II.
Vaan knew he was verging on consciousness when voices permeated the darkness—he always dreamed just before he woke. He recognized this dream as one of the less welcome ones, however, and mentally struggled as he always did to banish it before it began, though he knew very well that his attempts would fail. No matter how he fought against the memories of his brother's final days, they never passed completely from his sleeping vision, and he remained eternally grateful that Penelo had been protected from such things, although he knew she often wished she could have been there.
Vaan had been asked to leave the royal infirmary when the mourning princess came to speak with Reks, but he later heard of the conversation that had taken place without him. Her Highness had merely wanted clarification—to see if the young soldier could indeed be trusted, or if he was at the very least lucid enough to remember the horrors he had witnessed with complete accuracy. He had been—had gently informed her that he had seen, beyond all doubt, her deceased husband's most trusted knight murder her father and all who strove to protect him. This did not help to subdue her sorrow, but only served to intensify it so that she left the room in tears, and Reks had asked Vaan to give her his apologies. Vaan told him that he had, though he had never been allowed within speaking distance of her. Reks had always been the type to succumb to the slightest quantities of guilt, after all.
But the truth was the truth, even if Reks did feel himself to be at fault. Vaan could see well enough from the mortal gash in his brother's side that he had spoken honestly, and when the infection finally claimed him, he tried to comfort Penelo with the suggestion that he had not died in vain, for his testimony had brought justice upon a royal assassin. It hadn't worked, he knew, but he could still recall Reks telling him at their mother's burial that without parents, they would have to raise Penelo themselves, and though Vaan had only fleeting memories of their father, he knew with all faith that he would have told her the same thing and not allowed doubt to plague him for it.
Slowly, Vaan's dream drifted from the darker times to the lighter—to the days before Reks enlisted, before stealing became a necessity. He could remember his brother's encouragement, his sister's laughter, and then…unfortunately, the familiar Dalmascan accent of his dreams slowly gave way to the prim and proper Archadian accent of his nightmares, and he feebly opened his eyes to see the thief standing over him.
"Welcome back."
"Huh?" He rubbed his head, only to draw back his hand with a wince of pain upon discovering the throbbing knot left on his skull.
"You've been asleep for nearly three hours," the thief explained. "They didn't hit you that hard."
"You…"
"Me."
Sitting up urgently despite the rush of blood to his brain, Vaan began to rummage through his pockets in search of the missing Dusk Shard. "…You…What…Wh—what did you do with it!?"
"Easy there. I didn't do anything with it. It was confiscated—along with everything else."
"No…"
"Standard procedure. Haven't you ever been arrested before?"
"As a matter of fact, I haven't!" Vaan growled, struggling to get to his feet. "Where are we, anyway? Is this Archadia?"
"Nalbina," the thief corrected. "It's not even a proper dungeon—they just sealed off the bottom level of the fortress, cheap bastards."
Vaan held his head, fruitlessly willing it to cease its thrumming beat. "Oh, man…This is bad…"
"What did you expect?" the Archadian asked dryly. "It's not like you haven't earned it."
"Hey! I'm no thief, alright!? I only took what belonged to me in the first place, and I'd have it by now if you hadn't gotten me caught!"
"Oh, I got you caught!? I'd been planning that heist for weeks, and you ruined it in a matter of minutes."
"What did you want with the Dusk Shard, anyway? That place was loaded!"
The thief folded his arms, copper-colored eyes alight with golden flecks. "It's a little late to be asking questions, don't you think?"
"Hey, it doesn't even have any meaning to you. I had a lot riding on it."
"Aw, afraid of disappointing your girl?"
"Oh, God!" Vaan exclaimed in disgust. "She's not my girl!"
"Well, what is she, then?"
"None of your damn business!" Suddenly, he was stricken with an odd dizziness he had never before experienced and nearly collapsed. With a groan, he braced himself against the nearest wall, cradling his head in his free hand and clenching his eyes shut.
"Alright, alright," the thief conceded. "Take it easy. There's not a lot of water around here, but I could—"
"Just leave me alone."
"Alone? Down here?"
"Why do you care so much?" Vaan asked, his head clearing though he still remained weakened.
