Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

by Patrick Weekes

  There were countless options, but she had discarded all but a few immediately. New trade restrictions, or revoking her request to the university to admit the elven scholar … those actions would convince a few, but they would not sweep across the empire, leaving no doubt of Celene’s strength.

  For that, only one thing would suffice. She had known it while talking with Leliana, and in her mind, she begged forgiveness for the pain she knew Briala would feel. But there was no other way.

  “Gather our forces. We march on Halamshiral.”

  “Empress?”

  “I have a rebellion to crush.”

  6

  Thren had learned a lot from the thieves in the weeks since the bastard shemlen had killed his friend Lemet.

  First, he’d learned that most of the laws he feared so much could be walked around with laughable ease. Elves in Halamshiral were forbidden to carry any blade longer than the palm of their hand, but half of the elves in the thieves’ guild wore blades at their hips for all to see, a dare to any guardsman with the courage to start a fight.

  Second, he’d learned that his job at the tannery put him in high regard. With the leather scraps he stole, he could make slings for rebels who otherwise had nothing. Arrows and bolts could be hard to come by, the thieves told Thren, but even the damned shems couldn’t keep the elves from getting their hands on rocks. What was more, when the rebels came to Thren with leather skins, he showed them how to boil them and shape them into armored plates and greaves. They weren’t pretty, but they might turn away a blade or slow down an arrow.

  Third, he’d learned, much to his own surprise, that he really liked killing humans.

  The wagon had reached the traders’ square just past sundown. It was a marketplace used mostly by craftsmen and merchants hauling food, not as fancy as the one in the protected upper part of Halamshiral, but several steps cleaner and prettier than the one in the slums where the elves lived. Simple sheets of canvas were hung to make stalls around the square itself, painted brightly with dragons and chevaliers, and in the middle of the square a raised platform gave bards or other performers a good place to earn a few coins.

  The human guards had searched the wagon, grunting, then warned the driver to be quick about unloading his goods. The filthy elves had been thieving more as of late, they said, and even the good parts of the city weren’t safe.

  Thren watched and listened from a rooftop across the square, then passed a signal to the runner Lemet had died to protect. The child shot Thren a smirk, then scampered off.

  Thren counted to one hundred, then stood. He dropped a stone into the sling, spun the leather strap at the wrist, and let it fly. The stone hurtled across the square, lost to view. Thren saw the guard stumble back, clutching at the shoulder of his chainmail as the clank of stone on metal carried back to Thren’s ears.

  More slung stones followed, from all over the square. Merchants ran screaming as the stones fell like hail, rattling and clacking on cobblestones and armor and flesh, and the guards spun, raising crossbows and squinting in the twilight for targets. The horses bucked and screamed, and their driver fought to keep them from bolting. Thren spun his sling and loosed another stone, then swore. He’d only been practicing for a few weeks now, but he could tell as soon as it left his hand that it would go wide.

  A sharp buzz snapped past Thren’s ear, and he felt the wind as a bolt hissed past his face, cracking into the wall of the building behind him. A few weeks ago, that would have had Thren cowering on the ground in terror. Tonight, he bared his teeth with a feral grin. A moment later, the guard who had fired at him fell to his knees, bleeding from the face.

  The square was almost empty. The guards were on the ground, dazed if not dead, and it would be a few precious minutes before reinforcements arrived. One of the thieves yelled out a command, and Thren swung over the side of the rooftop, then dropped to the ground. He landed awkwardly, his ankle rolling under him as he landed. Swearing, he scrambled back to his feet and kept moving with the rest.

  He tucked his sling back into his belt and pulled his knife free as he and the other thieves strode boldly into the square.

  “Please! Please, I have a family!” A merchant had dropped to his knees, his head bloody, and scrambled out of the way as Thren approached. Thren cuffed him on the head, grinned at one of the other elves, and kept going.

