Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  * * *

  “Xanthin! Work on the latest treatsic a bit slow lately? You’ve hardly a tan this summer.”

  “Whatever you think, Palletra, it’s going perfectly.”

  “I hear Otho’s having trouble with his nephew again.”

  “One has to admire the lengths he’s gone to hide it. It’s rather touching.”

  “Speaking of family, a cousin of mine just came from Vyrantium. Did you hear what happened to Forfex the Wigmaker?”

  My back and neck grew stiff as I waited for hours until the boozy conversation circled around to what interested me.

  “Did you see those flyers plastered on the door?”

  “I can’t believe they’ve increased the asking price for that monster, or demon, or whatever it is.”

  “Did Eloranna put up that reward for its body? She’s been buying all sorts of creatures lately.”

  “One of the colleges must be footing the bill. Some new exotica for the senior enchanters to brag about at the Archon’s next ball.”

  “Still, five thousand aurum? The beast must have killed someone important to increase the price accordingly.”

  It hadn’t, as far as I knew. A few hours’ careful work with a quill and some blotting paper had produced a passable forgery of the notices plastered all around the dockside. I had inflated the price in order to grab attention, and pasted the false flyer on this building and the surrounding streets. My hope was it’d catch these well-connected mages’ interests, and steer their conversation toward what they knew about the monster. Well pleased it’d actually worked, I risked crawling out a bit farther, so as not to miss anything.

  “Well, let’s hope someone catches it before the grisly thing starts picking its victims from higher in the city.”

  “Perhaps the templars could prove they’re worth the Chantry’s levies and hunt the damned thing down.”

  “I bet you this ‘monster’ is a common demon let in by some lazy oaf.”

  “No shortage of them up in the towers.”

  “Oafs or demons?”

  “I heard it’s something to do with the Venatori.”

  That felled them. Every mage looked up from their cups or cards and turned to a skinny man with a topknot. His expression puckered.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” The man threw down his hand of cards. “I quit them ages ago.”

  “Come now, Castillius.” A mage with a curled mustache and trim beard smiled at him. “We all know you didn’t go south with the cult to fight the Inquisition. You wouldn’t be here if you had.”

  “Exactly!” Castillius looked relieved. “I only attended a few meetings. The Venatori had some powerful magisters, you know. I was curious what they had to say.”

  “Of course. Just the same curiosity that makes you take supper with Magister Dulcia now and then. Always keeping those options open, yes? Very sagacious.”

  * * *

  From Castillius’s sour face, I assumed Magister Dulcia was part of the Venatori cult. You never heard of them? Really? Power-grubbing fanatics who wanted to “restore the glory of the Tevinter Imperium” or some slavering nonsense. Their possible involvement excited the mages at the table, who all spoke at once. I crept a hand’s span closer.

  “Is this a Venatori abomination, then?”

  “What’ve those idiots done now?”

  “I say, Dulcia hasn’t married again yet, has she?”

  Castillius waved a hand. “I’ll only speak if you stop baying.” They quieted. My supporting beam creaked for one heart-stopping moment. I swallowed, but no one below noticed.

  “This is all I know. The Venatori didn’t make the monster, or wake it. They just encountered it during a search for some old cave under the city. It is not a demon, and it killed every mage in their expedition. Dulcia said the Venatori didn’t put up the reward for the monster. Not that she’s Venatori,” he added hastily. “But an interesting thing that her connections told her—”

  That was the moment my wood beam cracked. With a shout, I turned my plummet into a series of artless skips down the wall, before I hit a blessedly soft couch like a sack.

  The silence stretched awfully. My head was buried in sequined pillows. Then I heard the mage with the mustache, loud and exasperated: “Andraste’s sacred bowels. You’re supposed to be keeping lookout!”

  I popped my head up. The mage was in front of the couch. He winked one gray eye at me, then declared: “You know my mother’s been trying to discover this little hideaway before her son fritters away the family fortune. Why did I put you up in the rafters if not to watch that road for her servants?”

