The trip to the Sun Temple paid off—not much, but enough to fill in some gaps. From his talk with Scar, Allen got a clear, step-by-step picture of Dawson's "accidental" killing. The so-called accident was nothing but a shoddy official cover story: a soldier stole goods off a child's stall; the child chased him to demand it back; the soldier, enraged, drew his gun and shot. It sounded exactly like the kind of script a third-rate director would use to fool a fool.
Allen had barely stepped down from the car—one foot on the ground, half his body still inside—when a man in a luxurious tailcoat with a bow tie, sleek black hair combed back to a shine, set one hand at his waist, bowed slightly, and said, "Good day, Captain Allen. I am the butler of the Wilkinson family. Our lord wishes to invite you to dinner and hopes you will not refuse."
Allen eyed the well-dressed butler in puzzlement. In his mind, the people who even knew him could be counted on one hand. Mustang. Hughes. Beyond those two, who would invite a nobody captain? It wasn't that Allen refused to befriend the upper crust; his rank was simply too humble. Outside Ishval, the continent was split by two nations, war grinding on with hardly a pause. In that context, a captain or a major could go to the front and never return—let alone a State Alchemist. On the battlefield, State Alchemists killed the most, but in doing so they also became the prime targets. Airships and heavy ordnance never skimped on shells.
Noticing Allen's doubtful look, the butler seemed to realize something. With a courteous, embarrassed apology, he stepped back so Allen could fully alight. He shut the door with practiced ease, kept a professional smile, then took a gilded invitation from his breast pocket and offered it with both hands. "Our lord insists, and asks you to honor him."
Unfriendly visitors—Allen knew the meaning of that phrase. A mere butler daring to press a captain suggested the Wilkinson family wasn't simple; you didn't train a butler like this without serious backing.
Allen raised an eyebrow, pinched the gilded card from the butler's hands, and opened it slowly, keeping most of his attention on the man himself. He wasn't afraid of a sudden strike; he just wanted to read the butler, to avoid staying on the back foot.
No luck. The butler was too good—better than Alfred in that other world. His face betrayed nothing; his gaze was as calm as a monk in meditation, mind emptied. Allen finally gave up and looked down. The invitation said very little—clichés about "awaiting your esteemed presence," all empty ceremony—nothing to glean.
Allen sighed. "Do you think I can refuse?" He shrugged, palms up, the picture of helplessness.
The butler's smile deepened by a hair. He bowed again; Allen couldn't tell how he signaled it, but a silver sedan eased out from the corner and rolled up. Allen had seen this model before at Central when he'd gone to the Intelligence Bureau: to own one, you needed not only wealth but a certain status—former nobility, a title from the old monarchy. It was the government's way of compensating those whose ranks had been abolished.
The butler opened the door with veteran grace, one hand shielding the frame, the other inviting Allen in. Allen didn't stand on ceremony; he accepted the pampering. Once Allen was seated, the butler shut the door smartly, took the front passenger seat, and they accelerated toward the outskirts.
"By the way, what line is your lord in?"
"Mining, sir. Our Wilkinson interests account for eleven percent of the nation's annual mineral output."
Allen couldn't see the butler's face, but the pride in his voice was enough. This wasn't some bargain-basement noble off every street corner but a magnate with deep resources.
Allen nodded, more puzzled than before. Eleven percent every year—what did that mean? Out of every hundred units of material used to build houses, lay track, and forge weapons nationwide, eleven came from the Wilkinson family. An astonishing figure. Yet this lord had chosen to find him. Allen's circle was small; there was no mutual leverage; he hadn't exposed the full extent of his strength. The reason for the invitation was, to put it mildly, intriguing.
While Allen rested his eyes, the car slid into a suburban estate, extravagant by any measure. Priceless ornaments were everywhere. From time to time, squads of a few dozen men with rifles marched past. There was even an alchemist among the guards. Faced with security this tight, Allen found himself a little more interested in the Wilkinson patriarch.
When the car stopped, a younger man in the same livery opened the door, saluted, and led Allen through a grand entrance laid with a red carpet.
Allen was still musing how the rich of this world knew how to live. The main and side doors were made from a special alchemically refined, bone-like material; the handles were wrought from high-purity fine silver. The value of one door alone could keep a common family in comfort for half a lifetime.
But once the doors swung wide and the opulent hall came into view, even those doors were reduced to mere doors. Agate, diamonds, rare metals, and exotic furs covered most of the space. A candelabrum carved entirely from ivory rested on a dining table of natural crystal. On the opposite wall hung an oil painting—Allen couldn't tell what it depicted, but in such a prominent place it could hardly be ordinary. The snowy, glass-smooth walls were edged all around with golden agate, and from the ceiling hung a massive chandelier, myriad multicolored diamonds cut into thin pendants, shimmering softly in the light. Beneath it sat an elderly man with silvered hair but a straight, handsome bearing, wearing a perfectly neutral business expression. In his hand was a crystal wine glass; the half-glass of red swirled under his wrist, tracing rings along the wall of the cup.