Chapter 5: The Weight of a Name

The rise of Delita Heiral has everything to do with the 50 Years' War. War shook Ivalice from its roots to its highest branches. Commoners, soldiers, knights, nobles, and kings perished in equal measure. The War of the Lions was as much a product of the power vacuum created by all this chaos as it was the fruit of the ambitious. By the time the War of the Lions was over, the great houses were all but extinct, including House Beoulve, House Larg, House Goltana, House Orlandeau, House Thadolfas...

-Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War"

"Well," Dycedarg said. "You've had a hell of a homecoming, Ramza."

He was seated behind the ornate wooden desk in his office, lounging back in his chair. The golden light of dusk leaked through the latticework window behind him, shining over bookshelves and the polished stones of his walls and floors. His hair was perfectly coiffed, his goatee perfectly trim. Service leaned against the left side of his desk.

Ramza, Delita, Argus, and Beowulf were seated in front of him in rather comfortable chairs. All four were still rather dirty: the moment they had reached the Hokuten garrison on the outskirts of the city, the four young men had been rushed to Beoulve Manor to give their report.

"That wasn't my intention," Ramza said.

"Well, you managed it all the same," Dycedarg said. He smiled slightly. "Three cadets and one squire up against ten hardened anarchists, and here you sit."

Ramza shook his head. "It was just luck."

"I wish I had been so lucky at your age," Dycedarg said. "You do me proud, Ramza. You do the Beoulves proud."

Ramza flushed, gratitude and warm pride mixing with the memory of another man's blood on his lips. "Thank you," he said.

"I could do without your bad news, of course," Dycedarg sighed. "The Marquis was en route to discuss joint operations against the Corps. Now he's their prisoner? And taken by men wearing Hokuten cloaks..." He shook his head. "It seems to be that there's a traitor somewhere," he said. "We'll have to find out who."

"My lord," Argus said, falling from his chair into a perfect kneel, one knee on the ground, bracing his other fist to support him (and managing to fall out onto his uninjured limbs, to boot). "Please. Give me 50 men and I will save the Marquis from this common scum."

Dycedarg looked down over his long nose at Argus. He raised his thin eyebrows and glanced between Ramza, Beowulf, and Delita.

"50 men," Dycedarg repeated.

"I would not dare ask for more."

"Frankly you dare enough, Argus Thadolfas," Dycedarg said. Argus flinched as though struck. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and he did not rise.

"You are a stranger to Gallione," Dycedarg said. "You know nothing of our lands or our troubles, yet you presume you could lead 50 men of the Hokuten with greater skill than any of our commanders? Even if you had the knowledge, what man of the Hokuten would follow an untested squire of Limberry? And if we could find the men willing to follow you, who would trust you when they heard the name Thadolfas?"

Argus flinched again. There was a bleak silence throughout the room. Ramza looked between Delita and Dycedarg, wondering at the significance of the name, not quite daring to ask.

"Oh, rise," Dycedarg said, his voice softening. "I am not speaking against you, Argus. For all I know, you may the most honorable and talented man since the death of my father. But until you have such a reputation..."

"No," Argus said. "I understand." He rose from his kneeling position, retook his seat, and looked at no one in the room. Dycedarg sighed, and shook his head again.

"I am already in contact with Prince Larg, the Nanten, and key officials in Limberry to guarantee we have the means to find the Marquis," Dycedarg said. "And the whole of the Hokuten will search high and low until they find him. Rest assured, Argus: the Marquis will be found, and I will personally see to see it that when he is, he knows of your deeds, and your devotion."

Argus nodded jerkily, but said nothing.

"In the meantime," Dycedarg continued. "I'd say you've earned some rest. At noon tomorrow, Ramza and Delita will be enlisted as full members of the Igros garrison. Argus, you have my leave to join them, if you so wish. As for you, Mr. Daravon-"

"I'll leave tomorrow," Beowulf said. "Not sure what the Academy has left to teach me, but-"

"Yes, about your report," Dycedarg said. "You're claiming that your chocobo, and I quote, 'did a sweet flip while I chopped two dudes' heads off'?"

