Act 2: Scene 4
"This," Faowri announced triumphantly, "is Utendo King."
I stared at the shrivelled man lying in the grand, theatrical bed. He seemed to be little more than a mound of wrinkled skin, dressed in a tasteful dressing gown and smoking a pipe. Though his age seemed infinite from the state of him, there was an alertness to his sharp features that caught me slightly off guard.
This was Utendo King? The powerful, undefeated noble known best for owning three fifths of Treno's total wealth, and properties in Alexandria and Lindblum? I had read much about him, but nothing could have prepared me for a shrivelled old man, seemingly incapable of taking himself to the toilet, let alone ruling an empire of money and power in this dark city.
I remembered what I had learned. "The owner of the auction house?"
King nodded. "That's right." His appearance was deceptive - the man's voice conveyed a fierce sense of dignity and quiet strength. "And who might you be?"
"This is Kuja," Faowri said, bowing slightly. "He . . . had an accident outside and I've decided he can stay until he is well again." She shot me a subtle warning glance, and I nodded dutifully.
"What does that have to do with me?" King asked.
"Well, since you're both bedridden, I thought he could keep you company." Faowri grinned at the old man. "That way, you might leave me to my studies instead of plaguing me out of sheer boredom."
I stared sceptically at her. That was what she wanted me for? To entertain?
"What was that bang across the hallway I heard?"
"I'm redecorating my bedroom," Faowri said seriously, though I saw her lips twitch at the amusing half-truth.
"Just like your mother," King muttered. "Well, okay then. If you trust this man, strange though he may look, I'll trust him, too." He regarded me curiously. "Though you might want to offer him a change of clothes."
Looking down, I saw that my fall through a roof had all but ruined my all-purpose Genome suit. Well, at least now I had an excuse to replace it!
There was something about the man that felt odd. Because of my heritage, I was extremely sensitive to the presence, absence and construct of souls, and Utendo King's was decidedly unhealthy. It was so full of leaks and tears that I could feel the life energy escaping him as we spoke. I had noticed it the instant I had entered the bedroom, but only then did the meaning of the phenomenon sink in. I sighed with pity.
"I'll see to that," Faowri said politely, and, gently taking me by the arm, escorted me to the corridor outside.
"That man is dying," I said quietly when we were out of earshot.
The red mage looked at me, and smiled sadly. "Yes, he is. And knows it. Take care not to mention it in his presence, Kuja."
"Faowri, why are you here?"
She began to pace across the landing, one hand gripping the railing fiercely. "I live here," she said coldly.
"And Utendo King?"
"He is my father," Faowri replied bluntly.
"I'm sorry . . ." And I surprised myself by meaning it.
"It's not your fault. He is an old man. And old men die eventually. I do wonder, though . . ." She turned and fixed me with a scrutinising stare. "How did you know he was dying?"
For once, I felt the truth would be an acceptable answer.
"I could feel his life leaving him as he lay there," I sighed, and shrugged, wincing as I jarred my arm. "It's not the best explanation, but . . ."
"There is much about you I do not understand, Kuja," Faowri said, but her tone was not judgemental; it was merely a statement of fact. Finally, she threw me one of her quirky smiles. "Come. Let's find you something to wear."
***
"This blasted tail!" I yelled, trying in vain to struggle into the loose-fitting trousers.
Faowri was standing behind a partition screen with the servant whose clothes I was gratefully borrowing. I could hear both of them giggling, and it didn't improve my temper one bit.
"You'll just have to make do for now, Kuja," the red mage called amusedly. "When your arm heals, I'll take you down to the tailor's and get you something fixed up."
Irritably, I tried to manoeuvre the waistline of the trousers so that they allowed my tail access to fresh air, but nothing seemed to work.
"I think I'm going to have to make a hole," I moaned, causing Faowri and the servant to laugh.
"If you want, Manchi can help you."
The urge to dull the pain of my broken arm was so strong that I had to grit my teeth against it. Without its aid, I couldn't hold the trousers in place and cut a hole where I needed it. Stifling my pride, I decided that this was no time for modesty.
"I'd be grateful," I snapped, and the chuckling male servant moved around the partition screen, grabbing a pair of scissors from a wall cabinet and fighting against my wavering tail to put them to use. When the deed was finally done, I threaded my irritating appendage through the small tear and freed it from the folds of fabric it had been trapped in. Tightening the cord around the waist of the trousers, I nodded my thanks, and stepped out from behind the screen.
Faowri's eyebrows lifted with pleasant surprise. "Yes, white becomes you, Kuja." I snorted, and she smiled. "Okay, like I said, I'll arrange for a trip to the tailor's very soon."
