The food came not long after, succeeding a few minutes of companionable silence. Ashe had watched over the railing of the balcony, observing the antics of the eatery patrons with a curious eye. He had been right, but not for the reasons he had stated earlier—a game was going on below, a game with a table and many round spheres with men holding long rods she was not particularly familiar with but one that she enjoyed watching, trying to figure out the rules as the men went along. The game itself was second to the negotiating the men were doing—she could make out only specific words, among them slaves and trade labour—but the game they were playing was how they matched wits silently, underneath their calamitous words.
Ashe was aware of his gaze upon her, and tilted her chin a bit to make it clear exactly what she was looking at. “It’s like your Three Handed Trickery.” She watched for another moment, and then turned to him. “What were you hoping to gain from such an affectation?”
Balthier shrugged evenly. “Nothing I could not get elsewhere.” His grin was brief and catlike as he elaborated, “Just a bit of sport, highness. Make the night pass quicker.”
“I would have thought you reveled in the night,” she muttered. He appeared not to have heard, instead finally addressing his food with bites daintier than she might have expected. She did the same, and found the meat served intolerably plain. She quickly reached to the middle of the table and spread all three vials of spices over her meat and corn, and then allowed herself a second bite. Flavour burst amongst her tongue, lighting sweet fire to the roof of her mouth and she swallowed luxuriously. She could not imagine how citizens of Archadia could eat anything without first dousing it in peppers and spices, and was quite content to continue eating, making smooth use of her utensils but abandoning the propriety she had been hand-fed with as a child in exchange for large bites and placing as much food as she could between her cheeks—when had she last tasted something so good?—and only swallowing when the cave of her mouth threatened to collapse. It was likely she appeared to be doing an impression of a cockatrice while retaining water, but she cared little.
When she had worked her away through a good percentile of her food, Ashe looked up to find Balthier staring at her, as quizzical as his lukewarm expression could manage.
She allowed herself a small sip of water. “Yes?”
“You eat like a man who has not seen food in months.”
Ashe sighed a bit, placing down her knife and fork—evenly, so they were straight and parallel to one another, the smaller utensil farthest away from the plate—and deliberated for a moment as she sought how to explain. “Dalmasca’s weather is not the kindest toward packaging of food, only the richest of households could afford refrigeration. The palace had a cellar, but every year there was always a leak in the coolants, contaminating most of our food.” A ghost of a smile appeared on Ashe’s face as she spoke. “Eventually it frustrated my father to the point where he stopped fixing it. It wasn’t the science it is now. Instead, he would order in the most expensive spices to sustain the meat through the hottest months, and my brothers and I were raised on it. In fact, one year my brother Guyis, he challenged me to, to—” Halting, her smile faded. Ashe mentally pulled herself away from such tangents and continued, “One of the treatises Archadia announced on Rabanastre was the rationing of certain foods and food additives. Jam, wolf meat, and most of our better seasonings. I could not ask the Resistance to quarter away their funds to see that I had all my favourite spices, so I ate the dull, flaccid meat they provided.”
Her expression hardened, her eyes alight with annoyance. “Now I see where our seasonings were rationed to.”
Rather than answer, Balthier reached over and helped himself to a bit of her meat—Ashe’s hand twitched a bit, like if he took anymore she might be inclined to slap his hand for the petty crime of food-thieving—and assimilated it into his mouth with one considering bite.
His face grew chalk white but he upheld his composure with an impressive amount of finesse. Ashe offered her water cup without hesitation.
“You truly are an Archadian,” she smiled her amusement.
Balthier responded with an unimpressed look, but allowed himself a graceful drink of the water. He didn’t gulp it down heartily like she was expecting, surprising the deposed monarch a bit.
Content with the amiable silence, Ashe began to eat her dinner again, and was surprised upward by his continued speaking.
“You really want to know the appeal of long odds?”
She did not answer, and Balthier continued, “A game, then.” He held out his deck of cards. “One round, a game of your choice.”
