Chapter Text
Part One: The Invitation
House Fortemps cordially invites you…
The invitation even had gold leaf around the edges–a lot of gold, now that he really looked at it. It was amazing the thing didn’t go clunk! when he set it down. It was nearly impossible to read as well. Sicard had never been formally trained in reading, let alone writing, but he’d been practicing and doing quite well until running into these gods forsaken loops and whorls. Is this how they write in Ishgard? he wondered.
He puzzled out cordially with a dictionary and nearly threw the invitation across the room when he found the word meant friendly, but in a stuffy, formal way. A noble way. It was exactly the sort of word he expected Emmanellain to use.
Sicard slumped back in his large captain’s chair and glowered at the invitation as if it personally offended him. “Let’s see…”
His lips moved as he sorted the next bit. When he figured it out he rolled his golden eyes and snorted at the ceiling. “A Starlight Ball, Emm? Really? All those stuffy nobles and weird ladies in big dresses…”
He winced. Ishgardian fashion never failed to confuse him. Last time he’d been in the frozen city a woman with hair taller than a Lalafell had nearly knocked him over with her bustle–a mammoth thing that was apparently all the rage among a certain subset of Ladies (capital L) of a Certain Age.
“Ugh.”
He tossed the invitation aside and shook his head, putting it out of his mind and turning his attention to the shipping manifests that the Admiral had sent over. It was now his job to go over them and make sure all the deliveries were routed to the correct destinations and that none of them were in violation of Limsa Lominsa’s new agreement with their Kobold and Sahagin allies.
Lominsian paperwork was written by pirates for pirates and certain Ul’dahn merchants always liked to abuse that. He could handle it–he didn’t like to admit it, but knowing Emmanellain had its advantages. The Elezen had a keen eye for contracts and mercantile agreements and some of that had rubbed off on Sicard while they were in Sharlayan. A little.
It was still a hellish stack of paperwork that took a few bells for him to get through, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, nose scrunched with the effort of reading and cross-referencing schedules.
More than one pen got lobbed out the window after he’d broken the nib by pressing it too hard against the pages. He kept kicking his feet against the chair legs until his toes were sore.
He missed the days where all he had to do was decide on a destination and plot a course to the nearest plunder. This was better, objectively , as the Bloody Executioners were making gil hand over fist out of the new deals. His crew were well fed and healthy–and happier, by the looks (and sounds) of things.
Gone were the days of reaving, which was a wrench for many of the Executioners because pirates were a violent lot, but there was an unexpected upside. Not all the pirates of Limsa Lominsa were agreeable to the new way of things, and those that weren’t tended to get rowdy about it. It gave Sicard’s crew an acceptable target to take their frustrations out on. It wouldn’t last forever, but perhaps it would last long enough.
The candles burned down and the sun set well below the horizon. Sicard’s day went by slowly, but there was a lot of paperwork to get through. Then there were contacts to meet in the bar down below, and contracts to arrange, and deals to strike–and ale to quaff. By the time he returned to his quarters that evening, he was exhausted (and perhaps a little drunk) and the invitation lay hidden and forgotten by the mountain of paperwork and logs.
And so it remained for the next several days, which were full of work for the Acting Captain. He didn’t actually notice when the holiday grew close–at least not until his crew started chatting about their plans. Even pirates had celebrations, now didn’t they?
Sicard realized with a start that tomorrow would be their first Starlight under the new banner. A new breed of pirate, Hyllfyr had said. Sicard snorted and put his mark down on another ledger, then shoved it aside.
The door opened and he glanced up as Hasthwab entered the room with a steaming mug of coffee–with a dollop of something harder added if Sicard’s nose could be trusted (and it could, insofar as rum was concerned). That was something he hadn’t seen before. Prior to the Final Days, when the Bloody Executioners had been the last of Limsa Lominsa’s pirate holdouts, you got your own damned ale and liked it. Nobody drank coffee.
Because we could rarely afford it, he remembered.
Now they not only got coffee (straight from Maelstrom command no less!), they had tea, and full stores of fresh fruit, vegetables, and meats from the farms. Their axes, while used sparingly these days, were so well made, solid Kobold craftsmanship. And their armor–
“Mistress Tataru sends 'er regards with ‘er new delivery, Actin’ Cap’n,” the giant Roegadyn said as he set the coffee cup down on the one clear spot on the otherwise cluttered desktop.
