It was not at all long ago that Count Baurendouin de Haillenarte counted among the

great errors of his life allowing his eldest son to amuse himself in the munitions
factory of his holdings, for it led him to pursuits—of the mind as well as the
hands—most dreadfully unsuited to a viscount of his stature. Though he has, in
recent years, repented of this belief, the real truth of the matter was always kept
secret from him by his son Stephanivien: It was not Skysteel Manufactory's
munitions that so turned his heart and mind, it was the Forgotten Knight's mulled
wine—and it did not happen when he first gazed, enthralled as only a child can be,
at manufacturing machines and forges and their masters, but when he ran that mulled
wine between the Forgotten Knight and the Temple Knight he squired for.
Stephanivien, heir to House Haillenarte, was born to immense privilege and with
immense promise. Countess Lapinette's first birth, nine ponze even and twenty-four
and a half ilms, loud and hungry and well-favored in every aspect: he would
certainly, agreed both the physicians and midwives, grow tall and strong and
healthy. Their prediction proved accurate and then some: not only did he tower
almost a full head over his peers in boyhood, but he then outstripped them in their
studies. He mastered material in half the time it took boys two years his senior to
learn, and his resultant restlessness—perhaps it was a warning sign of what was to
come, but still his parents near burst with pride. Their prodigy was a sign of the
House's rising star, and to demonstrate this (and, hopefully, give him enough to do
that he stopped taking apart his mother's music boxes for boredom) he began his
formal training years early: a mere fortnight after his ninth nameday.
Unfortunately, Ser Thierremont de Jannevert was not as convinced of Stephanivien's
merit as his family was (and perhaps as he honestly should have been—but dwelling
on twenty-year-old counterfactuals here will lead us nowhere). It took him about a
bell for him to settle on "Ser Weathervane" as an appropriate moniker for his
charge: Tall and thin with a brass-gold head and graceless, whirling limbs like to
knock out anyone unwary nearby—and it rhymed with Stephanivien, besides. The
responsibilities Thierremont was willing to give him matched the dignity and
gravitas of that nickname, even a full turn of the seasons later. Stephanivien
would mind the hour, polish the simpler pieces of his knight's armor, black his
boots, and run whatever errands Thierremont called for—including, yes, checking the
weather and forecast with the nearest skywatcher. But even more often than that,
Thierremont wanted food and wine from the Forgotten Knight, and far more often than
not, this task fell to Stephanivien.
And it wasn't that he thought it was a particularly spiteful demand (though it was)
or difficult at all (perhaps if he were the size of his friends, he would). What
really irked him about this errand was that it made it impossible to work—no, not
at mixing polish or copying particular papers or even reviewing The Principle
Elements and Diverse Manners of Bladework, Swordplay, and Shield Technique,
Suitable for Duelling, Self-Defense, and Battle; but at important things. There was
no space at the Forgotten Knight to fiddle with engines and devices, even if
carting tools all the way was pleasant—and when the crowds were thick, Stephanivien
wouldn't dare bring even a pocket-timepiece or gyro to tinker with, not after the
last time he'd been shoved, dropped it, and a careless stranger stumbled and
promptly crushed it underfoot. And almost all the cooks and staff were too busy to
engage a gangly squire like him in conversation, so until quite recently, Forgotten
Knight errands were endless tedium.
But on this day, Stephanivien had a spring in his step as he made his way there,
down from the pillars—a spring, a few bolts, and a brown-paper package no larger
than a compass in his pocket.
"Cooky—oof, excuse me—Cooky?" The Forgotten Knight was always packed during the
dinner hours—even moreso when it rained, leaving Stephanivien only the tactical and
ruthless use of wide shoulders and pointy elbows to get to the bar. "Order for Ser—
ow! Let me through!—Cooky Arboulaint, it's me, Ser Thierremont wants his share of
your roasts." He may have been a tall lad for ten summers, but he'd yet to gain
much in the way of muscle; when he made it to the front of the crowd he clung to
the bar for dear life to not get swept away by that tide of cold, hungry men and
women.
"'Course he does," the old chef called back, long used to these orders. "Four
slices, two popotoes, pearl sprouts, and a cheese?"
"Five slices," Stephanivien corrected helpfully. "And a loaf of bread and butter.
And—spppbft—" A jostle as he was unwinding his scarf put wool in his mouth and left
him sputtering for a moment, "and alpine parsnips, 'stead of sprouts." The extra
slice of roast and loaf of bread Stephanivien requested was for himself, and
technically he ought not do this—but he would take whatever avenues of petty
vengeance against that petty man as presented themselves, including having him pay
to satisfy yet another growth spurt.
Arboulaint narrowed his eyes, glancing around the dining hall—packed to standing
room only. "A whole loaf?"
"Two halves?" Stephanivien offered, with his best attempt at a winning smile.
"We'll see," Arboulaint said, then "The barmaid's thataway," pointing to where a
black-haired midlander lass was pouring for a passel of Dzemael stonemasons. He
knew as well as Stephanivien did that her mulled wine was Thierremont's favorite,
and on a cold day he'd take no other. With a salute and a moment to steel himself,
Stephanivien once again pushed his way back into the crowd, one hand on his little
wrapped parcel to guard it against crushing or pickpockets.
The press of people was such that she had no idea he was there until he popped up
in front of her, and thus he had the privilege of seeing her pleased smile of
recognition up close. "My best customer, Ser Stephanivien!"
"You mean, Ser Thierremont," Stephanivien said, cheeks rather redder than they
ought to have been after so long inside and out of the wind.
"Oh, him? He only buys my wine. You, though," the barmaid winked at him (ignored
the stonemason asking why he never got winks) and tweaked the tip of his ear, "you
make entire hours of work melt away."
Grinning from one red ear to the other, Stephanivien beamed at her, quite
involuntarily, and almost as involuntarily blurted out: "I have a surprise for
you." And when he pulled his ringbox-sized parcel out of his pocket, whatever she
might have said at first was drowned out in the din from the table she just poured
for, as they burst out laughing, clapping, and whooping.
Stephanivien, mortified, immediately shoved the box back in his pocket and if the
crowd were any thinner he would have tried to bolt. The barmaid, though, was far
less affected—or rather, less embarrassed, her cheeks were the normal color as she
cuffed the loudest of the louts about his ears.
"—shamed, he's a good lad," was the first thing Stephanivien could make out as the
noise died down. "Stephanivien, love, come with me."
Still blushing, he followed her back by the ovens, very determinedly ignoring the
low murmur behind them. "Now, then, dear," she turned around, leaning a bit (which
actually put her face an ilm or two below his), "Never you mind them. What was it
you had?"
Stephanivien brightened again, and retrieved the box again, this time a bit more
gracefully, and offered it to her again, this time a bit less bluntly. "It's for
you."
She took it with a curtsy, and began carefully unfolding the paper. "A gift from
House Haillenarte?" she asked him with a raised eyebrow—the other one joined it
when Stephanivien's smile turned at once secretive and gleeful.
"Open it!"
"Well, surely I..." She stopped speaking as she pulled the lid off the box, and saw
what lay beneath it. "Oh..." and the lid slipped from her hand, straight to the
floor.
Inside the box, nestled on a bed of three handkerchiefs, laid a little silver
pocketwatch on a chain. The cover had an intricately shaped relief of woven and
knotted vines and flowers, rose gold inlay for the central blossom, polished to
gleam even in the lower, redder lights by the ovens—and the pure silver backing
would have been as a mirror. Even the links of the chain had not even a hint of
tarnish, and set into the hinge was a star-sapphire—tiny but brilliantly cut. In
truth, all of it could be so described—this particular watch was quite small, quite
light, but all the more exquisite for it.
"It's your old watch!" Stephanivien couldn't hold back his wonderful little secret
anymore, and the words gushed forth quickly. "I know you gave it to me because it
didn't work anymore, but I fixed it all up, and I thought you should have it back,
because it's such a splendid little watch, and I even wound it already!" She could
have heard it tick if she put her ear to it, but not otherwise given the noise of
the rest of the place, and since she was staring so starkly at it, not moving or
speaking, he thought for a moment maybe he ought to urge her to, but decided
against it. "It was really hard to fix! I don't think I ever saw a watch so small,
but we have so many old watches and music boxes and clocks anyhow, I finally found
parts small enough to work. Whoever first made it must have been really, really
good, it was so hard to see all the little bits right! Oh," he paused for a breath,
and also a nervous swallow, because she still hadn't moved—oh, but her lips shook,
but did involuntary movement count...? "oh, I also replaced the gems, so it should
keep time like—like something really good. And," Stephanivien faltered. Her eyes
looked as shiny as the watch itself, and he couldn't think of why that could be—
except maybe... "and don't worry about me, I have four or five pocket-watches, but—
you don't... so..." It was now, as he was trailing off, that the barmaid burst into
tears.
Naturally, Stephanivien began to panic. "Are—are you—what's wrong?" He shifted very
awkwardly from one foot to another, reaching out to her but not sure if he should
try to hug her or—or if he needed to take the watch back, or hold her other hand,
or what in all the realm was going on. "Did I—I thought I did all right..." He
chewed at his lower lip with anxiety, looking around to see if there was anyone
else around, anyone who might be able to advise.
"No," she managed to murmur, and for a moment Stephanivien's heart froze. "No—
dearie, you did wonderfully." She sniffled and Stephanivien finally had the
presence of mind to hand her one of his own handkerchiefs; to his relief she
accepted and began wiping her tears. "It looks like it did when I first saw it, and
I'm—I'm grateful, love." She hiccuped and swallowed and never before had
Stephanivien seen anyone, let alone her, look so miserable. "It's just—"
"WENCH!!" That was Arboulaint's voice, and both of them jumped with surprise. "Get
back to the dining floor!"
"You better be going," she whispered urgently to Stephanivien, as she slipped the
pocket-watch, still in its box, into her bodice. "Your master's food'll be ready
too, I'm sure. Go along." She actually had to shoo him before he unfroze enough to
hurry back along the way he had come, while the barmaid went in the direction of
Arboulaint's bellow. "I'm coming, I'm coming, already!"
"You don't have a break for four bells, wench, if you don't get back to work—Halone
help me, I'll garnish your—" Arboulaint's scolding was loud enough that
Stephanivien only lost track of it when another worker in the scullery shoved his
and Ser Thierremont's food into his arms. Numbly, moving only on instinct and
muscle memory, he made his way back to the building where Ser Thierremont was
working, wobbling through corridors before entering his office, putting the warm
parcel down on his desk.
His master only glanced at it once before fixing Stephanivien with an annoyed look.
"Where's the wine?"
"What?" His expression was only slightly less stupid and stupefied than that
question.
"My mulled wine, Ser Weathervane," Thierremont said, clearly put out. "Don't tell
me you forgot it."
Now a coherent emotion, a definable and nameable emotion, emerged from his current
messy maelstrom of feeling: anger. "I shan't tell you, then."
"Boy." Thierremont's tone was a warning, as was the very deliberately delicate way
he put his fancy griffin-feather quill aside. "I can hardly justify giving proper
squiring responsibilities to you if you can't manage proper errand boy
responsibilities."
Right now, anger was the easiest thing to feel: anger and an overwhelming,
infuriating feeling of injustice. So little squire Stephanivien embraced it. "You
can justify it to my father, if it pleases you, ser."
At that, Thierremont stood straight up with enough force to knock his chair
backwards. His face twisted with fury before he mastered himself—and even then,
only enough to point at the door and growl, "Out."
Turning on his heel with a prideful air, as though he'd won (though, even angry,
Stephanivien already knew he had done nothing of the sort), he obeyed, stalking
back out into that dismal afternoon. Glaring around at all and sundry—and, when
nothing suitably villainous presented itself to be abashed in the face of his ill
humor, up into the raining sky itself, as if it could be affected—he tightened his
scarf around his neck and hiked it up to cover half his face, and set out to walk
off his mood and wait out Ser Thierremont's.
...But it was just so unfair.
Given what he was dwelling on, it was not surprising that he found his way down to
the Forgotten Knight again. By now it was growing late, and the lamps outside that
tavern had been lit, and by their light Stephanivien could see a figure outside,
leaning against the wall next to the notice board. Her black hair gleamed blue when
the flickering light caught it, and she had her arms wrapped around her thin frame,
and Stephanivien jogged over at once when he realized it was the barmaid.
This time there was no crowd to conceal his approach—and this time, her smile at
seeing him was more wan, and she looked far more tired than she ought, after a mere
handful of bells. He slowed up, as if the situation warranted more somberness.
"H'lo," Stephanivien said through his scarf.
"Evening, dear," she replied, but—said no more.
"'m sorry," he offered, after a moment of fidgeting with the fringe of his scarf.
"For making you cry."
"Oh, love," she sighed. "Wasn't that. It was—" she opened her mouth but bit off
whatever she was going to say, then sighed, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her
hands.
Stephanivien waited respectfully for her to continue (his mother often paused
conversation like this when she was tired, and since his youngest brother had been
born she seemed always tired)—but she didn't. So, after a moment of nervous
indecision, he prompted, "Was what?"
"...Wasn't fair."
Whatever he had thought she might say—about the watch or the timing or the
presentation, that had upset her—well, fairness didn't figure into it. He was
confused, and fortunately, the barmaid could see so. With another sigh, she
continued.
"You know, I told you I gave it to you because it didn't run anymore, and I know
you love playing with clock-pieces." He nodded silently—and she didn't seem to want
to make eye contact anymore, but must have seen the gesture still. "Well—thing is,
love, if it had run, I wouldn't be giving it away, I would've pawned or sold it."
"...Oh," he said. There seemed to be a larger, a more final sort of implication in
her words, but it was evading him. "For money...?"
She laughed, though it was a sad sound. "Aye, money. The broker though, wouldn't
give me a tenth what it was worth, his excuse was it didn't run. Silversmith—he
thought I stole it," she made a scornful, angry sound at that, shaking her head,
and ignored Stephanivien's shocked exclamation of "Why?!" to continue on, "—said he
didn't take parts from stolen goods. So," she took a deep breath, and looked him in
the face, "—so I gave it away, not hoping—not thinking I'd ever see it again. But—"
"—But I fixed it," Stephanivien supplied. Now he was the one who couldn't meet the
other's eyes, thinking hard, with a faint tendril of guilt starting to curl in his
belly.