"It's a metaphor," Beowulf said.

"For what, Mr. Daravon?"

"Depends," Beowulf said. "What's a metaphor?"

"Please leave."

"No sweat," Beowulf said, and sprang up from his seat, strolling jauntily into the hall of the Beoulve Manor. Ramza, Delita, and Argus rose to follow. Ramza spared one backwards glance at his brother: Dycedarg had already begun to peruse some papers on the desk in front of him, and did not so much as look up at the cadets leaving him.

"He's as cheery as ever," Delita muttered, falling into step besides Ramza as they passed quickly over the carpeted floors.

"He's got a lot on his mind," Ramza said.

"Sure."

They were almost to the exit of the Manor. Argus was racing ahead, almost past Beowulf in spite of the bandages on his arm and leg.

"Delita," Ramza said. "Why does Thadolfas..."

He trailed off, unsure of which question to ask. Why did the name mean no Hokuten would ever follow Argus? Why did Delita recognize it? Why did it seem to cause Argus such pain?

Delita said nothing for a moment. "Ramza," he said. "You are so daunted by your father's legacy that you can barely try to live up to it, much less dream of surpassing it."

Ramza felt his stomach hollow out with embarrassment. "Delita-" he started.

"That's how much your father's good example defines you," Delita said. "Imagine how much worse it would be if it were a bad example."

Ramza said nothing, tried to wrap his head around the idea of his father's legacy being something evil. He almost laughed. He would have, if he had not seen the terrible pain in Argus' face.

They left one of the Manor's side entrances and strolled through its lush grounds, irrigated by the delicate Ydoran aqueducts they had acquired along with the property. Argus stared down into one of the ducts, his face illuminated by the shimmering light reflected off the water. He did not look at any of them. Delita grabbed Beowulf's shoulder.

"I'm a little surprised, Wulfie," Delita said. "You're already going home?"

Beowulf shrugged. "I came," he said. "I saw. I kicked some ass. I'm almost out of things to do." He lifted his eyes to the nearby hills that separated the Beoulve Manor from Igros proper and grinned. "Almost."

Ramza and Delita followed his gaze. Three women had crested the hill. Flanking the woman in the center were Alma and Teta. Two years had seen them turn from girls to women, but had not otherwise changed their serious faces. They were a little more distinguishable in dress: Alma wore the Ydoran rings and bangles befitting her station, where Teta had no such accoutrements. Further Alma's dresses had the luxurious shine of newness, while Teta's were a little careworn. However, Teta still looked rather regal. Her dresses may have been Alma's hand-me-downs, but they fit perfectly.

The third woman was taller than both of them, and somehow more regal by far. Hell, she was taller than Ramza and Delita, nearly as tall as Beowulf himself. Her clothes were simple—loose beige trousers and a pink high-collared shirt. She moved with martial ease and wore a gleaming Virgo symbol on a chain around her neck. A faint smile toyed with her thin lips, and a wave of light brown hair cascaded down her back. She was a few years their senior.

"Took your time getting back, Ramza," Alma called.

Ramza almost smiled. "Sorry," he said. "There was this whole kidnapping thing."

"Excuses," she scoffed, and by then she was close enough to hug him. Teta did the same to Delita.

"How we doing, boys?" Reis asked, as the sisters embraced their brothers.

"Beowulf called you a thing," Delita said, ruffling Teta's hair.

"It's only because I don't respect you as a person," Beowulf said.

"Well that's okay then," Reis said. She slipped a hand around Beowulf's head and pulled him close for a kiss.

"Thank God you're here," Alma said, pulling away from Ramza. "Teta would not stop talking."

"That's unusual," Ramza said, glancing at Teta.

