Co-Author's Note: This is Falchion1984, and there are a few things I think I ought to address before beginning this chapter. First, in order to make this duel properly wow-inducing, I had to rather flagrantly break a number of rules regarding FFT's Job System. Essentially, Meliadoul is not only able to master various abilities for several classes but also to reassign them during battle, something normally impossible. In my playthrough of FFT:WotL, I had every character master every Job Class, and even made sure that all of them learned Zodiark. And, in case you're wondering, yes, that was every bit as tedious as it sounds. If not more so. But, I suspect any character subjected to such nonsensical overpowering would shred even large numbers of lesser warriors, not only by being ridiculously strong but able to use hither-to unheard-of combinations of Primary Action, Secondary Action, Reaction, Support and Movement Abilities. So, let's see if I'm right.
Chapter 21: Bullets, Blades, and Beaus
Though the ball had continued with the characteristic opulence of any royal gala, Duchess Catherine's appearance, arm-in-arm with her mysterious suitor of foreign stock, had taken the suspense out of the affair.
Though curiosity yet remained as to how such a lovely lady could've gone unnoticed prior to her seemingly springing from nowhere just in time for her debut on the social stage but days earlier, interest in the beautiful and eligible duchess had swiftly taken root. Unmarried, but desirable, men of many different stations and walks of life had swarmed into Lesalia, dressed in their finest and eager to urge their suit. And, indeed, even those who'd be present simply for food, drink, and entertainment had expected a pitched contest, along with the idle pleasure of weighing the merits of each contender from the sidelines, debating with their fellows as to which suitor had the best merits, and the delectable thrill of suspense as the answer drew nearer with almost painful slowness.
These plans had been upended by the appearance, and apparent victory, of the enigmatic Sir Damien Mitchell.
Many, perhaps even most, of those present had heard of this mysterious knight of Romandan stock who had, according to the Times, routed a legion of undead haunting the mines of Gollund, simultaneously saving hundreds of jobs and claiming a veritable fortune from amongst the phantasms' hoard. Those who'd recognized him, but who were keen to gauge this emergent legend of a man, had, using techniques long since mastered by consummate Lesalian gossips, surveilled him unseen.
Such venerable tactics as watching out of the corner of one's eye, of moving in close enough to listen while one's attention was seemingly directed elsewhere, reading lips, and other such methods by which to divine the latest tittle-tattle from the unsuspecting were brought to bear upon this late arrival to the ball. And, though reputation was known to make mountains out of molehills, as the saying went, those who surveilled Sir Damien did not come away disappointed.
They saw a man who was courteous and considerate, even-tempered and good humored, personable and articulate and, overall, one who had more than a few suspecting he'd likely come up from behind to claim the prize.
Such an upset was not unheard-of and, for some, it added a new dimension to the already considerable thrill which only the pursuit of such a hotly contested prize could offer. For others, however, it seemed to bring the contest to a premature conclusion, causing the fires of adversity to gutter out too soon, and leading many to nurse their disappointment with drink and other balms.
For more than a few attending the ball, the moment Duchess Catherine apparently made her choice of suitor signified that the suspense was over…
…"was" being the operative word.
Though none had expected the nominal head of the now decimated Knights Templar to attend – and on the arm of a younger and oh-so-garishly dressed man, no less – this had been more than enough to get tongues wagging again. Even before her father's mysterious – and, as yet, unexplained – death, it was, at best, uncommon to see Dame Meliadoul Tingel attending such a gala, and she'd never done so with a man on her arm…
…at least a few, upon seeing her companion, suspected that they now knew why.
Being noticeably shorter than his lady and having a face more akin to a boy than a man, Dame Meliadoul's escort had more than a few attendees snickering behind their palms. And, that was discounting his swashbuckling ensemble, which seemed far more suitable to a costume party than a royal ball.
Many had had a private laugh at this seeming buffoonery but, when Dame Lollotte had barged in and accused Meliadoul of desertion and cowardice, the comedy had become a drama. And, with the apparent promise that Lollotte's insult could only be answered by the clashing of swords, the excitement of the evening, once flagging for many, was now caught high upon a fresh gale of anticipation.
Anticipation became surprise, however, when Meliadoul's unlikely escort chose to intervene.
"Hold!" he intoned, with a firm and steady voice which was quite at odds with the rest of his appearance. "I am Mustadio Bunanza, warrior and machinist, and I-"
"'And, I forgot that All Hallow's Eve is next week?'" Dame Lollotte suggested, obvious derision in her voice.
Though some found Dame Lollotte's biting sarcasm to be unbecoming of a knight receiving what was, seemingly, an earnest challenge in defense of another's honor, others were forced to gnash their teeth together as mirth bubbled in their throats at this witty rejoinder.
Once more acting in defiance of his seemingly childish appearance, the young man, Mustadio, offered no reaction to the withering barb save for his blond eyebrows knotting together.
