As promised, here is the beginning of my new chaptered fic. Those of you who have been reading my stuff for a long time may experience a little deja-vu - I wrote this chapter over a year ago and posted it on SiB. It was chewing at my brain and I had to purge it so I could carry on with T&S. I have also posted Chapter 2, which will be new to all of you.
Unlike T&S I won't be conforming to a regular posting schedule. You don't want to know how close T&S came to burning me out completely, and I don't want to go there again just yet. But I have always finished what I've begun, and I don't intend to change that anytime soon. I hope you enjoy it, and I look forward to hearing what you all think. Writing Antiva is harder than writing Ferelden, and I need feedback badly in order to get over my nerves. Thank you for reading! Regards, Karen.
-oOo-
The sun beats down on the flagged walkways. It glints on the reeking water of the canal, gleams on the pale frontages of the palazzi, and flashes on the dainty swords of the strolling nobili and of the sons of the rich commercianti who ape their ways, distinguishable only by the blatant ostentation of their finery. Its fierce rays fail to penetrate the alleys between and behind the rich palazzi, which snake, and bend, and merge until eventually they give way to the grandeur of the Piazza, or to one of several less impressive campi.
In the backstreets and alleys, the overhanging balconies and buildings provide blessed shade, although the mercy is lessened by the overwhelming stink of refuse, mingling with the stench of the canals to provide an olfactory torture. Not that this has any effect upon the man who sprawls in the deep shade of a squalid doorstep, one arm across his eyes, the other flung out over the steps in the total abandonment of a drunken stupor. A big man, a huge man, his muscular physique not yet wasted by his lifestyle, which is likely the only reason he still wears clothes, and does not sport a wide, red smile around his throat. This is not a good place to drop one's guard so completely.
He wakes with startling suddenness; one moment a rag doll, the next on his feet, brought to a warrior's alertness by… something. A second later, the granddaddy of all headaches slams between his eyes, and he slumps against the wall groaning. "Oh Maker, not again." His voice is husky, rough, but not yet truly broken by fiery spirit. Its timbre suggests that this is merely a matter of time; its despairing tone confirms it more completely.
A noise from the gloomy alley across the way brings his head around sharply, and he curses at the effect of the movement. Guttural laughter and, yes… a scream. That's what woke him, a scream; headache or not, nausea or not, armed or not, he can't ignore that siren call.
He blunders through refuse and night-soil, no thought in his mind, pure instinct overriding the searing pain in his head. Someone is in trouble, nothing more and nothing less. Two men, little more than boys, crouch over a bundle of pink cloth and foaming white lace; a dress and petticoat, flung over the head of a girl, leaving her stockinged legs bare. His roar of rage captures their attention, their hands moving from their breech-fastenings to their knives; but these are no trained killers, and they move too slowly. There is a sickening crack of bone, and one drops his knife with a scream of pain. The other slashes wildly, catching the man across the arm before being slammed against the wall of the alley, the knife spinning away. He punches the boy until he drops unconscious, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm.
The fracas has drawn attention, which the girl's screams did not; a girl in trouble brings no profit, but a brawl offers opportunity for the unconscious or dead to be stripped of possessions. An audience gathers, as he gently rearranges the dress of the sobbing girl, a scared brunette of no more than fourteen perhaps, making the helpless shushing noises of a strong man out of his element. Behind him, knives are drawn across the throats of the injured boys, and hands rifle through pockets. It takes a moment for their presence to penetrate, past the throbbing hangover and the frantic crying of the girl who clings to him. When he turns with a reproving frown, the looters shrug. "They are already dead, signore. She is one of Serafina's girls; her house is under the protection of the Corvi."
He pushes against his eye sockets with the heel of his hand, as though to press the pain out through the back of his head, trying to concentrate. "Which house?" he asks. Provided with directions from those stuffing their pockets, he carefully picks up the girl-child and sets off to take her home.
The address is of a fair sized palazzo, fronting onto the waterways. The baking sun reflects blindingly off its pale façade, intensifying an already vicious headache. There's no sign outside the door to show whether this is a home, or a house of commerce, but a plaque bears a pair of black iron wings. Le ali del corvo; marking the palazzo as under the protection of the Corvi. In Antiva, even an ignorant foreigner learns that sign quickly, or risks sudden death.
A sleepy porter at the door curses at the sight of the man, dripping blood and carrying a half-dazed girl. He scurries into the house, calling for his mistress.