"That would be appreciated."
"You're hungry now?"
"I eat very little." But, surprisingly, my stomach was growling, and loudly enough to give me away.
"Obviously," she smirked. "With a build like that, I shouldn't imagine you eat enough to fuel a small child."
"Naturally slender," was my riled response.
Faowri grinned. "I'm jesting with you, Kuja. You have a habit of taking things so personally, you know."
"Most of the insults I've ever received have been intensely personal," I muttered bitterly.
"I see," she said slowly.
Irritably, I waved a hand to dismiss her apology. "You mentioned food?" I smiled.
She nodded amusedly. "Yes. Right this way . . ."
***
The next morning, Faowri cast another Cure spell on my arm and escorted me to King's room. Manchi the servant, laden with a lightly burdened tray, appeared from down the hall, knocking and entering and disappearing inside the extravagant bedroom with little more than a nod to the both of us. When he exited after only a few seconds, it was minus the tray of breakfast.
I watched him retreat to the stairwell and vanish out of sight.
"Now," Faowri said suddenly, effectively gaining my full attention. "We've reached the part you might enjoy."
"I'll bet," I said, pulling a face.
"You should learn to trust me more," she said sternly, and grabbed the ornate handle, twisting it before opening the door fully. "Have fun!"
I was rather roughly ushered inside. The door then closed behind me. The sound of it thudding into place was faintly ominous, and I was having serious misgivings about this entire thing.
"It's about time you got here, lad," a voice called from the cosy-looking bed. Utendo King was lying there, resting the tray on his lap and tucking into his breakfast, although the whole scenario of him heartily eating felt a little forced to me. It was apparent that King only ate as much as he did to satisfy his concerned servants and daughter. "Kuja was your name, correct? Come, sit!"
An unmistakeable order. I suppressed anger, having expected to receive no such things once out of Garland's suffocating grasp. Still, there was little else I could do, besides kill the old man, and I suspected Faowri wouldn't appreciate the poetic justice of such an action.
Warily, I sat down in the comfortable chair positioned beside the bed, my eyes fixed on the old man in the bed.
"What exactly am I expected to do?" I asked abruptly.
King's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "What Faowri used to do for me every day before her ridiculous studies intensified."
That surprised me. "You don't approve of her becoming a mage?"
"I don't mind that at all. But when the family heritage is sacrificed at those studies' expense . . ."
I realised I had touched on an awkward subject, though I considered King selfish indeed if he expected his daughter to postpone the workings of her own life while he still existed.
"And what did she used to do for you?" I questioned, subtly changing the subject.
King reached under his mass of pillows and removed a slim, red, leather-bound tome. Curious, I accepted it when his frail hand pushed it into mine.
I turned it the correct way up, unable to hide my smile as I read the title.
I Want To Be Your Canary.
"It seems you have good taste, old man," I grinned. "Faowri read to you?"
"Yes, all of Avon's plays. She was pretty good at it. Let's see if you can do any better, lad!"
At King's challenging expression, I chuckled.
"I assure you, I can," I stated, and, opening the book to the first page, launched into the play loudly and without a hint of hesitation.
A few hours later, Faowri returned. I was slightly disappointed, as we hadn't yet finished the play. Indeed, we were only about halfway through it.
"Well?" she questioned, one eyebrow raised high.
"Simply put, my dear," King said with doubtless affection, "he kicks your arse. You should see the lad go! He was changing his voice for every character and performing the actions and everything!"
Practically beaming at such praise, the most sincere I had ever received in my entire wretched life, I bowed delicately. "It was my pleasure, Mr King. I'd be happy to repeat this session tomorrow morning for you. We can finish the play."
"Splendid! I'll look forward to it, Kuja."
Faowri closed the door behind us when we exited the room together. Grinning inanely, she punched my good arm.
"Hey!"
"You genius!" she exclaimed. "I haven't seen him that enthusiastic since before my mother died!"
"Well, I try," was my smug response. What I didn't tell her was that I had immensely enjoyed reciting that play for her father. In theory, my life was devoted to one purpose only, so leisure time for me was rare. Thus, I no longer regretted having to let my arm heal so slowly. In fact, I found myself liking the idea of someone who understood my love for theatre, and appreciated it as well as I did.
I sensed that 'entertaining' Utendo King wouldn't turn out to be such a chore, after all.
