Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  Lucanis motioned Illario to talk again.

  “This isn’t Cacio e Pepe,” Illario complained, while making a show of tapping his dagger against a plate of leftovers.

  “You ordered an Antivan dish in Tevinter. What did you expect?” Lucanis replied. Talking now meant the intruder wouldn’t know where he’d be later.

  “Something edible,” Illario quipped.

  In three quick, silent strides, Lucanis positioned himself next to the suite’s entrance. He could hear someone breathing on the other side. Their gloved fingers hugged the wall for cover.

  Lucanis could’ve laughed. People put too much faith in walls.

  Rearing back, he thrust his sword through wood and plaster until it hit bone—and kept going.

  A shriek echoed through the hall, followed by a thud.

  Lucanis stood and stalked through the door. A hooded man, wiry and mustached, was trying to pull his impaled hand free. A mage’s staff lay next to him. Upon seeing Lucanis, he reached for it. Energy—raw and potent—charged the air. The back of Lucanis’s eyeballs itched—a physical instinct he had developed when someone was tapping into the Fade.

  He clapped a hand over the mage’s mouth and slammed his skull against the wall. “Knock it off.”

  Dazed, the mage dropped his staff. The energy dissipated.

  Lucanis grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him toward the door, causing the blade to carve an L-shaped slice through his skewered palm.

  Illario waited with a chair and rope.

  “Sit down.” He beamed. “Enjoy a little Antivan hospitality.”

  While his cousin secured their prisoner’s bindings, Lucanis retrieved his sword from the wall.

  The mage was coming to. His unfocused eyes took stock of his situation.

  “I won’t talk,” he spat. “Even if you torture me.”

  “I’m too busy to torture you,” Lucanis said, and ran him through with his sword.

  Shock swept across the mage’s gaunt face. Beneath a trembling mustache, his lips were wet with blood. He tried to speak, but the words got clogged in his throat. He slumped forward.

  Illario frowned. “If I’d known you were just going to kill him, I wouldn’t’ve put so much effort into the knots.”

  “Check his pockets.”

  “Ah—” Illario said, pulling a scroll from the mage’s jacket. “Found something.”

  The seal was broken, but the imprint of two dragons was still visible in the wax. “Venatori.”

  “Thought as much. What’s it say?”

  Illario unrolled the parchment and scanned the page. “‘Gallant brothers and sisters … In our veins runs true Tevinter blood, passed down from the dreamers—’” Illario’s head snapped up as Lucanis began pulling his sword from the mage’s chest. “Careful! Remember the tanner job? You ruined my best shirt.”

  Lucanis smirked and continued extracting the blade.

  Illario took two wary steps back, then continued reading, “‘The importance of vigilance’ … ‘It’s our Maker-given right’ … blah, blah, blah—Oh, here. ‘The Venatori will not cower to foreign mercenaries.’”

  No, they’ll just die to them. The blade slipped cleanly from the wound. “Anything else?”

  “‘Whoever clips the Crow’s wings will walk by my side when we enter the Black City and take back glory for the Imperium.’” Illario lowered the scroll, perplexed. “Well, that doesn’t seem worth it.”

  “That’s because you’re not a true believer—except when it comes to coin.”

  Illario shrugged, unabashed, then handed Lucanis the scroll. “It’s signed A. Seems our mark doesn’t want you crashing his party.”

  Lucanis stuck the scroll on the dead mage’s chest. “He’s going to be disappointed.”

  * * *

  Downstairs, the tavern’s nightly merriment continued. The Crows cut striking figures as they meandered through tipsy, twirling dancers and sidestepped servants bearing plates of stew and fresh bread. Both men were lean with dark hair and umber eyes. Illario was all smiles. His was a calculated handsomeness. From his smooth skin to his perfect, white teeth, everything was contrived to be enticing. As they walked through the crowd, he basked in the appreciative glances he received, while Lucanis stared ahead, focused and intense. He was the kind of man you couldn’t look away from—until he looked at you.

  When the innkeeper spotted them, her ruddy cheeks paled. Lucanis sidled up to the bar and slid two sovereigns across the uneven wood. “For the mess,” he whispered, watching her throat bobble.

