Chapter 3
Royal Aerodrome Dalmasca - Rabanastre
(six years ago)
"Stay on guard, gentlemen," Ffamran muttered.
The royal aerodrome was quite dark, and predictably very still, given the late hour. The shadow of an airship frame loomed over the men of Ffamran's unit as they picked their way through the hangar toward Raminas' lead engineering vault. This had the potential to be a fine craft, Ffamran surmised; her half-finished skeleton was wide and sturdy, suggesting a war-class bird. Indeed Cid had been correct; Dalmasca was on sudden defensive, building up its air force.
Tonight's mission was simple; The Seventh would find the blueprints for this ship and bring them to Cid for analysis. Ffamran failed to see the logic in stealing blueprints, since they would end up gathering dust in his desk anyway, but orders were, unfortunately, orders.
A rustling noise came from somewhere to the port side of the ship's skeleton; Ffamran pointed the torch stone in his hand toward the sound.
"Who is it? Show yourself."
A trio of moogles in mechanic's uniforms peeked over the scaffold supporting the ship's port wing; it seemed they had been sleeping there. One of the soldiers flanking Ffamran snorted derisively; he gestured to silence the man, bowed slightly to the frightened mechanics.
"Good evening. You'll forgive the intrusion; we're looking for the lead engineer on this project. Might you help us?"
"Who... who are you, kupo?"
Ffamran didn't know what to do with this question, so he changed tack, waving the torch stone up into the scaffolding. "You'll forgive my curiosity on matters not my business, but is this an official model, or some sort of personal commission? I must say I'm impressed by your execution of her skeleton. Is that gap by the starboard fin meant for a secondary cannon, next to the lead? I see where you've marked the auxiliary power already. Impressive configuration."
"Th... thank you," one of the moogles squeaked, as the original three were joined by eight more. Their tiny, guileless faces shone with confusion and the faintest anxiety, but Ffamran's polite shop talk seemed to have them transfixed, lulled into stillness. Ffamran made eye contact with the lieutenant to his far right, flicked his eyes toward the drafting table at the far end of the room. The man nodded, inched forward under cover of shadow.
"I wonder if I might come round, and have a quick look at the port block?" Ffamran ventured, bowing slightly to the moogle who had thanked him. The creature tensed, shook his head.
"N... no, kupo... I won't let you do that. You... you shouldn't be here, kupo."
"I understand entirely. We'll show ourselves out, then," Ffamran said, bowing again. But his eyes were on Lt. Astrac; the man had reached the drafting table, and was about to tuck the blueprint into his supply bag... They were nearly home free.
"Tell us what you know," a voice snapped from behind the port wing, and a blade found the littlest moogle's throat.
"Lieutenant Reslan," Ffamran said sharply, "Return to formation. We're leaving."
"Where are the blueprints?" Reslan growled, his menacing green eyes caught in the light of the torch. "You'll bloody well speak up, or I'll take your head."
"K...kupo... the alarm," the little moogle squeaked, squeezing his eyes shut.
One of the other mechanics darted to the wall and pressed some hidden switch that Ffamran couldn't see; an alarm screamed through the hangar, startling the unit out of formation. Half of his men scattered, panicking. Ffamran had to resort to hand signals to get their attention. Block entrance, cover on left flank, full retreat...
The alarm stopped as quickly as it had begun. Hissss... bang.
The moogles began to shriek and chatter, and Ffamran turned on his heel to see Reslan drawing a spell between his hands. The base of the scaffolding was on fire, and a glossair fluid leak had caught the blaze. The fool was trying to set the airship skeleton on fire.
"What are you doing? Fall back, you idiot!" Ffamran screamed.
Reslan threw the spell he was drawing at the band of moogles cowering behind the drafting table; two collapsed, immediately dead, and the rest began to howl in pain and fear. Reslan's self-satisfied grin flickered, and he bolted for the exit.
Ffamran turned to follow, cursing, but a voice crying from somewhere above them stopped him in his tracks.