***
Over the next few weeks, as my arm gradually healed, I spent more and more time with King, who proved to be entertainment in himself. When I wasn't reciting plays that I practically knew off by heart without the aid of the script, we would talk about various things, such as the auction house, his late wife, and Faowri . . . He seemed to throw out random anecdotes about his life, which, despite such fortune with money, was apparently beset by constant sadness.
I learned that Faowri was actually a twin, but that her sister had died soon after birth. His wife had been dogged by a degenerative illness since before he had even met her, but he had wed her anyway, knowing that. She had died when Faowri had been only seven.
But not once did he mention his own gradual demise.
King seemed to command a happy household. His servants were well paid and well looked after, as were their families. This didn't come as a surprise to me - for all his blunt sense of humour and rigid ways, he was instantly likeable and mostly because of his lack of perfection. King's flaws made him a better person.
And, of course, his love for theatre. He never ceased to remind me that it'd been a long time since someone like me had arrived to share this devotion with him. Apparently, his wife had been his original reading partner.
Some days he even managed to travel downstairs to the auction room and invited me to sit in the upper balconies with him. I was introduced to the sturdy auctioneer, who appeared to me to be an extremely . . . useful man. From the words I exchanged with him, I determined that he was fiercely loyal . . . to whoever paid him the highest wages. Fortunately, the employer who happened to fit this category, at least for the time being, was King.
Throughout this period of relative inactivity, I often began to grow anxious about Garland. To him, this would be deemed a waste of time . . .
Well, Garland wasn't in charge down here. I was. And no matter how much he disliked that fact, he would have to bloody well deal with it!
***
"Kuja . . ."
I sat bolt upright in bed, fearing for a moment that Garland was trying to get in contact with me. He had warned me that he could at any time he felt necessary, simply by crossing the path of his soul with mine. But the usual 'pressure' feeling accompanying soul activity was not present tonight.
Then I remembered the silver dragon.
"Kuja, it is I."
I tossed the heavy covers to one side, scrambling out of bed and walking into a low cabinet with a sharp curse. The guest room I had been allocated had a balcony . . .
You know where I am?
"Yes. But I cannot get to you." It sounded anxious and I could hear frenzied movement on the roof of the building.
Rubbing at my sore shin, I quickly told the silver dragon to wait and manoeuvred myself to the delicate doors of the balcony. The night was warm, and it was late enough for even the citizens of Treno to be sleeping.
"Sshhh!" I hissed, waving my arms frantically. "You'll wake everyone up!" I reached the balcony and turned around, glancing up at the roof. The looming silhouette with the pair of luminous blue eyes that was my friend slowly stopped fidgeting.
"I am sorry, Kuja. I failed you." The dragon's mental tone was heavy with such genuine guilt that 'anger' was not then a possibility for me.
"Well, I'm still alive, so don't worry about it," I said grudgingly. There was an ivy lattice to the side of the door, which I jogged over to and began to climb. Three quarters of the way up, the dragon's head swung down. After scaring me half to death, it offered some support where my weakened arm failed me and crooned mournfully until I reached the roof and scratched its eye ridges in a placating manner.
"I am sorry."
"I know! I forgive you. Just stop making so much noise!" Rolling my eyes, I assumed a position next to its warm body and absently stroked the softer, almost fur-like skin around its ears when it rested its head in my lap.
"I have missed you, Kuja. I was worried you might be hurt."
The sincerity in its voice made me smile uncertainly. Until then, I had never been quite sure whether or not the dragon followed me because it owed me its escape from Terra, or whether it genuinely liked me. I realised a little late that I had forgotten to think those thoughts on a 'private' band.
The dragon craned its head, its intense eyes whirling. "You are my friend, Kuja. I love you."
The suddenness and earnestness of that remark caught me completely off balance, and despite myself, I blushed. "Don't be silly!"
"But it's true," it said, pressing the point and completely unembarrassed about doing so. "Do you not love me also?"
I grinned, roughening my caresses affectionately. "Well . . . I suppose I do . . . although sometimes I wonder why!"
"Are you ready to leave now?"
I hesitated. Technically, I could leave without a word and get back to work . . . but . . . besides the fact that I was actually enjoying my time here, I figured that I was building some useful contacts. Plus, the only item of clothing I had that actually belonged to me was my carabini mail, the only thing to have survived my fall without a scratch.
Garland would hate me for it, but . . .
"No. I'm staying for a while," I whispered. "I'll keep you informed, and call you when I need -"
Abruptly, the dragon's head jerked out of my grasp, throwing me backwards against the tiles.
"Someone is listening." It began to growl. "I will get them."
"Hey, wait!"
