"This is the one?" Mephista asked in a voice as piercing as a hawk's. She laid her hands flat on her blotter, white fingers spread on the green leather, her eyes boring into Noah. Her massive wings threw a shadow across her face and the desktop that looked like a ghostly ink spill.

"Noah fon Ronsenburg, lady." Noah bowed to her, his mind racing.

No one knew how many aegyl there were. After the fall of Lemurés, most of the survivors had gone west over the sea, presumably to seek out new islands to call their own where the jagd kept everyone else away. No airship could navigate jagd, those stretches of land or sea so saturated with Mist that it interfered with skystone operation, and no watership could best the turbulent currents of the western Naldoan Sea. Only a few of the winged race had remained behind, seeking citizenship in the nations of the underworld, as they referred to the whole of Ivalice.

It was possible Mephista didn't know Hadran. Hadn't heard of the scandal that had erupted out of Archades concerning the promising young law student, who was the first aegyl accepted into the Ministry of Law, and the four humes dragged through a lengthy, costly, and thoroughly publicized court-martial over his death. Fortunately, the judge-sal had found Noah guilty of little more than abyssal stupidity and his sentence had been a shameful dismissal from university, but the fact that his name was associated with the case could cause an unpleasant fuss in the middle of a Clan Hall run by an aegyl.

When he straightened, he caught the tail end of a look of surprised pleasure. The jewels across Mephista's forehead glittered in the lamplight when she laughed. She did not seem to recognize his name. "Whoever told you I was a lady told you a lie, moppet. Mephista will do."

"Why are you calling me a moppet?" Noah asked, unable to contain himself.

She winked. "Within this Hall, that is what you are. Uninitiated. A child, if you like. If you don't approve, sweet moppet, the door is that way."

She pointed. Jothaniel snickered into his fist, and even Savin cracked a smile. Noah sighed. He would not leave before he heard what was being offered. Moppet it was, then.

Mephista came around to the front of her desk, leaned back against it, which displayed her alabaster legs to their fullest extent, and crossed her ankles, circled with multicolored bangles. Like native Dalmascans, she wore very little, but Noah had read that flying required even more muscles than swimming, which explained her tightly-bound hair and bare feet. Reducing air resistance was a priority. Her green-enameled toenails shimmered in the low light. "What do you know of Clan Luxaire?" she asked.

A sidelong glance at Jothaniel showed him at ease. For the moment, Noah was safely anonymous. "Nothing," he answered honestly.

She smiled, reminding Noah of his mischievous younger sister, although if he ever caught Emilie dressed like that . . .

"We are lately established," Mephista said. She abandoned her teasing tone. "The Clan was formerly known as Buckaboo, but when the original founder retired, he passed leadership on to me to do with as I see fit. I am the only remaining hunter under his command who has been initiated into the Order of Ambrosia." She appraised him again, her violet eyes veiled, and then said, "We are no mere hunters in Clan Luxaire, Lord Ronsenburg. Nor are we pirates. We seek enlightenment. I chose to claim the mainland as my home five years ago with the singular goal of compiling the complete histories of the regions in Ivalice that are no longer inhabited save for the beasts that now infest them. The ruins and all they conceal about our past are the real prizes, you see, not the grisly trophies stolen from creatures cut down for no other crime than defending their homes."

"Forgive me, but your goal sounds like a contradiction in terms," he said. "It seems to me that hunters and scholars are mutually exclusive."

"Is that true? I wonder." She tilted her head. "You are Archadian, yes? Your government and your military are synonymous. Your akademicians are often no strangers to the ways of soldiers. You are a warrior, and an educated one at that."

"All right," he conceded, "but if you seek enlightenment, as you say, then why hunt at all?"

Mephista acknowledged his query with raised eyebrows and pursed lips, pushing herself away from the desk. She sauntered over to the hunters gathered around the table, who ceased their conversations to watch her approach. The gems interspersed in the feathers along the backs of her wings glistened like air bubbles in a tangle of dark seaweed. It was no wonder that the fool out front worshiped her. She was a stunning woman, lithe and youthful, although it was impossible to tell her age. No aegyl lived longer than forty years, a bewildering contrast to the viera, whose lifetimes spanned centuries.

"Funding," Mephista said at last. She picked up a map from the piles of parchment on the table, looked at it for a moment, and then put it back. "Accepting contracts on marks allows us the freedom to travel where ordinary civilians may not, to cross imperial boundaries with impunity. The bounties provide us with the means to stay in operation."

Noah frowned. "Then at this juncture, do you seek a hunter or a historian?"

"I seek kindred spirits," she whispered, her mischievous smile turning up the corners of her small mouth. "I ask for help in filling the annals with the truths and treasures of history, preferably from one who doesn't mind getting his hands dirty."

Wrist bangles jingling, she crossed her arms under her breasts and marched up to Noah, tall enough to look him in the eye. "Tithes are due upon receipt of bounty rewards," she said, suddenly brusque. "As a member of Clan Luxaire, you will be permitted to shop at our exclusive outfitters for a discount on weapons, armor, and sundries. Marks offer rank points based on their difficulty and rarity, meaning you will not suffer hearing 'moppet' for long if you apply yourself. With each Clan rank you gain, more opportunities will open to you, both at the provisioner's and abroad. This is a very lucrative business, Lord Ronsenburg."

