Penelo really, really did not want to deal with Raen. Her stomach was still unsettled, and she knew she must look just as haggard as she felt. And so, as the attendees rose from their seats, ostensibly to depart, she used the distraction of the small crowd to sneak away before Raen could lay eyes on her.
He wouldn't be expecting her here, anyway. He had no reason to suspect that she was anywhere other than exactly where he'd left her. She ducked behind the trunk of the willow as a surge of rage swelled, and she clenched her jaw, breathing heavily until it passed. Balthier had seen her go, but he hadn't called attention to her – perhaps he had simply wished to let her handle her business in her own way.
She snuck a peek at him. He gave a passable impression of indifference, but his hands curled reflexively into fists, and she knew he was fighting his own urge to give Raen a piece of his mind…or his temper. By the subtle tightness of his jaw, it was probably going to be his temper. Good gods – she was going to be at least partly responsible for fisticuffs at a funeral.
From behind her, a man cleared his throat. "Has the service concluded?"
"Shh," she hissed, her attention focused solely on the two men squaring off with one another. "Keep your voice down!"
"Well," the man said, in a baffled voice. "I suppose that puts me in my place."
There was a flutter of nervous laughter from another man, who said in an ingratiating voice, "Your majesty, I am certain she didn't intend to be rude."
Your majesty? A surreal sense of shock trembled down Penelo's spine, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. Larsa – she hadn't recognized his voice, but then five years' difference from a boy just on the cusp of manhood would do that. She knew her mouth hung agape, but she turned anyway, and looked up – and up some more. He had grown at least a foot, and likely more in the intervening years since last they'd met. He wore his hair long, pulled into a sedate queue, and bound at the nape of his neck. For some reason, she had expected him to still be the precocious child-emperor she had once known, and it was disconcerting to meet him again, here and now, as a man grown.
"I am equally certain she did," Larsa said. "She has never been one to stand on ceremony."
He was in line of sight of the other attendees, and it was bound to cause a stir. And if his presence revealed her hiding place, she would be forced to take action.
"Keep your voice down," she hissed again, seizing his lapels and jerking him within the cover of the willow. "You're going to be noticed! Why are you even here?"
The attendant he'd brought with him blustered, "It is the prerogative of the emperor to go wherever he wishes!"
Penelo slanted the man a murderous glance, and Larsa, carefully pulling his coat from her grasp, said, "Kinney, kindly shut up, or I'm quite sure that Penelo will silenceyou herself." With one gloved hand, he gestured for the attendant to secret himself out of view as well.
Penelo peeked out from behind the shelter of the drooping branches. "Have you come to pay your respects?"
Larsa snorted. "Good gods, no – that woman was poison incarnate. I simply had to see for myself that she'd passed on. I never would've believed it otherwise; I thought for certain she was so bitter and unpleasant that not even death would have her." He eased around her to poke his head out in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what she had been hiding from. "I came round the back to avoid the crowd and spotted you quite by chance. What are you doing here? For that matter – why are we hiding?"
She pulled a face. "It's a long story," she said.
"Well, it would seem that we've both got time," he said. "And I might add, I am still ratherput out that you haven't written in years. I quite enjoyed our correspondence."
"That would be part of the story," she said. "And, for the record, I didn't stop writing because I wanted to, I stopped because he –" She jabbed a finger to indicate Raen, "– dropped me at a tavern in the middle of Rozarria and left me there to work off his debt."
She heard Larsa's soft intake of breath. "He left you there? Left you? How did –"
But before he could finish the question, she tugged the leg of her pants up, exposing the ring of scar tissue encircling her ankle. There was a low sound of raw rage beside her, and she turned to see Larsa rolling up his sleeves in quick, efficient twists, readying himself to charge in.
"Stop," she hissed. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me." She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and gave her full attention back to Balthier and Raen. "Besides," she said, "it looks like Balthier is putting him in his place well enough on his own."
Balthier had noticed the instant Penelo had taken her leave, but had resisted the urge to summon her back. So she wasn't yet ready to face the miserable excuse for a man whom she had once loved; that was her prerogative.
