“Stupid like arguing when the nobles refuse to pay for the repairs to their coaches?” Thren asked, chuckling.
Lemet flushed. “Lord Bencour hasn’t paid for the new axle, and now he wants the front wheels fixed. His man told me he’d pay for all of it once I’d finished.”
“Wouldn’t it have been nice to have been a lord back in the old days?” Thren asked. “Just imagine that. Having your man take the coach to some poor human in the slums, telling him you’d pay when you were good and ready?”
“No humans around back then,” Lemet said. “Just elves, the whole city.” He paused. “Do you hear that?”
Thren squinted. “Horses.”
The two moved to the nearest alley. No merchant would be foolish enough to drive a wagon through these streets after dark, and that meant a human in a coach.
Every elf in Halamshiral knew to stay out of sight when the humans rode into the slums.
“You don’t think someone in the tavern talked?” Thren whispered. The clatter of hooves and wheels on cobblestones grew louder.
“I thought it was all elves in there.” Lemet glared at his friend, then looked back down the alley, squinting in the darkness. It was a dead end, blocked by garbage and an outgrown wall where someone had tried to expand their shop.
“Just stay quiet,” Thren muttered, hunkering down behind a crate. Lemet dropped prone, ignoring what he hoped was just mud soaking through his tunic. Together, they waited in silence as the human’s coach came down their street.
It was dazzling as it came into view, freshly painted, white trimmed with gold, and tiny lamps at each side of the driver’s seat drove back the shadows. The driver was a big man with knife sheaths sewn into his leather vests, and armored guards clung to the sides of the coach. Lemet couldn’t see the noble inside—a red velvet curtain hid everything but a golden line of light from the coach’s interior. The horses were identical, with perfect golden coats and white manes.
Then the coach was past them, its loud clattering the only sound in the street, and Lemet let out a silent sigh of relief.
A rock sailed out of the darkness and clanged off the shoulder of one of the guards.
Thren, who had started to get up, dropped back down as the guard swore and rapped sharply on the side of the coach. Lemet squinted. The rock had come from the alley across the street.
After a moment, he picked out the elven boy standing in the shadows with another rock raised. The boy’s face was twisted in anger, and his other hand was clenched into a fist.
Not working with the thieves by choice, then, Lemet noted, even as he stood. When you had no family to look after you, the thieves might be the only thing between you and a slow death come winter.
The horses shrieked as the coach came to a stop.
Lemet ran across the street, half hunched, ignoring Thren’s shocked whisper behind him. He grabbed the boy’s shoulder, spoiling his next throw, and the boy spun and tried to hit him. Lemet caught his wrist.
“They killed my mother,” the boy said, pulling against Lemet’s grip.
“Be quiet.” Lemet looked back at the coach and heard its joints creak as the guards jumped down to the street. The driver would want to have that oiled, some part of Lemet’s mind noted.
“They can’t come down this street after what they did to her,” the boy insisted. “They can’t!”
“Be quiet!” Lemet shoved the boy back into the alley. The boy slipped in the mud and landed with a splash. His big eyes widened with fear, and Lemet moved to come in after him. This alley wasn’t a dead end. If they ran …
A crushing force slammed Lemet against the wall, and he fell hard. He rolled over as a boot caught him hard in the ribs and stared up into the angry face of one of the guards—not the one who’d been hit by the rock.
“Did you find the little curs?” came a lazy voice from the coach.
The guard looked at Lemet, who wore mud-stained but still serviceable work clothes, then at the boy, who wore stolen rags and still held a rock in his hand.
Lemet’s ribs were on fire, and he felt blood on his face where he’d hit the wall.
The guard moved toward the boy.
Lemet grabbed the guard’s boot.
“How many of them were there?” came the voice from the coach again.
The guard looked hard at the boy, then at Lemet, and finally gave a tiny nod.
“Just this one, Lord Mainserei,” the guard said, and pulled Lemet out of the alley.
As the guard who’d been hit by the rock came toward Lemet, sword drawn, Lemet shut his eyes and thanked the Maker that some humans were better than others.