"Noah," he said, returning her courtesy.

"Noah." Her smile widened. "Will you accept my terms?"

He thought of the last four years spent at university. The studying and exams, the struggle to remain near the top of his class, the constant networking required to rise in the Ministry after graduation. Wasted, all, because even after a quarter century, the Archadian Empire was not ready for the peace that had suffused Ivalice after the Dalmascan and Auracite Wars. In Archades, none but humes were welcome. The lesser races may scrape and bow as they pleased, but they would never attain the heights. Noah, fool that he was, had gotten caught up in a prank gone horribly wrong, orchestrated by his prejudiced peers. Perhaps because of his parents, he did not hold with the old regime. He'd wanted no part of the prank and had endured the displeasure of his friends, but his inaction had not prevented Hadran's death.

He may as well have bound the lad's wings and thrown him from the top of Draklor Laboratory himself.

The future that had been carefully laid out for him by his father had crumbled into dust and blown away. Noah would never serve his emperor as a judge. This, then, was his final break from life on the Grand Arcade.

Mephista was waiting for his answer.

"I agree to your terms," he said with a feeling of shutting a heavy door behind him, one that locked when it settled in its frame. They shook on it.

"I don't know what Jon sees in you yet, Noah," she said, smirking, "but now is your chance to show us all. Let's make Clan Luxaire a household name!"

As if this was a rallying cry, the other hunters cheered.


Let it go, Sari told herself angrily. It had been three weeks. She pinched pierogi pockets shut with doughy fingers, stuffing them in the rectangular pan harder than was necessary. Three weeks, and no word from Jothaniel. She felt like a doxy, used for her services and then discarded with the rest of the trash.

She pitched the last uncooked pierogi into the pan with a splat, hefted the pan, and slammed it into the rack with the others.

"Troubles, luv?" Popping up from behind the rack, Reever plucked the mess out of the pan and deftly re-folded the dumpling over its potato and cheese filling. He raised his eyebrows at her, sucking at the hole where two of his teeth used to be. "Energy like that, and I can tell your troubles involve a lad."

"Several," she growled. She scrubbed her face into a dry dishtowel as if she could wipe the scowl from it. After cleaning off her hands, she started the sinks filling.

From his prep station, Reever spoke over the sound of the water and the thud of the knife he was using to prepare the day's carrots. "Your probation ends this week?"

"Aye." Thank the gods. A whole month! Grench hadn't dared fire her – she was the best lass he had, and she wasn't afraid to tell him so – but he'd relegated her to the kitchen without kitchen pay. At the end of the month, he'd said, he would review her performance and revisit her employment status.

Fully a third of her income had shriveled up with the loss of tips. Sari had been able to cough up her half of the rent, but nothing else. Her flatmate Marjn, bless her, hadn't said a word about it, but this blow to Sari's independence rankled like a bundle of needles in her knickers. She'd been living off scraps passed under the table by a sympathetic Reever because she couldn't afford to pay for her meals.

"I couldn't turn them away!" she burst out, viciously attacking a sudsy sinkful of bowls. "All right, sure, Jon should have taken him to the bangaa, but a lad was dying, I couldn't say no –"

"Of course you couldn't, luv. Healers are born, not made," Reever said soothingly. A pile of radish roses grew at an impressive rate under his skilled hands. Years of working the galleys on waterships had hardened him into something like a beetlecrab, his muscled forearms sleeved in scars, his face as swarthy as a dried plum. His teeth weren't the only things missing from his person: a pair of fingers had gone to feed a shipwreck shark, his leg lost in a powder keg blast. In spite of his hunch and squint, however, he was the best hume chef this side of Archades.

"You'd think, wouldn't you, that he'd at least check on me afterward?" It came out a plea, and she dropped the pot she'd filled with water onto the range, narrowly avoiding putting the firestone out.

"No one ever said sky pirates were the best-mannered lot," Reever said, smiling. "Jon's not a fool, but he can be a thoughtless lad. He's lucky to have you. I'll tell you, luv, I'm going to miss your company when you return to the front of the house."

"Thanks, Reever," she said, warmed by his kindness, but when she returned to washing dishes, she continued to stew over the injustice.

Really, it was Jothaniel himself she was mad at. They'd been friends forever. His parents were sky pirates, as were hers, and they'd spent many salt-tinged, sun-filled days playing in the white sands of Phon Coast as children. How could he leave her out to dry like this?

The others, well, their neglect didn't surprise her. They were adventurers, always on the move. Jothaniel had made it clear to them that she was off limits. She would have thanked him for withholding that bit from Savin.

But that other one, the one with the wheat-gold hair – who was he? Where was he now? She didn't even know his name.

"What are those lasses doing?" Reever tsked, breaking into her thoughts. "Grench won't be happy if they keep up that noise. Go see what the problem is, would you, luv? I need to finish these onions."