"It's not every day your brother fights ten men single-handed," Teta huffed.

"Single-handed!" Beowulf exclaimed, jerking away from Reis to glare between Teta and Delita.

"No, Beowulf's right," Delita said. "Argus helped some."

"Argus?" Alma asked. She glanced towards the taciturn young man, staring off into the sky. Argus started, and fell to one knee.

"Apologies, my ladies," Argus said. "I forgot myself."

"Only one lady here," Reis said. "But I do love the sight of a man on his knees."

Argus gaped at her. Reis and Beowulf smirked at each other.

"It's an honor to meet you," Teta said, kneeling and smiling into Argus' face. "Thank you for taking care of my brother."

Argus shook his head. "No, my lady," he said. "It is I who should thank you. Were it not for your brothers...were it not for Beowulf..." He lowered his eyes to the ground.

"The man fancies himself a martyr," Delita grunted, hauling Argus upright. "Come on, you moron. You survived where a dozen trained knights couldn't, and with two arrows in you you felled more men than any of us."

Argus' face struggled between shock, pride, and gratitude. It made him look very young.

"Well, what are you boys still doing here?" Reis asked.

"What do you mean?" Ramza replied.

"When do you have to report for duty?" she said.

"Not until noon," Delita said.

"So why aren't you hitting the town? Celebrating the way heroes should?"

"Well, that depends," Beowulf said. "Would a certain Templar-in-training be able to take the night off?"

"When you're this good," Reis said. "They basically let you do what you like."

Ramza considered, and looked among the others. Alma had a mischievous smirk on her face, and Teta's eyebrows were arched in sardonic amusement. Delita had a rare, broad smile on his face.

"Alright," Ramza said. "Why not?"

Gariland is a city for students. It imports most of its essential goods, and its amusements are few and far between. By contrast, Igros is a proper city. Prince Larg's spacious castle overlooks the whole wide town of cobbled streets and wooden buildings. Prosperity comes with its share of entertainments. Gambling halls, stages for the theater, stages for dancers, and more than a few taverns.

By the time the town bells were ringing midnight, Ramza was reasonable confident they'd seen the majority of what there was to see.

They'd ended up at the Mage's Mystery, a strange little place hidden behind a bookstore. The furniture was absurdly comfortable, plush chairs and sunken sofas in myriad colors. All second-hand, and the friendly barkeep admitted that the owner had bought it off minor nobles fallen on hard times for cheap. Sad origins, maybe, but it made for a fine place to lounge back with a drink in hand, especially given the dusky light that glowed softly out from the runes etched near the ceiling all around the room.

"Ugh!" huffed Alma, folding her arms angrily in front of her. "Why can't I go to the Military Academy?"

"Little late now, isn't it?" Ramza asked, felling pleasantly light-headed. He'd had at least one drink at each stop, and he was not one to partake normally, so he felt warm and slightly dizzy, like his eyes were lagging just a second behind his head.

"I know, Ramza," Alma said, glaring at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her wide green eyes blazed with accusations. "But I wanted to."

"Don't blame Ramza for social conventions," scoffed Reis. Beowulf had fallen asleep in the crook of her neck about a half an hour ago, and somehow Reis still looked commanding with one arm wrapped protectively around him. "One of the few problems with being a noble lady, neh? Someone's got to carry on the line, and all the men are gonna be too busy murdering each other to guarantee that. So you get your defensive spells and your lessons on politics."

"Sounds boring as hell," Delita said, leaning forward on his elbows.

"You have no idea," Alma said.

"You like it?" Delita asked, glancing at Teta.

Teta shrugged. "It's boring," she agreed. "But it's not so bad. The others treat me nice enough." She looked around the table. "Are we running out of drinks?"

"We are!" Alma said, shoving a bag of gil towards her. "Grab the next round?"

"On it," Delita said. He and his sister rose, each swaying slightly, and took a slightly zigzagging path towards the bar.

