Chapter Text
“Most people think it is just plums, you know,” said Ferdinand, examining the one in his hand as he leaned against the taffrail of the Crown Eagle. With his cheeks wind-pinked and hair breeze-blown, the Prime Minister cut a dashing figure against the early summer ocean.
(At least, that was the impression Hubert got out of the corner of his eye, his focus being mainly on the notes he was reviewing in preparation for their arrival in Morfis, of course.)
Your chief goals should be to evaluate the viability of the new Morfan cultivation techniques, determine the extent of Dagdan naval involvement east of the Throat, and to negotiate an extension of the timeline for Adrestia’s repayment of—
“—Morfan agriculture changed the history of Fódlan,” Ferdinand continued, undeterred by Hubert’s lack of response. “But only the plum kept its origin in the name, because there were already plums in Fódlan, so they had to be differentiated somehow. But many of the crops we now consider Fódlani staples were actually introduced from our neighbors to the south.”
“Hm,” said Hubert politely, eyes still fixed on Lady Edelgard’s refined script.
—without elevating Morfan luxury imports above the tax status of Almyran, which would—
“The noa fruit, for example,” said Ferdinand. “And the red wheat and emmer that now thrive in Gronder Field, and the peppers and tomatoes of Rusalka, and the apples in the renowned orchards of Aegir, and—”
“—meaning has been conveyed, Prime Minister,” said Hubert, flipping to the next page.
Ferdinand chuckled with only a little indignation, taking a bite of his plum. He made a pleased sound as he chewed, licking his lips of the excess juice and gazing with favor upon the gem-red interior.
“I bring it up,” he continued, “only so that you will remember, when you are thinking of a thousand ways the Morfan state could be enacting some plot to maim or manipulate the people of Fódlan via vegetable exports, that our empire has long relied on the horticultural talents of our southern friends.”
—establish rapport between Prime Minister Aegir and the Morfan Chancellor, along with his heir apparent and any other key figures in the—
“I will keep that in mind,” said Hubert distractedly.
“See that you do,” said Ferdinand, and settled into the enjoyment of his plum and the sea air.
After completing his fourth and final review of Lady Edelgard’s instructions, Hubert looked back up, his neck cracking a little as he did. Ferdinand had turned away, looking out over the ocean towards their destination, posture relaxed and easy, his braid a brilliant orange against the crisp blue and white of the sky. Hubert folded his notes, tucked them into his breast pocket, and moved to join his colleague at the railing.
At the terminus of Ferdinand’s gaze, the city of Jana had just become a twinkle on the horizon, a white-gold glint in the afternoon sun. The crew of the Crown Eagle called good-naturedly to one another as they made small adjustments to the rigging, deftly moving around the Two Jewels on the deck of their little caravel. The seas were calm, the weather was fair, and the sails were full. As they drew closer to their destination, Hubert assessed the sun’s position and estimated they were a few hours ahead of schedule.
“An auspicious start,” Ferdinand remarked, as though sensing his thoughts.
“Perhaps,” said Hubert. “Or the doing of Morfan elemental mages, to lull us into a false sense of security.”
Ferdinand shook his head ruefully.
“Your outlook would take a beautiful spring morning as a trap for unsuspecting seedlings, Hubert.”
“I’ve never trusted springtime,” said Hubert. “Perennials are a form of necromancy.”
Ferdinand bit back a smile and sighed, and the two let the sounds of the ocean fill the air for a moment. Hubert took the opportunity to review the mental map he’d made of the Morfan capital, placing the port, the markets, the School of Sorcery, the Magisterial Villa.
“It has been a long time since I last visited Morfis,” said Ferdinand at last, fiddling with the end of the long red ribbon that tied back his hair.
“Oh?” said Hubert, turning his attention back to his companion. “You didn’t mention any prior dealings when we were preparing.”
“Because I have had none, really,” said Ferdinand. “That is, none that would have bearing on our assignment—early in my father’s time as Prime Minister, on a number of occasions, my mother and sisters and I accompanied him on state visits. That is all.”
“I see,” said Hubert. “Already an enterprising diplomat, at the ripe age of…”
“Twelve,” Ferdinand filled in. “At the last of such trips.”
Hubert recalled Ferdinand at twelve and grimaced.
“And you’re certain we won’t be turned away at the docks?”
Ferdinand swatted his arm in response, moving off the railing to stand at his full height.
“I will have you know that the daughter of the Chancellor remembered me and my sisters quite fondly,” he said. “In fact, upon learning that I would be representing Fódlan for our first diplomatic visit since Unification, she sent me her warmest personal regards. I am sure she will gladly testify to the indisputable charms of twelve-year-old Ferdinand von Aegir, as well as his notable skill at Morfan marbles.”
Hubert’s eyebrows rose a hair (a hair being really all there was of them).
“The presumed successor to the Morfan Chancellery wrote you a personal letter in advance of this assignment,” he said, “and you neglected to mention this until now because…?”
“It had no relevance to the substance of our visit,” said Ferdinand firmly. “It was a personal message between old acquaintances. We exchanged not a word about state business.”
