Penelo closed her eyes, pressed her fingers over them, and rubbed. Hard. Last night had been rough going, but she hadn't thought she'd imbibed nearly enough to explain waking hallucinations. Oh, her precious sleep might've been interrupted by the ungodly racket, but she was mostly clear-headed and alert.

So, why, then, was Balthier standing at the bar, his arms folded across his chest, looking as if he'd conquered the whole of Ivalice?

And here she was, having just rolled out of bed–or rather, having hoisted herself from her pallet–having neither brushed her hair nor washed her face, still in last night's rumpled clothing. She probably looked like death warmed over.

Incredulous, she turned her head slightly towards Bartaan. "What's...what's going on here?"

Bartaan lifted his shoulders in a disinterested shrug. "Says he's lookin' for you," he said. "You coulda stayed put a bit longer. Figure I might've made a bit of gil off him."

"Oh." Oh? Oh was the best she could manage? But her head was swimming, swirling vacantly through drifts of confused fog. A familiar face for the first time in years –and she didn't have a clue what she was supposed to say.

Unimpressed with her bland response, Balthier's mouth tilted into a scowl. "Have you any idea of how much worry you've put everyone through?"

Nonplussed, Penelo could say only, "No, not really." Who was everyone? Why should they worry now? It had been three years already.

The scowl deepened. "Where the devil have you been?"

"Here. Working." She touched her fingers to her jawline to ascertain if she'd yet recovered from her mystified shock, if she'd managed to at last close her mouth and stop looking like a fish gasping for breath. Satisfied she'd recovered herself from her slack-jawed expression, she took a step forward...right into a chair leg. She stumbled abruptly, and the chain that had previously slid silently across the floor jangled and clattered with the force of a gunshot in the otherwise silent tavern.

Balthier's eyes zeroed in on the source of the noise, and then narrowed dangerously. His shoulders snapped tense and straight, his jaw tightened, and a muscle ticked in his cheek, betraying his sudden surge of ire. With a jerky, furious movement, he whirled to face Bartaan, gritting out through clenched teeth, "What the hell is that?"

Again, Bartaan shrugged. "She owed a debt. Couldn't have her going walkabout."

Making a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, Balthier once again retrieved his wad of banknotes. "How much?" he inquired tersely.

"She's down to about six hundred thousand."

"Six hundred thousand?" Balthier's fist crushed the banknotes, crinkling the paper. He whirled on Penelo, growling incredulously, "How in the world did you manage to accrue a debt of that magnitude?"

Her brows lifted. "It's not mine," she said irritably. "I just got conned into paying it off."

"What could have possessed you to agree to a fool thing like that?"

She wiggled her foot to jangle the chain and snapped, "I didn't."

Balthier jerked around once more to snarl at Bartaan, "You chained her up for a debt that wasn't hers to pay?"

Bartaan paused in his diligent wiping of the counter, as if the fury in Balthier's voice had pinged an alarm. Penelo knew what he'd be thinking; Balthier would appear to him to be some sort of dandified city gentleman. His clothes were clean and in good repair, stitched fine and evenly, embellished with gold thread. His leather boots were ornately decorated, elegant and expensive. He was immaculately groomed, clean-shaven. He looked the sort to carry a weapon he never fired, as if he enjoyed the pretense of playing at being a gentleman pirate. Bartaan had a good six inches and fifty pounds on him; he would never take Balthier for any sort of threat. Not when measured against the usual sort of patron he dealt with.

Bartaan continued wiping down the counter top. "Don't care who pays the debt, provided it gets paid," he said. "She was given over to satisfy it. Got another five, six years left most likely. Could be as few as two or three, if–"

"Don't say it," Penelo warned, curling her fingers around the back of a chair. It was bad enough that Balthier bore witness to her humiliation; if it were compounded by Bartaan's suggestion that she should shorten her imprisonment by selling her body, she would just sink through the floor and die.

Bartaan considered her tight grip on the chair, accurately guessed that a continuance of the conversation might lead to it being lobbed at his head, and muttered, "Hmmph. Stubbornness'll be the end of you, girl." His gaze flicked back to Balthier. "You look like a gent with money. If you're buying, I could be persuaded to part with her. More trouble than she's worth at times."