"Stand where you are!" A girl in a simple cotton night-shift stood far above him on the catwalk, eyes saucer-round, blonde hair in a shambles. "What have you done?! They... they couldn't hurt a fly! Matta... Sherbet... they..."
She spotted the rapidly burning airship skeleton and froze for a moment, then turned swiftly and screamed. "Vossler! Basch! They're burning the aerodrome!"
"My Lady!" came a muffled voice from beyond.
My Lady... the princess? but she was so young. No, no time...
Ffamran bolted for the nearest open door, coughing, and emerged into the courtyard... only to find his men beset with the elite guard of Dalmasca. "Orders, Your Honour!" Astrac cried over the din of the fire. He didn't have his bag; the blueprints would be lost, and all hope of diplomacy with them.
Bugger... Ffamran dashed into the scrum, saber drawn, and grit his teeth.
* * *
Balthier came to consciousness and sat up carefully. His broken leg had been set and splinted. It seemed he was important enough to someone that he warranted proper medical attention. But then again, his head ached horribly; when he touched his temple his fingers came back sticky with coagulated blood. A moment later the room tilted and he retched, moaning, onto the filthy floor beside him.
"Ah, concussion. A fine reunion gift from our dear Gabranth, eh, Fran?" he rasped. Too weak to remain sitting up, he lay on his side and listened. A moment later he heard a scratching sound across the dim room; he turned his head and watched a small trickle of sand fall from somewhere far above.
"Fran?" Balthier repeated, confused.
He rolled onto his other side and propped up on one elbow, forcing himself to hold steady long enough to locate Fran. To his visceral dismay, his only company in the room was the corpse of a Bangaa, his blue and grey body crawling with flies and decay.
A fresh wave of fear and nausea overcame him and he retched again, rolled to lie flat on his back. His mind raced. Fran was gone? Where would they have taken her? What were they doing to her? If he lost her to this hellhole...
No. He had to stop himself from this line of thought, or he would never move again. He muttered a few words of prayer to Fran's gods, hoping it would do as a petition for her protection. Not that he believed in this sort of thing, but surely it was the thought that counted, and on the off chance that it worked they would both be grateful he'd made the effort.
"A'brac sr'hue mec... no, that's not right. A'brac sa'hue vas tr'liith kr'e... damn it... kr'a nes... Kr'a tue h'ran da mec tr'... ba'sue tec? Nnh."
Tired of fumbling the grammar of the thing, he shook his head and lay still. What was the use of muttering things in the dark, anyway? He'd go mad if he started up like this. He closed his eyes and waited for the splitting pain in his head to subside, listening to the strange echoes of screaming and moaning coming from the torture chambers he knew must be far above him. Eventually his mind wandered and he thought of the Strahl, his best girl, waiting for him in the hangar back in Rabanastre. The beautiful thing would rust there without him, until Nonno finally sold her – sold her! – to some gormless Seeq who would gut her for parts. The thought made him feel he might retch again, and so he sat up, struggling to fill his lungs with stale, putrid air.
A strange gleam in his peripheral vision caught his eye; something was reflecting light onto the wall. Curious, he half-crawled over to a large piece of stone that had fallen from its place in the wall, and was rewarded by the sight of a little glass bottle tucked behind it. He brought the bottle out of the shadow of the stone and found it was full of a pale green liquid, flecked with droplets of golden oil suspended within.
"A hi-potion...?" he whispered.
Then he saw the arrow scratched into the dirt beside his arm, pointing out of the room into the dark hall beyond. Beside it he found a crudely scratched sigil that he recognized immediately as one of Fran's improvised spells.
"My heart," he muttered, relieved, and took the stopper from the potion. When he drank, the sickly-sweet, faintly herbal tang of the stuff cleared his head, and after a moment's pause he found that the awful pain in his leg had receded. Pleased to have his faculties at least somewhat restored, Balthier gingerly got to his feet, dusted off his clothes, and turned to follow the arrow. "You'd think they would have the presence of mind to tie a man down in a place like this. Any fool with legs might deign to wander off," Balthier said aloud to himself.
The halls of Nalbina Dungeon were wide, sandy corridors of limestone and dirt that smelled quite uniformly of filth. The passages rambled on, and it was a full fifteen minutes before Balthier encountered fresh air.