"You did, and—Halone, be merciful, but the first thing I thought was I could pay
rent for certain, and—" She was choking up again—this time it didn't take
Stephanivien any time at all to dig through his pockets for another handkerchief to
offer her. "—and it was... It was all so unfair."
He nodded, silent. Once again, he didn't know what to say, but for a different
reason this time. This was a—a new kind of confusing, instead of having no
knowledge relating to a small problem, a bad gear or a difficult exam... this was
bigger, and he didn't see or know how but he felt it, far too big for any words he
knew.
"Doesn't Arboulaint pay you?" His voice was hollow and awkward—not only from her
story, but from his memory of Cooky's fury earlier.
"Oh, yes, and I get by, usually," she said, folding up his handkerchief to return
it, with the air of someone who is trying to convince herself that she was feeling
better. "It's only that the baby outgrew her coat, and—" the barmaid stopped up
short as Stephanivien jerked his head up to look at her, surprised.
"I didn't know you had a baby," he blurted out. Shouldn't she—well—oughtn't she not
be on her feet so much? His own mother, after all—she had had a lot of babies, and
each time the family chirurgeon ordered her off her feet for some moons, without
fail.
"I do," she said, smiling, and her smile was even tinier than it had been before,
melancholy yet sincere. "Light of my life, heart of my heart. Her father gave me
the watch, before—well... before."
Again, there was a finality in that simple word, "before," that he could grasp the
edges of but not the entirety. Stephanivien swallowed nervously. "If—if you need
gil... I could..."
"You could buy some wine?" The barmaid said, softly.
"...Yeah."
And by the time Stephanivien wandered back to Thierremont's offices, the mulled
wine had gone cold, but he was still so lost in thought he barely acknowledged the
upbraiding.
***
"Well, that one certainly doesn't fit," the head maid muttered, looking Joye over—
disapprovingly, and Joye did her best to remind herself that Mistress Audrey only
disapproved of that blouse's sleeves and skirt's hem, both far too long—not her,
herself. "Here, try this one." She held out another blouse and skirt, which Joye
obediently took and ducked behind the curtain again.
She'd never before had a job with a dress code—and yes, she had worked before, as
much distaste as Madame Countess had had for a maiden even her age now working.
With only her older father to care for her, Joye had recognized the need to augment
the household's income almost as soon as she learned to walk. Her previous forays
in business mostly consisted of selling roast chestnuts and popotos, teaming up
with the other local girls, Jeannette and Hilda and Gwennie, to pick and sell
flowers, and doing odd errands for a few gilcoins here and a few more there, none
of which required a uniform. But the House Haillenarte had standards.
"How's this, Mistress?" Joye asked, pulling aside the curtain to be inspected, in
her clean white blouse and blue skirt.
"Mmm—It'll do, it'll do." Mistress Audrey fussed over the tucking of her blouse, a
bit roughly. "Heaven knows you're still growing, anyroad."
"Yes, Mistress," Joye murmured, head and eyes downcast.
"None of that ill humor," Audrey said sharply, hand under Joye's chin to lift her
face and gaze, looking her in the eye. "His lordship the Count is a fair employer,
and he deserves proper respect, not sullenness." Her rebuke was delivered before
Joye could correct her—she wasn't trying to be sullen, just deferential. She knew
very well where she stood, relative to him and his, and...
"Yes, Mistress." This time she delivered the line with clarity of gaze and voice.
"'m very grateful. I'm very lucky."
"Mmm..." Mistress Audrey considered her—her face, voice, demeanor, self—but this
time declined to upbraid her. "You'll learn, I suppose." Joye nodded. "We'll start
you with sweeping—go see Nelly, in the southwest wing, she'll have a job or two for
you."
Mistress Audrey didn't wait for Joye's response, but bustled off—probably she had a
great deal of responsibilities to handle already. However, Joye didn't follow her
directions immediately. Instead, she backed behind the changing curtain again—just
long enough to master both her trembling lips and her trembling fists.
The thing—the galling thing—was that Mistress Audrey was right and wrong about the
very same things. It was true that Count Baurendouin de Haillenarte was soft-
hearted, and generous, and she was lucky that it was his mercy that had sighted her
and her predicament first, instead of any of Ishgard's predators, wolves in sheep's
clothing, or other dangers. Things could be much worse. ...Things could also be
much better. Illness could have spared her father, not taking the strength of his
limbs or control of his hands, and thus leaving him unable to work any but the
simplest of occupations. Her mother could have stayed instead of leaving all those
years ago, so that one man's income didn't determine whether their family would be
destitute. The harvest could have been better—the storm could have gone and not
lingered—a thousand small misfortunes could have not happened, and this one great
mercy shown to her was a job whose uniform she would have to grow into.
Joye rubbed her eyes one last time, then went out of the little laundry-room,
towards the southwest wing. She did want this job, after all—it was a good one she
was lucky to have, and if the sleeves were too long, all it meant was that it'd be
easy to hide her hands curled into fists.
The southwestern wing was where the household slept, it turned out, and in the
hallway there was already a maid there—gathering up the rugs, likely to beat them.
Another midlander, probably a bit younger than Mistress Audrey but taller, and with
a tougher, more wiry build.
"Nelly?" Joye asked, softly, and she looked up from her work.
"Aye." Nelly's voice was higher-pitched and seemed to project without her trying.
"You the new girl? Joye?"
She nodded, then did a belated and awkward curtsey. "Pleased to meet you, miss."
"A pleasure, aye." Nelly didn't curtsey, but she did stand straight to look Joye
over. "Audrey likes to start the new girls on sweeping, right?" Mutely Joye nodded.
"All right—here, let me show you where I want you working." Nelly winked. "And what
the place is like. It's no fun getting lost your first fortnight."
At that, Joye cracked a tiny smile, and her tightly-held fists loosened. Maybe this
really would be a stroke of good luck.
"Right, so—that there," Nelly pointed to closed double doors at the end of the
hallway passage, "that's the master's bedchambers, the Count and Countess. I won't
have you doin' much in there to start, just sweep the dust round the edges of the
rugs and carpet once a day, mind her ladyship's porcelain wares and glass. Right
now she's takin' her afternoon nap—so, no shouting, right?" Nelly grinned, probably
because it was difficult for her to imagine so small a girl making much noise at
all, Joye thought—and of course, like Mistress Audrey, Nelly was wrong as well, but
Joye didn't feel it quite so necessary to correct her, this time. She simply nodded
again.
"Just with a broom and a dustpan?"
"Just so. Now," here Nelly pointed to the doors closest to the master bedchambers,
"these here are young master Francel's rooms. Youngest of the lot—maybe around your
age, I'd reckon." Nelly squinted at Joye and scratched her chin; for her part Joye
just nodded seriously. "He's got weak nerves, is a bit sickly—I expect usually to
see him either holding her ladyship's skirts or hiding behind his lordship the
Count."
How similar and how different he and Joye were. Very deliberately she put that
thought from her mind to think instead about the layout of the wing. "And those?"
She pointed at the door next to Francel's, slightly ajar, through which a rather
impressive collection of field-gathered geological specimens (that is, rocks) could
be seen.
"Ah, master Aurvael's chambers. He's the second son. His room's covered in maps and
specimens, prone to get exceptionally dusty. I want you sweeping it out twice a
day, mid-morning and right before dinner," Nelly explained. "Now, the other doors
next to the master's, those go to Mistress Laniaitte's chambers. Great lover of
chocobos and knights, like most young maidens, just would rather be one than court
one."
(Joye considered joking on whether Nelly meant courting the chocobo or the knight,
but decided against it). "Is she very tidy?"
"Not at all. You'll need a mop more often than not," Nelly sighed, and Joye nodded
gravely. "Now, the last rooms here, just down from Mistress Laniaitte's, those are
Ser Chlodebaimt's rooms." Something changed about Nelly's voice then, something
conspiratorially gleeful entered it. "The Rose Knight, himself."
Joye politely, confusedly blinked at her, to indicate how little that meant to her.
"The first proper knight of this count's sons—Aurvael's a soldier but hasn't earned
his spurs yet, but Chlodebaimt..." Nelly's eyes sparkled as she spoke. "He's
fearless, honorable—so tall and strong, you'd never dream he was but ten-and-seven—
pure of heart and so—simply so—"
"Beautiful?" Joye asked, with a raised eyebrow but otherwise flat expression.
Perhaps it was impertinent to say this to her senior here, but surely no more so
than how Nelly was going on about her employer's son, if Joye had the right of the
situation.
"Yes!" Nelly cried—before she came back to herself and her station from whatever
airy-fairy fantasy had gripped her, clearing her throat and fidgeting with her
bodice laces. "I mean—yes, Ser Chlodebaimt has... many qualities to recommend him.
You'll not need to sweep in there more than once a day, and not for long then."
"Yes, mistress," Joye said, obviously amused—before her brow wrinkled in thought.
She glanced up and down the length of the hallway, but those five doors were the
only ones fit to admit entry to noble blood—and yet, if she remembered aright... "I
thought his lordship the Count had five children...?"
"Hm? Oh! You mean Master Stephanivien," Nelly said, and Joye thought it odd she had
to take a moment to think—or that it could have slipped her mind at all. "He's an—
well... His lordship the viscount..." She lowered her voice and leaned in to Joye's
ear, and her bearing became conspiratorial, but not at all in the same way that it
had when discussing Ser Chlodebaimt. "He doesn't get on well with his lord father,
not since he was ejected from squiring... oh, must have been more'n seven years ago
—something about a barmaid? I can't properly recall but that it was a scandal and a
half, and his lordship the viscount said he'd not become a knight even if it were
that or disowning, and ever since—well, he mostly keeps to himself when he's even
in the manor at all, he keeps a garret near the foundation and supervises the
manufactory, ever since his majority. He's a queer man, brilliant though, but
eccentric as anything—but, ultimately," she straightened, her back cracking, for
gossip was a rigorous field of work, "Stephanivien's harmless. Don't concern
yourself about him, dear."
"...Yes, miss," Joye said, trying to process all of... that, especially given the
speed at which it was delivered. "I'll not trouble meself with him, then."
"There's a girl. Now then," Nelly darted to a small door, to pull it open and
rummage through the interior, "here's your broom, here's your dustpan. Let's earn
our keep, hm?"
Joye took the tools from Nelly and curtseyed once again, and in the same tone that
she'd used on Mistress Audrey earlier, said, "Much obliged, miss. I'm lucky to work
here, I know."
"What a polite girl you are," Nelly cooed, before hoisting her rugs onto a cart.
"Report to the laundry in two bells, now, dear." With that, she and her cart were
leaving the wing, leaving Joye to her own work and her own thoughts.
Certainly she'd not want for entertainment, working for a family like that, she
thought. Though perhaps the temptation to unwise gossip might be something to watch
for—no matter how freely Nelly had spoken to her. And for a simple note of common
sense—it was likely the household was going through milk, butter, cheese, cream,
and any or all other forms of dairy at a terrific rate, housing as it did five
elezen at various stages of adolescence. She made a mental note to keep her eyes
(and nose) alerted to signs of forgotten milk or cream liable to spoil.
But even so, so far it had seemed that all the gossip about the Haillenarte
household as a fair place of employment was accurate—and that was something, Joye
reflected, that she should and could honestly be grateful for even were they not
rich and she not poor, for bad luck—
"Nelly!" An unfamiliar, bright male voice that echoed in that hall made Joye jump
and shrink back instinctively: the speaker, for his part, looked appropriately
abashed. "Oh—oh, I'm sorry, dear, I don't think I know you."
"I'm new, milord," Joye said, with a curtsey—for her guess was this speaker must
have been one of the older three sons of Haillenarte: blond hair, ears of a comely
length for elezen men, very, very tall, but still rather... gangly and limbsy. "Me
name's Joye, milord." It was a good guess, but still just a guess: While the color
and material of his clothes was clearly fine, he was in only rumpled, rolled-up
shirtsleeves and an open vest, like some kind of working man—and even more like a
working man, there were various bits and bobs hooked to his belt, and quite clearly
his trouser legs needed adjusted.
"A pleasure—and you don't need to curtsey." Joye furrowed her brow in confusion,
but whoever-his-lordship-was spoke very quickly, it seemed, and wasn't fond of
being slowed down. "By any chance, you wouldn't have seen my father, would you?"
Joye hesitated, decided this was confirmation he really was a son of the House
Haillenarte, then began, "When I arrived, his lordship was tending to her
ladyship's fruit garden—" She raised her arm to point in the direction of the
hothouse, but he had already left with a hurried thank-you, almost running and
paying no nevermind to the din he made on the staircase.
She stood in the increasing quiet as he departed, wondering what in all the realm
that was. It took her a few seconds longer than it ought to have to notice a
persistent ringing bell from the end of the hallway—the master bedrooms, where...
as Nelly had told her... her ladyship Countess Lapinette de Haillenarte was
napping. Right away, Joye scurried back to that room, knocking on the door—when met
with a sleepy "Come in, already!" she scurried in, holding her broom and dustpan
like Halone's spear and shield, as if they made for protection from a grumpy
Countess.
"Milady?" Joye said quietly, uncertain, as she approached the master bed—enormous,
with an elaborate canopy and a panoply of quilts and pillows. Propped up on the
latter and covered by the former laid Lapinette, the countess—her red hair in a
messy, disheveled braid and her vision bleary from sleep.
"—Who're you, darling?" she asked, curious but not unkind.
"I'm Joye, milady." Yet another curtsey. "I'm the newest maid."
"Oh, my—the urchin my dear husband found." Now curiosity was replaced by concern,
and Lapinette sat upright, attentive. "Poor little darling—but what was that
ruckus?"
Well, there was nothing else for it, but... "It was your son, milady, he was
looking for his lordship the Count."
The Countess sighed softly. "Which of my sons?"
Joye bit her lip. "I don't know. He—he didn't say, milady."
"Ah, then Stephanivien." The Countess sighed, loudly, and dragged one hand down her
face.
"I'm sorry, milady?" Joye offered, after a moment.
