X.
The flight to Bhujerba took a full day and two nights, thanks to the positions of Imperial fleets throughout Dalmasca and a port in which Balthier had "entanglements." They reached the sky islands early on the second morning—chunks of land seemingly blown from the surface far beneath them, clouds rolling and breaking on their shores. The larger islands floated above the ocean, only a scattering of resort escapes and private isles casting shadows over the Dalmascan coast. They had all floated above the desert five hundred years ago, when Dalmascan explorers first discovered and settled them, but the years had blown them out to sea slowly—incrementally—drifting in a jostling congregation, occasionally knocking against one another in a rumble of stone and soil.
The settlers had declared the islands a sovereign nation, but the break had gone smoothly, an alliance fostered between the two countries for generations, little evolution mutating their shared language. The Bhujerban accent differed greatly from mainland Dalmascan—harpy, fast-paced, emphasis of the syllables following a different tempo—but the dialects had grown together, mutually intelligible.
Imperial ships idled in all the major aerodomes—the central port too small to house the entire fleet—but Balthier had no trouble getting in, all papers valid, all questions answered. It was the Bhujerban guards at the mines that gave him pause.
"Mercenaries," he noted, eyeing them from one of the island's many cobblestone bridges. "Not a lot of Bhujerbans in the world, but they're well paid and fierce when it comes to their magicite."
"So we look for another way in," Penelo replied.
Two of the guards stood posted at either side of the mine's entrance, while two more sat on a stone bench nearby, eating. Sun drenched the entire island, the soft haze of clouds blurring its glare to a cool white. A few of the nation's citizens came and went on the stone pathways, their clothing as rich as the foliage—deft, colorful, fluttering in the breeze.
Bhujerba's magicite mines were legendary—hundreds of years of cultivation, and still no tunnel had bored through to the ocean below, every inch of the rock ablaze with the coveted ore. But all treaties Bhujerba shared with Dalmasca now belonged to the Empire, including, of course, rights to the magicite trade. The floating islands possessed the most extensive mines in the world, and Archadia now held a near monopoly on the stones, taking the best to power their airships, and sending the remaining notable specimens to Archades and a few other cities of renown or royal favor, leaving the leftovers—the weakest stones—for the world market.
"There is no other way in," Balthier told Penelo. "Once an entrance gets too deep to keep stable, they fill it in and seal it—come at it from another angle. Every mine is guarded—others moreso than this one."
"Wait until nightfall and jump them?" she pressed.
"There will be eight of them after dark," he replied.
Penelo groaned. Images of Migelo haunted her—shackled and shivering in some dark, damp mine, bounty hunters prodding him while he blamed himself for Penelo's arrest.
"Oh, bloody hell!"
She followed Balthier's gaze: a young boy had approached the guards, offering them a letter. All four gathered around him, one smiling, another breaking the wax seal that bound the paper's fold.
"What?" Penelo asked.
"I should have known—four Judges in Rabanastre, an entire fleet drawn back from Rozarria."
"What are you talking about?"
"Imperials," Balthier told her.
The guards stepped aside—let the boy through. One of them gestured into the cavern to give him directions, and he thanked him, smiling, nodding, disappearing into the darkness.
"That's an Imperial?" Penelo scoffed.
"A labhand," said Balthier. "From Draklor Laboratory."
"Draklor?" Fran stepped in, and Balthier strode forward, toward the guards.
"We need to catch up with him."
"Hey!" Penelo launched into motion behind him, Fran huffing and following suit.
"Excuse us," Balthier called to the guards, slowing to a halt before them. "Did you see a little boy just now? On an errand in the mine?"
One of the guards studied him. They all wielded spears, their lightweight armor glinting in the sunlight as it filtered through the clouds. "What business is it of yours?"
"He's a thief," said Balthier. "I'd wager he had a letter with the marquis's seal, or the emperor's."
"The marquis's," the guard replied.
"It was forged. We've been hired to track the brat down."
"Hired by whom?"
"That's not your concern."
Another guard interjected: "Let's go."
And the first addressed Balthier: "You'll go nowhere without our escort."