The rafters of the corridors eventually lifted away from him, vaulting into an open dome framed with rickety steel scaffolding. The ground gave way to a series of grates that led off into catwalks on either side, framing a wide sandy fighting-pit. Across the arena on one of the platforms stood a Seeq, his club raised high, shouting hoarsely.
"Gra'gu ha bangaa wrga lr'ha, Gwitch, gwe ra!"
It was a language Balthier was only familiar with in passing, but he could make out enough of it to know the stinking creature was egging on a beating, and that whoever he was talking to was called Gwitch. There came a raspy moan of pain from the fighting-pit just ahead of and below him; the sound turned into a series of yelps, and then ratcheted into a scream. Balthier jogged forward and leaned over the railing, his breath catching in his lungs at the agony in the sound.
In the center of the arena lay a red bangaa. A filthy rag was tied around its head over its eyes, in an effort to maintain dignity; a blind Bangaa's eyes are a greater shame to it than anything a Hume might deign obscene. The bangaa tried to push itself to its feet with one arm, but Gwitch rushed forward and punched, landing a hard blow to the bangaa's shoulder; he shouted in pain and lay still. The raging seeq pacing the catwalk far above began to laugh, a congested, coughing sound that made Balthier think of a plague-ridden old man with infected lungs.
"Filthy... idiots," the bangaa half-shouted, gasping for breath.
"I couldn't have said it better myself," Balthier called, and jumped over the railing to the sandy pit below. He landed hard on one knee, rolled, jumped to his feet. The seeq called Gwitch roared his displeasure to his counterpart lurking above them.
"Galeedo, ra Ba'ghlar! Ha groum ga hwa r'gah ha bla gw'ha!"
"That's Balthier to you, Hamshanks. And I'd say you're the one that stinks."
Gwitch roared unintelligibly and rushed him, but he was ready. He feinted left, ducked right, and went into a roll just as the seeq reached him, tumbling out of grappling-range and landing awkwardly on his feet. Blessing Fran for the hi-potion she'd left behind, he jogged a few meters, stopped, and turned.
"Really I'm surprised you recognize me, given your miniscule capacity for thought. I'd figured you the sort more interested in breaking skulls open than identifying faces," he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage.
Enraged, the seeq called Galeedo jumped off the railing, leaving his club behind. The creature's reasoning was lost on Balthier, but he wouldn't complain. He widened his stance, cocked his head, and beckoned with two fingers. Galeedo charged, and Balthier tumbled again; this time Gwitch greeted him with a clumsy kick to the ribs that scuffed over his vest and tagged him hard in the knee. Balthier jumped to his feet and limped toward his bangaa comrade, who staggered a little and turned toward him.
"Care for a little help with these two, Balthier?"
"Always appreciated," Balthier muttered, panting for breath. "You know me?"
"Everybody knows you, pirate," the bangaa rasped. "By the way... they call me Quij. Pleased to... damn."
Galeedo rushed; Quij dodged with ease and rewarded him with a punch to the back of the neck. He squealed and lay still.
"What are you doing down here, anyway – get yourself caught at last?" Quij panted.
Balthier cracked his neck, rolled up his sleeves. "Alas. And you?"
"Got caught up in a scrape with one of those infernal guards that the Consul has working for 'im. I guess it was only a matter of... Whoah!"
Gwitch swung a punch that Quij easily ducked. Balthier planted his feet and punched their seeq assailant hard in the throat; Gwitch squealed in pain and staggered backward, coughing like an ancient coal stove.
Balthier cracked his neck, rolled up his sleeves. "I'd love to stay and chat – Quij, was it? - But I've a friend waiting up for me. Wouldn't dream of keeping the lady waiting."
Quij grinned. "I knew the Viera who came through here was with you."
Balthier blinked, surprised. "You've met her? I'm pleased to hear it. We're making a break for it; Care to join us?"