Penelo drew in an infuriated breath, prepared to launch a scathing rejoinder, but Balthier waved away her protest before she could voice it.

"Only a fool would carry so much ready capital on his person," he said. "I do, however, have an airship."

"A trade, then," Bartaan suggested.

Balthier laughed. "Hardly. The airship is a prototype, the only one of her kind. She's worth at least five million." He braced his forearms on the counter. "Given the disparity in value, I propose a game. Cards or dice; winner gets the ship and the girl."

Penelo felt her stomach sink to her feet. What was he thinking, challenging Bartaan? It was foolish to go in against the tavern owner in a place like this; all the cards and dice were rigged. Balthier was guaranteed to lose, and he'd be forced to surrender his beloved Strahl.

"No," she said. "No, really, it's not your–"

"Done," Bartaan said. He slung the rag over his shoulder, pitching it with perfect accuracy into the bucket of soapy water behind the counter. "Sounds fair to me."

"No!" Panicked, Penelo shoved herself towards the bar. "No, Bartaan, you can't–"

"Gentleman's agreement," Bartaan interrupted. "Can't go back on it now." He dug around in a drawer behind the counter, searching for a deck of cards. He shoved the deck he found into his breast pocket, whistling jovially as he snatched a bottle of whiskey off of the shelf and poured three generous glasses. "On the house," he said to Balthier as he shoved one over. "Least I can do."

"Bartaan," Penelo hissed. "Don't you dare."

Bartaan slid a glass in her direction. "Hair 'o the dog," he said. "Still a bit green about the gills, are you?" He took a healthy swig of his own whiskey, swished the liquid around in his mouth and swallowed. "It ain't none of your business if he wants to bet his ship."

"In a fair game, I wouldn't object," she whispered furiously.

Bartaan slanted her a warning glance. "Bite your tongue," he growled. "All the gamin' done here is fair, and I'd better not hear you imply otherwise again." He caught her by the arm and steered her towards an open table, shoving her down into an empty chair. "You're gonna sit there and stay nice and quiet. It's your freedom on the line, after all."

Penelo ducked her head and grimaced. He wanted her close at hand so that he could monitor her, make sure she couldn't alert Balthier to his intention to cheat. Bartaan was going to end up owning the Strahl and the next six years of her life. Her hands fisted in her lap in helpless fury.

"You got any objection to spectators?" Bartaan tossed the question over his shoulder to Balthier.

"Of course not," Balthier said, sweeping his arm out in a grand, magnanimous gesture. "The more the merrier. And spectators will keep the game honest."

Bartaan's eyes narrowed minutely. "You implying I'd run a dishonest game?"

Balthier laughed heartily. "Of course not. After all, I posed the challenge." He clapped Bartaan on the shoulder. His whiskey sloshed over the rim of his glass, splattering the front of Bartaan's shirt. Balthier yanked a snowy white linen handkerchief out of his vest pocket, dabbing ineffectually at the splotches. "My apologies," he said, "Strong spirits go straight to my head."

With a barely-muffled sound of distaste, Bartaan waved away the handkerchief, running his fingers subtly over his breast pocket where he had stored the deck of cards. Satisfied that the deck remained undisturbed, he called out to the few patrons, "Any 'o you care to witness a game? Got a gent here what wants to wager his airship against Penelo."

Three instantaneous assents from the only patrons left in the bar. With nothing better to do at this time of day than witness a high-stakes game, they happily clustered around the table as Balthier and Bartaan took seats on opposite ends.

Penelo chewed her lower lip and ventured at last, "This really isn't necessary, Balthier."

Bartaan glared over his whiskey at Penelo. To Balthier, he asked, "Best two of three?"

"That won't be necessary," Balthier responded. "Just one will do. This is an honest establishment, after all."

Beneath the table, a foot slammed into Balthier's shin. Somehow, through sheer dint of will, he managed to turn a grimace into a grin. Unless Bartaan had reason to resort to nonverbal communication, he guessed that the foot belonged to Penelo, who was probably still attempting to persuade him to withdraw his challenge. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but entirely unnecessary.