Alma grabbed Ramza's arms, pulled his eyes back to her. Her anger was gone: now she seemed desperately sad. "Ramza," she said. "It isn't true."

Ramza blearily tried to follow along. "What's...what's not true?"

"Teta," Alma said. "She's not happy."

"Why would she be?" Reis asked. "She's trying to live in a hornet's nest."

Ramza shook his head. "What do you mean?"

Alma waved her hand. "The Preparatory Academy...it's all mind-games and politics, everyone trying to get in with the right nobles, with the right people, to make themselves important. I'm a bastard Beoulve, Ramza, but I'm still a Beoulve. The girls won't give me much trouble. But Teta? She doesn't matter, and they all know it. They take their anger out on her, because they know she can't do anything to stop them."

Ramza glanced at Delita, laughing with his sister at the bar. He thought of Cadet Madoc's disdain. He remembered how may other Cadets had acted the same way.

"I've seen it happen," Ramza said.

"But it's worse for her, Ramza," Alma said. "Delita's...Delita's good, right?"

"Better than me," Ramza said.

"No time for your self-pity, Ramza!" Alma said. "Delita's good. He can prove himself in other ways. The Academy...there's nothing she can do."

What a bleak thought.

"So what can we do?" Ramza asked.

Alma's eyes shone. "If I can come up with something," she said. "You'll help me convince Dycedarg?"

Ramza felt a cold flash of trepidation. "Oh," he said.

"Ramza!" Alma whispered fiercely.

"I know," Ramza said. He did. This was important. But the idea of telling his brother what he should do...in what world was that his place? In what world...?

From the corner of his eye, he saw a slumped figure raise a glass to his lips. Ramza turned his head slightly, and saw Argus drinking alone in the corner. Thoughts of Dycedarg led him back to thoughts of their meeting earlier today. To the name Thadolfas, and of the pain it seemed to bring Argus.

"Yes," Ramza said, looking back at Alma. "If you come up with something, I'll help."

He rose from the table, ruffling Alma's hair, and crossed to Argus. He felt himself stumble slightly, felt that strange warm drunken doubt (Am I doing the right thing? Would I do this sober? Does it matter?) but hardened his resolve. He sat down in the chair across from Argus slightly harder than he intended, so it rattled against the wooden floors.

"Argus," he said.

Argus looked up from his miserable slump. A royal Healer had seen to his wounds before they'd met with Dycedarg, so only the faintest hints of yellow bruising remained on his face, so his features were much clearer. A broad jaw was matched by wide cheeks and a wide expanse of forehead, all carved by sharp worry lines. It gave the impression of a face prone to intensity and passion.

"Milord?" Argus said.

"Stop that," Ramza said, shaking his head. "I'm no one's lord."

"You're a Beoulve," Argus said. "Better than me."

Ramza blinked. He felt the awful weight of his name again.

"Argus," he said. "My father took a mistress during the War. A young widow with some money. His wife had just died, you see, and he...well."

It was always hard, to think of Balbanes so human. The idea that he could be lonely. He had seemed so strong, even in the throes of the plague.

"She gave birth," Ramza said. "To me. To Alma. Then the plague took her. He decreed us Beoulve. Had us brought up in the Manor." He leaned forwards. "I'm no lord, Argus. I'm just a bastard with a better father than most."

Argus stared up at him and gave a lurching shrug. "So what?" he asked. "Bastard or not, the Beoulve blood is in your veins, and you had your father's blessing. You had his honor and his reputation."

Such bitterness in his words.

"Argus," Ramza said. "What's wrong with the name Thadolfas?"

Argus flinched. "You know," he said.

"I don't," Ramza said. "Remember, I was...I wasn't born into the house. I don't know what I'm supposed to know."

"Heh," grunted Argus. "No, I guess not. Every noble from Limberry to Gallione knows the name Thadolfas."

"Why, Argus?" Ramza asked.