“Hmph,” said Hubert, folding his arms.
“Oh, do not be cross, Hubert,” said Ferdinand, nudging him with his elbow. “You have my sincerest assurances that it contained nothing that would interest you.”
Hubert glared at the offending elbow.
“It is my job to know who is writing whom, and why.”
“And you are very good at that job,” said Ferdinand, placatingly. “In fact, I am surprised you were not already aware of Lady Saira’s letter. I had assumed you read all my correspondence, or at least held each envelope up to the sunlight and glared thoroughly.”
Hubert’s next huff contained a ghost of a laugh.
“That tactic would be of little use on your letters,” he said. “Many-paged monstrosities that they are.”
“I will not be reproached for delighting in the written word,” said Ferdinand brightly. “Now, we have perhaps an hour before we arrive in Jana. Shall we review one more time the who-is-whom of the Morfan cabinet?”
“I supposed it has changed somewhat since your illustrious debut in the Morfan Court in Imperial Year 1172,” Hubert remarked, reaching for his notes again. “Very well. Where would you like to start, Prime Minister?”
Jana was a striking city, more modern in appearance than Enbarr but no less stately. Towers of white brick and pale sandstone stretched skyward on a great coastal cliff, glass of startling thinness and clarity shining in their windows. Along the port, staircases and ramps had been carved directly into the pale rock face, long-weathered in the sea wind. Intermixed with them, newer towers of vertical steel tracks facilitated the raising and lowering of immense platforms bearing throngs of people and carts and animals.
On the water, the port bustled with a motley array of ships and shiphands. Morfan carracks were docked beside Almyran clippers, Brigidian barques beside Fódlani fishing vessels, all in various states of coming or going, loading or unloading. On the western edge, a single Dagdan frigate loomed imposingly with sails furled and cannons stowed.
The Crown Eagle made a smooth entrance, guided in its last few lengths on the ropes of Morfan dock workers. As the ship’s crew began to secure the vessel, the captain of Ferdinand’s personal detail approached Hubert and Ferdinand and saluted in the Adrestian style.
“Ministers!” she greeted, rather loudly. “Welcome to Jana. We are expecting an escort from the High Guard, but our voyage was swifter than anticipated, so we’ve arrived a bit early. I’ve sent up a messenger but we may be waiting a moment longer.”
“That is no trouble, Myriam,” said Ferdinand graciously. “There is plenty to take in from here.”
That was true, at least. The streets were thick with carts and wagons, some pulled by people, others by horses or oxen or the odd Almyran camel. They carried everything from raw lumber and stone to fish and hay and Dagdan rice to Fódlani machinery and Brigidian cabinetry. Hubert made a mental note to check out the local black market—such hubbub would make for ideal cover for smugglers.
“Not exactly the isolationist stronghold of our fathers’ time, is it?” Ferdinand remarked, watching a massive timber ship preparing to float its cargo to shore.
“Times have changed,” Myriam agreed, and Hubert mentally braced himself.
“People have changed the times,” countered Ferdinand, right on cue. “Chancellor Maravi made a point of laxening his predecessors’ policies on foreign involvement. He was the first to elevate the role of the Minister of the Exterior to the cabinet, and he has enacted many policies meant to encourage trade and travel. Recent Fódlani engagement has been slow only because of the war, and then the Restoration, but Morfis has welcomed the wider world for many years now.”
“I see,” said Myriam. “That’s very interesting, sir.”
She sounded sincere, which Hubert supposed was why she’d lasted in her job.
The history lesson continued for a little while, until it was cut short by the arrival of the High Guard. It wasn’t an overlarge posse, just a half-score soldiers, but the conspicuous presence of their gold and green tabards proved very effective at parting the crowds, and made for an easy walk through the docks to the lifts at the foot of the cliff.
At the top, Hubert having successfully distracted himself from the ascent by studying the magical machinery that orchestrated it, they were greeted by a second group of guards as well as two well-dressed individuals with matching sashes and expectant smiles. The shorter of them, clearly Morfan with her dark skin and coal-black hair, introduced herself as Amali Ennou, the Minister of Agriculture. The other, a man of perhaps forty years with Hubert’s height and pale complexion, was Alban Ziegel, Minister of the Exterior.
“Originally from Hrym, if I recall?” said Hubert as he shook the latter’s hand.
“Correct, Marquis Vestra,” said Minister Ziegel. “Though I’ve called Jana my home for a long time now.”
“Ah,” said Hubert. “Then you may not have heard that the marquisate ended with my father. ‘Minister’ will suffice.”
“Of course,” said Ziegel, a note of apology in his tone. “Your great revolution. ‘Minister’ it is.”
They proceeded towards the High Court, making conversation about the journey (gentle seas, favorable winds), the port (livelier than ever), the lifts (built two Chancellors ago, a key element to Jana’s flourishing over the last few decades). Hubert fell a step behind and let Ferdinand do most of the talking with their hosts, instead taking in the city as they passed through it. Broad-leaved trees lined the streets, casting shade across the white cobblestones below. In their branches, birds clustered and cooed above vendors hawking fragrant street fare. There were fewer guards than he would have expected, but he supposed Morfis had been at peace longer and more frequently than Fódlan.
