The elder was the current head of the Wilkinson family—Porter L. Wilkinson, the mining king.
Allen's composure didn't escape Porter's notice, and it left him with a first impression that was both very good and very bad. Mining king or not, Porter was, at his core, a businessman. Businessmen love to find what they need in others and then grip those weaknesses for mutual leverage. Allen's calm under praise or slight, the way he gave this room—madness to most people—only a cursory glance before locking eyes on Porter himself, shocked the old man even as it made him wary.
When their gazes met, Porter gave a small nod and motioned for Allen to sit.
The butler behind Allen promptly drew out a chair—solid gold, at that. Once Allen sat, Porter flicked a look. The butler waited until the dishes were set, murmured a few words, and the maids ringed around the hall bowed and filed out through the side door. Maids had no right to use the main door. They took the small one. That was a rule from feudal days that hadn't died.
When the room held only Allen, Porter, and the butler, Porter raised his glass. The butler gently poured a measure of red. Porter swirled the crystal stemware. "Try this. A private vintage from the Emperor's cellar a century ago. After the Führer founded the state, he distributed it to us former dukes. Ordinary folk don't get to taste it." He sipped, wearing a blissful look.
Allen smiled, copied him, and took a drink. Not very smooth—not like a strong laobaigan that kicks. He pressed his lips together and dabbed them with the napkin. This kind of scene was nothing to him. In the other world he'd been the young master of the Chu clan; even the big warlords had shared a table with him.
"Try this—it's the freshest heart-tips. Thirty-six different animals in one dish. Excellent."
Just now Porter played the ordinary old man, constantly recommending courses; Allen obliged with polite tastes. The meal felt harmonious, but neither man much tasted the food. Each had his own thoughts.
Luckily Allen had crammed some local knowledge about this world. Over dinner he ranged freely from continental politics to grand-dame scandals. Both kept things elegant; any topic with real depth they let slide by. The whole meal passed pleasantly enough.
Afterward, Porter invited Allen to linger and talk in the great hall—and Allen climbed yet another rung in Porter's estimation. People talk themselves into trouble; Porter deliberately steered into a few topics that brushed taboo—rule-bending but not illegal—and Allen eased past each one with a neat touch.
"I hear you joined the government only days ago and you're already a captain in Intelligence. Your ability must be remarkable. Perhaps when you go back you'll pin on major. Talented at a young age indeed." Porter tossed out a detail he'd already investigated, testing for a reaction.
Allen only smiled, unruffled, and didn't answer the bait. Instead he said, "Duke Porter, I truly envy your hands. To build an enterprise so vast… If I'd the methods you do, I might also…" He let the sentence trail off, chuckled twice. Both men silently cursed the other as no good sort—circling, coaxing, refusing to show a card.
But this couldn't go on forever. Porter's eyes sharpened. He set aside the glass—worth enough red to feed a commoner for years—on a white stone table. "What's your view of the situation in Ishval, Captain Allen? You know I'm a businessman, and war is what we fear most—especially with some of my mines near Ishval."
"I'm only an investigative officer. I don't know much about matters of war. And even if I did, I couldn't sway its course. I'm afraid I'll disappoint you, Duke."
Porter's brow ticked. Allen was truly impervious. Porter had spelled it out, yet Allen kept feigning dullness—if he was feigning at all. Allen had his reasons. He couldn't read what exactly the duke was after. In his other world, what warlords feared most wasn't rival forces, but old houses like his—families that sat on wealth you couldn't count.
War isn't won with a few men and a few guns. Victory depends not only on strategy but, even more, on money. With money, you have men. With money, you have weapons. The campaign in Ishval hadn't even begun and already billions had been sunk in. If it truly broke out, those billions from opening shot to final ceasefire wouldn't even be the rounding error.
Of course, a victorious war returns profit beyond measure.
But Allen still didn't know whether Duke Porter wanted war or not. He couldn't decide, so he kept playing tai chi—yielding, redirecting.
For all his dissatisfaction with Allen's stance, Porter felt even more appreciation. Among young people these days, you had the useless, the ones who got a smidge of skill and thought they could strut to the heavens, or the simple-minded with strong arms and empty heads. One meal was enough: Porter had the mind to recruit him.
"If Captain Allen isn't in the know, then let's leave it. I only happened to hear of your deeds and rashly invited you here—please forgive me. If you have time, do visit often. The older I get, the more I like being around the young. You won't take offense, will you?"
Hearing the gentle dismissal, Allen wasn't dense. He smiled. "How could I? You're an example for us younger folk. Outside, there must be more people than you can count hoping to be in your good graces. For you to favor me—I'd be an ingrate not to appreciate it." He ignored Porter's bright smile, glanced at the extravagant wall clock, and rose to take his leave. With the butler seeing him out, the car bearing Allen slipped into the night. Porter's face went still. One hand lifted a curtain, the other held his glass. He watched the tail lights fade.
"A fine young man. Worth cultivating."
Porter sighed and drank deep. The butler hurried to refill, saying as he poured, "Your Grace, he's just a captain. Our family already has ties to two full generals. Why bother to court a small fry?"
Porter sighed again, let the curtain fall, and paced a few steps. "If you knew why, your achievements might not be beneath mine."