Spluttering, infuriated, Gwitch retrieved Galeedo's club and swung. This time Quij didn't have the presence of mind to duck and he fell, insensate, into the dust. Balthier knew better than to stand around. cursing bitterly, he ran into the shadow of the oubliette gate, skidded to a stop, and went to his knees. Gwitch pounded Quij's head into the ground; Balthier could hear the wet crunch of the bangaa's skull fracturing, and then the dull sickening thumps of Gwitch's frustration erasing his victim's features. But then a crossbow bolt flew from nowhere, and then Gwitch lay dead on Quij's remains.
"Damn it," Balthier whispered, with feeling; he pressed his back to the wall and waited. The voice of an Archadian ardent soldier came from somewhere far above him.
"Damned fat idiots think they can go about killin' the prisoners. Useful sometimes, maybe, but stupid. Bloody waste of perfec'ly good man power."
"What'd you kill that one for?" a second voice asked; it sounded a little unsteady.
"Rules is rules, you know that," the first voice grumbled.
"Prob'ly good to eat, though," another voice heckled.
"You can bloody well shut up!" the first snapped.
"Silence."
Judge Magister Gabranth's voice sent an involuntary shock down Balthier's spine. He held his breath.
"One of the guards went a little too far, Your Honour. Protocol states..."
"I am aware of protocol, lieutenant. Your troubles with your employees are not my concern."
"Yes, Your Honour."
Balthier heard a clatter to his right; he turned his head toward the gate, and there was Fran. The gate had opened just far enough that he would be able to crawl on his belly beneath it. He groped along the wall toward her, straining to listen to the voices as he went.
"Where is the Captain Ronsenburg?"
"He has been transferred into solitary confinement, according to your previous request, and awaits interrogation."
"Very good. And the pirate Balthier?"
"Begging your pardon, Your Honour?"
"The Empire has released statement requiring that the sky pirate Balthier be turned over to my custody immediately, and alive. Where is he?"
"He is below, with the other thieves. Protocol states..."
Balthier slid under the gate and frowned at a smattering of blood on his sleeve. Above him, Gabranth's voice grew an edge.
"Do you mean to inform me, lieutenant, that the political prisoner you were given specific order to keep under surveillance is not in fact being watched?" The lieutenant began to stammer, and Gabranth cut over him. "Search the perimeter of the arena for any sign of the pirate. Should you find him, ensure he is unconscious but otherwise unharmed, and bring him directly to me. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Your Honour," the three other voices muttered, in scattered unison, and their clattering footfalls receded away from their place above the gate. Balthier turned to Fran and indicated she take the lead. They would have to move quickly to avoid detection.
"We need weapons," Balthier whispered.
Fran flicked her ears in syncopation and nodded. "We make for the oubliette. We will find passage there into an underground pass of some kind."
"An escape route of any kind is welcome indeed. Though I will miss the sky," Balthier mused, thinking of the Strahl.
"There is one problem. The door leading into solitary confinement is guarded with strong magicks – too complex for my talents."
"How annoying... if rather impressive," Balthier muttered. "So Gabranth has this Ronsenburg creature under double lock? The man must be quite a threat."
A few minutes later, Fran stopped mid-stride and gestured into a large, open room.
"Look," she whispered.
Balthier peered around the doorframe carefully, and felt the pit in his chest loosen slightly. There, in the light of a few dying torch-stones, was a small mountain of confiscated supplies; potions, gil purses, even entire suits of armor lay about in complete disorder, long forgotten. Balthier scanned the room quickly for a familiar flash of bronze and finally located Altair. It remained in its leather and brass holster, quite intact, propped up against a fat leather supply bag.
"Ah, the prison repository of wrested relics and raiments. I do wish more of my heists ended in this sort of yield; Cuts out the rather nasty haggling and selling business, you know."
"Indeed," Fran replied, with a faint smile, and she went into the room ahead of him.
The pair spent five quiet minutes exploring the confiscated loot, and soon they found themselves quite well provisioned. Altair was quite intact, and Fran's shortbow as well. As an afterthought, Balthier grabbed two large brocade gil purses and emptied one into the other; then he began pawing about looking for other half-full pouches. The more gil they had on hand for the journey, the better; after all, when would they return to Rabanastre, and his own stores of money? But then he noted that Fran was standing quite still by the door, fixing him with an inscrutable, half-bored expression.