Balthier rolled up his sleeves and rested his forearms on the table. "Aces high?"

"Mmm. One discard, maximum of two cards." Bartaan withdrew the deck from his pocket and gave it a quick shuffle, then offered it to Balthier to cut. After Bartaan tapped the deck back into order, he began dealing out the cards with the practiced fluidity of a card sharp. He was good; Balthier would give him that much – but he had made the mistake of underestimating his opponent, and that would be his downfall.

Balthier swiped his cards off the table and fanned them out in his hands, peering over the top of them to study his opponent's face. Bartaan might've had quite the poker face when things were going his way, but just now his thwarted expectations were writ fresh upon it. His bushy eyebrows yanked upward, as if drawn by invisible strings. His eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in suspicion. Furtively he flicked his thumb over the edges of his cards as he assembled them into some sort of order, a gesture which would easily have been overlooked by an observer, except that Balthier knew he was checking for marks.

Bartaan's face gathered into a subtle frown as he stared over the top of his cards at Balthier, who kept his face carefully blank. Impotent rage burned behind Bartaan's eyes, and Balthier tamped down on a measure of satisfaction lest it show in his own face. The tightness at the corners of his mouth suggested that Bartaan would dearly love to call out Balthier as a cheat, but the very act of doing so would reveal his own perfidy. He could not expose Balthier without drawing attention to the fact that he regularly used marked cards in his establishment.

"Two out of three," Bartaan growled between clenched teeth, his eyes boring into Balthier's. "Twouldn't be fair, not givin' you a fighting chance."

"We agreed to one game," Balthier said lightly. "Will you go back on your word, now that you've seen your hand?"

Bartaan made an aggravated sound in his throat, his hand bending the cards as he clenched it around them. Clustered around him, the onlookers murmured to one another, their faith in Bartaan's fair play shaken by Balthier's simple question.

"How many?" Bartaan grunted the question, his jaw taut and tense.

Balthier plucked cards from his hand and slid them, face down, across the table. "Two." He read the indecision in Bartaan's eyes, the worry in the lines that creased his face. His options were few; he could deal fairly or he could attempt to divine the marking system to determine what cards to deal to Balthier.

Too bad for him, these cards were custom, marked in a system of Balthier's own devising. Bartaan would be hard pressed to work it out in only a single hand.

Bartaan's hand hovered over the deck. At last his fingers closed around it, his thumb rubbing the edges of the cards as his brows drew into a frown. Finally he made a rough sound and flicked the two top cards off the deck. They sailed across the surface of the table, where Balthier collected them and slid them into his hand.

Considering his cards, Bartaan slumped back in his chair, hunching his shoulders as if to shield his cards from the onlookers gathered around him. He had thoroughly embroiled himself in this mess; there was no way for him to palm extra cards without a spectator noticing, no way for him to trade out the entirety of his hand and start fresh. Perversely, Balthier was rather enjoying watching the man squirm like a worm on a hook.

"Will you discard?" he asked, striving for a guileless tone, and earning himself a glare from Bartaan. Beneath the table, Penelo ground her heel into the toe of his boot.

"Two," Bartaan said at last, gruffly. He tossed his chosen discards into the center of the table, and dealt himself replacements. His lips turned down in a scowl as he beheld his new hand. A muscle ticked rhythmically in his cheek. He laid down his cards with a snarled, "Pair of tens."

Balthier revealed his own hand, laying his cards flush against the table. "Two pair, aces over eights." He held out his hand towards Bartaan and said, "I'll have the key, now."

Beside him, Penelo drew in a shaky breath and wilted in her seat, pressing her hands to her face in abject shock.

The legs of Bartaan's chair scraped across the floor as he shoved it back and stood, fists clenching. "You...you cheated."

"I beg your pardon." Balthier stood, squaring his shoulders, the fingers of his right hand brushing the handle of his weapon. "Inadvisable, to make such a claim simply because you've lost."

"You posed the challenge," Bartaan snarled.