And armor from the Warrior of Light’s own personal crafter. None finer. Tataru Taru’s boutique provided their armor and they, in turn, shipped her goods across the world. And with her came a host of other merchants, beastman and Eorzean–and a few Far Eastern and Sharlayan for good measure.
Sicard smiled wanly and reached for the cup. “We’re spoiled, ain’t we?”
Hasthwab chuckled. “Can’t be spoiled with luxuries if you earned 'em. How goes?”
Sicard leaned back and sipped at the coffee. Ah...more rum than coffee. Hasthwab knows what he’s about. He smirked. "It goes about as well as it can. Captain Hyllfyr ain’t complainin'."
"I saw the schedules. No one’s sailin' fer Starlight?"
Sicard shrugged. “It lined up that the Far Eastern deliveries will be back by then and the Eorzean orders ain’t scheduled until after. Might as well give a day or two to relax, eh?”
"After runnin' em ragged for the past few moons, I don’t think they grouse much."
Sicard sighed and took another sip of coffee, closing his eyes and inhaling the rich aroma. "Aye...ye’d think with the Final Days bein' over we’d be less busy."
Hasthwab laughed, loud and long. “What mad bastard put that fool notion in yer head, lad?”
Sicard’s grin felt a bit more genuine but still strained. He shrugged. “Me own. Now off with ye. I’ve got to finish this mess afore I go let the Captain know where we stand.”
“Aye…” Hasthwab paused at the door and glanced back over his shoulder with a small grin. “He be proud of ye, lad. He don’t get sentimental, you know that, so he’d not say it. But he is.”
The corner of Sicard’s mouth quirked. “No pressure, eh?”
The Roegadyn smirked. "Might take some o’that time t’yerself, aye? Ye give it to the crew, but not think about takin' it yerself. I know ye, lad. Somethin' t’think about."
Part Two: Hyllfyr’s Advice
Sicard continued on through the day, finally finishing the paperwork (as much as he could stomach, at least) and ordering something for dinner from the Bismark to be delivered to the captain’s quarters on the ship. He knew Captain Hyllfyr’s favorites and made sure the order included steamed catfish and rolanberry cheesecake. And ale, of course. You always had to have ale.
He splashed some water on his face and changed into a fresh set of clothes before leaving his quarters and heading down to check on Hyllfyr–rather, to check that the food made it in tact. With a whole host of pirates between The Bismark and Captain Hyllfyr’s private quarters, there was a decent chance something got snaffled along the way.
Hyllfyr’s confidant and one of his closest officers, Moenskaet, stood outside the door, leaning against the wall, massive arms crossed over his equally expansive chest. One foot crossed over the other. His axe, which he always kept within arms reach, even while sleeping, leaned against the wall next to him. He looked up as Sicard approached. “Ahoy lad. What brings ye down here?”
“Just checkin on things, s’all.” Sicard shrugged. The Roegadyn cocked an eyebrow and Sicard had to swallow the wince at the last minute. He wasn’t sure where he stood with Moenskaet, exactly, only that, when push came to shove, at the last minute, Hyllfyr had chosen Sicard to lead the Executioners, and that left Moenskaet, who’d been rumored to be heir apparent until that point, out in the cold.
But the Roegadyn smirked. If there was any animosity in the man’s gut, he kept it well buried. “Ye could ask 'em yerself.”
Sicard shook his head. “So long’s the food got here in time for 'em s’all I need to know–”
A bellow from beyond the closed door interrupted him. "Oi, lad! Quit yer prattlin' and get yer arse in here!"
Sicard shrugged helplessly and, to his surprise, Moenskaet laughed. “Best heed the Captain’s call, lad.”
“Aye.” Sicard smirked at the door. Once upon a time, many years ago, such a bellow–and such a command–would have him quaking in his boots and in need of some new smallclothes. These days, however, things had changed. "Best not keep the man waitin'."
Moenskaet chuckled under his breath.
Sicard opened the door and walked in to find Hyllfyr sitting up in bed, a wooden lap table laden with the ordered food spread out in front of him. Next to the bed stood three of Hyllfyr’s inner circle–two men, both Roegadyn, and a Miqo’te woman, all captains of the fleet and technically under Sicard’s command as well. Seeing them wasn’t a surprise. Hyllfyr often held court for an bell or two in the evenings, when his lungs cleared and he was feeling up to it. They turned to the door as he entered and nodded respectfully.
He’d never get used to that, but acknowledged them a return nod.
