Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

Teia bit back a groan. It all comes back to the bottom line.

  “The Qunari will not be satisfied with the Imperium,” Emil Kortez said with certainty. “They have invaded Antiva before.”

  “More than two hundred years ago,” Dante muttered.

  “In Brynnlaw, there are still buildings defaced by gaatlock powder. It is a common sight in the north.”

  “Don’t make this a competition between north and south.”

  Caterina’s cane thumped and silence swept over the table. “Enough. Nothing spoils a meal like business.”

  “What meal?” Bolivar grumbled.

  Seven of the eight Talons had gathered for dinner. Only Lera was absent. Caterina had insisted they hold the first course until her arrival, but patience was not a virtue shared among Crows.

  Well, at least not Bolivar, Teia thought as she watched the older elf fidget. With his long shock of white hair and fine suit trimmed in bear fur, Bolivar had all the trappings of a Talon, but none of the substance. His family had made their fortune as pearl divers and were once the wealthiest elves in Antiva. House Nero no longer held that title, but Bolivar spent coin as if Rialto Bay had an infinite supply of pearls to support his lavish lifestyle.

  “Relax, Bolivar. We’re all in this together.” Emil Kortez’s words were polite, casual, but with the added gravitas that came from the older man’s experience and reputation. While he did not command a large house, as a merchant prince, his wealth exceeded Teia and Viago’s combined. Only a few years younger than Caterina, Emil knew how to weather the storm of change—and how to turn a profit.

  Bolivar’s jaw twitched, but he held his tongue, filling his mouth with wine rather than words. The drinks were meant to mollify the guests, but Teia feared they only picked at the scabbing tension in the room. Despite the warm glow of candlelight, the atmosphere was as cold and rigid as the limestone table they should be eating on.

  The double doors to the dining room opened like a sigh of relief that came too soon when a servant—not Lera—entered. She handed a note to Caterina.

  “Lera sends her apologies and asks we begin without her,” Caterina announced.

  “That’s it?” Bolivar badgered, his nostrils flaring.

  “I’m sure she has a good reason,” Dante replied.

  Teia noticed his hands were shaking. This afternoon it had been a slight tremor; now he would have trouble picking up a fork. He caught her staring and hid them under the table.

  “You would know,” Giuli Arainai whispered, naked resentment in her tone. It was the first time she had spoken that evening.

  “Oh, stay silent if you’re not going to say anything useful,” Caterina snapped and rang for dinner to be served.

  The antipasti and primi courses did not improve conversation. Any attempt at pleasantry was met with grunts of disinterest or no acknowledgment at all. The only consistent noise was the relentless clashing of Dante’s knife against his plate as he tried to cut his food. It was an unspoken but well-known secret that Dante was addicted to lyrium—a consequence from his youth when he took a contract that required him to go undercover as a templar. Everyone was doing their best to pointedly ignore his quavering hands and the sheen of sweat on his brow, but Teia knew his struggle more intimately.

  He’s trying to quit again.

  Dante had tried to stave off lyrium before, but it made him erratic. A master assassin not in control of his faculties was a dangerous liability. Considering the discussion ahead, Teia feared he chose a terrible time to go cold turkey.

  Suddenly, Giuli pushed back from the table. “I’m going to check on Lera.”

  Dante dropped his fork with a loud clang that stopped Giuli before she reached the door. “I’ll do it.”

  “No,” Caterina said, not looking up from her gnocchi. “You’re both acting strange. Viago will go.”

  Viago arched a brow. “Me?”

  “Take Andarateia with you.”

  “As you wish, Nonna.”

  Dante fell back, but Giuli stood her ground. “I’m perfectly capable—”

  Caterina cut her off. “You know how I feel about repeating myself.”

  Teia thought Giuli might fight back, but self-preservation—and Caterina’s cool gaze—cut her to size.

  Free from the dining room, Teia said, “Well, that was unexpected.”

  “Which part?” Viago asked. “It all seemed pretty standard to me.”

  “Giuli standing up to anyone—much less Caterina—is not standard.”