Curiously, several amongst the audience noticed that Dame Meliadoul had clenched her fist, though whether it was because she was affronted by Lollotte's latest insult or because she, a lifelong woman-at-arms, did not wish for another to fight her battles, none could say.
The stretching second of contemplation came to an abrupt halt, however, when Mustadio once more spoke.
"I have studied your chivalric code-" he began, his voice remarkably clear and steady for one who was dangerously close to crossing blades with a veteran Templar, but his opponent once more cut him off.
"Went straight for the good stuff after learning your letters, eh boy?" Lollotte asked condescendingly, and this time several onlookers couldn't restrain their amusement.
Some of the invitees needed to avert their eyes, lest they double over with the hilarity of it, while others simply couldn't muster such restraint and were soon laughing themselves breathless whilst sagging against the walls, pillars, or whomever had the misfortune of standing close by.
More than a few young men of Mustadio's years – and, indeed, he looked very much like a child compared to the taller and much more imposing Dame Lollotte – would have stomped away in a huff, perhaps even in tears, after such a humiliation. Yet, the chortling wavered uncertainly when the merrymakers realized that, not only had Mustadio not been reduced to tears by this onslaught, but that he didn't even look particularly impressed by his seeming opponent.
Instead, those of the audience who were closest and the most observant noticed that a thoughtful expression had crossed Mustadio's face. Perhaps he was less certain of his course of action than he'd let on, for though it was expected for a gentleman to leap to the defense of a maligned lady, his doing so had seemed impulsive and many believed him to be in over his head. Or, maybe he was determined to see through this challenge, but the best course by which to pursue it was unclear, for some caught sight of him meditatively stroking the grinning crossbones-bisected skull upon his belt, as though the bronze facsimile of a mouth might offer counsel.
And, maybe it did, for Mustadio's eyes suddenly widened for a split-second, as though he'd realized something he'd previously overlooked, and then he regarded Lollotte with a gaze quite different than that which he'd worn previously.
"If you're quite done auditioning for the post of court jester," he taunted, causing several nearby to gasp, "I want to fight you in Lady Meliadoul's place."
Though at least a few had suspected the young man was leading up to that, most were nonetheless startled that he'd, apparently, chosen to go through with it. Though Mustadio was clearly no coward – for one to insult a Templar, one had to either possess a great deal of courage or be greatly lacking in self-preservation – it seemed doubtful he would provide Dame Lollotte with much sport. Not only was his opponent much taller and better muscled than he, but his costume was clearly a poor substitute for Lollotte's golden armor and his cutlass lacked the reach of her knight's sword.
The theory about Mustadio having more bravery than wits suddenly seemed quite plausible.
"Are you sure it's not you who's auditioning as jester here?" Lollotte asked, amusement at the challenge overpowering, just barely, her incredulity at the earlier insult. "You're certainly dressed for it."
Almost as if two different men were speaking with the same voice, Mustadio's earlier swagger cooled into stoic determination.
"The chivalric code clearly states that, if insults and false allegations are levied against a lady, then one may champion her and fight on her behalf," the self-styled warrior/machinist pointed out. "I cannot, and will not, let that drivel you spouted earlier go unanswered, so I will duel you in milady's place!"
Dame Lollotte was, to put it charitably, unimpressed.
"You?!" she spluttered, the scowl she'd worn but moments before suddenly unraveling as her cheeks bulged trying to hold in a gale of laughter.
And, indeed, more than a few shared the sentiment. If this unlikely contender looked small next to Meliadoul, he looked downright diminutive next to Lollotte. Sinewy, but hardly of impressive musculature, and likely lacking in reach compared to his opponent, most were of the opinion that he would be soundly beaten in a contest that would seem more akin to a comedy.
The more discerning amongst the audience, however, saw the gleam in those eyes, youthful but bright and sharp with intelligence. Those eyes had the attentive suspecting that another upset might be forthcoming.
Dame Lollotte, apparently seeing more cause for mirth than concern, turned scornful eyes upon Meliadoul.
"Funny, I thought you donned plate and sword so that you could fight your own battles rather than having menfolk do it for you," she intoned derisively.
Quite a few women, independent and otherwise, likely would've considered such a slight to be beyond the bounds of what was acceptable and proper in a pending duel, and it was not uncommon for women of the knighthood to answer such a barb with clenched fist, if not a flashing blade. Meliadoul, by contrast, regarded Lollotte with a look more akin to disappointment.
"Our instructor always did say that your arrogance would one day prove your downfall, Lollotte," she intoned, not bothering to hide her disgust. "Perhaps that day has arrived? It would not surprise me. I've had Mustadio at my shoulder through many battles, and he's never once disappointed me. I cannot say the same for you."