Hyllfyr muttered something and waved them off. They all bid their farewells and left the room, shutting the door after them. Sicard was sure at least two of them could be counted on to remain outside the door, chatting to Moenskaet and eavesdropping.
Despite his current state, Captain Hyllfyr was still a massive mountain of a Roegadyn. His illness might have left him bed-bound for days at a time, but he didn’t look it. Sicard knew the old man hated being stuck in bed and exercised as much as he could, often in the privacy of his quarters. He may have often spoken like someone at death’s door, but he didn’t quite act like it. Stubborn old goat.
Sicard smiled.
The Captain didn’t look up from his dinner, which smelled delicious–as the Bismark’s cuisine always did. “At ease, lad. Ye look as though ye’ve swallowed a mouthful of bad ale.”
Sicard smirked and leaned against one of the posts near the foot of the bed. He crossed his arms. “S’at so? I’ve no cause for it.”
“Aye?” Hyllfyr set his spoon aside and reached for his glass of white wine. “Well, get on with it then.”
And so Sicard gave his Captain a general summary of how the Bloody Executioners fortunes were coming along. Hyllfyr ate in silence, occasionally nodding, often grunting, and every so often, coughing. Sicard kept the water mug filled and made sure the Captain drank as much of that as he did the wine.
Eventually, Hyllfyr nodded. “Aye, tis a good head on yer shoulders. I was right about that.”
Sicard wasn’t so sure, but you didn’t argue with your Capital-C-Captain. Especially not Hyllfyr. Instead he ducked his head to hide the blush and looked away, towards the clean desktop and the little water crane from the Far East that kept dipping up and down, knocking against an empty bamboo bucket. Plonk...plonk...plonk…
“Crew tells me ye’ve given 'em the day off tomorrow,” the old man went on, setting the tray aside and reaching for a ledger on his side table.
That brought Sicard up short. “Aye, well...tis Starlight, and–”
He stopped when the Captain waved him into silence. “I’m aware of the date, lad. I’ll be dining with Merlwyb and Eynzahr tomorrow, so no need to order in dinner.” There was a fondness in the Captain’s voice when he mentioned the Admiral and her second-in-command that hadn’t been there before Eynzahr dragged Hyllfyr out of bed and off to visit the Warrior of Light’s island getaway.
For a man previously known to oppose the current thalassocracy with every fibre of his being just a few scant years ago, it was certainly a jarring change.
...But perhaps no more jarring than the changes Sicard himself had been through.
Hells, even the old bastard’s got somewhere to be on Starlight Eve…
“Where will ye be, then?” Hyllfyr asked, reaching again for the water mug. Sicard filled it up and handed it over.
He wrinkled his nose, remembering at last that bloody invitation he’d left buried under a mountain of paperwork. "I’ll like as not stay with the ship. I’ve no cause to go givin' away boots to orphans or any nonsense like that."
The Captain grunted and sipped the water. “Yer a stubborn lad, so I won’t press. Much.” His red eyes narrowed. “But if ye’ll take some advice…”
Sicard raised an eyebrow. Hyllfyr glanced up. Red eyes met gold and held the stare for a few breaths.
Hyllfyr won. Sicard stared down at the floor.
“Find somewhere to be tomorrow.” It was a curt suggestion–more of a command really, but one that wouldn’t be enforced. The old man nailed the coffin shut when he added, “The last airship bound for Ishgard leaves at dawn.”
Sicard felt all the blood rush to his cheeks and his fingers went numb. Unperturbed, Hyllfyr turned his attention to his ledger and grunted. That was the signal–the meeting was over, regardless of how Sicard felt. He scooped up the dishes, with the plates noticeably rattling (not that he could do anything about that, but it annoyed him all the same) and bid his Captain goodnight before bowing out of the room.
The Miqo’te captain had replaced Moenskaet. She and Sicard exchanged yet another nod. Was it his imagination or did she smirk at him? Was he blushing? His face felt hot...best get as far away from her as possible for now. He left her to guard the Captain’s quarters while he went to drop the dishes off in the mess.
Then he returned to his own room.
It was dark in the cabin, with the curtains closed and no candles lit. He fixed that problem by lighting the lamp near the door and stretching after he’d locked himself in for the night. Captain Hyllfyr’s words came back to haunt him.
Find somewhere to be tomorrow.
...And…
The last airship bound for Ishgard leaves at dawn.
Reluctantly, he went to his desk. It took a bit of digging to find the invitation but find it he did and he sighed. It was still just as heavy and gaudy as before, but as he turned it over in his hands he noticed something he hadn’t seen when it first arrived.