  I threw myself on the ground in front of him, sniveling and craven. “Forgive me, my lord! The wood looked solid, but was rotten.”

  My presence explained away, the other mages at the table were either chuckling or growing bored. A statuesque woman with blond hair fanned herself with her cards. “Is she with you, then?”

  “Oh, yes, Mae.” The mage threw up his hands. “Honestly, if dear … Hollix wasn’t the finest markswoman I’ve ever seen, she’d be scrubbing pots the rest of her days. No cuts? Broken bones?”

  “Only the shame of my failure pains me, my lord.”

  “I get the idea.” He sighed heavily. “This has rather spoiled the evening for me. I think I’ll take my leave, ladies and gentlemen. Come along. Hollix.”

  I picked myself up, bowed without looking into anyone’s eyes, and limped after. My savior’s retinue was waiting below, the same servants who’d prepared the place. We went out into the street, where he turned to me.

  “I admit it’s a bit of a put-on,” the mage said. “Upstanding Tevinter mages sneaking off from their spouses or paramours to play Wicked Grace in a ‘dangerous’ part of the city, armed only with magic and an army of servants. Still, they think it spices up the evening’s entertainment. Dorian Pavus, by the way. Fabulous acrobatics back there. And you are?”

  “I’ve taken a liking to Hollix.”

  It got a laugh. “Hollix was the name of my mother’s dear departed pet nug, you know. It means something like ‘irrepressible rascal’ in old Tevene.”

  “A fine pedigree.”

  “Let me invite you to supper. I promise if I’d wanted to cause any trouble, I’d already have done so. Besides.” He plucked a flyer peeking out of my vest: one of the reward notices with the conspicuously altered price. “I think we have something to talk about.”

  * * *

  I had a very good light supper in a suite of white-marbled rooms above and away from the docks. We were so high you could see over the trees of the public gardens. They were fed by an enormous, round reservoir, covered in carvings of bellowing dragons that towered over one end of the greenery. As people strolled along the bowers, the plants flickered with light.

  No, it wasn’t just lanterns. I mean light. Glowing leaves. Dorian finished his glass. “They say Minrathous never sleeps,” he told me. “It does, but only when the sun rises and everyone needs a good break from all that exhausting skullduggery. What do you think of the gardens?”

  “Are they magic?”

  “That light show certainly is. Personally, I feel it ruins their mystique.” He noticed me sip from my cup. “The wine’s a gift from a dear friend. Lady Montilyet sends me a few choice bottles from her vineyards. But as a Rivaini, perhaps you’re obliged to scoff at an Antivan red.”

  “Their wine is decent,” I allowed. “A Lord of Fortune doesn’t take Antiva and Rivain’s rivalries so seriously. Where’s the glory in it?”

  “How does one make a living as a treasure hunter?” He paused. “Wait, that answers my own question. Allow me to rephrase: How does one survive a living as a treasure hunter?”

  “It’s different for everyone.” I drank some more of what was in fact a damnably excellent wine. “But you’d be surprised how often common sense just gets in the way.”

  My glass was somehow empty. Dorian nodded at a servant, who floated up with a pitcher. I remarked t
hat he was the first mage of his station I’d seen whose household employed servants, not slaves. Dorian grimaced. “It’s relatively recent, I’m ashamed to say. Someone I met in the south … changed my mind on the matter.”

  “You certainly came back home with some fresh views,” someone behind us said. I turned to see the tall, splendidly dressed woman Dorian had spoken to at the card game sweep into the room. She had such a presence! You turned to her like you do the first breeze of spring. “Magister Maevaris Tilani. Don’t let the title frighten you off, darling. Dorian and I are on the outs with most of the rest of the Magisterium, if that helps.”

  She held out a hand. I lifted it and kissed it lightly. “You grace Hollix, this humble servant, with your presence.”

  Maevaris smiled, curly gold locks bouncing as she shook her head. “This one’s trouble, Dorian. It takes a special sort of charmer to make a compliment like that work.”