Lollotte's expression had grown more and more livid with each word of this retort, and some genuinely expected that she would disregard the chivalric code and cleave Meliadoul in two, even as she stood unarmed. Lollotte might've tried it too, had a hand gauntleted in gold not clapped down upon her shoulder. Still near to a spitting rage, Lollotte turned, keen to cruelly lambaste this interloper.
Upon seeing that it was King Delita himself who had interrupted, the rage drained out of her face, along with no small amount of blood.
"You will pardon my interruption, I hope?" Delita asked, with his characteristic courtesy. "I could not help but notice that your disagreement was getting…a bit out of hand, and thought I'd best intervene. I myself know the chivalric code quite well, as I was fortunate enough to know not one but two who upheld it most admirably. And, I must concur with young Mustadio's assessment. Though Dame Meliadoul is a knight in her own right, if she is indeed Mustadio's woman…"
That implication seemed to draw one side of the confrontation up short. After blinking stupidly for several seconds, Mustadio turned back to Meliadoul, his cheeks reddening. Those amongst the ring of gawkers could discern that, in another break from his strange gyration between stoic determination and sharp-witted swagger, the sight of Meliadoul caused a nervous grin to tug at the corners of his mouth. Meliadoul, though no less caught off-guard by being put on the spot like that – and by the king, no less – nonetheless gave Mustadio a pretty, if shy, smile in return.
"…then, if she agrees, he is within his rights to duel in her place," Delita affirmed, ending this pronouncement with a knowing chuckle. "Perhaps, Dame Meliadoul, you would wish to give him a token of your favor?"
"If it would please Your Majesty, I would," the divine knight affirmed and, raising more than a few eyebrows in so doing, she plucked a ring from her finger and placed it in the palm of her unlikely champion.
"Good luck," she whispered, smiling prettily at Mustadio.
"I'll give her the you-know-what," he replied, with surprising confidence, as he put her ring in his pocket before tapping at one of the odd sheaths on his belt.
Those few in earshot most assuredly did not know what, but it seemed Dame Meliadoul was better informed. Sudden mischief tugged at the corners of her lips and she brought up a clenched fist as though to muffle an amused snort.
Whatever it was that her unlikely champion had in mind, some sensed that it would prove impressive.
"Very well," Lollotte intoned, only barely managing to restrain the mingled contempt and amusement in her tone as she turned to face her unlikely opponent. "I will allow you to champion your lady. After all, her hiding behind a fool will only vindicate me. I do hope your mother is on hand to bind your wounds after I'm done with you. But, I can be generous, so I will leave the choice of weapon to you. Shall it be slingshots? Reed blades, maybe?"
Some of the more derisive amongst the audience had expected the young man's determined expression to finally waver, if not under the ongoing barrage of insults then at the prospect of actually fighting a seasoned Templar. But, to their surprise, these barbs seemed to have no effect. If anything, the young man seemed to have anticipated this reaction, for he smiled broadly and gave his answer.
"Guns will be our weapon!"
In an instant, the comedy had ended.
Though many had heard of these strange contraptions – a lost technology from the age of Saint Ajora, resurrected but scant years prior after Romanda's brief incursion during the Fifty Years War and then proliferated by the machinists of Goug – very few of those present had even seen a gun and these innovations remained largely a mystery to those present…and, in some cases, were a source of terror.
Some of those present had heard tales of how these same devices could be used to, literally, ventilate a man, armored or no, leaving him to bleed out his life from a blow that no mortal eye could even see coming. Others had heard of how the larger cousins of these strange devices, the cannons, could either smash a man to pieces as easily as one might shatter a clay pot with one blow. A few had even heard tales where these cannons had, in one shout of thunder and fire, either squashed one or more men into a pulp of gore or had caused them to seemingly vanish, blasted into pieces too small and too numerous to even be found, while only a crater remained to bespeak the eldritch power that had made them vanish.
Suffice to say, quite a few of the once-laughing attendees were now blanching visibly.
Others, though hardly lacking in apprehensiveness, found curiosity and fascination competing with their fears. Were these guns as powerful, and as deadly, as the tales made them out to be? And, how did they work? Though most present were familiar with the crossbow, even a cursory glance at the guns which the young man removed from his belt was enough to show that the two weapons were alike only in the vaguest respects.
It fired a projectile at tremendous speeds, that was true. But, what was this phantasmal projectile that could, reportedly, fly and strike unseen? How was the projectile loaded, given that the only visible openings were too tiny to accept anything larger than a marble? Why did it thunder so when its seemingly arcane power was released? For some, this morbid curiosity proved the prevailing force.
For Lollotte, a hardened veteran not given to nigh-superstitious dread in the face of unknown adversaries, her reaction had been confined to a brief, but telling, break in her confident and haughty exterior. Presumably, she'd expected Mustadio to choose one of the more commonly employed weapons of Ivalice, such as the sword, the spear, the axe, or any other of the longtime implements of war known to Ivalice's defenders. As a Templar, Lollotte would've been drilled extensively in all of these, and several likely would've been too heavy for Mustadio to even lift, let alone fight with.