  The innkeeper dropped the coins into her apron’s front pocket with shaky fingers and avoided his gaze until she was sure he was gone.

  “You know,” Illario said as they left the inn, “she’s likely the one who leaked our whereabouts to the Venatori.”

  Lucanis breathed in the night air. Every city had its scent. Vyrantium’s was spiced meat mixed with wet laundry.

  “I’m aware.”

  “And you’re paying her because…?”

  “Innkeepers like to gossip—to customers, employees, other innkeepers. Next time the Venatori want information on the Antivan Crows, she’ll know who to back. And she’ll tell her friends.”

  Lucanis started down the street. Illario trailed behind at a casual pace.

  “So, what’s the plan? Now that Ambrose knows we’re coming.”

  “I always assume the mark knows I’m coming,” Lucanis replied. “We were never going through the front door.”

  Illario sped up to catch his cousin. “I bought this—” He gestured toward his tunic. “Because you said we were dispatching Tevinter’s ‘premiere wigmaker’ at an exclusive party. Emphasis on ‘exclusive.’”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It was a rush order. We were with the tailor for hours.”

  “I recall.”

  Lucanis took a sharp turn down an alley. Above them, balconies jutted out like cramped elbows finding space in a crowd. A cat hissed in the distance.

  “Why let me go through the motions of purchasing formal wear for an event we’re not actually attending?”

  “I know how much you enjoy dressing up,” Lucanis goaded and ducked under a pointed archway.

  “Only if I’m going to be seen.” Illario groaned. His boot stepped in something squishy and foul-smelling. “And why are we in the dog shit part of town? Shouldn’t a high-ranking member of the Venatori live in a mansion?”

  “He does. We’re taking a shortcut.”

  The archway led to a courtyard. Patches of brown grass, treaded and uncared for, encircled a statue of a scorched vhenadahl—an elven “tree of the people.” The real tree had burned down after a slave rebellion. The masters commissioned the current statue as a reminder of the price for rising against them. Somehow, Lucanis didn’t think it had the intended effect.

  “A shortcut that leads to a dead end. How novel,” Illario muttered and pulled the collar of his tunic closer to his nose.

  Lucanis ignored him and approached the tree. The brass, skeletal branches had produced a layer of patina, and streaks of erosion lined the bark. He ran his fingers across the trunk until he found a groove that gave way, opening a secret passage.

  Lucanis tossed a smug look over his shoulder. “You were saying?”

  Illario rolled his eyes and followed his cousin into the passage, down a winding set of limestone stairs.

  “I wouldn’t complain, if you filled me in,” he grumbled.

  “Yes, you would.”

  “As much,” Illario conceded. “I wouldn’t complain as much.”

  The passage was musty with age. The uppermost stairs were four stones wide and four stones long, but with each step they grew narrower. The middle stones sagged from years of use. Lucanis had almost tripped the first time he ventured down here. The only source of light was from the torches of green veilfire nailed to the brick walls. Flecks of minerals and crushed glass in the brick flickered and winked at them.

  “It’s like swirli
ng down a wine bottle,” Illario mumbled, peering over the edge.

  At the bottom, they found an elf in a scarlet coat guarding a large steel door. She greeted Lucanis with a cordial smile.

  “Master Dellamorte. And…” Her friendly façade faltered as she spotted Illario.

  “Master Dellamorte the Lesser,” Illario offered with a grin.

  “My cousin,” Lucanis clarified.

  Appeased, the elf asked, “Where does your business take you tonight?”

  “Up.”

  She nodded. Lucanis planted his feet firmly on the ground. The elf clapped her hands together, snuffing out the veilfire. The room began to spin—gently at first, then faster. Lucanis bit back a laugh as Illario held out an arm to steady himself.

  A few seconds later, the room slowed to a stop and the veilfire burned once more. The elf opened the door to reveal another spiral staircase.

  “Oh, good. More stairs,” Illario deadpanned.

  Lucanis bowed his head in thanks and slipped a sovereign into the elf’s gloved palm.

