His bellowing drew Illario’s attention away from the handsome servant. Upon seeing Lucanis, he jumped to his feet. “Andraste’s holy cabbage, you look like shit.”
“Get that man to stop yelling at me,” Lucanis said. He plopped down in the booth, taking a moment to rest his eyes, while Illario soothed the irate proprietor.
“Drink?” his cousin offered, returning with two glasses and a bottle of wine. “It’s expensive.”
Lucanis accepted with a faint nod.
“Some say a bribe spoils the vintage,” Illario mused while pouring, “but I think it tastes all the sweeter.”
“Effe and the others. Did you get them to—”
“Yes, yes,” Illario snapped, “I did my good deed for the year.”
The two paused to sip their wine. Lucanis rolled the liquid over his tongue. Bribery had not spoiled this bottle, at least.
“Camille didn’t make it,” he said finally.
“Who?”
“The guard captain.”
“Ah,” Illario said, nodding in recognition. “Well, that does free me from promises I didn’t intend to keep. And Ambrose?”
“You have to ask?”
“Fair enough. That his?” He gestured toward the dark stains on Lucanis’s coat.
“Mostly.”
His cousin’s brows drew together. “Do you need a healer? The ship will have one, but if you can’t wait—”
“I’m fine,” Lucanis stated.
“All right,” Illario said, topping off his glass. “We’ll just pretend that’s wine you’re dripping all over the table.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Illario’s gaze grew hard. “How long are you going to keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Caterina’s bidding.”
The wine turned in Lucanis’s mouth. “Illario. Stop.”
“If I was in charge, you wouldn’t have to do this anymore,” he cajoled. “You could quit.”
Lucanis stared at his cousin. “I don’t want to quit.”
Illario sat back. The distance between them suddenly felt much wider than a table.
“Even if it kills you,” Illario whispered.
“Death is my calling,” Lucanis stated, matter-of-fact. “Just as yours is to become First Talon.”
He smiled, hoping to ease the tension, but Illario’s posture remained taut. “And if Caterina disagrees? If she thinks you’re the better man for the job—”
“I don’t want it, Illario,” Lucanis insisted.
“But you wouldn’t refuse.”
“It’s impossible to refuse Caterina,” Lucanis admitted reluctantly. “Only prolong her, until she sees reason.”
He knew it wasn’t the answer Illario wanted, but it was the truth. And in their line of work, honesty was hard to come by.
Illario exhaled and lifted his wineglass in salute. “To reason, then.”
“To reason,” Lucanis echoed.
The two Crows clinked the rims of their glasses together, then prepared for the long journey home.
* * *
Magister Zara Renata stood nude before a gilded full-length mirror. Every morning, she assessed her body, starting with the toes then working her way up to her face. Three slaves, each bearing a smaller looking glass, stood on either side and at her back so that there were no blind spots. They stared, unblinking, at her lustrous bronze skin. Looking at anything other than their mistress risked a punishment most severe.
There was a knock at the door. Normally, Zara would not tolerate an interruption during her morning regimen, but she had been looking forward to this particular visit.
“Enter,” she instructed, glancing over her shoulder to admire the curve of her lower back.
“Crispin Kavlo and Felicia Erimond, mistress,” a perfumed beauty announced. No one in Zara’s household looked a day over thirty-five.
The two guests undoubtedly noticed their host’s nakedness but kept their expressions neutral.
“I take it Ambrose didn’t listen,” Zara began without ceremony.
“We advised him to cancel the show,” Crispin replied.
“He refused,” Felicia added.
“Artists,” Zara bemoaned. “Always prioritizing their work over what really matters.”
Turning in the light, she noticed a faint stretch mark on her hip. Zara snapped at one of the slaves to extend her arm. She did so without hesitation. Reaching back, Zara removed a pointed hairpin from the bountiful bun at her neck. She handed it to the slave, who dutifully pierced her palm with the sharp tip. Squeezing her hand shut, the slave dripped blood onto her mistress’s hip. Zara murmured a quick spell. When the slave wiped her skin clean, the offending blemish was gone.