Ashe glanced behind her at the tabletop sport once more, before deciding. “What are the terms?”
“If you best me, I will personally order all the spices your ladyship can smuggle back to Dalmasca. But if I win…” He rolled his shoulders back briefly in an uncomplicated stretch, seemingly aiding his process of thought. Ashe wished he would hurry, and was about to voice said annoyance when he spoke again, “I get one question and guaranteed honesty in your answer.”
Ashe thought about it—what could really be gained by her answer to a question? She had naught to reveal of any importance to a sky pirate. “Agreed.” Pause. “As for the game, I’d like yours—Three Handed Trickery.”
His face boasted a pleased grin, and Balthier began to deal the cards.
_________________________________________
“You cheated.”
Balthier sniffed, seeming genuinely offended at the accusation. “Nothing of the sort.” Seeming being the operative word as Ashe was sure he had cheated. She knew little about card games but she knew the minds of men, having spent the majority of her life surrounded by all types.
A deal was a deal, however, and Ashe was not about to go back on her promise. As it was, she’d be too tired to logically fight the issue regardless.
“You get one question, then.” And she got no spices, Ashe thought with an internal grumble.
“Why do you do what you do?”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.” Ashe looked surprised at her own words even as she said them.
“I know,” Balthier responded calmly.
Her eyes flicked upward, an accurate representation of her confusion.
“Princess, you’ve been moping for days,” he explained, his voice not unkind. Still, Ashe felt her blood run hot again.
“I have not been—”
“Spare me the indignation,” he cut in. “I am getting a little tired of being the brunt of your annoyances.”
Her posture straightened to the utmost razor edge, perfectly ready to do the opposite of what he requested, but Balthier was not done.
“Ever since Azelas—”
“Don’t—” Ashe nearly rose out of her seat, as if intimidation alone could choke Balthier’s intended words.
“Ever since Azelas betrayed you.”
She flinched openly at the mention of the name, colour draining a bite from her face as she resumed her seat. Of course a lowly thief would take no concern in honouring her wishes unless there was something in it for them, even if it was a request concerning her own torn up feelings.
“Substandard answers do not satisfy me, princess. I get a second question.” Ashe steeled herself for it—and was pleasantly surprised, “Do you know why Adfero did what he did?”
“Weakness,” Ashe answered.
Balthier didn’t appear convinced and she elaborated, “Adfero had spent years cursing his brother and living a tempestuous, celibate life on the Copper Isle. Now was his redeeming chance—earn the camaraderie of his brother, escape the loneliness of his life, and be the hero everyone had forgotten he could be.”
“Interesting,” Balthier mused. “Of course, you’re completely wrong.”
Ashe simply blinked; she was too tired to be annoyed any longer.
“It lends interest, don’t get me wrong,” he said as he chewed more of his dinner—gracefully, food rolled to one side of his mouth so nothing was needlessly exhibited. “Weakness drives most men. But death is not some great liberator. He feared it, as most men would.”
“Did he tell you this himself?”
He ignored her comment without so much as a wayward glance, swallowing his mouthful. “Let me tell you another story.”
“Balthier, I’m tired, I don’t want any more—”
“Just close your pretty lips for a second, all right?”
For a moment, her expression was so still it wasn’t clear even to her whether she’d take some sort of violent action or launch into a tirade. As if breaking a trance, Ashe then lifted her chin in a haughty but resigned gesture.
“Thank you,” Balthier took the opportunity to help himself to a tomato slice from her plate. “Now, there was this king. Somewhat handsome bloke admired by his people, but the poor sod gets run through with a sword one day. Terrible luck, that is. Also quite busy in his prime, as the man had nine children by way of his wife—and a few others, if the Rabanastre rumour mill is a palpable source. Eight boys, all groomed to be Soldier-Kings should the others perish in battle. One girl, pretty thing, educated in all manners but rarely let outside of the castle and married off as soon as she bloomed to prevent trysts with fishermen or common soldiers and the subsequent inevitable scandal for the family.”
