The Life and
Exploits of the Daring Sky Pirate Balthier
By Tafkae
Archades
An overcast sky was by no means enough to stop the people of Archades going about their business as usual. Ardents and gentry alike milled through the streets on all the city's many levels, while overhead, small ships and cabs zipped by in neat files. Every so often, one broke off from the rest and turned down a side avenue toward its respective destination.
One such cab was nearly empty, save the driver and a single armoured passenger. It was strange; the Judges did not typically make use of public cabs, nor did they typically have reason to travel unaccompanied to the homes of prominent noble families. But the driver did not ask his reasons, and the Judge did not volunteer them. The only sounds within the vehicle were the whirring of the glossair rings and the occasional clacking of metal as the lone passenger made himself comfortable.
It was not long before they arrived. The manse actually comprised the uppermost two floors of a much larger building, but the family also held ownership of the other sixty-eight or so stories. The cab pulled up at the far end of the cobbled courtyard and released the hatch with a soft hiss. Before the door was even fully open, the Judge had stepped out, and strode urgently toward the front door. No-one needed to announce him; his armour performed that task loudly enough of itself.
The guard at the door saluted him as he approached. "Your Honour."
"Where's the lord of the house?" the Judge asked incisively.
"Lord Bunansa is currently occupied at Draklor Laboratory, Your Honour," replied the guard.
The Judge nodded curtly. "Good." He gestured to the door. "Well?"
The soldier paused for a moment, confused, then reluctantly pushed it open. "Right away, Your Honour."
"Oh, stop calling me that," the Judge muttered darkly, stepping past him into the estate.
The Bunansa home was as lavishly decorated inside as out. Rich carving decorated the wood moulding, and here and there magicite-enhanced plants seemed to spring from the very walls. The Judge did not seem either to notice or to care, and proceeded directly up the main stairs, sparing to the handful of servants who attempted to engage him only the word "No."
He soon disappeared into the chambers at the end of the hallway and shut the door. One maidservant standing near the stairs turned to another nearby. "Seems Master Ffamran's come back a sight early," she whispered.
Inside the room, the Judge's helmet hit the bed with a soft thud, rolled once, and lay still. Unmasked, Ffamran studied his reflection in the mirror, then removed one of his gauntlets and smoothed back his sandy hair with his bare hand. It sprang immediately back into a bird's-nest the moment he let it go. Helmet hair. What a bother. Still, there was a certain satisfaction in his face as he began freeing himself from the rest of the Judge's armour. At least this was the last time he would ever have to deal with it.
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"Ffamran, a word?" Ffamran stood before his
superior officer, by no means for the first time. There was no love
lost between the two of them. They had every reason in the world to
despise one another, and did so with impunity. He, for one, had never
bothered to remember the man's name. "You are already
well aware of this, I'm sure, but since you are so firmly set on
causing trouble for the company, I do not hesitate to say it again."
He leaned forward, no doubt trying to rattle him by invasion of
personal space. "You have not earned your rank, you have not earned
your responsibility, and you have not and will not earn anyone's
respect. You and I both know it was your father's gil that's put
you in that armour." (Ffamran's sneer at the mention of the old
madder was, fortunately, hidden by his helmet.) "You haven't the
experience—nay, the Ffamran was actually, as of ten-fifteen this
morning, "You do not deserve this position," his superior
continued irately. "Were it up to me, you'd have long lost it.
Your behaviour is entirely unacceptable. Keep in this vein and you'll
be among the ranks before you can say 'it shan't happen again,'
nobility be damned." He couldn't resist. "I thought it
wasn't up to you?" he asked, smiling smugly behind the faceplate.
"Enough of your snide comments, Ffamran," the officer
snapped. "Either you'll take seriously your duties as a Judge, or
you'll take seriously the duties of a common infantryman. Am I
understood?" Ffamran glared through the visor. "I
understand. Trust me, Your Honour, I shall see to it that you never
have to discipline me on this matter again." "See that
you do," his superior replied. "Dismissed." Ffamran afforded
him one last, crisp salute, then walked calmly away.