Yet, in giving him the choice of weapon, she had unwittingly given him an opening to take what had seemed an easy victory and turned it on its head by choosing a weapon she knew practically nothing about. Though it had been rumored that the Templar Balk had used a gun with great proficiency, he had learned this skill outside of the order, and he had been as disinterested in sharing his unique skill as the order had been in adding it to their training regimen.
Indeed, as Lollotte had never served alongside Balk, and had had no inclination to do so, she didn't even have the recollection of seeing him practicing his marksmanship to go on.
Whether by foresight or luck, Mustadio had managed to chivy Lollotte into a contest where she would be at a steep disadvantage.
Clearly, the implications of this were not lost on her, and this showed in particular by her brow furrowing in surprise and perplexity for half a second before settling back into the grim promise of humiliation for any who stood in her way.
"Very well," she said, with grim finality. "You shall have your contest."
An unintelligible, but noisome, babble of voices, some excited but others downright worried, soon echoed through the ballroom at these words. Amidst the clamor, it was almost overlooked when Dame Meliadoul, hitherto silent, suddenly chuckled.
"You'll be sorry," she intoned in a singsongy voice that had several eyebrows arching.
Befuddled, and more than a little irritated, Lollotte had been about to demand one of the guns so that she might have a weapon when Delita intervened once more.
"Hold, both of you!" he intoned, with palpable urgency. "Master Mustadio, I can appreciate your eagerness to champion your lady. But, as both of us have seen these weapons in action during the war, I trust you can appreciate why I will not condone you two exchanging gunfire in the middle of a crowded ballroom?"
At the prospect of this unorthodox duel being either redrawn or aborted, some were disappointed. Though few were genuinely ignorant that such a contest, like its more traditional contemporaries, could easily result in the death of at least one combatant, there were those who regarded that as a hazard of defending honor with feats of arms and others whom regarded the potential bloodshed as a selling point. Others, by contrast sagged with relief. For a few, this solace was rooted in a distaste, or dread, towards blood sport, especially after the carnage of the War of the Lions, while others were soothed at this turn due to their regarding guns with a dread that verged on superstition. Mustadio, however, did not seem inclined to let such an anticlimax stand, not even when it came from the lips of the king.
"With all due respect, Your Majesty?" he asked, his boldness startling many, who were startled all the more when Delita nodded for him to continue. "Who said we were going to be shooting at each other? We will shoot at targets, like those from the archery range, and the winner will be determined by accuracy."
It seemed to, belatedly, occur to Mustadio that being so forward with his king might not be wise.
"…erm," he trailed off weakly, "I mean, if that pleases you?"
Some amongst the audience caught sight of Lollotte rolling her eyes at this sudden demureness, and a few shared the sentiment. Still, once more demonstrating the nigh-bottomless well of clemency and beneficence for which he was famed, Delita seemed to ponder the notion and then nodded his ascent.
"Very well," he intoned, though with great firmness in his words. "But, I must ask you to curtail damage to the castle as much as possible. And, more importantly, there is to be no one downrange of your shots. Putting bullets in my guests will not be tolerated."
Mustadio let out an audible puff of relief, and then requested that a table also be brought forth. Once it was in place, he removed a pair of guns from the holsters on his ostentatious belt along with several other oddments. These included a large horn filled with black powder, a pile of what looked like iron marbles, a collection of paper scraps, and, oddest of all, what appeared to be a kettle, a small brazier, a collection of sticks with round red tips, a flask of an unidentified liquid, and a very dirty looking glass. He also removed what appeared to be a small rod from a cavity on the underside of each gun. These he arranged carefully before himself and Lollotte who, along with everyone else, regarded the strange collection with obvious perplexity. Once these had been arranged, and the targets had been set up, he first turned to Meliadoul and regarded her with a rakish smile that hinted at some unspoken secret. Then, he turned to Lollotte.
"Alright then," he said simply. "Let's see what you can do."
Trying, unsuccessfully, to conceal just how out of her depth she was when faced with this bizarre weapon and its inscrutable accessories, Lollotte snatched up the gun before her. Having never held a gun before, nor even seen how Balk had done so, she improvised by trying to grip and aim it as she would a crossbow and pointed it at her target. Those looking on drew in an anxious collective breath, some genuinely (if privately) fearful that the bullet thus discharged would, by some malevolent will of its own, spiral off its directed course and bury itself in some helpless onlooker's forehead. Others, very nearly anxious to see if these guns lived up to their reputations, of equal parts wonder and terror, wrung their hands as the seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness.
Then, Lollotte squeezed the trigger.
Some had been expected a great clap of thunder, others a belching of flames. A few expected piercing crystals of eldritch ice, still others expected a neat hole to be punched into the wood of the target, and some expected the target to be reduced to splinters.