The Archadian put a fist on his hip, regarding the boy with obliging if not somewhat disinterested concern. "You're not too familiar with pirating are you? It's the Law of Exchange—kind of the opposite of revenge. I got you into this, so I have to get you out."
He blinked. "…Out?"
"Fran's sniffing out our escape route as we speak."
"Thanks, but no thanks," Vaan growled. "I'm not going anywhere with a scrap of gutter churl like you."
"Suit yourself." The thief began to walk away with a small huff. "But if you die down here, I'm not taking the blame."
Vaan rolled his eyes as the thief passed from his sight, but was immediately taken off guard by a distant screech from somewhere within the depths of the dungeon, and instantly regretted turning down what had likely been his only chance of survival. As much as he wished to be left alone to wallow in his guilt, he now realized the terror that had claimed this place. Nalbina—the fortress that had once overseen passage between Dalmasca and Nabradia, where Prince Rasler and Princess Ashelia had so often played in their youth, where King Raminas had taken his last breath.
Gritty sand lined the stone flooring, its granules clumping into an unstable mud in places, and mixing with rotten straw in others. Only the walls admitted any semblance of stability, rising high enough that their top corners loomed in shadow, their dank stones slick with mold and condensation.
The air bore a foul smell and cool touch, for the outer reaches of Dalmasca's borders escaped the wide desert. Nabradia, which had formerly lied beyond, consisted of meadows and forests, while Landis, stretching even farther past, felt winters no other country knew, and yet still bore the finest crops in all of Ivalice. Vaan had never been to either country, but he could recall Reks' letters, speaking of cold air and grass and trees—and not a single bit of sand. It saddened him that this was the closest he'd ever come to Reks' journeys, but he coped by trying not to think about it. After all, Archadia now possessed lands of all climes and terrains—save for the humid jungles of Rozarria, which all knew were next (and last) on Gramis' list for conquest.
"Now that's a fine thanks!"
Vaan nearly jumped at the shout, forgoing his wearisome thoughts and turning to see a grungy Archadian prisoner behind him, glaring at him with bloodshot, accusing eyes.
"What?" the boy asked.
"Bloke looked after you from the moment you arrived. I had you figured for brothers, but I guess those mismatched accents prove me wrong, eh?"
"Uh, yeah. Just met the guy—don't even know his name."
"Don't know his name? Well, I guess that's Dalmascans for you. That there was the most fearsome skypirate in all of Ivalice! Trained in the art by the Pirate King himself!"
"…Yeah. Whatever."
"Bloody hell!" the prisoner cried. "Are you really so thick that you don't recognize the captain of the Strahl!? The man what tamed a Viera and robbed the emperor and ransacked Draklor Laboratory without so much as raising a blade!?"
"I don't really pay attention to Archadian piracy, alright?"
"Well, you'd do well to start with that new consul you got takin' over."
"Look," Vaan snapped. "I don't care about Archadia, I don't care about the consul, and I only ever cared about your pirate because he got me busted for reclaiming my country's national treasure."
The man released a loud, sharp laugh. "So, he tried to take what you rightfully stole—is that it?"
"Just leave me alone," Vaan groaned, turning to leave.
"Nice try, sonny." The other prisoner stepped in his path. "You ditch your protection, you got to face the consequences."
"…What?"
"We got ways of handlin' ungrateful little brats down here."
Before Vaan could process the statement, the man landed a fist in his face, stealing consciousness from him once again. He awoke rather quickly this time, but found himself in the clutches of two strange men who had apparently hauled his unconscious form from the chamber he first found himself in to an unrecognizable area of the prison. The thought of escape struck him first, but he did not feel that he could hold his ground against his captors, especially not with the way his head had begun to spin, and he wouldn't have the slightest idea where to run even if he found success in such an endeavor.
They dragged him to a make-shift fighting arena, complete with splintery wooden crates for bleachers and a deep pit of muddy sand surrounded by high wrought iron gates clearly meant to house beasts of burden. A particularly sleazy Rozarrian man—a bookie, apparently—looked him over with a lustful grin, then gave his captors the affirmative, letting them throw him down into the pit. Most of his strength was spent in merely getting back to his feet, and he felt for sure that all blood drained from his face when he first beheld his opponents—two beaten and bloody Landisian men, who eyed each other just as warily as they eyed him. The bookie's cries above continued, drumming up bloodlust from the crowd and pitching the fight as though selling wares at a bazaar. The two Landisians before him conversed gruffly in their native tongue, and Vaan for a moment thought with relief that they may have perhaps been insulting each other, but he had no such luck, for they soon began casting mocking glances at him and burst into bear-like laughter when he tripped in trying to back away from them.