“And of course, we are excited to see the agricultural techniques that have inspired so many letters,” Ferdinand was saying when Hubert’s attention returned, the Prime Minister’s hands as lively as his tone.
“I assure you you will not be disappointed,” said Minister Ennou, whose own voice was low and smooth, bright vowels accenting her Fódlani. “The flavor is very good, and the growing time is the fastest our engineers have ever achieved. We are eager to share the benefits of our progress with the people of Fódlan.”
And triple your export revenues, thought Hubert. Or overstrain the fields of Bergliez and deplete the richness of their soil, forcing us to depend on you for basic sustenance.
“And of course, we want you to feel confident that the crops are right for your farmlands,” said Ziegel. “We have scheduled a demonstration of the germination process as well as tours of the fields, and a laboratory has been prepared to your specifications, Minister Vestra.”
“Your understanding is appreciated,” said Hubert.
“As is your accommodation,” said Ferdinand with a quick glance back at his colleague. “After everything Fódlan has been through, the only thing more important than ensuring the strength of our harvests is maintaining the trust of our people. In the old Kingdom, especially, our citizens are wary of outside influence.”
“I understand,” said Ennou. “It was not so long ago that Morfis, too, looked on the outside world with mistrust.”
The conversation turned to Chancellor Maravi and his cosmopolitan policies, and soon enough they were arriving at the High Plaza, an enormous white-bricked square that served as gateway to the High Court, including the grand Legislative Chambers, the Chancellor’s Residence, and the smaller Magisterial Villa, where important guests both domestic and foreign stayed. These three were not technically separate buildings, sharing one common ground floor, but extended upwards into separate towers that were connected by arched sky-bridges further up.
For a country of people who were a good few inches shorter than the Fódlani average, Hubert thought to himself, Morfis had a heavy inclination toward vertical expansion.
When they’d crossed the plaza, Minister Ennou took her leave, some of the High Guard breaking off to escort her towards her offices. Minister Ziegel and the remainder of the guard accompanied Ferdinand, Hubert, and their entourage through the gates of the Magisterial Villa, whose entryway featured a lush courtyard with a burbling fountain.
They were given a tour of the facilities—a breezy, high-ceilinged dining space on the first floor, with a full kitchen for guests who had brought their own cooks; meeting and receiving rooms on the second; servants’ and guards’ quarters on the third, connected via a discreet secondary staircase, and a series of more lavish guest chambers on the fourth. The fifth was a library of sorts, with enormous panel windows looking out over the city, and walls lined with well-stocked bookshelves and works of art, mostly on Morfan history and culture. On the north end, flanked by two members of the High Guard, a pair of imposing double doors opened to the sky-bridge that connected the Villa to the upper lobby of the Legislative Chambers.
Tour completed and Ferdinand’s many questions about the construction of sky-bridges answered, Ziegel escorted them back down to the fourth floor.
“We have prepared the Harbor Suite for your stay,” said Ziegel, gesturing to a door at the end of the hallway. “Separate chambers, but with an adjoining balcony that overlooks the water. If this is not to your liking, the staff can swiftly prepare alternative accommodations.”
“I am certain it will be satisfactory,” Ferdinand reassured him, for some reason looking very faintly pink-cheeked. Perhaps he’d been sunburnt after all those hours on the deck of the Eagle ? The man never did know when to go inside.
“Very good,” said Ziegel. “Then I will take my leave—you must be weary from your journey. The Chancellor looks forward to hosting you both for supper tonight at last hour’s light.”
“Thank you for the gracious welcome, Minister,” said Ferdinand. “Will we see you at dinner, as well?”
“You will,” said Ziegel, with a smile that Ferdinand returned twofold.
“We shall look forward to it, then,” he said. “I have many more questions about Morfan stonemasonry, if you will tolerate them.”
Minister Ziegel chuckled.
“I welcome them,” he said.
With a short bow, Ziegel disappeared back up the stairs toward the sky-bridge, leaving the two Adrestians alone in the sunlit hallway.
There was a slight change in Ferdinand’s demeanor when their host had gone, as there often was when officials or guests or even friends had left, leaving him with just Hubert. His shoulders came just a little bit forward, gallant posture loosening, and his smile lost that radiant edge that had charmed courtiers from Boramas to Sreng. Not that Ferdinand didn’t smile around Hubert—he smiled incessantly around everyone, as far as Hubert could tell, unless moved to irritation or anger—but he smiled differently when it was just the two of them. Softer, somehow. Not quite relaxed, but more in the eyes and less in the mouth.
“Shall we, then?” Ferdinand asked, stirring Hubert from his thoughts. And there it was, as he stood in the open doorway, waiting. That damn smile, like he was entertaining a thought that was amusing yet ever-so-slightly wistful.
Hubert straightened out, stepping forward to pull the door a little wider.
“After you, Prime Minister.”
