(This is the second part of a double update. The first part is Chapter 28: the Cost of Duty. Please go back if you missed it. If you want to see my musings on the chapters, grab the pdf of Part One, or look at my other work, be sure to check out quickascanbe dot com)

Chapter 29: Black Sheep

I have always considered the Black Sheep an interesting historical footnote. In many ways, they succeeded where the Death Corps failed. But of course, they benefited from better connections: Ser Grimms was the bastard son of Viscount Blanche, and he leveraged his connection to his father and his military training to give a foot in the door to disenfranchised talent all across Ivalice. By the time the 50 Years' War had ended, Grimms and the black sheep of Ivalice's nobility were so accomplished and so beloved that Grimms was made an honorary Baron and his followers a knightly order of surprising versatility. His Black Sheep were instrumental in the chaotic two years that followed the Death Corps uprising, as tensions across a weakened Ivalice exploded in riots, revolts, and banditry...

-Alazlam Durai, "A Brief History of the Knightly Orders of Medieval Ivalice"

The first man fell with an arrow in his back. The others scattered for cover, too late: the second arrow flew and buried itself in a man's thigh. One of his comrades threw herself low, and began to crawl towards her fallen friend: a shadow moved out of the dark and a sword plunged down through her belly. She moaned in awful protest, but Ramza's ears were numb to that dying gasp. He'd heard it too often now, over these years of war.

A bellow of anguish and rage drowned out the dying man, and Ramza darted away as a spearman lunged out of the dark, thrusting once, twice, thrice. Ramza ducked and dodged between each blow, rebounded off a nearby outcropping of rock and kicked the other man in the face. The spearman stumbled away, clutching at his broken nose, and Ramza slashed him across the chest so his blood spilled out into the dirt.

Ramza turned back to the man with the arrow in his thigh, and raised his sword for the kill.

"Mercy!" shrieked the man. "Please, mercy, please-"

Ramza raised his blade still higher, staring down at the ragged man, his hands raised to shield his face.

He lowered his sword, and placed his foot against the man's thigh. The wounded man moaned in protest, but fell silent as Ramza leaned close.

"You're a prisoner now," Ramza said. "If you try anything, you'll regret it for a long time before you die."

"Okay," sobbed the man. "Okay just please don't kill me please-"

Ramza hauled the man to his feet, and hauled him limping out into the dusk.

"Saint take me, boy!" shouted one of the older soldiers on patrol, glowering at Ramza over the wild tangle of his beard. "Another damned captive?"

"What can I say, Erik?" Ramza said—he'd had no trouble remembering this old sergeant's name. "Old habits die hard."

"Old habits," snorted Erik. "You were pissing in your britches...what? Six months ago?"

"Who says I've stopped?" Ramza asked, and Erik guffawed and took the limping prisoner from Ramza's hands, steering him into the thicket of tents. Ramza made his way back to his own tent to strip off the dark and dented mix of jointed plate and leather he wore in the field. Then he grabbed oil and cloth and headed to a nearby fire. He took a seat at convenient log they'd dragged by the fireside, and began cleaning the saber he'd taken from a dead Ordallian merc some six months ago.

The hands that held the rag and sword were calloused from the thousand tricks and jobs a mercenary had to do to make a living, and his wiry body was stronger still now, narrow-waisted and broad shouldered. His hair was a little shaggy now—months since he'd seen a barber, and no particular desire to—and his green eyes were cold as they studied the sword in his hand. He polished the bloody blade until it gleamed in the firelight.

"Another captive, Ramza?"

Ramza looked up. The man on the other end of the fire was stout and smiling, dark hair kept neat above his round, sun-weathered face. Smart dark eyes crinkled above his wide smile. He wore a silken grey tunic with a detailed emblem of a black ram's head upon its back.

"Apologies, Baron," Ramza said, inclining his head.

Baron Grimms guffawed, plumping down onto a little stool at Ramza's right. The stool creaked a little beneath his weight. "No skin off my ass, Ramza," the Baron grunted. "More's the pity. Poor rump could use it." He patted his belly and leaned forward onto his knees. "Mind, the poor Viscount Blanche might object, but I think it sends a nice message. Yield, and you'll be treated kind. Don't, and you'll be dead."

Ramza shrugged hesitantly. The Baron cocked his head. "Something wrong, Ramza?" Ramza shook his head. The Baron chuckled. "You're a bad liar."