Scribbled in the corner, in Emmanellain’s whorling, looping script were two words:
Please come.
Sicard groaned and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. He didn’t have anything to wear to a fancy noble ball. He didn’t even know if the airships had room left! He didn’t have time to get anything together and be in Ishgard by tomorrow night.
He gnawed angrily on his bottom lip and glared at the small square of cardstock. He could just see it. Emmanellain in Ishgard, dressed in whatever ridiculous frilly silks passed for “fashion” over there, hopping around the dance floor like a moogle on gaelicat nip.
Sicard paused and stared at nothing for a bit, expression blank while he thought. After some deliberation, he caught himself smiling and, at the last moment, twisted his lips into a proper smirk.
...That sounded entertaining as hell.
But he didn’t have anything to give them for Starlight. Granted, the tradition was for the more fortunate to gift things to the less fortunate–and there was no one more fortunate in Ishgard than the Fortemps family, but it was still polite.
Sicard was finding himself actually caring about that sort of thing these days.
His gaze swept the room–snooty nobles probably wouldn’t notice a regifted trinket, especially if it was shiny. Hmm…
A small mahogany box caught his attention. It was plain but quite well made, lined in soft velvet. Inside was an assortment of Thavnairian spices that he’d picked up from the import markets a few moons ago. The spices had been a bit too much for him (he suspected the Thavnairians kept them on hand for boorish tourists and over eager adventurers), but he vaguely remembered Emmanellain’s brother Whats-His-Name expressing interest in trying Thavnairian dishes…
It would do. If nothing else, seeing someone from Ishgard–which was not a city known for adding any sort of real flavor to its food (though he’d heard disturbing things about salt rocks…)–try extremely hot spices would be almost as entertaining as Emmanellain’s undulations on the dance floor. He grinned and plucked the box from its perch.
Half a bell later, he stepped out, closed the door to his quarters, locked them behind him, and headed for the airship docks.
Part Three: How To Get To Ishgard On Short Notice
“What do you mean all the ships are sold out!?” Sicard slammed his hands down on the ticket counter, face heated and eyes narrowed. He was angry, stupidly so, and knew he was being unreasonable, which only made him angrier. He’d never run into a sold-out airship to Ishgard before. He’d always been able to get from here to there.
Next time I’ll pay the damn aethernet fee.
His avoidance of aetherytes was coming back to bite him right in the arse. Emmanellain kept nudging him to attune to the crystal in Ishgard, but why do that when airship travel was more comfortable, affordable, and up until now, easy to access.
Damnit!
The beleaguered ticket attendant, who had clear heavy bags under her eyes and an exhausted pallor to her cheeks, heaved what must have been her fiftieth sigh that morning. “They’ve been sold out since last week, lad,” she said in the flat, emotionless tone of someone who’s had to explain this to dozens of people in the past two days. “Starlight’s our busiest season.”
What she left out but very clearly implied with her expression was: Everyone knows that.
Which was true. Everyone did know that. Starlight had boomed in popularity the past few years, and with the end of the Final Days, Eorzeans were keen to let off a little steam and take that long-put-off trip to visit friends and family across the continent. Starlight was the perfect excuse to do just that.
The attendant glanced down at his hands and Sicard snatched them back, feeling slightly chagrined. Emmanellain had given him ample warning about the ball and he’d been the one to put it off. He hadn’t even intended to go! The best he could come up with on short notice was his Maelstrom Officer’s uniform–and he knew the Admiral would hang him by the short hairs if he acted out while wearing it.
“Shite,” he hissed.
She shook her head and actively resisted rolling her eyes–it was obvious from the way she crossed her arms and glowered. “Listen, best I can do is have you stay in the lobby. If someone don’t show for their spot by the time the ship’s ready to sail, I’ll sell it to ye–for a price, mind.”
A rather larger price than the usual fare, he was sure, but it was a sliver of hope he’d actually get to Ishgard in time for the Ball. He nodded. “Deal.”
She shook her head. “It ain’t. It’s a possibility , not a promise.”
“Better than nothing,” he said, shrugged, then went to find a seat in the lobby.
He spent the rest of the night watching people board and disembark from ships and shuttles. Families met and hugged, happy tears shed, happy holidays shouted around. He smelled wine and rum, and fresh fish, and sweet spiced dishes from the Bismark as people carried off their precious Lominsian treasures for parts unknown.