"No, no. Don't worry yourself. You may get back to work," Lapinette said, rolling
over into the pillows. After a moment, Joye directed a curtsey at her back, then
turned to leave. "—No, wait one moment."
"Yes, milady?"
Lapinette reached under the largest of her pillows, and pulled out a very pink,
very velvety purse. She beckoned to Joye, and when she had drawn close enough, took
her hand and pressed three large and two small silver coins into her palm.
"Go find him, and tell him I will give him fifteen thousand gil for the shopping if
only he promises me he will have tailored trousers and shirts whose legs and
sleeves are the correct length," the Countess whispered, sotto voce but vehement,
to Joye. "And he must promise me in person. To my face."
"Yes, milady," Joye said, with a hurried nod, and when Lapinette waved her off
again, she scampered back out the room and down the hallway, the way Stephanivien
had gone. It turned out she was absolutely correct about this position not wanting
for entertainment.
Even five years later, it didn't lack for eventfulness, and at least one story per
visit to tell her father at home—whether to do with Francel and his rambunctious
best friend, or Aurvael getting living samples from the new outpost in the Sea of
Clouds, or one of Stephanivien's visits resulting in something exploding. The to-
do, for example, when the Countess discovered that Laniaitte had cut off all her
hair to better fit a helm—that alone was a fortnight's worth of dinner table
stories, the tale of how the household was a veritable verbal warzone, with both
women expecting everyone else to take one side or the other, and even a siege
mentality took hold near the end of it. And likely it would have been the most
memorable event of the year in the manor, had not the red moon fallen mere moons
later.
***
"Drink with me," said Chlodebaimt.
Stephanivien had just been about to drift off on a perfectly serviceable nap, and
so he skeptically cracked open one eye in response to the request. He had perfected
the art of sleeping standing up, from years in Skysteel Manufactory: put one's back
to the stone wall, feet apart, legs firmly braced and knees locked, firmly cross
one's arms over the chest, lean one's head against a light or torch sconce (but not
a lighted one that could scorch one's long, elegant ear-tips). It was no
replacement for a proper sleep in a proper bed, but if he had to make do, it would
do—and it meant that when Chlodebaimt (younger and shorter) asked, he was already
at eye level with him.
"'m tryin' to sleep," he grunted, voice hoarse (from the smoke, most likely).
"You've been awake for thirty bells," Chlodebaimt said, his smile fragile, weak,
but honest. "If you still need to try to sleep, you might as well help it with a
drink."
Both eyes now open, Stephanivien looked over his brother. Chlodebaimt's armor was
still whole, though blackened in more than a few places; it took more than that to
destroy proper mythril. His helmet was off and helmet hair was quite apparent, the
golden blond strands bent, frizzy, and crusted with dirt, dried blood, and other
things Stephanivien didn't really want to contemplate right then. A cut split his
forehead, though it was now clean (well—cleaner) and dressed; several small purple
bruises marred his skin.
"You look like a wreck," Stephanivien observed.
"And you look like shite," Chlodebaimt laughed, Stephanivien joining in with a soft
chuckle shortly. "Come on. Accommodations at the Steel Vigil aren't exactly
luxurious these days, but at least we still have wine and brandy."
It was bleakly good fortune that they did, what with the Dravanian siege on the
fortress entering its fourth moon in what shouldn't have been the dead of winter
anymore. Supplies had been laid in shortly before the lesser moon fell, and in bulk
and excess (Ishgardians being nothing if not paranoid), and it was only because of
that that the garrison hadn't starved to death. It'd be the third astral moon in
less than a week, and harsh as Coerthan winters were, normally the weather would
have allowed at least one large resupplying shipment to restock the fortress. But
since that infernal moon fell, snowstorms had buried Coerthas with only the
briefest moments of respite between. And of course, it hadn't taken long for
Nidhogg's accursed horde to sense the opportunity, covering their tracks with the
heavy snowclouds to better raid and pillage the highlands. Now, here they were—
trapped in the great Steel Vigil by both unnatural snow and wind and unholy fire
and fangs. In total honesty, Stephanivien wasn't even supposed to be there, he'd
just had the bad luck to be on a trip to repair the ballistae when the first attack
came—and then, he had no choice but to do his noble-born duty to church and
country.
"I'll take the brandy, frankly," Stephanivien said as he pushed himself off the
wall, to follow Chlodebaimt, the latter chuckling in amusement at his brother's
morbid remark. Apparently Chlodebaimt had been planning for company already: a few
bottles and two glasses stood conspicuous near his bedroll, in the remains of what
had been the grandest hall of the vigil—now broken stone, splintered wood, twisted
steel and burnt bones.
"I invited Corentiaux, but he refused," Chlodebaimt remarked as he seated himself.
"Said he feels feverish, and shouldn't drink."
"So, I'm your second choice?" Stephanivien joked, sitting across from him and
stretching out his legs, bending out the stiffness in his knees.
"Always my first choice." Chlodebaimt's voice held mild reproach and guilt alike as
he poured glasses for both of them. "You know that, Stephan."
"I know, I know." Apologetic, he took a sip and closed his eyes, savoring the burn.
"Thank you."
"Well, someone has to drink it before it turns to vinegar—"
"Not for that. Thank you for—well." Stephanivien gestured unhelpfully. "First
choice, and all."
It was Chlodebaimt's turn to enjoy the vintage. "No one else I'd rather keep the
faith with, for Halone and country." He rolled the glass in his palm, as if it were
a real brandy snifter and not one of the few and mismatched heavy pieces that had
thus far remained intact enough to drink from. "And," he added, with a wry smile,
"I'm not saying that because your 'dragon-killers' actually live up to their damned
name."
(It was astounding how even when their grim fates drove Chlodebaimt to sardonic
jokes and rueful humor he could make them sincere as any confession, as anything he
said. There were a lot of things Stephanivien could have envied Chlodebaimt for—
strength at arms, endurance, flowing hair, their father's love—but it was that
quality he wanted most for his own).
"I do my duty," he said, with modesty not actually affected. Then, more gravely:
"You know the fortress is lost."
Chlodebaimt sighed like the very breath of his life was leaving him. "Barring a
miracle, yes. And I do—And I will—keep the faith. But..."
"It is time to discuss the retreat," Stephanivien said, with grim persistence. "You
and your commanders. These men—maybe they are all fated to die against Dravania.
But they deserve better than to give their lives in defense of the House's vanity
and pride—and if the fortress is lost, then—"
"In defense of Ishgard!" Chlodebaimt protested, offense bright in his voice and
eyes, even as low as the lamps were. "This is the Steel Vigil, and it has stood for
—"
"Will they defend Ishgard's symbols, or Ishgardian lives?"
With a sharp intake of breath and a sharply bitten lip... "You're right,"
Chlodebaimt accepted. "I must at least give them the option."
Stephanivien offered his own wry smile to his brother, his rather more fragile.
"And—you know, maybe think about taking it yourself." He swallowed more brandy.
"Please."
"Oh, come now—you can't expect the Rose Knight to surrender," Chlodebaimt laughed,
and Stephanivien hated his sincerity with every fiber of his being. "Father would
just die of shame."
"He would want you to live." He couldn't make any humor (ironic or otherwise) come
to his tone, only urgency and pain. "You know he does. You are the rising star, the
light of his life—Mother's, too. Even as their third son." A third quality entered
his voice, now: conspiracy. "You should be the heir."
Almost like he had been scorched, Chlodebaimt recoiled from his brother. "Our
parents love you, too." He was as vehement as when he defended Ishgard's honor.
"You can't beg me to live, then—then throw away your own, like—"
"Oh, I have no intention of dying." Stephanivien's intent gaze tracked every moment
of Chlodebaimt's hesitation, his refusal to make eye contact. "I move: we leave
here with your men, in one piece, we go home—we sleep for a week—and then we
announce I shall forfeit my inheritance, and do bequeath it immediately to you."
"Stephan—" his brother said, all reproach and resistance. "Stephan, he would never
accept that from his children—"
"A good thing we are both men grown, then," Stephanivien said firmly, then softened
his tone. "Look. Chlo. I've thought about this for a long time. It'd be good for
the House, in all ways. You know I'd be a rotten Count. You know."
Chlodebaimt took a deep drink. "Only because you're too bloody-minded. And, even
then..."
"You are the viscount our family deserves."
Another sigh deep enough to contain his life-breath. "...Don't think you'll just be
left to play in the manufactory all day, if I am Count."
The widest grin Stephanivien had allowed himself in four months of siege spread
over his face. "Of course not."
"And nothing is finished. Or set in stone."
"Nothing."
"Even though—" Chlodebaimt's chuckle was a surrender; defeated but pleased. "Gods,
even though I could never deny you a thing."
Stephanivien raised his cup, even though it held only dregs. "Long life to the
Count de Haillenarte."
And Chlodebaimt raised his own, to clink it against Stephanivien's in a toast. "Red
bleeds the name of the rose."
But the soft sound of tapping glass was drowned by the roar of the horde, by a
dragon the size of a church crushing the timbers of the Vigil's roof with its
weight alone. Both sons of Haillenarte had time to scramble to their feet, and
nothing more, before everything was fire, and thunder, and blood, and darkness.
***
Three weeks later, Stephanivien was safe. When not securely ensconced in
Haillenarte Manor (for his mother's peace of mind), he was toiling in the heat of
the manufactory, or barricaded in his garret, for he had much and more work to do.
This was his explanation for why Francel and Laniaitte and Aurvael had barely seen
him since the funeral, why he couldn't go to services with his father more than
once a week, why his mother had to beg to get him to eat some meals with the
family. He was safe. He was fine. He had so much work to do.
Someone was knocking on the door of his garret, but he ignored it. This was
delicate work he was at now: a fusion of Lominsan craft and Ishgardian industry,
with more aetheric research than he had ever before dared undertake. (Likely at
least one of the texts on aether-manipulation and alteration would be of some
interest to the Inquisition, which was why he kept his work here and not in the
manor itself). It needed his full concentration. And yet, whoever was knocking
persisted.
"Go away!" Stephanivien yelled over his shoulder, before bending back over his
workbench, pulling his mask down against the electric sparks flying. And for a
moment, he thought they had—before the rapping resumed, even louder now.
He tried to keep ignoring it, but this time, whoever it was was escalating both in
force and frequency. If they kept it up, likely the other tenants would wake, and
perhaps even his landlord—and the ...intense nature of his work over the past two
weeks had produced complaints enough against him. And after a little longer, and
with an exceptionally aggravated groan, Stephanivien dropped his torch and wires
and stormed over to the door. If it was finally the Inquisition, well—perhaps he'd
finally get a chance to vent his anger.
"Yes?!" He demanded, as soon as he opened the door—to thin air, as it turned out.
Looking left, looking right... then looking down. "...Oh." His mother's favorite
maidservant stood there, balled fist upraised and frozen, her expression looking up
at him almost entirely transformed from irritation to awkward mortification.
At this hour he hadn't dreamed it'd be a lone maiden at his door, so between that
and his pique at the interruption, he'd just answered the door as he'd been dressed
while working: welding mask, thick gloves, torn apron, sturdy boots... loose and
cropped trousers, stripped to the waist. (It was hot, hard, sweaty labor, and he
was running low on shirts he could ruin). "...Sorry, Joye." He stepped back from
the doorway, awkwardly—not quite prepared to invite aforementioned lone maiden who
worked for a respectable house inside at half past the first morning bell;
fortunately, she was ready to invite herself in, standing just inside and to the
left of the door, like she attended him in his workshop as she attended his mother
in her parlor or bedchambers. "I wasn't expecting you." Stephanivien looked again
outside, left and right—but as before, it was empty. Standing there with one hand
still holding the door open, he asked, "What are you doing out here at this time of
night? And alone?"
"I came to tell his lordship," Joye began, and something about her tone suggested
to Stephanivien that she had been rehearsing this message, "that I have finished
preparing Chlode—" her voice faltered, she blushed, "—the fifth suite in the
southwest wing for his lordship's residence and use."
Both of Stephanivien's eyebrows arched. Not at the content of what she'd said (that
news he had been expecting; an olive branch offer from his father disguised as a
balm to his poor mother's grief which he'd accepted right away)—but rather its
context. "You came out here—alone, in the middle of the night, just to tell me
that?"
Joye bit her lip, and suddenly began to decline eye contact, which was most of an
answer on its own. "I also brought milord some food, some dri—"
"My mother put you up to this, didn't she?"
Abruptly Joye sighed, and resumed looking him straight in the face, with an unusual
amount of candor in her eyes. "Her ladyship the Countess is worried sick about
milord."
Now it was Stephanivien's turn to sigh, and rub at his face with the heel of his
free hand, finally pulling the door close. "I'm fine—really, I am." After a sudden
start of remembrance, he turned around, his back to Joye, in order to pull on the
nearest plain (formerly) white shirt that presented itself. "And besides," he said
over his shoulder, messily tucking in the front of the shirt, then struggling with
small buttons and clumsy gloves, "It's certainly odd that she'd send a girl out
alone in the night if she's worried."
"Milord's garret is in the borough I grew up in," Joye said, patiently. "I was
perfectly safe."
"Mm. Right." Slightly disgruntled, he turned around to face her, rubbing the bridge
of his nose. "So—you brought food...?" he asked, more for a topic of conversation
than anything else.
She nodded. "Not hot food, but—" From under her coat (for it was still damnably,
unseasonably, suspiciously cold) she pulled a little bag and opened it: it was full
of bread, pastry, little glass bottles of fruit jams and jellies, a little packet
of butter and another small cloth bag, that he suspected was for tea leaves.
"She thinks I am not taking afternoon tea often enough?" Despite the phrasing, his
tone was amused and softly affectionate—more so than it had been all evening.
"Well, milord," Joye took a deep breath, as Stephanivien turned over the jelly jars
to read the labels, "her ladyship the Countess has had me bring you dinners,
luncheons, sandwiches, breakfasts, and even elevensies, but they all sat barely
touched in here when I came back. She hadn't tried tea yet."
"I see." Now his tone was soft—perhaps even rueful, as he replaced the contents of
the light little bag. "Tell her thank you for me, then," Stephanivien said with
genuine warmth, trying not to think about how the thing behind him Joye was staring
at was probably a half-eaten sandwich or cheese toast.
