Allen wasn't trying to run because he was afraid of Riza; he just found the woman a bit of a hassle—an intensely annoying kind at that. He'd been born into an old aristocratic house. Though he'd been caught up in the upheavals of the new China and the flames of war, he was still a scion polished by generations of Confucian upbringing. He judged women first by bearing; if the bearing was poor, he ignored them. When he first met Riza, he'd thought the girl's bearing wasn't bad and her looks were fine, but the instant she drew a gun, all that goodwill vanished.
"Do you have business or not? If not, let go. What are you doing yanking at me like this?" Allen's face clouded. Any man getting grabbed by the belt at the crack of dawn wouldn't be pleased, especially when he was already in a foul mood.
Eyes blazing, Riza glared at Allen's look of disgust, snapped her hand back, and demanded, "Was it you who went around spreading that I spent the night at Mustang's place?"
Unreasonable. Absolutely unreasonable. Allen shot her a look, straightened the uniform she'd mussed, said, "Ridiculous," and left. By then, a small crowd had gathered. Even someone as fearless as Riza didn't dare chase him to keep making a scene; she just stared hatefully at his receding back, then took it out on the stool he'd been sitting on.
Thanks to Riza's interruption he'd lost all appetite for breakfast. Fortunately, the sausage in his hand was still there. After a few quick bites, he requisitioned a car from Headquarters and headed for the nearest Sun Temple—under the genteel pretext of "investigating religious belief."
Ishval's roads were awful. Central had asphalt; here everything still felt primitive, pocked everywhere by ruts and pits. Through the window Allen could already see Ishvalans at work. There was no sign of pre-war tension: they were still farming and praying. Ishvalans credited the growth of food to God; the sun represented God. By God's power plants grew, providing what people needed to eat.
Every few plots stood a complete stone pillar carved from rock, etched with strange totems—patterns the Ishvalans had found in certain religious codices, said to hold mysterious power.
The nearer they drew to the Sun Temple, the more totem pillars there were, and the more people too. But everyone was unfriendly toward the car and its passenger; some even began shouting curses right on the street. Allen didn't care. Even if the whole world died, he wouldn't.
"Captain Allen, I think it's dangerous for you to go in person. Should we report to Command and call some soldiers to protect you?"
The driver ventured the question. With the situation unclear, a single captain going to the Ishvalan Sun Temple—he could picture the outcome: a mob with hoes, and then blood everywhere. Allen glanced at the anxious driver and, smiling, pulled the silver pocket watch from his trouser pocket. The driver looked up at the rearview mirror; his wavering mood settled at once. A State Alchemist—a killing machine on the battlefield. Handling a mob would be easy.
Before long, the old jalopy rolled to a stop outside the Sun Temple. Allen told the driver to wait and walked in alone. Maybe it was Ishvalan simplicity, or maybe it was the State Alchemist's watch in his hand, but the Ishvalans didn't erupt in any great anger—only kept their distance.
Allen didn't mind. He strolled into the main hall, mimicked the prayer posture he'd seen earlier, and stood beneath the Sun God's statue, eyes closed, lips moving—no one knew what he was saying. After a while he opened his eyes, took several large-denomination bills from his coat, and slipped them into the donation box.
At once the gazes on him changed—from coldness and resentment to disbelief and a tentative warmth.
An elderly Ishvalan man, leaning on a cane, shuffled over. Under the eyes of the onlookers, he came up to Allen, looked him over, and asked in surprise, "Are you an Ishvalan?" A soft gasp rippled through the crowd. In the eyes of other peoples, Ishvalans were not considered high status—some even looked down on them. An Ishvalan entering the government of a western nation would be a marvel.
Allen dipped a graceful nod, using the Ishvalan greeting he'd seen on the road to show goodwill, then shook his head.
"No, I'm not Ishvalan. But I believe in God and that He created all things. I came for two reasons: to pay my respects to Ishval's Sun God, and to look into some things underlying that recent case. By the way, elder—may I have your name?"
Allen had a keen eye; at a glance he could tell this old man's status wasn't simple. For an outsider from a country that didn't believe in God to pray here, the person who came to question him would at least be someone important. The elder seemed pleased with Allen's manner; his stern face melted into a smile as he stroked his beard. "I'm an elder of this area. Young man, you're honest! People call me Naba. You may call me that, too."
"Thank you for the compliment."
The elder chuckled a few more times, dispersed the crowd, and beckoned over a boy of about sixteen. Smiling, he said, "Scar, this gentleman is a believer. I have a few matters to tend to. Could you show him around?"
Following the elder's gaze, Allen saw a dark-skinned kid with a scar on his face and lively eyes. His clothes were simple: a T-shirt gone pale with wear and black trousers washed nearly gray. After a few more instructions, the elder hurried off, leaving Allen in the boy's care.
When the elder was gone, Allen smiled and asked, "Could you take me around? It's my first time in Ishval. I don't know my way." Scar nodded—clearly not talkative—and headed for the door of the hall. Allen followed.
Scar was still a child, and clearly had no guard up against a wily sort like Allen. They hadn't gone far before Allen had fished out everything there was to learn. Time flew. Soon it was lunchtime. Declining Scar's kind offer, Allen climbed into the car back to the military's temporary command post and, with a faintly peculiar smile, left Ishval.