VI.

Fran was a creature of trees and grass and a cool, green world. The rough stone of Nalbina was barren and lifeless, the echoing voices that filled the dark already threatening to give her a headache, and the stairs spiraling down into blackness beyond the gate promised a thickening of the Mist that already gathered in the corners of the dungeon. She glared at a trio of prisoners who took notice of Balthier as he picked the lock—he was better at it than she was—and they shuffled away in silence.

A metallic clack, and they descended the shadowed stairwell. The voices ahead of them echoed upwards, and they followed slowly, feet tepid on the tread-worn steps.

"Is isolation really necessary?" Gabranth asked in Archadian.

"He'll only try to escape again, otherwise."

"He's always worse when he comes out of there."

"Isn't that the goal?"

The clanking footsteps halted, and the thieves went still on the stairs, shadowed and safely removed.

"In two years he hasn't given in to your methods," said Gabranth. "Reason would suggest a change is due."

"Trust me, Your Honor, persistence is the key to interrogation. The finest steeds take the longest to break."

A high gothic door sealed off the bottom of the passage—Fran could make it out through the darkness, though the eyes of her human companions were not as sharp. It was thick—wrought iron, very old, and bolted on all four sides by rods inserted into the stone around it. The warden produced a gleaming stone from his satchel and inserted it into the fitted indentation in the door, lighting the engraved glyphs on the iron surface a bright maroon color. A swift streak of luminosity pulsed through the design, and Gabranth and the warden each inserted a key in separate locks at the door's center. The rods jolted inward, freeing the hinge to swing, and the heaving panel creaked open.

The Imperials closed it at their backs, and the thieves descended to the landing. Fran took one lock; Balthier took the other.

"We don't have the magicite," Penelo whispered.

"We have Fran," Balthier replied.

The girl turned a slow and studious gaze to her, but Fran ignored it, as she always did. The clay-caked bit of straw she had wound around her scrap of wire crumbled in the lock as she twisted it.

"For what she's worth," Balthier added.

Fran handed him the wire, and he doubled it over and jabbed it in. A few more tweaks, and he stood back.

Fran placed a hand over the setting that required a stone, and closed her eyes. Her ears rolled inward just slightly, closing against the shouts and footfalls above, and the Mist drifting at her feet billowed upward, flowing into the likeness of the engravings on the door. It hovered there, curling, sharpening, growing in opacity and sinking into the channels, and then it glowed a pale lavender. Inhaling, she raised her other hand to the indentation and pressed both palms over it together. A burst of fuchsia, a flash of light, and she stepped back. Balthier turned the bits of metal he had placed in the locks, and the door opened.

The heavy clunk of the iron bars was muted this time, the gathered Mist absorbing any resonance that might have carried, but the thieves hesitated all the same, listening for tones of concern. When at last they crept onward, they entered a spiraling chamber, drilled into the ground, bare dirt at its lowest level. Steel cuffs and chains lined the walls of the ramp that coiled downward, a few faint bricks of magicite casting shadows over the arcane devices stashed haphazardly in intermittent piles. A cool fog hazed the air, and the door by which they had entered appeared to be the exit as well.

Welded to the floor below them were several steel loops, and chained to one of these crouched an ashen man—feral and brooding—with pensive green eyes and grime-darkened hair. His knuckles bled and his bones jutted out, and cuts and bruises marred his face. Though he looked to be in his mid-forties, his frame remained as solid and imposing as a workhorse's, and he bore the warden's insults and orders with a steady dignity.

The warden called him Ronsenburg, and Penelo jolted forward at the name, biting back a growl with clenched teeth. Balthier laid a hand on her shoulder and lowered her at his side, flat onto the stone ramp, shielded by shadow. Fran folded her ears back and followed suit.

"I've come to help you," Gabranth said in Dalmascan, and Basch seemed to meet his eyes through the steel helm without search.

"Last time you came to help me, they broke my leg and starved me for a week."

Gabranth shook his head. "Bitterness is unbecoming of a knight."

"Are you really going to lecture me on knighthood?" Basch groaned, breaking eye-contact and painfully shifting his chains.

Gabranth tensed like a feral cur before injured game, armor creaking and scraping, but then he paused, cocking his head much in the manner of a puppy. Basch mirrored the gesture with perfect accuracy, and the Judge at last answered him in Landisian—blunt, harsh, well-suited to their quips and growls. In all her years beyond the jungle, it was the only human tongue Fran hadn't learned—Landis was too cold to stay long enough to pick it up, and she suspected that her delicate mouth could not form the gravelly consonants if she tried. The conversation continued in this language for a few moments until the warden questioned whether he should leave them to their own devices. Gabranth bade him stay, and continued on to Basch in Dalmascan:

"Vayne will send no more insurgents here to conjecture with you. Once we take Bhujerba, you'll have outlived your usefulness…"

Basch laughed and shook some hair out of his eyes. "Vayne. You really hate him, don't you?"

"Make no mistake, Basch," Gabranth growled. "The most honorable years of my life have been spent in servitude to House Solidor."

"Most honorable and the last. Now what do you want?"

Gabranth shifted, the sound of it carrying up the chamber. "We've caught a leader of the insurgence in Rabanastre. A general—Amalia."

"Never heard of her."

"No one has. She claims she served under your command as a lieutenant in Landis, and was transferred to Captain Vossler's command in Dalmasca at your promotion."

Basch twisted against his chains. "Then she's probably just as dead as Vossler."

"Need I remind you that your generosity in these matters will be rewarded?"

"Not interested."

A moment of silence followed. Basch stared at the ground, and Gabranth gazed off to the side. At length, the Judge spoke: "I can help you if you'll just cooperate."