  Dorian waved his goblet at the couch. “My guest and I have been getting on splendidly.”

  “You must be.” Maevaris sat, looking at me as she tilted her head at Dorian. “He’s not one to invite just anyone up here.”

  “Your very attentions flatter, magisters.”

  “You’ve never been a servant in your life, have you?”

  “Not long,” I conceded to the shrewdness in those eyes. “But the practice has come in useful from time to time.”

  Dorian stretched and sighed. “Well. That’s enough wine and scintillating conversation. We have business.”

  “We’re skipping the friendly gossip?”

  “You only want to talk about the Magisterium. Why you love seeing me so raggedly depressed, Mae, I can’t understand.”

  “Our duty to our country means being well-informed about it.” She shrugged. “I mean it, dear heart. What has you worried?”

  “This.” Dorian put the reward paper on the table among the three of us. It would pay out five thousand (all right, one thousand) aurum for the body of the monster slaughtering people on the docks, delivered to the imperial offices that settled monster bounties. “Do you know who put up the original, much more frugal reward?” Dorian asked.

  “You?” I ventured.

  “A quick learner! Or a good guesser. Either way, I’ve been hoping someone with promise would show up for this.”

  “How come?”

  Dorian looked annoyed. “It’s killing people. We’re not all heartless up here, few that we are. I don’t like the idea of something like this in my city.”

  Maevaris picked up the paper. “Neither do I. You overheard us at the card table, Hollix. The mages there won’t do anything about this monster until it snags one of their own. That’s not likely to be soon, if ever.”

  I eyed the iron staff Dorian had propped up in one corner. Hrm? No, I’m no mage. But I’m a decent judge of equipment, and the shaft had chips and scratches that looked like they’d been earned in battle. Maevaris wasn’t armed, but no mage in Tevinter’s ruling body can’t fight their way out of a corner, I know that much.

  “Why not hunt it down yourselves?” I asked them.

  “As much as it distresses me to say it, politics. There’s foul rumblings in Tevinter’s Magisterium and we’ve been spending all our time keeping an eye on its scoundrels.” Dorian sighed. “You saw some earlier. Mae and I are trying to win a few of them over.”

  “It’s been slow.” Maevaris put the flyer down, still elegant, still relaxed, but with a harder undertone. “But we’re giving them a chance to prove they’re not complete fools.”

  I nodded, uncomfortable with the talk. Well, wouldn’t you be? Enjoyable as my hosts were, I was eager to move away from Tevinter politics to a threat I could actually see.

  “Tell me about the monster,” I said.

  Dorian produced a map. It was a wonderful piece of work: crisp letters, bright inks, and a master’s eye for details. “There’s been nine people killed so far, here, here, and here. Each was found decapitated. The criers and balladeers have charmingly dubbed our killer the Cekorax, which is a rather suspect kludging of the old Tevene word for ‘headsman.’”

  Dorian rolled up the map and presented it to me inside a cylinder decorated with indigo sapphires. Any doubts I had that he was good for one thousand aurum evaporated. “Here. I’m afraid that’s all I have.”

  “Be very careful, darling.” Maevaris looked serious. “There’s no shortage of creatures that have become changed by magical experiments in this city.”

  “Not to mention Tevinter’s naturally occurring enchanted predators,” Dorian added. “They’re all dangerous, cunning, and usually hungry.”

  “You don’t think the Cekorax is an exception,” I said.

  “No,” Dorian replied. “Especially considering the guards never found its victims’ heads.”

  * * *

  I thanked Dorian for his generosity then ransacked his storerooms for a few items, though I’m not sure he discovered that until I left. Then I slept off the bruises from my tumble at my inn. It was brightest noon when I woke, but the thought of one thousand aurum dragged me out of bed.

  I headed to a garment-making district. The last killings had happened in that maze of red stone, behind the dye pots and rows of looms. I worked my charm, and redistributed the contents of the slaver’s purse. There was one tricky moment, when a pair of thieves thought I might be a scouting rival. After I explained I was a Lord beholden to Fortune, looking for the Cekorax, they laughed darkly and wished me luck.