Argus grabbed his transparent glass and swigged down the amber liquid inside. He shivered, eyes closed.

"You know," Argus said. "More than one Thadolfas was named Marquis. We can trace our line all the way back to the founding of Ivalice. We've been generals and heroes and kings and dukes and..." He sighed. "There was a time that the Thadolfas family was as beloved in Limberry as the Beoulve family is in Gallione."

Another long silence. Argus made as though to drink from his glass, then gave it a sad once-over as he realized it was empty.

"My grandfather," Argus said, setting his glass down in a clumsy clatter. "Was on the front lines when the 50 Years' War broke out. Second-in-command to the Limberry units, which meant he could spit and hit an Ordallian. He was a clever man, y'know." Argus tapped his temple. "Real head for politics. Untarnished, no matter how much dirt his rivals tried to throw at him. So now he's at war, and he's got a chance to really make something of himself. He was hungry for glory. Took a scouting party deep into enemy territory, and got himself captured."

"That's bad enough," Argus said. "But my grandfather, he doesn't want to suffer, and he doesn't want to be ransomed. He's going to escape, y'see. Got a whole story worked out, tricking the guards and heading home. Y'know how he does it?"

Argus was smiling, and it was one of the most hateful faces Ramza had ever seen. The eyes were just too wide, the lips curled back over the teeth. He looked like a snarling animal.

"He's gonna let every man in his scouting squad die," Argus said. "And he sells out the battle plans of a Lesalian unit. One of the king's personal regiments. Sells out his king and his men so he can avoid a little pain and win a little glory."

Ramza felt a squirming guilt in his gut, like worms writhing in his belly.

"And it worked, Ramza!" Argus barked. "He was walking out of the gate with a map of the Ordallian lines. Nothing real, mind. Confirmation of what Ivalice already knew. But that's not his fault, is it! He was captive! How was he to know? Give our forces just enough so it really looked like a daring escape."

"Problem was, he hadn't counted on his squire. This commoner lad, a stable boy that my great grandfather had taken pity on before he died. This commoner heard, see. He was in the cell. He actually escaped. And he made damn sure my grandfather didn't."

A heavy silence. Argus stared blearily at his empty glass.

"And then he ran for home. Told everyone what had happened. They made the boy a knight for it."

"So everyone heard," Argus finished. "That the lord of House Thadolfas would gladly betray his men, his king, and his country all for the sake of a little personal comfort and glory. Who would ever trust such a man?"

Argus sighed and slumped forward onto his crossed arms. He closed his eyes.

"Father wouldn't believe it," Argus said. "To him, grandpa was like a god. How could a god be so monstrous? But everyone knew. The Marquis. The king. Wasn't our fault, but we were Thadolfas. We were traitors by blood."

He raised his eyes to Ramza. "Know why I'm not a cadet, milord?" he said. "Because the Academy wouldn't take me. No one would take me. House Thadolfas was to die in dishonor, with me the last of it. Except..."

He sighed and shook his head. "Except I went to see the Marquis, and that fool gave me an audience. Rose from his seat, pulled me to my feet, and told me I was to be his squire. His personal squire. A member of the Marquis' retinue. Less than any Thadolfas had been. More than we had any hope of being."

"His squire?" Ramza repeated.

"His!" affirmed Argus, nodding. "He looked me in the eye and told me that we all pay for the sins of our fathers. That's all Ivalice has done since the Ydorans killed the Savior. But maybe there would be a time we'd paid enough. A time when we'd see salvation and redemption. A time when we would stand as equals. And he would not throw away a man for the sins of his father."

He buried his head in his arms again. His voice was muffled. "And now he's gone. And I can't save him."

Ramza did not know what to say. His mind, curiously, was not on Argus. It was on Argus' father. On the son of the man who had betrayed his liege lord, his king, and his followers. On the son who would not believe his father's evil.

That's how much your father's good example defines you. Imagine how much worse it would be if it were a bad example.

