Chapter 7: In Search of Gustav

Of the Ydoran sword arts, perhaps none was more associated with the nobility than the Bursting Blade. By careful training, the practitioners of this art learned to channel their magical energies through their swords, focusing their power to unleash the bursts of magical energy for which the art is named. These blasts could prove as devastating as any mage's art, but the cost of learning it proved largely prohibitive. Without the amplifying materials and microrunes of a proper Ydoran blade, even men who learned the art were not often able to put it to use. Notable exceptions include Rosalind Selfina, Taran Singleton, and the infamous Wiegraf Folles. It's practitioners were commonly known as Mage Knights, though this term is somewhat misleading, as there is a marked difference between conventional magic and the Bursting Blade. For instance...

-Alazlam Durai, "Sword Arts of Ivalice"

Dorter was a stinking city, thick with too many men and no Ydoran plumping systems to efficiently deal with waste. The whole place always smelled damp and shitty, too crowded and too grimy. For the past six days, that smell had been discouraging: but when Ramza left the inn with his three friends in tow he inhaled as deeply as though he were on the Mandalia Plains again, a smile upon his face.

Beowulf had his twin blades on his hips: Ramza and Delita wore their matching blades: Argus had his bow and his quiver. They were moving, and that movement was certainty unto itself. It had been so long since they'd been able to move with purpose and direction, and they felt righteous and confident for it.

For those few moments where they walked across sun-baked mud with their weapons at hand, Ramza felt grand. He felt like a Beoulve: like a man equal to the challenges of the world. He felt like he could live up to his father's legacy.

That feeling vanished as thunder rolled across the clear blue sky, and a plume of smoke rose up from the city in front of them.

They stopped and stared, looking amongst themselves for answers. "Magic?" Beowulf suggested.

"As if those common bastards could learn it!" Argus said.

"Argus is right," Delita said. "The Corps' not supposed to have much in the way of mages."

But as the masses of Dorter began to flee from the smoke, Ramza and his friends plunged forward, weaving their way through the crowd. Ramza lost track of the others in the press: he could only see Delita's armor, and he focused on that to the exclusion of all else.

They emerged through the thick press and found the hovel Delita had been leading them towards, a one-story hut approximately the size of the room they'd been staying at. At least, that was Ramza's assumption: it was actually somewhat hard to tell, since half of it had exploded outwards into a smoking ruin. Two corpses lay face down among the debris, naked blades in their dead hands. There were still three living souls.

One was on his knees, while the other two had their swords at his throat. The two with pointed swords sent a peculiar thrill through Ramza that he could feel race down his spine and spread through his stomach and groin. Besides his brothers, he was not sure he had ever seen anyone look quite so dangerous.

They were a man and a woman, both in cloaks of green. The woman was imperious, with brown hair hanging down to her shoulders, a hooked nose and a well-defined jaw. Her dark eyes studied the man she was holding at swordpoint with clear distaste. The sword in her hand was steady.

The man besides her shared her rugged jaw and hooked nose, but his hair was lighter in shade, and his eyes somehow softer. His sword seemed to glow faintly, though this could just have been a trick of the light.

Argus drew his arrow. Delita grabbed him, and hauled him into a nook concealed behind some fallen debris. Ramza and Beowulf followed at once.

"Who's there!" shouted the woman, in a deep, authoritative voice. Ramza and the others remained behind their wall, while Argus struggled in Delita's grasp, glaring at him over the hand covering his mouth.

"Someone running," a male voice said, deeper still. "Leave it."

They heard the scuff of feet turning in the dirt. "The Folles," whispered Delita, and Argus stiffened. Ramza and Beowulf gaped at Delita.

Wiegraf and Miluda? The brother and sister who had led the Corpse Brigade? What on earth were they doing here? They were supposed to be harassing the Hokuten, to the north and south of Gallione.

"Now," Wiegraf continued. "Do I have to ask again, or are you going to insist on doing something foolish?"

"I don't...I don't know what'yer talking about," said a reedy thin voice.

"No?" Miluda said. "So why did your friends try to kill us?"

"Not my friends," grunted the reedy voice.

"Then whose friends?" Miluda said. "Gustav's?"

Silence. Ramza hesitated, then risked a quick peek around the corner. The Folles still had their blades on the young man's throat. He was looking down at the ground.

Wiegraf lowered his sword and dropped to one knee. "Ivan," he said. "I think those men were here to kill you. Just like they killed Erik."

The young man stiffened, and his eyes jerked up to Wiegraf.

"I think," Wiegraf continued. "That several of you didn't like what Gustav was doing here. I think you wanted to get help. I think he wanted to make sure you didn't get the chance."

"He-" Ivan whispered. "Erik...!" There were tears in his voice.

