Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  To that end, First Talon Caterina Dellamorte insisted her colleagues put aside their differences and attend a summit to concoct a plan of action. Her instructions had been clear: each Talon would come alone. No bodyguards. No servants. A skeleton staff would see to their meals and needs. In theory, these rules would ensure the guests’ safety. Viago had his doubts.

  Arching his back, he winced as each vertebra cracked with a satisfying pop. He gave the carriage door two sharp taps. “How much longer?”

  “Approaching the docks now, signore,” the coachman replied, then called for the horses to slow. The carriage gave one last uncomfortable sway as it rounded a corner, revealing a sparkling expanse of blue. Lago di Novo. The lake’s mild climate and breathtaking views had made it a popular retreat for Antiva’s wealthy since the Exalted Age. Every house was permitted to take contracts in this region, marking it neutral territory. Even ground.

  The summit would be held in a villa on an island at the center of the lake called the Verdant Isle. Black lacquered gondolas dotted the lake’s surface like a trail of ants—the other Talons and their luggage. Viago grimaced. He was trading one impractical cage for another.

  As the carriage came to a halt, the footman jumped from his perch and rushed to the door.

  “Signore.” The young man bowed his head and presented Viago his walking stick.

  While the rest of Viago’s ensemble was a restrained suit of darkened samite, the walking stick was hand-carved in Antiva City. The shaft was ebony stained sylvan, and two silver fang-baring adders intertwined to meet at the handle, where they curled around a jade crow’s egg.

  Viago’s long, lean legs tingled with relief as he stepped out of the carriage. The dock was a short walk downhill and he was thankful for the chance to let his blood flow properly before being cramped inside a gondola. Behind him, the footmen followed with his single trunk of belongings.

  A tent had been set up on the wharf. A man in black and purple livery waited with a silver tray of fizzante and an iced towel to wipe away the grime of travel. Viago refused both without a second glance.

  “I see I’m not the first to arrive,” he said, gesturing toward the outgoing gondolas.

  The servant opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a decidedly feminine voice within the tent. “Not even close.”

  The tent’s entrance flap snapped open, unveiling an elven woman dressed in a crimson riding habit. Where Viago was made up of sharp lines and angles, Andarateia Cantori was all curves. Her eyes twinkled as if they shared a secret.

  Teia.

  “I can’t believe I beat you, Vi. You’re usually so…” She paused to place a well-manicured finger against his chest. “Punctual.”

  Viago stiffened under her touch but otherwise kept his face blank. Teia knew she was beautiful. She used it as a weapon; he knew better than to think he was special. They had run numerous contracts together—most recently in Qunari-occupied Ventus, a coastal city in Tevinter, where they’d seen the dangers of the Qun firsthand. She’s an ally. Nothing more, he told himself. Not for the first time.

  Up close, Viago noticed Teia’s bronze skin was tinted pink from the sun and her dark, unbound hair fell in wild curls across her small frame.

  “You didn’t take a carriage.”

  “My luggage did. But I couldn’t resist the opportunity for a country jaunt.” She nodded toward the thoroughbred Taslin strider grazing on the top of the hill. “Andoral so rarely gets a chance to let loose in Rialto.”

  “You named your horse after an archdemon?”

  “Don’t worry, Vi. I won’t let him nip you.”

  Behind them, the servant cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Master De Riva, but I’m afraid the majority of our flotilla is preoccupied with Mistress Cantori’s personal effects.”

  Viago whirled on Teia. She didn’t bother hiding a sheepish grin.

  “All of those boats are carrying your luggage? How many clothes did you bring?”

  “When’s the last time we were all together? I had to dress appropriately.”

  “By bringing your entire wardrobe?”

  Teia gasped in mock offense. “Hardly!”

  The servant once again cleared his throat. “There is one vessel remaining, if the two of you would be willing—”

  “Absolutely not,” Viago interrupted.

  Teia rolled her eyes. “Come now, Vi. What’s a gondola ride between friends?”

  “Gossip.”