Ramza thought for a moment longer, then mumbled. "Will they?"

"Will they what?" Grimms replied.

"Will they be spared?" he asked. "If they...if they yield."

"Hm," the Baron grunted, and looked thoughtfully into the fire. "Hard to say, Ramza. The Viscount's reasonable, as nobles go, but the fact that he had to call for help, well...it makes him look weak."

"Isn't that what the Black Sheep are for?" Ramza asked, managing a wan smile that felt awkward on his face.

"Oh, of course!" the Baron exclaimed, grinning back at him. "The best and brightest of Ivalice, rushing to the rescue of whoever has need of us!"

"Or whoever has gil for you," Ramza observed.

Grimms put a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "You wound me, knave!" he exclaimed. "Do I strike you as such a lowborn sort?"

"Quite the opposite," Ramza said. "Running where the gil is makes you just about as highborn as you can get."

Grimms chortled. "Everyone's a mercenary," admitted Grimms. "Whether they know it or not. We all have our prices."

"You sound like Gaffgarion," Ramza said.

"And still you persist with the insults!" Grimms replied. "Where is that skeeving bastard, anyways?"

"He never tells us," Ramza says. "Just finds the next contract and pulls us along."

"The man does have a nose for work," grunted the Baron. "He's not wrong, either." Ramza shot him a quizzical glance, and Grimms explained, "About self-interest. It rules men. To pretend otherwise is to play the game blind. If you play with open eyes, well..." He gestured to the camp around them. "We do alright. And in this case we're friendly with the Viscount, so it's not quite the insult it would be if he had to ask for help from someone else. That said..."

The Baron scratched his chins. "The fact is that the Viscount's lands have historically been there own little kingdom, long as their Viscount bends the knee to whoever's in charge. A revolt like this..." The Baron sighed. "He'd have to execute the ringleaders, if nothing else." The Baron watched the fire for a time, then added, "Or at least, the men he calls the ringleaders."

"What do you mean?" Ramza asked.

"I doubt he'll find them," Grimms said. "Just like we didn't find them in Dorter, or in Limberry, or...well!" He gestured at Ramza. "I don't need to tell you."

Ramza supposed that was true. This revolt in the Araguay Plains was but the latest in a long series of revolts, battles, and uprisings. Hell, since taking on a merchant conspiracy in Sal Ghidos and their company of Ordallian mercenaries (where Ramza had won his latest sword), Ramza, Radia and Gaffgarion had helped put down a group of fishermen-turned-pirates north of Zeltennia, then fought a mishmash of Limberry and Zeltennia peasants acting as bandits to harass trade routes tying Bethla Garrison to the continent at large. Now he was so far east he was almost back in Gallione, much to his displeasure.

"What happened in Dorter?" Ramza asked.

"That's where we're coming from," Grimms said. "Riots in the slums."

"Oh!" Ramza exclaimed. Unbidden, Ivan Mansel's face appeared in his mind's eye, and from there the memories unfolded, of that stinking hotel room and Beowulf's countless bruises from his countless fights and Argus raging at every imagined slight and Delita always thinking and-

Ramza shut his eyes against the awful weight of longing grief that sprang undammed from his heart and up into his throat.

"You alright?" the Baron asked.

Ramza nodded, though he kept his eyes closed. "Sorry," he said. "I was...when I was younger, I lived there, for awhile. Had some friends..."

"When you were younger," snorted Grimms. "What, still sucking on your mother's tit?"

"Something like that," Ramza agreed.

"Well, I hope your friends weren't still there," Grimms said. "It was a bad scene. Lotsa fires. Lotsa fighting. You know how fucking crowded it is, so..."

The Baron trailed off. Ramza tried to imagine those dirty streets, but shied away from the thought as he remembered plunging through the crowd, chasing after Wiegraf and Miluda. Ah, but that was Grimms' point, wasn't it? That was how the people of Dorter had reacted to one such explosion. How would they have reacted to blood in the streets and their homes aflame?

"By the Saint," mumbled Ramza.

His eyes were closed, and he fought to push back the things he'd tried so hard to forget. When his heart had stopped its pounding and his mind felt comfortably numb, he opened his eyes again, staring into the fire, trying to lose himself in the feeling of the sword in his hands, the leaping flames, the contrast between the heat on his face and the cool air on his back and the smell of smoke in his nose.

"Big scene," Grimms said. "We weren't the only ones there. Hokuten, obviously, but Dorter's right on the border so some of the Nanten-"

"The Nanten crossed the border?" Ramza said, looking up in surprise.