She would be, soon enough – or if not, he would be satisfied enough to thrash Raen in her place.
Raen slowed on his approach, his brows drawing together as he struggled to place Balthier's face. But then, it had been almost fifteen years since they had last met, and Balthier had traveled under an assumed name for almost as long. Raen could not reconcile the scrawny lad he had once been with the grown man that stared him down.
He looked much the same as Balthier remembered, as if he had not matured very much in the years that had passed. Handsome enough to lure in naïve young girls, but his mouth was lined in sulky petulance, as if dissatisfied with the entire world. He had the sort of face that was pleasant to look upon, but distinctly lacking in character, his avarice and undeserved pride and shining out his eyes.
Raen's wife, the poor woman, looked as though she'd rather be anywhere else – her lips were pursed into a moue of disgust, her hand hovered over Raen's arm as if loath to touch him. Balthier remembered her as a rather sweet girl, if a bit shy – she had never held his illegitimacy over his head, never had an unkind word to say to anyone to his memory.
"Balthier, is it?" Raen said as he closed the distance between them. He offered his hand, and Balthier stood firm and resolute, declining the dubious honor.
Raen cleared his throat awkwardly. "I am told you are managing my dear, dear godmother's affairs?"
"That's correct," Balthier acknowledged.
Raen's cheeks flushed with color; he plucked at the collar of his shirt as if to loosen it. "I'm certain we have much to discuss, as my godmother has surely left some sort of bequest to her beloved godson."
Yulia bared her teeth in feral snarl. "For the god's sake, Asraen, don't be an ass. She's not even cold in the ground yet."
Balthier's lips twitched – clearly there was no love lost between them. Yulia held as much distaste for her husband as he did.
With gritted teeth, Raen rounded on his unlucky wife. "Hold your tongue and know your place," he snapped. Then he turned again to Balthier, his fury melting into an obsequious smile. "I beg your pardon; my wife has taken leave of her manners."
Yulia stiffened; her eyes blazed and her jaw clenched, but she said nothing – though she looked as though she would have dearly liked to.
Balthier said, "She left you nothing."
Raen laughed, a high, awkward sound. "Surely not – she had quite a large estate. Perhaps we might meet elsewhere and look over the documentation? She had no living heirs; she must have passed something to me."
"That would be quite impossible, as she owned nothing to give." It really was immensely satisfying to see the other man squirm like a fish on a hook. And the killing blow: "Every bit of wealth she laid claim to was solely at my discretion. She had nothing but what I chose to give to her. Her husband's death left it all in my hands."
Yulia laughed, bright, mocking, and utterly delighted. "Oh, that's rich – and it serves you right, Asraen. The last hope to escape a debtor's prison has gone up in smoke."
The blatant pleasure on her face spurred Raen to lift his hand as if to strike her, but Balthier snarled, "If I were you, I would not," and slowly his hand fell, unwilling to risk a physical altercation with Balthier.
"I don't believe you," Raen sniffed disdainfully. "There were no other heirs – I'll petition the courts for the right to inherit in the absence of a living heir. You must've manipulated your way into it."
"Unfortunately for you," Balthier said, "There is a living heir. Bastards have full rights of inheritance so long as they are named."
Raen blanched, his face draining of color until he was sallow as old parchment. A nervous sweat broke across his brow. "No – it can't be you."
"Oh," Yulia's giggles eased as her expression shifted into curious wonder. "Ffamran? I must say, I didn't recognize you. You've changed a great deal."
Raen scowled, his face twisting into a snarl of disgust. "Aping his betters," he spat. "Everything about him is contrived! Someone ought to teach him a lesson."
"As you tried to do in school?" Balthier suggested. "I might yet bear the scars of it, but I'll thank you to remember who ultimately got the best of whom in that scuffle. Nevertheless, I invite you to try again." The silky thread of menace in his voice could have made a behemoth quail in fear, and Raen was no exception to it.
Balthier casually unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up his forearms. The latent threat had Raen blustering, "Now, now – there's no need for bloodshed. Let's agree to let bygones be bygones. Have you no respect for the deceased?"