"Think of it this way, Fran," Balthier said, in an airy tone. "Theft is ownership, and what with possession being nine tenths of the law, I rather think I'm well within my rights."
"So I've heard... Though such sentiment is ironic coming from you, good Your Honour," Fran rejoined, flicking one ear in amusement.
The celebratory, relaxed quality of their foraging quickly evaporated. Soon Fran began shivering her ears once more, her eyes narrowed in concentration and her nose twitching, scenting out their path. Balthier moved out of the room ahead of her, feeling much more confident now that his favorite firearm was restored to him. To his surprise, Fran reached out to grab his wrist, pulled him back. He turned, and Fran's long fingers danced in quick, alarmed hand-signs.
Twenty Imperials. Armed. Swords, rifles, mages.
He flicked one hand over the other: Where?
Fifty meters straight on. Maybe less.
Balthier nodded once – Never doubt a Viera's nose – and reached for Altair. Fran widened her eyes at him and slapped her shoulder.
Keep it on your back!
He frowned.
No time left. We run. Up the stairs, turn right, into shadow. There we wait.
Balthier nodded, and Fran laid her finger over her lips.
Quietly... Go.
The pair hurried to the door at the end of the hallway, where Fran held up her hand in warning. Balthier counted down from five, opened the door halfway, and slipped through, not five meters from a small knot of soldiers. Fran came behind him and indicated the doorway that was their goal; it led into the darkness of the front chamber of solitary confinement. It was a two-hundred meter sprint from the door to the oubliette gate. So close, yet so far, Balthier thought.
They crept along the wall for ten meters, ready to break into a sprint at a moment's notice; then at a corner they stopped, and Balthier peeked around it carefully. The way was clear, so they sprinted along the wall to the next corner on silent feet. At the four-way junction, Balthier stopped in his tracks and darted backward, pressing his back to the wall. Gabranth marched across the next junction ahead, accompanied by a detail of three large bodyguards and a dour faced mage. The five men turned out of sight, in the opposite direction Balthier might have guessed that they should; light and dark ends of the corridor were terribly misleading in these lower reaches of the fortress.
Balthier counted backward from five once more and ventured another careful glance around the wall. At the end of the hall stood the oubliette doors, constructed of heavy steel; they appeared to be locked down with some sort of elaborate stone and enamel latticework. The mage of the party turned and bowed deferentially to Gabranth; the Judge's black steel helm nodded slightly in permission. Obediently the mage turned toward the gate, held up both gauntleted hands in prayer, and began to chant in a low, crooning voice.
"Tjensk ro bur, lar Faram kwor bjur nequh..."
The latticework over the doors began to glow and shimmer. The sound of flowing water reached him, and then the trembling of magick, keening obediently in response to the mage's command. Now the lattice was melting – but no, it was unmaking itself. It coiled away from the door like so many serpents, or the tails of some mythical sea-monster. Balthier had never seen a lock so complicated, and he could barely believe his eyes when the chains of white stone and black enamel vanished entirely.
The doors swung open with a moan and the mage stepped out of Gabranth's path, bowing once more. The judge nodded again and proceeded into the black beyond the oubliette door, an odd gravity in his step. Balthier shook himself, stepped out from the shadow of the wall. He looked left and right down the adjacent halls, and when he was satisfied, he offered Fran a gesture of all-clear.
"Ka' gre mec?" he asked her as she came up beside him.
Fran didn't answer; instead she blinked at him languidly, an almost catlike expression on her face. "You are worried?"
"Don't be daft," he replied quickly, and they descended the stair behind Gabranth into the black, reeking stillness of solitary confinement.
* * *
Balthier and Fran found the main chamber of the oubliette eerily quiet. Judge Magister Gabranth approached the caged prisoner in the center of the room on slow strides, his attention keen on the sleeping man hanging in chains before him. At length he stopped before the oubliette cage and lifted one gloved hand into his line of vision for an idle moment's inspection. In the dim squalor of the oubliette, the leather glove seemed unnaturally clean and glossy, its immaculacy a silent insult to the filthy, skeletal man that hung in chains before him.