He had never heard actual Landisian spoken, for the Empire had banned its use after conquering the rural republic, and he now found it to be a language as blunt and harsh as those who spoke it—truly, it seemed that it could only be shouted or growled. The bookie above spouted racial slurs to this effect, daring his customers to bet on the poor little Dalmascan, playing up the Landisians as iron-tough fighters but too dumb to work together against a common opponent. The prospect of the fight alone had been enough to churn Vaan's stomach, but the pure racism actually triggered his gag reflex.
Before he could embarrass himself any further, however, a bell sounded and the audience's yells turned to cheers as the Landisians began to circle. Though his feet remained uncooperative, Vaan rushed to his knees weakly, mentally pleading with himself not to throw up, but before his opponents could attack, his luck finally returned to him—in the form of an Archadian accent.
"What's the matter, hamshanks? Sty getting too lonely for you?"
Vaan's eyes turned upward with refreshed hope and discovered the cocksure Archadian thief standing proudly at the edge of the arena, smiling and unbuttoning his cuffs. The men below growled their incoherent threats, but the pirate merely rolled his eyes, undaunted and slightly amused.
"Allow me to simplify…" He leapt agilely down into the pit and stepped between Vaan and the Landisians. "Pick on someone your own size."
A moment of silence settled over the murky chamber as the onlookers paused in awe, but the atmosphere promptly cracked at the bookie's shout: "Place your bets now!"
The thief's determined smirk didn't falter for even a second. He extended a hand for Vaan and pulled him to his feet, then scanned the competition with calculating confidence while cracking his knuckles.
"You alright, kid?"
"Fine."
"Let's get this over with."
A bell sounded—two hollow steel pipes whacked together somewhere above—and the Landisians sprung, each throwing his opponent to the ground immediately. The pirate regained his footing by means of a swift boot between his attacker's legs, and although Vaan was quickly overpowered, he managed to kick some sand into his opponent's eyes and escape the tangle, sore but relatively unharmed. The Landisian quickly recovered and turned furious eyes on the boy, and he saw from the scuffle beyond that he would receive no help for the moment. He dodged a punch, thankfully quicker than the hulking Landisian, but found little success when he landed his fist in the man's gut. Though he did bend forward a bit, the blow had been intended to render him momentarily motionless, and once Vaan saw that it had failed dismally, he added an uppercut to stall for a few seconds more. This, too, proved minimally effective, and before Vaan could think any further ahead, the Landisian slugged him with enough force to throw him from his feet and briefly dim his vision. As he recovered, the man readied a second strike—one that would surely end the brawl.
Vaan briefly feared for his life, for having been knocked unconscious twice in one day, he felt certain that he had a concussion, in which case another blow could do damage exponential in comparison to what had already been done. Of course, even were his circumstances brighter, he would have had no idea what to do about it. Penelo would know. The thought evoked further ferocity in him, and he launched his foot up in a moment of blind anger, striking his opponent in the stomach and effectively knocking the wind out of him. This, however, did not buy Vaan enough time to get to his feet, though it mattered little, for the other Landisian came crashing into the one that stood above him, knocking both to the ground. Vaan turned to direction from which the man had been flung, finding the pirate there, rolling his right shoulder with a slight wince, but otherwise unharmed.
Vaan rolled to his feet and tackled the first Landisian to rise, while the other charged the pirate. He dodged the attack, instead grabbing hold of the Landisian and ramming him straight into the wall behind him, finally knocking him unconscious. Vaan soon wound up pinned by his opponent once more and had taken a nasty hit already, but managed to roll out of the violent mesh, saving himself from another punch. This, however, was not enough, for the Landisian soon got to his feet and kicked Vaan in the stomach as he tried to rise, laying him out on his back.