"Isn't there a prince somewhere in need of your protection?" Basch replied.

Gabranth gave no reply, and the warden stepped in: "Shall we begin?"

"No," said Gabranth.

"He's telling the truth?"

"No."

And the Judge turned and strode up the dim ramp, leaving the warden to trot at his heels. "Your Honor?"

The thieves scrambled, ducking behind a wiry pile of bars, pliers, and dented cages. Two suits of armor clattered by, and the slamming of the door announced their exit—and Basch wearily resumed fiddling with his irons. Balthier stepped out of hiding and shook some soil from his cuffs, then headed down the ramp, addressing the captain in Dalmascan:

"Lock picking, eh?"

"Nothing better to do."

"You won't get far on those," Balthier explained. "New model, made specifically to deter gents like you. Draklor Laboratory is phasing out pin-barrels entirely—"

Basch raised his head. "I thought it was the Archadian code of etiquette not to speak unless you can improve the silence."

Balthier scowled. "Fine then. Fran? This the place?"

She approached him with measured strides, eyes wandering over the walls and ceiling in search of an opening. "The Mist is flowing through this room. It must be going somewhere."

Basch stilled upon hearing her foreign accent, studying her first with awe and then with realization. "You're no Imperials…"

"He's smarter than he looks," said Fran.

"Please, you must get me out—"

"You're not really improving the silence, are you?" Balthier replied.

Fran examined the nearest wall, running her fingers over the brickwork. "Here…" she said. "There was a door here, I think."

"I didn't kill the king," Basch insisted. "Please, for the sake of Dalmasca—"

"What do you care about Dalmasca?" Penelo snapped. "Everything that's happened is because of you!"

Balthier joined Fran in breaking through the crumbling masonry, while Basch continued to beg:

"You have to believe me. I didn't kill him."

"Shut up," Penelo shouted. "You're supposed to be dead!"

"Quiet!" Balthier interrupted. "The guards will hear!"

They all paused then, the ease with which Basch could alert half the prison of their presence dawning on each of them, and Balthier shot him a glare of warning.

"I could just knock you out," he said.

"Try it," Basch replied.

Another pause, and Balthier knelt down and set to work on Basch's irons, leaving Fran to push out the remaining bricks. "Oh, alright. You'll have to forgive the little cage-rattler there; she's new to the whole prison thing."

"Don't let him go," Penelo protested.

"Fran?"

Swiftly, silently, Fran stepped between Penelo and Balthier. "Ship or no ship," she said, "Balthier is still the captain."

"Pirates?" Basch sighed.

"The best," said Balthier. "I imagine two years ago, you would've been trying to kill us."

"Times change, and friends with them."

With a simple clack, the cuffs popped off, and Balthier rose.

"That was fast," said Basch.

"Practice makes perfect. You alright?"

He remained crouched, inspecting the bloody rings the manacles had left around his wrists. "I've had worse."

"Balthier," Penelo continued, "you don't understand what he's done."

"I didn't see him kill anybody," Balthier replied, returning to the bricked-in door.

"My brother did."

Basch looked up to Penelo, a glint of recognition sparking through his countenance. "Reks—I thought you looked familiar."

Penelo rolled her eyes and joined the others in yanking stones from the wall.

"Where is he now?" Basch asked.

"Dead," Penelo answered.

"I see." He tried to gain some stable footing. "I suppose you were told I did it."

"What's there to suppose?"

"Please." He leaned against the wall now, struggling to stand. "I know my word means nothing at this point, but I swear I am innocent…"

"Yes, yes, of course," Balthier injected, approaching the lame Landisian once more. "We're all innocent down here." He extended his hand, which Basch gladly accepted. "Up you go."

"What the hell are you doing?" Penelo demanded. "Let him rot down here!"

Basch stumbled, months of confinement cramping his legs, but Balthier remained hospitable at his side. "Sorry, kid. I believe him."

"You do?" Penelo and Basch asked in unison.

"Isn't it obvious?" the pirate answered. "His evil twin did it."

Basch gaped. "How did you know?"

"Gabranth and I used to be drinking buddies. He's off his rocker, if you ask me."

Penelo shook her head. "What?"

"You knew all this time and you didn't tell anyone?" Basch added, losing his balance and scraping his feet against the dirt.

"Have a little faith," Balthier defended, catching and steadying him. "I lit out of Archades after Nabudis went down. Haven't had a word with him since months before the assassination."

"Whoa, wait a minute," Penelo cut in. "You really are innocent?"

"Yes," Basch groaned. "Gabranth framed me. Vayne thought up the whole thing in order to victimize Dalmasca."

"You were framed by your own brother and the emperor's son?" Penelo scoffed.

"Made Archadia look downright compassionate for stepping in like they did," Balthier added. "They couldn't have kept up their good terms with Bhujerba otherwise. And Rozarria is always looking for excuses to pick a fight."

Penelo hesitated, lower lip hanging loose. Fran kept pulling out bricks. The captain had finally found his center of gravity—fleeting though it appeared—and Balthier stood back while he ventured a few clumsy steps toward the wall.

"He'll kill us the first chance he gets," Penelo warned. "He's a traitor."

"I know," said Balthier. "So am I, for that matter; and so are you." He slapped Basch on the back and headed toward the dank passageway beside Fran. "If you can walk, let's go."

Penelo spun to face him as he passed her. "You're taking him with us?"

"I took you, didn't I?"

"Thank you," said Basch, finally gaining his own ground.

"You talk too much, Captain," Balthier shot back.

Fran sighed and shook her head. "Our ranks grow by the hour."

"And our troubles with them," Balthier added, voice echoing through the dark, "but better to be uneasy than outnumbered."

Penelo trudged after them, eyes on the dirt. "I can't believe this…"