"I know," Wiegraf said, resting a comforting hand on Ivan's shoulder. "It's no easy thing, to be caught between the powerful. That's why the Corps exists. To make sure abuses such as these never go unpunished. To deliver justice to those who think themselves beyond its reach."

Ramza felt a fierce pang somewhere deep in his stomach. This was the leader of brigands and bandits who cut merchants to pieces on the roads? So why did he...

Why did he sound just a little like Balbanes?

"Erik!" Ivan sobbed.

"Graffy," Miluda said warningly. "Someone will come to investigate."

Wiegraf said nothing for a time, and then said, softly, "Where is he, Ivan?"

Ivan said nothing for several seconds. Ramza strained to hear.

"The cellar," Ivan whispered.

Wiegraf patted him on the shoulder, and rose to his feet. "Alright," he said. "Now, let's-"

Movement, from the corner of Ramza's eye. A blur, hurtling towards Wiegraf. He whirled, sliced, and two halves of a neatly-severed arrow hit the earth to either side of him.

"Graffy!" Miluda cried.

"Run!" Wiegraf shouted.

They hauled Ivan to his feet and took off down the street. Ramza turned disbelieving eyes on Argus as he nocked another arrow. He caught the fleeting look of fury on Delita's face, but it passed at once into that familiar, razor concentration.

"No time!" Delita shouted, and launched himself over their cover. Ramza and Beowulf followed, charging after their fleeing targets, all three men drawing their blades as they ran. Another arrow flew, and buried itself in the back of Ivan's leg. Ivan screamed, and Wiegraf cursed.

"Alright!" Wiegraf bellowed, releasing his hold on Ivan and turning to face them, drawing his shimmering sword. "We fight!"

Miluda turned with her own blade held at the ready. Ramza felt a moment's hesitation, tightening his grip on his sword. He stared at the man who'd sounded just a little like Balbanes, and wondered-

Ivan threw himself sideways, catching Ramza in the midriff, his legs tangling with Beowulf, his arms grappling with Delita. The four men fell in a gasping, struggling heap. Ramza tried to right himself, and heard Ivan give a strangled cry. "Run!"

Miluda and Wiegraf exchanged glances, then took off at a run. A third arrow flew, and bit into the ground where Miluda had been standing.

Delita hauled Ivan to his feet and socked him in the face. As he pitched to the ground, he shouted to Beowulf, "Hold him!" and went running after Wiegraf and Miluda. Ramza followed, but the Folles rounded a corner ahead of them. By the time they'd caught up, they were gone.

"Damn it!" hissed Delita. He turned sharply on his heel, striding back in the direction they'd come. Beowulf had a struggling Ivan pinned in the dirt, and Argus had come to join them.

"Stop struggling," grunted Argus, and kicked at the broken arrow in Ivan's leg. Ivan screamed.

"What the hell were you doing!" Delita demanded.

Argus' eyebrows arched. "Mad I hurt your commoner friends?"

"We weren't ready to move!" Delita roared.

"These curs hurt my comrades," spat Argus. "They took my Marquis. I am not going to let them get away."

"We could have learned more," Delita said. "We weren't ready to move. If you weren't too stupid to see that-"

"You dare-!"

"What do we do with him?" Ramza asked, kneeling besides Ivan.

"You bastards," sobbed Ivan. "You bastards."

Argus kicked the young man in the face, which gave a sickening crack as blood spurted into the dust.

"Argus!" Ramza shouted, rising to his feet as Ivan howled in pain.

"These men would put an end to crown and country," growled Argus. "They deserve-"

"We take him with us," Delita said. "We need to know what he knows."

They glanced among themselves, then nodded, and hauled Ivan to his feet.

The journey back to the inn earned them no shortage of strange looks, but Ramza and Argus simply said, "Official business!" in their best commanding voices whenever anyone looked like they might interfere, and so managed to return to the inn. The innkeep might have been more suspicious, but several coins from Ramza's pouch seemed to convince him there was nothing worth his concern. Still, there was no telling who was in the city today, on the lookout for just such strangeness.

"Beowulf," Delita said. "Keep watch outside."

Beowulf nodded, and closed the door behind them.

They bound Ivan's hands behind his back. He had stopped struggling, blood trickling down his face, relying on them to keep him upright as his left leg trembled with the arrow still in it. Ramza could smell the blood. It reminded him of the blood he'd had upon his face.

The moment his hands were bound, Argus shoved the man forwards, and he hit the ground hard. He groaned into the floor.

Argus grabbed him by the hair, and jerked his head upright. His nose was crooked to one side, and his face crusty with blood. Ramza felt a fierce pang against his ribs. "Now," Argus said. "Where is the Marquis?"