"Yes, milord," Joye said, finally turning her attention back to him. He smiled
thinly, made a gesture of farewell—but Joye didn't reciprocate, she didn't even
move, rather just watched him. So, after a few seconds of this, Stephanivien said
"Aren't you—Isn't it late for you to be staying out?" (Not to mention what people
might think...)
"I will return to her ladyship when I'm sure I can give her good news to lift her
spirits," Joye said, plainly but firmly. The insinuation that yes, it was very late
indeed but she still had a job to do was clear to Stephanivien, who groaned. His
work was important and delicate and he was perilously close to falling out of the
rhythm he had gotten into if he didn't get back to it very soon and if that
happened, he might as well just give up on tonight and go to sleep, or at least to
try and sleep. (That this might have been part of Joye and Lapinette's plan from
the first did not occur to him, which was probably for the best).
But, looking around, there was precious little he could present her with that
counted as good news (or at least, by the Countess's standards). The garret was,
presently, a wreck—while rarely tidy, it was also rarely this bad, as he simply
hadn't had the time to either clean or let anyone else clean, resigning himself to
doing spring cleaning after this project was completed or spring finally arrived,
whichever came first. His laundry and personal state weren't so bad, but still
shameful, nor did he have any reassuring anecdotes from time with his friends and
peers, being that he hadn't seen any of them for longer than half a bell since
before the catastrophic siege of the Steel Vigil. The only thing that was going
well was his work, and that, Stephanivien suspected, wouldn't quite satisfy his
mother. But, it being his only option, he tried anyhow.
"Well—well, the aetherotransformer is coming along swimmingly," Stephanivien
offered, his voice bright, expecting that Joye would either take that as good
enough (unlikely) or dismiss it out of hand (highly likely). Instead:
"What is an aether-transformer?" Her interest didn't even sound feigned.
"...It's a device to—I wanted to try to find a way to make Lominsan-style sidearm
revolvers strike with the force of—at least half the strength of a Bertha cannon,"
Stephanivien explained, mentally revising out complicated terminology as he went,
and initially his heart fell when Joye looked at him with pursed lips and a
furrowed brow.
"That shouldn't be possible," she said, thoughtful. "There's no way to get the
bullet to go fast enough to impart that kind of force without destroying the gun—
isn't there?"
Stephanivien stared at Joye for a few seconds, face going from blank to
disbelieving to a cautious smile. "Normally, you're right—exactly right. No
firesand and no chamber could do that. Which is why—" here he turned back to his
workspace, then turned back with a big steel box-shaped contraption in his arms, "—
I am bringing aether into marksmanship. This is my prototype—and it's almost
finished!"
Joye stepped closer to peer at it (for anything he held at his waist level was
close to eye level for her), and lift some loose cording and wires, curious. "How
do you use it?"
"Let me show you—" Stephanivien hurriedly kicked aside a pile of (dirty, probably)
clothes, clearing a space on the floor to have a surface to put it on. He knelt
next to it, while Joye only leaned down (probably because this put them almost at
the same level). "Now, the principle behind this is—oh—how much aetherology do you
know?" While he had no idea how she'd come to know the basics of firearm mechanics,
he did now know he'd likely just look foolish again no matter which way he assumed.
"None, I'm afraid, milord," Joye said, looking a little embarrassed. "Beyond we've
all got it, and so does everything else. ...And the six elements."
"That's perfect. So—if the problem with force is that there's no way to move the
bullet fast enough by detonating firesand that doesn't make the entire thing
explode, then another way to propel it must be found. And I tried a few things, but
the only one that really worked was a combination of firesand and lightning-
aspected aether." To his astonishment and gratification, Joye was following his
words and gestures like she understood them, and wasn't just humoring him.
"I imagine wind wasn't fast enough," she said—and, before an almost-exultant
Stephanivien could agree, continued, "But I think that'd mean you needed lightning-
aspected crystals, and... I don't see any, or even room for them." This was shaping
up to be the best night of his life.
"Indeed you don't," Stephanivien almost preened. "I tested the lightning-aether
propulsion with crystals, but they were too bulky or too expensive and anyhow would
be used up too quickly to make that method practical. And that's where aether
transformation comes in." He pushed his square device onto its side, revealing some
small crystals and gems set into some kind of gold. "To put it briefly, this device
can take a person's aether—the aether we all have—and convert it into elementally-
aspected aether, in our case lightning-aspected. That's the aetherotransformer."
"Are you sure that's not—dangerous?" Joye sounded hesitant for the first time since
she'd begun asking about it, but was now bent to gaze raptly at the device, eyes
shining.
"I'm sure it is, to be honest," Stephanivien said, noting how her eyes actually
sparkled at that, "but so are all weapons. It's mostly a matter of not overdrawing
your own aether too quickly—shouldn't be too hard to quantify guidelines."
"What do you have to do to finish it—to make it work?" she managed to tear her gaze
from the machine to ask.
"Once I finish adjusting this part here—" he said, pointing as he spoke, "the
really tedious part kicks in—I have to attach all of these cables and these wires
to that panel, in a very particular way. And with gloves like these," here he
wiggled the fingers of one hand, demonstrating how clumsy and stiff the protective
gloves were, "It does take some time. Then just solder the rest of the case
together, and it should be finished."
"You're doing it all by hand, milord?" Joye sounded nonplussed.
"...There's another way?" So did Stephanivien.
At that, Joye began to rummage in her coat pockets. "You should use—a hook," she
mumbled, unbuttoning her coat to check other pockets.
"...Wouldn't the point damage the ou—" He was cut off by Joye holding a thin wooden
rod out to him: long in her hands (less so his), it was uniform throughout
excepting one end, which had a taper and rounded head above a "hook" so small it
was mostly a sharply-angled notch cut into the rod.
"Not this one." Joye had a small smile on her face, he noticed, as he took it from
her curiously, turning it over in his hands before pushing one cable under its
hook, which held it firmly, and responded well to delicate movements. "It's a
crochet hook," she said, anticipating his question.
Stephanivien beamed up at her. "The prototype will be in working order in two
bells."
He actually finished it in one and a half. Joye stayed, curious to see the test—she
sat on the edge of his bed, legs kicking in midair as she watched him set it up,
apparently puzzled at the quantity of old sheets, blankets, and waxed canvas
tarpaulin it required.
"This will help absorb the impact," Stephanivien offered in explanation, "so there
won't be any nasty ricochets off the target—which is this." Like a prize, he held
up what was unmistakeably a large piece of dragon skull—the only feasible thing to
test the stopping power of his invention.
"Can you—can you show me first, how it works without the aetherotransformer?" Joye
asked, curious (and obviously not privy to the first few rounds of testing).
"Certainly," Stephanivien said—loading his gun but putting the machine aside. "This
should penetrate the 'flesh'—the padding—and strike the bone, but—"
***
Curiously, he thought, the noise didn't startle Joye, who only waved away the smell
of firesand as Stephanivien got the target from where it was propped, to show her.
"You see," he said, pushing away the spent bullet from where it had lodged in the
packed cotton and canvas, "If a knight is disarmed and forced to use his sidearm,
it would suffice against a man or a beast or even lesser monsters, but dragons do
not fear little knives or little maces. A gun, being ranged, would be superior,
except—" he pointed with one gloved finger at a small dark mark on the skull
underneath where the bullet had torn holes in the padding, "—any dragon would shrug
that off. No stopping power. No power to save anyone's life."
There was a little tremble in his voice during that last sentence, but Joye, to his
infinite gratitude, pretended to ignore it. "And you think augmented bullets will
crack dragon bones?" she asked instead, watching him hurry to re-set up the
"target" to practice on.
"I'm fairly sure—but now is the moment of truth." Stephanivien perhaps was feeling
the hour more than he cared to admit, because he actually winked at Joye as he set
up the aetherotransformer (a little clunkier, heavier, more complicated than was
practical, but that was why it was a prototype), and reloaded his pistol. Bracing
his elbow this time against the recoil, he took a deep breath, and pulled the
trigger.
***
This shot didn't just bang, but burst and cracked—both of them ducked instinctively
at the sound. Even in as small a room as a garret it seemed to echo, and like there
should be something shattered raining about their heads. Silently, and slowly,
Stephanivien went to retrieve the dragonskull target from under its flesh-
simulating padding—when he turned back to Joye, he was holding both pieces of it in
either hand, a wide and almost manic grin across his face.
"That's—" Joye breathed, eyes as wide as saucers, "Milord, that's more than a
sidearm—"
***
The shout came from outside, from a gravely-voiced, grouchy, elderly man. Both of
them startled from its suddenness, then Stephanivien groaned and rubbed his
temples.
"My landlord. We've been too loud." His head jerked up, eyes wide, as he heard
footsteps approaching, and he hissed "Hide!" at Joye just before the pounding at
his door started for a second time that night.
***
The two years that had passed since Chlodebaimt's death were not exactly
distinguished ones for the House Haillenarte. Countess Lapinette was more secluded,
more attached to her surviving children, while Count Baurendouin fell into a deep
depression, and all around the House's fortunes (and fortune) seemed to be in
decline. Such was the rumor and the gossip, outside the manor and throughout the
Pillars—and such was abundantly evinced by the roster of servants maintaining the
manor.
The people employed by the House in domestic work had shrunk by more than a third
in that time, and murmurs of discontent and sympathy alike for the employers ran
through conversation. Audrey had left for greener pastures moons ago—Nelly was
still there, and now head of everything and everyone in laundry and cleaning. And
Joye—she was still there, and honestly of all the people currently kept on, she
knew her situation was likely the most secure. Being the Countess's favorite
maidservant did have some material benefits, even if it increased her effective
responsibilities threefold. Even so, the low morale these days affected both her
duties and her mood—just because her employment wasn't likely to be reclassed as an
expense the household ought to avoid...
She dusted the banisters in the north wing a little more angrily. Her position of
influence with not only the Haillenarte matriarch but lately (and to a lesser
extent) her eldest son lately had the functions of both a blessing and a curse.
Other members of the household appealed to her even before the steward if they
feared a pay loss or losing their position entirely, begging her to put in a good
word for them with the wife and heir (for while the Count might go against one of
them, he wouldn't go against both). Some, however, resented this (entirely
involuntary) leap in relative status of Joye's, and chose to strike back by
spreading unsavory rumors about her and Lapinette, or (more often, and now she was
scrubbing at the wood like it was crusted with something) her and Stephanivien—this
was not only a humiliation, but a danger, for if the Countess ever learned what
people were saying her son did with maidservants behind closed doors...
"Trying to polish that clean off?" A scratchy male voice inquired from behind her—
then laughed when she jumped and looked behind her with guilty eyes.
"Eudestand!" Joye said, originally chiding—then her face fell when she saw how he
was carrying his tack, his things, and his own self. "Oh no..."
"Oh, yes," he said, raking one hand through his brown hair and sighing. "His
lordship has severed our paid relationship."
"Oh..." She turned fully around, wringing her chamois between both hands—clenched
hard, almost into fists. "I'm so sorry, Eudestand, I—"
"You don't need to 'pologize." He interrupted—then again when she protested. "If
his lordship's mind's made up, then there's not much you or me coulda done. If I
were bein' honest, I was expecting it for a few moons now." Eudestand smiled sadly
down at her, shrugging with an air of affected nonchalance. "No need to keep on a
groom for chargers and destriers if there's no knights here anymore, and his old
birds already retired."
"He—he did at least say you'd be recommended, right?" Joye asked. "I said that—"
"I told you not to worry yourself, dearie," Eudestand said, reassuring. "I already
know you tried, and it means a lot to me. In fact—" he leaned down to her eye
level, "If'n you ever need anything of old Eudestand, you just let me know."
With a fond smile on her face, she softly patted his shoulder, and Eudestand winked
at her before straightening and backing away, to continue his goodbye tour.
"—Wait—Eudestand, actually—"
"Ah," he said in response, half-turning to face her, "got a bit lined up for me
already, eh?"
"You know Hilda, right?"
At that he went still, which shouldn't have surprised her, honestly. A High House's
favorite maidservant bringing up dangerous Brume radicals—and by said dangerous
radical's forename—well, it didn't happen everyday, and it usually meant something
very bad was going to happen. ...Even though said favorite maidservant knew Hilda
from long before she called herself the Mongrel, back when she was only a scrawny
girl trying to impress her older acquaintance by showing off with her stolen goods,
guns, tools, and toys.
"I do," Eudestand finally said, like a cautious confession. "I'm more surprised
that you know her."
"We used to visit the same patisserie," Joye said, which was true, though nowhere
near the whole of it. Eudestand had no response but somewhat bemused silence, which
Joye took as permission to carry on. "And I know you know Olyver, Gert, and
Percevains, and—and their gossip."
That he knew and understood—Eudestand's face darkened and lip curled. "Horrible
lies, Miss Joye, I know they're telling horrible lies about you." Joye nodded,
cheerfully and decisively—and Eudestand was back to a bit of confusion. "So... what
exactly did you want as a favor?"
"Well—you know Hilda," Joye said, after taking a deep breath, "and you know these
people have been... lying about me."
"Oh. ...Oh!" Realization dawned on Eudestand's face, then a smug and devilish glee.
"Aye, miss, I know the Mongrel. I'll be sure to have a word with her about this.
Quiet-like, and all."
Her smile a (very slightly) softer mirror of his, Joye waved Eudestand goodbye
again, and turned back to polishing the remainder of that banister. After only a
little longer, the upper floor was really just about done well enough for the
traffic it got these days—so, with a quick glance up-down, left-right, to be sure
no one who mattered was around, Joye hopped upon the banister and slid down side-
saddle, dismounting with a little skip and twirl. Now for tending to the north
wing's entry hall—which, much like the second floor, didn't want for cleaning so
much as dusting these days.
Hence Joye's startled yelp when a very firm, very loud knocking came from the door.
For a few seconds, she just looked at it like it might bite. No deliveries were
made at the north entrance, nor did she know of any visitors at all planned for
today, much less ones who'd be inclined or instructed to use this entrance.
Curious... The next set of knocks stopped her wondering, and instead Joye opened
the door. "Hello, hono—oh my!"