In that moment, though, the great beast of a man was struck on the back of the head by a flying boot. He turned to face the pirate, who stood proudly beside an unconscious and barefoot brawler, and shouted something jumbled with foreign words. The pirate threw the other boot, smacking the man square in the face and prompting him to forget his vengeance for Vaan and charge the pirate, just as the first had. Vaan let out a laugh as soon his adversary took his first stride, not in the least surprised when the pirate sidestepped the attack and simply tripped the Landisian, allowing him to fall forward, head-first into the stone wall, landing directly on top of the first.
Cheers and laughter erupted from the crowd, though many audibly demanded a rematch. Vaan painfully rose to his feet as the pirate stepped up beside him, looking to the roaring audience.
"Great," he muttered. "Now they'll want an encore."
"Hey…" Vaan offered his hand a bit shyly. "I'm Vaan."
He shook it. "Balthier."
Yet as he spoke his name, it was shouted in full from above as several armed soldiers escorted a group of unsavory ruffians into the room.
"Balthier Bunansa! Show yourself at once!"
Not about to heed the call of an Imperial captain, the two scampered across the sand and pressed themselves stealthily against the wall of the arena, narrowly out of sight, but nevertheless safe for the time being. It quickly became clear that the commanding captain was also the head warden of the prison, for their fellow detainees cowered at his voice and heeded his orders without hesitation.
"Don't make us come looking for you!"
Vaan glanced at Balthier anxiously, but he didn't appear to hold any interest in turning himself in, instead scanning what portions of the room were visible to him and plotting his next move.
"Who here has seen him today?" the warden demanded of the crowd. "Your compliance won't be forgotten."
"There was others with him, sir," one of the prisoners replied.
"You can't expect us to rat him out if you intend to leave his friends down here to avenge him," another added.
A bounty hunter strode up to the warden with an angry growl. "You won't find him by askin' questions, anyway! He's a stag what needs huntin'!"
"I won't have future prisoners terrorizing my current ones!" the warden declared. "Our deal is dependent on the keeping of order."
Then a second bounty hunter stepped forward aggressively. "If he was the type to show hisself at any bloke's request, d'ye really think his bounty'd be as high as it is?"
Fran at last appeared at one of the many gates along the edge of the arena and lifted it a bit, allowing Vaan and Balthier enough space to slip beneath it without causing enough noise to alert the mob above. They quietly sidestepped their way to her and crawled under, then followed her a few paces to the safety of a dark alcove.
"Darling," Balthier whispered jovially, "what would I do without you?"
"Nothing," Francesca answered in an almost sarcastically flat tone. "You'd be long dead."
Balthier just smiled at this, and she continued: "I sought to tell you before they arrived, but you had to go running off again. They cut a deal with the warden; he gets half the bounty if you're found here."
"Not bloody likely. Where are we with the escape?"
She cast a glare at Vaan, but Balthier reassured her: "Don't worry about him."
"…Mist seethes from the torture chamber," she went on warily, "but it is sealed beyond the locks outside."
"Fantastic."
Fran then adopted a devilish smirk and flicked her ears. "But I heard something else from the warden—a Judge."
"Here?"
She nodded upwards to the crowd. "There. He comes to question the Kingslayer."
Balthier paused for moment, both confused and concerned. "…What?"
"The Kingslayer?" Vaan echoed. There was only one Kingslayer, and he had been executed two years ago—surely nothing good could come of this.
"The lot of you are incompetent fools!" one of the headhunters bellowed. "If you've the pirate in your hands, where is he?"
"You'd have done better?" the warden scoffed. "By your own words, it was the Imperial army who caught this prey of yours. We've done your job for you."
"Maybe I'll whet my blade on you before I kill Balthier."
"Kill him and you won't get full price."
Both drew their swords violently, but their argument was quelled by a disturbingly calm voice from the entryway: "That's enough."
"Just our luck," Balthier muttered. "It's Gabranth. He'll take no negotiations from the likes of us."
The Judge came to a smooth halt before the bounty hunter and continued with a sturdy Landisian accent: "The doctor requires a live delivery. He'll pay for nothing else."
"There's others who would pay for a corpse," the offending bounty hunter sneered.
"Not nearly as much," Gabranth replied. "And bear in mind that you will answer to me if you mess this up."
"Uh…my apologies…"
Balthier smiled with jaded sarcasm. "Aw. Thanks, Noah."
