Political Infatuations (Yoba Side Story)

Yoba waited on the veranda of the Starbringer family villa. His guest was prone to arriving early and today would probably be no exception, assuming he didn’t run into issues locating the entrance to the property. The villa was hidden deep in the Bone Forests of the Icarukian Mountains, and few were aware of its precise location. Only those worthy of immeasurable trust were instructed on how to find it.

In typical Starbringer fashion, this included the couturier.

Yoba embraced what might be his last opportunity to take in the landscape in relative peace. The villa had come alive in recent days with news of the war’s ending, and there was work to be done. The quiet times were over.

The view, however, demanded silence. The surrounding hillside wore the sun-bleached skeletons of trees like jewelry, their branches encrusted in salt. The ancient behemoths had been altered beyond recognition by the wind and slow passage of time. And in the afternoon sun, the entire valley glistened like diamonds.

Beyond the trees, sharp slabs of rock and iron protruded from the earth, forming walls to the north and east. They felt out of place among the hills, more like a scar upon their serenity than a land feature. When the wind blew, the valley sang a strange song. A lament to Arcas’ former beauty, Yoba decided, and it was a song he would miss.

The villa itself was made of white stone, hewn from the surrounding mountainside. Its entire west-facing wall was made up of rotating stone panels that opened to the veranda where Yoba stood. The veranda overlooked a courtyard that tapered off into a ravine. The stones nearest the edge had eroded away, and lay at the bottom. A steep narrow stairway ascended into the courtyard, which was where his old friend would enter.

Yoba was grateful for the long periods of peace and reflection this place allowed him. But he had spent several years here, living out the height of the war with the Starbringers and conducting politics from a distance. It was hard for someone whose entire meaning had been built on interpersonal relationships. But at long last, their intrusion on the valley was coming to an end. It was time to return to Simitu.

Suddenly there was a fluttering of wings, followed by a long discordant warble. A large spilkin had landed on the stone railing and strutted toward Yoba wearing a look of indignance. Sophrosyne had a habit of feeding the birds and several of them had become semi-permanent residents of the villa. They were beautiful creatures with long legs and plumage in vibrant shades of teal, green, and yellow, but they made a horrible racket. It was especially disruptive in the wee hours of the morning. They were, however, useful in keeping the insect population under relative control.

“Where are my juicy beetles?” Yoba mused. The spilkin cocked its head and watched Yoba with equal curiosity, clearly waiting for an offering of some kind. “Everything is give and take, my friend. If you have no beetles for me, then I have none for you.”

Then there was an explosion of color and the bird fluttered off the railing, landing with a skip on the narrow stone steps below. A man was climbing them, looking exasperated and carrying a garment bag in the crook of his arm. The spilkin squawked at him greedily and pecked at the bag. The man kicked and growled. “I have nothing for you, pest. Go away now! Shoo!” It was quite the scene.

Yoba called down. “Beware, the birds here eat better than most, and can be downright criminals.”

The man looked equal parts surprised and embarrassed at first, then beamed at the recognition. “This truly is a sight for sore eyes,” he called in response. The man eyed Yoba, noticing that he wore a loose-fitted white shirt beneath an off-white overcoat. The look exuded a practiced balance of casual comfort and refinement, which was expected. Even in his isolation, the chamberlain's attention to detail was unwavering; not one strand of hair went amiss, even on a windy day.

“And what exactly do your eyes see, Trublo?” Yoba said, extending his arms out to his sides.

“I have never seen my best customer go without color. You look as faded as these hills.”

“I trust you have something in that bag of tricks of yours to fix it.”

“Verily.” Trublo yanked the bag free from the spilkin’s beak and held it up triumphantly. “My dear Chamberlain, I present my magnum opus. A post-war portfolio for the history books!”

“Let’s see it, then.”

He hardly had to say it. Trublo, a lanky older man with silver hair and long thin features, was already gliding up the remaining stairs. The men met with a friendly embrace. The couturier began waxing poetic as Yoba led him through a wall of long white curtains to the great room. A table had been cleared to make space for his presentation, except for a decanter filled with wine, and several glasses.

“The themes for this season’s fashions are structure and rebirth,” Trublo began. “Structure for our post-war rebuilding efforts, represented by bold silhouettes and sculptural elements. Top it off with a vibrant palette, contrasted by muted tones and monochrome reminiscent of long periods of mourning and conservation. And to top it off, we’ve finally perfected a synthetic blend that is color-fast and preserves even the most intricate shapes and contours.”

“Synthetic?” Yoba scoffed, scrunching his nose reflexively.

“Organic textiles are far too opulent for the times, highly controversial. But this–” Trublo dipped his hand into his pocket and procured a small square of foam-like material. “This is the future. Light weight, flexible, and enduring.”

