[A/N: Wow. I had originally intended to more or less leave long fic writing for FFXII, but... where's all the Bxb of late: (
Rules of
Engagement
4
One of Them
"Lady Thorn's origins
are no secret, told in folktales even today in the Chimera Purveema
that she ruled during her lifetime. She was Maisy Tam, the eldest of
three daughters of a cobbler, sold to a brothel for enough rice for a
month; her second sister sold to a slaver for rice for the next. Life
was hard for the poor on Chimera: the gap between the rich and the
destitute was insurmountable, and the influence the rich had on the
corrupt government made the tax on the poor crippling. Then came the
pirate raids, led mostly by Richter the Boar. Chimera's armada were
ill equipped to respond, their funds much laundered to line the
pockets of the rich elite, and soon the city had conceded all of its
Lower Quarter and half of its Merchant district to piracy. The
pirates were, by all reports, somewhat surprised to be welcomed,
often with open arms, by the citizenry in the streets. Several
stories circulate about the meeting of Thorn and Richter, which I
will not detail. Regardless, they became lovers. Thorn proceeded to
spend the next few years searching futilely for her lost second
sister, up till Richter's death and her inheritance of his power..."
-Excerpt from Piracy after the Succession War, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press
Balthier absently stroked the edge of the damaged wing as the White Rose's resident mechanic moogle, Mab, fluttered around it tsking to herself and occasionally scribbling on a tiny notepad in her hands. Eventually, she landed next to his fingers, waving the notepad at Balthier. Even with perfect vision he could not decipher the scrawl. He kept what he hoped was a polite smile on his face.
Mab muttered to herself, unbuckled the spanner slung sword-like at her little hips, stuck the pen behind her ear, and began to wave both spanner and notepad to emphasize her words. "Good hit, mm, missed the fuselage, damaged the navigation fins. Can be fixed out of workshop mm, but better to have it repaired in an aerodrome. Draketongue Aerodrome, I have a cousin there, mm, you won't even see the difference."
She scribbled an extremely tiny sigil on a page of the notepad, tore it out, and handed it with a flourish to Balthier. Mab bowed when he accepted with appropriate solemnity, the puff over her head bobbing.
Thorn was seated on a stack of crates next to the Strahl, marked as containing oranges and postmarked colorfully with the Rozarrian phoenix stamp of origin, in a very unladylike sprawl, one thigh hugged to her and the other hanging out over space, her braid in her lap and her broadsword behind her. Her animosity against him seemed to have mellowed into a wary sort of camaraderie. "Close thing there, if ye moved any more to the left I could have hit the glossair rings."
"Ah, well, the accuracy of your Rose is well known," Balthier grinned, moving away to climb onto the crates as the moogle and Hume technicians of the Draketongue cruiser began to apply temporary repairs under Mab's and Fran's supervision. The White Rose's mechanic had declared partial responsibility for the damage and had rather unnecessarily and despite Balthier's protestations announced her intention to provide any help possible.
"Now's the hard part for ye, eh?" Thorn said, with a jerk of her head to the group of people waiting on the docking platform for the arrival of the prize, with Draketongue and a few other pirate lords at the forefront.
"You could say that," Balthier found he was not really looking forward to talking to Basch, as much as he knew he had to. Just to give Draketongue some impression that he was doing the other part of his 'task'. Balthier fully intended to crack the password by himself: the thought of torture disgusted him. "Why aren't you over there with the illustrious company?"
Thorn snorted. "Neither is Varney." She pointed to the side. The scarred, half-Archadian pirate lord Varney Silverunner was seated on the nose of his docked personal airship Doin' a Runner, and he waved at them playfully when he saw them looking in his direction. Silverunner was technically not a sky pirate, as he ruled the Pharos Draehra, really a small pirate port in the middle of the ocean.
"Why the hell is he here anyway?" Varney possessed an uncommon cheer that Balthier occasionally found trying, but the Draehra had the best lager on this side of Ivalice, and a few of his sea pirate friends had over the past few years fled Balfonheim for Draehra's relative peace. "Wait, no need to answer that."
Balthier spied the burly figure of Nae Marlinspike in the congregation. Nae was a freebooter and a sky pirate who had a tendency to steal from pirates: his argument was that whatever was worth stealing stayed worth stealing. An attempt to steal from the Draehra Manse had mysteriously resulted in Nae making fast friends with Varney.