Ashe opened her mouth to speak, but Balthier seized the opportunity without delay. “The family must have angered a witch doctor in their time, because even before the King was bloodied with his own blade, all eight of the princes perished in battle. All that was left was a daughter. Not since the days of the Queen Ethibele has any nation in Ivalice seen a female monarch. The ruling family of Archadia took advantage of the opportunity and pressed for the rumour of the Dalmascan princess’ unfortunate suicide. And Dalmasca was stripped of its power, a barren nation borrowing a ruler from its conqueror.
“But the princess, alive and hidden well, would not stand for this. Rescued by the legendary Captain Azelas, she was made leader of the resistance, took up the sword and vowed to cut down all who got in the way of her mission.” He paused, swallowing a mouthful of meat.
“Is that how it went? Am I telling it right?”
“No.”
“Oh?” He did not look surprised by the knowledge.
“Vossler, he—he didn’t want me in this, initially. He had set me up an apartment in Lowtown and a job in the mill within a day. Even then, he was set firm in his ideas of what needed to be done. I told him no, and no again… Eventually he agreed.” Her heart made again heavy at the admission, Ashe nibbled at what was left of her tomato before continuing, “It was nearly a year before I had any notoriety in the Resistance. To them, I was just what they needed to protect, their polished diamond that they could set back in the parlour when they were done fighting. I wouldn’t stand for that.”
“Ashelia B’nargin took up her sword and proved the equal of any man. Admirable. Children everywhere will sing your story for years.” The flippancy in his voice was evident, and Ashe grew apprehensive again, waiting for that next scathing remark.
“But they would say how you acted out of love. Love of your family, love of the memory of your husband, love of your nation. And you know what?”
Ashe’s mouth set in a firm line as she awaited him to continue.
“They’d be right.” Ignoring her shock, he gestured to the salt as he resumed eating his meal. “Pass me that, would you?”
Dumbfounded, Ashe grasped at the saltshaker and passed it across the table. Balthier, to his apparent annoyance, saw her surprise and sought to elaborate—but not before swallowing the food in his mouth.
“Admirable, the way you harbour no delusions of grandeur. You thought your mission’s lifeblood pumped in revenge. And why should you not? The empire took everything away from you. Your husband, your father, your brothers. You lost your home, your public image was a figure of weakness who took to bleeding her wrists out when things got difficult—someone the people pray for the absolution of in the afterlife, even today. Are you going to finish that?” Balthier gestured his fork at her untouched soup bowl.
Ashe pushed it forward, all the while waiting for him to continue. “More than that, the B’nargin line would be the fallen chapter in the history books. A king killed before his time, eight sons and one daughter withered away into nothing. No legacy but failure.”
If Ashe had been close enough, she would have slapped the soup bowl so the hot liquid sloshed up into his face. As it was, she could feel her expression twisting into one of anger—brow furrowing, lips together so tight they might bruise.
“After everything that nation as done to yours, payback should be your utmost desire. But it’s not. Revenge burns deeply, cutting through all other emotions and goals, burning into a person’s constant gaze until they are blinded by it. Once they have lost their sight, their chance, it is gone. It fizzles out and leaves them empty. Incapable of anything. If revenge were truly your motivator, you still would not be standing two years after. You’d be all they said you were, a dead shell.
“You’re alive. You feel. You feel too much, sometimes. You smile and you get angry, more the latter than the former. Because of the love that drives you. Not the need for revenge. Kind of like our friend, old-what’s-his-name.”
“Adfero,” Ashe murmured, her first words in a small while.
“That’s your man.” Suddenly bored with eating, Balthier tossed a few gil on the table. “What do you say we get out of here, try to find our wayward band of misfits?”
Ashe wasn’t sure what surprised her more—that she was touched by Balthier’s wisdom, or that she did not yet want to leave his singular company.
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