The first ship to Ishgard turned out to be full, and everyone showed up. His stomach started to turn and he began to resign himself to a Starlight night alone, but stayed seated. There was another ship on the schedule, and he might get lucky.
Might.
It wasn’t scheduled to arrive until the morning, however, so he hunkered down and tried to get some sleep. He could go back to the ship, but there was no guarantee he’d make it back to airship docks in time to catch the ship, so it was better to be within earshot of the clerk, who was replaced sometime in the night by a stout Lalafell.
He woke up early, well before the sun came up on Starlight morning. The air was crisp and cold and the Lalafell got replaced early by the clerk from the previous night. She looked just as annoyed to be there as Sicard felt.
The sun came up and the ship bound for Ishgard wobbled into the dock, where it was tied down and cleared out for the next batch of travelers. It’d be a few bells before it was ready to sail though. He woke the rest of the way up and spent the next several bells watching the ship through the window.
His hopes dimmed as travelers entered the airship docks and were waved through the counter, one after another. The ticket lady refused to meet his gaze, so he continued to keep himself focused on the ship.
Serves ye right, ye bloody idiot, he thought to himself and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes, narrowed, chin resting on his clasped hands. The hells am I doing?
He hadn’t even intended to go! He hadn’t thought about it at all until seeing that damned written note on the back of the card! He should just get up and return to his quarters on the ship with a fresh bottle of rum and some crab legs from the Bismark! Bugger this!
But…
Well.
He was here, wasn’t he? He’d spent the whole damn night here! Might as well wait it out.
He stood and went to the window to watch the ships coming and going, arms crossed tightly over his chest, face set in a scowl. The docks were much busier than usual, but that was to be expected–he was almost sure about that. He stretched his neck and arms, stifling a yawn as the attendant’s voice called out, “Oi! Captain!”
Which was odd, since the attendant didn’t know who he was, did she? His name might have been known around Vylbrand but not his face. He kept that out of the public as much as possible–a relic from a time when he’d had to watch the shadows for assassins' daggers.
She certainly hadn’t indicated that she recognized him–
Ah.
He snorted as soon as he realized he was still wearing the Maelstrom uniform–and it had a Captain’s sign on the collar. Right.
Turning to face her, he caught her waving wildly at him and hurried over.
“Got one last seat, it ain’t in a good section, but it’ll getcha to Ishgard in a few bells. You want it or not?”
And then she quoted a rather unholy price for the ticket at him.
For a moment, he felt his temper flare again. His face heated, his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted into a snarl and he opened it to let loose a string of insults–
Right before he managed to reign it in at the last second. He was getting what he wanted, right? And he couldn’t act out in the bloody uniform- which he was only wearing because it was the nicest bit of clothing he bloody damned well owned! –because the Admiral would hand him off to Hyllfyr after she’d finished. Inwardly, he groaned, but pulled his coin-pouch out and counted the gil. After all, Emmanellain was at least part of the reason he was even able to afford such an exorbitant price without putting too deep a dent in his savings.
It felt oddly good, actually. Still, there would forever be a part of him that winced every time he had to spend coin. It was the part of him that remembered being hungry all the time.
Those days were behind him, thankfully.
“Thanks,” he managed to choke out after handing over what felt like enough coin to purchase a small house.
“Don’t mention it,” she said and let him through the gate after handing over his ticket.
He boarded the ship right before it took off. They pulled up the ramp as soon as he was aboard, and he was shuffled down into the hold and into a tiny seat in the very back. There was a small air leak near the ceiling.
It was bloody freezing.
He hunkered down, pulling his chin against his chest and wrapping his arms around his middle, folding his legs up and curling into a small ball of infuriated pirate.
Why had he bothered?
Why had he paid so damned much for such a terrible seat?
Why was he going to bloody bloody damned bloody buggering Ishgard?
...Because Emmanellain had asked him to. That was it. He closed his eyes and snorted against his collar. Emmanellain hadn’t just sent an invitation. Invitations could safely be ignored. They were written for dozens of people–most of whom were more than happy to waste their time dancing in stiff, uncomfortable clothes, drinking weak as piss wine, eating little sausages on sticks, and laughing at unfunny jokes.
But it was Starlight, and Emmanellain had written to him personally and Sicard knew he’d never hear the end of it. Rather, Emm wouldn’t say anything–not after the initial whinge. No, but Sicard would be forced to endure sad puppy-dog eyes every time they were in the same room for moons on end . And since they were in business together…
That’d be a fate worse than death, really.