But its body was moving lithely towards the edge of the roof and its upper half leaning down to the balcony before I'd even given the order. There was a sharp gasp of fear from down below, and then the dragon reared back up onto the tiles, carrying a squirming figure in its jaws by the collar.
"Silver dragon, stop!" I commanded with a hiss, and the mysterious spy was dropped unceremoniously on the roof. I slapped my forehead when I recognised the white nightgown they were wearing. Damn . . .
"Well, they did already know I was up here," the dragon said sheepishly.
I waved aside the excuse with one hand, hurrying to the side of the person to whom I already owed more than I would have liked.
"Kuja! What the hell is that thing?" she shrieked, and I clapped a hand over her mouth until she calmed down.
"Faowri . . . it won't hurt you, so stop panicking."
Still staring at the thoughtful-looking dragon, she shook her head. "But what is it?"
"It's a dragon."
"What?!"
To prove a point, I moved over to its side and rested an arm on the head it obediently lowered. "More specifically, it's my dragon."
"Since when have you had a dragon?" The frenzied red mage caught the hat that had fallen off her head in the chaos and jammed it down in its usual home. "And what's it doing on the roof of my house?"
"I crossed continent on it. We've been partners for a very long time. That's how I reached Daguerreo, too."
"But . . . but . . . I've never heard of a dragon like that before."
"It's . . . one of a kind," I bluffed. Don't get angry about this next part . . . "A deformed version of the red dragons, from the coldest continent?"
"Hmph. I eat those kind for breakfast," it snorted indignantly.
Faowri's previously harsh breathing had slowed somewhat. Well, at least I knew she wasn't completely impervious to fear.
"I've heard of red dragons," she said slowly, "but I've never seen one . . . never been close to a dragon of any kind, before now."
"Ah, that explains your surprise," I smiled. "Forgive me, it was not my intention to frighten you."
With great dignity, she rose and looked from me to the dragon, several times. "How did you manage to get your hands on a dragon, Kuja?"
"I don't own it, exactly. We just . . . came to a mutual understanding."
"A friendship?" She raised an eyebrow in typical Faowri nature. "With a dragon?"
"Why not?" I patted the silver dragon.
"Well . . . oh, never mind." Faowri grinned. Cautiously, she stepped a little closer to it, cocking her head to the left.
"It won't hurt you," I laughed. "Not unless I tell it to."
"And you wouldn't do that, now, would you?" she chuckled. "It's so . . . big! Does it have a name?"
A name! It had never even occurred to me to give my friend a label, even after all these years. Do you have a name, silver dragon?
"A dragon does not go by a name. It is recognised by its scent."
You have a scent?
"It would be unpronounceable to you, Kuja."
"Well, I just call it . . . silver dragon," I admitted, a little sheepishly. "It never really complained . . . ah . . ."
"It talks to you?" Faowri was incredibly interested. "How, exactly?"
Oh, gods . . . "It's hard to explain, really. It talks into my head."
"So you could be having a conversation right now without me even knowing?" she asked slyly.
"She's clever," the silver dragon remarked.
Shut up, you.
"Well, she is!" Abruptly, it spread its wings, almost blowing us both off the roof. "You are all right. I have not eaten since you fell."
"What?" I nearly fell backwards. "Are you crazy?! Why not?"
"I was worried about you. And guilt-ridden. I go and hunt now."
"Hunt where?"
"Where that grand dragon used to." And if a dragon could look smug, the silver dragon achieved the expression augustly. With a tremendous sweep of its wings, it was in the air and little more than a dark speck in the night sky after only a few seconds.
"Where did it go?" Faowri asked.
"To hunt. It was hungry."
"How often does something like that eat?" she wondered aloud.
"Apparently, it can go weeks without food," I said, frowning.
Faowri planted her fists on her hips. "Well, that was certainly interesting. Your arm seems much better, too, if you could climb up here."
I flexed it. "Yes, it is. A few more Cure spells and it should be as good as new."
She caught the accusatory tone in my voice and laughed. "All right, all right! How about I take you down to the tailor's tomorrow to make up for it?"
"That would be great! I mean . . . if you don't mind . . ."
"Of course I don't." She grinned. "Only if we get down off the roof, though."
"You have a deal."
"Come on then!" Faowri leaned forward and caught my good hand, dragging me along the tiles.
I think that physical contact activated something inside me. Whether it was her constant switching of moods, her expressive features, or her character in general, I realised that there was something about Faowri that I really liked.
And I mean really.
Damn.
The very last thing I needed was to start falling in love while I was trying to destroy the world.
Garland was going to go berserk.
End of Act 2: Scene 4