The sun had dipped over the mountains in the distance when the Strahl at last reached its destination and began a slow descent. Over the rise of lush green hills shadowed by the swiftly falling night, the towering walls of Valenta –the capitol city of Rozarria –bloomed upward, stretching toward the sky.
It was the birthplace of Al-Cid Margrace; a sprawling metropolis just a few miles shy of Dalmasca, where the hills and sweeping plains ceded to sparse dirt and then, on Dalmasca's side of the border, vast stretches of dunes and sand. This time of night, the last of the sun's rays glinted upon the desert sand in the distance, creating a shimmering backdrop for the elevated city, as if it were floating in a sea of endless stars.
On the approach toward the Aerodrome, the aviation tower hailed the Strahl to direct Balthier to the nearest open dock. It was a smooth and simple descent, the glossair rings softening out the minor turbulence into an even glide. Even the touch-down was as gentle as landing on a cloud. The ramp, however, was a different matter entirely; it produced a shrill metallic buzz as it extended down to the dock, clanking as it connected at last.
He winced as a muffled groan reverberated down the hall. If Penelo had been asleep, she was most certainly awake now. Moments later, the door of his bedroom slammed open and Penelo tottered out listlessly, scrubbing at her eyes like a child. She drifted down the hall unsteadily, emerging on the deck, where she thrust her arms over her head, arched her back, and yawned.
"What time is it?" she mumbled as she settled into an empty seat, pillowing her head on her folded arms.
"Near to eight," he said, averting his eyes as she tugged the hem of his shirt down over her legs and tucked her knees beneath her.
Another groan, lost into the crook of her elbow, where her face was buried. "Too early."
For a moment he was perplexed – and then he realized that she had spent the last few years slaving away in a tavern. She'd been on a night schedule for the purpose of entertaining patrons while the tavern was at its busiest; probably she was used to sleeping through the day so that she might be rested and alert through the early hours of the morning.
"You ought to stay aboard," he said. "But I've got some business that I must attend to in the city." Not the least of which would be acquiring her some garments that didn't bare the length of her legs to all and sundry.
Her head popped up, at once alert. "The city?" she asked, as if it were a word with which she was unfamiliar. "Which city?"
"Valenta," he said. "It's on the border of -"
"Valenta!" She shook off the remnants of sleep that clung to her shoulders, shoving herself up from the chair. "I always wanted to go, but I didn't get the chance before..." Her voice trailed off; she performed an awkward little shuffle-step, clasping her hands behind her back. "Did you know they have hanging gardens? Literal hanging ones? I've heard they're suspended above the city, and you have to take a waystone to get to them."
"They do indeed have hanging gardens which are accessible via waystone," he confirmed. "But you're hardly dressed for an outing, pet."
She glanced down, frowning, considering her current garment. "My clothes are probably dry by now," she said.
He arched a brow. "I sincerely doubt it. There's not been nearly enough time."
"Well, mostly dry," she amended. "Dry enough, anyway, surely." She traipsed away, ostensibly to check on them, but he suspected that she would don them even did they remain entirely sodden. Somehow it did not seem likely that she would wish to spend more time than absolutely necessary surrounded by walls when she might venture out into the world for the first time in years.
She wanted to see Valenta. He supposed it was the least he could offer her. He needed to replenish the Strahl's provisions and acquire her some clothing, and she needed open air and not to be confined to a closed space. He allowed that it would be easier to have a clothier take her measurements in person rather than try to approximate them, besides. So their purposes aligned, for the time being.
"I'm ready," she trilled as she appeared once more on the deck, having managed to wrangle on her still clearly wet clothing. The threadbare blouse, while clean at last, was wrinkled and spotted, the hem of her shorts had frayed to fringe which was plastered to her thighs. He watched as a droplet of water eased free of the soggy hem and traced a path down the length of her right leg.