Varney was probably here to make sure Nae didn't develop the sudden and potentially lethal itch to steal from Draketongue. From the soft chuckle Thorn made by his side, he supposed she had come to the same conclusion. She opened her mouth to comment, then paused as a commotion and the slow hum of the massive hangar doors sliding open heralded the arrival of the boarders.
--
Basch was leaning more in the arms of the guards restraining him than walking, his body still twitching involuntarily at times from the aftershock of the stasis charge that had immobilized the airship. He hoped devoutly that the Valefor had regained power in time to make a landing safely. The memory of what had transpired was sharp and bitter.
"Draketongue's orders," the leader of the armed squad who had forced open the gangway of the trapped airship barked. "No killing. No other prisoners. Take the Judge and everything in the hold. You know the size of the crate. Search the ship."
They had not bothered to hide the prototype, and it was found quickly enough in the hold. Basch had kept his expression stoic, with his arms shackled before him and under guard at the mouth of the gangway, as the crate was wheeled past him.
Once he and the crate were in the boarders' ship, on their way to one of the cruisers, he heard voices discussing the Valefor over the feed.
"Want me to loose the net in stages, Draketongue? The airship would recover power in stages, enough to hover. We'll be safe gone by then, and if it chases, ye can shoot it down."
"No. Just let it go all at once."
"What? But ye said, ye did'na want the Valefor harmed..."
"And it isn't," the second voice was lazy, flat as a reptile's. "Nor is anybody harmed. But we now have no obligation to their well-being, and I do not want any small chance that they may recover enough to prove a nuisance. This way, they will have to make a forced landing and do repairs."
"Aye."
He guessed who Draketongue was immediately, even as he struggled to concentrate. The small man in a black robe walked up to him with the confident stride of power, and bowed slightly, without the least trace of mockery in his eyes. Sarcasm was likely a petty indulgence to Draketongue. "Judge-Magister Gabranth. You know well enough why you are here, and you know most of us behind me than introductions are unnecessary. I doubt you have recovered as yet the use of your tongue...?"
Basch stared at him calmly, refusing to speak.
"I thought so," Draketongue mused, shaking his head when one of the guard arched an eyebrow at his master and raised a fist, as if to strike. "Here is the arrangement, Gabranth, without mincing words. You and the prototype are to be taken back to my Manse, where you will be placed under heavy guard. Therein, a mutual acquaintance of ours, Balthier Bunansa, will attempt to crack the password on that prototype, or persuade you to give it up. I do, however, have a limited patience, so please enjoy my hospitality while you are able."
There. No verbalized threat was truly required. The last few lines were said without inflexion, but Basch felt a chill settle at the base of his spine. Draketongue bowed again, turned about, and swept back up the platform, through the crowd and to an exit Basch could not see.
He turned his head, and spied Balthier and Thorn watching him from a stack of boxes. Balthier's features were expressionless, though at the Strahl, Fran afforded him a brief, faint nod of recognition that made him feel slightly if irrationally better. Basch had failed his mission, and all because of misplaced honor and sentiment. He should have guessed that Balthier, as a pirate, would have worked against him simply out of a sense of self-preservation, and he was too naïve. Creatures, when cornered, would use any method necessary to stay free.
Still, he found he was angry at Balthier, angry at the deception and the play on their friendship that they had forged through shared hardships in regaining his Queen's title. He looked away pointedly, as he was dragged away to the cells.
--
His first and only visitor, as opposed to curious onlookers, was later at night. Fran was alone, and looked a little weary. She tossed him an apple through the bars: Basch accepted gratefully. While he had not exactly been fed bread and water, the fresh apple tasted like sunshine. The cell was cool, but he was sweating a little under the heavy armor, to the point that he itched at a point under his right shoulderblade, between skin and padded undershirt. His brother's horned helm was in his lap, and he sat on the single bunk, feet flat on the ground, leaning back against the wall to eat. Fran seemed content to watch, silent, beautiful and still, then she nodded and left. Basch did not call her back.
He managed to sleep fitfully, lulled by the steady hum of the massive engines that he could hear through the walls, the heartbeat of the cruiser that was taking him to Draketongue's fortress. Basch did calculations to distract himself, whenever he fell to consciousness.
Basch supposed there was no real way that the armada could be intercepted in the few hours that they took to reach the Draketongue Purveema. That Valefor would be missed, but Larsa and the others would have no real idea where the pirate fleet was headed. Even if they were observed and followed, there was little chance that Archadia or Dalmasca could muster a force in time to best the fleet before it reached its destination.