The Harbor Suite was more than satisfactory. It boasted an antechamber decorated with copious succulent plants and—importantly—stocked with coffee and several varieties of tea, along with the equipment to prepare them. Further in, the bedchambers were spacious and comfortable, each featuring a large, low bed made up with fine Morfan linen, and a writing-desk stocked with quills, paper, ink, and modern sigil-lights. The rooms appeared identical except for their decor—one curtained in cream and gold, one in breezy blue—and their private washrooms, the latter of which featured an enormous whitestone bathtub that made Ferdinand literally gasp with excitement.
That settled the question of who would take which room, at least. With only an hour or two before last light, they got to unpacking their things and preparing for their encounter with the Chancellor. For Ferdinand, this meant making immediate use of the bathtub, having been denied such comforts on their two-day voyage. For Hubert, this meant thoroughly checking their rooms for signs of surveillance (none, almost disappointingly), documenting the exact state and layout of the suite, and then bathing with considerably greater efficiency in his more modest tub.
Afterwards, dressed in the waistcoat and trousers he reserved for formal occasions, Hubert wrote up a coded sheet of instructions for the agents who were presumably settling into the servants’ chambers downstairs.
All of the five aides Ferdinand had brought were genuine, from Myriam and her two-man guard unit to his youthful assistant and his geriatric secretary. Hubert’s five, on the other hand, consisted of two actual agriculturalists, one with a specialization in magical cultivation techniques, and three “personal attendants” who would be assisting with various “errands” during their trip. These included observing the Dagdan enclave in Jana, detecting and subverting any Morfan counterintelligence, and reaffirming the loyalties of the handful of Adrestian spies already on the continent.
Just as Hubert set aside the directive, marked with the black serpentine seal of House Vestra, there was a rap on the outer door. When he rose to answer, he was unsurprised to find Ferdinand standing outside it, though slightly more surprised to find him in shirtsleeves, hair fluffed and shining in the early dusk, holding up two brocade waistcoats.
“What do you think?” Ferdinand asked. “The cobalt or the emerald?”
“The blue,” said Hubert, knowing after years of Ferdinand’s acquaintance that it was pointless to object to the question.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand admonished, his brows knitting. “You can hardly render judgment without seeing them in proper light.”
Hubert sighed as Ferdinand brushed past him and into his room, where he positioned himself under the light fixture. Hubert shut the door and turned back to him, evaluating the options for a moment.
“Still the blue,” he said. Then, knowing a verdict alone would be insufficient: “In Morfan superstition, it is the color of good fortune.”
Also, Ferdinand looked good in blue. It brought a flattering contrast to his warm coloring.
“Well argued,” said Ferdinand, humming thoughtfully. He draped the green on the back of Hubert’s chair and shrugged on the blue, beginning to button it over his blindingly white shirt.
“Hardly an argument, by our standards,” said Hubert. “And I am sure Dorothea would be horrified to hear you seeking my counsel on your sartorial decisions.”
“On the contrary,” said Ferdinand, with a fleeting look that looked almost like a grimace. “I believe she would find it quite amusing.”
Hubert didn’t reply, unsure what that meant.
“She would be pleased to see you wearing your Founder’s Day gift, though,” said Ferdinand, finishing with his buttons and gesturing to Hubert’s own waistcoat—deep silver, almost slate, with subtle black embroidery. “And not just because you look very dashing in it.”
Hubert muttered his thanks and changed the topic to their favorite songstress’ efforts to restore the Fhirdiad Concert Hall, which turned into an argument about whether or not it was appropriate to resume performances before the city walls had been fully rebuilt (it wasn’t). And soon enough, it was time to leave for dinner.
The Chancellor’s Residence was a grand, high-ceilinged building, replete with so many windows and balconies and lofty archways that you got the impression you had never quite come indoors. Hubert and Ferdinand were greeted in the reception hall by Adinnas, the elderly Master of the Household, who bade them follow him further in (and then set a pace so glacial, Hubert considered casting a discreet Stride spell).
“I remember this corridor,” Ferdinand exclaimed as they inched through a hallway with a vaulted ceiling, its walls hung with intricate tapestries of the old desert gods. He stopped at one, smiling fondly at a depiction of a wispy figure mid-dash, sand streaming around its amorphous shape. “We would play make-believe here, with Lady Saira.”
“Ah yes,” said their guide, his voice gravelly and warm as he regarded the painting. “That was your favored role—Vaha, the wind. And the elder of your sisters would be Thora, the lightning.”
“You remember!” Ferdinand exclaimed, looking to Addinas in surprise.
“Of course I do,” said Addinas. “I remember every guest in my lord’s house. My small lady would play at Balada, the clouds, and you would all chase each other through this hallway for hours.”
Ferdinand laughed, having the decency to look a tiny bit sheepish as they resumed their walk.
“I fear I made myself a nuisance back then,” he admitted.
Hubert swallowed the words back then?. Ferdinand cast a glance back as though he’d said them anyway, amber eyes flashing with fond reproach.