  The guard who’d fired a bolt at him was still on his knees, shaking his head. Thren walked up behind the man, grabbed him by the shoulder, and slid his dagger up under the jaw and across the man’s throat. The guard fell, gurgling and clutching at his throat.

  He’d hesitated, the first time he’d killed a guard like that. The guard had gotten his own knife out, and one of the more experienced thieves had saved Thren’s life, then jeered him loudly for the rest of the evening. The second time, Thren had lunged in with the mad awkward energy of a young man in a woman’s bed for the first time, and he’d ended up stabbing the guard up under the ear. It had taken the poor bastard minutes to die, and Thren had been too nervous to retrieve his dagger until the man stopped moving.

  The third time, though, Thren had gotten it right, and in the weeks since, many more had followed. One smooth motion, not jerky, not too fast, was all it took to make the human guard who’d sneered at the elves for so long a corpse on the ground.

  Elves were already beating the wagon driver, who was curled up on the ground. Thren ignored them and joined the ones checking the wagon.

  “Food and cooking pots, most of it,” said one of them as Thren approached. “Some lamp oil.”

  Thren nodded. Lamp oil would burn, and cooking pots could make weapons.

  “What do we take?” asked another one. “No time to get all of it.”

  Thren looked at the horses, which were whinnying in alarm and pulling at their harnesses. “We take it all. Who here can drive a wagon?” At the silence, Thren frowned, then turned to the elves beating the driver. “Get him on his feet!”

  They groused but did as Thren ordered, pulling the wagon driver up. He had a bloody nose and stood in a crouch, curled around himself in pain, but nothing looked broken.

  “You want to live, shem?” he asked, keeping his voice hard. “Drive the wagon where we tell you, and you’ll walk out alive.”

  The man took a breath and coughed. “What about the horses?” he asked.

  Thren laughed. It came out louder than he’d intended. The heat of the fight was still on him. “You’re not really in a good place to bargain, human.”

  The driver took another breath, wincing. “No, I know. But you’re not going to kill the horses, right? You’ll treat them well?”

  Thren looked at the other elves, who shrugged. “We had no plans to hurt them.”

  “All right,” said the driver, and limped to the wagon. Thren waved to the rest of the thieves, and they grabbed what they could and ran. Thren and a few others joined the wagon driver and led him back into the slums. The square behind them was silent but for the groans of the merchants they’d left alive.

  At Thren’s orders, the driver pushed the horses. They reached the barricade that the elves had set up around their little corner of Halamshiral, and with a great shout, the elves pulled aside tables and planks of wood along one wall so that the wagon could pass.

  The horses whinnied in alarm at the sharp planks that jutted from the side of the barricade, bits of garbage turned into a makeshift wall against the humans, and the driver barked at them and cracked the reins, then shot Thren an apologetic look. Thren ignored him.

  The elven slums had changed in the past few weeks. Every block had a building or two that was blackened from a punitive visit from the guards. The markets had boarded their doors, and instead of horses and cooking food, the slums now smelled of smoke.

  But for all that, Thren saw happiness, too. An elven girl ran alongside the wagon for a moment, and one of the thieves tossed her a stolen apple. When the humans had decided when and how the elves ate, that girl might h
ave starved. Now, when the humans cut off supplies as a punitive measure, the elves fought for every bite … and they ate better.

  The headquarters for the elven rebellion was the tavern where Thren and Lemet had gone drinking on that fateful night. Now, most of the tables had been taken out back and chopped up for wooden shields, and the sawdust on the floor was stained with blood from injured elves who lay on pallets near the old bar. On one wall, the elves had drawn a map of the city in charcoal, noting possible targets, escape routes, and places to hide. Thren hopped down from the wagon, wincing at the ankle he’d twisted in the fight, and left the others to unload it. Jinette, still wearing her server’s apron, waved him over, her lips pursed with nervous tension.

  “Be careful,” Jinette said, wiping her hands nervously on her server’s apron as Thren came inside. “They’re dangerous.”