Her feet were still bare. Likely because her shoes had fallen to pieces ages ago, and there had been no need to replace them, as she hadn't been out of that filthy tavern in years. He dug his fingers into his palms in a futile effort to quell the anger that surged once again to the forefront of his mind.
But she had to have something to wear, and anything of his would swallow her dainty feet and make walking uncomfortable at best. He'd have to pilfer something of Fran's for the cause, provided there was anything sensible to be had.
"A moment," he said. "I'll see if I can't find some shoes in Fran's room."
Her fair brows arched toward her hairline. "Fran's room?"
"Of course. Where else did you imagine I would find her things?"
She shrugged, an awkward, one-shouldered movement. "I suppose...I thought you two shared a room."
Taken aback, he inquired, "Why should we share a room? There are two bedrooms aboard the Strahl. We live in each other's pockets enough as it is; we hardly need to share a bedroom."
A flush heated her cheeks, washing her face with brilliant color. She hooked her thumbs into the hem of her shirt, rocking back on her heels. "Well, I thought...I mean, I assumed..."
Comprehension struck. "You thought we were lovers," he said on a chuckle.
Her lips pursed into an annoyed frown. "Well, it wasn't really a leap in logic," she snapped. "Anyone would have thought so!"
"For the gods' sake, she practically raised me," he said. "I can't imagine anything less conducive to romance." He paused. "You've pawed through my things already; surely you must've made note that my drawers contained none of Fran's clothing."
"I didn't paw through your things; I borrowed a single shirt! It was the first thing I saw when I opened the wardrobe!" She crossed her arms over her chest, scowling as if he had unfairly maligned her. "It was the first - and only - place I looked, so, no, I didn't note the absence of Fran's clothing."
"My mistake; you've only pawed through some of my belongings," he chided.
She huffed. "Well, what else should I have done? Would you rather I'd gone about naked?"
Definitely. He cleared his throat and grumbled, "Don't be ridiculous." Where the hell had that thought come from? "Shoes," he managed, shoving himself out of his chair. "I won't be a moment."
She eyed him askance and sidled out of the way, dropping into a chair to allow him to pass unobstructed down the narrow corridor.
He slipped into Fran's room and slid open the door of the shallow closet. Any of Fran's footwear would almost certainly be too big for Penelo; they would be too big for virtually any hume, as they were custom crafted to accommodate her clawed feet. But unless he missed his guess, she would have a few pairs that might well do.
Sure enough, buried in the back of the closet beneath a veritable mound of stilettos were a pair of sandals with comparatively low heels. He snagged his fingers around the straps and tugged them free. Though they were larger than would comfortably fit Penelo's feet, the straps could be adjusted to fit well enough.
He ducked out of Fran's room and up the corridor to sling the shoes toward Penelo. She caught them in one hand –really, she had admirable reflexes –and glanced skeptically at them.
"Really?" she drawled. "They might as well be snowshoes."
"Beggars cannot be choosers. Would you rather go without?" He folded his arms across his chest and braced his back against the doorframe.
She wrinkled her nose. "No, I suppose not," she sighed, kicking up her right foot and wiggling her toes. "Took forever to pick the splinters out of my feet and just as long to scrub them clean. I'd rather stay clean for a while."
She adjusted the straps, yanking them tight as she could, and yet still she wobbled as soon as she rose to her feet. For a moment she tottered awkwardly, pinwheeling her arms to keep her balance. Though her gait was clumsy at best, as wobbly on the low heels as if they were stilettos, she cast him a wry glance and said, "I'm sure I'll get the hang of it. Let's go!"
He was happy to oblige, sliding free the interior lock on the door to the ramp and yanking the handle to thrust the door out and open. Immediately, the sweet, rich scent of roses rushed in to fill the cabin.
"Ohhh," Penelo breathed reverently.
"The gardens," he said. "They must be growing roses this year." He gestured toward the door, an indication that he would follow along behind her. "The scent of whatever's been planted for the year permeates the city; gave me hell a few years back when they planted lavender."