None were expecting the gun to merely issue a dry click instead.
"It might help if you loaded it first," Mustadio pointed out, looking quite amused at this oversight.
Lollotte, neither accustomed to being made to look the fool nor enjoying it, fixed Mustadio with a glare that could blister paint.
"Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, boy?" she asked, her tone dripping with venom.
"I'd be delighted."
What happened next would be regarded by more than a few observers as something much akin to a stage magician dazzling an audience with mystical feats; though, being a man of science, Mustadio likely would've considered such an analogy as being insulting. Still, speaking to those gathered around him as much as to his opponent, he gathered a small measure of powder from the horn onto one of the scraps of paper, which he then tamped through his own gun's muzzle using the small rod, before similarly loading one the iron marbles, or "bullets". Afterward, another small measure of powder was added to what appeared to be a tiny bowl on the side of the gun, which he then snapped securely shut.
Then, doing a credible imitation of Lollotte's condescending glare, he challenged her to duplicate his success.
This turned out to be much harder than any, save perhaps Mustadio and his lady, had likely foreseen. Several times, Mustadio judged her to have used the wrong amount of gunpowder, which would either cause the bullet to fall short of its target or for the gun to explode in her hand. Ultimately, he deemed her work to be "adequate", and beckoned for her to fire.
This time, pulling the trigger did indeed unleash a great clap of thunder. As several people clapped their hands over their ears, perplexed as to why the ringing persisted regardless, they noticed that the gun Lollotte fired had kicked up wildly in her grasp and sent her toppling over backwards.
She looked livid at this humiliation and, judging by the sly grin on his face, Mustadio had not only anticipated this, but had been counting on it.
After directing for her to load again, he talked her through how to brace herself against this strange force, which he referred to as "recoil", and then directed for her to shoot again.
"You act as if you wrote the book on these…these confounded contraptions!" Lollotte snarled as she made several attempts to hit her target, only for the bullseye to seemingly repel her every shot.
"That's because I did write the book on them," Mustadio said, fishing a small tome out of one of his many satchels and offering it to the ever-fuming Templar. "Here, have a copy on me. Fair warning, though; I'll charge if you want it autographed."
Though more than a few present were well aware that the Knights Templar were deadly and implacable foes, the sight of one of them being made to look the fool by the boyish faced machinist had slowly but surely undone the reserve, and the caution, of several onlookers. Many of these burst into laughter, others watched in fascination as Mustadio's ongoing explanation seemed to demystify the mystical, which seemed a mystic feat in and of itself.
And, everyone else was unhappily preoccupied with that blasted ringing in their ears that refused to go away.
After Lollotte had managed to successfully load the gun unassisted and apparently had a firm grasp of the stance – though this hadn't stopped Mustadio from sharing a conspiratorial glance with Meliadoul before examining Lollotte's handiwork and declaring that he'd seen better – she once more fired at her target…and instead shattered one of the stained-glass windows. Judging by the expression of horror on the castle steward's face, the window was either old or expensive. Maybe both.
After this, Mustadio demonstrated an apparent technique for determining one's dominant eye, followed by how closing the nondominant eye while aiming proved beneficial to accuracy. Several curious onlookers pantomimed his method and, in so doing, found that some two thirds of their number where right-eye dominant. No less odd, some even reported that neither of their eyes seemed dominant over the other.
This was followed by a treatise on how to use the notch on the prow of the weapon, the gunsight, to approximate where the bullet would land.
Lollotte, who looked like she'd much rather be shooting at the machinist than a hunk of wood, managed to land a bullet in the middle ring of the target, a hairsbreadth from the bullseye.
"Not bad," Mustadio opined dryly, his forehead suddenly furrowing as though he wanted to say more but wasn't certain what. Ultimately, he shook himself back to attention and, seeing Lollotte skillfully, if angrily, reloading her gun he blurted out "STOP!"
Most within earshot were startled by the sudden outburst, and more than a few of those who felt they'd aged a year with each round fired suddenly wondered if now was the time to stampede for the nearest exit. By way of explanation, Mustadio plucked the gun from Lollotte's hand and removed the metal tube which had accepted the powder and bullets. Perhaps noticing the curious stares, Mustadio gave a barely visible grin and held up the tube, later described as the "gun barrel", for them to see.
Much to their surprise, it was filled with some sort of corrosion that had several cringing.
"That," the machinist began, "is called fouling. It builds up a little every time you fire a gun. You know what happens when you don't maintain your sword and armor? Well, if you don't maintain your gun, it's even worse because letting the fouling build up will cause it become less accurate, to misfire, or even to explode. Usually, you need to disassemble the gun and scour the barrel to get rid of it. But, a little chemistry can speed things along."
