Conversations and Provocations
Disclaimer: All known and recognisable characters and places owned by Square Enix and I make no profit (save my own enjoyment) from this endeavour.
A/N: Hello! Welcome to part three of the 'Conversations' Arc I started in 'Conversations and Negotiations' and continued in 'Conversations and Interrogations.'
For those who have read the preceding two stories…welcome back!
For anyone who is dipping in for the first time here is an explanation of the plot of the first bits of this arc.
In 'Negotiations' the story starts with the beginning of Ashe and Balthier's affair during the game then continues two years after the game when Ashe has Balthier arrested and put on trial. The story documents that trial and their continuing relationship up until the epilogue wherein Balthier is extradited to Archades as part of a plot to save Larsa from assassination.
'Interrogations' sees Balthier in Archades fighting to uncover the plot against Larsa and basically getting on Basch's nerves. Meanwhile Ashe has to deal with an impending famine in Dalmasca and the emergence of a villainous threat very close to home; at the end of 'Interrogations' Balthier and Ashe are reunited, resolve their differences and marry.
'Provocations', takes place some eighteen months after that marriage; this story will feature all the characters from previous instalments with added dollops of Larsa/Penelo hijinks.
A tavern on the main road out of Ambervale; Rozzaria
A citation seen upon a mark hunters' notice board in the Golden Larynx tavern on the main road out of Ambervale:
We, the Provosts of Ambervale, loyal lieges to the noble house Margrace, make this proclamation citing the brave, courageous, honest, forthright and most kind Mishman Tabca Margrace the only true, right and proper heir to the late, lamented, honourably departed father of our great Empire, Iqballa III of Rozzaria.
Any man, woman or child known or suspected of supporting the despicable and most despised and deposed tyrant Al-Cid Adlebal Margrace shall be seized by the crown, put upon the rack and have their properties seized and liquidated by the Crown Margrace before their worldly bodies are to be burned upon the stake as befits all traitors to our great Empire.
These are the words of our much deserving of praise and all merciful Emperor Mishman I of Rozzaria as set forth by the Provosts of Ambervale.
All hail the Emperor, long may he reign.
A foreigner in the tavern, a tall, lean man wearing a fitted white shirt with a high, open neck collar, black trousers, tall black boots and large black gloves upon his hands stood by the board reading the proclamation, one eyebrow creeping higher up his forehead until that one brow threatened to reach orbit.
The man paused thoughtfully before the board, letting his gaze peruse the more familiar petitioners bills framing the board, absently he tapped his gloved fingers against the proclamation, before turning away altogether and pushing his way back through the crowds to his party's table in a smoky corner of the tavern.
The party this gentleman was currently travelling with was an interesting group, consisting as it did of four women and two men. Four of the party were Rozzarian and one of the women was both a foreigner and had tall graceful black tipped white ears that rose straight up from the crown of her head.
'Your brother is not over fond of you is he?'
The foreign gentleman, whose Archadian accented voice was pitched low to float, submerged, under the raucous and enthusiastic music the Golden Larynx was known for far and wide, settled himself down in his chair across from the other man, who, edged in all sides by three very similar looking women, was slumped dejectedly forward his mop of dark hair falling in front of his eyes.
'No, Mishman has never been my ally.' He said his Rozzarian accent still heavy for all that his tones were defeated and subdued.
The other man leaned back in his chair and looked about him at the lively tavern. The olive skinned, dark haired buxom women dancing a traditional Rozzarian jig caught his attention momentarily before his roving gaze drifted to the stained glass windows reflecting the crystallight in colourful drifting shards across the dusty floor of the tavern.
'This will make leaving Rozzaria a trifle more difficult.' He said finally, meeting the placid regard of the Viera who sat quietly at his right, long clawed hand curled around a mug of ale she had not touched.
'I must leave.' The sullen, dark haired man said staring gloomily into his tankard of. 'To stay is to die and de dead man can do nothing but rot in 'is grave.'
The Archadian man quirked an eyebrow inquiringly; 'Quite.' He drawled again exchanging a droll look with the Viera.
'One might also suppose that a deposed ruler cannot do altogether that much more than a rotting corpse, if he runs away.' He added provocatively.
A pair of morose dark eyes looked up at him sharply and the faintest flaring of proud nostrils made it clear the barb had struck home.