"Well enough," Balthier answered with a nod.
"Come."
They followed the two guards into the mine a short distance, torches casting shadows where the fading daylight fell short. Deep scores marred the walls—emptied veins of magicite, some a meter tall and twice as deep, stretching in waves all down the tunnel. They struck at the first fork in the road—two guards unconscious in a matter of seconds. Penelo stood in awe—not a word had passed between Balthier and Fran, yet they operated in perfect tandem, one guard each, as little force as possible to achieve the necessary result.
"They'll have heard that," said Fran.
"I'm counting on it," Balthier replied, ducking around the corner of the stone passage.
With a sigh, Fran tapped her knuckles lightly against Penelo's arm, drawing her to the other side of the tunnel and extinguishing a lamp hanging there to shroud them in shadow.
The other two guards came charging inward, rushing to the slumped forms of their comrades, and Balthier and Fran again leaped out, again took them down. Penelo hadn't realized until then how strong Fran was—tall, willowy, but able to drag two unconscious men by their collars to a small supply shed down the tunnel. Balthier picked the lock and unwound the chain from the handles of the double doors, and she shoved the guards in.
"Make yourself useful," he told Penelo, and she hopped up to a third body and seized it by the arms.
She pulled—leaned her full weight into it; the body barely budged.
Rolling his eyes, releasing a huff, Balthier walked up to her and took the man's ankles in his hands to help her. Fran handled the last guard.
Once all four were securely locked away, Balthier straightened his cuffs and studied the diverging tunnels.
"The guard told him to go left," Francesca pointed out, and Penelo marveled a moment—big ears, as Balthier had said.
"Left it is, then," he replied.
"Hey!" Penelo interjected. "We're here for Migelo, remember?"
"And we'll get to him," Balthier insisted. "Eventually."
She clenched her fists, leaned forward. "I'm not chasing after Imperials!"
"Don't tell me you're afraid of a nine-year-old."
"Ten-year-old." It came from a short distance down the passageway—the Archadian boy stood there, a handsome child, fair faced, raven haired, as sleek and elegant as any of his countrymen, albeit all too small in the dim cavern. "And I haven't made half the ruckus you have."
Balthier turned to face him, eyes stern, a hand on his hip. "You got awfully big awfully fast."
"How's the Strahl?" the boy replied, continuing toward them.
"Still a brat, though, I see."
"You know everybody, don't you, Balthier?" Penelo stepped in.
He exhaled, swallowing a groan. "Ladies, this is Larsa. Larsa, this is Fran and Penelo."
"Happy to meet you," he answered, restraining an instinctive bow to a nod.
Balthier mussed the boy's hair with mock affection. "He's the youngest of House Vanidicus. They're a cadet branch of House Solidor—fourth cousins to the emperor or some such."
"Once removed," Larsa confirmed, ducking out of the gesture and straightening his hair.
"I don't really know much about Archadia's nobility," Penelo shrugged, trying to suggest with her tone that she didn't want to know much about Archadia's nobility.
"Too many families to keep track of," Larsa agreed, "and they all claim to be fourth cousins to the emperor."
Penelo smiled—she had not expected him to make her smile.
"Are you Dalmascan?" he went on.
"I am."
"I've never been there. Does the sun really shine every day?"
And she hesitated, studied him. For all her life, the Archadians has seemed so cold to her—so rigid, strict, even in their savagery; she had never considered their children, never quite believed they existed. "Yeah," she told him, grinning. "Except for two weeks in the winter when it rains every day. But then all the plants grow, and it smells like a jungle."
Larsa beamed, but Balthier spoke before he could. "Alright, then—pleasantries exchanged. Now how about telling us what you're up to?"
Larsa glanced up, but managed to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He turned and started down the tunnel. "I thought you were done with the lab."
"So you are working for Cid," Balthier continued, following him. Fran and Penelo took stride at his heels.
"Shall I give him a message?" the boy asked.
"You might ask him to take my bounty down a peg."
"Give his ship back, and I'm sure he'll be happy to oblige."
"Bal." Fran spoke, continuing on in Vieran when Balthier met her eyes.