“How many dead?” she asked.
“The body count is ongoing.”
“A simple estimate, please.”
“Around forty, including Ambrose.”
Zara’s brows rose. “My, my. All the work of one Crow?”
“We believe he had assistance, but yes.” Felicia nodded gravely. “Lucanis Dellamorte is responsible.”
Crispin licked his lips. “We won’t be able to keep this one from the public.” He and Felicia exchanged a nervous glance. “They’re already calling him ‘the Demon.’”
“From flying vermin to malicious spirit. That’s quite the promotion.” With a ribbon, Zara measured the width of her waist. The corner of her mouth ticked upward at the result.
“We have reason to believe you could be his next target,” Felicia said.
“Your place in the Magisterium puts you at risk,” Crispin elaborated, his tone rushed.
“Worried for me, Crispin?” Zara asked. The younger man reddened, but she noticed he didn’t deny it. “Don’t be. I’m not a fool like Ambrose. A true maleficar knows demons cannot be killed, only controlled. If this Crow fancies himself a demon, then I look forward to using him to his full potential.”
“How?” Crispin asked.
“Never underestimate the power of observation,” Zara lectured. “I’ll keep a low profile. That should entice him to move on to more exciting prey.”
“But he’ll continue killing Venatori,” Felicia pointed out.
“For which he’ll be duly punished. In the meantime, we practice patience.” Zara paused to marvel at herself. Every feature and proportion were in perfect symmetry. And yet, when she smiled, there was something ugly behind it. “Freeing Ambrose’s slaves already tells us this Crow has a heart. He will reveal other flaws. And we will exploit every last one of them.”
GENITIVI DIES IN THE END
LUKAS KRISTJANSON
The Fen Harel question. How many lives had ended seeking an answer? Four more, if our turn chasing a legend fails tonight. But we’ve dragged truth from the darkness beneath Tevinter, found pages that will guide tomorrow’s righteous hands. And if our flight dies at the tip of an Antaam spear, make certain that more than the Silent Plains will know what we have found—
“Oh, child.”
Philliam, a Bard! Looked up from his notes. Brother Genitivi, peer and rival, stared at him with red-ringed eyes. An arrow in the old man’s chest bobbed in time with his breathing, growing ever more haggard. Blood dripped from the fletching, which was very odd, thought Philliam. And as his world turned sideways, formerly Sister Laudine tore the world with a scream.
* * *
“That is how you start it?”
“People have to know the stakes.”
“They want to save the world, they know the stakes.”
“Old man, will you let me work?”
“I will stab both of you.”
“Fine, I’ll just … start at the beginning.”
* * *
Philliam, a Bard! was sitting in a café in Val Royeaux. It was three in the afternoon, an hour past too hot. He’d just stopped listening to his publisher, although the latter’s complaints about lagging sales would continue well into the digestif. That was half of the p
roblem, thought Philliam—he preferred people who went for drinks, not stayed for digestifs.
He was a stark contrast to the formal wealth of his lunch partner: Free Marcher features too many cousins from nobility to matter; mousy hair, boyishly unkempt, and a lean frame dressed in stylishly functional cuir bouilli armor. Legitimate kit, though his pouches held notebooks and inks, not a soldier’s fare. They’d eye him suspiciously in an honest guildhall, but he wouldn’t be laughed out. Philliam dressed—and wrote—for the people.
But he did his duty, despite the company he’d rather keep, remaining carefully in line with his host’s pointed words and matching finger. He knew how to fill space when money talked.
“Whiff and whaff, trends of the day,” came the standard complaint. But if you chased trends, countered Philliam in his head, you were, by definition, behind. “Ahem hem, lose ‘a Bard!’ from the name.” Another favorite, and nonstarter; his fans loved the notoriety the title implied. “Such and such-not, expedition beneath the Imperium—”
Philliam choked on his ale. This wasn’t part of the standard lunch package, and he found himself scrambling back into the conversation.
