Chapter Text
Alphinaud was wandering through the Jeweled Crozier with the Warrior of Light in tow. Normally, the marketplace was one of his favourite places to visit in a new city, but recent events weighed on his mind too much for him to relax and take in the sights. His grimoire had been badly damaged in that harrowing trial by combat, and finding a replacement was surprisingly difficult. Arcanima was rarely practiced in Ishgard, and neither House Fortemps nor the Temple Knights had any suitable tomes in their well-stocked armouries.
Instead, Count Edmont had generously bestowed him with a promissory note for thirty thousand gil to purchase the supplies he needed to craft a replacement. He had in turn given the note to Lang. He didn’t exactly trust himself with money at the moment.
If Alphinaud had hopes for this outing to lift his spirits, so far it was not meeting expectations. The day was gloomy and cold, even by Ishgardian standards, and he'd been out here, with damp clothes and aching legs, for more than an hour already. He and Lang had visited three booksellers, a specialized weapons shop, and a dozen stalls with imported foreign goods, all to no avail.
Venturing out without a weapon also made him feel vulnerable, even though logically he knew he had nothing to worry about with Lang beside him. The occasional looks from a passerby or shopkeep no longer put him immediately on edge, but it still made him feel like he was a curiosity being gawked at.
They had reached the end of another street, and Alphinaud was scanning for a shop they hadn't yet visited, when he spotted a sign over a door. It said Ghiselle's Rare & Enchanted Sundries.
“That looks promising. Shall we go in?” Alphinaud said, pointing to the shopfront. He wasn't too optimistic, but at least it was inside a building instead of an open stall. If nothing else, they would have a brief respite from the weather.
"That's fine," Lang answered. He had also been acting more subdued than usual since the trial. His tone certainly mirrored Alphinaud’s current lack of enthusiasm.
But as soon as Alphinaud stepped inside the shop, he was greeted by warmth and a wonderfully reinvigorating aroma. He took a deep breath, taking in the scent of parchment and ink, mingling with the sweetness of spring flowers. That was popular with the indoor establishments, making the place smell like a season that wasn’t winter.
While Alphinaud basked, Lang went directly to the counter where an Elezen woman dressed in purple worked. "Good afternoon. Are you Ghiselle?" he asked.
"Madame Ghiselle, if you please." The woman looked him up and down disapprovingly, then peered over the counter at Alphinaud as well. "Ah, the new wards of House Fortemps. May I help you?"
“Do you have any arcane tomes, the kind from La Noscea?” Lang asked. Rather bluntly, Alphinaud thought, but Lang knew the local customs better than he did.
“No, none of that kind, I’m afraid.”
Alphinaud cleared his throat. “I would also be happy with aetherically conductive parchment and bindings. And would you happen to have mythrite ink, by any chance?”
Madame Ghiselle narrowed her eyes. “The only spellcasting books we carry here are holy books, certified by the Vault for such purposes," she said slowly.
Alphinaud immediately backpedaled. “Ah, that is definitely not what I intend to use them for, spellcasting purposes, I mean. They’re for research, that's all."
Lang produced the promissory note from his pocket and placed it on the counter. “This is signed by Count de Fortemps. He sent us here.”
Madame Ghiselle unfolded the note and examined it, holding it up to a lamp. Unable to find a flaw with it, she returned it to Lang. “The supplies you want are behind that shelf," she said tersely and dismissed them.
Alphinaud realized the purpose of Edmont giving him the note rather than a purse of gil. In case he had to buy something unusual, the seller had a physical piece of assurance that the Count himself approved of it. A clever bit of foresight. He quickly ducked behind the row of shelves.
“That was a rather odd welcome,” he whispered to Lang. “I suppose we’re not her usual clientele?”
“Clearly not,” Lang replied quietly.
“She seemed to think… that is, should I be concerned about practicing arcanima in Ishgard?”
Lang rolled his eyes. “No, carbuncles aren't heretical. You were just unlucky to encounter someone particularly adherent to old traditions.” He did say it with a faint smile.
“Ha, still, I would prefer to not chance such an encounter so soon,” Alphinaud said.