She tossed an inquisitive glance over her shoulder.
"Allergic," he supplied. "I sneezed for days, even after I'd left the city. Damned flowers were everywhere. I still find the occasional stray bud. Must've been blown in through the ventilation system." He closed up the Strahl behind them, locking the door from the outside. "But I've no such affliction in regard to roses, thank the gods. And a good thing, too, for they'll overrun the whole of the city. Decorating pastries, flavoring teas, sewn into sachets to scent linens."
"That sounds wonderful," she sighed, clutching the ramp's railing in a white-knuckled grip as she eased unsteadily down the ramp.
"Just give it a day or two; you'll be sick unto death of them." He glanced up; the open roof of the Aerodrome revealed the black night sky peppered with brilliant stars.
"Oh," she said, "I promise you, I will never get sick of flowers. I've missed them–the smell, the softness of the petals...but the colors most of all." Carefully she stepped off the ramp onto the platform. "For three years, everything's just been brown. Brown walls, brown floor, brown dirt." She lifted a hand to shove her hair back from her face. Though it had dried in the intervening time between her shower and now, she had nothing to tie it back with, and so it was a disordered mass of curls in constant threat of obscuring her eyes.
A strong wind rolled in through the roof, whistling along the walls of the Aerodrome, sweeping through the rows and blowing her hair once more into her eyes. She spluttered, plucking the strands away to shove them over her shoulders, and in the wake of the wind, gooseflesh bloomed along her arms.
Her clothes were still wet; the wind was plastering the sodden fabric to her skin, evoking tiny shivers. Full night had long since fallen, and the temperature was dropping steadily. Clean, dry clothing would be priority one. Thereafter, food. She looked as if she might blow away with the wind – but then he supposed that a prolonged stay indoors would have the habit of rendering a body pale and thin.
Still, her spirits were unflagging. She bounced on the balls of her feet like a child, all enthusiasm, impatient to get out of the Aerodrome and into the city proper. And yet somehow she managed to match her pace to his without complaint.
And she sighed as they exited the Aerodrome and the cool night wind kissed her cheeks. She turned her face to the soft glow of the moon for just a moment, and its light turned her hair a luminescent silver.
"Where to?" she asked at last, after she'd drawn a deep breath of the rose-perfumed air.
"You desperately require some clothing," he replied. "And Valenta is the capitol – there is surely a shop open somewhere, even this time of night."
For a moment her lips pursed, then drew into a bewildered frown. "I've got clothes," she said, with a flippant gesture to her current garments.
He refrained from making a disdainful snort. Barely. "Years ago, those might've been clothes. Now, they're not fit for rags. And they're still wet." He turned down a side street, and she trailed a few steps behind. "You'll have new."
"These are fine," she said. "It's really not that cold. I don't need new clothes."
He turned abruptly to face her, scrutinizing her in the pale light of the nearest streetlamp. "You're shivering."
"It's only a bit chilly," she protested. "And, well..."
He waited, expectant.
"I don't have any money," she grumbled at last.
"How could you have? That bastard tavern keeper's been fleecing you out of it for the past three years."
"How am I supposed to buy clothing?" she snapped, as if he were dense.
"I never said you were. For the time being, I am responsible for you – I will purchase the clothing." And he turned once again, expecting her to follow.
She did, but he had the feeling that she did not consider the matter settled, as he did. Sure enough, a moment later: "Now, look, Balthier. I don't need you to purchase new clothes for me, and you're not responsible for me."
"Until you are safely back in Rabanastre, yes, I am."
"Rabanastre?" She halted. "Who said I wanted to go back to Rabanastre?"
"Don't you?" He cast a glance over his shoulder, saw the arched brows, the rounded lips.
"No," she said. "Not particularly, anyway. I spent most of my life there, why should I want to return?"
"It's your home."