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It was certainly good to get out of that tin can. He hadn't the time nor the interest to put it away properly, so it instead sat in a neat pile in the corner (excepting the helmet, for which he had special plans). Even now he could see the stack in the mirror, out of the corner of his eye, as he finished up combing his hair. He tried to ignore it.
All the things he was taking were already prepared to go; this plan had been in the works for weeks. He'd pilfered some provisions from the kitchens, gradually withdrawn quite a decent amount of gil from the family's coffers, put up with the rest of the Judges in the meantime… and no one was the wiser. Yet. The element of surprise, of course, was what truly made a dramatic exit. All that remained now were the finishing touches.
Satisfied at last with his appearance, he slipped the comb into the bag on the nearby table. The rest of it he'd packed last night, half with his favourite attire and half with clothes he could actually wear. Most of his favourites laced up in the back, a bit of an inconvenience when travelling alone.
Next to the bag sat his helmet; this he picked up and, holding it between his hands, stared into its empty visor. "I'd like you to know, I've loathed every moment we've spent together, and I sincerely hope never to see you again." With that, he dropped it into a box on the floor and tightly shut the lid.
He went out the back way, unseen, with his pack over his shoulder and the box tucked under his arm. The cab was waiting there, as he'd requested. "Where to, sir?" said the driver.
"Tsenoble," said Ffamran. As the glossair rings warmed up, he added, "And after that, I've a delivery for you to take to Doctor Cid at Draklor. A bit out of the way, but there's a chop in it for you if you do."
"S-sir?" said the driver, puzzled, but not about to refuse a chop. "I mean, certainly, sir! I'll be happy to."
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There was in town a certain streetear of whom Ffamran was a favoured customer, probably because he was also among his most affluent clients. Under normal circumstances, he was not an easy man to find, but when he wished to be found, he could turn up nearly anywhere. As such, he turned up in Tsenoble, innocently eavesdropping as usual, as was his business. Ffamran hailed him from a little ways off. "Afternoon, Jules."
Jules turned to him with a practised look of pleasant surprise. "Well, Master Ffamran! Been a while, hasn't it? How's the Judgeship?"
Ffamran sneered briefly and shook his head.
"Somehow that fails to astound," said Jules, a little amused. "And what might I do for you this fine day?" he asked, gesturing loosely at the greyed-over sky.
"Well, it happens I'm in the market for a new airship," said Ffamran.
Jules folded his arms. "And? Airships aren't my trade."
"I'm aware of that," Ffamran replied dryly. "Yet I came to you first, that ought to tell you something."
Jules smiled slyly; he'd gotten his interest. "Well. Any specific considerations?"
"Something fast, and already skyworthy. The newer the better." He paused to watch a taxi pass by a few stories up. "Not one of those short-range piles, either," he added as an afterthought.
"Going somewhere?" said Jules, raising an eyebrow.
"Not at all," Ffamran lied.
For a moment, the streetear was silent, thinking. "Hm," he said eventually. "Now that I think on it, I may just know of a one that'd suit you. How does, oh… twenty-thousand sound?"
Ffamran's expression didn't waver. "Fifteen."
Jules sighed. "Honestly, Master Ffamran, do you expect me to haggle now of all times? Particularly if, as I suspect, I am to lose my favourite client in the near future?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?" said Ffamran, placing his hands on his hips.
"Think you me that ignorant of your character, sir?" Jules chuckled. "I'd wager you've had it in your head for some time."
"If wagers like that are where you trust your gil, it seems hardly worth paying you at all," Ffamran remarked. "Seventeen-five, or I'll be forced to inquire elsewhere."
"Well enough," said Jules, and accepted the money. "As I gather, YPA's come out with a new model—believe it's called the 'GB47'. Experimental, and boasts some unique design features—dual movable wings, for a start. Supposed to be blindingly fast, but the client rejected it on grounds of cost-effectiveness. The sole prototype's anchored in their shipyard yet, and due to be scrapped." He paused. "I can't say how like it is to be up for sale, though."