He turned his attention to the shelves. This was the kind of upscale establishment where everything had a price label, so you knew exactly how much wealth you were flaunting with each purchase. An inkwell of shimmering dark blue liquid caught his eye, and he carefully picked it up. It was exactly what he needed, mythrite ink with excellent aetherical conducting qualities, but he nearly wept when he saw the price. Just one of these would consume nearly his entire budget.
“Take your time. If you have some gil left over, we can see about getting it nicely bound by one of those booksellers.” Lang patted him on the shoulder and strolled around the corner, out of sight.
Alphinaud put the inkwell back with some regret. If he had access to his usual funds, he wouldn't have needed to worry about the price. It wasn’t as if he wanted to spend money on needless flair, high quality materials were simply an important investment for the effectiveness of the tome. Now, he had to carefully consider the cost of each material and the trade-off in quality.
After much deliberation, he settled on a bottle of aurum regis ink, a sheaf of decent parchment, and a plain leather cover. The quality of the ink was the most vital, so he still allotted over half the budget to it. Together, it left about a thousand gil to spare. All in all, he was feeling pretty proud of himself.
Alphinaud gathered up his chosen supplies to make his purchase, but paused when he overheard Lang speaking to Madame Ghiselle, apparently unsuccessfully trying to haggle over something. He peered around the shelf. There was a very small wooden box on the counter between them.
“Five thousand per onze. No less.” Madame Ghiselle said, arms firmly crossed.
“How could it be worth that much?” Lang said, sounding frustrated.
“Authentic Coerthan tea is a scarce commodity these days.”
“I am well aware of that, but you're telling me the price tripled in the last two years alone.”
“It’s a simple matter of supply and demand. People continue to drink tea, but no more is being produced. For the discerning drinker, leaves imported from Gridania or cultivated in hothouses simply do not suffice.” Her tone of voice implied she did not think Lang was someone with a discerning palate.
“I was just in a shop selling Lowland Grey for two thousand an onze,” Lang said.
“Trends dictate the relative popularity of cultivars," Madame Ghiselle said impatiently. “Please, do you think I’m trying to gouge you? I have no such intentions, but if you continue to insinuate that I engage in such lowly practices, I will be calling for Temple knights to escort you out.”
Alphinaud hung back and watched curiously. He knew Lang was usually exceedingly frugal. When they were back at the Rising Stones, Tataru had to cajole him into taking from the Scions’ coffers to upgrade his equipment instead of repairing them until they were threadbare.
“Fine, I’ll buy it," Lang said after a moment. "I can't pay for it right now, but if you can put it aside for two weeks, I’ll come back with the money.”
“We don’t do holds on wares, I’m afraid.”
“What if I gave you collateral?”
“If you even have anything of comparable value-” Madame Ghiselle fell silent when Lang stripped off his glove, took a ring off his finger and nearly slammed it on the counter.
“…Very well, that will do.” She pushed the ring and the box to the side. “I will reserve this item for you for ten days, at the end of which I expect payment of fifteen thousand gil in full.”
Lang exhaled and nodded. He looked surprised to see Alphinaud when he turned around, like he’d forgotten he was there. He handed Alphinaud the promissory note. “Here, pay for your things and let’s be off.”
Alphinaud had half a mind to tell him to just use it to buy the tea, and he’ll figure out something else later, but Lang was already out the door. He awkwardly stepped up to the counter.
“Your manservant was very uncivil,” Madame Ghiselle said.
“My what- oh, no, he is my colleague,” Alphinaud had to make an effort to keep a straight face. “But I do apologize on his behalf, he’s usually not so testy.” Privately, he didn’t think Lang had said anything out of line, but he understood the value of a small white lie for diplomacy’s sake.
She looked at him doubtfully. “Your colleague? You're but a child.”
“I am sixteen.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“...Which is the age that grants one status of adulthood in Sharlayan.”
“Is that so? Well, here in Ishgard, you don't become a man until you can strap a sword to your hip without it dragging on the ground.” She began wrapping the items in waxed paper. “Hmph, Sharlayan… Count de Fortemps sure knows how to pick them,” she muttered.
Alphinaud felt rather like a deflated sail, but he made himself maintain a courteous smile. “Perhaps some of your fine selection of enchanted wares here came from the Sharlayan colony? Surely those goods will only continue to appreciate in value as well.”