"Oh – sure." Sari removed her wet apron. She'd been so wrapped up in her own problems that she hadn't noticed the upswing in feminine voices. When she pushed open the kitchen door, they hit her like shrill foghorn blasts.

Five lasses crowded around a closed window, giggling and squealing. More than a couple were pulling the wide collars of their blouses off their shoulders, puffing the sleeves, smoothing their skirts over their hips to make their figures as appealing as possible. The dining room was only half ready, chairs and tables in disarray, brooms abandoned on the floor, tubs of spoons overflowing with unfolded napkins.

"What are you doing?" Sari plunged her hands into the knot of waitresses and began yanking them back by the laces of their girdles. "Grench will hear you, and we open in fifteen! Have you all gone mad?"

"Sari, look! It's him!" Nikki exclaimed, latching onto her. A few cinnamon-colored curls escaped her bangled headscarf.

Bewildered, Sari tried to free her arm without success. "Him who?"

Hanah grabbed her, too, bouncing like a happy bunny, with about as much fluff between her ears. Large hoop earrings brushed her slender white neck. "Mare's talking to him. Oh, I do hope he comes in."

Feeling like she had a lobster trap locked on each arm, Sari struggled to the window and looked through it.

Sure enough, Marjn was setting up the fringed umbrellas on the dining patio. Her beautiful face serene, she was conversing with –

"Ah!" Sari couldn't help the gasp. It was him, the lad she'd healed. Clean and hale, he looked different, although there was no mistaking that bright hair. It hung loose and straight down his back except for the sides, which had been braided together. He gestured toward the tavern, and Marjn shook her auburn head with something akin to regret.

"He can't come in," Nikki said breathlessly to Hanah. "Grench won't allow it."

"Oh, but he is handsome!" Juline squealed, causing the others to start up their excited twittering again. He chanced to glance at them, and they all shrieked, fighting to be foremost in the window.

"All right, shut it!" Sari impatiently shook the lasses off. She snatched a towel from Beni's pocket and twisted it into a rat's tail. "Get to work, or so help me, I'll fetch Grench myself."

"You wouldn't!" Roksy gasped.

"Try me."

Voluntarily involving Grench was the ultimate betrayal, but Sari knew that any misbehavior on their parts would wind up squarely on her head, and she was on probation already.

"You aren't the boss, Sari," Nikki said, giving her a spiteful pinch along the ribs.

Sari snapped the damp towel at her, raising a welt on Nikki's upper arm. "As far as you're concerned, wench, I am Queen Bitch around here," she said. She brandished the towel like a whip. "Now move!"

Nikki did, furious tears clinging to her lashes. "You just want that lad out there for yourself!" she shouted.

"Aye! And when I'm done with him, I'll send him to you with my teeth marks on his –"

The rest of her sarcasm was drowned in the screams of laughter from the other lasses as they scattered, leaving Sari alone by the window. Unfortunately, all the commotion brought Grench, puffing like a clogged furnace behind his beard.

"What's all this, then?" he roared.

"I've just been teaching Nikki to keep the goods under wraps so they don't spring free at the sight of a lusty lad," Sari said, her ire still high. When comprehension brought ruddy color to Grench's face, she nastily added, "You're welcome."

A few titters erupted around the dining room and were quickly stifled.

"Watch your mouth, Sari," Grench snapped. "I don't pay any of you to flounce your skirts at any lad. Now get back to work!"

Sari fired up at once – the injustice! – but she happened to glimpse the tips of Marjn's ears peeping through the open kitchen door and abruptly changed tack. "You know, you're absolutely right, Grench. A dirty mouth betrays an empty mind, isn't that what you always say?"

Clearly wrong-footed, Grench spluttered on his now-invalid response. Sari didn't give him the chance to recover.

"I've been out of line," she said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get right back to work, quiet as a mouse!"

With that, she picked up her heels and dashed into the kitchen, leaving her boss chewing on the ends of his mustache. Marjn caught her before she bowled them both over.

"Is it really him, Mare?" Sari asked in a strangled whisper.

"Yes," Marjn said, needing no explanation. At home, Sari might have ranted about that night a time or two . . . or fifty . . . "He's outside, around back. He asked to see you."

"Thank you," Sari breathed, and then turned to Reever.

Before she could say anything else the old pirate put the lid on a pot of boiling potatoes and jerked a thumb toward the door.

"Trash needs to go out, Sari," he said loudly. He gave her a broad wink, flashing his jackie-lanthorn grin.

She didn't need telling twice.


A/N: I am having so much fun with this. Can you tell? :3 I think one of the reasons I loved FFXII so much is its beauty - the width and breadth of Ivalice, with its wonderful mix of sword and sorcery and futuristic technology, lends itself well to the most flamboyant characters with ridiculous outfits and accents. I love it!

Reviewer thanks! Hooray, I love reviews! ArchadianRose (I giggle every time I see what you wrote. :3 Thank you) and Lady Aurora Nocturne (Oh, good! I was a little worried about how I've portrayed Balfonheim, so thanks for that. I'm also very happy you like my OCs). Thanks again for taking the time to read! I really appreciate it!

And that, Dear Readers, is all for now.

Ever Yours,

Anne