He said nothing, but reached over and ruffled Argus' hair. The man groaned in protest.

A heavy hand closed upon Ramza's upper arm.

"I think your friend's had rather too much to drink," said a low voice.

Ramza was jerked to his feet. He turned glaring eyes up into the face of the man grabbing him, and felt his surprise and anger melt away in shock. To him, his brother Zalbaag was always the man of military precision in his glossy black armor. To see him like this—in plain beige clothes, with a hooded cloak pulled over his bearded face—was so unexpected that it left Ramza rather at a loss for words.

He allowed himself to be pulled along and flung down into a chair. He saw Argus had come along for the ride, and everyone at their table was staring at Zalbaag, who grinned and threw back his cloak.

"What?" Zalbaag said. "Are you really that surprised to see me?"

"Yes," Delita said.

"You shouldn't be," Zalbaag said. "I've lived in this town longer than any of you. I grew up here, and I had a damn sight more fun than Ramza while I did it." He grinned at his brother. "Though even I didn't manage to fight off ten revolutionaries as a cadet."

Ramza shook his head. "It wasn't me."

"Spare me your modesty," Zalbaag scoffed. "Any way you slice it, you were outnumbered more than two to one by hardened criminals and you put them to flight. If you were a bystander, Ramza, you still did more than some men ever dream."

Beowulf snored on Reis' soldier. There was almost a note of protest in the sound. Zalbaag lowered his eyebrows in a suspicious once-over. "Are you even asleep?" Zalbaag asked.

"Maybe," Beowulf grunted, eyes still closed.

"What are you doing here?" Alma asked.

"Is it so hard to believe I came to celebrate with my brother?" Zalbaag asked.

"Again, yes," Delita said.

"Smart man," Zalbaag said. "Well. I thought you ought to be informed, given that you were the ones who discovered the Marquis' kidnapping."

"Informed?" Argus whispered, leaning forward and almost toppling over.

"Oh yes," Zalbaag said. "A Hokuten soldier delivered the message from Gariland. The Marquis is held in an undisclosed location, and will be executed unless the Corps is paid some five million gil."

Ramza's jaw dropped. "Five million?

"A reasonable price for the liege lord of Limberry," Zalbaag said.

"Common curs!" spat Argus.

"They are, aren't they?" Zalbaag asked. "But they don't think of themselves that way."

"No," Delita said. "They're revolutionaries who will tear down the nobility and build a better Ivalice. Why ransom their enemy when they can kill him?"

"Because they're whoresons!" shouted Argus, a little too loudly. But suddenly Ramza noticed that the bar was empty, save for the barkeep busily cleaning glasses at the rear of the place. When had it emptied out? How had it emptied out? He turned back to his brother, studying his enigmatic face intently.

"Whoresons and anarchists," Zalbaag agreed. "Who would tear down the Crown and the Church and leave our Ivalice a worse den of heretics and hedonists than it ever was under the Ydorans. But they fancy themselves righteous. So the question is: why would righteous men ever taint their hands like this?"

"Greed," hissed Argus.

"Argus," Delita said, putting a hand on the other man's wrist. He looked into Zalbaag's face. "Any idea?"

"Oh, no," Zalbaag said. "I've no idea what such common minds might scheme. Of course, I had men to tell me such things. Spies in the ranks of the Corps. I was supposed to hear from such a man, in Dorter, but...well. He's gone silent. I mentioned this to our brother," he added, glancing at Ramza. "But he thinks it's a waste of time. The Hokuten are stretched thin enough, and Limberry is angry indeed. He thinks we should concentrate south of Mandalia and north along the Rhana Strait. That's where the bastards are supposed to be based. So that's what I'll do. Follow my orders."

He rose again, smiling around them. "Ramza," he said. "I'm really proud of you. But you know, technically, this outing constitutes desertion."

Ramza tensed, his jaw dropping. He saw Delita flinch across the table from him.