“Lord Varondale, I must have misheard,” he said. “You’re asking me to go where?”
“Oh, I’m not asking,” said the noble, his smile as fixed as the Orlesian half-mask he wore. Bold ceramic and gold filigree showed his status as a new name with equally new money. He tipped a small glass to his lips, taking only enough liquid to moisten an insult. “You’ve promised relevance for years, and I’ve happily defended you. But abridging your betters can only get you so far.” He leaned forward, tapping a gold pinky ring on the table. “The time has come to put up … and shut up.”
He slid a vellum scroll across the table. Philliam didn’t take it.
“Those are Inquisition seals,” said Philliam. “There is no Inquisition. Not anymore.”
“Special commission.”
“By who?”
“Inner circle.”
“Of what?”
“The society of your continued employment,” said the noble, his tone growing impatient. “Read it.”
Philliam rolled the scroll out between them. His eyes widened.
The document outlined an expedition that seemed fantastical. It included a strange assemblage of fragments, a collection of lore one might find in a conspiratorial basement. Philliam pictured them as pins spread across a map, with red strings noting connections between distant astrariums. And he could see the promise. To his eyes, the lines indirectly suggested a location, perhaps in the north of the Silent Plains. He had a gift for spotting the notable parts of greater, grinding works. He’d made his living at it. That appeared to be why the offer was in his hands.
And he’d heard the stories.
The Inquisition was ended not by invasion or Chantry order. It fell within a mirror, past a mysterious Crossroads, in the shadow of something impossible—the Dread Wolf, a creature so powerful the elves once called him a god. The Chantry didn’t want him to exist—the Maker didn’t allow room for gods that weren’t God—but if he did, whatever he was, they needed information. There were apparently spaces between that Crossroads and the Fade—broken spaces that weren’t all there. Which meant pieces might be somewhere else. And a certain type of mind might follow that backward, and find what had undone this elf, and any others, that walked as gods.
“You want me to find the true history of the elven pantheon, in a piece of a library that doesn’t exist, beneath the Imperium, deeper than the Deep Roads?” Philliam tossed the scroll back to his publisher. “I don’t do fiction.”
His host started to laugh, and then didn’t.
“You haven’t done anything for a quarter. This represents several opportunities. For me, repayment of the advance you owe me. For you, an original story of your own, not a retelling.” Lord Varondale took another slow sip of his drink. “It is also,” he added with a stark earnestness, “a chance to help.”
Philliam knew the Varondales had invested with the Inquisition. He’d never have guessed their intentions had been genuine.
“This is real?”
“That’s what you and certain colleagues are invited to find out.”
Philliam squinted. “Who else got this ‘invitation’?”
“Hello,” said a voice Orlais had come to love and dread, like truth at a family reunion.
Philliam cringed.
Formerly Sister Laudine, ex of the Chantry, documenter of all things sensual and denied in otherwise falsely prim Orlais. It was, frankly, a brand Philliam wished he’d thought of. His promise of “Bard!” demanded a competency in things both dangerous and political. Her title had transgression built in. And really, how daring did a former celibate and scholar really need to be?
Chantry service was a lifelong calling. Those who left voluntarily usually did so because of age or infirmity. Laudine was young—late twenties—and while she no longer dressed the part, like her title, she kept deliberate echoes. The choice of fabrics. The manner of stitching. She flaunted who she had been, implying scandal, provoking questions. It lent weight to her writing.
Today her long blond hair fell from a tightly pinned crown braid, and her robes were a muted gold trimmed in a shock of red. Both were styled for travel.
“You’re looking well,” said Laudine, her eyes sweeping past Philliam to evaluate Lord Varondale’s drakeskin tunic and his taste in spirits. She pursed her face slightly, as though his look was sour and his drink was loud.