"Good evening to you, Basch."
The prisoner opened his eyes immediately; he had not been sleeping at all.
"And swift, painful hell to you, Noah. I was hoping you would come."
Balthier felt a fist knot in his gut as he pressed himself closer to the wall. Why would a prisoner in solitary confinement know Noah Gabranth of Archades by name? A Judge never reveals his civilian identity to anyone not of station, least of all foreigners and prisoners. The idea that the head of Archadia's Eighth could be identified accurately and swiftly – and this despite his helm – alarmed Balthier considerably.
"Your lie is heartening, if transparent," Gabranth rejoined. "But enough with pleasantries."
As the judge removed his helm, Balthier felt his heart leap into his throat and stick there. Seeing Judge and prisoner standing face to face in profile was an alarming revelation, for Gabranth's flint-blue eyes stared coolly into the prisoner's own, of same shape and color. The prisoner's matted blonde hair hung lank around his shoulders, but did little to hide the broad structure of his jaw and high brow; Gabranth bore the same chiseled, classically Landisian look. He tilted his head gravely to the left, and the man called Basch mirrored the gesture, widening his eyes slightly in challenge. There was bitterness here, and a flash of madness. Balthier shuddered, recognizing the repressed urge for vengeance in the man's stare.
The most powerful man in Archadia's military and the great traitor of Dalmasca were twins. Judging from the odd silence between the two, this meeting between them would not be a happy one.
Gabranth murmured something in Landisian that Balthier could not translate.
"Bjor saag?"
The prisoner scowled and replied in kind.
"Bjor tensk wohr seth."
Balthier heard Fran suck air through her teeth and turned toward her; she ducked further into the shadows. Judging from the expression on her face, this exchange was far from civil. As if to confirm Balthier's suspicion, Gabranth smiled mirthlessly and began to pace the floor. Balthier narrowed his eyes. This was the languid, measured movement of a man who had an ace up his sleeve.
"Nalbina has been far from kind to you, Captain," Gabranth said at length. "Do you think perhaps you are willing to strike a bargain?"
The prisoner tilted his head, a painfully slow gesture that spoke of hatred. "Enough. If you are here, you want something of me. Speak it plain."
"You are direct as ever... very well."
Gabranth examined the prisoner's filthy, emaciated face for a moment with a shrewd look; he seemed to enjoy the grim sight of his twin trembling in exhaustion and pain.
"Tell me, Basch... Who is Amalia?"
At this question, the change in the prisoner was immediate and dramatic. His listless eyes flashed with a strange, startled look for a moment, and then he seemed to catch himself; he turned his head out of the light.
Gabranth straightened. "Your silence speaks well enough. You are ever faithful to the pitiful sand-choked land you claim as home, I see. But you should know that if you do no loosen your tongue, punishment shall be exacted against you, as the law demands."
Balthier winced. Noncompliance during one of Gabranth's interrogations meant the whip, and in Gabranth's hands, the whip was worse than death.
Gabranth fixed his twin with a dark, determined stare; Basch merely closed his eyes. The man looked as though he might pass out, or drift off to sleep. Irritated now, Gabranth rapped on the bars of the cage with the back of his studded glove. Basch opened his eyes once more and gave a slight grunt, as though he had been punched in the stomach. He seemed to be having trouble breathing.
"Da tjor nequh saag, Basch," Gabranth said, in a clipped, irritated voice. His eyes flashed with an almost childlike impatience.
"Ar bjas, Noah," Basch replied in a strangled voice, and began to cough violently. In response Gabranth stepped quite close to the cage and peered through the bars like a fascinated child. When the prisoner's respiratory distress spluttered to a halt, the corner of his mouth twitched into a strange, sadistic smirk.
"Taa. But tell me, Basch; Do you ever wonder what the people of Dalmasca say of you and your crimes?"
"I have committed no crime," Basch rasped.
