The next letter is finished, the ink drying in the hot breezes of the Sandsea. It's a masterpiece of words, if Balthier does say so himself.
The way Fran wrinkles her nose when she reads it suggests that she disagrees. And while Fran is rarely wrong, and Balthier usually trusts her, he doesn't think she knows as much about beautiful, poetic letters as she seems to think she does. After all, most viera barely talk, he thinks.
This one reads:
H. R. H. Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca (because one must always be polite, even if one doesn't mean it.)
While I am quite aware that you are far too strong to pine for anyone (though, should you choose to start, I would be by no means a bad choice), I also think there is little need for these pointless formalities. There's no shame in missing me.
With regards to that, I would hope that it is ardor, rather than antipathies, which you must put aside. Still. On to more pertinent matters.
As I mentioned in a previous letter, we seem to have misplaced Vaan. While this is hardly an unusual situation (I have previously suggested that Penelo fix the boy up with some kind of bell, but to no avail), it has been ongoing for an alarming amount of time. Fortunately, we have reason to believe he's gone no further than Bhujerba, and would like to mount a rescue mission, not so much for his sake, but rather for the innocent Bhujerbans.
However, you know Vaan quite as well as I do; if there is a situation better off without him, one can be quite certain he will find his way into the thick of it. Right now, he is fighting pirates for your, shall we say, ambitious uncle. In short, he is likely somewhere in the Purvama region, but we haven't the faintest idea where to begin.
It is in this endeavor that I entreat your aid. While the Bhujerban populace is no concern of yours, I would hope you would have enough affection for Marquis Ondore to aid us in speaking with him. If you were able to acchieve that, you would facilitate our rescue mission enormously, and I am certain the harassed Bhujerbans would forever thank you. As would I, my dear Princess. All we need is a single meeting with him; the favor can't be as bad as you thought, can it?
Yours, as always,
Balthier
Getting the letter to Ashe, he knows, will not be as simple as he might like. When he points this out to Fran, however, she is less than supportive.
"Why don't you just speak with her directly?" Her elegant fingertips glide across the patterns in the stone table; it looks too much like she's ignoring Balthier for his taste.
"Fran, really. She's clearly angry with me."
Well, at least that gets a reaction. She looks up at him, one eyebrow elevated.
"What? Last time she was in a mood like this, she threw a broadsword at me!" He throws his hands up in the air. "And it's not like she's a bad aim. I'm in no mood to lose a limb, thank you."
Fran remains silent, that devilish eyebrow still raised in cruel amusement at his plight. Damn it all, she's too much like him.
Balthier stifles the urge to kiss her as he scoops the letter off the table. He folds it as he descends the stairs and exits the building. Outside, a wave of heat hits him, but he soldiers on in spite of it. Evening is still hours off, and it is now the hottest part of the day.
As a consequence, the streets have cleared, most loiterers having made their way into shops (mostly the magick store; the proprietor knew a decent Blizzard spell) to escape being broiled alive. Balthier is grateful for this, because it means that most pickpockets are either out of sight or too fried to be of much consequence to him.
He's not really sure where he's going with this terrible idea, but he's never really been in correspondence with the Queen, before.
He takes a left into the Muthru bazaar and a right from there, landing himself in street that would otherwise be quite crowded. It's wide and built of painted tiles, fountains lining one side, and porticoes of various buildings lining the other. It's also almost eerily still, with no breezes and the noonday sun casting nary a shadow.
Up ahead, his destination looms: the great, preposterously ornate gates to the royal palace.
There are two guards outside, probably suffering immensely in their heavy steel armor. It's doubly a punishment because Balthier recognizes them as the Queen's elite guard, as they wear heavy woolen capes with her insignia. Plus, that means they must spend time in close proximity to Ashe (he likes her just fine, but a lesser man might find her trying, to say the least).
Balthier pities them greatly, but that doesn't mean he excuses them when both level a simultaneous, suspicious glare at him.
"I don't suppose either of you knows how to send a letter to the Queen?" he tries.
One of them raises his eyebrows so high that they're swallowed up by the brim of his helmet. The second just gapes at him, as though shocked anyone could be so uncouth.
Balthier is about to mount a well-organized and logical persuasion campaign (i.e., toss veiled insults at the pair of them until he gets what he wants), but the man's gaze suddenly shifts, so he is now focusing that shocked expression on someone else.
It's reflex; he can't help but turn around to see what caught the idiot's attention. And yet he nearly wishes that he didn't.
He is facing the scaly beak of a chocobo, one whose claws are currently making pebbles out of the centuries-old tiles of the promenade. Honestly, chocobos are not birds gifted in stealth, and he's a little embarrassed to be caught unawares by one. He hastily wipes the surprised look off his face.
He likes even less who is riding the bird. The crest on the armor is one he recognizes immediately: House Solidor has been all-too-familiar of late. The face to go with the gleaming armor is shrewd, narrow, and possesses a curling beard. He doesn't recognize the man, but at least he knows his faction and fashion.
This only takes Balthier a moment to process. The next, he is moving out of the chocobo's way (it does smell rather foul), but not taking his eyes off the man astride.
The Solidor lackey climbs off the bird and hits the ground with a thunk. The helmet stays on, Balthier notes, which is a little disrespectful for a soldier in a kingdom that isn't his. Good to know that some things have remained the same.
"On behalf of Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, Command Sergeant Major Tarik to speak with her royal highness." He stands stiff and straight, and doesn't look at a single one of the three men before him.
"Very well." The taller of the two guards shoves the door open, and allows it to swing shut once the Command Sergeant Major is inside.
Balthier feels it might be helpful to rail on about the unfairness that a foreign soldier has greater access to the Queen than do her own people, but he's not from Dalmasca anyways, so it would ring rather hollow. He settles for leaning on the carven arch and just watching.
"What's your business again?" says one of the guards.
Balthier waves his letter by way of explanation.
"Oh. Well. What's it regarding?"
"It's regarding sky pirates and kidnapped young boys. He'll probably be dead by the time the Queen gets this very important missive, thanks to a pair of loafing guards." He sighs dramatically, and waits.
The result is less than spectacular. One of the guards ever titters behind his inadequate gauntlet. Titters.
"As demonstrated," the guard says (once recovered), "Her Highness is quite busy."
"So I saw. Foreign soldiers in the capital; I'd hate to see what the people would think if they saw one of them in the streets."
The taller of the two narrows his eyes. "The Queen knows how to run her country, churl."
Balthier backpedals quickly. "Of course. Some people don't understand the burdens of a ruler. You sure you won't let me in if I stand here long enough?"
He's beginning to lose hope. One of Penelo's urchin friends got in here earlier; maybe he should just go back to the shop and ask one of them to do it.
"Quite sure."
"Too bad. That poor boy lost in the Purvama will just have to wait." He shakes his head and steps out of the meager shade.
One of the guards fidgets, and the pair exchange significant glances. "Hold up."
Balthier stops dead. "Yes?"
"Did you say Purvama?" One's spear butt bounces on the ground in excitement.
"If that'll convince you, then of course."
The guard chews his lip for a moment. Balthier just watches, waiting. "Dangerous place for a boy. I'll see to it that the Queen gets your letter." He steps forward and extends a metal-encased hand for the letter.
Balthier hands it over, thanks the man, and starts back down the promenade. Behind him, he hears the palace door rumbling shut again.
He's glad he's gotten the result he wanted, but more than a little puzzled as to why.
A/N: Apologies for the long wait. .