The person at the door was no one she knew—indeed, he must have been a newcomer to
Ishgard altogether. Even taller than the biggest knights she'd ever laid eyes on,
and several times broader—this must have been a Roegadyn, but she'd never met one
in the flesh before now. What's more, his clothes were such a motley, raggedly
collection of colors, he must have been an outlander. And yet, despite being a
hulking bear of a man, covered in the scars of battle and probably quite capable of
breaking a midlander girl over his knee if he was so inclined, he seemed at least
as alarmed and dismayed as she was right now.
"Ah—beggin' yer pardon, uh—milady," the strange Roegadyn stammered (was that a
Lominsan accent? she'd heard it described but never spoken), "I was given an uh—
offer of employment by the vise-count—I have the letter, and this is the hide—the
eye—"
"...Haillenarte?"
"Yes, that's it, thousand thanks and uh—and apologies, milady Einhardt—"
"Oh!" Her hand flew to her chest in surprise. "I'm sorry, but I'm not one of the
family. I'm one of the maids. ...Here, do come in..." Joye held the door open for
the strange outlander, getting completely out of the way so he could fit his
breadth through it. "It's dreadfully cold out there, isn't it?"
"Er—yes, it certainly is, miss...?" He asked as he tromped in, though with mind
enough to wipe his boots on the rug instead of tracking in slush.
"I'm Joye, milord. A pleasure!" She dipped into a brief curtsey, and he answered
with a short and awkward bow.
"Me name's Rostnsthal, miss—an' I'm honored, surely. Cor, but the family wouldn't
'alf need an army o' ye to keep such a place clean!" He whistled with what Joye
believed was appreciation as he looked over the north wing.
"Thank you, Russ—er—milord," Joye said, interpreting his words as a compliment.
"I'm afraid I'm not sure where his lordship the viscount has wandered off to today,
but if you'll have a seat and wait here, I shall—"
A strange sort of metallic chirrup, from down one hallway, interrupted her as she
was taking off the Lominsan visitor's raggedy old coat, especially as the one chirp
was followed by more, increasing in frequency. Both she and Rostnsthal were
watching the direction of the noise (now, they could hear, accompanied by
footsteps)—and just as his mouth was opening to say something, probably "What in
all seven hells" or the like, the source of the chirps opened the door, revealing
itself to be none other than his lordship Stephanivien (vest half-unbuttoned,
shirttails still out, bandana askew, still with patches of shaving foam on his jaw)
and a small device he was holding.
"Hello, Joye!" He said cheerily, with a wave, though most of his attention was
fixed on the strange little machine in his other hand, noisy and heavily-dialed and
with a very twisty antenna, that right was pointed directly at her and Rostnsthal.
"And you, my good man, must be Rostnsthal!"
"Aye, but—how did you—"
"There are very few Roegadyn in Ishgard, you know—and, of course, this helped."
Beaming, he patted the little device the way some falconers stroked their birds for
a job well done. "It's one of my newest—I call it a prospectometer, a measuring
device of luck and opportunity. I was just finishing shaving when it began to
chime, and now it has lead me straight to you, here after my teaching offer!"
Rostnsthal and Joye both blinked in a moment of bemusement before he spoke up.
"...Right. Yes. That I am, milord. You were needin' an expert to train you in
shootin', according to your letter."
That grabbed Joye's attention. Sharply she looked between the two men, but now
their focus was on each other. Shooting—Rostnsthal must have meant marksmanship.
But... if his lordship was training, then was he going to battle? It was the only
arms skill she could think of in which he would need instruction; from what she
remembered of how he handled his guns, at ranges and other exercises.
"No, no, not me—the rest of my manufactory," Stephanivien corrected Rostnsthal,
finally wiping the shaving foam off his face as he did. "Or those willing to learn
the new art of machinistry, at least, which is a fair share, I assure you."
Now Rostnsthal was looking a bit recalcitrant—and, if either of the two men had
paid too much attention to the maid, they would have seen her leaning as close as
she could get away with, raptly attentive and only a little nervous. Most of
Stephanivien's fellows in the manufactory were of the same class and social station
as she and Eudestand (which was as much a reflection of his lordship's agenda and
priorities as it was the reality that all of his peers and most of his lessers in
the peerage considered such to be dramatically beneath them); if his lordship's
Skysteel Manufactory was footing the bill in any measure for the training of
Ishgard's less-to-moderately fortunate in an art of war... Well. That was around as
scandalous as a Countess whose favorite servant only recently used to eat
croissants with the Mongrel twice a moon.
"Now, yer worship—"
"Just Stephanivien."
"—I'm naught more than a 'umble sailor 'n soldier, and I don't know a bloody thing
about steel-working or engineering, so if that's yer offer, I'll have to ah... turn
ye down."
"Not at all," Stephanivien said, making placating gestures. "I'll handle the fine
nuances of using an aetherotransformer, you needn't worry about aught more than
teaching my men how to put a bullet between their target's eyes."
Rostnsthal at least seemed to notice how searchingly Joye was watching them talk,
though he chose (it seemed) not to draw attention to it. Instead: "Very well,
milord. For what wage?"
"I thought a salary of forty-thousand, divided in regular installments, plus room
and board, would be fair," Stephanivien said with a shrug and nonchalant air, both
of which seemed to fade upon his noticing Joye's and Rostnsthal's open mouths.
"Milord—" Joye said, anxiously trying to put as much meaning in her eyes as she
worried she couldn't say aloud, "Milord, are you entirely sure that's wise?" To her
relief, a slight pink blush began to spread over his cheeks and along his ears.
"Well—well, perhaps I had better show you what you'll be working with, first,"
Stephanivien said, trying to adjust his (perpetually crooked) collar to cover his
awkwardness. "Just let me replace my prospectometer and I'll be right along to show
you the way!"
As quickly as he arrived, he left, already toying with the little machine. Not
taking his eyes from Stephanivien's retreating back, once the door had shut behind
him Rostnsthal let out a breath and whispered: "He's mad, isn't he?"
"Only slightly, milord." Joye offered him a reassuring smile and pat on his elbow.
"Most of the rest are madder."
"The rest?" Rostnsthal's voice was remarkably weak for so massive a Roegadyn.
"Of the High House sons, I mean," Joye said, sympathetic. "The House Haillenarte is
probably the best in all Ishgard to work for."
"'M not sure that's the recommendation you think it is, lass," he muttered, but
before Joye could ask what he meant, Stephanivien was back, sweeping into the room
looking much more put together than before, taking Rostnsthal by the shoulder and
walking straight out the hallway from the other side, leaving Joye standingin his
wake, watching as he chattered about the manufactory and his plans for it, very
quickly.
The last full sentence she could make out before those doors closed was "Now—I
don't imagine La Noscea has yet heard of Ishgard's Mongrel, no?"
***
This was, surely, the best idea Stephanivien had come up with since taking over
Skysteel Manufactory—which may have seemed, to an undiscerning outside observer, to
be a low bar to clear, but since it had to clear aether-enhanced bullets that broke
dragonbone, Stephanivien thought anyone should think very highly of it. Now, anyone
who did think highly of it might subsequently wonder why the enaction of such
entailed him furtively walking through the Brume, alone, well after midnight, but
that was, so far as Stephanivien was concerned, just part and parcel of doing
business with dangerous radicals.
They knew he would be coming—he wasn't stupid, and neither were the Mongrel and her
gang. Through a carefully discreet passel of messengers, couriers, and converted
industrial spies, and over a course of a moon and a half longer than he'd
originally estimated, he had managed to convince the Mongrel—Hilda—that he had no
intention of turning her over the authorities and actually had sympathy for her
situation enough that she consented to meet with him. On her terms. And since they
seemed fair enough, well—here he was, alone, carefully hauling a lumpy gunnysack
with him, trying very hard to look like he belonged (he didn't), he knew where he
was going (he didn't), and that he wasn't nervous or anxious at all (he was).
There were rooms under the Forgotten Knight she'd instructed him to meet her in,
but with the explicit instruction that he not be seen by the pub, let alone inside
it. So, using his memory of the place like a lodestar, he had slowly and carefully
descended ramps, staircases, scaffolds and ladders around that foundational column
of Ishgard, into the Brume. And honestly, said Brume deserved the capitalization,
thick and hazy and so easy to get lost in. None of the lanterns and fires could
pierce the fog, only turning to soft lumps of light, gently diffusing along damp
alleys and reflecting off the ice of their frozen puddles. And yet, despite the
mist-light's gentleness and softness, it was not at all welcoming or secure—at
least four times Stephanivien had walked directly into a hard surface or sharp
corner for not seeing it in time, and the miserable damp chill of it crawled up his
neck and down under his coat and the tops of his boots, dripping from his ears and
stiffening his fingers. Truly, this was a hells-worthy place—and thus his work all
the more imperative.
He found the entry of the rooms Hilda had arranged to use almost by accident.
Stephanivien knew they ought to be on this road, and was craning his neck and
squinting to try to see the signs through the dark and the fog—subsequently walking
straight into a sandwich board. After righting himself and the sign, he noted what
it read: "Rooms for Rent, Forgotten Knight." Perfect. Adjusting his bandana, he
ducked his head and walked through the doorway it indicated.
"'Ello," said the man waiting the front desk, a greying, middle-aged hyur who was
quite obviously only awake by the grace of the stack of used tea and coffee mugs on
the desk next to him. "Got a res'vation?"
"Room number fourteen, serrah," Stephanivien said, and kept his face carefully
neutral as the innkeep checked his register—and his bushy eyebrows rose to near
where his hairline used to be.
"Yer name?"
"Cedrepierre, serrah." It had seemed the most natural assumed name—and anyhow, the
point wasn't to fool the man at the desk (good thing, too), but just to have
written records obscured. For now.
"Yer... companions... are already there. Same floor as this, left hall, third door
on the left." Already settling back to his almost-napping state, he handed his
guest the other key, and ignored the quick polite bow that "Cedrepierre" offered
before striding to this most fateful meeting.
Inside of the rented room was only very slightly warmer than the night outside, but
it was very much drier, which put it, in Stephanivien's estimation, on the better
half of Foundation rentals. The lamps and fire were low, and as he entered, Hilda's
man pulled the coarse curtains over the window. The Mongrel herself, black hair
shining gold in firelight, was sitting in one of two chairs allotted to that room—
astride it, her chin resting on the back.
"Yer late," she said lazily, flipping open a silver pocketwatch to check.
"Forgive me—I got lost," Stephanivien said, stumbling over the absent "miss" or
"madame" or "my lady" in that sentence.
"Rude to keep me waiting. Expensive, too."
"I can hope—" Stephanivien dragged his lumpy old sack in front of him (but still a
respectful distance from the Mongrel). "—that the gift I brought you compensates
for that." He couldn't keep a smile from his lips as Hilda nodded to indicate to
her fellow that he should check the sack. With his arms folded across his chest,
Stephanivien stepped back to allow it—after only a minute to retrieve and unwrap
the first of the items, the underling recoiled as though he'd been shot.
"Pistols!" he shouted, "Boss, he's g—"
Both of Stephanivien and the Mongrel raised their voices at the same time, she to
hush her underling, he to reassure them all of the pistols were unloaded and no
threat at all.
"I'll be the judge of that, yer lordship," the Mongrel said sharply, taking the
first gun and checking its chamber. Stephanivien watched silently (but with nervous
fidgeting and itching) as the two checked each and every pistol and musketoon he'd
brought. The verified-safe arms were piled on the bed, and Hilda didn't speak until
all of them had been so moved—and then stood between Stephanivien and his gift.
"Ye coulda warned me that that'd be what you wanted to see me for," she said, still
hard-voiced.
"I worried you wouldn't agree to it if I did," Stephanivien replied, arms still
crossed over his chest. "But at least now you can see there's no threat."
The Mongrel smiled briefly in a way that seemed to him more like a diplomatic
concession than an expression of any emotion. "Not so fast. Yer lordship oughta
tell me what kinda repayment ye want for these beauties."
His brows knit and now the crossed arms were defensive in attitude. "I said it was
a gift. I don't w—"
"Forgive me," Hilda interrupted, biting the sentence off, "if I don't blindly trust
the generosity of rich noblemen to poor Brume maidens."
"Ah—" Reflexively, he glanced at the upturned points of her ears, even as he
internally kicked himself for the thoughtlessness of it. "Right. ...Right. I assure
you, there's no ulterior, uh—improper motivation for me, tonight, and—"
"I just told you," the Mongrel interrupted him again, showing her teeth, "That
isn't going t—"
"Wait," piped up her underling, from behind her. "Wait—boss, isn't he the one
Eudestand was mentioning a moon or two ago?"
"Eudestand?" Stephanivien repeated, confused as to what his household's former war-
chocobo groom had to do with any of this. He was ignored by both of them.
"Him—? Which time Eudestand was mentionin' highborn types, Symme?" Hilda asked,
sounding both confused and frustrated.
"Remember, boss, it was that favor Joye called in, mentionin' him?" Symme
continued, scratching his head and squinting in remembrance. "With the lyin',
and..."
"Joye?" There was a note of surprise in Stephanivien's complete bewilderment this
time. "What favor?" As before, Hilda and her underling totally ignored him.
"—Oh!" Hilda's memory had finally been jogged, recognition and recollection clear
in her eyes. "An' he is the one, yeah, him and her..."
"So... yeah," Symme said, slightly awkwardly, scratching his neck now. "If it were
all... lies, and—"
"And it were..." Hilda mused, tapping her chin. "Yer lordship?"
Both Symme and Hilda fixed Stephanivien with an intense scrutiny then, and while he
certainly didn't wilt under their gaze, neither did he have anything to yield
beyond utter and absolute bafflement. Eyes blank, mouth slightly open, he mouthed
something like "What?" but no sound actually escaped.
"Aye," Symme said, nodding in a knowing sort of way. "Ye can't fake that kind of
clueless innocence."
"Hunh?"
"When yer right, yer right," Hilda sighed. "Fine, yer lordship, yer in the clear."
"I'm afraid I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about anymore,"
Stephanivien confessed.
"It's fine." The Mongrel waved one hand dismissively. "Now then—if the thought of
pretty lil' things fondling yer guns doesn't get ye all hot under the collar—why
are ye giving us this?"