  When Teia first rose through the ranks, she hoped to find some camaraderie with her fellow elves, but Bolivar had snubbed her as an overreaching street rat and Giuli wasn’t in the position to make friends. Her family had lost face when one of their assassins failed to complete a contract on the Hero of Ferelden’s life. It had been a long, bloody battle back to the top and Giuli’s seat was still precarious.

  “If she knows what’s good for her, she won’t make a habit of it.”

  They walked in tandem up the grand marble staircase. Despite the darkness of nightfall, the villa’s interior was colorful with yellow paneled walls and red carpet. Freshly cut Crystal Grace spilled from vases on the stone newels. Teia had a garden full of the bell-shaped flowers in Rialto. Normally, she found them calming, but their presence wasn’t enough to sooth the itchy feeling in the back of her mind.

  She reached for Viago’s arm. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered as they turned down the guest wing. He nodded in agreement.

  The villa felt so empty. Teia assumed the limited staff were working in the kitchen, but one still expected to hear the odd footstep or muffled exchange.

  When they reached Lera’s door, Viago hesitated. “Perhaps it would be better if you—”

  “Unh-uh.” Teia wagged her finger. “This is your task. I’m just the tagalong.”

  Viago rolled his shoulders, as if working up the nerve to knock on the door.

  “Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve visited a woman’s bedchamber unannounced,” Teia teased, loving the way his cheeks flushed at the words woman and bedchamber.

  He leaned closer to her. “I’m not the green boy you think I am.”

  This was the tit for tat she’d hoped for in his room. “Then prove it.”

  Without breaking her gaze, Viago gave the door three sturdy knocks.

  No answer.

  “Perhaps she’s taken ill?” Teia offered, though she doubted it. Four hours ago, Lera had been in peak health.

  Viago tried again with the same result. He pushed his ear against the polished mahogany.

  “Anything?”

  He shook his head and tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  “Lera,” Teia called.

  Nothing.

  “Are you armed?” Viago asked.

  Teia lifted her dress just enough to reveal the blade strapped to her thigh. “Always.”

  After gratifying her leg with a quick appreciative glance, Viago pulled on the handle of his walking stick to reveal a hidden chamber containing six vials of Maker knows what. He selected one, then warned Teia to stand back and poured the vial’s contents onto the doorknob. The substance immediately began eating away at the metal and the lock behind it.

  “A highly potent mixture of deepstalker spit and aqua regia,” Viago explained, snapping the handle of his walking stick back into place.

  “That you just happen to keep handy. At a dinner party. Among colleagues,” Teia deadpanned.

  “You have your blades. I have my—”

  “Vials of death.”

  What was left of the doorknob fell to the floor with a clang. The door swung ajar.

  “Lera. We’re coming in,” Viago announced. Teia readied her dagger as he opened the door the rest of the way.

  A pair of dead, glossy eyes watched them enter. Lera Valisti, Third Talon of the Antivan Crows, laid sprawled on the bed, four steel blades protruding from her chest.

  The itch at the back of Teia’s mind flared as she r
emembered Viago and the gondolier’s earlier conversation.

  The spirit of Queen Madrigal stalks its halls.

  Centuries ago, the Queen of Antiva had been found after a hunting party with four steel blades in her chest. It was one of the most infamous assassinations in Crow history.

  And now, a Talon had been killed in the same fashion.

  Teia lowered her weapon and sighed. “Well, shit.”

  * * *

  Well, shit is right, Viago thought as he examined Lera’s body. She was lying face-up with her arms spread outward, the blades in her chest like needles in a pincushion.

  “The blood’s begun to clot.” He tried lifting Lera’s right arm, but the muscles, rigid from rigor mortis, resisted. “She’s been dead for hours.”

  “Then who sent the note?” Teia asked, leaning over his shoulder.

  “We should question the servant. Do you have a hairpin?”

  Teia retrieved one of the many pins keeping her typically unruly hair coiffed. Viago bent over to get a closer look at Lera’s hands.

  “Vi, I love a secret, but won’t it look suspicious if we don’t inform the others? Like now. Or, at the very latest, soon?”

