. Like as not, his exotic features and the Lesalia Times revealing him as being descended from Romandan immigrants would attract some interest, and he knew Lesalian culture well enough to know that such a novelty as that ducking too many curious questions would invite ill feelings if not suspicion.
Knowing the remaining suitors would run plenty of interference on their own, Izlude put himself in the position of a younger Damien Mitchell - quite possibly the real Damien Mitchell, since his exotic features meant that Izlude's ruminations might hew quite close to reality - and mulled over what tales his grandparents would share of the Motherland, as Romandan natives often called their native soil.
Though the exercise felt akin to some form of existential grave robbing, both his contemplations and the book provided many likely answers. The knight blade was grateful that the owner of the useful tome was willing to sell it to him before he arrived in Lesalia instead of asking for it back.
As Izlude had come to discover, information was an invaluable resource for one who had to hide behind a false face.
His present difficulties notwithstanding, the Romandan history book was a fascinating volume. Although its infamously harsh winters might make living in such a place seem impossible, the Romandans had actually managed to carve out a niche of sustainable civilization through the use of enclosed farms called greenhouses that allowed food production even during snowfall, as well as trailers specifically designed for use in icy waters. As much as he would have liked to read the book cover to cover, Izlude knew that he would not have nearly enough time, so he only read the parts with the most pertinent information that people at the ball were most likely to inquire after.
Hasty though his reading might be, it did leave him wondering if his suppositions about Damien Mitchell's background were true and, if so, he could not help but be impressed by the ancestry of the man whose name and face he'd appropriated.
Perhaps, when his time truly came, preferably many years hence, he'd have the chance to tell him that.
Unfortunately, the one thing he could not learn by reading was the taste of that dreaded shark dish people kept asking him about. Granted, the book had a great deal to say about Hakarl, as catching a shark and making a meal out of it was no small feat, but nothing that conveyed just what made the bizarre dish so appealing.
Still, now that Izlude had some means of whiling away the hours, the once languid passage of the sun now seemed far too swift and, with so much to plan and too little time to do it, the remaining hours went by quickly. With barely an hour remaining before sunset, Izlude heard a knock at his door. When he answered it, he was surprised to find Tom, the smith's son, standing in the doorway and flushed as though he'd run all the way from his shop.
"Tom? I wasn't expecting you this early; the ball won't start for at least another two hours. Surely you can help me get my armor on in just a few short minutes."
"I know, Sir Damien, but have you forgotten what I told you?" the boy asked, keeping a straight posture despite wheezing like a blown chocobo. "King Delita will close the castle doors tonight and any suitors arriving after that will be turned away. And, you may not even have the whole night; so, the sooner you get there, the greater your chances are of getting in. After you left the shop, I read up about you in the Lesalia Times. I imagine you might be tired of hearing this by now, but it must've taken a lot of courage to fight those ghosts in Gollund. You must've come a long way, just to seek the hand of the Duchess of Lionel, and I'd hate to see you turned away because of unlucky timing. So, I really think you should get to the castle early. No sense risking all that gallantry going to waste, right?"
The knight blade had to admit, he was more than a bit surprised by Tom's apparent concern. And, for some reason, which he strongly suspected had to do with the holy stone radiating warmth in his pocket, he had a feeling that his generous tip had little to do with Tom's actions.
When he posed the question, Tom seemed equal parts abashed and perplexed.
"It's kinda strange, really," he admitted, scratching the back of his head. "After you left the shop, I got the strangest feeling that I'd heard your name before, and that it was important for some reason. Then, when I was out in the back of the shop sweeping up the ashes from the forge, I noticed a copy of the Lesalia Times my father had left on his workbench. I don't read the Times much, it's kinda dry for me. But, I saw the article about you and...well, I couldn't put it down. I figured that catching the eye of the duchess must mean a lot to you if you went to all that trouble, and I didn't want it all to go to waste. So, here I am."
Izlude could not help but smile at the boy's words. Thomas was truly wise beyond his years if he was already a promising student in his father's craft, as well as having the wherewithal to realize the identity of his unlikely customer. Izlude was also grateful that Thomas had chosen to offer what help he could, especially since he could've just as easily missed the article entirely since he was not in the habit of reading the Times.