'It surprises me to 'ear a man such as you say so. For I also remember dat your own wife, eh, was once a deposed ruler wit'out a Kingdom.'
The Archadian man's lips twitched upwards acknowledging the hit, in turn, with a slight incline of his head, 'Touche.'
But the other man did not capitalise on his momentary victory and instead returned his dull, grieving gaze to rest within the depths of his ale.
The Archadian man, who had little time for depression, and even less for depressed royals, sighed irritably and returned his restless gaze to once more wander about the tavern.
For a population on the brink of civil war the patrons of this tavern were remarkably jovial. The man turned a less than amiable scowl on the miserable Rozzarian crying dry tears into his tankard. Clearly the lower classes of Rozzaria had more fortitude than the scions of house Margrace.
'We should leave before full dark. The patrols will only increase with the gathering shadows.'
The Viera spoke up, sensing the growing tensions in their little group as her partner lost his never very great patience with the devastated Rozzarian and the depressed Margrace's loyal guard grew increasingly twitchy sitting in plain sight in a public tavern but five scant miles outside of the capital city whose Provosts would burn them all at the stake should they be found.
'No rush Fran, no need to behave like a group of fleeing criminals, hmm?'
The Archadian, who most usually referred to himself as Balthier, though he was known quite widely by a vast collection of titles that suggested to a life surprisingly well lived even though the man had yet to reach thirty, spoke with nonchalant lack of concern.
Currently Balthier (alias bastard pirate, also known as Master Bunansa Lord of Atholl, and once quite some years ago, as Ffamran Mid Bunansa, and sometimes, though he loathed the title, he was referred to in certain rarefied circles as Sire) was watching a twosome of Ambervale Provosts, in their dark blue uniforms, stroll with arrogant swagger over to the bar and noisily order beverages, their scimitars hanging from their hips like an open provocation to violence.
'Perhaps a hand of cards?'
Balthier murmured pulling a deck from the white belt pouches that hung, full and heavy, from his white double belts. He did not wait for the rest of his party to agree to play but instead efficiently shuffled the deck and began dealing the cards.
A group of unusual wayfarers playing a quiet, amiable game of cards was much less suspicious than a group of peculiar, mismatched travellers skulking in a corner of the tavern not speaking, after all.
Fran took up her cards without hesitation, one of Al-Cid's birds held hers as if they were an offensive weapon or carried some form of contagion, the other two appeared slightly more natural but their movements were stilted and tense. Al-Cid Margrace did not take up his cards at all.
Balthier reigned in his annoyance with difficulty, though did shoot a mutinous glare Fran's way. It was, in a round about way, her fault he had found himself in the company of the chronically depressed and deposed Margrace.
Fran's and his loving wife's in actual fact.
Balthier studied his hand without really seeing it and stifled a sour laugh, he had dealt himself a poor hand this time, there could be no disputing that. He cut a quick sideways glance towards the two obnoxiously loud and gregarious Provosts, who were behaving like fools by the bar.
At the moment they were too busy man-handling the serving women and telling lewd and ribald jokes with bad punch lines to anyone with the misfortune to be in ear-shot and have an understanding of the Rozzarian language. Balthier was almost thankful his comprehension of Rozzarian was not great enough to keep up.
Turning back to the table, just as he heard the name Al-Cid, followed by a complicated and obscene hand gesture that was certainly not one of respect, escape the lips of one of the two Provosts, Balthier hissed in irritation and kicked the morose Rozzarian in the shin under the table.
Al-Cid jerked in surprise and turned his heated dark gaze, sans flamboyantly unnecessary sunglasses, to smoulder on Balthier instead of burning an impudently furious hole through the backs of the two Provosts.
'Keep you head down and lay your bet, sir.' Balthier snapped though his relaxed and casual posture and open facial expression gave away no hint of either tension or irritation.
Al-Cid did not look pleased to receive orders from Balthier but he acknowledged them, picking up the cards Balthier had dealt him earlier and keeping his dark head bowed over them.
Balthier shook his head and rolled his shoulders slightly attempting to ease the tension from his muscles, his thoughts sliding back through time as he strained his peripheral senses to keep track on the Provosts.
'Well, if you are going to Rozzaria with Fran you can pay a visit to Al-Cid as well.' Ashe had said her voice at its most imperious, unreasonable and demanding.
'I am assisting Fran and the Al-Canna Viera, not paying diplomatic social calls to warring Rozzarians.'