So saying, he poured the unidentified liquid into the kettle and placed it on the brazier. He then took one of the sticks with the round red tips. A few amongst the audience were aware of these. Known as "matches", they were reportedly coated with a material that would ignite, given enough friction. Those few who'd used these curious inventions, however, recalled that they'd needed to strike them against a rough surface in order to summon the flames, and could see nothing that would suffice amongst the machinist's oddments.
When Mustadio managed the conjuration with a flick of his thumbnail, they were suitably impressed.
For a split-second, the machinist seemed almost bashful under their gazes, but then, seemingly with an effort, he pieced together a cocky look, as though he enjoyed but half expected such a reaction, and then lit the brazier.
Apparently, not even machinists were above the folklore regarding watched pots, for he passed the intervening minutes while the kettle simmered by asking who amongst the audience heard a ringing in their ears. Once several astonished guests admitted to such, the machinist went on to explain that this was a side effect of gunfire, though who was affected and for how long varied for reasons which had yet to be discerned. He did advise, however, that though the ringing was likely to subside in due time or could be treated using white magic, it was necessary to mitigate the effect where possible. He dovetailed this by removing two balls of wax from his ears, which he'd apparently placed surreptitiously before the duel began. Moments after this latest surprise, the kettle screamed and, placing the barrel over the dirty glass, he poured the contents of the kettle into the barrel. Hissing, fizzing, and even steaming, the liquid, which was clearly of a different color now than it had been beforehand, made its way through the barrel and into the dirty glass.
Now, when the machinist held up the barrel, the audience could see that its interior had been scoured clean of filth and gleamed in the torchlight.
Mustadio promptly reattached the barrel to the rest of the gun and, saying that he felt Lollotte was ready for the true contest, gestured for her to proceed.
"We'll each take three shots," he instructed. "The bullseye is worth ten points, the inner ring worth five, and the other ring worth one. Whoever scores the highest wins the duel."
Those who'd noticed Dame Lollotte throughout this ongoing barrage of astonishments, and not many had, could readily discern that she shared neither their delight at the machinist's tricks nor their amusement at her impromptu demotion to something akin to a stage magician's lovely assistant. It was also palpable just how much she regretted allowing her opponent the choice of weapon, thus forcing her to participate in this circus of a duel.
Some wondered if she might decide she'd rather shoot at Mustadio's head than a painted bullseye, and whether she'd end up hitting someone else's head if she tried it.
Still, somehow, the fuming Templar mastered herself, took aim, and fired. Her first bullet hit the inner ring, scoring five points. Twice she reloaded and fired, hitting the inner ring for another five points and then a bullseye, bringing her score to twenty.
"You're good," Mustadio opined, sounding genuinely impressed.
Then, almost as though suddenly remembering something he'd overlooked, his almost amicable expression became an almost cocky smirk as he promptly fired his three rounds, scoring three bullseyes and a perfect score of thirty.
"But, I'm better," he finished, the self-assertive tone sounding almost awkward as it passed his lips.
Though some still wondered at this curious behavior, most had found his display of marksmanship to be most impressive, and the expertise he'd displayed with the workings of his guns had more than a few wondering where other copies of his book might be purchased.
One or two had been tempted to ask if Lollotte might part with the copy she'd been "given", but the livid expression of nigh-feral hatred on her face promptly changed their minds.
"Master Mustadio had won his duel, and the honor of Dame Meliadoul Tingel has been upheld," Delita intoned, offering a sliver of an approving nod to the suddenly self-conscious machinist. "Now that that's over, I believe it's time for the waltz to resume. Master conductor, if you please?"
Sensing that this particular drama had reached its conclusion, though it would likely be making the rounds in Lesalia's infamous gossip circles for weeks, the guests promptly made ready to resume their aborted dance. Though many had discovered ample fascination with the machinist's display, wondering at both the man and his contemporaries as much as about his craft, others sagged with relief at the sight of the noisome and dangerous contraptions being holstered, some genuinely feeling they'd aged years in just those few minutes.
But, as often happened, and was the greatest delight amongst such insatiable lovers of canards and tidbits, the unexpected happened.
"I protest!" Lollotte shouted, and her outburst already had fevered speculations running rampant. "That was not a fair duel, and Dame Meliadoul has done nothing to prove herself no coward!"
The renewed excitement in the air was palpable.
Granted, because Mustadio had championed Meliadoul in the duel, and won, the chivalric code did say that that was the end of the matter. Though it was far from unheard-of, it was considered bad form for a knight and/or noble who'd lost a duel to persist in either challenge or accusation. But, then again, what could possibly delight a room full of gossips more than such a show of impropriety?
That quintessentially rhetorical question promptly gave way to one nearly as unanswerable, namely whether Lollotte would've taken her defeat more gracefully had she been defeated in a more conventional contest of arms. Not many believed so, as Dame Lollotte was clearly a hot-blooded sort who had a sizable axe to grind and considered the rules of knightly conduct less important than her own vindication.