* * *
Celene came awake slowly, with Briala in her arms, and watched the wan autumn sun creep into her bedchamber.
She remembered sleeping longer as a girl, recuperating from a tiring day of bardic training or a late night at a party. She would wake to Val Royeaux’s brilliant sun streaming through her window, curled up under blankets as soft as clouds, and luxuriously let her mind drift back from the comfort of dreams to the excitement of what the day would bring.
That was before the whole of Orlais had become her responsibility.
Now, she read reports and studied documents by glowlamps until her head throbbed and it was too late to drink more tea, then threw herself into bed and squeezed her eyes shut, willing her mind to stop darting from problem to problem like a small dog chasing rats in the wine cellar. She woke well before dawn, her heart hammering from whatever worry had drawn her from sleep, and fenced with her fears until she found an idea worth getting up to write down.
The only time her mind gave her respite was when Briala slept beside her.
Her elven lover made soft sleeping sounds, and Celene stroked her hair absently. The black curls lightened to gray with the pre-dawn light, then slid to the light brown of cinnamon as the sun brought color to the room.
Dirt-brown, Celene had called it, when Briala had waited upon her as a girl. Horse-dung brown, an ugly shadow of Celene’s spun-gold locks. Back when they had both been children, before Celene had known the value of having a friend who could be trusted, who wasn’t a competitor in the Game.
She watched Briala’s throat, where her pulse fluttered. Her skin was darker than Celene’s, though she spent most of her days inside and showed no tan lines at the bare skin around her eyes. Briala tried to ignore it, but Celene knew that she was quietly ashamed of it. Not the ears that gave her away as elven even beneath the mask, not the lovely liquid eyes, but her sun-touched skin, dotted with a spray of pretty freckles.
Celene trailed a finger down Briala’s bare arm, smiling as the elven woman came awake.
“You might have told me you couldn’t sleep,” Briala said.
“You earned a rest,” Celene said with a smile, and kissed her cheek.
“How was the rest of the ball?” Briala asked, stretching as she rose. She slid out of bed and went to a small closet where Celene’s enchanted teapot had been filled last night.
Celene smiled. “I believe you caught the most exciting parts.” She fumbled for her robe, then caught it as Briala slid it over with her free hand even while mixing the tea. “Bann Teagan sent a letter with his sincere gratitude, and he says that he is now returning to Ferelden before he can stumble into any more trouble. Marquis de Montsimmard wishes for funds to hire mercenaries to assist the templars in tracking apostates who flee the Circle, a problem that has grown only worse since the disaster at Kirkwall. And of course, Comte Chantral of Velun continues to believe Lake Celestine to be such an unimaginable paradise that the Empress of Orlais should wish to marry it.”
Briala laughed. Chantral had been polite, earnest, and clumsy for years now. “Anyone else?” She poured the tea and passed Celene a cup and saucer.
Celene took her first sip of the morning, and the tiny bit of tension at the back of her skull eased at the hot spice. She smiled, inhaled the scent, and put the cup down to pull her robe over her shoulders. �
��Thank you.”
Briala shook her head and smiled. “It is but enlightened self-interest, Majesty. I have seen you without your morning tea.”
Celene sniffed indignantly, then picked up her cup and saucer and took another wonderful sip. “There is news from Lydes,” she said after a moment, finally answering Briala’s question.
“Duke Remache?” Briala stopped looking through the gowns in the armoire, turning to Celene with wide eyes.
“Not long before you and Ser Michel destroyed dear Gaspard, Remache declared the grand duke to be an oaf, uncultured and boorish. He said that Gaspard would not be invited to the winter hunt in Lydes this year, and that if I found his suit agreeable, that Gaspard would not be hunting in Val Firmin, either.”
Briala was planning Celene’s dress for the day as she listened, picking out jewelry and accessories that would complement Celene’s scheduled activities. “That is a much more generous offer than earlier. If Remache can pull those lords and ladies with him, Gaspard will have no one left to listen to his calls for war with Ferelden.”
