"A mule breeder," Balthier echoes, sounding partly incredulous and partly thoughtful. He keeps his eyes on his food as he says it, casual, presumably in the interests of not accidentally making some hideous mess with his delicate one-handed work. "I've not heard stories of such likeness except in fables. Ivalician hume blood is strong; you hardly ever get inbred royals, these days."

Thus eliminating the need for bringing in unrelated individuals with proper-functioning minds? Perhaps. Balthier reckons it'll dilute in a thousand years or so - but that's utterly unrelated, and his mind is merely wandering, spiraling, considering. (He knows an awful lot about royals.)

"I learned when I was a boy," he says, and does look up at Jack, now. "Younger than that, really. When I was an impressionable lump. I don't suppose you'd believe it to be the habit of an eccentric parent." In all the months of their intimacy, Jack has never asked. Balthier is impressed at his restraint, and unsurprised at the inevitable.