  “There’s something here. I need parchment.”

  Teia checked the desk for stationery. Grabbing a sheet, she returned to his side. “Vi,” she urged. “You know I hate being the responsible one.”

  “If we go downstairs with nothing, they’ll start pointing fingers. Let’s narrow the field.” Viago used the hairpin to gently scrape under Lera’s nails. A blue substance fell onto the stationery.

  Lyrium.

  Teia’s breath hitched. “Well, that’s peculiar,” she said a little too casually.

  “Peculiar?” Viago needled. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “I know you’re thinking Dante, but it couldn’t possibly be him.”

  “Oh? Then why ask if I had lyrium? And warn me to lock it away?”

  That stopped her, if only for a second. “A precaution. No need to tempt a starving man with low-hanging fruit. You heard Dante at dinner. All that clashing and clanging. He’s obviously in withdrawal.”

  As a rule, Viago tried to ignore Dante Balazar. To say he found his fellow assassin grating was an understatement. Dante was brawny, where Viago was lean. He was an excellent swordsman, where Viago preferred poison. He had been Teia’s lover, where Viago … well, it was better to ignore Dante. Still, even he had to admit the man had not looked himself tonight.

  “His complexion was rather sallow.”

  “An addict like Dante—he knows better than to handle lyrium directly. Still…” Teia bit her lip and knelt to check Lera’s arms. “No cuts on her arms or palms. I took Lera for a fighter.”

  “From the amount of blood, I’d say the attacker hit an artery. The first blow was the killing one.”

  “But to catch Lera off guard, she must’ve known them. She and Dante did look rather cozy when we arrived.”

  Teia’s brows knitted together. Viago knew she wanted reassurance of her former lover’s innocence, but she was fishing in the wrong pond. He thought back to their arrival at the villa. Lera and Dante had claimed to be sparring, but perhaps something more had been afoot? Lera certainly hadn’t looked happy when Dante kissed Teia’s hand.

  To be fair, neither were you, a part of him admitted.

  “The real question is, why the theatrics?” He took another look at the daggers. “These blades are perfect replicas of the ones that killed Queen Madrigal.”

  “Most likely not a crime of passion, then. I doubt the guest rooms came equipped with historical ready-to-use daggers for a flashy murder.” Teia thought for a moment. “To kill Lera in this way … it’s a statement.”

  They both stood and soaked in the scene. The sight of Lera caked in her own blood unnerved Viago to his core. It wasn’t the violence or the death itself—he was used to that. The Antivan Crows were the bogeymen of Thedas. Kings, queens, generals—no one was beyond their grasp. But Talons were supposed to be untouchable.

  That’s the message, Viago realized. “None of us are safe.”

  * * *

  As Viago anticipated, the finger-pointing began not five seconds after he and Teia delivered the news of Lera’s death. The other Talons insisted upon inspecting the scene of the crime for themselves. Despite each of them knowing a thing or two about murder, no further clues were found, and the investigation devolved into a sniping round. Caterina, of course, was a true Crow in crisis—overly casual as to not show any sign of weakness. Before leaving to question the servants, she ordered the guests back to the dining room … where the sniping continued.

  “You did this,” Giuli hissed at Dante.

  “You’re the one who wanted to check on her,” he said, struggling to his feet. “Afraid you didn’t finish the job?”

  “I say, are you all right?” Bolivar sneered.

  “No, he’s not,” Teia whispered.

  Viago glanced over his shoulder. Teia’s large, halla-gold eyes flashed with anger and her jaw muscles pulsed. He’d always assumed her dalliance with Dante had been a fling. The realization that it was something deeper felt worse than his daily dose of Adder’s Kiss.

  Dante shot her a pleading look. “Teia. Please—”

  “I saw you and Lera arguing in the garden,” Giuli interrupted. “You were always arguing.”

  Dante clenched his fists. “And you’re always skulking about!”

  “Perhaps,” Emil interjected, “we should wait until Caterina returns before we start throwing around accusations.”

  “Bit late for that.” As if on cue, Caterina appeared in the doorway.

