Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  “Caterina found them this morning when no one delivered her breakfast tray,” Viago said. “We’ll have to cook our own meals from now on.”

  Teia approached the table. There was something eerily familiar about the scene, but she couldn’t quite place why. She bent over one of the servants, who had helped her dress the evening before, and tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear. The girl’s once smooth, youthful skin was blotchy with burst blood vessels and there was pink, bloody foam around her chapped lips.

  “They were poisoned with Maferath’s Embrace,” Viago explained. “A particular nasty toxin that increases the victim’s blood pressure, causing veins and, ultimately, organs to rupture. Expensive, too.”

  “Why target the servants?” Teia asked through shallow breaths, trying to keep her anger—and stomach—in check.

  Viago shrugged. “Fewer eyes. With the staff dead, the killer has free rein of the house. Assuming it is Lera’s murderer.”

  “You’re not so sure?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. The others aren’t convinced. Poison and stabbing aren’t the same modus operandi, but both crimes re-create assassinations from Crow history.”

  Suddenly, it hit Teia why the scene was so familiar. In the Towers Age, the Crows were hired to eliminate the highest members of the Templar Order in retribution for covering up the slaughter of mages during the Right of Annulment. Knowing the templars to be skilled warriors, the assassins decided the quickest and cleanest way to deal with the knight-captains and their commander was through poison. They infiltrated the Circle and spiked the evening’s lemon cake, earning the murder the moniker “Just Desserts.”

  “It’s not the same,” Teia whispered. “The only crime these poor souls committed was to serve us.”

  “You’re getting bogged down by the details. Lera wasn’t a queen. These ‘poor souls,’ as you put it, weren’t templars. The who is immaterial, it’s the what that matters.”

  Teia frowned. “The who matters. There are rules. Unless guilty, we don’t kill the help. And cake should be sacred,” she added glumly.

  Viago straightened his gloves. “No, you don’t kill the help. Do you really think Bolivar, Emil, or even your precious Dante would think twice about slitting the throat of a witness—innocent or not?”

  Teia tilted her head. “My precious Dante?”

  Viago ignored the question. “The point is—it’s the same killer.”

  She considered his words. “Two historical murders in a row would be too much of a coincidence.”

  Viago drew breath against his teeth. “Three.”

  Teia paled. “How late did I sleep in?”

  “Follow me.”

  “No,” she said, crossing her arms. “Not until we boil some water.”

  Viago raised a brow. “Eight people were poisoned in this room.”

  “Then run your little tests to make sure it’s safe, but I refuse to look at another dead body until I’ve had my coffee.”

  * * *

  As they left the kitchen, Teia felt like she was trapped in some terrible guessing game. Viago had brewed the coffee in silence and she couldn’t bring herself to ask which of the other Talons were dead. She ran through the possibilities and concluded that, at the very least, Caterina was safe. Even Viago couldn’t maintain such a calm façade if she had been murdered.

  That left Bolivar, Emil, Giuli, and … Dante. Teia clenched her fists. Their relationship was complicated, but she didn’t want him dead. There had been days when the lyrium relaxed its thorny grasp, and she could imagine the man he would’ve been if he hadn’t taken that contract.

  That’s the thing they don’t tell you, Teia thought. The most dangerous jobs aren’t the ones you don’t come back from—they’re the ones that stay with you.

  Viago must have sensed her anxiety because he said, voluntarily, that Dante and Emil were searching the island. “Caterina still believes there’s a Qunari agent hiding somewhere.”

  Teia stared at the back of his head in wonder. Viago and words of comfort were like oil and water.

  When she didn’t respond, Viago stopped. “Teia?”

  They were halfway up the stairs. A ray of sunshine peeked through the velvet curtains and surrounded Viago in a soft glow that smoothed the harsh lines of his face, giving him a more relaxed look than Teia had seen before.

  Teia had often imagined what it would be like to kiss Viago. She told herself it was only natural. He was handsome, in his own way, and wound up so tight that she likened him to a giant knot. He was a challenge to untie—to twist and pull and loosen until the tension gave way and he unraveled, laying bare all his secrets. But knots were a delicate business. Tug the wrong way and you could end up with a noose.