After a brief cough to clear his throat, steadfastly ignoring Hilda's giggle,
Stephanivien tried to explain. "I want to arm your people for their
protection. ...Hilda," he said, deciding to risk using her forename. "These are
even better than Lominsan rifles—I promise you, this makes you the equal of a
knight. And it means you can fight back."
Hilda had started squinting at him as he said 'equal of a knight,' and she hadn't
stopped. "'Fight back?' 'Gainst what, yer lordship?"
"...Your oppressors." This was almost as confusing as the Joye and Eudestand
discussion. "The rich, the landed, the great bloodlines, those who exploit you,
take everything you have and send you to die." He'd seen it. He knew it happened.
"Ah. The elezen ones, not the draconic ones," the Mongrel said, rather a bit more
languidly than Stephanivien really thought appropriate for this sort of
conversation. "Wasn't sure."
"Yes. It's the teach-a-man-to-fish principle," he went on, in a mix of emotions
including puzzlement, frustration, and pride. "'Give a man a fish, he eats for a
day, teach a man to fish, he eats all his life,' yes? Well—teach a man to fish, and
he'll eat all his life no matter how much gil he doesn't have. Teach a man to
shoot, though, and he can stop the powerful who kept him impoverished."
Stephanivien finished brightly, a bit out of breath from the speed of it. Hilda and
Symme, however...
"...You realize," Hilda said, slowly and very deliberately, "you do realize exactly
how dangerous this conversation you are having with me, right now, is, right?"
He nodded, serious and intense.
"And you do realize," Hilda said, softly, almost delicately, "that in effect you
are telling me to shoot you, here, right now, hm?"
"Look," Stephanivien said, arms open in either invitation or placation (depending
on one's attitude), "Both of us were born to stations neither of us wanted. This
can redress that."
The Mongrel actually rolled her eyes, then once again gave Symme one of her
cryptic, instructional nods. "I decline yer lordship's offer." A beat. "Wi' all due
respect."
"...What?" Stephanivien had to mouth the word a couple of times before succeeding
in saying it aloud. "I don't—why?"
"Because I don't think you realize exactly how dangerous it is!" Hilda stood at her
full height—and even though she was tall for a hyuran girl of eighteen winters, it
was something other than intimidating to Stephanivien.
"I do!" He protested, hands on his hips. "I have brought you weapons that crack
dragonbone, I understand the dangers you face very well!"
Hilda pinched the bridge of her nose. "You understand how dangerous it is?"
Stephanivien nodded.
"You want to protect the poor Brume urchins?"
He detected a note of bitter sardonicism that made him hesitate, but he nodded
again.
"So you brought the Mongrel guns." Hilda pointed back to the pile on the bed, and
he nodded once more. "If you want to protect me, yer high 'n' mightiness, then
where is my shield?"
Stephanivien didn't nod. He didn't speak, either, just stared blankly for a moment,
before a red blush began to spread from his cheeks to his ears.
"If this meetin' went wrong, who do you think would suffer for it?" Hilda pressed
further. "Not you, an' even if it were, not for long! You've no wages to be
garnished, nor a landlord to evict ye!"
Technically, that was untrue—he still maintained that garret—but then, the people
she mentioned here had but one house. So he didn't contradict her.
"And a whole bleedin' lot a gun alone does for us! Without ammunition, and in self
defense—good revenge, not much else! And that's assuming no one arrests me just for
havin' one, who thinks I musta stole it!"
"I had planned for ammunition," Stephanivien offered, but weakly. "Just..."
"Not good enough," Hilda growled again, and he let the matter lie. "You want our
welfare put first, don't—don't do this," she said, and seemed to Stephanivien to be
frustrated in the same way he was earlier, at others' understanding. "I don't mind
my station! I mind bein' treated like chocobo shite for it! And you—I can't
understand how you can want to help and not want to be a Count, I just..." Hilda
shook her head, and if Stephanivien were even a modicum less wiser, he would have
thought her anger was waning and spoken up. "An' you hired a Lominsan when, in your
own cit—no, in your own house—"
"What's in my own house?" Stephanivien asked, suddenly curious enough for that to
overwhelm what remained of his good sense.
The Mongrel shook her head. "Nothing. Nevermind." She pulled her silver pocketwatch
out again, to check the time. "Symme, we're leaving," she called back over her
shoulder, and her underling nodded. Stephanivien didn't protest, just watched her
and Symme gather their coats, expression inscrutable.
"I won't say," Hilda murmured as she pulled her coat on, "Not to seek us out again.
But I will say: Only do it when you actually know what you're doing."
"Yes, miss," Stephanivien answered, in much the same register—meeting her eyes as
he answered, but lowering his gaze as she and Symme walked out. "Good night."
After the door shut behind them, Stephanivien pulled one hand down his face,
slowly, then rubbed his temples. Slowly, and just too wearied to be casual, he
walked from where he stood to the chair Hilda had straddled—turned it right-way
around with one hand, then sat down in it—it was significantly too small for him,
but he compensated, he leaned it and his shoulders back against the wall, he let
his legs stick out in front of him. Looking between the fireplace and where its
light gleamed golden on the barrels of all those pistols, Stephanivien removed and
opened (in one motion) a flask from his hip pocket. Silently, he sipped, and he
thought, and he nursed it, and he considered, and by the time he gathered his
things and left that room, the brandy was gone, the fire had burned to embers, and
all of the lamps had guttered and gone out.
***
The last few weeks at Haillenarte Manor had been... quiet. And while Joye usually
appreciated getting peace and quiet, this time, it felt uneasy. It felt like
waiting.
Countess Lapinette was in the highlands for another week—visiting her sister, and
Joye would have accompanied had not Nelly cracked her shin and been laid up by it.
His lordship the Count had some ongoing business that took him out of the manor
except to have a nightcap and sleep, most days. And Stephanivien... well, all of a
sudden, since late last moon, his lordship was in a mood. Wasn't the first time,
his lordship had something of an artistic temperament, but all the same it was
never pleasant for someone paid to keep him at least somewhat presentable. He'd
suddenly turn quiet, and reclusive, and when he was even in the manor at all he'd
shut himself up in one room or another—recently he'd taken to working through the
night instead of sleeping, and while usually that meant he'd be back to his usual
self soon, it did make him more than a little irritable in the mornings. So, as a
dreary winter started, the Haillenarte manor and its remaining inhabitants lived in
a stillness that felt like a breath held.
And, when the quietude was disturbed—
"Ah, Mistress Joye! Who's getting the sack today, hm?"
—well, generally she wanted it back. With a deep breath to brace herself, she faced
the quiet ordeal that placing orders with the youngest of the draymen had turned
into.
"Good afternoon, Percevains," Joye said, in her most measured and patient tone.
"I'm just here to deliver the grocery list." She didn't tell him not to call her
"mistress"—he hadn't listened the first dozen times, after all.
Percevains (an elezen youth about four or five years younger than Joye, but still
taller) took the list quickly and read it through. "Right, right—I'll get it all,
deliver the wine to Aurvael, the chocolate to Laniaitte, you to the viscount's
garret—"
"Are there any problems, Percevains?" It was the proper question, to ensure there'd
be no misunderstandings. But her tone was—not cold, her anger was anything but
cold. It swelled with heat, and between her and he it promised a scorching if he
decided to push any further.
(Joye grew more discontent with the quiet in the manor with every passing second).
"If there are? What are you going to do, sack me?" He laughed, unkindly, and
inwardly Joye raged against the trap he had constructed for her: Percevains was so
utterly convinced she had enough power and influence with the Count's family that
she could cause anyone's firing or hiring within the household, that was why he
hated her so—so if she tried to appeal to the steward or majordomo or anyone with
real authority to stop the torment he inflicted on her, he would simply regard that
as proof and consider himself a martyr. Infuriating.
"I was referring to the one you have with me." It came out almost without Joye
thinking about it—but she didn't try to back down or run away from it. Instead, she
crossed her arms and craned her neck up to glare him in the eye.
"Problem with you?" Percevains laughed again, but it sounded more like a cover. He
hadn't expected her to be anything more than aggressively polite, Joye thought.
"It's not with you. I just don't think you should be privileged for being born
pretty—"
(Just last week she'd asked Hilda to speak to him again and she had been clear that
she only wanted her to speak, Percevains was obnoxious but still a youth and
weren't all youths stupid? With red at the edges of her vision, she sorely
regretted that choice now).
"—and with a f—"
"Shut up." That Joye had very deliberately meant to say. She could feel her anger
like it was a physical thing inside her, hot and red and near to vibrating. Not
once had she blinked since posing her question to Percevains, and with no small
amount of glee did she note that he turned his gaze away first.
Percevains grunted something nonverbal and resentful, and Joye accepted his
surrender, momentarily satisfied. Calmly, she turned, and had walked the length of
that hall before he called out loud and clear: "If your father weren't invalid,
their pity would've run out years ago!"
Right then, though, her patience went up in smoke. Almost on pure instinct she
whirled around, along the way pulling her smallest coin purse (copper coins for
lunch) from her pocket—and then flung it with all her strength at Percevains. And
even through the red she was seeing, her aim was true, and the way he hollered was
more intensely gratifying than even her rage had anticipated.
But the fury, expressed and satisfied, thus subsided and the realization of what
she had done made her stomach lurch. Striking another servant with the force she
had (he was still howling, and the part of her that still reveled in that,
unrepentant, clouded her thinking and her judgement) wasn't something she could
just expect her employers to ignore. There would be consequences, severe ones, and
Halone help her, but they probably included sacking.
Joye was frozen like a frightened steinbock. Percevains' cries had attracted the
attention of other workers by now, and—even at that distance, it was terribly clear
how he pointed down the length of the hall at her—and perhaps it was her
imagination, but she could have sworn the steward was pained, resigned as he saw
her there, and shame began to well up in her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered as the steward grew closer (even as part of her
obstinately reminded her that Percevains deserved it); in response, he just sighed
deeply.
"I know. But...I'm not—"
He was then cut off by the absolute last person Joye wanted to see right then
running around the corner, still wholly unshaven and with bedhead. "What is the
meaning of this?" Stephanivien demanded, pointing at one of the very youngest
kitchen maids (a girl with long pink hair, a head shorter than Joye and usually
very quiet) trying to keep up with him. "Amelia just ran to find me, saying Joye
had struck Percevains!" His voice was sharp with disbelief, and Joye wished right
then for invisibility.
"I—" Joye began, but Percevains cut her off.
"She threw a coinpurse at me!" Percevains yelled, still with one hand clutching his
ear. "I was just getting ready to leave, and she was at the end of the hallway, and
she threw her coin purse!"
"That's unbelievable!" Joye couldn't bear to lift her eyes from her shoes, but she
could just picture the dawning anger on his lordship's face, to go with his shocked
tone. "Why, that must be a distance of forty-five fulms, at least, isn't it?"
"Yes!" Percevains was still riding high on his outrage. "And—"
"Were you aiming for his ear, Joye?" Stephanivien asked, apparently quite ignoring
Percevains. She glanced around (mostly, since her head was still low, at various
elezen men's shoes and trouser legs; excepting Amelia's quietly worried hand-
wringing) then nodded once.
To her shock, Stephanivien whistled. "That's a very small target to hit at forty-
five fulms. And in a quick-draw!"
That startled her into looking up and away from her feet. Stephanivien wasn't
angry. He couldn't have been, not with the way he was beaming at her—and, she
belatedly noted, she could see the same sort of caught-wrongfooted expression that
she knew she was making on the faces of everyone else. "...Yes, your lordship,"
Joye said at last—she didn't think it fit the situation, but she couldn't think of
anything else.
"That is... really impressive," he mused, one hand stroking his jaw and chin—Joye
and the steward shared a concerned look.
"My lord—"
"Excuse me? Did you—my lord, she just hit me in the head!" Percevains was clearly
not about to let his lordship's eccentricity give him any pause.
"I'm sure she had a reason," Stephanivien said, offhandedly, not even really
looking at Percevains. Everyone else suddenly held their breath.
"Wh— The same reason that she sics the Mongrel on your own staff, my lord!"
Percevains spat out "mongrel" like it was a curse, like it was the name of a
monster—and of course, Joye realized, that was his plan. If his lordship was
sympathetic to her despite what she'd done to him, then using Hilda's epithet as a
frightening boogeyman was a strategem to stop that. She was fairly sure it would've
worked on the Count himself. And Stephanivien's face did harden.
"Percevains, I know Hilda. She's a good woman." Now it was Percevains' turn to suck
in breath and freeze still. "Why would Hilda have cause to interfere in our
household on Joye's behalf?" Stephanivien was giving the other elezen a very
penetrating sort of look. Joye, meanwhile, was realizing something big, something
beautiful.
His lordship didn't know the rumors being spread.
And logically, of course, it'd be in Percevains' best interest to try and keep this
from the viscount himself, given that they also involved him. Obviously. But that
was not the same thing as succeeding at so doing, and... well, she was quite aware
that some men would have preened over such rumors (so long as they stayed small and
controllable). Of course she hadn't thought his lordship to be the type—but
thinking so isn't the same as being so, and sometimes people were full of
unpleasant surprises.
But he honestly didn't know, and judging by Percevains' paralyzed silence, his
continued ignorance of this was something Percevains badly wanted to maintain, and
thus her course of action was clear:
"He was telling lies, milord," Joye said. "Lies to... impugn my virtue." Both the
steward and Amelia nodded in confirmation.
"Well, then that's settled! You're fired," Stephanivien said to Percevains—as an
aside, even, and didn't pay him the slightest attention as he began to protest.
Instead, as the steward stepped in to handle Percevains, Stephanivien leaned closer
to Joye, hands clasped behind his back. "Do you think you could do that again? Hit
so small a target, at the same distance?"
Joye hesitated. Not because she was unsure of the answer—but because it felt like
there was more under that question, some kind of great moment, the edges of which
she could perceive, but not the entirety. "I'm positive I could, milord."
He smiled at her. "Show me."
She took a deep breath. "The manufactory has a target range, doesn't it?"
***
Because her ladyship the Countess had put her foot down and was adamant that
Stephanivien's inventions never ever be discharged on the manor or its grounds, he
did very little of his practical work there, and thus had no practical-work
equipment there. This pleased Joye well enough even if for no larger reason than
making the resultant mess someone else's problem, but now she could see another
advantage to it.