That at least earned him a small chuckle. “Very well, I accept your apology on your colleague’s behalf. Here.”
He accepted his items, wrapped and tied with a ribbon, along with a handful of change. Nine hundred and eighty three gil, down to the last coin. Oh well, he had hoped he could use his skills in negotiation to get a slight discount, but he had a fairly good idea what Madame Ghiselle would think about that.
He let curiosity get the better of him, and looked closer at the box of tea. The wooden case was unlacquered and roughly hand carved, but the imperfections gave it a certain character. There were little flowers etched all around the sides of the box.
"What makes this tea so expensive?" he asked, hoping Madame Ghiselle would humour him a bit longer.
"It came from the Eastern Lowlands of Coerthas. The tea valleys were famous for their unique cultivars, before the cold took its toll, that is." She opened the box for a second, just enough for him to get a sniff. It had a nice earthy and floral aroma, but admittedly, he didn't know enough about tea to discern anything more than that.
He examined the ring too. It was a simple iron band without any engravings or decorative stones, plus it was rather worn and scratched. “And is this ring really of equal worth?”
“Not at all, I couldn’t pawn it off for five gil,” Madame Ghiselle said. She answered the question in his puzzled expression with a sigh. “It’s his wedding ring.”
“Pardon, his what- Ohh.” Alphinaud's eyes widened. He had a lot of questions all of a sudden, none of which were appropriate to pester a shopkeeper with. He floundered a little. “Perhaps I could offer something else as collateral? I’m sure I have something more valuable. My earring is pure silvergrace, it’s a family heirloom-”
She held up her hand, stopping him from removing his earring. “Don't worry, I’m not going to take it from him. He’ll come back for it in less than a week. You can pick it up for him if he doesn't.”
“I will be sure to remind him. It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Madame Ghiselle.” Alphinaud would have swept a bow, except he would have fallen off the step stool he was using to see over the counter, so he just half bowed and made his exit as hastily as he could without seeming impolite.
Lang was waiting for him across the street. “Did you get everything you need?” he asked.
“I did," said Alphinaud.
"Sorry for leaving you to deal with..." Lang nodded towards the store.
Alphinaud laughed airily, his breath fogging up in the cold air. "It's alright, I've sat at the tables of far less agreeable negotiators." He turned over his bundle of items, examining it. "You know, I wondered if she is of House Dzemael, judging by some of her remarks and the colour of her dress. But surely she wouldn’t be tending to a shop if she were nobility, no matter how upscale the establishment.”
“Good observation,” said Lang. Alphinaud tried to not too visibly puff up at the compliment. “She’s not Dzemael herself, but she probably has some blood relation with them, or was once a ward of theirs. Come on, let’s head back."
They began retracing their path. As usual, Lang was not going to be forthcoming without further prompting, and Alphinaud could only hold back his curiosity for so long. “So, what is so special about that tea?” he asked.
“It’s from my family’s farm," Lang said. "I grew up in a village that produced tea. Sweetwell, it was called. It’s under six fulms of ice now."
“I'm... sorry to hear that,” said Alphinaud. He could somewhat empathize, as his own birthplace also lay abandoned, though he had been too young to remember the exodus. He looked around. “Madame Ghiselle isn't the only purveyor of rare teas here. Maybe one of these other shops carry it at a less steep price?”
Lang shook his head. “You'll not find it, I thought there was none left on the markets. My brother had to sell what stock he had left years ago. He’d have a heart attack if he saw how much it’s being resold for.”
“When I spoke to her, she really wasn’t as cold as she first seemed. Perhaps if you explained your circumstances, she’d be willing to give you a discount, or at least more time. Actually, it might be better if I do it-”
“Don’t bother. She’s not going to budge for a sad story, the woman has a business to run. I left when I did before she had the opportunity to change her mind.”
Alphinaud frowned. "I admit, I've had some difficulties navigating interactions with this city’s inhabitants. I thought more of them would be like Lord Haurchefant or Count Edmont, but they appear to be the exceptions rather than the rule.”
Lang shrugged. "We Ishgardians are generally a standoffish folk. You didn't say anything wrong."
"I doubt she would have threatened to evict you from the premises if either of us were a noble, though."
"That's not about to change anytime soon,” Lang said wryly.
