Jiraj's ship wasn't nearly as smooth in the air as the Strahl, and the landing was even worse. Penelo didn't know how much of the rough landing to attribute to the ship, and how much to attribute to Jiraj's piloting. She suspected he'd killed the power to the glossair rings too early, and the ship had dropped like a stone for the last few feet, upsetting Penelo's precarious claim to balance and knocking her against the wall, embedding a few splinters into her back.
But she nonetheless relished the pain that the abrupt drop had wrought, for it heralded freedom from the darkness of the closet, from the stifling, musty air within it.
Of course, that very freedom might be short-lasting. Bartaan was hardly going to give her the run of the place.
The clunk of Jiraj's boots on the rusted metal lining the corridor echoed in her ears. Moments later, the closet door opened, and she put up her arms to shield her eyes against the sudden intrusion of light.
Without even waiting for her vision to adjust to the drastic change in lighting, Jiraj seized her bound hands in a punishing grip and dragged her to her feet. She remained standing only by locking her knees; an hour's flight spent kneeling had left her legs devoid of feeling.
As she opened her mouth to speak, pain ricocheted through her jaw. A lingering remnant of the blow he'd dealt her and the fact that her jaw had been clenched throughout the journey, no doubt.
"Jiraj," she said through gritted teeth, "I'm going to give you a friendly warning."
He snorted, unfazed. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She worked her jaw, and the pain abated slowly. "If I were you, I'd get the hell out of here as soon as I could. So get back in your ship and go, and never let me see your face again, because you have no idea what you've gotten yourself involved with."
He made a scathing sound in the back of his throat. "Takes more than an idle threat to shake me," he said.
She shrugged her shoulders, her legs less than steady as he yanked her along behind him down the ramp and off the ship. She squinted in the bright sunlight, peering past the clear, cloudless sky toward the horizon. "Don't say I didn't warn you. There's a storm brewing, and you've just missed your chance to escape it."
Though the ancient wooden walls muffled most of the sound from the front of the tavern, Balthier was aware that some sort of a disturbance had broken out. Raised voices from the front room echoed down the hall, the tone clearer than the words.
Bartaan was in a fine temper. His voice coalesced into a roar, crashing through the tavern, fairly shaking the walls with its furious timbre. A biting female voice screeched a retort, her voice climbing higher and higher until at last it broke off with the sharp sound of a slap. Balthier went rigid with impotent rage – few things incensed him more than a man using his superior strength against a woman. It was the way of bullies and cowards, weak men whose proclivity for violence made them think they appeared strong.
And yet, there was nothing he could do about it. Bartaan had shortened the chain to keep him confined only to this room. Balthier had broken out of prisons before, but he had never found himself literally tethered to the ground. Short of prying the iron spike from where it was firmly wedged into the floorboards, there he would remain until Penelo and Fran managed to locate him.
In all his life, he had never felt quite so helpless.
Rustling noises from the corridor outside, Bartaan's harsh grumble preceding his footsteps. "I don't like this," he said. "I don't trust the two of them together. I only keep the one chain."
Another male voice: "It's just a couple 'o hours. Just waitin' on the man who's payin' for her. And you'll get your cut out of it, as promised." A rough, impatient sound. "She's tied up; what could she do?"
"He ain't." Bartaan's surly voice was a hiss of displeasure. "And she damn near killed me once before.
A snort. "That's what the rope's for. They won't be goin' anywhere."
A moment later there was the scrape of the latch, and then the door flew open. Bartaan scowled from the doorway, his arms crossed over his massive chest. Though his towering frame blocked most of the corridor from view, another man peeked around him. Jiraj – the man Penelo had argued with in Tarram.
Also, presumably, the son of a bitch who had clocked Balthier over the head just outside the city and carted him back here. The great idiot had no idea of the retribution he had coming to him.
"You're gonna sit quiet-like and let him –" Bartaan snarled, jerking his head towards Jiraj "– tie up your hands."
Balthier conjured up a defiant grin. "Now, why would I do that?"