  Thren didn’t need to be told. The elven woman sitting on the bar before him wore better armor than he’d ever seen. It was leather, but blue as the Waking Sea and trimmed with silver studs, and she moved as if it weighed no more than linen. The bow slung over her shoulder was made from a wood he didn’t recognize, with a fine whorled pattern along the curve that reminded Thren of leaves, and the daggers at her waist shone with the blue-white glitter of silverite. There was more coin hanging from that elf than Thren had made in his entire life.

  But the elven man next to her was even more terrifying. His cloak was simple, as were his breeches and tunic, and his feet were bare. He could have been a beggar, except for the glowing staff he held, and the intricate pattern of tattoos that marked his face. The staff marked him as a mage, not safely locked away in a Circle tower but standing right in the warehouse with no templars to stop him from doing whatever he wanted. The tattoos marked him as a legend.

  “Hahren,” Thren said haltingly, remembering the old words, “honored elder. Have you come to help us fight for freedom?”

  “We have come,” said the elven woman, “to stop you from getting yourselves killed.”

  * * *

  Empress Celene’s forces moved toward Halamshiral at a grueling pace. They had crossed the Waking Sea by ship, then made their way through Lydes. It meant that Duke Remache’s servants would have a full view to report back to their master, and through him, to Gaspard, but there was no helping it.

  And in truth, she did not want to help it. Gaspard had driven her to this, thinking himself clever in forcing the Empress of Orlais to crush a rebellion and prove that she was not to be trifled with. Let the nobles see what she would do once spurred to action, and let them never again mistake reluctance for war with inability to safeguard the empire.

  While her forces—a few hundred horses, twice that in footmen, and two-score chevaliers—rode or marched, Celene sat in the royal coach, reading intelligence reports and wishing she could be riding. She wore a gown fit for travel, and her mask lay on the seat beside her, to be worn if she left the coach.

  Riding would obviously be far more uncomfortable. Though Celene spent time on horseback regularly, a gentle ride in the park or a few hours hunting were nothing compared to spending all day in the saddle, and she knew it.

  But in the saddle, she would simply be riding. She would not spend all day reading reports. How many blocks of the slums had the elves taken? How many guards were dead? How many nobles had changed their plans because of this threat to the city?

  In the coach, she had nothing else to do but read, give orders, and wait.

  Ser Michel was inside with her, impassive as she glared at the pages.

  “News, Majesty?” he asked as she crumpled a note into a ball.

  “Nothing new, Michel.” The elves had taken a few more blocks. They now encroached into streets where the poorer humans lived, and they had driven out those poor peasants with whatever they could carry. Elves in Lydes were reportedly fleeing their city to reach the freedom of Halamshiral, and the rebels in Halamshiral had left notes demanding that Lord Mainserai be given to them for justice. Halamshiral’s guard forces, often stripped bare to deal with more troubling areas, requested aid. “How long?”

  Michel glanced out the window, squinting. “If we keep this pace, with minimal rest, less than a day. Though that has us arriving at Halamshiral tired.”

  “They are elves, Michel. Their armor is scavenged from scrap metal and leather, and they are throwing rocks at the guards. This will be an easy enough battle, provided we arrive soon.”

  He nodded without speaking, and Celene saw him frown. He looked more puzzled than concerned, which was a relief. She trusted Michel’s judgment in all matters of war, and if he were worried, she would be as well.

  “Do you disagree, Michel?”

  “No. Your pardon, Majesty.” He shook his head. “I wonder at their foolishness. To sneak out after curfew is one thing. To kill guards and raise barricades … what could they have been thinking?”

  “They were hungry and afraid.” Celene shrugged. “Some nobles are cruel to the poor creatures without need. Even a dog will learn to bite if kicked enough.”

  Michel raised an eyebrow. “You almost sound sorry for them.”

  She smiled sadly. “I had hoped to solve this in a different way, Michel. The elves belong to this empire. They have their place in it, as surely as you or I, and it is my duty before the Maker to provide them guidance, safety, and comfort. What I do now, I do with a heavy heart.” She looked to him curiously. “And you?”