The young man stared at Argus with dazed eyes. Argus pulled the man upright by the hair, and Ivan moaned in protest. "Found your tongue, maggot?" Argus asked. "Good. I'll ask again. Where is the Marquis?"

"I d-don't-" Ivan stuttered, and Argus threw him to the ground. As the man hit the floor, Argus placed his foot against the broken arrow shaft.

"Don't what?" Argus asked.

"Argus-!" Ramza started, but Delita grabbed him by the wrist and shook his head.

"Where is the Marquis?" growled Argus, and pressed his foot down. Ivan screamed.

"Enough," Delita said, moving forwards and pushing Argus aside.

"I'll say when there's enough," Argus said.

"Argus!" Ramza said warningly.

Argus gave him a wary look, then relented and stepped back against a nearby wall. Delita pulled Ivan to his feet and placed him gently in one of their chairs.

"You're Ivan, right?" Delita said.

The man said nothing. Delita smiled, as though he'd answered. "I'm Delita," he continued. "The nice man over there is Ramza. The thing behind me is Argus."

Argus gave a derisive snort.

"Ivan," Delita said. "How long you been in the Corps?"

Ivan continued to stare down at the floor, tears and blood mixing freely on his face.

"Not long, right?" Delita said. "I bet. Dorter's a hard place to live. Merchants and nobles just do what they want, and the rest of us have to beg for scraps."

Ivan's eyes lifted into Delita's face searchingly.

"But you didn't get the full story, Ivan," Delita said. "See, whatever else is going on: the Corps is finished. Limberry'll do it if the Hokuten won't. But the Corps can't fight an army. And the Crown doesn't care if you had a good reason for trying to kill them. They're gonna kill everyone who ever wore the crowned skull. They have to. To make sure this doesn't happen again."

Tears were welling in Ivan's eyes. He looked lost and hopeless, and terribly young. Ramza felt another pang against his ribs.

"Now, Ivan," Delita continued. "It seems to me you know something important. Wiegraf and Miluda wanted to know it, too. That's good. Good for us and good for you. Because you don't have to die. You tell us what we need to know, and you get to walk away."

"What?" Argus snapped, stepping away from the wall. Delita held up a forestalling hand.

"You don't tell us?" Delita said. "And I'm afraid I have to let my friend here get the information. However he can."

Gods. In what way was this just? How did torture and intimidation serve Ivalice?

Ivan's eyes were screwed up, tears falling freely. He was sobbing in earnest now. "It's not f-f-fair," he whimpered. "It's n-n-not. We d-deserve-"

"Oh, what!" Argus growled, shoving past Delita, knocking the chair backwards so Ivan pitched to the floor. The broken arrow in his leg jolted against the seat, and he squealed in pain. "What do you whoresons deserve! You turn against the crown! You turn against God! You kill merchants and men of honor, and you take heroes for ransom!"

"No!" shouted Ivan. "No! We don't! Gustav-!"

He broke off. Delita and Argus hauled the chair upright, bringing Ivan with it.

"Gustav Margueriff?" Delita said.

Ivan gave a shaky nod.

"What did he do?" Delita asked.

"He runs the Corps around here," Ivan whispered. "E-erik and me, we j-joined 'cause...'cause we wanted to m-make a d-d-difference. And he m-made us...h-he..." He broke off, breathing shakily.

"Made you what, Ivan?" Delita asked.

"We're supposed to be fighting back!" Ivan shouted. "We're supposed to be making the world better! Not hurting merchants! Not making them pay us! Not...not...!"

"Not kidnapping the Marquis," Delita finished.

Ivan nodded. "We're b-better than that."

Argus laughed nastily. "We're b-better than that!" he repeated, in a blubbering falsetto. "Better than what, maggot!"

"We're not thieves," Ivan said. "We don't hurt people." He looked up at Argus. "We're not like you."

"No," Argus said. "You're not." He stepped forwards. "Where is the Marquis?"

Ivan said nothing. Argus nodded, then threw himself forwards, raining blows down upon the young man. The chair snapped beneath him. Ivan's voice rose to a terrible screech, and the pang behind Ramza's ribs was like an arrow flying out from his heart.

"Enough!" shouted Ramza, grabbing Argus and hurling him backwards. He stared aghast first at Argus, fists wet with Ivan's blood: then at Delita, arms folded, face impassive; and then lastly to the fallen man, sobbing and whimpering as blood oozed from his wounds.

"Out," Ramza said. "Both of you."

Argus' jaw clenched. "Ramza-" he started.

"Out," Ramza repeated.

Argus hesitated, then left the room. Delita followed without a word.

Ramza knelt by the young man's side. As Ivan cried, Ramza gently pulled him from the broken chair. "I'm going to turn you over now," Ramza said. "Alright?"