  “Oh, the horror.”

  Viago glanced at the servant, then gently took Teia by the elbow and led her to the far end of the dock, where he was sure they were out of earshot.

  “We are not on holiday,” he hissed. “The other Talons will be judging our every move.”

  “Exactly,” Teia replied. “You and I know what the Qunari are capable of. If the others believe House Cantori and De Riva are united…”

  Viago filled in the blanks. “It will be easier to sway them into an alliance.”

  “I knew you’d catch on.” Then she added with a wink, “Eventually.”

  Viago felt his resolve crumble. “Fine.”

  Clapping her hands together, Teia called for the servant to ready their gondola.

  Half an hour later, they approached the Verdant Isle. The villa was located on the other side of the island. Viago noted it could not be seen from the main road and was just far enough that even a seasoned swimmer would have difficulty reaching its shore. Beneath the wall of cypress was a sheer cliff face, where an eddy whirled between a collection of jagged boulders.

  “You arrived at the perfect time,” their gondolier announced. “During spring, it is too dangerous to travel by gondola.”

  Viago sunk deeper in his seat. The man had not stopped chattering since they set sail. No doubt to impress a certain elf, who was currently admiring the way the gondolier’s muscles rippled beneath his shirt with each stroke of the oar.

  “Surely a man of your talents isn’t afraid of a little rain,” Teia practically purred.

  The gondolier barked out a laugh. “You flatter me, Mistress Cantori. But I know my limits.”

  “Shame.” Teia shrugged, her interest lost.

  The gondolier stammered to regain her attention, but Viago tuned him out. The villa was finally in sight. Nestled at the base of the island, the main estate’s white walls stood in stark contrast to its lush surroundings. Meticulously pruned hedges lined a front garden—the only gap was a grand iron gate flanked by two marble basilisks.

  “Not exactly welcoming, are they?” Teia whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

  Viago’s grip tightened on the head of his walking stick.

  “They say the villa’s haunted,” the gondolier chimed in.

  “Of course they do,” Viago muttered. “No doubt the spirit of Queen Madrigal stalks its halls.”

  “You’ve heard the story, signore?”

  “Every grand estate in Antiva claims similar. Spare us the details and stick to what you’re good at: manual labor.”

  The man looked like he might protest, then thought better of it. Something in Viago’s eyes reminded him he was speaking to two of the most celebrated assassins in Thedas.

  * * *

  Teia sighed as she watched the gondolier float away with his tail between his legs. “Was that necessary?”

  “Yes,” Viago said plainly and offered his arm.

  Beneath the smooth samite, he felt like a sinewy ball of tension. Teia suspected contact of any kind made Viago uncomfortable. It would explain why he swathed himself in indigo from chin to toe and refused to remove his gloves during dinner.

  Especially during dinner.

  A master poisoner, Viago was all too aware that a single sip of wine could be his last. When they were in Ventus, he carried around a myriad of flasks containing antidotes and powders that could check for potential toxins. He refused to eat, drink, or touch anything without testing it first. He claimed it a necessary precaution. Teia thought that was
a polite term for paranoia.

  The two walked in comfortable silence past the vulgar basilisks. Unlike their marble guards, the gardens and the villa itself were tastefully appointed. The estate belonged to the Crown and, if the rumors were true, was where the king kept his mistresses. Since he allowed the Crows use of the villa for the summit, Teia assumed His Majesty was between lovers at the moment.

  Glancing sideways, she wondered if Viago’s mother had stayed here. Perhaps he had spent his boyhood summers playing in this garden before joining the Crows. Teia knew better than to ask.

  Past the garden, Teia spotted her trunks stacked high next to the villa’s main entrance. Two winded servants, overseen by a petite but formidable elderly woman, were moving them inside.

  Well into her seventies, Caterina Dellamorte wore her silver-white hair swept up into a bun to divert attention to the impressive collection of rubies hanging from her ears and neck. Catching sight of Teia and Viago, she pointed her cane accusingly in their direction. “You. You’re responsible for this!”