  “Happy hunting,” she whispered as they passed, then shut the door behind them.

  “You’ve made friends,” Illario remarked as they began the climb.

  “You would, too, if you ever left Treviso.”

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?” he argued. “Seriously, though, what is this place?”

  “A perk. Given by our mysterious benefactor.” Lucanis quickened his pace, hoping to leave the answer at that.

  Illario did not take the hint. “Speaking of, I have some questions about him … her … them?”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Oh, come on,” Illario urged, matching Lucanis’s pace. “When have we ever taken on an anonymous client?”

  “Since someone could put tangible stock in the phrase ‘Silence is golden.’”

  “You’re not the least bit curious?”

  Lucanis exhaled through his nose. “If someone wants to pay me top coin to kill a bunch of racist blood mages—who have it coming—I’m not going to complain.”

  “Well, when you put it that way…”

  At the top of the stairs was an empty platform with no windows or doors. A blanket of moss carpeted the floor.

  Illario let out a disappointed huff. “That’s anticlimactic.”

  “Just wait,” Lucanis promised. He approached the far wall and began tapping the bricks until he found a hollow one. When he pushed against it, the mortar turned languid and flexible, allowing the bricks to peel back like skin.

  “Well?” Lucanis asked.

  Illario tilted his head. “Better.”

  Stars and a warm breeze greeted them on the other side. As they stepped off the platform, the bricks locked back in place. They were several stories aboveground on the third arched tier of Vyrantium’s famed floating aqueduct.

  “The Wigmaker’s estate is a short walk that way,” Lucanis explained, pointing to their left. “One jump and we’ll have access to his roof.”

  “Devious.”

  The Crows strolled across the covered channel, listening to the steady stream of water flowing beneath their feet.

  Farther below was a chorus of street traffic. Minrathous was Tevinter’s capital, but Vyrantium was her sharp-dressed sister. Amid the sea of brightly colored tunics, stiletto heels clicked against cobblestone. Necks both fat and thin held up heavy, ornate headpieces with trailing gold-embroidered veils. Music from lyres and lutes wrestled for dominance as hawkers touted the latest fashions. Apparently, velveteen was in.

  Lucanis peeked over the side. No one looked up. One of the world’s greatest wonders is mundane to these people.

  “How do they get it to float?” Illario asked, tapping his boot tip against the aqueduct.

  “Magic.” Lucanis scoured the rooftops, searching for one made of a distinctive red clay. They were still a few buildings away.

  “So, the Wigmaker.” Illario wiggled his fingers ominously. “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s weird,” Lucanis replied bluntly. He found the moments before a job crucial for focus, but Illario was never one for comfortable silence.

  “Specifics, cousin. No one hires us to kill normal people.”

  “I gave you a dossier.”

  “Yes, but I want your assessment.”

  “I wrote it. It is my assessment.”

  “Humor me.”

  The red clay roof was in sight now.

  “You’ll see soon enough.” With a feline grace, Lucanis leapt off the side of the aqueduct.

  If they had been paying attention, the line of people wrapped around the Wigmaker’s estate would’ve seen two shadows pass overhead, but their focus was on the stern-faced doormen guarding the entrance. Having your name on the guest list wasn’t enough to make it inside one of Ambrose’s parties—your outfit had to impress, as well.

  Both Crows landed on the roof with a soft thud. Clay tiles weren’t ideal for stealth. Their round shape offered little traction for their boots, and if one tile slipped, others would follow like a line of loyal soldiers. But at least Illario was too busy concentrating to ask questions.

  The front of the Wigmaker’s estate was a collection of domed rotundas encased in a zigzagging red and beige brick. Guests weren’t allowed inside the mansion itself. They were led directly to a grand, circular courtyard, surrounded by a two-tiered arcade, at the back of the house.

  Moving in tandem, Lucanis and Illario dropped to their chests and shimmied to the edge overlooking the courtyard.