"Or it would," amended Zalbaag. "But you're all cadets until noon tomorrow. Until then, there's no legal remedy the Hokuten could take against you. So at noon, you'll be deputized Hokuten, and you'll be subject to all our orders and regulations. I don't envy you. I always found guard duty terribly boring. Maybe you disagree. Still!"

He pulled out a heavy bag of gil and thumped it down upon the table. "I think it's best you enjoy yourself, before you get deputized," he said cheerfully "That should cover your expenses. I just expect any change back when you come home."

He grabbed his brother's hand and shook it firmly. He turned to Alma and hugged her. He waved jauntily to the barkeep, who nodded his farewell. "Oh," he said conversationally. "There's a stable south of town I think I might have forgotten to garrison. It's the one his chocobo was quartered in." He jerked his head towards Beowulf. "Would you lot mind checking for me, and reporting on it?"

"We'll try, sir," Delita said.

"Too kind of you, boys," Zalbaag said. "And congrats, again."

He left the bar quickly, pulling his hood up as he went. Ramza stared after him, then looked around the table in astonishment. Argus' eyes were blazing, and a disbelieving smile was on Delita's face. Ramza felt his stomach lurching.

"Well," Beowulf said, rising to his feet. "We'd best get moving."

"Alright," Reis said. "Do try not to think too hard on what you'll be missing out on."

Beowulf stared at her, then looked around the table. "Well," he said. "I guess we don't have to leave at once-"

"Oh yes we do," Delita said, pulling him away from Reis. "And you!" he said to the older woman. "You're just cruel."

Reis' smile widened. "The boy wasted his time," she said. "He should know better."

"What are we..." Argus shook his head as though that would clear the fog of drunkenness. "Did he really mean-?"

"Mean what?" Delita asked. "He just wanted congratulate us. We'd best attend to our duties."

"Del," Ramza whispered. "Are you sure...?"

"No," Delita answered. "But it's worth doing, don't you think?"

"Yes!" shouted Argus.

Delita flashed that strange smile at Argus. When he turned towards Teta, however, his face was serious. "I'm sorry," he said. "Guard duty-"

"Can keep one busy, I'd imagine," she said, as serious as her brother. "Well, I'll see you soon, all the same."

"Yeah," Delita said, embracing her. "You will."

Ramza looked at Alma, his head full of the night's strangeness—of the Marquis, of Thadolfas, of Teta, and of Zalbaag's figure, daunting in armor or in plainclothes. "Well-" he started, unsure of what to say, unsure of how he felt.

"Be safe," she said.

"I'll try," Ramza said. "Let me know if you..." His eyes flickered to Teta.

"You have bigger things to worry about," she said, hugging him.

Beowulf looked at Reis. "Not even a kiss?" he asked hopefully.

"You want another?" she said. "Then you'd best stay alive."

The three cadets and the lonesome squire exchanged helpless glances, then made their stumbling way towards the door. Ramza took a moment to stare at the barkeep, who smiled at him "Haven't seen Lord Zalbaag in an age," the barkeep said. "Old friend. Helps us out in times of trouble. Always points us towards good sales. Among other things."

Again, he felt the shadows of the Dycedarg and Zalbaag, looming nearly as tall as his father. Suddenly he felt very small and very unsure of himself, even with Zalbaag's endorsement. What was he doing, riding off drunk into the night on some fool's errand? How had his brothers managed so much? How could Ramza hope to do the same?

But he had his name, Beoulve. He had the love of his siblings and the hopes of his father, and he had it on good authority that there was a chocobo stable unguarded to the south of town and a trading city a ways to the east where a man with answers might suddenly have gone missing. And more than that, he had a man who wanted desperately to repay the lord who had shown him such kindness, when his grandfather's terrible shadow had almost robbed him of all hope. That was a cause Ramza could understand, even in all his confusion.

He followed his friends out into the night.