Chapter Eighteen: So Do Those Who Owe Them a Debt

Previously: As the Crow Flies

 

The key was to use a very sharp dagger, preferably laced with a paralytic.

 

Bann Ceorlic coughed and gargled. If he was trying to speak, there was no point, as Zevran covered the nobleman's mouth with his free hand.

 

The shock of being stabbed, coupled with the poison, kept the old man from wriggling too much.

 

Contrary to the bard's songs, death was not immediate. But Zevran had time; it was a few hours until morning. The alley behind the brothel was empty, and it was a moonless night.

 

"Do not fear, signore," Zevran mused in his deep voice, his accent thick and rolling. "We have the place all to ourselves."

 

The man's eyes widened. His warm blood oozed through Zevran's fingers.

 

"You are probably wondering why a fine gentleman such as myself is taking your life behind a brothel. And after we had such an entertaining night!" the elf said. He firmly held the Bann still. "You must understand, Signore Ceorlic. This is not personal. I harbor you no ill will. But mia signora?" Zevran chuckled. "You should have known better than to cross an Antivan."

 

The light finally began to fade from the old man's eyes. Zevran kept both hands in place until he was certain the nobleman was dead. When he was, the elf slowly pulled his dagger out, wiping the blade on the Bann's exquisite velvet tunic. With the same hand, Zevran slid Ceorlic's gold signet ring off his finger.

 

Stepping away from the body, the elf watched it drop, before stealing back into the shadows.

 

***

 

Kallian filled a copper basin with cold water, before going over to stoke the hearth. When she was done with that, she headed for the door, just as it was opening.

 

Zevran was surprised to see the handmaiden in his room at this hour. It was even more inconvenient that she had the place so well lit, from the hearth to all the candles placed around the room.

 

"My lord," she bowed, perfectly calm as always.

 

He snorted. "You're a long way from the royal quarters," he remarked. "And you already know I am no lord."

 

"Even so, your mistress is very close to the future Queen," Kallian said simply. "She would want you to be well cared for."

 

The tall elf snickered. "Margeria doesn't give a damn." He paused, as though remembering something. "Shouldn't you be off to Ostagar?"

 

"Such an endeavor takes time, my lord," she replied, with a slight shrug. "The formal proclamation hasn't even been signed. And besides, not everyone can afford to suddenly pack up and move across the country."

 

He looked her over, trying to figure out her. She saw him, and for the first time, the corners of her mouth teased the tiniest smirk.

 

"I have set out water for you to wash, my lord. I made sure it was very cold."

 

He raised an eyebrow. "Why would you think I'd want to wash in cold water?"

 

She met his eyes. "Because it's the best for cleaning blood, my lord."

 

She bowed slightly and left before he could speak again, leaving him to watch after her, stunned.

 

*** 

 

"Bann Ceorlic?" Elissa glanced down at her gown, then up at her reflection. "That's the third one this month."

 

"Is it?" Margeria asked, sitting nearby and casually embroidering. "Only three in a month?"

 

The young Warden shot her a look over her shoulder. "This isn't Antiva, Zia."

 

The older woman cackled. "It is most certainly not. The last time an Antivan king died, dozens of nobles followed in his wake." She snickered. "Some even died at his wake."

 

"Thankfully, His Majesty is not that sort of king," the tailor remarked, hemming Elissa's gown.

 

"That's right, Marta," Elissa said, nodding resolutely. "Alistair is loved." 

 

Margeria wheezed. "Love will kill you faster than hate." She looked up. "How do you find the gown?"

 

"Well, it's a gown," Elissa said simply. "You know I can't tell one from another." It was white, fitted, and in the classic Antivan style. It felt completely alien upon her body.

 

"You have been wearing gowns for weeks now and still haven't adjusted?" her aunt chastised her. For split second, Elissa swore she heard her mother's voice.

 

"I've been wearing armor for years," Elissa replied wearily. "It will take some time, Zia."

 

"I should send for another dress for the King's sister," Margeria said, returning to her embroidery. "Marta, when you are finished here, go measure the Lady Goldanna."

 

"Yes, my lady."

 

"She'll probably want an Orlesian gown," Elissa muttered, looking down as she fiddled with the laces at her back. "Isolde has been working night and day to remake Goldanna in her image."