Some wondered if the threat of the king's disapproval might get the Templar to stay her hand and, as though sensing these thoughts, the king moved to intervene.
"Dame Lollotte," Delita said, with grave patience. "I respectfully remind you that your challenge to Dame Meliadoul's honor has been answered and, that by winning the duel, Master Mustadio has vindicated her."
Not many would gainsay the king. Indeed, it was not uncommon for people to privately liken such an act to breaking a mirror or walking under a ladder. Given that King Delita had practically pulled Ivalice back from the brink of ruin with his bare hands, most people, whether they were dazzled by his legend or daunted by it, regarded the act of contradicting him, especially over something as trivial as wounded pride, as being unsavory at best and potentially hazardous at worst.
But, then again, one did not join the auspicious ranks of the Knights Templar by being like "most people", and not many wounds ached for a knight the way wounded pride did.
It galled, it itched, it bled. It festered. And, for more than a few, it, much like poison or infection, could cut short life if allowed to work its will unopposed.
"I came here to prove Dame Meliadoul a coward, not to shoot marbles with her boy-toy," Lollotte intoned acidly.
"They're called 'bullets' and…hey!" Mustadio blurted as her words belatedly sank in.
His petulant reaction triggered a heartbeat worth of mirth, but what laughter might've escaped tensely silent mouths was promptly swallowed when Lollotte, pointedly ignoring Delita, circled around the protesting monarch and marched towards Meliadoul.
If the irate Templar was expecting the divine knight to be alarmed or even startled at this imminent confrontation, then she was disappointed.
Aside from a flicker of disappointment and disapproval, Meliadoul barely reacted at all as Lollotte stomped in her direction.
Whether this explained what Lollotte did next or whether it was simply to give sufficient insult to warrant another duel, and with her intended opponent this time, none could say. Regardless, Lollotte slipped one hand free from her gauntlet and delivered a resounding backhand to Meliadoul's cheek.
"I will have proof of your cowardice and unfitness to wear the golden armor of the Knights Templar, and I will have satisfaction for the insults you and your grease monkey have heaped upon me," she growled, looking for all the world like a lioness eager to rend her prey to pieces.
Yet, Meliadoul regarded her with coy amusement and a seeming eagerness to see this opponent bested for a second time.
"You'll have to hit me a lot harder than that to get it," she intoned, smiling in spite of the reddening flesh on her cheek.
This apparent confidence had apparently come as a surprise to Lollotte, though she quickly shook it off, drew back a few paces, and drew her knight's sword.
By some capricious whimsy of fate, the blade Lollotte had drawn was Save the Queen, a sibling to the lady knight's sword which had served Meliadoul admirably ever since she was inducted into the Knights Templar. There was no mistaking the light coral coloration of the forte and fuller, the ivy like tendrils that formed the handguard, the distinct way the blade narrowed at its midpoint, angled outward into a diamond of steel, and narrowed once more before spreading to its original width as it neared the tip.
Lollotte, it seemed, sought not only to best Meliadoul but to essentially do so with the divine knight's own weapon.
This irony was not lost upon the now chattering audience any more than it was on either competitor; and, indeed, all parties concerned regarded this as a selling point to the imminent confrontation.
With an indrawn breath, the divine knight thrust one hand outward, beckoning the excited gawkers.
"A sword! A sword!" Meliadoul beckoned with surprising calm. "My next dance for a-Oh! Thank you, Mustadio."
The machinist, who'd hastily plucked the cutlass from his belt and thrust its grip into Meliadoul's hand, drew back sheepishly, scratching at the back of his head from the small praise. Then, almost as though some unheard voice had whispered something in his ear, he stood up straight and, after a moment's indecision, gave an admirable attempt at a dashing smile followed by a casual salute.
This peculiar duality, of a bright-eyed young man on the one hand and the facsimile of a suave corsair on the other, had had several onlookers perplexed from the first but, once again, their gaze was inevitably drawn back to the divine knight. Inspecting the cutlass, she took a few practice swings to acquaint herself with the weight, length, and balance of the weapon. Those with a clear view could discern not only the casual ease with which the divine knight practiced her slashes and thrusts, but those who were knowledgeable about such things could also see that, though the cutlass was as ostentatious as the rest of Mustadio's ensemble, it was nonetheless a weapon of fine craftsmanship.
Though at least a few had expected the weapon to be a showpiece, and therefore as dull as a spoon, while others half expected it to be made of wood, none could miss how the flickering light played about the keen edge of the curving blade. The grip, though serviceable, had more than enough ostentation to make up for the inherent and simple utility of the blade. Gleaming like gold, it subtly curved away from the palm for more precise blade control while corrugations on the inward side offered a sure grip for the wielder's fingers. A handguard, composed of deceptively fragile filaments of gold, wound from the hilt to the pommel from the same side as the blade while golden arches looped from the either side of the hilt to form an added layer of protection against foes who sought to claim victory by claiming a few fingers from the opponent's sword hand. The weapon was rounded out by the lone quillion, opposite the blade, which gradually curved upwards until it resembled a coyly arcing tongue that might act as an uncouth signal to a potential playmate in libidinous games.