"She'll suffer for it if you don't." Bartaan edged aside, revealing Jiraj in full. He wore a self-satisfied smirk, and carried an unconscious woman draped over his arms. Penelo – her clothes were covered in dust and sand, her blonde hair an impossible tangle. Her head lolled, but there was the shadow of a bruise on her cheek and a smear of blood on her chin from where her lower lip had split under the impact of a blow.
Balthier's heart leapt into his throat; he struggled to his feet even as his knees threatened to buckle beneath the weight of his fear and fury. "What the devil have you done to her?" he shouted.
Bartaan shrugged. "She got mouthy. Couldn't have that." He turned to admit Jiraj, who sidled through the doorway to lay Penelo upon the thin pallet.
As Jiraj rose, he pulled a length of coarse, thick rope from the pouch at his waist. "It's just for a while. Thought you both might appreciate the chance to say your goodbyes." He snickered, snapping the rope in his hands. "If you want to see her, you'll do what you're told."
With a muttered oath, Balthier thrust out his hands, clenching his jaw as Jiraj wrapped the rope around his wrists, binding them together so tightly that the rope abraded his skin. The man had at least enough sense to know how to tie a proper knot; Balthier would grant him that much. Attempting to extricate his hands from the rope would only tighten the knot, and the rough rope would bite into his flesh, making the process painful enough to deter him from even trying.
"That good enough for you?" Jiraj said over his shoulder to Bartaan.
Bartaan made an irritable sound in his throat, clearly less than satisfied, but he turned and stomped back down the hall, his heavy steps coaxing a shower of dust loose from the ceiling.
Absent Bartaan's menacing presence, Jiraj skittered out of reach – as if Balthier could have reached for him, with his hands bound as they were. "You ain't got much time," he said. "Better make the most of it."
The moment Jiraj closed the door behind him, Balthier crossed the floor, awkwardly sinking to his knees beside the pallet on the floor. With his hands bound before him, the most he could manage was brushing the tangled strands of her hair that had come loose from her plait away from her face, careful to avoid her swollen cheek.
That Bartaan had struck her hard enough to render her unconscious both enraged and terrified him. But she stirred even beneath the gentle pressure of his fingertips, her brows drawing together and her jaw clenching as the slow return to consciousness brought with it the advent of pain.
He didn't have the wherewithal to compose his features into an expression that might be considered even vaguely reassuring. But her lids fluttered, and her eyes opened at last, her face softening as she focused on his face.
"You're okay." Her voice was rusty-sounding, but tinged with such relief that he knew that she had not yet comprehended the gravity of their situation. She managed a weak smile made somewhat macabre by the blood that smeared her teeth.
She struggled to sit, the task made awkward by her inability to brace herself with her bound hands. As she levered her shoulders from the pallet, he shoved his hands behind her back to help her. "I'm fine," he said gruffly. "But you –"
"I'm fine, too," she said, turning her head to spit out a mouthful of blood. "Bit of a headache. Probably concussed." She shook her head as if to clear it, and flexed her bound hands to test the strength of the bonds. "There's a dagger strapped to my thigh. I need you to get it." She plucked at the drawstring tie of her loose trousers, picking apart the knot and shifting to loosen the waist.
The unexpected statement brought him up short. "What?"
"The dagger. Hurry. Who knows how much time we've got?" She had the presence of mind to keep her voice low, just in case someone might be listening from the corridor. Her head was bent, engrossed in the task of wriggling her trousers free enough to reveal the hidden weapon. With her fingertips she yanked the fabric down, exposing the hilt of the small blade.
Though the rope chafed his wrists as he stretched them the best he was able, he managed to catch the hilt of the dagger between his fingers, drawing it free of the sheath she'd strapped to her thigh. As soon as he'd got it firmly in his grip, she thrust out her bound wrists in offer.
"Just through the knot, if you can manage it," she said. "The rope might come in handy. I don't want to waste it."
His head whirled with a plethora of questions, but he held them long enough to focus his attention on carefully sawing the sharp blade through the knot. Gradually the rope loosened, then fell away entirely. The moment it had, she plucked the dagger from his hands and sliced quickly through the rope binding her feet and his hands.