 

Her aunt grinned. "See? You can tell a difference."

 

Elissa froze, turned back to her reflection, and cringed.

 

***

 

"Bann Ceorlic?" Alistair turned to look at Arl Eamon. The men were on horseback, going for a hunt in the cool spring morning. Behind them, the royal guards trailed.

 

The aging nobleman nodded. "Killed behind a brothel before the sun came up."

 

"Ceorlic? Behind a brothel?" Alistair laughed heartily, tossing his head back.

 

"If you remember, he opposed us at the Landsmeet," Eamon said sagely.

 

The King nodded. "Oh, I remember. He was a staunch supporter of Loghain, even after Elissa won my crown for me." He paused, looking down. "Did you do it?"

 

"Do what, Your Majesty?"

 

Alistair flashed him a stern look.

 

Eamon's eyes widened in surprise. "No, Sire. You know that's not my way."

 

"It's not Elissa's either," the King sighed.

 

The Arl raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain?"

 

Alistair shook his head. "Elissa's not a dagger-in-the-dark sort. She'll stab you in the front, in the daytime, in front of everyone. And then she'll put your head on a spike, just in case anyone might forget."

 

"Even so, Sire, you know how this will look," Eamon warned. "The nobles think we only spoke of peace to get the throne. And now that we have it..." He deliberately trailed off.

 

Alistair was tired. The Blight was over. The winds blew clean and cool, the sky was brilliantly blue, and all he wanted was to hunt something edible for a change.

 

"Yes, Eamon," the King murmured. He tugged at his stirrups, urging his horse to speed up. "I know." 

 

***

Anora sat in the palace chapel, staring into space. On the outside, she was numb, devoid of expression. On the inside, she was a storm.

 

If they wanted me dead, they would just do it, she kept telling herself. She worked hard to keep from fidgeting, or constantly glancing around. Elissa would chop off my head and get it over with.

 

Someday, Alistair won't need my counsel anymore, she realized. What then? The Tower? Or a spike?

 

She didn't know which one she preferred. 

 

"Good morrow, my lady." Anora looked up, searching for the source. The accent was Orlesian. Its owner was a tall young Chantry maiden with short red hair.

 

Anora's first instinct was to correct the girl. The last thing she needed right now was anyone thinking she still clung to titles.

 

"I'm no lady," she said. Her words came out breathlessly, betraying her discomfort. "I'm just... I just came to..." She gestured vaguely around the chapel.

 

"I know," the initiate said. "I've seen you here before. The chapel is open to all who seek solace."

 

"Oh, no, no," Anora tittered, flushed. While she never openly blasphemed, she was also wasn't much a of a believer. She always preferred to simply keep the Chantry occupied with the poor and out of her hair. "I came for silence, not solace."

 

The initiated tilted her head slightly. "Are they not the same?"

 

Anora knew better than to debate the clergy. "I suppose," she conceded. "What is your name, child?" she asked, changing the focus.

 

"Leliana, my lady."

 

"You sound Orlesian, but I can tell you've spent some time in Ferelden," Anora noted. "How long have you been in Denerim?"

 

"I just arrived," Leliana replied. "I was in Lothering, before it fell to the darkspawn."

 

Anora nodded gravely. "I remember. A horrific tragedy that was."

 

They were interrupted when the maiden was summoned away by another initiate.

 

"My lady," Leliana said, bowing before leaving.

 

"Farewell," Anora replied softly, watching her go.

 

"Imagine being that young and beautiful, and spending the best years of your life behind Chantry walls."

 

Anora turned to see a new face. "Ambassador del Mar," she greeted, blinking rapidly. "I'm surprised to see you here."

 

"Please," the Rivaini woman smiled. "Call me Maryam." She took a seat next to Anora, looking around the chapel. "It's not the same without the Seers," she sighed.

 

"That's right," Anora recalled. "The Rivaini Chantry embraces mages." She paused. "How do you find Ferelden?"

 

Maryam chuckled. She had dimples when she smiled and her dark eyes twinkled. "You know, I've never understood the concept of a King."

 

Anora's eyes widened. She turned all the way around so she could look at the Ambassador. "You know what?" she gasped. "Neither have I!"