"Oh yeah," Grimms growled. "And then started clashing with the Hokuten about who was in fucking charge. And I mean clashing: some off-duty soldiers met up at bar and started their own fucking riot."

"Things are that bad?" Ramza asked.

"Yeah," Grimms said. "Like I said. Real shitshow. Which might be why..."

Grimms leaned back on his stool and gave a great stretching yawn, twisting his body from side to side to crack his back. But as he did, Ramza couldn't help but notice his eyes flickering around, as though he were looking for any man who might be listening.

"Which might be why," he said again, in a voice just as cheerful and casual as before but pitched much lower, so only Ramza could hear him. "We never found anyone I'd call a ringleader. A few guys who started fires, sure: a few guys who'd thrown stones, who'd led some drunkards on a spree. But all that didn't happen spontaneously, ya see? All that fighting...there was someone else working behind the scenes. And most of the guys we caught confirmed the story. They told us there was someone higher up the chain."

"But you don't know who?" Ramza asked.

"No idea," Grimms said. "But I've got some guesses. Maybe an idea or two on where to start looking, too. See, I think maybe the Corps didn't quite get broken the way the Hokuten claim."

Ramza stared at him in disbelief. "Really?" he whispered. Damn, the Death Corps...how long since he'd really thought about them, besides idle conversations with Radia? "You think the Corps is behind all this?"

"Not exactly," Grimms said. "But that many guys with that much training and that much reason to hate the Crown...maybe they hide out for awhile, make some contacts. Maybe this time they go their separate ways, and try to cause as much trouble as they can." Grimms shrugged. "Been hearing things about new trouble back near Zeltennia...some kinda old cult. Call themselves something real pretentious. Onyx Eye? No, that ain't right..." Grimms pursed his lips and looked up into the night sky. "Official line is they're just bandits, but some of my friends in the Nanten say they're causing real trouble. Too much trouble. Bandits and cultists, between a Glabdos city and Goltanna's home base...it seems a little strange, right?"

"I...I suppose it does," admitted Ramza.

"Lotta that going around these days," Grimms said. "Why it matters to have people close you can trust, eh, Ramza Lugria?"

Ramza nodded, but suddenly he felt uneasy. That uncomfortable feeling of large things moving just out of sight.

"Ramza," repeated Grimms, as though he were savoring the name, appraising its taste. "You know, it's funny. I've never met anyone with that name. Do y'know who named you?"

"I..." Ramza trailed off. He honestly didn't know. His father's choice, or his mother's? Why had he never thought to ask, while either of them still drew breath?

"I mean," the Baron said. "I've never met anyone with the name, but I have heard of someone. This Beoulve bastard who went missing a couple years back."

Ramza's skin prickled, and he stared pointedly at the fire, trying not to look surprised. "Beoulve, huh?" he managed, in spite of the dryness in his throat.

"Yeah," Grimms replied. "I mean, bastard's not quite right. His father took'em in. Made'em a member of the house." Grimms chuckled. "Technically he's got a higher rank than me. Or, uh...had, I guess. He went missing during the Death Corps campaign. Presumed dead."

Ramza hesitated, unsure what he should say to allay suspicion. "These noble kids," he managed. "Think they're invincible, right?"

"Oh, this kid must've," agreed Grimms. "Heard from one of my Hokuten friends that this kid wouldn't kill anyone. Just took captives, wherever he went. Whole Death Corps campaign, and he didn't kill a single one of'em."

"I...don't believe that," Ramza said.

"Me neither," Grimms said. "I mean, you take more captives than most, but you still kill. And you're good at it too, Ramza. You're a damn fine solider."

"I..." Ramza looked up to find the Baron staring at him. "Thank you," Ramza whispered, meeting the Baron's gaze. They remained like that for a few seconds.

"Which of you's about to confess your love to the other?" Radia asked

Ramza craned his neck to look at her as she came striding out of the darkness. She still wore the mingled leather and plate of her days in the Death Corps, and she'd shortened her hair a little, but otherwise two years of travel had left her unchanged. She plopped down on Ramza's log.

"Why not both?" Ramza squeaked, instantly ashamed of the tremor in his voice.

"Radia!" Grimms exclaimed, grinning. "Where have you been!"

"While my dad's away, I've got to make sure we're doing our part," Radia said. "Speaking of: I think we've met our contractual obligations?"