  Perhaps the better strategy would be to cut straight through?

  “Are you all right?” Viago’s forehead creased with worry. “Was it the coffee? I tested for Maferath’s Embrace, but there could’ve been other—”

  “I’m fine,” Teia said with a reassuring smile. “Just admiring your good looks.”

  Most people would’ve been thrilled by the compliment. Viago only scowled and turned tail. Teia couldn’t understand it. They’d joke and tease, but whenever she tried to speak of the obvious attraction between them, he’d clam up. Well, not this time.

  She chased after him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he growled and continued stomping toward the guest wing.

  “Do you not think you’re attractive?”

  Viago turned on her, his ears pink. “Ten people are dead.”

  She didn’t back down. “And whoever’s responsible will pay, but that has no bearing on this conversation.”

  “It could be me.”

  Covering her mouth with both hands, Teia doubled over, laughter spilling from her lips. “It’s not you.”

  He looked as if she’d slapped him. “I’m more than capable of killing everyone here.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re offended!”

  “It is offensive,” Viago protested. “Professionally.”

  Teia leaned closer to see if he was being serious. His tight jaw and furrowed brow bore all the signs of a bruised ego. “I know it’s not you because we were together when Lera was murdered,” she explained. “Remember? I tied your cravat.”

  The flush creeped from Viago’s ears to his cheeks. “Yes, well, of course I didn’t do it. It’s just the principle of the matter.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Come on,” Viago grumbled and led her to Giuli Arainai’s room.

  Nodding toward the door, he said, “Scratches on the lock suggest someone picked their way inside. Not that that tells us much.”

  “On the contrary.” Teia winked. “It means our killer didn’t have an invitation. This was no late-night rendezvous.”

  As they crossed the threshold, the sharp tang of copper assaulted Teia’s nose. Giuli sagged over her vanity, a bloody pearl necklace dangling around her open throat.

  “Poor Giuli,” Teia whispered as she neared the body.

  “I didn’t know you were friends.”

  “Really, Vi,” Teia muttered. “You don’t have to be friends with someone to feel sympathy.”

  “If you say so.”

  The laceration on Giuli’s neck was deep but clean. A quick death—although far from painless.

  “They cut straight through her vocal cords,” Teia observed. “Just like that famous opera singer … what was her name?”

  “Carlota Montivecchio, the Songbird,” Viago replied. “A talented performer, but not a very gracious one. A rival soprano hired the Crows to cut Carlota’s career short after the singer tried to strangle her with a pearl necklace.”

  Teia sat back on her heels. “You know your operatic history.”

  “I know Crow history,” Viago corrected. “The director found Carlota after curtain call—her throat slashed and a string of pearls around her neck.”

  “Well, Giuli wasn’t a songbird,” Teia said. “
She was the quiet one. Except last night. She took Lera’s death particularly hard.”

  “Like I said, I don’t think the who matters. These theatrics are a distraction.”

  A damned good one, Teia thought. “Who found her?”

  “Dante. Claimed he stopped by to apologize.”

  Despite Viago’s skeptical tone, that sounded just like Dante to Teia. As quick to apologize as he is to anger.

  “I take it the others didn’t believe him.”

  “Bolivar’s convinced Dante killed Lera and Giuli.”

  “Bolivar…” Teia’s gaze returned to the necklace. “His family’s in pearls.”

  “I don’t think that’s enough to incriminate him.” Then, he added with a smirk, “Unfortunately.”

  Tearing herself away from Giuli, Teia stood and headed toward the door—and fresh air. Viago followed, his footsteps soft and even.

  “What about the servants?” she asked, as they made their way back down the hall. “Does Bolivar think Dante killed them as well?”

  “No,” Viago answered, his jaw clenched. “He blames me for that.”

  Teia quickly put two and two together. “Because they were poisoned.”

  Viago confirmed her suspicions with a curt nod.