The weapon, much like the young man who'd handed it to his lady, was a study in contrasts. In the blade, one saw earnest functionality while, in the grip, one could see a concerted effort to catch the eye, to arrest one's attention, and to ensnare lingering glances as one tracked the swagger of one who was not merely confident in their charms but flaunted them with casual ease and poise.
More than a few found this an odd combination, as odd as Mustadio himself could be at times, but, as Mustadio himself had demonstrated, such a bizarre union could not only work but could apparently be quite charming.
His lady certainly seemed to think so, for she favored her unlikely escort with a small smile and a nod that, in turn, caused a very big, and very stupid looking, smile to form on Mustadio's face.
Apparently finding the cutlass to her liking, Meliadoul slipped off her shoes. She yanked off her stockings, stuffed them inside the slippers and then, in a show of seeming carelessness that would make the rounds in Lesalian gossip circles of days, kicked them into the audience. Since they appeared to have been made of glass, those nearest expected them to shatter against the hard marble of the floor and were quick to shield their eyes against the expected hail of jagged shards. Much to their amazement, the adamantoise shell footwear came away unmarred, skittering into the audience until they were lost amidst a forest of silken trousers, flared gowns, glossy leather boots, and elegant heeled shoes. Taking a moment to acquaint herself with the coolness and subtle slippage of the marble beneath her bare feet, Meliadoul assumed a stance then eyed Lollotte.
For a long moment, neither combatant moved.
Perhaps, given that Meliadoul's borrowed cutlass was noticeably shorter than Lollotte's Save the Queen, the Templar had expected the divine knight to try and quickly close the distance, yet Meliadoul only continued to regard her opponent with calm, calculating eyes.
Lollotte, however, was anything but calm.
After Mustadio had made a mockery of her challenge, Lollotte was thoroughly scandalized and hungry for revenge. And, if vengeance would not come to her, she would go to it.
With a piercing shriek, she lunged forward, her sword drawn up and over her shoulder for the kill. Quickly sidestepping the charge, Meliadoul caught her opponent's blade on the edge of her own, comparatively slender weapon. More than a few onlookers had expected her cutlass to snap under the weight of the heavier knight sword, especially when the latter was swung with such vicious force. However, it seemed Meliadoul had also realized this distinct possibility and had planned accordingly, not seeking to stop the falling blade but to deflect it, sending it skidding down the edge of the cutlass rather than boring down upon it. In a spray of sparks, Lollotte pitched forward as Meliadoul skittered to one side. Many onlookers suspected that the divine knight would seize upon the opening and claim victory then and there…
…yet, Meliadoul simply stood her ground, allowing Lollotte to regain her footing and turn to face her opponent once more.
If Lollotte was perplexed by this display, she betrayed no sign. Indeed, rather than confusion, she exuded only incredulity and was quick to resume her attack. Rather than charging in, she opted to close the distance and unleash a chain of thrusts and slashes, using her advantage in reach to both repel Meliadoul's advances as well as to reach for her whenever the divine knight, forced to move to within the Templar's grasp in order to attack, dared strike back…
…yet, curiously, it seemed that the divine knight would not oblige this unspoken wish, for she kept just beyond the point of the Templar's sword, almost playfully swatting it away with the flat of her blade. Most she deflected in this fashion, others she evaded by whirling out of the way of the whistling blade, spinning gracefully as though their bout had become a deadly waltz.
Ultimately, Lollotte's blade managed to catch Meliadoul's, with such force that the divine knight's hairpins were dislodged from her bun and her auburn tresses cascaded to her shoulders amidst a hail of golden needles. Sensing her advantage, the Templar bore down with all her might as a feral grin split open her face.
"Your moves are too predictable, your attacks too weak," Lollotte sneered between gasps of exertion. "No wonder you fled like a coward, abandoning your brother and father to death!"
This blatant insult had caused low ripple of chatter to spread amongst the onlookers, though only a few could hear it over the clashing of steel and the thunder of blood in their ears. Mustadio, who seemed quite furious with this accusation, seemed keen to voice his displeasure.
With his gun.
Once more, King Delita intervened, snatching at the machinist's shoulder and yanking him back from the clashing swordswomen. He did, however, offer the incensed young man a reassuring, if sly, grin, as though he had divined that something was about to happen which would, once again, turn this contest on its head.
"I am no coward," Meliadoul intoned, curiously sounding far less winded than her opponent.
"No?" Lollotte asked, not bothering to hide either her skepticism or her derision. "Maybe you should take the pains to prove it!"