And she shrugged. "It's just a place I lived. I grew up on the streets; I don't have a home." Her gaze flicked briefly around, taking in the cobblestone street, the clean glass windows of the storefronts, the evenly spaced streetlamps that cast warm light. "This place is as good as any other. All I asked was a ride to a city. You can consider your obligation ended."
But he didn't. And he didn't want to. He had expected at least another day or so in her company. He might even have been looking forward to it – after all, she had slept away the journey to Valenta. Was he to lose her so soon?
They were at an impasse, and he had not the words to say to persuade her differently. He expected he'd thrown up a mark against himself already, with his overbearing attitude. Probably she had had enough of men telling her what to do.
A minor scuffle broke out down the street, where a fruit vendor was closing down his cart for the night. A man's sharp reprimand shattered the silence, and he saw Penelo's shoulder go stiff with tension.
"If you ain't gonna buy it, shove off," the vendor snarled.
Penelo had lifted herself into her toes to peer over Balthier's shoulder and he, too, turned to look.
A boy of about eight stood, clutching a threadbare burlap sack, holding a pittance in coin in the palm of his hand. "Please, sir," he said, "will this buy a few apples?"
Balthier could see from the twisted sneer on the vendor's face that it would not, and the man clearly had no patience for a child that, from the looks of his ragged clothing, was a street urchin – or near enough to one.
"I said, get going," the vendor repeated. He lashed out with a thick arm and cuffed the child, sending the poor lad sprawling backwards, scattering his paltry coins through the street.
Balthier heard Penelo's swift intake of breath, and in half a second she had passed him by, even if she moved awkwardly in her ill-fitting shoes. She skirted the young boy who had pulled himself onto his knees and was busying himself with collecting his coins with hands that trembled.
Penelo positioned herself carefully between the man and the boy, shielding the child from view. At first Balthier expected her to upbraid the man–she had always had a justice complex –and thus he was surprised when her voice, pleasant and soft, reached his ears.
"I beg your pardon," she said, in dulcet tones, "It's my first time within Valenta. Could you possibly direct me to the nearest clothier?" She rocked up onto her toes, her back arched subtly. Good gods; she'd practically shoved her bosom into the man's face!
"A...a clothier?" The words were a gruff repetition, directed to her chest rather than her face.
"Yes," she cooed. "I seem to have had a bit of a...mishap." She slipped the fingers of her right hand beneath the hem of her blouse, delicately lifting the sodden material away from her body, revealing several inches of smooth, white flesh to the vendor's riveted gaze.
With her left, she palmed an apple from the uncovered cart, slipping it behind her where she tossed it through the air. It landed softly and rolled down the street, coming to a gentle stop against the boy's leg. Baffled, he picked it up, stared at it a moment, and looked up just in time to see another apple come sailing his way. Balthier saw the surprise and delight cross his face as he collected the fruits and stuffed them into the waiting bag.
Balthier smothered his amusement as he watched Penelo work the man over, keeping him thoroughly engaged in conversation as she swiftly pilfered a feast in fruits and vegetables. The poor lad was struggling keep to keep up with the bounty she had tossed his way; soon the bag would be too heavy for him to lift did she continue her thieving.
But she had gotten daring, now. She braced her hip against the cart, twirled a lock of her silky hair with one hand and released a trill of bright, scintillating laughter. The vendor hung on the sound, eyes locked on her fingers, on the gleam of her fair hair in the warm light of the lamp.
She fisted her left hand around a cantaloupe, plucked it from the stack, rolled it down her spine, kicked her left foot back and caught it, dropping it gingerly to the ground to nudge it toward the boy. And then she pushed a bit too hard on the cart with her hip and the whole thing moved a few inches.
"Oh!" she cried as she stumbled towards it. "I'm so sorry!" Her hands reached out to catch the fruit that threatened to tumble off, and Balthier took that as his cue to help the lad collect the last of the fruit and secret him away in the nearest alley, lest the vendor grow suspicious.