Another few blocks down, Alphinaud asked: "How do you plan on getting fifteen thousand gil, anyways?"
Lang touched the hilt of the sword at his hip. "Leves, hunt bills, see if anyone has a yarzon infestation they need dealt with. Adventurer things."
"Will that be enough?" Alphinaud said doubtfully. "I have nearly a thousand in change, it's yours if you want it." He started reaching into his pockets.
“No.”
“I’m serious-”
"I'm not taking your money, Alph. That was for you so you're not defenseless the next time you're in danger."
"I have everything I need," Alphinaud protested. "I know how to bind a book myself, you know. I don’t actually need to pay to have it done.”
"Then spend that coin on some potions and ethers," Lang said sternly. Then his expression softened a little. "I'll be fine. I’ve kept myself fed with a sword for thirty years, haven't I? You'll have to excuse my absence to the Count for the next few days though. And speaking of whom, don't tell him about this."
"Why not? He would give you the gil if you asked, I'm certain."
"He would, but I don't want him to."
Alphinaud stopped in front of Lang, blocking his way. "Is this a matter of pride? How many times have I told you to accept aid from others?"
"This isn’t comparable. It’s just some tea leaves, at the end of the day."
"It clearly means a lot to you. That makes it more than just tea!" Alphinaud said, impassioned.
"Just drop it, Alphinaud." Lang looked uncomfortable. He shifted on his feet, looking for a way around. "Promise me, not a word of this to the Count."
Alphinaud stood his ground. Lang could probably pick him up and set him aside with one hand, but he knew Lang wouldn’t want to make a fuss out in public. "Only if you tell me why."
Lang sighed heavily. "How do I put this... imagine how it would feel if you owed someone a debt of gratitude so deep, you don't know how to properly repay them."
Alphinaud nodded. "Go on."
"It's good to repay the kindness of others when you can, but some people… get trapped in it. They don't feel like they can stop, even after they've paid back their dues ten times over. Does that make sense?"
“I think so, yes.”
"Well, that’s how the Count and I feel about each other."
"Really? What for?"
“It’s complicated. You’ll understand someday.” While Alphinaud was deep in puzzled thought, Lang slipped past him, ruffling his hair as he passed by.
"Hey!" Alphinaud yelped indignantly. Gods, it was annoying when Lang would turn a random topic into some kind of cryptic lesson. It didn't even make sense. Count Edmont had repeatedly made it clear that the Scions didn't owe him anything, and what kind of debt could Lang hold over someone as powerful as the Count of House Fortemps? He hurriedly caught up. "You know, you sound like Grandfather sometimes."
"I'll take that as a compliment," said Lang.
"He never used that ‘you’re too young to understand’ excuse on me or Alisaie, though.”
"Hm, not all of us can be as great as him."
Later that evening, Alphinaud sat at Count Edmont's enormous dining table, diligently copying arcanima arrays from his grimoire onto fresh parchment one by one.
Halfway through, he took a break and rubbed his eyes. He stared morosely at the grimoire's broken spine. Alisaie would be furious with him if she knew he damaged his half of Adelphoi, but there was nothing to do about it except wait for it to recharge with aetheric potential. Magical items were a lot like living beings in that way. They could heal from many kinds of injury, but there was simply no substitute for time.
When he finished and the ink was thoroughly dry, he bound the pages in the leather cover with needle and thread. Feeling inspired, he got a brush and some gold paint from the chamberlain, and calligraphed his initials on the cover. Under it he carefully copied the Ishgardian coat of arms from a tapestry on the wall, complete with the city's motto in tiny letters. It didn't look half bad.
He tested the new tome by channeling aether into each array. The standard gem carbuncles seemed fine, but his moonstone carbuncle was a little dimmer than usual. When he ordered it to sit, it just looked at him sullenly.
Alphinaud reached down and scratched it behind its ears. "Sorry, we'll both have to learn to make do for a while."
The moonstone carbuncle sniffed his hand, and slowly sat down after a moment of what looked like deliberate thought, or as much of it as a carbuncle was capable of. Alphinaud released the creature back to the aetherial sea with a flick of his hand.
That night, he fell asleep clutching his new book. For the first time in days, he didn’t dream of being trapped in the pit of the trialing arena.