  His expression didn’t change. “They have threatened your rule. I would sooner put down a few hundred knife-ears rather than allow Gaspard to endanger the lives of men.”

  “I have never seen such anger from you before, Michel.” Something in her breast twinged, loyalty to Briala, for all that she knew her lover would be brokenhearted at what Celene would have to do at Halamshiral. She thought of their last talk before Briala had left, of the passion in her lover’s voice. “And it is unworthy of you, I think. The elves are peasants. We can no more appreciate the joys and hardships of their lives than they could ours. In their minds, we spend all day eating rare delicacies, and all night at grand balls.”

  Michel chuckled at that. “That is likely true, Majesty.”

  “They have not insulted you with this rebellion. You need bear them no anger.”

  “I know, Majesty. But as I said … they rebelled against you. Breaking a law, I can understand, even if all law is ultimately your law. But directly moving against you…” He shrugged. “I cannot understand a peasant, elf or human, willingly doing that. And I must react. If I cannot do that, then how can I claim to be your champion?”

  Celene shook her head. “You will have your chance, Michel. I pray that we succeed.”

  They sat in silence, and Celene thought that tonight, again, she would sleep alone. But Gaspard would sleep with fear as his companion. Rebels though they might be, the elves were Orlesians, and their deaths demanded recompense.

  Gaspard would pay.

  * * *

  Lord Mainserai’s home in the city was almost a palace, a great estate set behind stone walls and spiked iron gates.

  As the half-moon rose, Briala watched the estate from the shadows of the trees in a nearby park. The windows were dark, and the gates had been closed for more than an hour now, any visitors having long since departed. The smoke coming from the many chimneys had largely tapered off, except for one end of the house that Briala had picked out as likely being the kitchens.

  A few servants might be up and about, still, working in the kitchen or laundering linens for tomorrow, but most of the house had gone to bed.

  Felassan leaned against a tree beside her, calm as always. The apparent leader of the rebellion, Thren, paced nervously behind them.

  “You are certain that this is the way?” he asked for the third time.

  “The only way,” Briala said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Did you think you could burn buildings and kill guards with impunity?”

  “No, but—”

  “The emp
ress will send the chevaliers into the slums and burn everything inside your barricades to the ground,” Felassan said, still leaning against the tree. “That is, generally speaking, what empresses do when someone throws up a barricade and announces that they’re rebelling.”

  “So if you want justice,” Briala continued, “if you want Mainserai dead, then it needs to happen now, while the rebels cause a distraction across the city. And once he is dead, then you need to stay quiet. The guards need to see the elves behaving themselves perfectly tomorrow morning. No more raids, no more thrown stones, nothing but a polite smile and eyes down. Do you understand?”

  “But…” In the darkness, Thren was just a gray blur of motion, but she could smell his sweat. “Do you think they’ll just find his body and then shrug? What if they ride into the slums and demand answers?”

  “They almost certainly will,” Felassan said.

  “And nobody will have seen anything,” Briala added.

  Thren stopped pacing and turned to them. “What if they kill elves in retribution?”

  “They almost certainly will,” Felassan said again.

  “And you will keep your eyes down and your mouths shut,” Briala said.

  “But … but … you’re Dalish!” Thren turned to Felassan desperately. “Your people could reclaim Halamshiral for the elves!”

  “Yes. Someday.” Felassan pushed himself off from the tree. “But not today. Today, you kill a noble and then hope all the other nobles think he was too great an ass to be worth avenging.”

  “You don’t understand!” Thren’s voice rose in his anger. “People joined this cause because I told them about Lemet! Because of me! Now you’re saying that the best we can hope for is to have a few homes burned, a few elves killed?”

  “I know it’s not what you wanted to hear,” Briala said, and Thren turned on her.

  “Shut up! Don’t walk up in your fancy armor and your bath-scented skin and act like you know what we’ve been through!” He took a ragged breath and stalked away.