“Much has changed in the world of fashion.” Yoba took the square reluctantly and turned it over in his hand. The way it flopped against his thumb reminded him more of blubber than fabric. “Do you think people will really go for a synthetic?”

“I’m Trublo,” the couturier said matter-of-factly and shrugged. “People will buy whatever I tell them to.”

“I don’t doubt it. But do you have anything in that bag of yours that lends itself to a more…eh, classic profile?”

“I knew you’d ask.” At that, Trublo thrust his garment bag onto the table and loosened the straps that held it shut. It practically unfurled itself from the sheer density of its contents.

On display was a collage of sketches and patterns and brightly-colored textile swatches more vibrant than anything Yoba had ever beheld. “You haven’t lost your penchant for theatrics, I’ll give you that,” he said, leaning in to inspect the portfolio more closely. “Frankly, I have yet to find the right words.”

“How have you survived out here, my friend? Truly?” Trublo asked, assuming a more conversational tone. His childlike grin had been replaced by a look of concern. “Simitu has been far too quiet in your absence.”

“It’s had its moments, but you know me.”

“Ever the social butterfly.”

“I feel like a caged bird that’s about to take flight for the first time in a long time. I worry my absence has been too long.”

“I’m sure you’ll find everything right where you left it. Now. What can you tell me about this grand banquet House Starbringer is hosting?”

“Well, if I wasn’t planning to make it a spectacle, you wouldn’t be here now, would you?”

“I fear I would not.” Trublo laughed. “Will the Starbringers not be joining us for a consultation?”

“You’re early. The prince and princess are still being collected. While we wait, however, I wanted to make you aware of a special request. Apologies in advance, this is going to be outside your modus operandi.” Yoba leaned in coyly. “We’re going to need a garment made for one of our guests of honor.”

“Oh?”

“Unfortunately, the measurements are going to be a bit of a guess.”

Trublo considered this. “If this individual is truly a guest of honor, as you say, inaccuracy would only do them a disservice.”

“Right. All that is understood. However, this is a desperate situation. It is intended as a gift, but I fear this…individual…would not accept it if I asked for their cooperation.”

“I see.”

“There's more.

Trublo furrowed his brow. “Do you have an likeness of this individual I can see?”

“I do not. They have been well shielded from the public eye.”

“Seems like a strange way to go about things.”

“Is there no garment you can recommend that would allow for some flexibility in terms of the fit?”

Trublo looked dejected. It was no fun when he didn’t get to meet his clients in person. He picked up a sketch of one of his designs, and slid it toward Yoba. “Well, I could recommend a robe like this, it would negate the necessity for accurate measurements to some degree. Something loose fitting. Can you describe their silhouette?”

Yoba scanned his memory. “Hmm, broad at the shoulders, I’d guess. Taller than average, lanky by the admiral’s description.”

“Man, woman, or gender agnostic?”

“A man.”

“And his coloration?”

“Black hair and eyes, medium complexion.”

“Anything notable about his character?”

“Withdrawn, quiet, stubborn, meticulous. The most irritating person I have ever met, if that can be useful at all.”

“Is this someone you hold in high esteem?”

“The highest.”

Trublo raised an eyebrow. “A romantic interest?”

“Now you’re just fishing for gossip.”

“But you are acquainted?”

“Acquainted at the very least. Though I’m not sure how time factors into these kinds of things.” Without pausing, Yoba uncorked the decanter and poured two glasses of wine. “It’s not often I let an acquaintance of any value out of my sight, but this one’s managed to evade me for seventeen years.”

“Ah. The one who got away, then.” Yoba handed Trublo a glass, which he accepted and held up to his nose before sipping.

“I can’t be too angry. He was born to a higher purpose, one I couldn’t keep up with if I tried. I’ve watched his life from a distance, admired him, pitied him, cried for him even. His destiny is one of greatness, and the nature of his greatness is one that I happen to be quite fearful of.”

“And that would be?”

Yoba was silent for a long moment before responding. “Calamity.”

Trublo looked up from his wine glass. “I’m going to venture to guess that you are talking about the pariah shipbuilder, Chartrulean?”

Yoba remained silent, which Trublo took as confirmation that he was correct. The spilkin strutted in through one of the curtains in pursuit of a dark green beetle.

“Can you imagine it?” Yoba lamented, “someone leaving such a profound mark on your life during your most transformative years, then just disappearing into the ether?”

“What were the circumstances of your parting?”

“That’s the worst part, I don’t entirely know. We were students. I woke up one day to the news that he had gone, and no further explanation was offered.”

“Simitu isn’t a large city, and seventeen years is a long time to pass without reconciliation. Did you make no attempt?”

“Oh, I did. Many times throughout the years, in fact. But each time, I was turned away. Logic tells me the separation wasn’t his choice, but my heart has its doubts.”

“What was the nature of your relationship, if you don’t mind my asking?” Trublo pried.