"Where is the captain?" Gabranth went on.
"We have him in solitary, Your Honor," said the warden, weaving through the crowd of bounty hunters. "We're ready to begin our interrogation."
One of the hunters lurched forward. "But, Balthier—"
"This does not concern you," Gabranth interrupted. "Find your pathetic prey and be gone."
The prisoners parted, creating a path before the warden, but he kept his focus on the hunters. "Just go ahead and have your run of the place. I suppose they could use a little roughing up—but not too much, you hear?"
"Yeah, yeah…"
"Time for the hare to follow the fox," said Fran.
"I love the way your gods think," Balthier added.
"Huh?" asked Vaan.
"Well," Balthier explained, carefully maneuvering his way out of the shadows, "our clanky friends are undoubtedly headed for the torture chamber, and the little gits won't dare interfere with a Judge. We'll get him to open it for us."
As they took refuge in a new alcove, Francesca folded her arms. "Who exactly is us?"
"Umm…" At a loss for words, Vaan simply ran a hand through his hair.
"Right," said Balthier. "Vaan is coming with us."
"I don't trust him."
This caught Vaan's attention immediately, but not for the obvious reasons. Fran had spoken it in Vieran, which Vaan didn't understand a word of and which only put him more on edge. Balthier, however, was fluent and sensed the boy's unease.
"I was under the impression that you trusted me," he replied in the same language.
Fran nodded with a slight huff and continued the conversation in the language of humans: "This had better not turn out like that incident in Archades."
Balthier groaned. "Honestly. That was three years ago…"
They continued on, skillfully dodging the few prying eyes that may have strayed from the ruckus caused by the bounty hunters.
"Wait a minute," said Vaan. "What's up with these Judges? Some Archadian thing?"
"He is young in mind, too," Francesca commented haughtily.
"More than a thing, I'm afraid," Balthier answered when they reached safer ground. "They're the self-proclaimed guardians of law and order in Archadia. They're also the elite guard of House Solidor, which effectively makes them the commanders of the Imperial army. If you ask me, they're more executioners than judges—one of the many reasons I took to the sky in the first place."
"Geez…" Vaan risked taking a closer peek at Gabranth, who now stood impatiently while the warden nervously unlocked a gate sealing off a smaller chamber.
"Not a friendly lot, at any rate," Balthier went on, preparing to run through the gate once it was opened. "If it comes down to it, stick close to the bounty hunters. Come on."
They made it past the closing gate with mere seconds to spare, and though they did not attract any attention from the warden or the Judge, much to their own detriment a pair of headhunters caught sight of them as they caught their breath on the safer side of the bars. The quick bout of running and shouting that ensued proved most amusing to Balthier and Fran, though Vaan thought for sure that he would never see the light of another day. The warden assured the hunters that there was no way Balthier could sneak into the maximum security area and that they would not be allowed in to search. More yelling followed, but it didn't seem to phase the thieves.
"Wow…" Vaan whispered in mild astonishment. "You really are wanted…"
"Of course," Balthier answered. "Who wouldn't want me?"
"They're moving," Fran interrupted, grabbing Balthier's sleeve and dragging him after her.
With a smirk, Vaan followed.
Presently, the warden brought Gabranth to a tall, gothic door on the back wall of the fortress, and the thieves at last reached a distance at which they could clearly overhear the conversation:
"Is the isolation really necessary?" Gabranth asked.
The warden shook his head as if to imply a negative response, but then stated begrudgingly, "He'll just try to escape again, otherwise."
"I know, but he's always worse when he comes out of there."
"Isn't that the goal?"
Gabranth studied the door with steely indignation. "In two years he hasn't given in to your methods—reason would suggest a change is due."
"Trust me, Your Honor, persistence is the key to interrogation. The finest steeds take the longest to break."
While Gabranth continued to berate him, he produced a gleaming stone from his satchel and inserted it in a fitted indentation in the door, lighting it up to a bright maroon color that appeared far out of place within the dank prison. Balthier's eyes seemed to dim almost shamefully at the sight of the magicite, but Vaan found the feat quite impressive—never had he beheld such technology, not even in the bustling bazaars of Rabanastre. Fran pawed the dirt a bit as Gabranth and the warden each produced a key to be inserted in separate locks on the great door, and Vaan turned hesitantly to Balthier.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, praying that such a question would not further insult Francesca. "I mean, we don't even know what's in there…"
"Viera's noses are sharp," the Archadian assured him. "If she says there's a way out, there's a way out."