Ffamran smirked ambiguously. "Oh, I'm sure the guild could be convinced to let her go." He nodded to the streetear and started on his way again. "Thanks for your time."
Jules frowned. "You're a difficult man to reckon, Master Ffamran. I'd have thought you more interested in a derelict, something to repair and refurbish at your leisure."
Ffamran stopped. "Leisure's not something I presently have in excess."
"Ah, of course, Your Honour, I nearly forgot." He paused. "But in that case, you would already have access to—"
Ffamran rolled his eyes and faced him. "Do you mean to detain me all afternoon, Jules?"
"Not at all," said Jules. "Does aught harry you?"
"Apart from your questioning, you mean?" Ffamran folded his arms. "I could tell you," he said eventually, "for thirty-thousand."
Jules pondered this for a few seconds. "How's seventeen-five?" he countered.
Ffamran shook his head. "Honestly, Jules, do you expect me to haggle now of all times?"
A flicker of unhappiness crossed Jules' face. "Twenty-three."
"Thirty or naught," said Ffamran coolly. It was perfectly clear to him the streetear wanted the information too badly to refuse.
As he'd expected, Jules grudgingly paid up. Ffamran nodded slightly. "I have it on good authority that there is no Judge by the name Ffamran Bunansa. Nor indeed is there anyone by that name in the whole of the Empire."
Jules' eyebrows rose as Ffamran strode away. "Really. Then what shall I call you, should we meet again?"
"Not 'Your Honour,' certainly," said Ffamran, and then he had gone.
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"Lord Bunansa?"
Doctor Cid did not slow his quick pace down the corridor, forcing the researcher who'd called him to follow a few steps. "Lord Bunansa, sir!"
"If we employ fourteen in the array instead of twelve—what think you of that, Venat?" Cid muttered to himself, still walking. "I believe the extra—"
"Sir, I don't mean to interrupt—"
"Yet here you are interrupting," said Cid, rounding suddenly on the man. "Make it quick."
The man hesitated for half a moment before proceeding. "Eh, there's a delivery come for you a few hours past, sir. It awaits in your office."
Cid fixed his spectacles, pleased. "Ah, yes. I think I know what it is, as well. Excellent." Not further acknowledging the man, he brushed past him and continued onward.
"Yes, this should help immensely," he repeated to the air. "Why, either the magicite samples I requested, or an explanation and apology for their lateness, of course. Yes, I'm quite sure."
The door of his office opened at a touch, and as the lamps undimmed, he found the presumed delivery on his desk. The somewhat garish colour of the package made it look more like a hatbox than anything, though. Intrigued, he crossed to it and removed the lid.
Inside was neither magicite nor an apology—only a head.
Surprised, but not amused, he pulled it out. The helmet's relative lightness and a mere moment's observation easily revealed it as not containing a head at all; it was nothing more than the empty helm of a Judge. "Has a certain charming morbidity to it," he remarked casually. "Who do you suppose it's from?"
There was a moment's pause. "It belongs to young Ffamran, does it not?"
"Hm." Cid turned the helmet over in his hands once or twice, then set it down none too gently on the desk. "Foolish boy," he snarled.
"Something else yet remains."
Cid leaned over the box, and surely enough, resting deep inside was a small, hardcover book. Curious, he pulled it out with one gloved hand and turned it over, adjusting his spectacles again to read the title… then he laughed.
"Idiot boy!" he shouted. "Where do you think to run?" He harshly tossed the book onto the desk; it slid across the width of the surface and fell to the floor on the other side. Disgusted, Cid turned on his heel and left the office. "I care not."
A soldier approached him as he exited. "My lord, news of grave urgency. Your son—"
Cid cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Vex me not with such trifles. Do as you will." His voice grew dark and severe. "I have no son."
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The small book remained on the floor of Cid's office for nearly a week afterwards, until he was sickened by the sight of it and hurled it from the roof. A passer-by picked it up some time later, and promptly sold it; after all, The Life and Exploits of the Daring Sky-Pirate Balthier was not the most widely-found book of children's stories.
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I hope you've enjoyed this so far. Reviews are much appreciated.
In any case, I intend to continue it.