But there was something about watching Emmanellain in his element that made this worth looking forward to. In the midst of the high-pitched, braying laughter, and sneering jibes behind glassy, false smiles, there was Emm–genuine and comfortable, turning them all on their heads. Sicard had seen it before and it never failed to amuse him. Isghardian society was so stiff each baby was issued an iron rod for their spine as soon as they popped out of the womb. Either they’d forgotten to give Emmanellain his or he’d managed to ditch it early because he was so unlike the stuffy upper crust nobles that they didn’t know what to do with him. He annoyed them to an absurd degree, but they couldn’t do anything about it because he wasn’t actually breaking any social rules.
He was gregarious and charming, especially in his element. He might have looked a fool to anyone in the Ilsabard Contingent but that was only because Emmanellain wasn’t a warrior. Oh, he could fight and fight well if he had to, but his strengths lay in logistics and diplomacy, of all things. He played a rather large role in getting the Garlean refugees to accept their aid, once the Warrior of Light had done what the Warrior of Light always did.
Emmanellain was kind . He had big dreams and not enough common sense. He had negative street-sense but an impressive amount of business savvy, which had surprised Sicard, but maybe it shouldn’t have. While they were in Garlemald, Emm had spent an unholy amount of time making sure everyone had food, and blankets, and warm coats, sturdy boots, and thick socks. He knew their supplies better than the bloody quartermaster.
"I do run a military camp, I’ll have you know," he’d said with a haughty sniff. "Honoroit doesn’t do everything!"
He knew what he was good at, and more importantly–what he was not good at.
Sicard’s mind flashed back to their time in Old Sharlayan. They’d had dinner at the cafe there–not bad, but not quite up to the standards of the Bismark–and he’d watched Emm’s expression soften as the little lordling stared out across the harbor. “Woe to be born the youngest son of a high house in a society that values one’s knightly mettle above all else.”
"That’s changin' aint' it?" Sicard had asked.
And Emmanellain laughed. “Quite right. In many ways, I suppose it is. But…” He shrugged. “I was assigned to the Contingent, remember?”
“Yeah but we weren’t there just to fight people,” Sicard pointed out. “Ye weren’t there to swing a sword. Y’weren’t any good at that, but you were the one that did all that negotiating with them ceruleum miners, right? And all them refugees?”
And Emmanellain had graced him with a smile. The rare, broad, unhindered smile of someone who was also slightly embarrassed, if the pink rising in the lord’s cheeks were any indication.
He then called Sicard a tactless brute.
The thing was...the actual thing was...that Emmanellain could fight, if he had to. He didn’t like it, but he could do it. He fought like a cornered mongoose, but he fought all the same and he could be vicious , as Sicard had seen himself first hand in Garlemald. He’d been trained like any son of an Ishgardian high house. It was expected.
But Emm wasn’t the kind of person that excelled at things people expected of him. Sicard had learned that much. He liked to prod the Elezen about his (perceived) lack of battlefield prowess, but it didn’t take long for the edge to come off the barbs.
He had a nice smile. He could get Sicard to do almost anything. The pirate would grouse about it, sure, but he’d do it. He even wore that ridiculous hat and that godsawful shirt when they visited the Warrior of Light’s island because Emmanellain insisted.
The airship jolted and Sicard jumped, snorting awake and knocking his head against the wall behind him. He swore, then glanced around, chagrined. When had he fallen asleep? Had anyone noticed? Was his gil pouch still–
Ah. Yes. It was still on his belt, tucked away where Lominsian pickpockets wouldn’t reach. Not that he had trouble with that. The pickpockets weren’t stupid enough for try and pick a Bloody Executioner’s pocket, but old habits died hard.
No one was paying him any attention. They were all huddled up, reading or chatting in low voices with their friends. A glance through the windows revealed the sun starting to set below the horizon, and snow on the ground. Ishgard loomed ahead.
It always amazed Sicard how the city managed to not topple over. The spires and pennants reached the heavens and the whole thing looked like a castle out of a storybook, jutting precariously up out of the clouds. The mountain or whatever it was built on must’ve been wider than it looked. It felt stable enough when you were walking around.
It looked really pretty in the light of the sunset.
He’d probably be late for the ball, but that was all right. Emmanellain didn’t expect him to actually be on time, did he? He wasn’t that dense. What was the phrase Emm would use all the time? Oh right. Fashionably late.