"None at all," Balthier said. "But I'm not going to thrash you for what you've done to me."
Yulia took a quick side-step, eager to be out of the line of fire, abandoning her husband to his fate. She scurried to the shelter of the willow, clasping her hands before her in eager anticipation of the fray surely to follow, utterly unaware of Penelo and Larsa lurking just behind the wide trunk.
Raen cringed, more worm than man, glancing desperately around for help from any angle he could find, finding only that none was forthcoming.
"Three years ago," Balthier said, "you abandoned an innocent young girl to the dubious care of a tavern keeper in Rozarria."
"Bah," Raen said. "She was nobody – a low-born, inconsequential sky-pirate."
"Oh?" Balthier inquired. "That hardly seemed to matter to you when you seduced her and angled after her fortune. She was good enough when you thought you could manipulate her into signing it over to you – and when she did not, you abandoned her to three years of slavery to pay off your debt."
"Is that what she told you?" Raen's voice broke high as he struggled for any lie that would drag him out of the hole he'd dropped into. "Women are often wont to exaggerate their own importance. She was just a common harlot, seeking to sink her claws into me."
"That girl," Balthier snarled between clenched teeth, "is dear to me. I'm not going to thrash you for me – I'm going to thrash you for her."
Oh, now this had gone too far. Penelo skirted the tree trunk in the hopes of heading off the violence – and trod upon the skirts of Raen's wife. Yulia made a startled sound, her hands flying out to grip the tree trunk to keep her balance.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Penelo reached out to help steady Yulia, but pulled back at the last moment, uncertain if she ought to. Even if Yulia had no idea who her husband's former paramour had been, she was certainly about to find out – and she was sure to be less than pleased.
"It's quite all right," Yulia said absently, shaking out the crushed hem of her skirt. "A little dirt never hurt anything."
And Penelo felt a stab of guilt for having unwittingly aided Raen in betraying his wedding vows – Yulia was a good person, just as Balthier had said, and she did not deserve the treatment she'd received.
As if to echo her thoughts, Yulia said, "You know, I applied to the emperor in the hopes of obtaining a divorce some months ago." She gave a heavy sigh. "I never heard back. So I suppose it'll be debtor's prison for the both of us – though gods alone can say why a wife should be punished for her husband's misdeeds." She watched as Balthier stalked Raen through the cluster of chairs, her face alight with vindictive glee.
Yulia was just as much a victim of Raen's malice as she had been, Penelo realized. Only she was forever entangled with him. Or…maybe not forever entangled with him.
Penelo reached out, seized Larsa's elbow, and tugged him into the open. "You want to help me?" she asked of him. "Help her." She shoved him towards Yulia, who, after gaping like a fish at the shock induced by the sudden appearance of her monarch, sank into an awkward curtsey.
Satisfied, Penelo started towards Balthier and Raen. Balthier had succeeded in cornering Raen against a stout oak, and Raen trembled in anticipation of the blow that Balthier would strike him. Only, Balthier stood passively – his muscles were stretched taut with the effort to hold back, but he was holding back. As if he were waiting. For her, she realized – he was waiting for her. Oh, he had enjoyed terrorizing Raen, enjoyed putting the fear of the gods in him – but here was vengeance in the palm of his hand, and he did not want it for himself; he wanted it for her.
She took a moment to savor the situation: Raen humbled and cowering, his hands thrown up to shield his face, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His life was collapsing around him, and he wasn't yet fully aware of how thorough her revenge would be. He had no prospects, no income, no inheritance. His wife would soon be free of him. His emperor despised him. He would likely spend the rest of his days consigned to prison, and there would be no one to speak for him, no one to miss him.
Her feet carried her to Balthier's side, and his shoulders dropped into a more natural slope. "You certainly took your time," he said in a low voice.
"You seemed to be handling it well enough," she replied. They likely didn't have to speak so softly; Raen's piteous whimpers for mercy would have drowned out their voices.
Balthier grabbed her hand, closing it into a fist. "Thumb on the outside," he said. "You'll break it if you tuck it into your fingers. Now, strike with the first two knuckles, arm straight – aim for the nose; it's a smaller target, but the bone is weaker there. Anywhere else, and you're likely to hurt yourself just as badly as you hurt him."