“You were children,” said Addinas graciously. “It is no nuisance to engage in the carefree joy of youth. Only the most spiteful of men would begrudge it.”
Hubert found himself grateful the hallway was wide enough that he was not in a position to receive an elbow in the ribs.
They emerged from the passageway into a sofa-studded waiting chamber, where after a word exchanged with the guard they ascended a shallow staircase into the audience hall. There, under a high domed ceiling, stood an assemblage of Morfan dignitaries Hubert recognized from the portraits they’d studied—Ministers Ziegel and Ennou along with their colleagues from the ministries of Sorcery and Finance, and the Chancellor with his wife and daughter. All turned expectantly as Addinas and his two visitors crested the stairs.
“Your Eminence,” greeted Addinas, bowing low; Ferdinand and Hubert followed suit. “May I present our honorable guests from the United Empire of Fódlan—Ferdinand von Aegir, Prime Minister, and Hubert von Vestra, Minister of the Imperial Household.”
Chancellor Maravi, a bearded man with a heavy diadem of bronze and onyx, responded with a brief inclination of his head and a smile that seemed to warm his whole dark face.
“Welcome, ministers,” he said, in excellent Fódlani. “I celebrate the return of the partnership between our great nations.”
“ As do us ,” Ferdinand responded in not-so-excellent Morfan, though it was a commendable attempt. He switched back to Fódlani as he continued: “It has been far too long since Morfis and Fódlan came to the table together. We thank you for receiving us so graciously despite our long absence.”
“You have been busy,” said Maravi. “It brings us relief to see peace restored to your lands. And may I say, it is a particular pleasure to see you again, Prime Minister, in so distinguished a capacity. You are a little taller than my last recollection.”
Ferdinand laughed at that, and as the sound rang through the open chamber, Hubert’s eyes landed on the Chancellor’s daughter, Lady Saira. She was a striking young woman, full-figured and tall, with smooth umber skin and a relaxed, regal bearing. Ferdinand’s laugh had provoked a smile from her, dimpling her cheeks and crinkling the corners of her warm brown eyes, which were fixed fondly on the Prime Minister.
A split second later, Ferdinand noticed her gaze, and his own smile grew luminous. He looked back to her father and dipped his head in deference.
“I hope you will find that I have grown in character and capability, not just in height,” he said.
“I am sure we will,” said Maravi. “Now, I must insist the two of you have a drink before we sit down to dinner. Is your preference for wine, or something stronger? We have several of Jana’s finest libations on hand.”
“I have heard excellent things about Janaian plum wine, if that is one such libation,” said Ferdinand, as though he hadn’t ascertained it was the Chancellor’s favorite drink weeks ago, in preparation for their trip. “And Hubert here will tell you that he does not imbibe, but if you had something strong and bitter from the Suva distillery, he would take to it nicely.”
He met Hubert’s eyes then, a hint of a challenge in his smile. Saints, he was insufferable when he was in his element.
Drinks in hand and waitstaff thanked, it came time for Hubert’s least favorite part of any official visit: mingling. He gravitated towards Minister Nayani of Sorcery, a severe-looking woman in her sixties or seventies, and initiated a conversation about Morfis’ renowned academy of the magical arts. Ferdinand didn’t have to make any such conversational choices, as several people immediately approached him. Unsurprisingly, the first of these was Lady Saira, who forwent the traditional press of palms and instead embraced him, raising a few eyebrows around the room (including Hubert’s).
“Your Morfan is quite good,” said the Minister of Sorcery, her dry, lilting voice dragging Hubert’s attention away from the animated exchange happening across the room.
“Your kindness exceeds my skill,” Hubert demurred, though his Morfan was in fact excellent, and he knew it. “Many in Fódlan who study the arcane arts pick it up.”
“Ah yes,” said the minister. “How is the Academy in Fhirdiad recovering?”
It was a pointed question, with an undercurrent of disapproval—Morfis had enjoyed strong relations with the Kingdom when Cornelia had had the regent’s ear.
“We expect to reopen in a limited capacity in the autumn,” replied Hubert, choosing to ignore the subtext. “With priority of enrollment for those whose studies were cut short by the war.”
The minister hummed her understanding.
“And will you teach?” she asked. “You have quite a reputation as a practitioner of magic, Minister.”
“You flatter me again,” said Hubert. “My specialties are narrow, and I lack the temperament for instruction. If the Emperor bids me to a post at the Academy, I will of course comply. But for now, my duties remain in Enbarr, ensuring her vision is enacted as seamlessly as is possible.”
“I see,” she said. “I imagine there will be no shortage of work for you in that regard as you rebuild from your war.”
“Indeed,” said Hubert. “And with it, an opportunity to make the continent freer and more prosperous than before.”
“Let us hope you are right.”
Minister Ennou joined their conversation after a moment, giving Hubert a chance to ask questions about the structure of the collaboration between Morfis’ farms and magical laboratories. Their visit would last the better part of a week, giving him enough time to witness the processes of cultivation, but he was as interested in the politics of Morfan agricultural sorcery as the actual mechanics. While magic was ubiquitous in Morfis, in Fódlan it was still largely viewed as the domain of the church, the old nobility, and the military—an important cultural obstacle to overcome if they were going to attempt Morfis’ farming techniques and not just import their results.