Vaan had no time to voice his lingering skepticism, for the door creaked open and they silently crept in behind the Imperials. The door led to the upper floor of a small circular chamber where chains, cages, and unnatural instruments of torture had been stored while not in use. A cool fog hazed the air, and all of the stonework was slick with condensation and mold. The door by which they had entered appeared to be the exit as well, for no other openings could be spied either on the top level or the bottom. A single staircase descended from the doorway to the grimy cobbled floor, and Gabranth and the warden tread down it without so much as casting sideward glances to the encircling floor above them, granting the thieves safe eavesdropping ground, if only temporarily.
Welded to the floor below them were several steel loops, and chained to one of these was an ashen, feral man with pensive green eyes and hair too dirty to tell the color of. His knuckles bled and his bones jutted out, and cuts and bruises marred his face—trophies from discipline well-earned. He looked to be in his mid-forties, though his frame remained as solid and imposing as a workhorse's, and little could be divined of his sanity, though he did have a decidedly dignified way of ignoring the warden's insults and orders. Vaan leaned in as far as safety would allow, straining his eyes to find some semblance of evil in the prisoner, and forcing his mind to keep his emotions in check. Surely this could not be the notorious Basch Ronsenburg, the Kingslayer—the traitor who single-handedly doomed Dalmasca to its current occupation, the knight who failed to protect Prince Rasler at Nabudis, the captain who betrayed the orders of Princess Ashelia here at Nalbina, the soldier who killed Reks. This was nothing more than a caged beast, once tame perhaps, but now broken and vicious—less than a shadow; less than a man.
"…He's still alive!?" Vaan growled through clenched teeth.
"Shhh!" Fran and Balthier answered.
When the warden at last finished his lecture, Gabranth stepped up to the prisoner with a distinctively casual arrogance: "Good morning, Basch."
"Go to hell," he replied.
Balthier leaned in a tad closer, pressing Fran's ears down out of sight as she followed.
"You look terrible," Gabranth went on.
"Thanks for noticing."
"Why so edgy? I've come to help you."
"Last time you came to help me, they broke my leg and starved me for a week."
Gabranth shook his head with a nearly inaudible sigh that sounded at once both pitiful and sarcastic. "Such bitterness is unbecoming of a knight. Did you ever imagine this for yourself? Years of bloodshed—shame, misery?"
"Such is knighthood," Basch groaned, breaking eye-contact and painfully shifting his chains.
"Look at you, for God's sake. You've let yourself be wholly turned from humanity. Sentenced to death, and yet you live. Why?"
"To silence Ondore. How many times must I say it?"
"Is that all?"
"Why not ask Vayne himself? Is he not one of your masters?"
"My masters hold your life in their hands."
"Then what the hell are they waiting for?"
Gabranth paused apprehensively, cocking his head much in the manner of a puppy upon discovery of a new toy. Oddly, Basch mirrored the gesture with perfect accuracy, and the Judge at last answered him in Landisian. Their conversation continued in this language for a few moments until the warden at last interrupted by questioning whether he should leave them to their own devices. Vaan glanced to Fran and Balthier, as they seemed far better educated in foreign tongues than he, but their confusion appeared to match his own. To their luck, however, Gabranth bade the warden stay and continued on to Basch in more common words:
"Vayne's taken care of that. He'll send no more insurgents here to conjecture with you. Once we take Bhujerba, you'll have outlived your usefulness…"
Basch laughed and shook some hair out of his eyes. "Vayne…you really hate him, don't you?"
"Mind your tongue…" Gabranth growled.
"He used you and passed you off on the kid."
"You would know all about being used, wouldn't you? Make no mistake, Basch—the most honorable years of my life have been spent in servitude to House Solidor."
"Most honorable and the last. Solidor's numbers dwindle. Wrath among brothers rarely serves posterity well."
Even through the armor, the thieves could see Gabranth tense up like a feral cur before injured game, but his voice remained the epitome of composure: "Rarely does not mean never."