When Ivan did not answer, Ramza turned him over. He pulled his bag towards him, and fished out his healing supplies. He studied the wound in the man's thigh, pulled a little at his trousers to expose the bloody flesh.

"This is going to hurt," Ramza said. "I'm sorry. But it will help you in the long run."

He set to work, as Ivan whimpered and gasped and moaned. First, pulling the arrow out in one sickening squelch: then hastily dressing the wound with gauze and salve, hoping that not too much damage had been done in Ivan's many falls and blows. The overripe salty smell of blood and sweat was thick in his nose, and Ivan's blood was on his fingers.

Again. How many times would he bear the blood and never swing the sword?

He untied Ivan's bonds, and stretched him back along one of their bedrolls. He studied the man's bruised and bloody face.

"Better?" he asked.

Ivan hesitated, then nodded. Ramza looked towards the closed door.

"I'm sorry," Ramza said. His head was full of doubts again. The Corps had done monstrous things. They had taken the Marquis, who was in need of rescuing. He could hardly fault Argus for his desperation, but to cause such pain to such a man?

"For what?" Ivan croaked.

"About my friends," Ramza said. He paused, then added, "And about yours. Erik, right?"

Ivan closed his eyes and nodded again.

"Who killed him?" Ramza asked.

Ivan tried and failed to choke back a sob. "We w-wanted to...we..."

"It's alright," Ramza said. "It's not your fault."

"It is!" Ivan howled. "E-erik d-didn't want to! He was s-s-scared! I t-told him...it was our d-duty! We had to...we had to...!"

Ivan dissolved into sobs again. Ramza waited, tempted to comfort the boy in some way, unsure if he should. This was his prisoner, right? This was a member of those terrible bandits, those anarchists who would tear down all Ivalice. But Ivan didn't seem like that. Ivan seemed like a scared young man. Ivan seemed like Ramza.

"What did you have to do?" Ramza asked.

"To t-tell someone," Ivan said. "T-to t-t-tell Wiegraf, or..."

"Wiegraf," Ramza repeated, thinking of the gentle man in the streets of Dorter. "He's not like Gustav?"

Ivan shook his head fiercely. "He's gonna make the nobles pay," Ivan whispered. "Gonna make'em see. We got pride. We got...we're better. We're..."

"Not like Gustav," Ramza finished.
Ivan shook his head again. Ramza was thinking of his father. About Justice and Service. About the way the Corps had undeniably been wronged. About the way Argus had been wronged.

"Ivan," Ramza said. "This Gustav, he...he had your friend killed?"

Ivan nodded, tears leaking out beneath his closed eyes. Ramza tried to imagine how he would feel if someone killed Delita, and felt cold dread creeping out from the pit of his stomach.

"He had your friend killed," Ramza repeated. "He's had merchants killed. He..."

He remembered the slaughter in the Plains. Remembered the mans' blood on his face.

"Someone needs to stop him," Ramza said, wondering if he had the strength to do it.

"Wiegraf will," Ivan said.

"Maybe," Ramza said. "He seems..." He didn't do the word. Daunting, he supposed. "But what if he can't?"

Ramza sat by Ivan's head, and Ivan breathed in shallow gasps, and neither spoke for a long time.

He pushed the door open, leading Ivan into the hall. Argus, Delita, and Beowulf stared at him. "What-" Argus started.

"Go home," Ramza said, nudging Ivan. "Stay safe."

"Ramza!" Argus said.

Ivan gave Argus a look of terror, but Ramza took him the shoulders. "It's over," Ramza said. "We'll see to that."

He looked from Ivan to the other men in the hall, one by one. Each reluctantly nodded, and Ivan nodded in turn, and limped down the hall.

"He's a traitor!" hissed Argus, when Ivan was out of sight.

"He's a young man who made a foolish mistake," Ramza said. "I think you of all people would know the value of forgiveness, Argus."

Argus reddened, but said nothing. Ramza turned towards Delita, who was studying him with a slight sad smile on his face.

"You're too soft, Ramza," Delita said.

"Maybe," Ramza said. "But I know where the Marquis is."

"You what!" Argus bellowed, grabbing Ramza by the shoulders.

"I know where the Marquis is," Ramza repeated.

"Where?" Delita asked.

"An abandoned trading post on the outskirts of the Zeklaus Desert," Ramza said. "A place they call the Sand Rat's Cellar."

Delita nodded. "Shouldn't be hard to find."

"What the hell happened in there?" Beowulf asked.

"We got what we needed," Delita said.

"I don't understand," Argus said. "Why a Cellar?"

"Gallione slang," Delita said. "Cellar's what we call a rat's nest."