The vendor reached out to steady Penelo, and she grasped at him as if he were the only stable thing in the world. At last she sighed, "How clumsy of me. It's these shoes." A gamine smile curved her lips. "You've been very helpful, sir."
"'Twas my pleasure, miss," the vendor said, ducking his head to catch another peek at her bosom.
"I'll bid you good night, then," she murmured. "Perhaps we'll meet again tomorrow?"
A grin passed over the vendor's face. "Ye'll know where to find me."
With a flutter of her fingers, Penelo turned her back on the vendor, striding back down the street towards where Balthier lingered with the child in the alley. He released a low whistle as she neared, and she turned towards the sound, entering the alley to find the both of them standing in the low illumination given off by a nearby second-story window.
The lad clutched the sack full of fruits and vegetables by the mouth, which would barely close. Penelo dropped to her knees before him, reaching out to him. "Let me see," she said, "Where did he hit you?"
The boy released his tight grip on the bag and gestured to the right side of his head. "J-just there, miss," he said. "I've had worse; it ain't nothing to worry for."
She ran her fingers gingerly through his hair, grimacing when he winced as if the pain were her own. "You'll have a goose egg," she sighed. "But I think you're right; no lasting damage."
The boy cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed even in the dim light. "I'm much obliged, miss," he said. "This'll keep me and mum for a week or more."
Her face was wreathed in a smile; she ruffled the lad's tousled hair, careful to avoid the injured spot. "You're a growing boy," she said. "You need a bit more than fruits and vegetables, I expect."
She fished in her pocket and pulled out a silk purse that jingled in her palm. Loosening in the strings, she tugged it open, grasped the lad's hand, and tipped half the contents into his palm.
The gold coins glinted; by the way the boy's eyes widened, Balthier guessed that it was likely more gil than he'd seen in one place in his life. Penelo tucked the coin purse back in her pocket and closed the boy's fingers over the mound of coins.
"You should see if there's a butcher open still. Bring back a roast for your mum," Penelo suggested. "Maybe stop at a sweets shop?"
"Oh, miss, I couldn't," he said. "The fruit, miss – that's more than enough already."
"I won't take back the gil," she said. "And it's not my coin, anyway. I nicked it off him. That great brute, he deserved it for striking you. And you can have your own revenge – every time you see him, you'll know he paid for it."
"Oh, but –"
"I'm keeping some coin myself; you haven't got it all," she reminded him. "I've got to have a new set of clothes. But I imagine what you've got in your hand will keep you and your mum comfortably for a while."
"More than a while, miss," the lad breathed. "This could keep us months."
"Well, then. You'd better run along; he'll probably notice his purse is missing sooner than later, and he'll know I snatched it. We'll all want to be far away when he figures it out. Can you carry all that?" She indicated the bag.
"Yes, miss...but it's a near thing." He grinned. "It was real fun, watching you pull all this out right from under his nose. He didn't suspect a thing!"
She coughed to disguise a chuckle; the light of admiration in the boy's eyes spoke too clearly to be ignored. The worst thing she could do was to teach the boy to idolize thieves. "Yes, well, you ought to make your mum proud and get an education and an honest job. Leave the thieving –and the consequences thereof –to the professionals, hm?"
The boy bobbed his head in an abashed nod, gripped the mouth of the sack as tightly as he could manage, and slung it over his shoulder.
"I'm certain your mother will be expecting you back soon," Balthier said. "You had best run along home now."
"I will, sir." The boy tucked the coins into his breast pocket, packing them tightly enough so as not to jingle, which might draw the attention of unsavory characters. "Thanks again; my mum'll be so thrilled!" Quick as he could manage beneath the weight of the heavy sack, he darted off down the alley, ducked around a corner, and was gone.
Penelo climbed to her feet, dusting off her hands, looking so pleased with herself that it grated on Balthier's nerves.
"Dangerous, what you did back there," he said.