With trembling fingers she tucked the dagger back into its sheath and readjusted her trousers to conceal it once again. When she lifted her head at last to face him, he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes.
"I thought…I thought…" She swallowed hard, and her face crumpled as she launched herself at him. She landed half in his lap, her arms twined around his neck, pressing her cheek to his. "I thought I would be too late." Her voice broke, and he felt the hot trickle of tears sliding down her face.
Too late? His arms closed around her as he struggled to order her words into some sort of explanation in his mind. It was almost as if…as if she had planned to find herself here. His breath caught in his throat; he seized her shoulders in his hands, drawing her away.
"You let yourself be taken?" It took all of his will to keep his voice low.
She blinked, swiping her fingers over her eyes to brush away the tears. "Of course. It was the best way to find out where he'd taken you."
"Why?" Why would she deliberately place herself in such jeopardy?
"I love you." She sniffled, rubbing desperately at her eyes to staunch the flow of tears that had started right back up again. "I love you, and I'm so sorry I let you think I didn't. And when I realized you'd been captured, I just…" A hiccough shattered her speech; she shook off his hold to press her head to his shoulder. "Everything went cold and dark all at once. And I knew that if I didn't make it in time, if you died…I couldn't live through it."
His right arm slid around her back, the fingers of his left hand curved over the nape of her neck, holding her securely. He focused his gaze over her shoulder at the wall, scored with tick marks, each one representing a day of her imprisonment here in this dank little room. To save him she had risked it once again, willingly placed herself in danger.
She had to have been terrified. And she'd done it anyway. He found himself both honored and humbled by the gesture, even as he wanted to shout at her for taking such a foolish risk. Which he likely would – but now was most certainly not the time.
She shoved away from him with a gasp. "Oh – the chain!" She lifted her hands, sliding pins free from her hair. "I borrowed these from Fran's room," she said. "I don't think she'll mind." She scrambled off his lap, pins clutched in one hand, and with the other she dragged his foot into her lap to bend over the manacle, inspecting the lock.
It took several minutes of work, but she had a light touch, and eventually her diligent efforts were rewarded with the soft click of the locking mechanism disengaging. She slid the lock free, releasing him at last, and rubbed her fingers across the angry red welts that the cuff had carved into his skin, careful to avoid the spots where the metal had gouged his flesh.
"I'm sorry," she said again, her mouth turned down in regret. "I had to spend a bit of time preparing, and I didn't get here quick enough."
She truly had been rattled by his disappearance if she could be so upset by a few minor scrapes. "It's nothing," he said. "At the very worst, I shall add a few new scars to my collection. And we'll match." She managed a half-hearted flutter of laughter at that, making an effort at a weak smile.
He cleared his throat, attempting a severe tone. "You ought not to have come alone," he said.
Her brows rose. "You're not going to chastise me now," she said, dumping his foot out of her lap and climbing to her feet. "We've still got to get out of here." She thrust her hand down her blouse, unwinding a length of fabric from where she had banded it around her chest. "Later, I might let you yell at me, if you still feel inclined."
The cloth had been doubled over and held together with pins to form a makeshift pouch, a hidden pocket concealed beneath her clothing. She released the catch of one pin, slipped it into her pocket, and crouched to pour the contents of the pouch out upon the pallet. It would have been nigh impossible for her to have smuggled in any sort of long-range weaponry, but she had managed a couple of folding blades. Not his preferred weapon, of course – but certainly better than nothing.
As she rooted through the small stash of supplies, he said, "While I can certainly appreciate your foresight, we'd do just as well to wait on Fran. No need to risk a bloody brawl." She'd been knocked around enough; he didn't want to risk her safety any further.
She shook her head absently, sorting the items into neat piles. "They're still hours away, if I had to guess." Collecting a few things, she stretched out her hands to drop them into his. Tiny sachets of fine white powder – a fast-acting sedative – one of the folding blades, and a length of rope. "The bounty was on me, not you – and Bartaan wasn't the one that posted it."