The halls grew dimmer briefly as the tunnel deepened and widened—the ceiling soaring ten and then twenty meters overhead—but as the lamps and torches grew scarcer, the light did not recede. Rather, it paled—the flicker of fire replaced by the glow of magicite, radiating white and blue and lavender in the walls, the floor, every surface of the mine. Streaks of it swirled through the hewn stone, chunks of it speckled even in the darker patches, and carts cluttered the passageway, heaped with tools and scales and abandoned helmets.
Larsa stopped, gazing up to Balthier and Fran as they conjectured, probably—Penelo thought—following their conversation as distantly as Penelo could, despite not speaking the language: Balthier's bounty was problematic; little Larsa could make for a valuable hostage. But Balthier did not seem agreeable to the notion, and Fran glowered when he refused to offer an explanation.
They fell silent after a moment of stillness, and Fran met Larsa's eyes: "Aren't you going to ask?"
"Trying to figure out a polite way to do it," he said.
She looked ahead and continued on. "Let me know when you've found one."
"So," Balthier told Larsa as they resumed walking, "what's the old bastard want with the mines? Doesn't Vayne keep him well stocked anymore?"
"The prototype has outgrown the refined stones."
"Prototype?"
The boy produced a faceted crystal point from his pocket—perhaps three inches long at the most, and given to a dull, dark gleam, as colorless as the Dusk Shard. "Nethicite," he said. "Completely synthetic."
Balthier fell silent, his expression grave. "Larsa, be careful."
"I know what I'm doing."
"Wait." Penelo stepped in. "What is it? Nethicite?"
"Yes," said Larsa. "Doctor Cid tweaked the formula for synthetic magicite. If it works, a chunk this big could power an entire fleet."
"They have synthetic magicite?" she asked.
He nodded. "For a few years now, but the stuff's useless. Takes thousands of years to absorb enough Mist to build a charge."
"You're losing me here."
And now he smiled. "It gets its energy from Mist—sucks it out of the planet. That's why it glows." He gestured to the shimmering walls around them. "The idea is that nethicite will absorb it faster and hold more of it, so instead of mining magicite, we can just manufacture nethicite and bury it for a few years at a time."
"Cool," said Penelo.
"More power for the Empire is cool?" Balthier asked.
She bit her lip.
"Here." Larsa trotted up to a nearly solid wall of magicite—sparkling, translucent, almost white beneath its glow. He regarded them over his shoulder with a grin. "Any bets?"
"Never," Balthier replied.
And Larsa held the nethicite up to the shining ribbon in the wall. The reaction was instant: a surge of luminosity rippled from the far end of the vein to Larsa's stone, the brightness just breaching the point of glare before retreating into a single point, lightless black stone left behind. Fog engulfed the boy for a moment before condensing down, swirling into the nethicite and vanishing.
"Whoa!" Larsa jumped back a step.
"Awesome!" exclaimed Penelo.
Fran staggered away, holding her head and releasing a grunt.
"Fran?" Balthier asked.
"It's fine," she told him at length. "That stone…"
Larsa held it out. "It's warm."
"Really?" Penelo asked.
"Feel."
She took it from him, the pulse of heat striking her—a lifelike beat—though its rhythm slowed as she held it, the strength of the emanation fading. A faint light appeared to glow at the center of the crystal, first bright and then dim, and then flickering for a second or two. The stone radiated a deep emerald green, nearly turquoise at its depths, creating a mesmerizing play of light on the surface.
"That's so weird," she said, handing it back.
"That's one word for it," Balthier replied.
A sudden noise echoed in the distance—a burst of laughter, haggard and bear-like—and Penelo turned toward it. "What was that?"
Fran turned, too, ears perked. "Three of them," she reported. "Ba'Gamnan."
"Migelo," Penelo replied, and bolted down the tunnel, Larsa quick behind her.
"Hey!" he called. "What's wrong?"
"Penelo!" Balthier shouted. "Damn it!"
She had a head start, and not far to run. She could hear the two pirates giving chase—and she could see four shadowy figures up ahead.