The woman who answers the call has sharp dark eyes at odd variance with her voluptuous body, encased in showy finery. She's a handsome woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with black hair and creamy skin, which no longer holds the blush of youth. "Catarina!" she exclaims on catching sight of the girl. "Come in, signore. Please, set her down on the couch."
The man sways where he stands, his eyes unfocussed in the dim hall after the glare of the sun. The fight, the blood loss, and the heat have all mixed badly with his hangover, and now his self-imposed task is complete, his limbs feel like water. He frowns, unable to summon enough co-ordination to do as he was asked, and carefully sets the girl on her feet instead. "Your daughter was attacked, madam, I…" he staggers against a small table, spilling its contents to the marble floor, and tries to recover. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to…" His mind gives up the fight with his body; he slides into unconsciousness, skidding down the wall to land in an ungainly heap.
-oOo-
"Such surprising things wash up on the shores of Rialto Bay, eh?"
"As you say, padrone." Serafina kept her tone neutral.
The man in the bed did not appear particularly surprising. Unwashed, unshaven foreigners stinking of bad brandy aren't exactly uncommon in Antiva City. The most surprising thing about him was that he saved Caterina, and brought her home. For that, Serafina had been willing to see his wound bound up, and food inside him, rather than having the porter throw him down the steps, as she would with any other drunk.
The arrival of their padrone, while the porter was still trying to lug the unconscious body to a seat so they could bandage him, had changed that plan. She had been profuse in her apologies at the unseemly scene, but the padrone had waved her words aside, his gaze on the foreigner. It was at his bidding that the drunk now lay in one of her good chambers. If that was what the padrone wanted, then that was what he got. He had plucked her from the whorehouse she served in, and set her up in this establishment. Given her an opportunity she could never have dreamed of; to run her own house, a superior house, answerable only to the Corvi. Why me, padrone? she'd asked when he made the offer. Because you were kind to a child, he'd said. It was virtually impossible to see the skinny boy she had known in this graceful man. He wore power like a second skin over his beautifully made leather armour.
"I wish you to house him, feed him, dry him out, and put him to work. He will make a good bodyguard, so that your girls may enjoy the air without a repetition of today's drama."
"Him, padrone?" A mountain of scorn lay hidden beneath the hesitant question. "Is it safe to have such a one around my girls?" She hated to question her benefactor's wishes, but the virtue of her younger girls was where their value lay.
His laughter was rich, and genuine. "Do not worry, Signora Serafina. His morals are as strong as his sword arm. It is his will that is weak, and that allowed his ideals to break him. Antiva will toughen him up, yes? Make a man of him. And then, perhaps I shall have other work for such a one."
"As you wish, padrone. And if he asks why I do this for him? Do you wish to be named?"
"Not at the moment. You are returning his kindness to little Caterina, are you not? She is unharmed?"
"Yes, padrone, she remains intact. Her presentation is next week. I apologise for the mishap, she slipped out while the porter answered a call of nature."
"Running away?"
"Looking for him."
"Ah. His training will take longer than hers. Until that is complete, she will not find him. Perhaps one day. But in the meantime, finish her preparations. We should catch a sizable fish, with such beauty and sweetness. Now, leave us. I will be out in a moment; have Gina ready for me."
-oOo-
Zevran stood looking down at the unconscious man in the bed; at red-gold hair grown wild and filthy; at cheekbones too sharp under flushed, golden skin. Experienced eyes noted all the signs of drink, but he was not too far gone. Not yet. "I caught you just in time, amico mio," he murmured softly. "You picked a surer route to death than I did, but slower, much slower. Today, it is my turn to play saviour."
He ran a gentle finger down the sunken cheek, allowing himself the luxury of affection for a scarce moment. Despite the warden's suspicions, and fears, Zevran couldn't begin to count the number of times Alistair's shield had covered him, saved him. Here in Antiva, his virtues were doubly precious for their rarity, while his weakness doubly threatened his life. "For now, you shall stay here, and learn, little templar. Learn about vice." Zevran's low chuckle held nothing of humour. "You think you know all about monsters, yes? You know nothing." His smile was bitter, self-mocking. "Here, we are all monsters, and your goodness, your kindness, is a beacon; one that would have obliterated you quicker than the drink, and more surely than the darkspawn. We must temper that goodness with wisdom, before I dare expose you to my world. But for now, you are safe."
-oOo-