Philliam knew that appraisal. Laudin’s senses often swapped color, taste, and sound. A quirk of perception that gave her insights about character, something she had confided while evaluating his. They shared a past that meant they occasionally slept together, although they both agreed they wouldn’t share a future. They fought as much as they intertwined, and it showed in their prose. They were peers in many ways, but she said he was “green,” and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been found wanting.
That was also her brand.
“You of course know each other.” Lord Varondale smiled.
“Intimately,” said Laudine.
Philliam grumbled into a half-empty glass.
“I made some initial corrections,” said Laudine, gesturing at the scroll. “We should alter our search accordingly.”
Of course, thought Philliam. Translation.
Ancient elven is much about rhythm and feeling as vocabulary, and Laudine’s affinity for it had earned one of her earliest censures while still a Chantry sister. She’d intuited that a clay fragment—previously claimed to be proof of elven belief in “the Maker’s flowering glory”—was, in fact, a manual of marital instruction. The piece was still in Mother Hevara’s sealed vault, although privately examined on special occasions.
“Wonderful,” said Lord Varondale. “I’ve secured you a delver for the underground bits. Which, I believe, will be most of it.”
“You’re not coming?” said Philliam.
“Goodness no, this is entirely a writers’ retreat.”
“Has he not told you?” Laudine smirked.
Philliam shot his publisher an accusing glare. To his surprise, the man flinched.
“You see, Philliam, the request was very specific.” Lord Varondale downed the last of his drink. “This particular trail needs equally particular skills. A big-picture sensationalist, that’s you. A sensualist, our former sister—”
Laudine nodded demurely.
“And?” said Philliam.
“There are many details unknown,” he said, standing to leave. “You need a certain breadth of religious and geographical documentation.”
“And?” Philliam repeated, his hand at his temple.
“A detail-minded scholar—”
Philliam knew the name before he felt the sting. Five hundred and thirty-six pages of leather-bound Ferelden heraldic history—not including epigraphs and appendices—slapped across his face. It was a book he’d reduced to a tw
enty-page collection of cautionary-yet-enticing executions.
“Thief!” yelled Brother Ferdinand Genitivi, honored Chantry scholar and respected historian, on the eve of the longest—and last—month of their lives.
* * *
“Where is the account of the journey?”
“It’s not important.”
“A storied land of Blight and empire is ‘unimportant,’ yet you linger on salacious personal details?”
“I’m building tension.”
“By sacrificing context.”
“Stop arguing and just get it on the page!”
“She has a point, and is wielding one.”
“Fine. Have some details.”
* * *
The journey into once-mighty Tevinter was largely uneventful. What would have been a tactical triumph in a previous age was now a matter of following unguarded trade routes. Truth be told, the trickiest part of crossing the Imperium now was knowing when you started. There were multiple border outposts, each a fading marker of the empire’s reach at a different point in time.
Their hired driver and delver was a broad-shouldered man called Mateo, one of the famed Rivaini Lords of Fortune. A guild of treasure hunters and dungeoneers, they specialized in pulling gems from the eyes of statues and, for added cost, protecting the softer people who hired them to do so. The Lords wore their expertise, and the sash around Mateo’s waist was heavy with ancient coins and other trinkets from beneath the plains. He had a genuine appreciation for history, but didn’t claim to know the works of his current charges. Which, all things considered, probably made him the best fit for the expedition.
“Writers argue a lot,” he muttered, pulling a starved bush from a stone slab.
“We should’ve brought the Dowager,” said Philliam, sneering at Brother Genitivi while sitting on a jagged rock. He dumped a pebble from his boot. It was wet from broken blisters.
“You could not afford her,” Genitivi shot back. The anonymous Randy Dowager routinely outsold all of them with her collections of scarf-fluttering smut. Only Philliam considered this competition.
Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights Page 31