Grimms considered. "I'd say so," he agreed. "But not enough to qualify for the bonus."

Radia rolled her eyes. "Of course not."

"Good to see you," mumbled Ramza.

She nudged his shoulder with hers. "You too," she said. "What were you boys talking about?"

"Well, to be honest," said the Baron. "I was building up to recruit your boyfriend."

"Boyfriend," Radia snorted. "You're not the first, Baron. But we're Gaffgarion's men."

"He's a fine mercenary, as such things go," granted Grimms. "I'd try to recruit him, too, but he's clear he's not having any of it."

"So you're just trying to poach one of his soldiers?" Radia said.

"Oh no," replied the Baron. "Both of them."

"I..." Radia trailed off, blinking. "What?"

"You know why we're called the Black Sheep?" Grimms asked. "Because that's what we are. Commoners and criminals and mercenaries, the second, third, fourth, fifth sons and daughters and bastards of houses that thought us useful pawns at best" He leaned forwards, smiling, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "But we got talent. We got guts. And where it matters, we got connections."

Grimms studied them each in turn, and Ramza felt that strange, euphoric tingling he sometimes got when someone watched him and spoke to him like that, stretching from the nape of his neck down his spine.

"All these revolts," Grimms said. "Hokuten and Nanten fighting...big war's coming. I'd like to make sure my men are as ready as they can be for it." His smile widened. "The Black Sheep would be better off with the two of you among us"

Ramza tried to look nonchalant. He suspected he was failing. "As you said, Baron," Ramza began, trying not to let his voice shake. "All men have their price. What do you think ours is?"

"Ah, that's just it!" the Baron replied. "I think you're the kind of fools whose price is simply a worthy cause to fight for." He paused, and added, "For what it's worth, service in the Black Sheep comes with a share in whatever gil we make, and historically has provided plenty of opportunities for other forms of remuneration."

Ramza and Radia exchanged sidelong glances. "We'll need time to think," Radia said.

"Of course, of course," Grimms said. He rose from his seat. "Not to push my luck, but hurry with your reply. Soon enough, one of us will have to leave."

Grimms strolled away from the fire, whistling cheerfully. Radia and Ramza waited until he was gone, then turned to face each other.

"This could be it," Radia said.

"It could," Ramza said cautiously. He liked the Baron, and he liked the Black Sheep. The past two years had put them in contact with any number of militias, armies, knightly orders, mercenaries, and all other sorts of groups, and the Black Sheep stood out. Not only good at what they did, but they were also damn decent people.

"It just..." Radia started. "It seems too good to be true, right?" She gave Ramza a probing glance. Ramza knew what she meant—a coalition that straddled that fine line between pragmatic and idealistic, made of disparate warriors from the far corners of Ivalice. As close to the Zodiac Braves as a person could reasonably hope for. And whatever his conflicts with Gaffgarion, Ramza agreed with the man on one point: if a thing seems too good to be true, it usually is.

"But what if it is true?" Ramza asked, giving voice to his own half-hidden hope.

"What if," Radia repeated.

They stared into the fire.

The next few days were placid and uneventful. Ordinary patrols mopping up the last of the rebels, and no trace of any ringleaders, just as Grimms had predicted. They saw the Baron only in passing, as he rushed to and fro to keep his men in line, preparing them for their journey east.

On the third day, the tents were mostly packed away, and nearly half of the Black Sheep had already left, heading east to secure a base of operations for their conflict with this unknown cult. Ramza and Radia were restless: there was nothing to do, and they'd made no decisions. They spent the afternoon sparring, Ramza trying to mimic her Draining Blade. His lessons with her had been sporadic, only occupying what few idle moments they'd shared where they still had energy to fight. He'd gotten good at defending himself, keeping his magic from being taken: their sparring usually took the form of Radia trying to steal some of his energy, with Ramza fighting to keep it under his control. Occasionally they'd try it the other way, but there was no sport there: Radia was much better at it than he was.

"-so the duke's daughter says, 'What's so funny'?" crowed Gaffgarion's voice from behind a nearby hill. "And the steward goes, 'Well, you missed the fuck out of him, but he fucked the miss out of you!"

Grimms laugh boomed out to them, and the two men wandered around the hill, clutching at each others' shoulder and shaking with mirth. Ramza and Radia stopped their sparring as sweat dripped down their faces and stared aghast between the two men.

"Of course," Grimms chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. "In Zeltennia it's the queen's daughter."

