Chapter 23: A Sheriff for This Here Two Chocobo Town
The normally unassuming Lord Phelps, who looked about as out of place in his gaudy outfit and even more gaudily dressed fellows as might a fishmonger or a woodcutter, had arrived at this particular ball thoroughly convinced that he would not enjoy himself.
His reasons for this grim presentiment were myriad, but one reason that ranked fairly high was that, despite his title, he was not of noble birth.
He'd been born, under a questionable marital arrangement, to a butcher, who'd been born to a hunter whose nuptials had been somewhat ambiguous, who'd been born to carpenter who may or may not have planted his seed within the bounds of wedlock.
Lord Phelps was quite certain that the seeming flightiness of his forebearers would not impress his newfound peers, and the only consistency of his forefathers being how they were born under questionable circumstances would likely impress them even less. So, he'd talked very little.
But, as was the wont of unassuming men, he listened and thought a great deal.
Like many of the humbly born of Ivalice, he'd thought very little of altering his station and, with it, his life, and had thus contented himself as a legal assistant to his village's prosecutor. Though he himself studied the law with much vigor, he doubted he'd be able to practice it without the money or connections to finance a formal legal education nor any real prospects for sponsorship.
So, one can imagine Phelps' astonishment when King Delita himself had snatched him up, along with a slew of others in similar situations, and tasked them with crafting the legislation which would characterize the new Ivalice where being of low birth would pose no obstacle to achieving greatness.
Harnessing his prior experience, Phelps had been quick to propose the reinstatement of, and many refinements to, the system of trial by jury, whose effectives, presence, and viability had become erratic over more than half a century of unremitting warfare, as well as devising a system by which advocate barristers could be appointed to represent clients who lacked the financial means to secure legal counsel of their own. It had taken little time for the king to notice these contributions, and less time still for Phelps' good work to be rewarded with a place in the peerage and an invitation to this gala.
Several of Phelps' fellows had received similar invitations and had jumped (literally, in some cases) at the opportunity to wine and dine amongst the glamour of Lesalia Castle and to rub elbows with the highborn, as none would have even dreamed possible but a few short years ago.
For many of Phelps' fellows, such an evening was a golden opportunity to further advance newfound careers and hitherto unthinkable aspirations while, for as many others, it was the belated fulfillment of a childhood dream, resurrected and granted by a king of unheard-of munificence.
As for Phelps, he was of the opinion that, if King Delita wanted to express his gratitude, he could've just bought Phelps a beer and called it a night.
Perhaps King Delita had seen as much in Phelps' expression, for the monarch had made a point of delivering his gifts in person. Rather than affronted, he'd nodded in understanding and urged Phelps to come anyway, saying that such galas offered great opportunities to gauge the moods of the people who he'd likely end up dealing with. Some he would be working with, or against, so the chance to study them, get to know them, and connect with them was a valuable, if lamentable, use of his time. And, occasionally, the ever-present tittle-tattle of Lesalia did offer rare jewels amongst such inevitable dreck as who was having an affair with whom and who was less fashionably dressed than whom.
Given a choice, Phelps, who'd always been ill content when away from his work for too long, would've rather spent his time trying to figure out just how to unravel this latest legislative conundrum to cross his desk. He'd had little luck with it, as not only was his knowledge of the matter skeletal but so too was that of his colleagues and, most troublingly, those who were presently affected and would be in the future.
Slivers of solutions, all rendered quite implausible by his ignorance on the subject, continued to bounce around in his skull with vexing ineffectualness until, to his astonishment, his decision to humor his king and attend this gaudy gala provided an answer.
So, the normally unassuming Lord Phelps decided to make this evening's unpleasantries count and make a connection with someone who he suspected would prove a great ally indeed.
One unaware of the spectacle earlier might find such a claim hard to believe as the (very young) man in question tried, with varying degrees of success to see if what he'd sought might've skittered its way under a lady's skirt.