She shrugged. "He was too busy staring at my chest to notice. It's only dangerous if you get caught – and I don't."
The confidence in those words suggested she'd picked more than her fair share of pockets. He couldn't decide whether he was meant to be proud or furious. She'd taken risks tonight, for the sheer fun of it. She could have contended herself with apples, plums, apricots - but no, she'd had to go after the sodding melon, just to see if she could.
That she could didn't merit consideration; she had placed herself in danger to show off for a child, to thumb her nose at a bully. A bully whose hands were like hocks of ham; the man probably could have strangled her to death in less time than it would have taken to scream.
She patted the pocket in which she had stashed the pilfered purse. "Now that I've got a bit of gil, I can afford some new clothes."
His brows lifted. "You would rather steal than accept a gift?"
She sniffed, turning her dainty nose up at the idea. "In my experience, there's no such thing as a gift from a man."
"What the devil is that supposed to mean?"
She cast a scathing look in his direction, as if his obtuseness had annoyed her. "Just what it sounds like, I expect. Gifts come with expectations. I don't care to be indebted to anyone."
"You truly believe that I would expect something from you in exchange?" He imbued the question with precisely the right amount of icy disdain; her lips pursed as she considered the question.
"I'd rather not take the chance," she said, finally. "It's irrelevant now, of course, as I can pay my own way." She side-stepped him, out of the circle of light cast from above, toward the alley entrance. "The vendor kindly gave me directions to a shop that's still open; I can find my own way from here. If you'll excuse me."
"I won't."
"What?" She pivoted, surprised.
"Excuse you." He crossed his arms over his chest. "It's well after dark, and you would be alone in an unfamiliar city, without weapons, at the mercy of any brigands who chanced to cross paths with you."
"I can take care of myself," she snapped.
"Oh, yes. You were clearly doing so well for yourself in that tavern." It was a low blow; he saw the narrowing of her eyes, the clenching of her fists at her sides. She did not need to be reminded of the naïveté for which she had suffered already.
He made a rough sound in his throat and grated out, "My apologies; that was uncalled for."
"Yes, it was." Her voice was just as rough, as if she had choked out the acknowledgment.
He cleared his throat. "I shall not be leaving you to your own devices in strange city, so you may shove that thought out of your head right now."
"I don't need a babysitter," she chided. Her fists clenched and unclenched, as if she were imagining wrapping her delicate fingers around his throat and squeezing the life out of him. Absent the assistance of a solid iron chain, though, he didn't think she could manage it.
"And, might I point out, you are already indebted to me." He gestured vaguely. "I'm not really partial to the damsel in distress routine; it's a bit dramatic for my taste. Romantic rubbish. That, in addition to a swift escape, the use of my facilities, the loan of my shirt..." He ticked off her debts upon his fingers, fully conscious of the furious flush that heated her cheeks.
"What," she fairly growled, "do you want?"
"Dinner," he said. "It's been a good twelve hours since last I've eaten. Longer, I expect, for you."
"That's it?" Her tone was patently disbelieving.
"Dear girl, I don't require a debt to get a woman into my bed. It's difficult enough to get them out of it as it is." He was blessed enough in looks that he had never had to purchase or coerce feminine companionship. And he had found, over the years, that women frequently lost themselves to the romance of piracy and let their fantasies sweep away their good sense.
"Dinner? Just dinner?" She eyed him skeptically.
"And conversation," he said. "I am curious, I confess, as to your plans for the future."
"I haven't made any." She nudged a pebble with the toe of her boot. "Until this afternoon, I didn't think I had one to plan for."
"We'll discuss it, then," he said. "Things have changed in the last few years. You must be curious."
She was; he saw it in her eyes, in the way they softened at the corners, her cornflower-blue irises warming.
"All right," she said at last. "Dinner. And then we party ways."
He wasn't ready to concede that much just yet, but it would be pure foolishness to admit to it. "Clothes first," he said. "Then dinner. And then...we shall see."