  “That’s silly. We all use poison. You just have a weird thing for it.”

  “The word you’re looking for is specialty.”

  “It’s a bit more than that.” Teia tapped the handle of Viago’s walking stick. All Crows might utilize poison, but very few kept so many on their person.

  “You said Caterina still thinks the Qunari are responsible. What about Emil and Dante? What did they say?”

  “They’re holding out hope she’s correct. Speaking of which,” Viago paused to retrieve a silver timepiece from his jacket pocket. “They should be back by now.”

  * * *

  They found Caterina and Bolivar sitting on the wraparound balcony overlooking the front garden. Caterina was so still she looked at home with the marble statues guarding the villa. In stark contrast, Bolivar’s short legs bounced frantically. He had already broken into the cellar for some liquid courage.

  “What took you so long?” the elf demanded. His hair was frizzing at the ends and his teeth were stained gray from red wine. Demon teeth, Viago had called such teeth as a child. The image reminded him of his mother after his father’s visits had become infrequent.

  “Any word from Emil and Dante?” he asked Caterina.

  “They’re coming up the hill now,” she replied, her voice tight. “From their faces, I expect bad news.”

  Viago wasn’t surprised. Still, a small part of him hoped he was wrong. It would’ve made things easier.

  Teia left Viago’s side to bundle Caterina’s shawl tightly around her shoulders. “Vi made coffee, Nonna. I could bring you a cup.”

  The old Crow snorted. “Coffee made by a master poisoner in a kitchen full of corpses? I’ll pass.”

  Viago chuckled. Teia was always trying to make the others like him. She grew up on the streets. To her, joining the Crows was akin to finding a family. Caterina was the mother she never had. Giuli had been her jealous sister. Emil and Bolivar, the rich and drunk uncles respectively. But to Viago, these people were business partners. He didn’t need to be liked—only respected and feared, a little.

  A few minutes later, Emil and Dante appeared. Viago noted that, compared to last night, the coloring in Dante’s face was healthier and his eyes were brighter, more alert. It could be from the exertion of searching the island, he told himself. Or, he could be taking lyrium again.

  “We checked everywhere. No one’s here but us,” Dante said.

  “And there’s more bad news,” Emil added. “The spare gondola docked in case of emergency … Smashed. There’s no way off the island.”

  “We’re trapped here?” Bolivar asked, his tone growing shrill. “Can’t we signal the mainland?”

  “If one of us is the killer, that would only allow them to escape,” Emil pointed out.

  “Better than all of us dying!”

  “Antivan Crows don’t run,” Caterina seethed, and the other Crows stood a little straighter.

  “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Bolivar croaked, his already delicate composure unraveling at the seams. “To get us all in one place, then pick us off. You want to be the only one left! You—”

  Caterina snatched the wineglass from Bolivar’s hand and threw it over the balcony. The bottle on the table soon followed. “You’re stupid to begin with, Bolivar, and drink only makes you stupider.”

  The elf’s lips trembled as pride and cowardice wrestled for control.

  “No more shallow accusations,” Caterina said, not giving him a chance to respond. “It’s clear the killer wants to divide us—pit us against each other. We must focus on the facts.” She paused and glanced uneasily at Dante and Viago. “To that end, you two are to be confined to your quarters.”

  Indignation hit Viago like a worn whip. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Teia was quicker on the draw. “Nonna, you can’t be serious!”

  “The evidence is slim, but the lyrium under Lera’s nails points to Dante. And—”

  “I was with Viago when Lera was killed,” Teia interrupted.

  Caterina’s face softened. She used the tone of a mother trying to explain death to a child. “And the servants? Were you with him then?”

  Teia caught Viago’s eye and, through a silent question, he realized she was asking if he wanted her to lie for him. Another whiplash of emotion rolled through him. As an assassin and a king’s bastard, Viago had spent his life watching his own back, never expecting help from anyone. What Teia offered now was like walking across a rickety bridge—he wanted the planks to hold, but he couldn’t ignore the endless abyss below.