"Looking for these, Master Mustadio?" Lord Phelps asked, deciding he'd best act before the affronted ladies stopped slapping and started maiming.
The warrior/machinist, who had by then discovered all the wrong ways to ask a lady to lift her skirt, and looked it too, turned his slightly mangled face in Phelps' direction and, upon seeing the pair of adamantoise shell slippers in his hand, let out an audible sigh of relief and dashed over.
"Thank you, milord," he said feelingly as he plucked the two slippers from Phelps' hand.
"You're quite welcome," Phelps replied. "And, no need for the "milord" bit. I've been a lord for two months, if even, and I'm far from used to it."
Phelps was aware – at times, painfully so – that the common folk whom he was far more used to mingling with would likely have reacted to his words with great perplexity. After all, with the prospect of a wealthy life slowly but surely yawning wide to all with the skill and drive to seize it, Phelps had more than once been on the receiving end of gushing hero worship from those who still had further to go before attaining the success he presently enjoyed. And, unfortunately, neither his old pedigree nor his new one had gifted him with the ability to feign politeness for sustained periods.
Luckily, it seemed Mustadio understood this.
"Well then," he'd said, with a modesty that seemed wholly mismatched with his earlier swagger, "how about you wait to call me "Master" until I've earned the title. That's some ways off."
"Maybe not as far as you think," Phelps opined. "Your demonstration of gunplay and marksmanship was quite impressive. It must've taken considerable time and effort to achieve such skills."
"It did, but it's not much different than any other weapon…actually, strike that, it is different, but the old rule still applies. If you practice, you'll get it right."
"I can believe that Mas…excuse me, Mustadio. That is actually something I'd hoped to touch upon with you. It is obvious that your knowledge of guns, not just how to use them but of their workings, is quite excellent."
Mustadio had been halfway through the motion of scratching the back of his head self-consciously when he suddenly seemed to remember himself, straightened, and gave a fair approximation of a proud and confident smirk.
"Well, I may not be the only machinist in Goug, but I'm sure I rank up there," he said and, though Phelps didn't doubt the validity of the claim, he wondered at how the words seemed to pass Mustadio's lips somewhat awkwardly.
"Perhaps, but I believe you'll more than suffice for my needs," Phelps affirmed and, at the machinist's swagger giving way to perplexity, he added "Perhaps I should elaborate. I am one of king's newly appointed legislators and, recently, he's handed me a bit of a conundrum. I imagine someone in your field is well aware of this, but, of late, guns have been cropping up in the shops of Ivalice with remarkable rapidity. Right now, they're sold alongside swords, daggers, and other more traditional weapons; legal for the most part. However, quite a few of those buying them seem to…lack your proficiency."
That, Phelps had to admit, was putting it mildly. In one truly spectacular, and tragic, instance, a man had been trying, ineffectually, to fire his newly acquired gun at a castoff archery range target. Suddenly, he heard a commotion nearby and turned to see a disreputable looking man tearing through a nearby alley, a small girl slung over his shoulder and a young man in frantic pursuit.
Suspecting – correctly, as was discovered later – that the disreputable man was some manner of villain whose depravity of choice was abducting children for some foul purpose and having seen such acts during the War of the Lions often enough to loathe such villains as no other, the would-be marksman sprang into action.
His bravery would've made this story one of triumph, if not for his impulsive choice of just how he'd go about thwarting the abduction.
Taking aim, he had fired, expecting to hit the villain in the forehead. But, for reasons as yet nebulous to all, the bullet had veered off its course and gone straight into the heart of the pursuing young man, the abducted girl's brother, who had died before he'd even hit the ground.
As for the small girl, she had managed to escape horrors best left unspoken by a twisted irony of fate. Her abductor, startled by the veritable thunderclap of the gun, had taken a bad step, twisted his ankle, and fallen, allowing his hostage to escape…
…not that she had been feeling terribly fortunate after learning what price had been paid for her escape.