"You accepted," Balthier retorted. "You selected the cards. You dealt the cards. And yet you would accuse me of cheating?"

A tense silence pervaded the room. Corded tendons stood out in stark relief upon Bartaan's throat as he convulsively swallowed.

"'E's got his sleeves rolled up, Bartaan," one of the observers said. "He ain't touched the cards other than to cut when you asked. 'Ow could he have cheated? We was all of us watchin'."

Bartaan flexed his hands, his teeth clenched tightly. His breath came in heavy pants through his nose, his eyes straying to Balthier's yet-holstered gun as if weighing the likelihood that Balthier might be tempted to draw it.

The chain clinked upon the floor as Penelo rose to her feet. "He keeps the key behind the bar," she said in a low voice. "Just there, hanging on the wall."

"Be a dear and fetch it, then, won't you?" he responded.

She jingled the chain and murmured in a rueful voice, "Would if I could."

Balthier made a disgusted sound in his throat. Of course the depraved slave-trader would keep it in sight but torturously just out of reach. His fingers curled around the handle of his gun, lifting it free of its holster to level it in Bartaan's direction.

"If you value your lives," he said to the lingering patrons, "I would suggest leaving. Immediately."

Bartaan grunted, "He won't shoot; he's just a -"

The crack of a gunshot splintered the stillness. The bullet whizzed just past Bartaan's ear, close enough to singe, and lodged itself within the wall. Faced with the smoking barrel of Balthier's gun, the remaining men scrambled for the exit with all due haste, knocking over chairs in their mad dash for escape.

Bartaan slowly lifted his hands into the air in a show of surrender, his mouth stretched into a snarl.

"Now," Balthier snapped in a crisp, mocking tone, "you will retrieve the key."

"No reason I ought to help," Bartaan said. "You're just gonna shoot me anyway."

"It's a distinct possibility," Balthier acknowledged. "But of a certainty your actions from here on out will determine whether I shoot to wound or shoot to kill." He shrugged, as if he couldn't be bothered to dredge up an opinion either way.

Wisely, Bartaan began to edge around the table, keeping his hands visible lest Balthier be prematurely moved to violence. "It weren't a fair game," he muttered. "You cheated."

"Of course," Balthier admitted with a shrug, now that the bar was deserted and there were no remaining patrons to come to Bartaan's aid. "However, you'd have hardly known that had your own cards not been marked. I might've lured you into a rigged game, but you were just as willing to give one to me. Really, it was your own fault. If you hadn't insisted on spectators, you might've had a passing chance at sleight of hand."

"How'd you do it, then?" Bartaan asked as he rounded the bar and snatched the keys off the hook. "You couldn't have done it at the table. You'd've been seen."

"Switched the cards out when I spilled the whiskey," Balthier said. "I assure you, I am not so clumsy as that." From his vest pocket he plucked a deck of cards and dropped them on the table. "These are yours. I'll want mine back, of course; they employ a marking system of my own design. Cost me a small fortune."

As Bartaan once again rounded the bar dangling the key ring from his fingers, Penelo held out her hand and said in a snide tone, "That's plenty close enough. Toss them here."

With a muttered invective, he hurled them into the air toward Balthier instead. Balthier's attenion diverted momentarily as he stretched his free hand up to grab for them. In the space of a moment, Bartaan ducked down, grabbed the iron chain, and yanked Penelo's feet right out from under her.

Penelo's breath left her lungs on a sharp cry, and Balthier turned just in time to see her crash to the floor, her head striking the ground. Her face twisted in pain, her arms drew inward as she struggled to draw in a breath, wheezing with the effort.

Balthier managed only a single step towards her before Bartaan slammed into him, throwing the both of them to the ground. Bartaan landed heavily, squeezing the air from Balthier's lungs in a steady whoosh. Stars burst; blackness threatened at the edges of his vision, and yet he managed to clench his fingers around his weapon. A meaty fist clutched his own, prying at his fingers, wrestling for possession of the gun. Balthier worked his free arm up and under, drew back and thrust the point of his elbow into Bartaan's throat.