The Purveema was currently in drift offshore from Dalmasca, twenty miles or so south of Bhujerba. As such, there would be no need for time-consuming political agreements in order to approach the area. The Draketongue Purveema was heavily fortified, but due to the number of civilians living on it, Larsa would be unlikely to use bombing or strafe attacks. He was also likely to try diplomatic methods first.
All in all, Basch supposed, leaning back against the wall and staring at the apple core discarded at his feet, it would be at least a week or more before he could expect rescue, if at all. Any strike force attempting to penetrate the Purveema would likely fail.
His best bet would be to persuade Balthier to aid him. The pirate loved his own skin above all else: that was evident now. Perhaps he could arrange absolute immunity, or persuade Balthier that he could. Surely the free spirit in Balthier that had driven the sky pirate to throw in his lot with the pirate lords to capture the prototype also rankled under the need to obey their dictates. And as much as Balthier sometimes attempted to hide it under layers of sarcasm, he had a good heart. Surely he also knew that the depredations of the so-called pirate elite had to be curbed.
Too many threads that centered on someone so unpredictable, so young still. Basch let out a long, soft sigh. His worst enemy at this point was probably Balthier's curiosity. He knew the sky pirate would likely attempt to decrypt the machine purely to satisfy said curiosity; and if the son was anything like the father, Basch had no doubt that Balthier had a fair chance of completing the machine, as well. Basch did not want to think about what would ensue, were Draketongue and the others to gain control of the weapon in its complete form. If he had any luck at all, they would then squabble amongst themselves, and devour each other.
--
Balthier arched an eyebrow at Draketongue when he wasn't immediately allowed into the laboratory proper. They stood in the circular observation deck outside a containment facility, which was enclosed in a cylinder of steelglass. Within it were people, wearing lightweight tunics and breeches, gloved to the elbows in fine leather. At the centre, on a low platform, was the prototype weapon.
It likely was less glamorous than anyone had thought, currently in several different pieces stacked neatly together in the same sequence as they had been wrapped. Balthier tilted his head as he looked it over thoughtfully. Certainly he could already divine what the reconstructed prototype should look like, and it was definitely incomplete.
It was also some sort of cannon. In between deciding whether or not to divulge this tidbit, Draketongue spoke first. "It is a cannon, is it not?"
Balthier nodded cautiously, keeping his expression guarded. "It should not be difficult to reassemble it."
"It does not appear to be powered by conventional means."
"It is incomplete," Balthier pointed out dryly.
Draketongue's stare did not need to be withering. "I understand that one of the very first tenets of invention is to find a workable power source."
"And I meant that without looking more closely at the device, it is unlikely that I can divine how or where this power source may be."
Draketongue smiled, humorless, turning reptilian eyes back to the glass. "And I thought you would turn reluctant at the last moment."
"Rest assured I am just as curious as you are," Balthier replied honestly. He had always had a weakness for machines.
"Unfortunately, due to safety reasons, you would have to undergo the inconvenience of procedure, at least until we confirm that the prototype is by itself totally harmless to would-be tinkerers," Draketongue leant forward on the cold steel bars of the rail. "There is a communications port at the station to your right. Use that to speak to those within the chamber. They will be quick to obey your direction."
"You fear that the device is trapped," Balthier stared hard at the people milling about the steelglass room. Certainly, now that he knew what he was looking for, the tension was obvious, in the stilted way they moved about each other. "Why not use machines?" Draketongue had any number of odd devices that Balthier had observed when escorted deep into the heart of the Manse's laboratory. Many of the corridors had led to closed reinforced steel doors, to Balthier's disappointment and relief. He was curious, but he did not want to see any experimental horrors.
"At least with the technology we have now, human fingers are more precise, and it would take a while to reconstruct any sort of operative machine claw in the steelglass room. "Do not worry," Draketongue added, inflectionless, "All of those within there have families."
Balthier switched his stare to Draketongue, the start of horror within him too deep to mask effectively.
Draketongue, however, had already turned his glance back to the prototype, disinterested in his own words. "That would make them less likely to resort to ill-conceived ideas of sabotage."
"Or, if the machine is rigged..."
"Then they should also be somewhat more inclined to take especial care to listen to your directions, Balthier." Draketongue inclined his head towards the communications station. "Do report to me afterwards."
--
Basch had resolved to be calm, patient and above all, civil. He was escorted to a set of guest chambers that he supposed belonged to Fran and Balthier, sans his brother's weapons, though he was allowed to keep the armor. There, he was informed flatly by the guards that any attempt at escape would be deeply frowned upon, and was then left to himself.