Yoba pondered the question. “I might have called him friend,” he said. But it immediately felt like a lie. Could he ever truly have called Chartrulean a friend? Could such a relationship be explained; one without affability or affection? Did it have to be mutual to count as friendship? Or was it mutual after all? It was always hard to tell.

Yoba deflected. “Anyways, in just a few days' time, I will learn where we stand.”

“This might be the first time I’ve seen you so nervous. He must have meant a great deal to you.”

“More than you can know.” Yoba was silent again for a long moment. “I trust that I say these things in strictest confidence.”

“Naturally,” Trublo said, which elicited a deep sigh from Yoba.

“I find I have no need or even a desire for attachment, romantic or otherwise. But I do often make the mistake of falling victim to…political infatuations,” he said, forcing a smile. “They never work out well, do they?”

“I find that sentiment surprising. A man of your character and status can sit in any company he wants. Only a fool wouldn’t be honored to call you a friend.”

“If only that was true.”

“Is it not?”

Yoba looked irritated at the thought. “How boring life would be if everything we wanted was so easily attainable? No. The more elevated the man, the higher he must reach.”

“So it’s the Etruvian you reach for.”

“That sounds so simple, doesn’t it? But it isn’t. Chartrulean stands for something. Something larger and better than all things this world has to offer. He has everything a man could possibly want. Infamy, wealth, wisdom, and relative immortality. And he values absolutely none of it. It intrigues me, nothing more.” This time, it was a lie.

Yoba paced toward the wall of curtains and peered out across the mountains. “I am far too obsessed with all my creature comforts and find his reckless pursuit of altruism exhausting. Maybe that says something unkind about me.”

“But you are compassionate.”

“That’s not untrue. But I do question myself these days.”

A long silence passed, and Yoba kept his back to Trublo. Whatever his expression revealed in that moment, he was doing his best to hide it. “How have we grown?” Trublo heard him say under his breath.

Oblivious to the tension in the room, the spilkin strutted over with the green beetle dangling from its beak and pressed it into the back of his Yoba’s leg. The gesture, to the bird’s dismay, was ignored, and it left the room with its catch.

“Well, he sounds like a fascinating person at the very least,” Trublo said, clapping his hands. The sound echoed across the room, making Yoba jump. His slender fingers were shuffling through the swatches. He plucked three of them from the pile with a little too much enthusiasm, and arranged them neatly on the table.

“From your vague description, I think something understated is in order. This particular blue color is derived from the extract of the Corcrusan Beetle. Very rare, very expensive. It could be fashioned into a belted robe, and paired with an undershirt of simple elegant design. A sensible choice for a former man of the cloth, but appropriate for the occasion. This,” Trublo tapped the tabletop once with his finger. “This is the man you described.”

Yoba returned to the table without making eye contact and scrutinized the swatches. “Very sensible indeed. I agree, the dark blue is very fitting.”

“More than fitting, it’s perfect. My intuition for these things is impeccable.”

“Impeccable, yes. However, I find the ensemble to be…overly cautious.”

Trublo balked. “Cautious? Then have I been misled?”

“No, you are right on the money. I would very much like to see him in this. However, in this case, I want you to take what you normally would do, and do the exact opposite.”

Trublo looked at Yoba as if he had just committed a violent crime. “I’m…I’m not sure I understand.”

“A lot rides on my next interactions with Chartrulean, and even more rides on his ability to adapt to the political landscape. I need to know what kind of man he has become. Is he the kind of man who is willing to play the game to win it, or is he the kind of man to go against all odds?”

“You seek to do this by providing him with a garment in contrast to his character to see if he will actually wear it?”

“Do you think you can handle this assignment?”

Trublo’s hands were moving again, more slowly and deliberately this time as if piecing together a difficult puzzle. Or maybe it was plain reluctance. He pulled the most garish swatches from the collection and laid them before Yoba. One was an abstract geometric pattern accented with gold embroidery.

“I would refrain from something overly structured in favor of maintaining an elegant silhouette, but using these materials instead of the blue. Out of respect to the shipbuilder, that is my compromise.”

“Very well,” Yoba conceded.

“Is the king aligned with your prank?”

“Oh no, it’d be a wasteful expenditure of energy to try to explain it. Just make this recommendation when the topic comes up, and pretend it was your idea. Can you do that for me?”

“Right. This conversation never happened.”

“You’re a good man Trublo, swallowing a piece of your pride for me.”

“Don’t let my sacrifice be in vain.”

“Would I ever sacrifice something needlessly? It’s all politics in the end.”

Trublo placed a comforting hand on Yoba’s shoulder. “Whether it's a rekindling of this friendship or closure you seek, I wish you the best of luck with your reunion.”

“I thank you,” Yoba said, holding the heinously colorful swatch in his hand. “He’s going to hate it.”