"Have you not? The Marquis Ondore has declared you a traitor among men, and hopes to make an example of you to the others who might rise in your stead... Perhaps you should be grateful of your solitude, given the circumstances."
The prisoner squinted, tilted his head back into the dim light of the torchstone on the wall. "I do not understand."
"You are quite dead, Brother," Gabranth said, almost conversationally. "You were executed shortly after your arrest, and at Her Majesty Ashelia B'Nargin's order, no less. You are a murderer. Had you forgotten?"
Fran gave a tiny jerking movement, as though something had bitten her. When Balthier turned to glance at her, her eyes had rounded with a strange look of revelation. Her eyes flicked from one man to the other, and she very carefully shrank back once again, until now all Balthier could make out of her was the silvery white cascade of her hair over her shoulders.
Basch's eyes darkened with a tidal wave of inscrutable emotion; once again he quickly turned his face out of the light. The corner of Noah's mouth twitched in fleeting satisfaction at this reaction.
"I repeat, Captain; Who is the insurgent known as Amalia?"
Basch shrank even further into the shadow cast over the cage, chains clattering hollowly in the open sandy expanse of the chamber. Balthier leaned forward ever so slightly and narrowed his eyes, trying to see whatever it was that Fran had caught scent of; something was deeply amiss in Gabranth's smugness. Basch turned his face back into the light and cleared his throat.
"Your master, Vayne Solidor, will tell you who she is – You would do well to ask this of him, and leave me to silence."
Gabranth straightened, surprised. "You readily admit that My Lord Vayne knows this woman's identity? Why will you not speak it plain, if it is no longer classified information?"
Basch turned his face out of the light a third time; this time he went completely limp, shutting out Gabranth, the soldiers, the steady drip of water somewhere deep below them. Half-cast in shadow, he might have been a corpse, but at length he spoke again.
"You cannot escape your deeds, Brother. You have blood on your hands; what you have done cannot be erased, no matter the depth of your fealty to the Basilisk."
Gabranth turned and glared at Basch's limp form with a sneer of almost adolescent disdain. "And what of your own iniquities, Brother? Landis is as nothing now. Where were you when Her glory faded into dust, traitor?"
Basch opened his eyes. "If fleeing for one's life is a sin, defecting out of fear and consenting to aid the enemy is a graver one still. If ever there were a traitor, Noah, it was you."
"Your usefulness to the empire wanes, Brother," Gabranth said gravely. "Speak, or the full extent of the law will be exacted; Who is the woman Amalia?"
A full minute passed. Basch did not so much as twitch a muscle; in fact it seemed he was barely breathing. All was silent now, but for the intermittent dripping of water far below. Gabranth stood very still, his head tilted like a spaniel's, listening to the strange, semi-musical sound. Basch hung limp in his restraints, eyes closed, body leaned back into shadow.
"An impasse? Very well," Gabranth said at last, and his voice held the faintest touch of a smile. "Then it is over." He turned to the soldier who stood silently at his right. "Inform the guard that Captain Ronsenburg is to be executed at three hundred hours, quickly and without formal announcement. There will be no need for any exercise of prisoner's rights. This is a court martial, and all rights of the accused have therefore been rescinded."
Balthier was hardly surprised when the soldier did a slight double-take in confusion. Had the death penalty ever been sentenced to a man so swiftly and casually?
"Yes, Your Honour."
Gabranth replaced his helm at last and turned to leave; his detail followed in his wake, looking as though they had found themselves underwater and had no idea how to proceed. Balthier straightened his posture and held very still for a moment, listening, his eyes half-lidded and looking aslant toward the sound of receding footsteps.
"Judge Gabranth has blood on his conscience," Fran murmured. She sounded like she might be ill.
"Naturally," Balthier agreed, quietly. "But you're referring to Raminas B'Nargin, aren't you?"
She nodded. "Captain Ronsenburg is innocent."
"A Captain of Raminas' Knights framed for murder and high treason by our dear Gabranth...?"
Balthier paused in thought. The hound of the empire, Noah Gabranth, brought to murder in his brother's stead... The thought sobered him, rang all too true. He squinted, smirked to himself. One hand washes the other, and should he free Basch, the man would be in his debt... which made the perfect ace in the hole against Gabranth's division.