The opulence of the guest rooms rivaled chambers that Basch had seen in the Solidor Palace. The curtains were heavy, crushed white velvet, framing long steelglass windows that overlooked a sheer drop down to darkening clouds. He stood in a circular lounge room with a frosted glass low table as a centerpiece, its surface etched with the squares of a chessboard: black squares frosted glass, white squares clear. Delicate silver chess pieces lined Black; White was in clear crystal. A gray leather divan bordered the chess table in a perfect 'O'.
A thick black pelt of some unknown, massive animal was cut into a square under the table and divan. Between two of the long windows was a glass shelf which held a few titles of fiction that Basch did not recognize. Above him was a small, plain crystal chandelier, too bright, painting stark shadows under the furniture and Basch's boots. Two sliding doors, silver, were to Basch's left; one to the right; and the single exit, no doubt heavily guarded, was behind him. With the rough white plaster walls, the room looked disturbingly sterile, in tones of white and gray and black.
He pursed his lips, then forced himself to stop. Basch then walked experimentally over to the doors on his left. Neither opened, and he noticed slots for identification cards set discreetly at hand level. The right door opened, however, to show a small, single bed, a rack for his armor, and a small wardrobe where several dress shirts, breeches, nightshirts and underthings were. Two towels were folded on the top shelf of the wardrobe. There was another door, which opened to a washroom that contained a ceramic tub.
Basch turned quickly when he heard the hiss of the exit door opening, and was in time to watch Balthier stroll into the room, looking around himself with an insouciant expression. He arched an eyebrow when he saw Basch. "I have never been quite into themed rooms."
"Perhaps Draketongue wishes to make some point," Small talk came all too easily to Basch, with Balthier's playful manner. He could tell that the other man was tense, however, in the way he was picking constantly at a sleeve. Balthier's expression was also all too set, his smile a little too feigned. He had been right, then: the current arrangements under the pirate lords definitely were uncomfortable for Balthier.
"About his taste, or his idea of ours?" There was no heart in the jibe, however, and Balthier was already turning away, to slip a card through the sensor on one of the doors. There was a soft beep, and a hiss as the door slid open. Balthier's room was twice Basch's in size, and appeared more to be a study than a bedroom. There was a small bed in a corner, next to a desk; the rest of the room was lined wall to wall, ceiling to ground with shelves of thickly stacked books. Balthier whistled, walking to the closest shelf and randomly selecting a title.
"Technomancy," he muttered, then let out a long breath, as though coming to a decision. "You probably don't wish to talk to me right now, and I can understand that. I'm not going to give you any excuses."
Basch frowned, as the pirate continued talking. His speech was clipped, as though distracted, far from the lazy drawl that Basch remembered.
"I won't bother asking you to help me, and you shouldn't bother asking me to help you. As far as I'm concerned we're both at odds on this, and my - and Fran's - survival takes precedence over yours. Understand?"
Basch nodded slowly as he sat on a couch, ignoring how the grease stains from his armor discolored the soft fabric, plated boots flatfooted on the ground, elbows on his thighs and fingers interlocked. "Self-preservation is the beginning and the end of why you've chosen sides, Balthier?"
A ghost of a smirk chased thinned lips. "That and curiosity, Basch. Pure curiosity."
That sparked a brief flash of anger within him that the betrayal had not. Basch forced himself to calm down. Losing his temper would likely serve no purpose other than to amuse pirates. Balthier, however, cocked his head, folded his arms, widened his smirk, and turned to face the steelglass window.
"Curiosity can be destructive." Basch commented mildly.
"It's a sentiment I'm well-experienced at satisfying in a reasonably safe manner," Balthier retorted, without looking back at him. "In any case, what I wished to ask of you was, in consideration for saving you the trouble of having history repeat itself, what with your penchant for getting strung out in dungeons and cages, that you stay in this set of rooms quietly and peaceably. You can try to escape or whatever if you'll like, just try to do it in a way that doesn't give Fran or myself any trouble."
Balthier's sentences were too long, nearly breathless, and his fingers continued to pick endlessly at his right sleeve. The pirate was nervous, where Basch had never seen him so before; not even entombed in a highly probable death within a collapsing airship.
And there was likely no real way he could get Balthier to say anything, at least, not this openly. Basch stared down at his patterned greaves, for a long moment, then pushed himself off the couch to his feet. There was no need for polite noise in full plate, when approaching someone from the back, but Balthier seemed to flinch when he stopped well-within the pirate's personal space and murmured an inch behind his ear.
"Is there something I should know, Balthier?"
-tbc-