When the sun had nearly vanished off the western balcony, Master Addinas reappeared to summon them to the dining chamber, an enormous space clearly capable of hosting whole banquets, but tonight set for just nine with one large, round table. Hubert found himself seated between Minister Ziegel and the Chancellor’s wife Rohja, with Ferdinand several across the way between Lady Saira and the Minister of Finance. He could catch the bulk of their conversation, Ferdinand’s bright voice carrying easily in the live acoustic of the hall—a complimentary narrative about Morfis’ military legacy and the mighty deeds of its powerful desert rangers. How the man could make recounting the nation’s history to its own governors engaging rather than patronizing, Hubert would never know.
For his part, Hubert learned several instructive things over the course of dinner. He learned that despite the friendship between their children, Lady Rohja had been no great admirer of Ludwig von Aegir (hardly a surprise, as Hubert had yet to encounter a woman on Fódlan or any other continent who’d thought well of the man). He learned that Chancellor Maravi was very keen to understand how succession of governance would play out in a post-nobility Fódlan, in a way that suggested his own succession might not be as straightforward as a bloodline inheritance. And he learned that Minister Ziegel had been chief advisor to Viscount Hrym before the house had risen up against the Emperor, and fled to take refuge with some distant Morfan relatives when the inevitability of violence became clear.
“Recent history has not been kind to Hrym,” Hubert acknowledged as dessert was served. “We are doing what we can to restore the territory, and the people’s trust. I myself have spent a great deal of time there since reunification.”
Never mind the details, that his time in Hrym had mostly been spent hunting down Agarthans and bringing Shambhala to ruin. In truth, it was Ferdinand’s work on the tax code and on infrastructure that had seeded Hrym’s nascent recovery, but Hubert had also had some hand in those at least.
“It will be a long road,” agreed Ziegel solemnly. “But I am glad your Emperor has started on it. At the very least, I am grateful to be able to see my family again now that the bloodshed has ceased. I made the journey last year, shortly after your great war concluded, but before Emperor Hresvelg’s uncle was taken ill. I believe things have only improved since then.”
“I should hope so,” said Hubert, in as neutral a tone as he could. Somehow, this provoked a chuckle from Minister Ziegel.
“You play the role well, Minister Vestra,” he said, with a knowing tilt of his head. “But you do not need to pretend. I am a man of Hrym, and I saw how my people suffered. Of course I would never delight in the death of another, but I was not sad to see Lord Arundel go.”
“Of course,” Hubert echoed with a practiced smile, remembering the savage euphoria he’d felt when the Sword of the Creator had cleaved Thales’ head from his shoulders.
After the meal had ended, Hubert was more than ready to retire, but Ferdinand lingered with Lady Saira and her father, asking eagerly after Saira’s studies in magic and weaving, regaling them with stories of his sister’s heroism during the war, expressing his approval of Chancellor Maravi’s attempts to bring the best of Morfis to the broader world and vice versa. Out of duty or perhaps pity, Lady Rohja did the same with Hubert, the two of them alternating between listening to the others and making polite conversation about the differences between Morfan and Fódlani magical traditions.
Finally, after Ferdinand’s umpteenth inquiry about the system of admissions for the Morfan Academy of Sorcery, Maravi excused himself, citing the hour and his age. His wife followed suit, but not before giving her daughter a meaningful look (Hubert couldn’t say what the meaning was, only that the look clearly meant something) and pressing a kiss to her temple.
Hubert, who had stood respectfully as the Chancellor departed, did not resume his seat when they’d gone, and was relieved to see that Ferdinand had not either. However, he was looking at Hubert with an excited gleam in his eyes that did not portend an immediate return to their rooms.
“Hubert,” said Ferdinand. “Lady Saira has invited us both to enjoy a digestif on the Pinnacle Terrace. I insist that you join us—I fear I have monopolized her all night, and I am eager for you to make one another’s acquaintance.”
Hubert didn’t know what the Pinnacle Terrace was, but he knew the raw meaning of the words, and they did not paint a picture of a place he wanted to be at any point in time, much less at the end of an evening of forced socialization.
“It is the most splendid view in the palace,” said Lady Saira, smiling earnestly at him. “At night, there is no better vantage point from which to see the city lights.”
She had a voice as lovely as she was, low and sweet, with a tantalizing lilt to her Fódlani. Hubert looked at the pair of them, both eager-eyed and hopeful, and felt a headache coming on.
“Regrettably, I must refuse,” he said. “It is late, and I have some affairs to put in order before tomorrow’s business begins.”
“Ferdinand said you would say that,” said Lady Saira, casting a knowing glance at the Prime Minister.
“One drink, Hubert,” Ferdinand coaxed. “I know that—”
“—if you so desire a chaperone, perhaps you could bring Myriam,” Hubert suggested, pulling his coat from the back of his chair and draping it over his arm. Even past sundown, Jana was a good deal hotter than Enbarr. “I believe she has been waiting downstairs in the audience chamber.”
