After two hours of exhaustive searches and interviews, Balthier finally makes his way back to Migelo's store. By this point, he is fairly certain that Vaan isn't off admiring lilies or whatever else he does when not bothering the good citizens of Rabanastre.
Therefore, he walks with a certain uncharacteristic slump to his shoulders as he pushes his way through the city's crowds: if he hasn't encountered word of Vaan by this point, he's quite certain that no one else has.
Migelo's Sundries is tucked away in a corner of the city, hiding beneath a wide, tiled arcade. Balthier is more than glad for the shade it provides, because he's fairly certain that he's begun to melt. The heat is relentless in Dalmasca, and he no longer has Fran to complain to.
It's little wonder, he realizes, that most Dalmascans tend to walk around in varying states of undress. It had disconcerted him on his first trip to the city, still fresh from stuffy Arcades, but he'd eventually just learned to enjoy the view.
When he reaches the shop's main entrance, the bangaa owner himself is waiting just beside the sign that announces the shop's name, basking in the sunlight's oppressive heat. When Balthier approaches, Migelo gives him a wary nod.
"I don't suppose you could have found him?"
Poor man, he still found some call for hope.
"I'm afraid not. But never fear, I-" he cuts the false reassurance short. "How has Penelo been taking it?"
Migelo shrugs. "How would you like to lose someone that close to you? The boy's like a brother to her... and a son to me."
The heavy emotions are getting nearly choking, so Balthier waves them off with a dismissive gesture. "Probably off chasing cockatrices," he mutters, before pushing past into the shop.
It's darker and more pleasant inside, and Balthier feels his mood lift.
In a time before Balthier even knew Vaan or Penelo, he'd known Migelo's Sundries. It is his favorite shop in Rabanastre, not that he's going to admit it now. It's something about the whimsy of it, he thinks, with its spindly tables overflowing with goods. Potion bottles roll on the floor to trip the unwary, and little tufts of Phoenix Down are forever blowing out of their bin on light currents of wind. The air smells like candle wax and armor polish.
He's never thought of himself as whimsical, naturally, but it's another trait he can appreciate elsewhere.
Right now, the shop is nearly full, but none of the patrons are the people for whom he searches.
Balthier pokes around for a few minutes before he spies the curtain in the corner. It leads to the back rooms, he supposes, and that's probably where he'll find Penelo and Fran.
The shopkeeper - a young girl with curly hair, probably another war orphan - gives him a suspicious glance, but doesn't stop him from sidestepping said curtain.
Beyond the curtain, the light is scarcer and the smell of candle wax stronger. He appears to be in a hallway of some sort, and with the thick fabric behind him muffling the sound of shoppers, he can pick out murmured conversation somewhere ahead.
A few paces forward, and Balthier finds himself in the threshold of a doorway. Once he pushes the door aside, he finds precisely what he's looking for.
The room is dark and cool, and the stone walls are stained with smoke. A few candles, covered by frosted glass, provide muted light in the tiny space.
Penelo is there, pacing back and forth, and wringing her hands. Fran is there as well, standing with her back against the opposite wall, as casual as ever.
And there is a third figure seated at the low table, one with sandy blonde hair and a worried frown.
"Er... Hello," Balthier tries.
Penelo is the first to react; she smiles at him, so brightly that he almost worries that the strain has snapped the poor girl's sanity. "We found someone." He doesn't have to ask who this someone is, or why he is important.
The blonde man has angled himself to look at Balthier; he looks familiar, but he cannot place him. Penelo flashes a wider-still grin at the stranger, so Balthier concludes that he is the reason for her good cheer. "Do tell," he says eventually.
The stranger, however, rises and extends his hand. "I believe we've met, but I'm Samal," he says when Balthier shakes it. "Of course, I know who you are."
People tend to tell him that a lot. Inside Archades, he's the prodigal Bunansa, and therefore mobbed by idiots all the time. In the rest of Ivalice, he's the infamous Balthier, and therefore mobbed by idiots all the more. He's never quite sure what to do when an introduction is unnecessary, however, so he just settles for an, "oh, good."
"I'm sorry about Vaan," he continues. "The boy is a pirate, though. He longs for freedom; nothing was going to hold him back."
Balthier longs to tell him that perhaps a dose of common sense might have helped a bit, but Samal hasn't dropped his gaze, and he looks so knowing that Balthier just shuts up. For once.
"Why?" Penelo stops her pacing right beside Balthier, looking Samal right in the eyes. "He can have his freedom here. With us."
"Some things aren't that simple." Balthier knows that when in doubt, he can count on Fran to sober up the mood of any conversation. He likes it that way; all this happy-sentimental stuff gets a little maudlin.
The ensuing silence is very awkward; it's only cut by the click of Penelo's shoes as she resumes wearing a hole in the floor.
Samal shakes his head before continuing. "Anyways, I know Vaan. If it's about piracy, he can't stop talking about it. Honestly, I can't believe he didn't mention it to anyone else⦠Do any of you know what Marquis Ondore has been up to recently?"
Balthier very nearly tells him to please stay on the task at hand, since he's had enough political machinations for one lifetime, thanks. However, he can't just leave a question like this unanswered, especially when he's the one who actually knows things like this.
Can't leave people thinking their leading man is incompetent, after all.
"With the war over, I've no doubt the Marquis is busy dismantling his army, probably abiding by whatever treaties he's made with Dalmasca and the Empire.
"Well, abiding, yes. Dismantling, no." Samal traces the table's wood grain with a finger. "He's simply found another use for it. Some of it, anyways."
Balthier has to restrain himself to keep from smacking his palm against his forehead. "Don't tell me he has certain expansionist ideas of his own."
Samal's eyes widen at the very thought. "Thank the Light, no. He's using them to combat the local problem of piracy. You know how it is around Bhujerba; the airships are always in danger of pirate attacks."
Penelo stops mid-stride and turns on her heel to face him. "What does this mean for Vaan?"
"The Marquis is fighting an uphill battle; the area is full of islands where the pirates can hide. So, he's enlisted more men. It's the perfect opportunity for a pirate with more interest in preserving justice than moving cargo."
"You mean, Vaan's gone out to fight sky pirates in Bhujerba?" She looks incredulous, one hand sliding up her thigh to rest on her hip. "That... jerk."
Now that the worst of the news is out of the way, Samal allows himself a thin smile. "I told you that you wouldn't be able to keep him long. He was positively giddy when he told me his plans.
Balthier doesn't wonder why he can picture that so clearly; he's had far too much experience with a giddy Vaan. "How dangerous would you say the islands are?" He pulls out a chair and sinks into it with distinctly less grace than is customary.
"Considerably. Vaan is brave, but he's no pirate." Samal's smile melts into a frown. "Obviously, there are casualties with an operation of this scale. The Marquis is trying to limit rumors of them, but if the stories are reaching, me, well... I would say that you have a rescue mission on your hands."
"What?" Penelo looks, if possible, more incredulous. Balthier has an urge to tell her to close her mouth before she starts catching flies.
"Not a problem. All we have to do is drag the idiot back to Rabanastre before he gets himself killed," he says instead. "And I'm taking his ship away from him when this is done. It's hardly a toy for children," he adds as an afterthought.