  Teia felt Viago flinch beside her and she pursed her lips to keep from giggling. One of the many reasons Teia loved and respected Caterina was her ability to make grown men—professional killers, at that—feel like children fresh from the nursery. To be fair to Vi, Teia conceded, Caterina’s cane is legendary. They had both witnessed the First Talon beat more than one unlucky fool to death with it.

  “Nonna!” Teia exclaimed and bent over to place a kiss on the disgruntled woman’s cheek.

  “Don’t ‘Nonna’ me, Andarateia Cantori,” Caterina snapped, although the heat in her voice had lowered to a simmer. “Not even my actual grandchildren call me that.”

  “Well, considering who your grandchildren are,” Teia responded, “I’m not surprised.”

  “How is Master Lucanis?” Viago asked.

  Caterina squinted as if she only just realized he was there. “In high demand.” She returned her attention to Teia. “Five days. I said the summit would last five days—at most. And you bring this!”

  Teia waved a dismissive hand. “Once you see my gown at tonight’s dinner, you’ll understand.”

  “I don’t believe I wish to see a gown that can fill more than one trunk.”

  “Don’t be silly, Nonna. It fits in a single trunk. That’s why I brought one for each evening.”

  Caterina groaned, but Teia could tell she had won the older woman over. She was about to describe the gown in detail when two figures—one all too familiar—appeared in the doorway.

  Dante Balazar was the very picture of what Antivan society deemed ideal—broad shoulders, pearly white teeth, chestnut tousled hair … only the bloodshot eyes shattered the illusion. “Teia, I should’ve known you’re the cause of all this commotion.”

  Teia wasn’t sure what irked her more—that she still found Dante infuriatingly handsome or that, upon the other man’s arrival, Viago had unlaced his arm from hers.

  “Lovely as ever,” Dante murmured, coming to place a kiss on Teia’s now free hand. She tried not to frown at the tremor she felt in his fingers.

  Next to Dante stood Lera Valisti. Teia only knew Lera in passing, but there was something reptilian about her. She noted they both wore fencing outfits and, while Dante had a healthy sweat on his brow, not a blond hair on Lera’s head was out of place. Despite being a good twenty years older, she had thrashed Dante handily.

  “Already fighting among ourselves, I see,” she said, nodding toward Lera.

  “A little healthy recreation. Nothing more.” The older woman’s smooth and controlled tone set Teia on edge. Everything about Lera was too poised, too polished.

  Dante flashed a bashful grin. “Don’t worry—the stabbing won’t start until after dinner.”

  Caterina’s cane hit the limestone with a loud thump. Dante winced and bowed his head. While all Talons were peers, the same could not be said about their resources and influence. Dante would be wise to remain on Caterina’s good side.

  “A poor jest,” he conceded.

  “Very poor,” Caterina scolded. “We are here to discuss the Qunari and the security of this nation.”

  “So you’ve reminded us,” Lera interjected. “Several times.”

  Using her cane, Caterina rose to meet Lera’s height. “And I will continue to do so. Until it sticks.”

  The two stood off against each other for a charged moment until, finally, Lera relented, murmuring an apology.

  Caterina relaxed and directed her attention to Teia and Viago. “Your rooms have been prepared. I suggest you rest before dinner. We’ve a long night ahead.”

  * * *

  With his clothes and possessions properly unpacked, Viago dismissed his assigned valet—but not before asking what was on the evening’s menu.

  Despite the limited staff, the plan was to serve ten courses. As always, Viago had with him his leather case of poisons and antidotes for toxins typically hidden in ingredients such as olives, truffles, pasta, lamb, cheese, cream, and alcohol. But he had not expected eggplant and needed to mix up something that could combat fleshrot, a choking powder easily absorbed by nightshades.

  On top of that, he still had to take his daily dose of diluted Adder’s Kiss to continue developing an immunity to that more common but no less lethal poison. Viago’s stomach churned in anticipation and he reminded himself that nausea was not nearly as uncomfortable as asphyxiation.