“I was not—” Ferdinand began to say, face a little pink (with wine?), but he cut himself off and tried again. “Of course. I understand. I will not force you to go anywhere you do not wish to go, and I am sure there will be more opportunities for you and Lady Saira to converse this week.”
Closer to the ground, came the unspoken meaning. Amidst all the other feelings, Hubert felt a pang of gratitude.
“I sincerely hope so,” said Hubert, bowing shallowly towards Lady Saira. “Tonight, may you enjoy the view all the more for not having to share it.”
“I find that sharing improves rather than detracts from a view,” said Saira, returning the bow. “But your kind wishes are appreciated. Good night, Minister Vestra. I look forward to learning more about you than the scraps I got from Ferd tonight.”
Hubert merely raised an eyebrow, smiled thinly, and took his leave.
‘Ferd,’ he thought as he made his way downstairs under the watchful eye of the Residence guard. Dorothea would have a word or two to say about that.
Upon arrival back at the Harbor Suite, Hubert put away his coat and gloves, inspected the room for signs of tampering (none—what was Morfan intelligence even doing?), and confirmed his agents had received their instructions by examining the state of the seal. Satisfied his room was secure, he retrieved a leather-bound notebook from a hidden compartment of his luggage, donned the reading glasses the Imperial physician insisted he use when working in low light, and sat down to capture the evening’s events in writing: the relationships between the different Morfan ministers and their apparent views on Fódlani politics, the layout of the Chancellor’s Residence, the details of the suspiciously warm reception they’d received. As he went, he made note of things worth including in a report to Lady Edelgard, as well as those he would have his agents follow up on to understand better, such as the details of Minister Ziegel’s recent return to Hrym.
Documentation complete, he returned his journal to its hiding place and retrieved a packet of letters concerning the agricultural operations they had come to scrutinize.
Chancellor Maravi had first sent word to Enbarr a month ago, when word of a weak rainy season in Bergliez and Aegir had reached the Morfan court. He’d offered to make available magically enhanced crops and farming techniques in exchange for a number of possible accommodations. Morfis was rich in magic and technology, having had no Church to suppress the pursuit of knowledge over the last thousand years, but their lands lacked Fódlan’s deep ore deposits, and magic could only turn so much desert into farmland. Lady Edelgard suspected (and her Two Jewels agreed) that one of Maravi’s motives in offering up their hard-won knowledge was the hope that Fódlan’s expansive fields would yield enough to re-export a surplus back to Morfis at a favorable price.
It sounded reasonable in theory, but such an arrangement hinged on Hubert certifying that such techniques would not solve today’s agricultural crisis at the price of incurring future ones, and on Ferdinand’s ability to negotiate terms that wouldn’t empty the treasury, upset their allies in Almyra or Brigid, or provoke Dagda, a common rival of both nations. And so after a few weeks of hasty preparations, Lady Edelgard had sent them off on their first overseas mission since Unification, bidding them come back with a treaty deserving of her signature and a restoration of the ties between Fódlan and Morfis.
Hubert had just finished reviewing Minister Hevring’s tariff summary and moved on to Minister Ennou’s table of the modified crop varietals when there was a rap on the door. Sighing, he moved to answer.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand greeted, still in his dinner attire, a wide smile on his face and a small bottle in his hand. “I am surprised you did not check to see that I was an assassin first.”
“Ah yes, Morfis’ infamous assassins, who knock politely to gain entry,” said Hubert dryly.
Ferdinand chuckled and, without invitation, admitted himself to Hubert’s room.
“Diligent as ever,” he remarked, nodding toward the letters on Hubert’s desk as he set down the bottle, unbuckled his baldric, and removed his coat. “You are ready for tomorrow’s tour, then?”
“Nearly,” said Hubert, turning with hand still on the open door. “There is always more that could be done to prepare.”
“And you always do it,” said Ferdinand fondly. Setting his sword on Hubert’s desk and his coat on the back of his chair, he turned to face him and presented the bottle he’d brought. “Lady Saira said that if you took to the Suva malt, you might also enjoy this. It is distilled from a sweet desert plant, but the flavor is smoky and a little bitter.”
Deducing this was an invitation to a nightcap and not just a gift, Hubert hesitated a moment before shutting the door, removing his spectacles, and moving to fetch two glasses.
It was an echo of a scene that had played out dozens of times over the last few years: following an evening of socializing, Ferdinand would be left buzzing and unready to be alone, while Hubert would be ready to swear off human interaction for a fortnight. Ferdinand would trail him back to his office, or appear in his doorway with a thin excuse, and against his better judgment Hubert would let him in. Over a drink or a game of chess, they’d talk until weariness or some sense of propriety prompted Ferdinand to leave. Whether it was a state dinner, a grueling council session, or a ceremonial ball, somehow Ferdinand would always turn up, and somehow Hubert would never turn him away. It had come to the point that Hubert kept a decanter of Ferdinand’s favorite brandy in his office, and often timed his late-evening work to accommodate the Prime Minister’s impromptu appearances.