A warm glow suffused her. Probably there were sweeter gestures than teaching someone to throw a decent punch – even if she did already know quite well how to do so – but she couldn't remember the last time she'd been so moved. He was manipulating her arm, showing her the motion, but she didn't hear a word he was saying – he had had every reason to thrash Raen on his own. Instead, he'd essentially caught him and trussed him up just for her.
She could fall in love with him. It would be so easy. And quite likely incredibly stupid.
"Have you got that?" His voice near her ear set off a betraying tremor.
"Yes," she managed. "Yes, I think so."
"Good." He let fall her arm and cleared his throat loudly, his voice scornful as he said to Raen, "Oh, come off it, you coward. I'm not going to hit you."
It took a moment for the words to sink into Raen's thick skull. He opened his eyes, slowly lowering his arms. For a moment he stared at Penelo blankly, as if he hadn't recognized her. Then, at last, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
Balthier gestured to her. "She is."
Her cue. She drew back her arm, swinging so fast that Raen hadn't the chance to shield his face once again.
Crack. There was the satisfying crunch of bones beneath her fist, and if her knuckles stung, it was worth it to hear the high-pitched squawk of pain Raen gave as he slumped against the tree trunk, covering his nose even as blood poured freely into his hands.
Behind her, Penelo heard Yulia's jubilant laughter, turned to see her doubled over with it, tears streaming down her cheeks. She shook out her fist, flexing her injured knuckles – they were scraped raw, but she'd had worse wounds. This one, at least, was satisfying; a lingering memory of revenge served. She let Balthier deal with Raen, who was hunkered down on the ground making pitiful noises, and instead returned to Yulia and Larsa.
"I'm sorry," she said, uncertain of her welcome – what Yulia must think of her. "I'm so sorry."
"Oh, don't be," Yulia said tearfully. She scrubbed at her cheeks with her sleeves, then flung her arms around Penelo's neck in an exuberant embrace. "This is the most wonderful day of my life. If not for you, I might never have gotten rid of him – as it is, the emperor has agreed to expedite my divorce."
"Yulia will stay at the palace as my guest until her divorce is finalized," Larsa said. "And Asraen will be put under house arrest until I can sort out the financial mess he's gotten himself into, at which point he will be tried and sentenced." He flicked a hand at his attendant, Kinney, who leapt to do his bidding, scurrying across the grass towards a pair of guards lingering respectfully on the fringes of the lawn.
Penelo glanced back at Raen, who had curled into the fetal position, held immobile by Balthier's boot pressing down upon his side. "Everything he owns will be taken," she said. "There will be nothing left for Yulia."
"I will do what I can to safeguard what assets she brought to their marriage. I see no reason why she ought to be punished for his excesses," Larsa said.
Yulia dimpled. "I thank you, Your Majesty," she said. "That's very kind of you." She cast an ireful glare at her soon-to-be former husband and said to Penelo, "Do you know, I think it would be worth it to lose everything just to have had the chance to see you break his nose. I swear I've never laughed so hard. I've wanted to do that for ages."
There was the furious clank of armor as the guards approached, and Balthier abandoned his position to give stewardship of Raen over to them. He acknowledged Larsa with a nod as he approached, and took Penelo's hand in his, examining the severity of the bruising, brushing his fingers over the scraped skin.
"Balthier," Larsa said. "Welcome back. Don't let me catch you pirating within the borders of Archadia."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Balthier said. He tucked Penelo's arm in his. "We ought to be going. That scrape needs tending." He sketched a salute and turned, directing Penelo back towards the cab that waited for them in the distance.
Larsa frowned, mistrusting Balthier's easy capitulation – Archadia was a prime target for sky-pirates, filled to the brim with merchants and noblemen and merchandise ripe for thieving. "I appreciate your consideration," he said. "One less pirate for me to worry about."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Balthier tossed over his shoulder. "I meant I wouldn't dream of being caught."