  The entire process took an hour, which left little time to dress for dinner, but Viago welcomed the distraction from thinking about who might’ve stayed in this room before him. He had just wrapped a silk cravat around his neck when there was a knock at the door. Teia greeted him on the other side.

  “They put us next to each other,” she said, slipping under his arm.

  “Please. Come in,” he gibed and shut the door. Turning around, Viago tried not to watch the sway of Teia’s hips beneath her gown … and failed spectacularly.

  Teia’s back was bare except for a tattoo marking her as a member of House Cantori and two thin straps that somehow held together a cascade of gold satin. With each small step forward, the dress swished this way and that, revealing a hint of leg—and the flash of a dagger strapped to her thigh.

  “I heard you tinkering away in here,” Teia said, breaking his reverie. She sat on his desk, smiling ear to ear. A vial of poison twirled between her fingers. “You and your concoctions.”

  Viago swallowed. The front of the dress was even more devastating. The delicate bodice was form-fitting, but not so tight it prohibited movement.

  Irritation—and something else—ran through him.

  “Off,” he snapped, motioning her down from the desk. His desk.

  Teia pouted but acquiesced.

  Taking a deep breath, Viago focused on tying his cravat—an ordinarily simple task except now Teia was running her hands across every surface in his room, and his fingers kept slipping on the final knot.

  “It would help if you removed the gloves,” Teia remarked. “Surely your own cravats haven’t been tampered with.”

  “The valet touched them,” Viago grumbled. It was a weak defense, but a skilled poisoner knew that anything—even skin—could be laced with something deadly.

  “How rude,” Teia teased, coming up behind him.

  His chest tightened. Why are you here? he wanted to ask.

  It was a fair question. And yet, Viago knew if he brought attention to her impropriety, whatever this was between them would snap like a lute string midsong. And he wasn’t ready for the dance to end.

  So he fumbled with his cravat a fourth time.

  Teia cursed under her breath. “You’re ruining it.” She pushed on Viago’s back, urging him to turn around.

  Only inches apart, Viago looked everywhere but Teia’s face—the ceiling, his walking stick, the creepy fennec statues someone had placed around the room. Then, after second-guessing himself, he glanced down to find the damned woman laughing at him.

  Viago’s hands shot
up to the crumpled cravat. “I don’t need—”

  “Hush.” Teia batted him away, her nimble fingers already smoothing out the wrinkles he had created. “This is why you have a reputation.”

  Viago blanched. At twenty-eight, Teia was the youngest Talon in history. Gossip and a string of admirers followed her wherever she went. Compared to her, he was practically a recluse.

  “I have a reputation?”

  “As a curmudgeon, yes.” Her full lips upturned slightly.

  “Well, that’s better than your reputation.”

  “Oh?” Teia blinked innocently up at him. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Their eyes met. Restless energy charged through Viago’s veins that both dared him to move and held him in place.

  “Dante looked well, if not a little peaked,” he offered lamely.

  Without warning, the cravat tightened against his Adam’s apple, causing Viago to sputter.

  “All finished.” Teia gave the knot a small pat of approval, then sashayed back toward the desk, where her attention was once again captured by his collection of vials.

  “Speaking of Dante … do you keep lyrium in here?” she asked, her tone turning serious.

  Viago shook his head. “I’ve no use for it. Why?”

  “Nothing,” Teia whispered. “If you had, I would’ve suggested locking your door.”

  Before Viago could satisfy his curiosity, the dinner bell rang.

  * * *

  “Let the Vints and the ox-men kill each other,” said Bolivar Nero, taking another sip of wine. “It’s nothing to do with us.”

  “The Qunari are not ox-men,” Teia corrected, narrowing her eyes. “They’re a civilization built on discipline.”

  Bolivar shrugged. “They’ve got horns and blunder about, blindly following orders. Sounds like ox-men to me.”

  “Semantics aside,” Viago interjected. “If they wipe each other out, that’s a tidy sum of potential marks we aren’t getting paid for.”