Bafflement chased across his face. He tucked the supplies into his vest pocket and asked, "Then, who…?"
"I don't know. I mean, not for certain." She blew out a breath, winced when the action irritated her split lip. Fretfully, she linked her fingers, twisting them before her. "Yulia found the poster this morning in Balfonheim. And shortly before that, she'd received a message from Archades – Raen's gone missing. Slipped his guards and fled Archadia."
He stilled. "You don't think…"
"I think the timing is awfully convenient," she said. "I think he knew we were traveling together, and you'd have to be gotten rid of in order to get to me. He's got reason to be nursing a vendetta against both of us." She hunched her shoulders. "If you were to mysteriously go missing, he could make a claim against your estate based on his relationship with your father's wife, I expect. If he could convince a court of it, his money troubles would be over."
Tension drew his shoulders up tight. "And Bartaan's still expecting some six hundred thousand gil out of someone."
Penelo nodded. "He could give me right back over to Bartaan and I'd be trapped here for years." She rose once again, raking her fingers through her disordered hair, now loosed from its plait. "We don't have time to wait on Fran – he might be expecting to find me here, but if he finds you here as well, he will kill you. There's nothing to link him to it, and this isn't the sort of place where secrets escape."
Balthier folded his arms over his chest, weighing their options. "It'll be tricky. There's two of them, and we've got precious few weapons."
She shook a sachet of powder, a feral smile creeping across her face. "If we do it right, we won't need weapons at all."
"This door didn't used to have a latch," Penelo grumbled beneath her breath as she worked a hair pin between the ill-fitting door and the frame. In the scant light that crept through she could see the shadow of the latch – it appeared to be a simple hook and eye, but getting the hair pin beneath it at just the right angle was proving to be a tricky process.
Though it was already early afternoon, there was little noise from the front of the tavern, suggesting that perhaps Bartaan had chased out the customers while he and Jiraj awaited whoever had posted the bounty. But the lack of ambient tavern noises meant they had to work quickly and quietly, lest they draw attention to themselves.
Balthier hovered behind her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. She knew he felt useless at the moment, having little to do but to wait for her to free them from the room. The pressure was mounting; there was no telling when their time might run out.
If Raen arrived before they could escape…
No! She shook her head to clear it, but the action only exacerbated her headache. The pin slipped, falling short of the mark. She heaved an aggrieved sigh and withdrew the pin, clasping one hand to the nape of her neck to massage away the tight muscles there.
Balthier's hand squeezed her shoulder. "Darling, you must relax. Worry produces nothing but stress. Let it go, take a deep breath, and try again."
She ducked her head, trying to shake the fear, and managed at last to even out her breathing. Her hands were steadier this time; she shoved the pin through the gap, slipped it up and beneath, and at last felt the slight pressure of the latch against it. Her breath caught – she eased the latch up, heard the soft hiss of metal sliding against metal, and finally it slipped free of its closure.
Penelo swallowed down the cry of elation that scraped at her throat. "I did it," she said. "The door's unlocked!"
Balthier caught her hand before she could reach for the door handle. "Hold a moment," he said. "Let me handle them – you've shouldered enough of the risk already." His eyes lingered upon the bruise high on her cheek, the smear of dried blood on her chin that she'd failed to fully clean away.
She shook her head. "It's got to be me," she said. "I was here for three years; I know which floorboards creak. I know how far the door can open before the hinges squeak. If you go, we'll be caught in moments."
She was right. She was right, and he knew it. Still, it didn't mean he was in any way comfortable with the prospect.
She must have read his hesitation in his face – she squeezed his fingers in hers, offered a tentative smile. "Now it's your turn to let it go and take a deep breath. I'll be okay."
"You'd better be." He threaded the fingers of his free hand through her hair, pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "I've not yet been afforded the opportunity to yell at you."
"I only said I might let you," she reminded him tartly. But she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder and took a deep, steadying breath. "All right. Wish me luck."