This horrific accident had been made all the more senseless because the gun had come with a treatise on how to use it properly, and the instructions therein might very well have altered that sad tale drastically.
The would-be marksman had thrown the treatise away just after leaving the shop, however.
After all, what good would such a treatise have done him when, like many humbly born Ivalicians, he did not know how to read?
As for Phelps, he had learned how to read not long after he'd learned to talk, which was no small feat given how expensive the requisite materials had been prior to the recent advent of the printing press.
Not that it was doing him much good, however. When Phelps had fished the gun's accompanying literature out of the rubbish and read it, he'd found it packed full of diagrams, procedures, formulae, and terminology which he'd found entirely baffling.
No less stinging, the would-be rescuer had promptly been hounded out of his own home once word of the tragedy had begun making the rounds. And, this was despite the fact that, in the eyes of the law and common sense alike, he had done nothing wrong.
He had purchased the weapon with funds he had earned through hard and honest labor, not shorting the merchant one gil.
The establishment he'd purchased the weapon at was reputable, its owner having kept up his business for decades without so much as one dishonest sale.
As near as could be determined, the gun had been functioning properly and, in defter hands, would have handily shot the would-be abductor as the unfortunate marksman had intended.
So, all told, one young life had been lost, and other upended as neighbors and strangers alike turned on him, all over an accident.
As a man of the law, Phelps was well aware that some accidents were injurious enough to demand legal action, but he was no draconian specimen to have the accused drawn and quartered over the paltriest offenses.
An entirely new and highly complex variable had been thrown into the mix of an already very fluid situation. The task of calming these stormy waters had fallen upon Phelps's shoulders, but it had become palpably evident that he could not do so alone.
But, perhaps help had come at last?
It appeared that the warrior/machinist was already aware of this story for, when Phelps relayed it, Mustadio seemed saddened but not particularly surprised.
"Yeah, I was worried about that," the machinist said grimly. "That story, and a lot like it, have been making the rounds amongst us machinists. From what I've been able to find out, there are a lot of possibilities. You remember how I demonstrated recoil earlier? Well, if you pull the trigger without bracing yourself first, the recoil will throw off your aim. The same happens if you don't compensate for the wind, or jerk the trigger. And, I'll bet he didn't know how to lead his target either."
"I…beg your pardon?" Phelps spoke up, somewhat confused.
"Oh, sorry. Well, you know how the pull of a bow is the resistance to it being drawn? Well, the trigger pull works similarly. You need to exert a certain amount of pressure on the trigger to fire the gun, but just squeezing it as hard as you can will foul up your shot. And, you know how archers need to compensate for the wind? And how, in order to hit a moving target, they need to aim where the target's going? Well, the same holds true with guns. It takes a lot of practice to learn, but it can be done. Maybe that story would've ended better if that guy knew what he was doing."
"Perhaps, but similar stories have, indeed, been crossing my desk lately. The king wishes for me and his other legislators to find a solution, but how can I craft policy on something I know nothing about? You, though? You know the technology, likely better than any man present if that tome of yours is any indication."
Mustadio looked genuinely uncertain whether to respond with humility or swagger, and thus ended up looking rather silly. Still, Phelps decided he could pardon that slip and pressed on.
"What this solution might be, I still don't know," he admitted, more willing than most present to admit to his own shortcomings. "But, I do know that, whatever the solution is, I've a much better chance of finding it with the help of someone like you."
Here, Phelps paused to extend a hand. Though he was still far from a solution to this conundrum, the chance discovery of Mustadio had seemed a godsend. With a clearer idea of how guns functioned, how they could be made to work properly, and how to avoid repeating the tragic happenstance where a bullet aimed for a kidnapper killed another would-be rescuer instead, answers seemed within reach.
After a moment of stunned indecision, Mustadio's face lit up until he resembled a child who'd been offered an apprenticeship to a candy maker, with overtime being paid in sweets as well as coin. He then took the proffered hand and pumped it with such vigor that Phelps' teeth rattled.