Sicard wasn’t sure he was fashionable enough to be late, but he’d make due and Emmanellain could deal with it.
The sun had set by the time the ship settled into place at the airdocks. Fortunately, if Sicard remembered his barrings, the docks weren’t far from the Fortemps family manor, which is where the–
Hang on.
Sicard dug the invitation out of his pocket and glared at it under a street lamp. Cordially invites–blah blah blah–there’s the date, got that right, now where did it say the damn party was at…?
He breathed a sigh of relief when he re-read the address. It was at the manor, which meant he knew where to go. More or less. It was Ishgard–compared to the myriad streets of Limsa Lominsa, how hard could it be?
Nearly a bell later, after three sets of staircases, two tunnels, three surprised chickens, a creaking ladder, four toddlers throwing snowballs, and a giant ramp later, Sicard finally gave up and asked a nearby Temple Knight for directions. He was in a foul temper and still had feathers stuck in his messy, seagreen hair.
“Fortemps Manor? You’re well out of your way, sir. Just take this hall up, past the Hoplin, and down a small set of stairs to the courtyard. If you see the fountain you’re in the right place. You’ll find House Fortemps on the left, and House Haillenarte on the right.”
“Right. Uh. Thanks.” Sicard nodded and set off. The Temple Knights always unnerved him a little. Between their zealotry and the fact they kept their faces hidden behind those metal plates it was hard to tell what they were thinking. He preferred to be able to read people’s expressions.
But the man had been polite and Sicard eventually found his way to the manor.
It should have been obvious, really.
A crowd had gathered in the courtyard, circling like vultures around the giant manse on the right–nobles in fancy suits and poofy dresses, with giant hats, delivery people milling about the back entrance to keep the steady supply of wine and stinky cheeses flowing, and a few urchins from down below, looking to make a quick coin from a noble’s generosity or to just outright pickpocket them. A few of the smaller urchins seemed to be running errands and messages back and forth for the nobles.
Sicard more or less approved of that. Get what you could from them what had the means. Still, he had to get through this mess to the door, and he couldn’t see Emmanellain anywhere, which meant the bugger was inside. Of course he was! He bloody lived there!
Since the urchins here weren’t the same as the ones back home, and hadn’t had the fear of the Executioners hammered into them, he kept a tighter grip on his coin purse as he made his way through the crowd.
A few people were singing some kind of hymns around the fire. It was downright quaint.
Finally, he managed to edge his way to the door where a tall blonde knight in house colors he didn’t recognize was deep in conversation with the House Fortemps knight at the door. The Fortemps knight made a helpless gesture, half-shrug, half-flail, and hurried off into the manor on some errand or another. That left the blonde knight, who turned and sneered as Sicard approached.
Now, just because Sicard kept his activities mostly above board these days did not mean he was a fool. The knight was wearing dress armor, and had the world’s shiniest sword strapped firmly in a scabbard at his side, but he was a Noble. They didn’t exist in Vylbrand, really, and Sicard had met quite a few Ishgardian nobles during his stint in Garlemald. He’d found them more or less agreeable–like Emmanellain. The lad might have been a wet noddle most of the time but his heart was more or less in the right spot.
This one though...this one was a Noble–the kind Sicard despised with every fiber of his being. The kind that felt that they should be in charge of things by virtue of nothing more than their birth. A luck of the draw and a silver spoon in their mouth and they thought they were King Shite.
For Sicard, who had scraped and clawed his way into power not because he felt it was owed to him, but because he felt duty-bound to protect himself and his crew, the man was walking anathema, which was a word he’d learned from Emmanellain, of all people.
Another thing he’d learned from Emmanellain was that a certain kind of Noble didn’t know how to handle a man with his head held high and a level of arrogance only employed by those in the High Houses. Sicard understood that. There was quite a lot a stubborn bloke could get away with in Limsa if he had a clipboard, a carbuncle, and an clear bugger you attitude.
So. Sicard was the Acting Captain of the Bloody Executioners. He knew all about feigned arrogance. He raised his head, put on his best sneer, and approached the knight with a confidence he only half felt.
He immediately ran into a problem when it turned out the knight was better at sneering. And he had the advantage of being an elezen, which meant he got to sneer while looking down his hawk-nose. Bastard.
“And you are…?” the knight drawled.
Time to drop the act. The knight was on the door, which meant he couldn’t be that important, despite how he postured. Sicard drew himself up to his full height, even if that only barely came up to the knight’s shoulders and frowned. “Captain Sicard Spence.”