  He shook his head.

  Teia deflated. “I was not, but—”

  Emil’s soft voice interjected. “Not to speak on Caterina’s behalf, but I believe this is a precaution—not a condemnation.”

  “Yes, Emil has the way of it,” Caterina said, obviously relieved to have someone besides Bolivar backing her up. “Maferath’s Embrace is rare and difficult to administer. When it comes to poison, Viago is the best of us. And he already admitted to having some in his possession.”

  Teia gaped at Viago. “Why would you do that?”

  His cheeks reddened. “Hiding it would only make me look guilty.”

  “Apparently, you look guilty enough. What about Giuli?” Teia asked Caterina. “Nothing from her murder points to Dante or Vi.”

  Caterina took an apprehensive breath. “She was the loudest about Dante’s guilt and her vocal cords were severed.”

  “That’s a reach and you know it!” Dante shouted.

  Considering the lack of restraint Dante had shown last night, Viago was impressed he had remained quiet for so long.

  Caterina stood, her knuckles white from gripping her cane. “Yes, I do, which is why I’m locking you in your room instead of executing you on the spot.”

  “There were pearls around Giuli’s neck,” Teia challenged. “Bolivar’s a pearl diver. Why not lock him up as well?”

  “I’m not a pearl diver,” Bolivar corrected. “I employ pearl divers.”

  “Do you?” Emil asked. “Because I heard you sold the business—to Dante.”

  A hushed silence fell upon the balcony. Pearls were synonymous with House Nero. For Bolivar to sell it … his accounts must be in dire straits. The elf looked stricken. He glanced over the side of the railing to stare longingly at the smashed wine bottle. “Even more proof Dante’s our man,” he whispered.

  An annoyingly perfect blue vein pulsed at the center of Dante’s forehead. “Pezzo di merda! You’re setting me up. First with the lyrium, then with the pearls.”

  Viago scoffed. Bolivar didn’t have the brains—or the stomach—to pull off something like this. “This isn’t just about you. My head’s on the chopping block as well.”

&n
bsp; “Your daddy will protect you,” Dante sneered.

  Viago choked his walking stick and counted ten poisons that would leave Dante’s face unrecognizable.

  “None of this matters,” said Caterina, cutting the tension. “Unlike Maferath’s Embrace, the pearls weren’t the murder weapon. And, unlike lyrium, they’re a common enough item to be found in a lady’s room. As Emil said, this is a precaution. If we find evidence that rules you out—”

  “Or someone else is murdered,” Viago growled.

  “Then you’ll be set free. Until such time, you are not to leave your quarters or receive visitors. Am I clear?”

  * * *

  Viago was not in his room thirty minutes before he heard the unmistakable clawing of a lockpick at his door. He took a seat in the quilted, moss-green chair that faced the room’s entrance and waited, cross-legged, for Teia to spring the bolt free.

  It took less than two minutes.

  “Tell me,” Viago asked as Teia entered and leaned against the door, “why do you think you’re the exception to every rule?”

  “Because I’ve yet to be corrected.” She sauntered up to his chair and sat on the armrest. Viago noticed she had traded the dressing gown for her usual black dueling leathers.

  “You’re awfully relaxed. I could’ve been the murderer.”

  “I’m the murderer, remember,” Viago said dryly.

  “We both know that’s not true,” Teia whispered. “Why didn’t you let me help you?”

  He wanted to say, You respect Caterina. I couldn’t ask you to lie to her. Not for me. Instead, he stood to put some distance between them. “I’m out of practice.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve reconsidered. Bolivar’s not changing his tune.”

  “If he wasn’t so spineless, I’d say Dante’s theory had merit. The drunken fool’s certainly doing the killer’s work for them,” Viago growled, then hesitated. “Still…”

  “You don’t think Bolivar’s entirely wrong. About Dante.” It was a simple statement, but he knew Teia well enough to hear the waver in her normal bravado.

  Viago paused, unsure if he was making something out of nothing. “I noticed you didn’t come to his defense.”