Perhaps it was also due in part to the holy stone in his pocket that Izlude had been fortunate enough to run into people from all walks of life, willing to offer him helpful advice or assistance. In fact, given Thomas's account, he found himself wondering if the stone might've been using its strange powers to subtly encourage them to do so.
After all, if the stone could undo death, issuing a silent suggestion to a young boy seemed a small challenge indeed.
And, though this potential display also resurrected the question of just why the stone was so keen on getting him to Lesalia Castle, Izlude decided that, for now, he'd just have to be grateful and make sure the stone was kept well away from the wrong hands.
"You're right, Tom. I should have considered that" Izlude admitted. "Since you put it that way, can you please help me put on my armor after I get dressed?"
"Yes, sir. Please go ahead and I'll be waiting right here," Tom replied, almost comically relieved to have been heeded.
Without wasting another moment, Izlude took the box with his new clothes and went into the restroom to change. When he finished and stepped outside, Thomas whistled at his new garb.
"Very impressive!" the boy exclaimed. "I knew Pat wouldn't disappoint! You'll definitely catch the eye of the duchess with those and your armor, of course."
Izlude raised a brow. "Oh, so you do know Mr. Mowett? I suspected as much since he's not an easy man to impress."
"Yeah, he's been a good friend of my father's for years. They often refer customers to each other, and he even helped us find a new storefront when our original shop was destroyed in the rioting during the war. Like I said, the new place wasn't finished yet, but it's coming along. So, shall we get started on getting your breastplate on?"
"Yes, ready when you are, Tom."
For the next ten or so minutes, the smith's son carefully assisted Izlude in fitting the gleaming breastplate onto his torso over the rich green doublet that the knight blade wore along with the pair of decorative bracers, fine leggings of green wool, and black leather boots. Unlike at the smith shop where they only did a cursory fitting in order to be sure the armor was the right size for Izlude, this time Tom made sure to secure the shoulder pauldrons and sword belt as well before assisting the knight blade in fastening his cape over the armor. Izlude was grateful for the boy's assistance with the cape as well and, after making sure everything else was in place, Tom polished off his work by giving the fine black leather boots a quick shine.
"Phew, finally finished!" Tom rasped as he wiped his brow. "Would you like to see yourself in the mirror, in case you want any changes to your ensemble?"
Taking the boy's advice, Izlude looked into the mirror of his dresser and fought the urge to whistle in amazement. He hadn't had the chance to wear formal clothing since the time he spent with Alma at Riovanes, before the tragic massacre that had parted them.
For a precious moment, he was back there again, in his chambers at Riovanes, pondering whether his appearance was presentable and why in God's name he wanted to appear presentable to his prisoner.
That recollection nearly tore a bark of laughter from his throat, but he swallowed it before Tom noticed. Still, the knight blade recalled how quickly and how insidiously he'd been charmed by the Beoulve girl. Her beauty, her wits, her unflinching loyalty to her favorite brother, and even the mingling of courage and conscience that drove her to try and seduce him to win her freedom and then to relent when she feared her path to escape called for murder.
"If I didn't know better, Tom, I'd think Mowett had fitted me," Izlude said as he returned to the present. "I'm grateful to Pat and your father for getting these to me on such short notice. And, I'm also grateful to you as well. Between your timely warning and your help, you might've just saved me from being turned away at the door."
"Think nothing of it," the boy said with characteristic abashment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small vial.
Curious, Izlude asked, "What's that?"
"It's a rare cologne my mother bought my father as a gift years ago. I'd like for you to have it in return for your generosity."
Izlude blinked. "Well, not that I don't appreciate it, but should you be giving away your father's cologne like that?
"Don't worry, this is just a small sample of it. My father has a bigger bottle at home. I just put a bit in this small vial for you. He's had this fragrance for years but hardly ever wears it, so I'm sure he won't miss it."
"I see…thank you. And, since you went above and beyond your duties as your father's clerk, I'd like you to have this," Izlude said as he took out another 100 gil bill and pressed it into the boy's hand.
Tom blushed at the generous offer. "Sir, you don't have to, really!"
"No, I do," Izlude insisted. "As I said, if it were not for you, I would not have known that the king plans to begin turning away suitors tonight. Like you said, I've had a long journey to get here, and it would've been terrible if all that went to waste. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Sir Damien. I'm glad I could be of service to you. I wish you luck at the ball and with the duchess. I must be going now, have a good night."
"You too, Tom. Goodbye."