"—and Rostnsthal should be pleased, he remembers you, you know!" Stephanivien
chattered over his shoulder to her—he hadn't properly quieted since leaving the
manor, and he was close to pulling her feet clean off the ground from the
combination of the grip he had on her hand and the speed at which he was walking.
Indeed, he was so eager to get her to Skysteel Manufactory he had barely waited
long enough for her to put on her coat and had entirely foregone one himself—the
resultant chill put redness on his cheeks that perfectly complemented his excited
smiles. Down the road leading from the Crozier shops and stalls to his Manufactory,
Joye had stumbled twice, lost count of the people whom she was bumped into, totally
ignored any people watching the display with eyebrows raised and pursed lips, and
by the time they had made it there, she was totally out of breath and simply
couldn't stop grinning. His lordship's enthusiasm must be terribly infectious.
"Good morning!" Even though it would only be morning for a few minutes more, that
was how Stephanivien greeted the workers at the manufactory, and they responded in
kind, in a muffled chorus. Joye noticed too this most curious thing about the
response: she could make out that some called him "Chief" and some called him
"Boss" and there was one "Headman," but there was not a single "My lord" in all the
mix.
"You brought a guest today, eh?" A baritone voice, not Ishgardian—that was
Rostnsthal, calling out from where he sat behind a few machinists testing their
pistols. When he noticed Joye had noticed him, he winked and waved. "Morning,
miss."
"Aha, close!" Stephanivien said, already rummaging in a crate. "But Joye is no mere
guest."
"Oh?" Rostnsthal returned, eyebrows raised. "What're you up to?"
"You'll see!" Joye had never heard Stephanivien use such a sing-song voice, and she
couldn't help but laugh at it as she hung her coat up. "Alicen, if you could please
allow us the use of that target for now...?"
Alicen nodded and left, as Stephanivien pulled a handful of musket balls from that
crate and returned to where Rostnsthal was sitting. He crooked his fingers to Joye,
and she came. "Yes, milord?"
"Which of these is closest in weight to that coinpurse?" He asked, holding the
musket balls out; when Joye had picked the one he put the remainder aside and
pointed to Alicen's erstwhile target. "Now then—show me your aim."
"As you wish, milord," Joye said, smiling broadly as she darted back to the spot
where Alicen had been standing. She settled into place, moving the ball between her
fingers, until she was comfortable.
("A recruit?" Rostnsthal murmured to Stephanivien, who just hushed him).
With one last breath, she pitched the musket ball at the target, and the powder on
them that smudged her hands left a mark on the very center of the bullseye.
"Well," Rostnsthal said, scratching his beard. "Girl's got a good arm, at least."
"She does," Stephanivien said, failing to suppress a wide smile. Then: "Joye, would
you like to try it with a firearm?"
"Very much, milord." Joye bit her lower lip to tamp down her excitement. "That one,
please?" She pointed at a medium-sized revolver, and right away Stephanivien was
checking it over and loading it.
"'magine you'll need a pointer or two," Rostnsthal muttered, stirring and making to
rise out of his chair.
"I think she's got it handled," Stephanivien said, which halted Rostnsthal in his
spot.
"You do, eh?" He was obviously skeptical.
"Let me show you first," Joye spoke up. "Afterwards, I'm sure you'll have advice."
Rostnsthal leaned back his chair with a grunt of concession, though it still
sounded skeptical. Joye was fine with that, however—probably it was fair of him and
it was his job to teach, and it meant that when she did blow him away—
"Here," Stephanivien said, carefully handing over the gun (a lovely mythrite
creation, with spruce in its stock and frost-patterns etched down the barrel).
"It's already loaded. Just take off the safety and pull the trigger."
Rostnsthal said something to Stephanivien then, and it sounded vaguely concerned,
but Joye wasn't listening to them anymore. There was something about holding this
pistol—something that made Hilda's fondness for hers make sense, as well as her
fierce bravado whenever she wielded it. And surely it was a danger, and surely it
was more complicated than a surge of feeling, but—those were questions for after
she proved she could hit the broad side of a barbican, and better.
For her first shot, she steadied her aim with her left hand, resting the stock upon
it. She braced her elbow for the second. And for the third, she shot one-handed,
and for the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth. All of them hit well inside the
central circle of the bullseye, and when Joye turned back to Stephanivien and
Rostnsthal, the latter had dropped his drink and jaw alike, and his lordship had
actually, literally jumped for joy.
"Tell me you'll join the manufactory!" he shouted when he had come back down—
quickly, awkwardly remembering himself and adding "Please," to the end of it.
"Yer a bloody good shot, form aside," Rostnsthal said, still shaking his head in
disbelief. "Thal's balls, but—if ye took instruction on posture... n' discipline...
Thal's balls, I wouldn't want to be in yer sights."
"Oh—oh, yer lordship, do you think the Count would allow it?" Joye asked,
immediately torn between hopes and worries.
"You leave that to me, my dear."
***
Stephanivien understood why Joye was so worried. He still remembered why she took
on the serving position—gods, almost eight years ago: the desperate unfairness of a
maiden so young forced to be the sole breadwinner of her family. And it had been
pity then that led him to side with his father regarding Joye: to give her an
opportunity even despite her youth. Now, he had the opportunity to do it once more,
more fairly and honestly, and pity was the last thing he felt.
"Milord, er—do you enforce a uniform at the Manufactory?" Joye asked, as she worked
on cleaning some guns with him (Rostnsthal "supervising").
"Doublets and trews, and basic safety gear," Stephanivien answered. "Why?"
"Well—well, I don't think her ladyship the Countess would want me breaking the
uniform, so I might need to change in between shifts..."
His brows knit in consternation. "Or you could just... work here, in the
manufactory." He spun the chamber of a revolver as he reassembled it, oiling until
he was satisfied. "You don't have to be a maid."
"But—milord, me father—"
"I do plan to pay you, of course," Stephanivien said gently.
"But—the Count—"
"You know," Rostnsthal piped up from where he was drafting something (lesson plans,
Stephanivien hoped), "Yer well in yer majority now, Joye. Yer old enough to tell
people to sod off."
Stephanivien chuckled, and Joye cracked a smile. "It's just—the Count and
Countess... they have been so kind, she especially... I don't want to hurt or
offend. And—I don't think I would even if they weren't me employers."
"Sometimes, it's hard to believe you knew Hilda even in her childhood,"
Stephanivien teased, a wry smile on his face. "You don't often sound like it."
"It's harder to believe you know her, boss," Rostnsthal interjected, wiping
spectacles on his shirt (apparently finished writing). "Viscount of Haillenarte,
an' all."
"He's right," Joye said quickly, giving Stephanivien a deeply interested and
curious look. "However did you meet?"
"Ah—well," Stephanivien cleared his throat, already blushing from the memory. "I
had been... something of an admirer of hers for—not like that," he said to
Rostnsthal, who was grinning somewhat improperly, "—anyroad, an admirer of hers for
a while, then about a moon ago I... ah... met her in the flesh. She—didn't seem
very fond of me, though."
"Not surprising," Rostnsthal grunted.
"But even so... I can tell she's a good person. Even if the situation is such that
I can't rightly say when she'd be amenable to seeing me again." He swiftly re-
busied himself with fiddling with a pistol stock.
Joye, though, wasn't quite finished. "This—this may be beyond me place, milord,
but: is that why we've got all these firearms going spare?"
Rostnsthal made a surprised sort of noise, a moment-of-sudden-realization sort of
noise. "Stephanivien—"
"Joye, you have the right of it." He looked only glancingly up from that stock,
with a smile twisted in a rueful sort of way. "I sought to win fair lady's
affection with gifts. She declined."
"Well, I never—" Rostnsthal was shaking his head. "Can't even give arms to rival
factions in secret—you really are a shite nobleman," he joked, which Stephanivien
protested vigorously.
"It isn't like that—I really would prefer to see—"
Just then, though, there came a very loud and insistent knocking on the
manufactory's door—when another of the machinists went to answer it, it opened with
such force as to almost knock the man over. Inside the frame stood a messenger—not
a servant on an errand, a proper messenger of House Haillenarte.
"My lord the Count Baurendouin de Haillenarte requests his son Viscount
Stephanivien de Haillenarte attend to him in his offices," the messenger said, all
in one breath (and all the more impressive for how he seemed to have ran to the
manufactory). "Immediately."
"Ah," Stephanivien said, breezily casual. "I was wondering when he'd find out.
Right, then," he said, turning to wave to Rostnsthal and Joye, "Rostnsthal, you're
in charge. I'll be back as soon as I can, two shakes of a karakul lamb's tail, so
on and so forth."
Rostnsthal nodded his acknowledgment, and Joye nodded, eyes distant and brow
furrowed—he couldn't quite tell if she was anxious for him, or just thinking over
what he'd said particularly thoroughly. Either way, though, Stephanivien made sure
to catch her eye and give her a reassuring smile before setting off with the
messenger.
"We mustn't keep your lord father waiting much longer, milord," said the messenger,
with a hint of reproach, as he closed the door out behind him.
"Yes, yes, I know. He's had the disgraced-the-family-name speech down pat for
thirteen years, and doesn't need to rehearse."
And, sure enough, when Stephanivien entered his father's office, paperwork was
scattered, a ledger lay open on the floor, the shelves were askew, and the Count
was visibly stressed. The messenger hadn't even finished introducing his charge
before Baurendouin was addressing him.
"My son, you have developed some dangerous hobbies!" He snapped, brusquely tossing
his reading glasses aside.
Meekly the messenger stepped back, and at a nod from Stephanivien backed out and
firmly shut the door. "Which ones? I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."
"Today is not the day to mock me, boy," said the Count, arms crossed over his
chest. "There are vile and scurrilous rumors circulating about you of late."
"Well then," Stephanivien said, carefully resisting the impulse to cross his arms
as well (both of them, arguing, with their hackles up never ended well). "Let's
start with the scurrilous ones, why don't we?"
Baurendouin, judging by the glare he was leveling at his eldest, was not in the
mood for flippancy. "That the viscount of the ancient High House of Haillenarte
trafficks with dangerous Brume radicals in the dead of night."
"First of all, there was no trafficking," Stephanivien said, holding up one finger
(for one point). "Secondly, neither you nor I want me to be the eldest son, yet
that is how Halone willed it, so I don't see why it should be treated like my
fault. Thirdly, I was and am perfectly safe. Hilda is reasonable, not a rabid dog."
And, after a moment to consider: "But I will concede that it was all done during
the dead of night. That much is true."
The angered flush on Baurendouin's face had been steadily draining as Stephanivien
spoke, until by the end he was collapsing into his chair, massaging his temples
against an encroaching headache. "Halone grant me the strength," he muttered. "Why—
why must you..." He trailed off, though from years of experience Stephanivien was
able to fill in many possible endings to that sentence. Why must he dither in the
manufactory, why must he skip off most of his training, why must he disregard so
many planned social engagements, why must he humiliate his father and mother so.
"...It's the right thing to do," Stephanivien said, after a very long, very
thoughtful pause. He and his father had... many differences, but on this matter,
there could be agreement. Couldn't there? "You don't believe half the stories about
her, you can tell she's not some blood-soaked demon."
"If she were half as vicious and powerful as the hysterical ones swear she is, we'd
all have our heads on pikes already," his father said drily, leaning his elbows on
his desk and resting his head against them. "Be that as it may, though, she's not
tame and you do not possess the ability to tame her." Here he shot Stephanivien a
sharp look from under his fingers. "No matter how many pistols and revolvers you
sell her."
Stephanivien's previous sensible advice to himself was instantly discarded in the
surge of outrage he felt. "I am not trying to tame her!" He shouted. "This isn't
some machination, I assure you, I want her to succeed. That is—" He shook his head,
lip curled, momentarily lost for words—but found them soon enough. "She's not an
animal to be tamed, she's a hyuran woman who wants justice."
"You are very sure of that," Baurendouin said, weary. "On what do you base your
confidence?"
It took several deep breaths for Stephanivien to calm himself down to a speaking
voice again. "I denied there was trafficking. The reason for this is twofold:
First, that I never intended to sell, but to give freely. Second, that she refused
them outright." Baurendouin removed his head from his hands at that, giving
Stephanivien a sort of look that he couldn't quite recognize—but, as that meant it
at least was not anger, frustration, or disappointment, he chose to consider it a
positive sign. "You can check the manufactory's accounts and inventories as many
times as you like, with an army of accountants; everything is as it should be and
there are none of my creations in the Brume. Is this consistent with scheming or
with a violent insurgent?"
"That will not be necessary—the accountants," Baurendouin sighed. "You are this
vehement, I trust your word."
"What Hilda wants is—is the welfare of the poor, their dignity," Stephanivien tried
again. "Is that not what you want? Our payrolls are more generous than Durendaire
and our staff—proportionately, at least—larger than Dzemael's. So they can afford
to live and work." Baurendouin sighed again, but it was a quiet sound. "That
impulse that compelled you to show mercy to Joye—that same impulse is what tells me
that helping Hilda is the right thing to do."
"Speaking of Joye," his father said suddenly, "I said there were more rumors than
just the one concerning the Mongrel."
"Yes, father?"
"There is one concerning you and Joye," Baurendouin said, very delicately—and
Stephanivien had to squint, but he thought he could make out pink returning to his
cheeks. "It... claims to explain a perceived undue favor you show her." It took a
moment for him to put together the insinuation, but when he did—both ears, tip to
tip, went red with anger and embarrassment, and his mouth worked furiously but
nothing intelligible came out. "Judging by your reaction, there is no truth to this
one at all."
"None whatsoever," Stephanivien finally managed.
"Good," Baurendouin said, in a very final tone, and his son nodded energetically.
Gods above, that surely explained a few things...
"If—if that is all," Stephanivien said, his mind still mostly on putting back
together old memories with this new information, "I ought to be getting back to the
manufactory."
"I suppose you ought," Baurendouin said, fetching a bottle and a small glass from a
cabinet behind him. His son nodded, after a moment turned to leave— "Wait—What you
said, about Hilda..."
"Yes?" Now Stephanivien was fully in the moment again, hanging off his father's
words, hoping.