"With skill like yours, you've no need for anything so fickle as luck." His grip tightened for a moment, as though he were memorizing the feel of her with the tips of his fingers. At last he released her with a rough, resigned sigh. "Go," he said. "And come back safely."
Silence reigned throughout the tavern. She held a handful of powder poured from one of the sachets into her palm, but she would have to get close enough to use it, and the tavern was a tangle of chairs and tables all mashed together in no particular order – it would be impossible to wend her way through them without being seen.
She lingered in the shadows cloaking the corridor, caught between the necessity to scope out the locations of her adversaries and the fear that a single step forward would draw unwanted attention. Balthier was waiting within the room she had left, no doubt frantic with worry – but he trusted her. He had faith in her competency; he was no Vaan to come charging in, heedless of the risk.
And now she had only to live up to his faith in her.
Chair legs scraped across the rough wooden floor, the high screech like fire to her senses. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end. She knew by the heavy thump of boots upon the floor that the person moving about was Bartaan – she'd grown accustomed to the distinctive sound of his boots stomping up and down the corridor over the past three years; she would recognize it anywhere.
"If I've closed down my tavern for naught…" Bartaan said in a menacing growl. He was moving toward the bar; he'd cross before the corridor in moments, and no doubt see her lingering there.
"I'm telling you, he'll be here," Jiraj snapped back, and Penelo breathed a silent sigh of relief. His voice had come from across the tavern; if she kept her back to the wall, she could remain out of his sight.
She hugged the wall, sliding down the corridor, and raised her hand, palm up to expose the powder. Two more steps, and Bartaan would be within range. The moment his boots came into view, she blew across her palm, scattering the powder through the air – straight into his face.
He never had a chance to make a sound; his face went slack, his eyelids drooping. A half-second later, he crashed to the floor.
Penelo was already skittering back down the hallway as she heard Jiraj's baffled exclamation, followed by his rapid footsteps as he approached Bartaan's sprawled body.
"I got Bartaan," Penelo whispered to Balthier as she slipped back into the room. "But Jiraj –"
Balthier seized her in his arms, crushing her to his chest for a moment, and she could feel in that fierce embrace exactly how concerned he had been. "Leave him to me," he said. "You've done enough already." His voice was rough, ragged with worry – and she didn't want to put him through more of it.
There were slow steps coming down the corridor; Balthier maneuvered her back against the wall behind the door, where she would be out of sight when the door opened. He fisted a sachet of powder in his hand, standing at the ready near the door, his back pressed to the wall.
There was the sound of a gun cocking; Jiraj might be a bit slow on the uptake, but even he could not have failed to miss the fact that the door that ought to have been locked wasn't. The door handle squeaked as he turned it, and the door opened a crack. Jiraj lead with his weapon, squeezing the barrel of the gun through the crack as he peered into the room above it.
From his limited vantage point, the room would appear to be empty. He eased the door open just a shade more, poking his head through, and Balthier found his opening. He cast the sachet of powder into Jiraj's face. In his surprise, Jiraj had only enough time to squeeze off one shot, which went wide and lodged itself harmlessly into the far wall. He collapsed against the door, flinging it wide open on his descent to the floor.
Penelo squeezed out from behind the door to find Balthier in the process of rolling Jiraj to his back and knotting his hands together with a length of rope. She collected Jiraj's pistol from where it had fallen and tucked it into the waistband of her trousers.
"I'll manage them," Balthier said. "If you might track down my pistols in the meantime…"
She nodded her assent, stepping over Jiraj's prone form to exit the room. She ought to have been thrilled. She'd found Balthier alive; they'd successfully liberated themselves. They had only to leave, to alert Fran of their escape and reconvene with the Galbana elsewhere. So why did her stomach still churn with anxiety?
Because Raen was coming.
Her breath hitched in her throat – Raen was coming, and he would never stop coming.
They had bought themselves only a temporary freedom. As long as Raen was free, he would always be the shadow dogging their steps, and they would spend their time constantly looking over their shoulders, wondering when the other shoe would drop.
It wasn't enough to escape him. He had to be taken out for good.