  Talk? The weavers happily talked. People living in fear are in a mood to gripe. Sorting through the rumors, someone seemed to have escaped the monster and lived. I let it be known I wanted to speak with them, found shade in a wilting palm grove, and took out the reward flyer. Every place people had been killed was close to water and off the main roads. Unfortunately, that covered half of Minrathous. I needed something.

  Someone dropped a fruit pit on my head. “What are you reading?” a peevish voice asked.

  I looked up and saw a child squinting down at me through the palm fronds. With children, you’d best decide how you want to deal with them right at the start and see it through. Since she looked bored, I went with honesty.

  “The city needs a monster killer,” I told her, waving the flyer. “I’ve killed monsters.”

  “You can’t kill that one,” the girl declared. She had a missing tooth and a dark face speckled with freckles, like a spray of rain. “Nobody knows where it is.”

  “How do you know nobody knows?”

  “I listen to people.” She said it with the air of one talking to a well-meaning dolt. “Besides, if they’d seen it, they’d have drawed the monster on the poster.”

  She had me there. “Isn’t that a bit high?”

  “Nope.” She swung all the way upside down by her knees, then up again. The girl was dressed in fine-looking rags. Something scavenged from a good home. “Bet you can’t do that.”

  I shrugged and crouched, then sprang up the curved bole of a palm tree and summersaulted backward to land in the thick crown of the palm next to hers. Their fruits were purple and red. “Is this one ripe?”

  The girl closed her jaw, and considered. “Take the other one, that one’s got spots.”

  I did, and bit. The bulb was warm and soft and had a tang under the sweetness. Wiping the juice off my face, I said “Tell me, young lady—”

  “It’s Mizzy, mister.”

  “Mizzy. What do you know about the Cekorax?” I waved the paper again.

  “Well…”

  “Yes?”

  “It killed my friends.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Templars took the bodies away to burn them, but I snuck in before that happened and I saw them laid out in rows on tables and their heads were all gone.”

  I stopped chewing. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” The girl studied her hands, stretching out thin arms. “They weren’t closest friends.”

  “I’ll kill the beast that took them,
on my honor,” I said, trying to sound gallant. Then I cursed myself. Why I promised that tall order to a child, I don’t know. “Can you tell me what the Cekorax looked like?”

  Mizzy shook her head. “When it happened I was on my way to my sister’s, who’s such a good cook she got freed and now she cooks for money, and I was on Bluehook Street because my friends live there with their ma and pa at the rug merchant’s back house. And I was by their canal when I heard shouting and screaming and there was something in the water but when I told my sister and she got the guards, everyone was dead.”

  We digested the picture in silence. “So you didn’t see anything?” I eventually asked.

  “Not much,” she answered. “But I know how the monster got in the house.”

  * * *

  Mizzy took me to a sewer behind the shack her friends had lived in. The grate was tall as three men, but barred. I expressed doubt anyone could cram themselves through, but Mizzy insisted the thing she saw had “slithered back” that way. Looking at the map, it was true every victim had been killed near one of those gigantic gutters. Farther down was a hole, big enough for workpeople and such to fit into.

  Do I hear you repeating that old adage with a smirk? It’s true some of Minrathous’s upper streets are paved in marble, but her sewers stink like everywhere else’s, believe me.

  I waded through the tunnels. Some minutes in, I saw part of the walls glow. A sickly blue, like you get from Deep Mushrooms. It trailed in strips across the walls and ceiling, as if someone’d dipped ropes as thick as your arm in paint then dragged them along the masonry. The glow was bright enough to show me bronze plates stamped by the ceiling with the names of less-fragrant streets above.

  The farther I went, the brighter the glow. And I started hearing something. Not splashing. Faint and coarse. It came when I was moving, and stopped when I didn’t. That made me take out my saber, which is what saved me when the Cekorax came.