Bartaan made a strangled sound, his massive body jerking as Balthier relentlessly crushed his windpipe, momentarily relieving the pressure of his knee in Balthier's solar plexus. On a swift, gasping intake of air into his oxygen-starved lungs, Balthier withdrew his free hand, clenched it into a fist, and launched a haymaker. His fist connected with Bartaan's jaw with enough force to send him reeling sideways, allowing Balthier the opportunity to twist about and attempt to pry Bartaan's fist free.

As he dug his blunt nails into Balthier's forearm, Bartaan grated, "No one cheats me."

There was a swift flash of light striking metal, the gleam of iron catching a stray sunbeam, the clink of chains. A moment later, Bartaan gagged as a string of links draped his throat and pulled tight. He released Balthier's arm to clench his fingers around the links, struggling to yank them away. His eyes bulged, his teeth clenched – his face flushed an angry red which swiftly swept into purple.

Penelo stood behind Bartaan, the iron chains crossed round Bartaan's neck and wrapped tightly around her clenched fists, turning her knuckles a stark white. She withstood the man's frantic thrashing, pressed her foot to the small of his back and shoved him onto his belly, off of Balthier.

She hissed in a vindictive whisper at Bartaan's ear, "I should have done this years ago."

Balthier shoved himself to his feet, his brows arching toward his hairline. He leveled his weapon at Bartaan and opened his mouth to call Penelo off the man...until he saw the blood dripping steadily down her foot to pool upon the dusty floor. Bartaan had pulled her off her feet with the chain, and in the process the manacle about her ankle had bitten into her skin, rending her flesh.

And suddenly he was not so inclined to pull her back.

In moments, Bartaan's fingers ceased to pry at the chain. His body shuddered and went limp, and Penelo dropped the chain about his neck, allowing him to fall face-first to the floor. The links had left welts in her hands, purpling her fingers, and her chest heaved as she rose to her feet and thrust a shaking hand through her hair.

With a heartfelt sigh, she cast a beatific smile at Balthier. "I can't begin to explain how good that felt." She nudged Bartaan with her foot, and a faint groan, hoarse and scratchy, issued forth from his abused throat. "Still alive," she sniffed. "Pity."

Balthier stared, dazed, as she stalked resolutely across the floor, retrieved the fallen key ring, and propped her foot on a nearby chair. She shoved the key in the lock and gave it a vicious turn. The tiny padlock snapped open, and she caught it in one hand. With the other hand she pried open the iron manacle to release her foot, wiggling her toes experimentally.

"Wow," she breathed. "It's off. At last." An ecstatic giggle erupted from her throat, a shade of the exuberant girl she had been five years before surfacing for what must've been the first time in years.

She twirled the key ring on her finger, hefted the manacle and padlock in her hand, and sauntered across the room back to Bartaan, who lay, still unconscious, on the floor. In moments she had clamped the manacle around his wrist and padlocked it shut.

"What will you do with the keys?" Balthier found himself asking.

She rose, considered the key ring in her hand for a moment, and at last said, "I could take them."

"Someone will doubtless pick the lock for him," he said. "Eventually."

She shrugged. "Likely. So there's no point in taking the keys. I think I'll just..." Her eyes lit on the far wall behind the bar, and a vindictive smile spread slowly across her face. "I think I'll just leave them there."

Balthier covered his mouth to smother a chuckle as she hopped the bar and hung the keys up right where Bartaan normally kept them. Which was to say, just out of reach. So that Bartaan, when he eventually awoke, would learn yet another valuable lesson at the hands of his former drudge. Cruelty begets cruelty.

Penelo dusted off her hands and headed for the door, slinging it open and shading her eyes against the bright sunlight that poured inside. "I don't suppose you're heading my way?" she asked. "I find myself in need of a ride."

Bedraggled and bloody, having just strangled a grown man into unconsciousness with a length of iron chain, and having only moments before been freed from years of servitude, and yet she somehow managed to phrase the question so very casually.

"I suppose that depends on where you're headed," he said.

"Anywhere," she responded, turning her face to the orange glow of the afternoon sun. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of freedom. "Anywhere at all, provided it's far away from here."