  “What have you learned?” Viago asked, eager to make headway rather than stir up more drama.

  Caterina lowered herself into the silk-upholstered chair at the head of the table. “The girl claims the note was already in front of the door when she arrived.”

  “Then, she never actually spoke to Lera?”

  “If we can believe her.”

  “I, for one, don’t,” Bolivar spat. “How thoroughly did you question her?”

  “I didn’t torture her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Why not?” Giuli rasped. “A Talon is dead. Don’t you care?”

  Caterina rubbed her temples. For a moment, her cool mask slipped, and she truly looked her age. “Of course, I care. I went through a great deal of trouble and expense to arrange this meeting. And now, the entire night has been ruined. We can hardly discuss the Qunari with a dead woman upstairs. A coincidence? I think not.”

  Interesting theory, Viago mused. He had jumped to the conclusion a fellow Talon was responsible, but the Qunari had the most to gain from interfering with the summit.

  “Who are you thinking? Ben-Hassrath spies?” Dante asked.

  Caterina nodded gravely. “A definite possibility.”

  “Except the intelligence Teia and I gathered in Ventus confirms the Ben-Hassrath broke with the Antaam when they invaded Tevinter. The Qunari are fractured.”

  Bolivar snorted. “An ox-man’s an ox-man.”

  “And every Antivan’s a Crow?” Teia snapped.

  Viago shook his head. It would be better if the Qunari were responsible, but the pieces didn’t fit. “It also doesn’t explain the lack of defensive wounds. Lera knew her killer.”

  “Which brings us back to Dante,” Giuli said, smirking.

  “I’m not the only one she knew at this table.”

  “Yes, but you’re the only one with a history of lyrium addiction. And what was under Lera’s nails?”

  Dante charged at Giuli, but before he could reach her, Caterina slammed her cane against the marble floor. The intensity of the sound dropped Dante like a stone. He collapsed, gripping his head with both hands.

  Caterina waited for Dante to collect himself, then smoothed her skirts. “While the Qunari may be fractured, the Antaam are not without assassins. I still believe this is an outside threat. I will speak wi
th the servants about fortifying the villa against future attacks and we will search the island in the morning. With luck, we’ll find a Qunari intruder—deal with them—then hold the summit in the afternoon.”

  “And if the Qunari are not responsible?” Viago asked, scowling.

  “We will deal with them and hold the summit in the afternoon,” she repeated, her voice hard.

  “This is crazy,” Bolivar sputtered. “You can’t expect us to stay here.”

  Caterina stared him down. “The Qunari threat did not die with Lera.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Emil placed a hand on the quivering elf’s shoulder and smiled a smile worth a thousand sovereigns. “Bolivar. Are you questioning the First Talon?”

  He shrank under Emil’s touch. “O-of course not.”

  “Then I suggest we return to our rooms. And see to our own personal fortifications.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Teia woke with a start. Sensing movement next to her bed, she grabbed the dagger beneath her pillow and held it against the throat of her uninvited guest.

  “This is why I don’t visit a woman’s bedchamber unannounced,” a familiar voice drawled.

  Teia blinked the sleep from her eyes. “Vi?”

  “You were supposed to lock your door.”

  “But what if I had a clandestine visitor?” she asked, grinning.

  Viago’s jaw jutted forward. “Get dressed. It’s been an eventful morning.”

  Teia swung her legs out from under the covers. Even in the dark, she could see Viago’s face turn white as he got an eyeful of her sleeping ensemble.

  “I’m wearing a chemise.”

  “A thin chemise. Please, just—” He fumbled about until he found her dressing gown, then held it out like a lifeline. “Put this on.”

  Knotting the sash around her waist, she asked, “Has there been another murder?”

  “If only it were one.”

  They started downstairs in the kitchen. A wooden table dressed in a simple but finely made lace cloth was set up next to the oven. On it was a half-eaten, sugar-drizzled lemon cake, a pot of coffee, and a vase of wildflowers. It would’ve been a cozy sight, if not for the eight corpses lying face-first in their dessert plates.