"Fairly said," Basch answered. "Now what do you want?"
"We've caught a leader of the insurgence in Rabanastre. The woman, Amalia."
"Never heard of her."
"No one has. She claims she served under you during the war."
Basch shifted his chains once again. "I thought I killed everyone who served under me," he answered with a bitter, half-sane smirk.
"She says she knew you as a lieutenant in Landis," the Judge continued dryly, "and was transferred to Captain Vossler's command in Dalmasca at your promotion. If you refuse to discuss her, will you at least give up a lead on him?"
"I already told you: Vossler's dead."
"Need I remind you that your generosity in these matters will be rewarded?"
"Not interested."
A moment of silence followed. Basch stared angrily at the ground, and Gabranth gazed dejectedly off to the side, unable to look at the filthy prisoner. Soon enough, however, the Judge spoke: "…I'm sorry."
"You should be," Basch replied.
"I can help you if you'll just cooperate…"
"Isn't there a prince somewhere in need of your protection?"
Noting that Gabranth gave no reply, the warden stepped in with a slight air of menace. "Shall we begin?"
Gabranth simply regarded the Kingslayer with an icy stillness. "No."
"…He's telling the truth?"
"No."
At once, the Judge turned and strode out of the dim chamber, leaving the warden to trot at his heels uncertainly. "…Your Honor?"
The slamming of the door announced their exit, and Basch wearily began to fiddle with his irons—which he'd obviously been hard at work on when the Imperials first arrived. Balthier stepped out of hiding and shook some soil from his cuffs, then cast a friendly glance toward the haggard captain.
"Lock picking, eh?"
"Nothing better to do."
"You won't get far on those," Balthier explained with a smirk. "New model, made specifically to deter gents like you. Draklor Laboratory is phasing out pin-barrels entirely—"
"I thought it was the Archadian code of etiquette not to speak unless you can improve the silence."
The pirate scowled, but then shrugged it off and turned to Fran. "Fine then. Fran? This the place?"
She approached him slowly, eyes wandering over the walls and ceiling in search of an opening of any sort. "The Mist is flowing through this room. It must be going somewhere."
Basch turned his eyes to her upon hearing her foreign accent, but after granting her a moment of study, he came to the soundest conclusion he could: "God, I've lost it."
"Something tells me you lost it long ago," Balthier added.
Now he shook his head and allowed his sanity the benefit of the doubt. "You're no Imperials…"
"He's smarter than he looks," Fran groaned.
"Please, you must get me out—"
"It's against my policy to speak with the dead," Balthier retorted. "Especially when they happen to be ungrateful Kingslayers."
"I didn't kill him."
"Is that so? Glad to hear it!"
"And I will be grateful."
"You're not really improving the silence, are you?"
"Please, for the sake of Dalmasca!"
Fran examined the nearest wall closely, running her fingers over the brickwork with interest. "Here…" she said slowly. "There was a door here, I think."
While Balthier assisted her in breaking through the crumbling masonry, Vaan cast a disparaging look on Basch. "Dalmasca!?" he sneered. "What do you care about Dalmasca? Everything that's happened is because of you!"
"You have to believe me," he begged. "That was not the way of it!"
"Shut up! You're supposed to be dead!"
"Quiet!" Balthier interrupted. "The guards will hear!"
They all paused then, realizing the ease that Basch would have in alerting half the prison of their presence, and Balthier quickly shot him a cocky look of warning.
"I could just knock you out," he said.
"Try it," Basch replied.
Another pause, and Balthier knelt down and set to work on Basch's irons, leaving Fran to push out the remaining bricks. "Oh, alright. You'll have to forgive the little cage-rattler there; he's new to the whole prison thing."
"Don't let him go!" Vaan protested.
"Fran!"
In an instant, Fran was between Vaan and Balthier.
"Whoa…"
"Ship or no ship," she growled, "Balthier is still the captain."
"Pirates, huh?" Basch sighed.
"The best," said Balthier. "I imagine two years ago, you would've been trying to kill us."
"Times change, and friends with them."
With a simple clack, the cuffs popped off, and Balthier rose with clear pride in his work.
"That was fast," Basch stated in awe.
"Practice makes perfect," the pirate replied. "Of course, it also helps that I invented them."