"I'll... I'll keep it in mind." He started pouring out his drink—deep amber
whiskey. "I believe you're... closer to the right of it than most."
A slow smile spread across Stephanivien's face, not large but pleased. "Thank you,
father. —Oh, and..."
Baurendouin coughed softly after taking a swallow of his whiskey. "Yes?"
"...In case you hear another rumor, about Joye—yes, I have inducted her into the
manufactory."
This time Baurendouin coughed violently. "You what?"
"She's a dream with a pistol, Father!" Stephanivien said quickly. "I've never seen
anyone with better aim, she's even better than I am!"
"Have you told Lapinette?" There was a terrible sort of dread in those words—and in
that moment, Stephanivien's understanding of Joye's position on the matter was
greatly expanded.
"Don't worry, Father, Joye said she'd like to maintain her position in the manor if
it'd be a fuss, otherwise—"
"That's not what I asked, Stephan." Baurendouin's voice was very firm.
"...I have not." His father groaned like he'd been punched, and began pouring
another shot. "...And you know Mother thinks you've been drinking too much of
that."
"Fine." Baurendouin sighed, pouring out the glass into a (rather ailing) potted
juniper. "But it'll all be proper. Not a hint of mischief, and I'll pull her from
the Manufactory if there is."
"You have my word."
***
A week later, Joye found herself thrown into a cell right after Hilda. She landed
on her hands and knees, and hurriedly crawled to put her back against the far wall,
no matter how undignified the process was. At the very least her jailer did not
jeer or make mock of her, rather just snorted contemptuously. Hilda—Halone bless
her, save her, keep her—Hilda had kept her feet, and put herself between Joye and
anything else out there. Her stance was undaunted, unafraid, and she didn't budge
until the inquisitors and temple knights alike had left them alone, and then just
enough to ask Joye, "You well?"
She had drawn her knees up to her chest, and rested her chin on them. "I'm sorry."
It had seemed like a worthwhile venture—not without risks, but worth them:
supplying the Brume not just with Skysteel's creations, as his lordship had wanted,
but its discounted castoffs—fuel that perhaps was unfit to heat a forge that shaped
adamantite or titanium but would cook a roast or a pie nicely, metal too soft or
impure to be forged into a musket barrel but could be worked by even the Brume's
working men and women into tools that sufficed for their purposes. (And what's
more, it constituted a productive end to his lordship's perfectionism, and thus was
unimpeachable from all possible angles of criticism). And it was easier for her to
get in contact with Hilda about cutting this deal without it seeming suspicious
than it was for his lordship, she knew—he had no choice but to rely on paid
messengers and errand-boys and the like, but as for her—who could see something out
of the ordinary in a maid asking her laundress to ask her brother to tell his
downstairs neighbor ("yes, Eudestand, unless he's moved? Oh, he's still there, oh
good,") that she wanted to go see the acrobats and tumblers that Firesday night
with their mutual friend? Stephanivien could never manage to keep as low a profile
as Joye could—and, to ensure the plot's secrecy, she'd kept it entirely to herself,
and of arms only took the pair of pistols she'd been gifted on her induction, to
show goodwill. His lordship would understand, she was almost certain.
Only, the first inquisitor had it in for Hilda, more than any of them had thought,
and even Eudestand and Symme were being watched closely now. Shortly after
midnight, their trap had been sprung, and a cluster of armed men had declared the
three of them under arrest—on what charges, she hadn't quite heard, but between her
imagination and her clear recollection of Hilda's backtalking and sarcasm, she
could gather that they were both bad and largely baseless. Yet considering the
leadership of the Inquisition these days, Joye thought, likely that wouldn't
matter. Neither honesty nor fairness would get her out of this.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
"Bah, don't ye apologize," Hilda scoffed. "It'll be fine. I've broken outta jail
before, I can do it again."
"This jail?" Joye asked.
"Not this section of it," Hilda said after a reluctant pause. "Last time in here
they tossed me in with the public drunkards and vagrants. Think they were tryin' to
teach me a lesson." She grinned at Joye. "Didn' take, whatever it was."
And Joye offered a smile in return—frightened, and feeble, but still. "How would
you do it? Break out, I mean."
"Well..." Hilda mused, walking along the bars and peering at them, as if to better
inspect them for flaws or weaknesses. "Usually the easiest way to get out is to do
it through the opened door—but there's a lot more guards between us and the way
out, not good for a bit of deception, misdirection, an' runnin' like hell." She
sighed, aggravated. "If only we had a lantern, now, that'd be a different story..."
Curious, Joye lifted her head from her knees. "A lantern? How would that help?"
"Well, first ye break it in half, use the candle tallow to grease the hinges, or
lock, or whatever ye think you can dismantle, scratch the slats on the stone to
make files, and then the bottom half makes a handy grappling hook, and that's
halfway out." Hilda shrugged, then squatted down by the cell door. "By dawn
someone'll bring some bread, might be we could discombobulate them into leaving
their lantern behind."
"That's really clever," Joye said. She was trying to think—she had been the one to
get them into this mess, and if she could banish her worries, she would like to try
to help get them out.
"Learnt it from someone else," Hilda said, absently scratching at her ear.
"...Thanks, though."
"I'm not sure I can be much use. I had some things that might could pick a lock,
but they're all with the stuff they took." Joye frowned, staring down at the cold,
rough stones of the cell floor.
"Aye, same with all mine. An' don't apologize, yer not the type who ought to carry
weapons of hatpins, or the like." Hilda changed her posture to lean back against
the stone wall—like she was settling in for a long wait. So, as the apprentice
jailbreaker, Joye mimicked her teacher: sitting, waiting, and thinking.
One uncomfortable fact kept coming to the forefront of her mind: even though a fair
investigation (if it even happened) would reveal that she had done (mostly) no
wrong—breaking out of a jail was, indisputably, a crime. One of many for Hilda, of
course, hence her resignation to it—but gods, what would this mean when the Count
and Countess found out? Or her father? He might applaud the principle, but if the
results cut into her ability to feed the household...
Like this, her worried thoughts repeated themselves over and over. Outside the
little barred window, the stars slowly turned in the sky, in much the same fixed
pattern—and by their lights, it was past the second bell after midnight before
something happened.
A guard approached their cell door, holding no lantern but instead a ring of keys.
"You—" he said, pointing at Joye. "Yer the maidservant?"
She nodded on reflex.
"Yer coming with me." The key rattled in the lock, and with long elezen limbs, he
only had to take one step inside to reach her.
"Wh—What's happening?" Joye tried to keep panic from her voice, looking to Hilda
for guidance but seeing only uncertainty and resignation.
"Don't know, just that there's all seven hells' worth of a racket downstairs." The
guard sounded, of all things, bored as he pulled the cell gate back to, locking it
again before "escorting" her roughly down the staircase. The last Joye saw of Hilda
before the spiraling stairs blocked her view was her fists, balled white-knuckled
in the same impotently furious way Joye had clenched her own.
The trip down, past the pegboard of keyrings, past the chest of prisoners' effects,
passed in stony silence for Joye—which made the furor the guard had mentioned very
apparent, as they neared the entrance. Two—no, three men were talking very loudly,
one of them apparently trying and failing to soothe one or both of the others, and
one of the voices she knew... Just as brusquely as he had pulled her from her cell,
Joye's escort shoved her into the hall, where the clerk at the front desk was
trying to hush First Inquisitor Charibert Leusignac, who himself was quite close to
entering a shouting match with...
"Joye! Finally!"
Stephanivien stood before the front desk, as imposing as an elezen man his height
could be, dressed to the nines in boots, coat, and hat all with fur trim, all
impeccable, and his hair in a neat braid. He raised one hand to gesture at her, and
the lamplight glinted off the silver of rings he usually never wore. "Yes, she is
my servant, she has been employed by our house for years, and I will hear what
could possibly drive you to arrest her!" Joye had never heard him more outraged—but
nor had she heard him outraged like this, like an actual nobleman, not—
Stephanivien.
"My lord, please—" began the (truly pitiful) desk clerk, but the First Inquisitor
did not let him continue.
"Theft, good ser." Charibert's voice was self-satisfied and silky at once, and the
incongruous combo repulsed Joye. "She's a little thief who tried to fence her
stolen goods with dangerous Brume radicals."
"What stolen goods? I don't believe it!" Stephanivien didn't let the First
Inquisitor's accusation hinder him in the slightest, though Joye was glaring
daggers into the side of Charibert's head.
"The products of your very own manufactory, Viscount." Charibert held up two
pistols then, holding them with his fingertips as though the mere association with
the likes of her (or, perhaps, him) had somehow polluted them. "She was fencing
them to the Mongrel, along with metal scraps and half-burnt coal, my men caught
them red-handed."
Joye was giving Stephanivien the most pleading sustained gaze she could manage—and
for a harrowing second, his mask of highborn assurance slipped and she thought she
saw a man thinking very quickly—but then he glared at Charibert with narrowed eyes
and a fresh well of outrage tapped. "First Inquisitor, how dare you call House
Haillenarte's charitable work theft and radicalism!"
"—Charitab—" Charibert was obviously dumbstruck—either by surprise or by
Stephanivien's sheer hubris.
"This metal and fuel is not being sold, it's a gift! I certainly have no use for
it, nor is the ancient High House a consortium of merchants!"
"And the weapons?" The First Inquisitor's voice was pure ice. "Are those also a
gift?"
"Certainly not!" Stephanivien lied, to Joye's delight and trepidation. "They are my
servant's lawful possession."
Both the clerk and Charibert were not expecting that. "You—arm your servants, ser?"
Charibert asked slowly, but before he could fully reorient himself, Stephanivien
was speaking again.
"For visits to the Brume, certainly!" He gave the clerk, the First Inquisitor, and
possibly the entire prison as a building an imperious look. "You don't think it's
not dangerous down there, I'm sure."
"No, my l—yes, I mean—Yes, my lord," the clerk stammered, trying and failing once
again to mediate between Stephanivien and Charibert, the latter giving the former a
very calculating look.
"Perhaps it is just the company she keeps, Viscount," Charibert said, with an
affected delicate quality in his voice. "As First Inquisitor, I must be allowed to
do my job, for everyone's safety. Don't you agree?"
"You have done your job." Stephanivien spoke with rock-solid finality, like a man
who never feared he might be disobeyed. "I, the Viscount de Haillenarte, have
confirmed there was no crime, and I demand you release my House's servant from your
custody. It is unseemly to continue to treat a maiden in this fashion at this hour,
First Inquisitor."
The two glared at each other, the room silent, anticipating. Charibert blinked
first.
"Very well, my lord," he growled, like every syllable needed to be cut out of him.
"Give him the key to the effects chest," Charibert said to his clerk, with a harsh
poke in his shoulder, "You can retrieve that much yourself, my lord," he spat at
Stephanivien before storming deeper into the prison.
"I—w-well, I'm terribly sorry about—all that." The poor clerk sounded on the verge
of hysterics (probably, Joye thought, she would be too if she had to deal with a
man like the First Inquisitor with any kind of regularity). "Truly, my lord, I—here
—and—"
"We'll be fine," Joye said, sounding as helpful and understanding as she could
muster. "Only—the steps up that way are very dark. Might we use a lantern for the
journey, ser?"
***
"Oh, that's really clever," Stephanivien marveled as he walked up the road, Joye at
his side. "Do you think she'll drop by the manor today or the day after? Only I
might need to warn a few people, so..."
"Probably today, milord," Joye answered, shifting her bag to the opposite hand. (He
had offered to carry it, but Joye refused him. She wanted to maintain this charade
a while longer). "She was real keen on having her effects back."
He nodded. "Right, then I'll warn the gatekeep. Wouldn't want to risk her breaking
—"
"Like hells ye will," said a confident voice behind them—and when they turned they
saw Hilda, tired but triumphant.
"That was fast!" said Joye.
"How'd you follow us?" said Stephanivien, at the exact same time.
"It's easy, when ye know how," Hilda said, declining to clarify who she was
responding to. "Now: Me effects?"
Joye held open the little bag she had been carrying, and quickly Hilda retrieved
her things from it: pen-knives, a stick of charcoal, a vial each of boot-black and
leather oil, a little purse, a ring of keys, and a small but exquisite pocketwatch,
silver with rose-gold inlay and set sapphire. "A thousand thanks, Joye," Hilda
said, stuffing all but the watch in her pockets. "Woulda gutted me to lose it."
"And, if I may—" Here Stephanivien opened his coat and pulled out from it a
revolver—a custom make of his, black and gold and, knowing him, as powerful as it
was beautiful. With a smile, he presented it to Hilda. "If you want it."
Hilda considered his offer for a moment. "Joye told me you came to bail her out,"
she said, thoughtfully, but something about her expression suggested that what she
was thoughtful about was not the events of this night.
"Aye, I did."
"More than that—he got the First Inquisitor to dismiss it altogether!" Joye added.
Hilda smirked.
"And dressed like that? Well, well... I'll take that off your hands, then. I
imagine it'll come in handy," she said as she took hold of the stock, then lifted
it from his hands, testing the weight and balance.
"Milord—Milord, what would you have done if the First Inquisitor saw that?" Joye
asked, a little perturbed. True, those sorts of fashionable coats were very
extensively padded and trimmed, so it would have been unlikely... but even so...
"Lied some more, honestly," Stephanivien said with a shrug. "I'm not terribly
worried about myself, here. The worst that could happen is Father kicks me out of
succession, and he's known I've wanted that for years."
"Nobles." Hilda was shaking her head, but smiling (at least somewhat)
affectionately. "Anyroad—better go back and break Eudestand out." With one last
wave farewell, she ran back the way she (presumably) had come, darting into an
alley and out of sight.
Stephanivien and Joye continued their slow walk back to the manor. "The sun should
be coming up soon," Joye observed, mid-way through a yawn.
"Ideal time to go to bed," Stephanivien said, rolling and stretching his shoulders.
"What about the manufactory?" Joye asked. "We've got all that spare steel to
package up for delivery—not to mention Rostnsthal wants to work on trigger
discipline..."
"Well," Stephanivien said, a smile spreading across his face, "well, my dear, if
you put it that way, and if it won't be just me..."
"Back to work, milord?"
"Aye!"