Larsa's inarticulate sound of fury and Yulia's delighted laughter echoed on the breeze, chasing them all the way back to the waiting cab.
"Where are we going?" Penelo asked, staring out the window of the cab. "We passed the Aerodrome five minutes ago."
"My father's estate," Balthier said. "Do you know, I've never seen the inside – I wonder what it's like."
The cab took a left, veering off the main road onto a winding cobblestone drive. The sun peeked through the trees lining either side, dappling the road with shafts of sunlight. Penelo tried to imagine the sense of wonder he might've experienced as young boy, traveling this drive with his father – only to be cruelly ejected at the door.
The cab slowed before a stately manor house, three stories tall and lined with rows and rows of gleaming windows. Three steps rose from the ground to the main entrance, the huge double doors polished to a high shine.
"My solicitor ought to have told them I was coming round," he said.
"Told who?" she asked, as she stepped out of the cab.
"The staff," he said. "A household this large requires one."
They climbed the steps, but even as Balthier raised his hand to knock upon the door, it was swinging open before them. A butler, clad in a proper black suit, opened the door and backed away, permitting them entrance.
"Sir," he said. "Welcome. We've been expecting you." There was nothing in his tone to suggest even the mildest of disrespect, but Penelo wondered whether or not his former mistress' vitriol had had any impact on what he must think of his new employer.
"Thank you," Balthier said. "You can leave off the 'sir,' I think. I don't believe it suits me."
"Of course, sir," The butler replied, much to Balthier's consternation. "I am Prestwick; I have the privilege of overseeing the downstairs staff. Shall I assemble them for introductions?"
"That won't be necessary," Balthier said. "We won't be staying long. I only want to have a look about."
"A tour, then?" Prestwick suggested.
"No – we'll manage well enough on our own. By all means, you may return to your duties."
Prestwick sketched a bow and turned to go, but there was a tension lingering at the corners of his mouth – not disapproval, but something rather like fear, Penelo thought. A suspicion formed in her mind – she, too, had experienced uncertainty. Well enough, certainly, to detect it in someone else.
Their footsteps echoed in the large, airy foyer, the click of boots on marble floors a sharp staccato. It branched off into a network of smaller rooms, a labyrinthine tangle of hallways and corridors stretching through the main wing of the massive house.
"How many people work here?" Penelo asked.
"A house of this size? Perhaps fifty or so," he replied. "I don't know the specifics; I only know that they command an outrageous salary."
"But you can afford it, can't you?" she asked. "I mean – you've been paying it for years already, haven't you? Every time she wrote to demand funds?"
"I suppose I have," he said. "I do have the finances to support them."
"Then you could a while longer, couldn't you? At least until they can find new positions?" She twisted her fingers together, worrying her lower lip.
He turned, baffled. "Whatever is the matter?" he asked.
"I think they're afraid," she said. "Or at least Prestwick is. They probably think they're going to be turned out, and who knows when or where they'll be able to find a new position, or if it will pay so well." She moved closer, reached out to touch his sleeve. "I've been there before," she said. "After my parents died. Not knowing what was to become of me." She hesitated half a second, and then forged ahead. "You've been there, too."
He had; he well remembered the crushing disorientation after his mother had passed, the sense of chaos that had surrounded him until his father had arrived. And he sighed. "Your bleeding heart is going to beggar me eventually," he said.
She brightened at once, the smile that burst across her face blinding in its intensity. "You'll keep them? Even if you don't intend to stay here?"
"I suppose I could see my way to keeping on a skeleton staff. It's not unheard of." He folded his arms across his chest. "Though a skeleton staff of fifty will be deemed overblown by anyone's standards."
"Not to me," she said. "I think it sounds perfect." Over Balthier's shoulder, she saw a little black-frocked maid peering at them from another room, eavesdropping as subtly as she could manage. As soon as she realized that she had been seen, the maid let out a tiny squeak and scurried away. Penelo hoped it would be to spread the news of what she'd overheard.
Balthier cast his gaze about, searching for the source of the noise. "What the devil was that?"
"Nothing," Penelo said. "Probably just a mouse."