"A pirate who invents locks?" he asked in a low tone.
Balthier mirrored the tone with slight contempt. "Leave it to the government to go and bastardize a work of art. You alright?"
He remained crouched wearily like a wild beast, inspecting the bloody rings around his wrists left by the heavy manacles. "I've had worse."
"Do you really care?" asked Vaan.
"Hey," Balthier answered airily, "I didn't see him kill anyone."
"My brother did."
Basch looked up to Vaan curiously, then with a glint of recognition. "Reks…I thought you looked familiar."
Vaan just rolled his eyes and continued to yank stones from the wall.
"Where is he now?" Basch asked.
"Dead," Vaan answered.
"…I see." He tried to gain some stable footing, but found that his strength had been reduced to a mere shadow of its former self. "I suppose you were told I did it."
"What's there to suppose?"
"Please." He leaned against the wall now, struggling pathetically to stand. "I know my word means nothing at this point, but I swear I am innocent…"
"Yes, yes, of course," Balthier injected, approaching the lame Landisian once more. "We're all innocent down here." He extended his hand, which Basch gladly accepted. "Up you go."
"What the hell are you doing?" Vaan demanded. "Let him rot down here!"
Basch stumbled, his legs still wobbly from what had likely been months of cramped confinement, but Balthier remained hospitable at his side. "Sorry, Vaan. I believe him."
"You do?" Vaan and Basch asked in unison.
"Isn't it obvious?" the pirate answered. "His evil twin did it."
Basch was utterly dumbfounded. "…How did you know?"
"Noah and I used to be drinking buddies. He's off his rocker if you ask me."
"What!?" Vaan exclaimed in disbelief.
"You knew all this time and you didn't tell anyone!?" Basch added, regaining his wits but once again losing his balance.
"I'm a pirate," Balthier defended, catching and steadying him. "Who's going to believe me?"
"Whoa, wait a minute!" Vaan cut in. "You really are innocent?"
"Yes," Basch groaned. "I was framed. Vayne thought up the whole thing in order to victimize Dalmasca."
"The emperor's son?" Vaan asked suspiciously.
"Made Archadia look downright compassionate for stepping in like they did," Balthier added. "They couldn't have kept up their good terms with Bhujerba otherwise. And Rozarria is always looking for excuses to pick a fight."
Vaan hesitated, contemplating this news, searching for some excuse to believe it, for in truth, he dearly wanted to. Basch did seem to be telling the truth. And he was, after all, a man who had served (or rather failed to serve) three countries in ten years, and clearly there was just no keeping him down, whether metaphorically or physically. Even now he struggled for independence—he and Balthier were more wrestling than cooperating—but there were simply too many fuzzy details, and Vaan's loyalty was first to his family, and then to his country. "…No way. I'm not gonna believe it until I see you two in the same room."
The captain sighed. "You just did."
"What?"
Balthier smirked. "Like I said: off his rocker."
"You're one to talk," Basch growled. "How could you just leave me to a lifetime of torture?"
But Balthier, as always, was quick to his own defense: "Come now. I thought you were executed two years ago. And I'm helping you out now, so what's there to worry about?"
The captain had finally found his center of gravity—fleeting though it appeared—and seemed too exhausted (or perhaps too irritated) to reply.
"Balthier!" Vaan scolded, seeing that Fran would offer no objection. "Don't listen to him! He'll kill us the first chance he gets."
"Oh, spare us your quiddities," Balthier groaned, watching Basch take a few clumsy steps toward the wall.
"But he's a—"
"A traitor, I know. So am I, for that matter; and so are you. Stay here and fight if you want—whatever it takes to make you happy." He slapped Basch merrily on the back and headed into the dark passageway beside Fran. "If you can walk, let's go."
"You're taking him with us!?" Vaan scoffed.
"I took you, didn't I?"
"I can't thank you enough…" said Basch, finally gaining his own ground.
"You talk too much, Captain."
Fran sighed and shook her head. "Our ranks grow by the hour."
"And our troubles with them," Balthier added, "but better to be uneasy than outnumbered."
"I can't believe this…" Vaan growled.
"The gods never did like you much," Fran continued in Vieran.
"Then why did they bother creating me?" Balthier replied.
"My punishment."
"Ah."