"And in Fovoham, it's the cardinal's!" Gaffgarion retorted, and the two men broke down laughing again. Gaffgarion braced himself against his knees, while Grimms slapped at his considerable belly.

"Dad?" Radia called.

"Radia!" Gaffgarion called back, waving jauntily. "The Viscount was very impressed with your work. Didn't even have to fight him for the gil."

"Mind," Grimms chortled. "Your father thought that was a sign he should push for more."

"No harm in asking," Gaffgarion said.

"The Viscount didn't seem to agree," the Baron retorted.

"But you do," Gaffgarion said.

"Of course," Grimms replied, with a wolfish grin.

"Dad!" Radia said. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, calm down, dear daughter mine," huffed Gaffgarion. "You don't hear Ramza complaining."

"For the same reason you don't hear men lecturing the deaf," Ramza mumbled.

"I heard that," Gaffgarion said.

"As I intended," Ramza said.

"I had to sort out our next contract," Gaffgarion said. "Possibly our last for the year."

Ramza and Radia exchanged surprised looks.

"Quite a lucrative job, too," Grimms said. "I'm envious."

"You think the Crown would trust you?" Gaffgarion scoffed.

"You think the Crown trusts you?" Grimms asked, eyebrows arched.

"Enough, I guess," Gaffgarion said.

"The Crown?" repeated Ramza.

"Oh yes," Gaffgarion said.

"What exactly are we supposed be doing?" Radia demanded.

"Dunno," Gaffgarion said. "I had to be vetted first, y'see. Go in person, pay the proper respects, pay the proper bribes..."

"Grease the wheel," Grimms said.

"Or it doesn't turn," Gaffgarion said. "All I know is it's a matter of national security, and it's top secret. They've agreed we're good for the job, and they'll give us the final details at our next meeting."

"Tell'em how much you're getting paid," Grimms said, nudging his shoulder.

Gaffgarion grinned, his eyes glittering. "100,000 up front," Gaffgarion said. "A 100,000 if we finish the job. Bonuses if there's any trouble. And all expenses covered."

Ramza and Radia gaped at him. Even for the kind of specialized work they did, 200,000 was almost unheard of. What were they supposed to be doing?

"Trouble is," Grimms said. "They need the full squad. They won't even offer the job for just one man." He wagged his eyebrows at Ramza, then did the same in Radia's direction.

"'Course, with that much money, I'd take the rest of the year off," Gaffgarion said. "And what would I need the two of you for, when I'm on vacation?"

Ramza felt ice prickling against the nape of his neck. He turned his eyes to Grimms. "You told him," Ramza said.

"The topic came up," Grimms said.

"And frankly," Gaffgarion said. "I've no problem with it. Just give me this last job, and you can go your own way."

"And when you're done," Grimms said. "You little lambs can join me. For the short-term, or the long."

"All business," Ramza said, and felt his jaw clenching. Even here, no trace of hope. Even here, nothing of grandeur.

"Not all business," the Baron said. "But business enough."

He waved, and walked away from them. Ramza stared after him, then looked towards Radia, who had folded her arms across her chest as she glared at her father.

"And what did I do to warrant such an evil eye, oh daughter mine?" Gaffgarion asked.

"What you always do," Radia said.

"We came to a mutually-beneficial arrangement!" Gaffgarion exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"I'm sure you did," Radia said. "Maybe a contact you gave him? Lucrative contract you pointed him towards? Weapons shipment fell off the back of a convoy and you could get it to him for cheap?"

Father and daughter locked eyes.

"One last job," Gaffgarion grunted. "40,000 gil for each of you, and leave to join up with the Black Sheep. What's wrong with that?"

"To start with?" Radia said. "We don't know what the job is."

"Oh, but we will soon enough," Gaffgarion said, waving one hand dismissively. "As soon as we meet our Hokuten contact in Igros."

Ramza's stomach plunged as though he were in free fall. "I'm sorry?" Ramza said.

"Oh, right!" Gaffgarion said. "Sorry, boy, should have mentioned. Guess you're going home for a few days."

Ramza closed his eyes against the flood of memories, thoughts of Delita and Alma, Dycedarg and Zalbaag, Grimms' words and Gaffgarion's deeds. He snorted, and it felt more like a cough.

"Something funny, boy?" Gaffgarion asked.

"If something's too good to be true," Ramza muttered.

Gaffgarion laughed.