"Thank you, milord," Mustadio gushed, quite oblivious to Phelps' displeasure at the title. "I had hoped for just such a meeting."
"Yes, I can see that," Phelps managed to get out amidst his teeth clattering together.
At this, the warrior/machinist seemed to realize his overexuberance and released the hand he seemed poised to crush.
"Sorry about that, milord," he said. "It's just…I'm so thrilled to have such an opportunity as this! I've been a machinist all my life, but it's only recently that I've felt my craft can really do some good. In all that time, my research has only revealed the barest hint of the technology that the ancients once possessed. And, as much as I want to rediscover as much of it as I can, I know I'll only find so much before I'm gone. But, I also know that being careless with these discoveries could be tragic. For all we know, that might've been why they were forgotten in the first place; a few used them carelessly and everyone else became afraid of them, just like those people who looked ready to faint when I was firing a gun away from them."
"A difficult theory to prove, but one which seems well founded," Phelps commented, appreciating Mustadio's logic as well as his passion.
"Yeah. I know this technology can be dangerous. During the war, I killed way too many to believe otherwise. But, a gun is just a tool, not some magical artifact with a mind of its own that can stab you in the back all by itself. I want this technology used, propagated, even improved upon. But, I also want it to be used responsibly. Otherwise, enough people might become scared of it that it gets locked away and forgotten all over again. I know King Delita's societal and economic reforms have done a lot to make life better in this country, but technology will do even more. The printing press, and how it could make illiteracy a thing of the past in a few decades? That could change the world in ways that might outlast Ivalice herself. It's every machinist's dream to make a mark like that, and I'd be honored if working with you could help me, could help us, make such a mark."
Here, Mustadio paused and glanced back in what Phelps imagined was the direction of Meliadoul, who was likely fending off several who urged her to consider her promised dance with Mustadio to be conditional.
"And, I also want to prove myself to Melia, to make something of myself that she can be proud of," he said, distantly. "I know there will be people who will never approve, but if I can get her approval, then all the sneering faces in the world won't deter me."
Despite his slightly manic energy and his odd shifts between being humble and being almost arrogantly confident, Phelps found himself liking Mustadio more and more with each passing moment. He was eager, intelligent, conscientious, principled, brave, and rather endearing in his youthful gaffes. After Mustadio had pulled his head out of the proverbial clouds, and despite the risk to his incisors, Phelps made a point of offering his hand once more.
"You may not be the only machinist in Ivalice, but I can't think of another I'd rather have at my side in times like these," he said gratefully. "If you can, return here tomorrow afternoon. Ask the sentries to escort you to one Lord Phelps and we will discuss how to make sure we both make our marks upon this era."
After another overenthusiastic handshake from the warrior/machinist, Phelps added. "Now, I believe you've kept your lady waiting too long. Go, and treat her well. And, if I may say so? Be yourself with her. I imagine she's appreciated you, as you truly are, before. And, I don't doubt she'll continue to do so."
Just which of these seemingly opposed personalities was Mustadio's "self", Phelps wasn't sure, but he suspected that Mustadio would be good to Dame Meliadoul once he stopped being so preoccupied with impressing her. For one, she did not look the sort to tolerate being given a nickname by someone who wasn't in her good graces. Hoping Mustadio would make good use of the advice, Phelps saw him off, the warrior/machinist calling out a request that Phelps remind him to demonstrate some invention called the "wallet" before disappearing into the crowd.
Thus, the unassuming Lord Phelps found himself soundly disproven in his assertion that he wouldn't enjoy this gala.
It didn't stop him from wishing for a good beer, though.
Fortunately, he, along with several others have been able to find contentment watching Mustadio explain to his lady just why he'd left her waiting barefoot on cold marble for so long.
It wasn't a good beer, but the show was quite entertaining.