“But to lose my midnight visits from you?” Celene asked with a smile. “I think that price too high.”
Briala’s lips twitched in a smirk. “You would hardly be the first ruler to receive the occasional midnight visit from someone other than your lord husband.” But her eyes didn’t meet Celene’s as she said it. “And if marrying into Ferelden is no longer an option…”
“I fear it is not.” Celene had once, in her younger years, hoped to do through marriage what Meghren and his apocryphal mabari had failed to do by force. With the strength of Ferelden behind it willingly, the Orlesian Empire would have had the power to drive back Nevarran aggression and even give Tevinter pause.
Unfortunately, King Cailan had already been married at the time. Given how much blood had been shed to put a new king on Ferelden’s throne—and how much Ferelden still had to rebuild after the most recent Blight—any perceived manipulation from Orlais would be taken as another attack.
She could have married another Fereldan noble, of course, but that would have caused the opposite problem. The more warlike nobles, like Gaspard, would clutch at their swords even if Celene married a Fereldan king, indignant that the empress of the world’s greatest nation had lowered herself to marry the king of the dog-lords instead of one of them. If she married anything less, too many more would agree with them.
And in her heart, Celene honestly would as well.
“It is worth considering,” Briala said, interrupting Celene’s thoughts. Celene glanced over to see that Briala was refilling her teacup, her eyes still downcast.
“It is not.” Celene took the elven woman by the shoulder and gently tilted up Briala’s chin until those beautiful eyes met hers. “If I tie myself to some lord, it will be for more than good hunting grounds on the Deauvin Flats.” Perhaps it was selfish. Perhaps it was a mistake in the Game, even. But Celene had lost enough of her own life to the Empire of Orlais already … as had Briala.
Briala’s gaze softened. “Majesty.”
“Now tell me what to expect from the minister of trade this morning.”
“He’ll be asking you to approve an alteration to trade taxation laws throughout the Dales.” Briala turned Celene around as she spoke, peeling her robe away. “Revenue has been poor in the area, and he’ll suggest a small tax increase per wagon.”
“But?” Celene sighed as Briala’s fingers went to work on her back, kneading away the tension already present in anticipation of a day laced into a tight corset.
“He’s attacking the elven merchants.” Briala’s nimble fingers worked their way across Celene’s shoulders and then down her spine, and Celene leaned back a little into her lover’s hands. “Well, any of the less wealthy merchants, really. They use caravans of smaller wagons, while the merchants with noble backing use larger ones. A tax increase per wagon will hardly affect the nobles at all, but it could break many of the poorer merchants.”
“What about an increase in the tax per stone of cargo?” Celene asked. “Factor in the weights of different goods, and it should affect the nobles and the commoners more evenly.”
“I would have to check the numbers, but that might also bring in more coin for the throne,” Briala said, still working on Celene’s back.
“Thank you.” Celene looked to the window. The sun had crested the horizon, and the room was bright with daylight. Reluctantly, she pulled her robe back up and stepped away from Briala’s calming fingers. “I would like you to find out how Gaspard fares today. If the captain of the guards has no further information, we may have to hook the bard.”
“She has not formally left Gaspard’s employ,” Briala said. “My people lost track of her. I have them searching, but an Orlesian bard can be difficult to find when she wants to be.”
Celene smiled. “Always. The sapphire hairpin, do you think, or the Antivan diamond-lace?”
Briala frowned and held both up for a moment, looking at Celene critically. “The sapphire suits you better, but to meet the merchants … Antivan diamonds are a reminder of our trade.”
Celene had been thinking the same thing. “Then we sacrifice my fashion upon the altar of appropriate symbolism.”
Briala stepped in, smiling, and kissed her gently. “You are a martyr, Your Radiance.”
Then she plucked her mask from the dresser, moved to the mirror that hid the passageway to her room, and was gone.
Celene lifted her teacup to her lips and inhaled deeply. When she had finished her second cup, she would ring for her servants, and Briala and others would come to dress her, style her hair, and apply the day’s makeup.