"I know it's not good manners to speak ill of the dead," Penelo said, "but good gods, she was a sour-faced hag." They were staring up at the massive portrait of who she assumed must be the deceased woman that hung above the fireplace in the formal sitting room. The dour lady seemed to glare down at them, her sharp eyes rendered in narrowed slits, her cheeks hollowed and lips pinched as if she had just bitten into something exceptionally bitter.
"I only saw her alive once," Balthier replied. "But I think perhaps that portrait is a bit more flattering than she rightly deserved. Quite honestly, I remembered her as a dragon – fire-breathing and all."
Under the watchful, disapproving eye of the manor's former resident, Penelo dragged her fingertip along the mantle of the fireplace. The servants were thorough; there wasn't a speck of dust to be found.
"I think you're rather lucky not to have grown up here," she said, glancing around the room. "It's so cold. Sterile." Much like its former mistress, the house was bereft of life. It was unbearably austere, with no inclinations toward frivolity or gaiety or anything that would have softened the harsh, rigid furniture and the perfectly correct decorations.
"Given the fact that both of my father's legitimate sons lost their lives young – no doubt having learned their vices at his knee – I'm tempted to agree." He stroked his chin, studying the portrait. "Do you think we ought to burn it?"
"Oh, no – that's far too kind. You could just lock her away in the attic; she'd have nothing to frown at up there," Penelo suggested.
"Yes, but she'd likely scare the aprons off the maids whenever they ventured up there," Balthier responded, and they both chuckled at the idea.
There was a strange sound from a nearby room, and shortly thereafter Prestwick appeared, accompanied by a maid wheeling a small cart atop which rested a silver tea service and several platters of tiny cakes, cookies, and finger sandwiches. Penelo supposed that the tiny glimpses of movement she'd caught every so often from an outlying room had been the staff keeping track of them.
Prestwick cleared his throat. "Sir, I've taken the liberty of ordering refreshments. Shall I have Lottie pour?" He gestured to the maid at his side, and she gave a shy smile and bobbed a hasty curtsey.
Balthier had been about to refuse, but Penelo had already drifted across the room to examine the cart and greet the maid. He reconciled himself to weak tea and flavorless finger foods with a sigh.
"Just Penelo," she was saying to the maid, who nodded along with an expression of acute surprise. "I've never gone by anything else. No 'miss,' it's too much bother."
The maid parceled out sweets, sandwiches, and tiny porcelain tea cups with a practiced hand, and Balthier accepted them with reluctance. But a hesitant sip of the tea revealed that it was smooth and rich, and the wafer-thin cookie was still warm from the oven, crispy and scented with lemon. Definitely a cut above what he had expected.
"Will you tell me about her?" Penelo waved her hand to indicate the gargantuan portrait of the woman who glared down at them as if infuriated that they dared defile her sitting room with their presence.
Prestwick hesitated, conflicted. He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of his answer, and closed it again.
As if the overwhelming silence had goaded her into action, Lottie said in a rush, "She was a right old witch!" Then she gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth, flushing furiously.
Penelo tipped back her head and laughed. Balthier choked on his tea biscuit and gulped down a mouthful of tea to clear the crumbs from his throat. But Penelo's merriment had eased the tension, and even Prestwick unbent enough to allow himself a snicker or two.
"She was…difficult," Prestwick said diplomatically.
"I'll bet she was," Balthier said. "A miserable old harridan, by all accounts."
There was another round of laughter, and Penelo was pleased to see that the last of that wretched uncertainty had faded from Prestwick's face.
"If you'll pardon us, sir," Prestwick said, "we shall leave you to your exploration. Dinner will be served in an hour; I will send a maid to fetch you then. You may expect your bedchambers to be prepared thereafter – although, of course, I hope you will continue to explore as you please."
"Oh, we won't –" Balthier began, but Penelo cleared her throat and placed her hand on his arm.
She leaned up to whisper at his ear, "They're trying to impress you – can't you let them, just for one night?"
Putty in her hands – it was truly a tragedy. If she ever figured it out, he was done for. And somehow he managed a bland approximation of a smile and said to Prestwick, "That sounds wonderful."