He had retorted angrily, though he had not known why he was so peculiarly angry. He was not usually given to expressions of such obvious ire, but then he supposed eighteen months of marriage to a woman like Ashe, who thrived on anger, would have a detrimental affect on the equilibrium of anyone.
His bloody wife could drive a Kiltia saint to murderous rage given the opportunity and she seemed to revel in antagonising him
'Need I remind you, Balthier, that you are married to the Queen of Dalmasca? You are always on diplomatic call. You can not just swan off with your Partner whenever you wish!'
Ashe had swirled around to face him in her green and white high waisted gown and fixed him with a glower of heated ice and fury. He detested how her lip curled when she referred to Fran as his 'partner' as if this was something to be ashamed of.
He had narrowed his eyes at her, speaking coldly and levelly, 'Of course, Your Highness, I am nothing if not your servant in all things.' He had sneered acidly.
'What message do you command me to impart to your dear ally Margrace?' He had added snidely.
He took more pleasure than he thought he should to see the slight quiver of her bottom lip. Coldly he watched her hands press against her stomach for a moment before she regained her composure, drawing herself up.
'You may tell him that Dalmasca stands his true and most loving friend and hopes him all luck in his conflict with his brother the usurper.'
Her eyes had flashed with a cruel triumph as she sounded the syllables 'true loving friend' Balthier had twitched but controlled the reaction forcibly.
He had understood implicitly what she truly meant behind the flowery purple prose of her carefully ambiguous statement.
He was to find Al-Cid and keep the fallen Margrace alive should the battle with Mishman Margrace turn against Al-Cid, as it looked likely to do.
Balthier had merely stared at his wife for a moment, trying to swallow down the fury that had overtaken him.
He was not used to such violence of emotion and did not like the sensation of not trusting his next words in case he say something they would both regret.
In that moment, alone in her throne room, Ashe had demanded he risk his own life for another man, a man he did not even like and this simple fact had astounded him as much as it had enraged him.
She had also clearly expected him to do so without argument or complaint. Ashe had already made it blame she cared not for his opinion, after all.
Balthier had told her that it was politically unwise for Dalmasca to become embroiled in another country's civil war, but stubborn as ever and blinded by her own desire to repay a debt to Al-Cid Balthier did not even acknowledge existed, she had not listened.
'Your wish is my command, my Queen.' He had finally replied bloodlessly, wishing nothing more than to no longer be forced to look on her.
He had bowed to her with mocking irreverence and left her chamber without another word, anger electrifying his every step. He remembered clearly that he had deliberately, spitefully, refused to acknowledge the sound of her first, choked off sob as he slammed the door petulantly behind him.
Balthier blinked and roused himself painfully from the bitter memories. Fighting with Ashe was merely a part of life these days.
In the past it had often been a precursor to passion or a playful way of relieving the stress of everyday existence. Balthier had rather thought they both enjoyed it, somewhat like a game of verbal sparring, wherein no one was truly harmed.
Once upon a time, that had been so; now fighting with Ashe left scars and bitter wounds that festered for days afterward.
The dynamic between them both, once combative and challenging but always mutually supportive, had changed over the last few months.
There was a shadow between them, Balthier knew in his soul what it was but would not acknowledge the fact wven in the privacy of his own mind. Sometimes Balthier had to force himself to remember that he did love Ashe. That their marriage was not the single greatest mistake he had ever made.
Fixing his increasingly darkening glower on Al-Cid, the man meekly keeping his head bowed over his cards, Balthier was at least relieved he had a readily available outlet for his growing discontent.
Briefly he looked over at Fran and then to the others around the table. Al-Cid Margrace, broken, defeated, and wanted dead by his own brother and three of his 'little birds' silent, sullen, dead eyed.
Balthier almost considered death on the stake preferable to his current situation as he let his mind rove over all the many obstacles between this lively, bustling tavern and the Strahl, hidden in the Rozzarian desert, which would spirit away Al-Cid Margrace, likely sparking a grave diplomatic incident, in the process.
He must truly love Ashe, Balthier reasoned ironically, to go through all this trouble for her. Though he found himself pondering an almost inadmissible question, as he considered all that could happen if he and Fran failed to escape Rozzaria with Margrace, or possibly far worse, if they did succeeded in their charge; Balthier could not help but wonder if his temperamental Queen was actually worth the risks he took for her?