None but Briala would ever know about that first cup of tea, or a few stolen moments with the woman who let her sleep at night.
* * *
Gaspard acknowledged Comte Chantral of Velun’s bow and waved the man to a seat. The Marquis de Montsimmard was already there, sipping his brandy.
They were in the smoking room in the home Gaspard kept in Val Royeaux. The burgundy walls and rich ironwood tables were decorated with trophies won from the hunt or from battle. In one corner, a snarling werewolf’s head was mounted next to a massive darkspawn greatsword, and on a table before them, a rose carved from a single massive chunk of amber sat in a decorative crystal vase, marking a tournament Gaspard had won in his younger days.
Gaspard waved to the servant who had shown Chantral in, and the servant scurried away, closing the door behind him.
“Fancy a glass?” Gaspard said, and Chantral winced, making the absurd strings of black pearls on his mask rattle sympathetically.
“I fear that if I spend too long in my cups, I will end up spending little time in my saddle.” Chantral, like Gaspard and Montsimmard, wore riding leathers rather than normal finery. The empress had invited the nobles of Val Royeaux to go hunting later in the day.
“What’s this?” Montsimmard asked, laughing. He was a big man, quite a soldier in his youth, though he’d gone to fat after a bad break in a grand melee had left his sword arm permanently weakened and forced him to hang up his blade. Nevertheless, a tall yellow feather rode atop his glowing lyrium mask, marking him as a chevalier. “Cannot hold your brandy, Chantral? What is there to do in Velun besides drink?”
Chantral stiffened, and Gaspard raised a hand. “Peace, men. Montsimmard, don’t be an ass.” Montsimmard chuckled, raised a glass, and drank deeply. “So, Chantral. What did you think of last night’s performance?”
Chantral lowered himself into a great overstuffed chair, his idiotic pearls rattling again. “I found it troubling, my lord.” He nodded at Gaspard. “I see you recovered your feather.”
“Oh, we have dozens of the things,” Montsimmard said, chuckling. “They’re always getting torn or dirty, and that’s just from balls. During tournament season, you’re damned lucky not to need one after every bout.”
“But,” Gaspard said, gesturing at the new feather on his own mask, “the heart of the matter
remains. Rather than answer a demand for satisfaction with an honorable duel, Celene chose to curtsy to Ferelden.”
“Using the mark of the chevaliers as a toy,” Montsimmard said, and there was no mirth on his face now. “She may as well play toss-the-hoop with the imperial crown.”
“I am no chevalier, as you well know,” Chantral said, which Gaspard frankly took as something of an understatement. The stiff and slender Comte of Velun had likely never even shed blood in battle. Still, his heart was in the right place, as he added, “But I too love Orlais. My father died fighting in Ferelden. I would not see his sacrifice turned into a moment’s amusement for the empress.”
“You are not alone.” Gaspard gave Chantral the smile he used in tournaments, the one that made opponents wonder what he knew that they didn’t. “There are many like us, men who are willing to save Orlais from the woman who would give it to our enemies with a kiss and a wave.”
Chantral froze. “You speak of treason, my lord.”
“I speak of the good of our empire, Chantral.” Gaspard stifled a sigh. The man had clearly known the purpose of the meeting, but like a fainting noble’s daughter, he needed to be teased into it. “Celene has ruled for twenty years, yet refuses to marry, even when this empire desperately needs strength and stability. She flirts with Ferelden and toys with you, even as our mages and templars look at what’s happening in the damned Free Marches and get dangerous ideas. She does nothing.” He finished his own brandy with a large gulp, letting out a breath as it burned its way down his throat. “And with that deadly inaction, she has committed treason.”
There was a long moment of silence. Montsimmard gave Gaspard a quick glance, and Gaspard shook his head slightly. It had been a calculated risk. Even if Chantral refused to join them, he could likely as not be made to stay silent with some gentle pressure. And as a chevalier, Gaspard would never be so thuggish as to kill the man in the middle of the smoking room.
Dragon Age: The Masked Empire Page 4