"Are you feeling altruistic, Fran?" he asked.
Now that the door had closed, The prisoner yanked ineffectually at his restraints, flexing his arms in fervent, half-mad rage. He began to growl savagely, as if he might scream, his chest heaving with the effort of the struggle.
"I would save your strength if I were you, Captain," Balthier said, stepping out into the light and cracking his neck. "You've a long night ahead of you if you want to get out of this hell-hole alive. You'd rather like to find the Lady Ashe before your brother does, am I correct?"
The prisoner stopped dead. "Who's there? What do you..."
Balthier tilted his head. "What do I want? Well. I thought I'd made it plain, but I would bloody well like to get out of here, if it's all the same." He didn't mean for his tone to take on an edge, but he wasn't in the mood for lengthy conversation.
Fran stepped out of the shadows and sniffed the air. "The mist flows through here," she said. "The pit below us leads on; there are passages through the underground. At least one must lead to the surface; it is only logical."
"Then it's settled. I do believe I know that lock," Balthier said, frowning at the padlock on a lever near the cage. "If I'm right, we'll be on our way before you know it."
"That is best," Fran said, glancing at the oubliette door. "A guard detail will come looking for us here, no doubt."
"Infamy does have a way of cramping my style," Balthier sighed, taking a plain bronze hairpin from the hem of his vest and squinting at it.
"Who are you?" Basch rasped, leaning forward in a clatter of chains. "What do you know of Lady Ashe?"
"The pirate Balthier, at your service," Balthier rejoined, distracted by the lock pick taking shape between his fingers. "No-one of consequence, really – Just taking a detour from a rather important errand. Apparently piracy is badly frowned upon in these parts; rather inconveniently so for me. As for your dear Ashelia B'Nargin, we've met; I daresay the woman has a knack for getting into trouble. A veritable damsel in distress... Which brings us to you, good Captain. I do believe this particular damsel would be under your jurisdiction?"
Basch's eyes flashed with confusion and alarm, but he didn't reply. Balthier glanced from the bent hairpin to Basch and quirked an eyebrow; had he been too casual about the whole thing? Slightly irritated with his own lack of manners, he met Basch's heated stare with an apologetic nod.
"You'll forgive me for being rather flip about all of this, but I don't usually make a habit of getting involved in political affairs. Rather distasteful business... For you, however, I'll have to make an exception. After all, you and the princess were both reported dead not six months ago, and when the dead refuse to remain so, it means an ill wind blows." He turned his eyes back to the lock-pick, adjusted it. "I may be young, but I am not a fool, nor am I heartless. I will aid you, for a price."
Basch frowned. "A price..."
"Your sword-arm will do, Captain. I hold no delusion of divulging you of any riches you may possess. As I said before, I'm no fool."
Balthier knelt beside the control lever beside the cage and felt along the underside of the lock for a deviation in the weight of the tumblers that he might exploit, but the lock was quite light and yielded few hints as to its inner workings. He bit his tongue in thought, tilted his head; after a moment he returned his attention to the hairpin in his hand and bent the end of it carefully.
"Hm; one, and two... and there we are," he said, slipping the pin into the padlock. The mechanism sprang open with barely any application of leverage.
Fran lifted her chin slightly, amused. "Quick work indeed," she commented.
"Tin and travesty, that padlock is," Balthier said happily. "I ought write a strongly-worded letter to the locksmiths at Draklor about this. Now, if you'd be so kind, Fran, this lever's a bit on the rusty side..."
"Stand clear," Fran said, and roundhouse-kicked the lever as hard as she could. The cage shuddered, and as Balthier clambered quickly onto the chain following it down, he smirked to himself; these horrid situations did seem to turn in his favor all too easily. Where before he was no better than a rat in a trap, now his ace in the hole traveled through the blackness below them toward freedom, and in the nick of time.
Robin-hooding has its merits now and then, Balthier thought to himself, and chuckled aloud as the cage plummeted into darkness.