  Tevinter parties—especially thrown by the altus—were known for their excess. Lucanis still remembered the first gala he had attended in Minrathous. Rows and rows of tables had been overladen with jugs of wine and platters of food from all over Thedas. Retching vases were placed in corners for guests to relieve themselves if they overindulged. Prized slaves were brought out to perform. Acrobats tumbled overhead. Musicians played until their fingers blistered. While hunting his mark, Lucanis had opened the wrong door and walked into an orgy. Getting out of that had been interesting.

  The Wigmaker’s periwig show contained all this and more. A catwalk had been constructed at the center of the courtyard. Running down both sides were grooves for wine to flow from two dragon-shaped spouting fountains. The guests leaned over from plush chaise lounges to refill their cups in the streams. They poured wine into each other’s mouths and over their bodies, ruining the chic costumes that had been their ticket inside.

  On the runway, models walked, naked and dead-eyed. Floor-length hair hung over their sagging shoulders and gaunt hipbones. With each stride, their wigs transformed into miraculous, towering creations. On one, the hair twisted and curled to take the shape of a tree with a bird dancing to attract a mate. Another portrayed a nest of vipers, their striped, sinuous bodies writhing against each other. As the wigs came alive, the models’ blank faces altered to flash manic smiles, but Lucanis noticed their eyes remained lifeless.

  His skull felt raw. The backs of his eyeballs itched like he hadn’t blinked in days. Whatever magic Ambrose was using for his creations was tearing at the seams of the Veil.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “Yeah,” Illario agreed, zeroing in on a group of half-dressed revelers, “we’re up here, away from the fun.”

  Lucanis snapped his fingers in front of his cousin’s face. “Focus.”

  “I am.”

  “On the job.”

  “To be fair, you never told me the plan.”

  Lucanis shrugged. “Find Ambrose. Slit his throat.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It will be. The Veil’s thin here. Thinner than I expected.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “One wrong spell and this place will be swarming with demons.”

  “Then let’s kill the bastard and scram. I want to see what this city has to offer.”

  “Our ship sails at dawn.”

  Illario waved a dismissive hand. “Plenty of time for some good, old-fashioned debauch—�
�

  “I see him,” Lucanis interrupted.

  In the arcade above the catwalk, a man flanked by guards watched the emaciated models from the shadows. Ambrose Forfex was of average height and build, with hawkish gold eyes and a jaw that could break teeth. His scalp and cheeks were both clean-shaven, leaving his face bare except for two black, sculpted brows.

  “They’re never what you envision, are they?” Illario noted.

  “What did you expect?”

  “Hair, for one. Maybe a funny little dog.”

  That got a chuckle out of Lucanis, if only briefly. The way the Wigmaker stared at his creations was unnerving. Illario was right—a mark’s physical appearance was unpredictable. But the gleam in their eyes—the appetite to do something unspeakable—that was always the same.

  A woman rushed toward Ambrose’s retinue. She wore an emerald gown with a high waisted-low tiered skirt and a fitted tulle bodice studded with champagne-colored crystals. Metallic body paint shimmered on her exposed arms and legs. Something about the woman’s movements and stature were familiar, but Lucanis couldn’t place her.

  “Well, hello,” Illario purred. “Who is this lovely fiore?”

  After whispering something in Ambrose’s ear that made him scowl, the woman motioned the guards to take the Wigmaker to the main house.

  Suddenly, Lucanis knew exactly who she was. “Guard Captain Camille Spina.”

  Illario whistled softly. “This job is looking better all the time.”

  Once Ambrose was safely inside, Camille slipped a key ring from the silk-brocade layers of her skirt and secured the door.

  Lucanis frowned. “I need those keys.”

  “Your wish is my command, cousin,” Illario said, and flipped forward in one fluid motion.

  * * *

  Following closely from the roof, Lucanis watched Illario slink through the crowd like a fox in the henhouse. Despite his earlier jab, Lucanis had to admit, if only to himself, that his cousin looked at home among the local gentry. Illario winked at strangers as if they’d known each other for years, and the Vints were either too drunk or thought him too attractive to question his familiarity.

  Meanwhile, Camille made a valiant attempt to appear natural while sweeping the perimeter, but the instinctive nods to her fellow guards gave her away. Illario waited until she broke for refreshment to make his move.