When Hubert turned back around, Ferdinand was unpinning his cravat with bare hands, having laid his gloves besides his sword.
“You were right about the waistcoat,” he said as Hubert approached with the cups. “Lady Saira remarked on the symbolism when we were on the Pinnacle Terrace.”
“Did she?” said Hubert, handing over the first cup.
Ferdinand nodded.
“She was sorry not to get a chance to meet you properly,” he said as he poured a small measure of golden-brown liquor into it—the color of his eyes, Hubert noted idly. “Though of course she did not fault you for declining her invitation.”
“I am sure your company more than sufficed,” said Hubert. “Far be it from me to disrupt a reunion between old friends.”
Ferdinand handed over the full glass and accepted the empty one.
“It was good to see her,” he said. “It has been a very long time, and we both have changed a great deal, as has the world around us—but all in ways for the better, I think.”
Hubert hummed his agreement.
“You’re certainly less insufferable than you used to be.”
As he finished the second pour, Ferdinand gave him a petulant look bordering on a pout, but there was no real hurt in it. When he was done, Hubert took the cup and traced a sigil just above the surface of the liquid, watching the feathery light settle. They both waited a moment, familiar with this ritual, until the glow dissolved into the liquor and Hubert handed the glass back.
“To old friends,” said Ferdinand, raising it, “who would not poison one another, despite what mistrustful spymasters may think.”
“To mistrustful spymasters,” Hubert countered, “who value their charges' lives above their sentimentality.”
They drank. The liquor was as advertised—a slightly bitter, charred taste with a pleasingly rich underpinning. Ferdinand made a slight face but didn’t empty his portion into Hubert’s cup, as he had on a handful of prior occasions when the drink didn’t suit him.
There was only the one desk chair, so Hubert took a seat on the end of the bed. Ferdinand looked like he had an opinion about that, but shut his mouth and gave it no voice, instead taking a sip of his drink and swallowing quickly. Hubert followed suit, swirling the liquid for a moment before raising the cup to his lips.
“What did you make of our hosts?” asked Ferdinand, sitting on the edge of Hubert’s desk as if to spite the open chair. “You seemed to fare well enough at dinner.”
“It was quite a welcome,” said Hubert. “I doubt we shall see that degree of warmth at the negotiating table.”
“The Chancellor may surprise you,” said Ferdinand. “He clearly has some trust in our intent—I was allowed to escort his daughter to a secluded terrace, armed, and no guard so much as batted an eye.”
“I hardly call carrying a ceremonial sword ‘armed,’” Hubert scoffed.
“The hilt and scabbard may be beautiful, but the blade is hardly ornamental,” said Ferdinand.
The words much like its owner almost left Hubert’s lips, but he caught them in time.
“The Minister of the Exterior is well-versed in Fódlani politics,” he said instead, changing the subject. “He was von Hrym’s chief aide before the territory fell.”
“Ah yes, I thought the name was familiar,” said Ferdinand. “Did you get a sense of what he thinks about Lady Edelgard and her new Adrestria?”
“I get the sense he was glad to have missed the war,” remarked Hubert wryly.
And so they continued, trading insights and quips about the evening and their mission, until both their glasses were long empty and Ferdinand’s impeccable posture had begun to slip. When he finally moved to the chair, and then eventually propped his chin on his hand to keep it from nodding further, Hubert rose.
“You should retire, Prime Minister,” he said, setting his glass beside Ferdinand’s on the desk. “Tomorrow’s duties make no quarter for today’s indulgences.”
“Ah, tomorrow,” said Ferdinand, extending his arms to stretch his shoulders and sighing when they gave a satisfying pop . “That reminds me—Lady Saira has invited me to visit the hippogriff aviary with her in the morning. I know I was originally meant to tour the germination facilities with you and Minister Ennou, but I fear I will not add much to your inspection as I do not have much knowledge of plant husbandry, and I do have a great deal of curiosity about hippogr—”
“—you may be excused,” said Hubert, rolling his eyes.
Ferdinand laughed indignantly, standing up from the desk and reaching for his gloves.
“I ‘may’? ” he echoed. “I am the Prime Minister. You have no authority to require or not require my presence”
“Fine,” said Hubert. “You are not excused, then.”
Ferdinand’s chest swelled and his hands came to rest on his hips.
“Well, then,” he said. “I shall excuse myself.”
“Finally,” said Hubert, smirking. “Can you find your way out, or do you need to be shown the door?”
Ferdinand made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh of aggravation as he laid his coat over his arm and made towards the balcony, wearing that same unguardedly warm expression he seemed to reserve for private audiences.
“You are as impossible as ever, Hubert,” he said, shaking his head. “Good night.”
“Good night, Prime Minister.”
And with a click of the door, he was gone, leaving behind a gentle silence and the dewy scent of his cologne.
Sighing, Hubert took one more glance at the diplomatic letters on his desk, gave up on his preparations, and readied himself for bed.