“Mm...I feel sure I’d remember that name, Captain. And yet that name does not appear on the list,” the knight said without checking any sort of list.
“That so?” Sicard snapped, feeling his face heating up and he stopped trying to sound “proper” and let his accent slip back in. Damn these blue bloods. “Well, ye can check with Lord Emmanellain then, cause I’m 'ere by 'is personal invitation.”
“Unfortunately,” the knight said in a tone that indicated he did not find anything unfortunate in the situation. “The young Master Fortemps does not have input into the guest list. I’m afraid I cannot let you pass.”
It was the smirk. That’s what did it. Sicard’s palms itched to wipe it off the man’s face. The knight was lying–he knew the man was lying, but could he call him on it here? In a courtyard full of people? He didn’t know a lot about Ishgardian society, but he knew the knights of the High Houses commanded an obscene level of respect and impunity.
Also, he knew that the knight using “master” instead of “lord” when referring to Emmanellain was an insult of the highest caliber. He knew (because Emmanellain told him) that many of the High House knights thought him a useless sop–an opinion that Sicard had agreed with until now. Now he was ready and willing to go to the mat with this pompous sonuvabitch because he’d seen Emm in Garlemald–somewhere people like this rat bastard wouldn’t dare step foot. Emmanellain had been terrified at the time. Scared shiteless, aye, but he’d held his own when the tempered ran amock. He’d complain and whinge about moving boxes, but move them he did. He stood his ground, knees knocking and sweat running down his face, but he bloody well held it.
And this popinjay was out here disrespecting Emm to Sicard’s face!
Nobody was allowed to do that unless it was Sicard himself!
“You’d best move along, Acting Captain,” the knight sneered, icy blue eyes narrowed, lips curled into a tighter, crueler sneer–as if sensing just how close Sicard was to throwing a punch and daring him to do it. “Before you dishonor the young master and get yourself thrown in the dungeons for the night. Your kind are not welcome here.”
Acting Captain ...which meant the bastard knew exactly who Sicard was, and knew of his association with Emmanellain–but that didn’t come as a surprise and it certainly didn’t leave the mark that the words, your kind did.
Never in Sicard’s entire life had he heard so much venom put into two words. Your kind.
He took a heated step forward instead of back, hands curling into fists. “Aye? And what would my kind be, then?” he growled, low and dangerous. Bright new future be damned. A new breed of pirate indeed.
But a pirate nonetheless.
And he may not have had his shooters on him, but there was more than one dagger tucked away in the folds of his coat and the insides of his boots.
The knight leaned down. “Common brigands were once outlawed in the Holy See, on pain of being thrown off Witchdrop, and while the House of Lords has seen fit to allow you to walk our streets unmolested, assuming you have any place in civilized society is laughable at best. Now look around, people are staring. You don’t want to make a scene, do you?”
“Ye ain’t got any idea how much I want to make a scene,” Sicard hissed under his breath with such fury that he actually got the knight to stop back a bit. He sniffed, imitating a stuffy noble and flicked a piece of invisible dust off his coat sleeve as he stepped away. "But in the interest of bein' civilized I won’t turn yer arse inside out. Tell Lord Emmanellain I’ll see em when he’s done entertainin' the rubes." Pause. “What’s yer name again?”
The knight’s nose wrinkled. “Ser Tedalgrinche.”
Sicard tipped his hat. Such a cursory gesture had no right carrying the tangible malice it did, but Sicard wanted the knight to know he was a dead man walking. “I’ll remember it.”
And he turned on his heel and, head held high, marched off down the street. This was not a defeat, he swore, even though he could feel the knight’s sneer on the back of his neck, hot and triumphant. No. Now it was personal. Emmanellain had invited him, personally , and some blue blood busy body had gotten in the way.
He squared his heel as he turned the corner and started down the ramp that led around to the lower section of the manor, which was just as busy as the main entrance.
But it was busy with commoners.
Sicard paused.
That was right, wasn’t it? Every fancy blue-blood ball ran smooth 'cause a bunch of commoners made sure the drink kept flowing and wandered around with silver trays bearing those little sausages on crackers. Many of the common servants were of the Hyur persuasion.
He tipped his head to the side. People like that knight didn’t see the grease in the machine, but that didn’t mean the machine didn’t need grease…
You don’t want to make a scene, do you?
In the darkness, Sicard slid his hand into his pocket, and he grinned.