His voice hoarse, spent on the angry tirade, Martin dismissed the moonfaced man with a brusque wave of his hand. "At least say you're sorry, even if you can't mean it, you incompetent idiot."
"I am sorry to have displeased you, Senior Enchanter Barvera," the other man parroted back in unforced monotone, before following the mage's unspoken directive, leaving him alone to silently fume. Martin resisted the urge to pick up the decorative amphora on his dresser and hurl it after the servant's retreating form; it would be a poor use of Lady Pietra's patron gift. 'At least elves show the proper servility.' His ornately gilded bauta with a stylized quincunx on the forehead, part of the costume he'd commissioned for the Tignanelli family's Satinalia fête and given to Ciprian for safekeeping, was missing and the mask's loss justified his harsh judgment of the Tower's attendant. 'Peerless craftsmen they might be, but the Tranquil will forever be synonymous with failure.' No doubt one of his rivals, perhaps even Agnella – she was a crafty one, for all that she was a woman – disposed of it, with the thought of keeping him from tonight's revels. His open acknowledgement of the forbidden fifth school of magic titillated the nobility and enraged his less bold brethren.
The loss was socially awkward; it also interfered with his private plans for the evening. Mages, even those highly placed within the Circle of Magi, shouldn't be seen skulking in certain areas of Antiva City. Without a disguise to conceal his identity, a street urchin with an ounce of sense could capitalize by selling the information to any of his enemies – or his allies.
Martin snapped his fingers contemptuously, 'After tonight…' and finished dressing. The heavy, crushed velvet robe proved as oppressively stifling as he knew it would be in late summer's lingering heat but gaudy, fluttering silks did not impart the same sense of presence. These others only played at intrigue – he would prove himself the master.
The celebration wasn't what he expected. Accustomed to conveyance by carriage, the commonality of the congested press of bodies through square and lane galled him. Forced to join the sluggish stream of people, Martin carefully kept his head bowed and avoided the swirling eddies of torchlight and too much laughter. He paused briefly on one of the arching stone bridges above the waterway, but the slight breeze ferried only the brackish scent of stagnant water stirred by the couples poling their punts through the canal; its cooling lack wilted him like the drooping garlands that festooned every iron railing and maiden's neck.
His memorized route took him through the so-called Plaza of Strangling Vines, where the walls crawled with desiccated clematis; their dried, ropy texture that of a hangman's noose served as a testament to the Agnese family's miserly ways in this section of the city. Even here, where each scuffed footstep raised a dusty cloud of dirt, folk gathered together with a comfortable familiarity the mage had no wish to share. More than once, someone caught his elbow with entreaties of "Come dance… come drink…""Restare," another called, genderless and husky from overindulgence, as a sweaty hand grasped his. A mild pulse of electricity through his fingertips allowed him to pull away and he ducked down an alley before the stranger's curses turned the crowd ugly.
Repeated, furtive glances over his shoulder told Martin he was not followed, although the shaped shadows from the cut metal Satinalia lanterns skulked warily at the edge of his vision like the city's overabundance of stray cats. They, along with the sound of his own footsteps kept him company now, as he navigated the maze of streets to his final landmark. The Fontana dei Cavalli Marini was huge and impossible to miss; its appearance quelled his growing concern that despite his meticulous planning, he had turned wrongly at some point his journey. The Agnese territory behind him, the seahorse fountain ran freely, a constant flow of water from the oversized conch shell braced on the back of four horses into the pool below. Temporarily spared their fate because of the week long holiday, the splashes were accompanied by the mournful lowing of animals from the nearby leather making district, mixed with the faint odor of offal and the coppery tang of dried blood he could taste in the back of his throat.
He sat on the basin's lip and let its spray refresh him as the canal hadn't. His imperfect mental map of the poorer city districts made him wonder which of the great families or trading houses controlled this sector. The carved fountain exceeded even his standards of largess – and who here could properly appreciate it? He snorted derisively at the image of a tanner staring admiringly at the craftsmanship; more likely he'd be wishing for a chance to test the imaginary animal's hide for its workability. Such dreams sparkled in the pool's bottom; scattered among the copper sardins were several silvery andris, shimmering like shed fish scales and it struck Martin as ridiculous, for those who could scarcely afford it, to throw their wealth away.
Cooled, and composure regained, the mage braced himself to stand when a moonlit gleam caught his eye. Certainty warred only momentarily with decorum before he quickly rolled up his sleeve and plunged his arm into the tepid water. His questing fingers brushed the smaller coins and sorted by size as the ripples above distorted his view, until…
Victorious, he claimed his prize: a pair of golden finae – and pity the poor fool who needed luck so badly. Satisfied, he added them to his purse. 'A good omen,' and, confident now of the profitability of his own venture, Martin wasted no more time; shaking his forearm dry, he hurried on to his rendezvous.
The shop was a mean little building with a sharply slanted roof and a hanging sign with a device so faded it gave no indication as to what might lay within. The door, warped in its frame, required a shove of his shoulder to lever it open and he stumbled into darkness with renewed misgivings about this potentially unnecessary risk. Graceful Marisol, his protégé, dead of a broken neck: the Circle ruled it an accidental death. The falling gargoyle, a month ago: the de las Roelas' house was very old, rebuilt after the Fourth Blight. The feeling of being covertly observed…
'The Templars,' his nagging inner voice insisted, 'are always watching.'
These things taken together might mean nothing – or everything. So, he peddled his worthless loyalty; there had been no shortage of buyers. Tignanelli, Agnese, de las Roelas and the rest – they believed him the perfect confidant and he betrayed them all, although they never guessed it. Their sold secrets were the coin that bought him this night and peace of mind that would last him a lifetime.
Martin's eyes adjusted rapidly; the initial dimness of the room was only a nervously perceived illusion. A thick candle flickered at his abrupt entrance and revealed the room's other occupant. Leather boots propped insolently on the makeshift counter, the man who leaned precariously back in his chair, balanced on two of its legs was not the person Martin expected to be meeting and it drew him up short. Too beautiful – he had seen drawings of the homely elves from the Free Marches and it was hard to believe Antivan elves were of the same race. 'As dogs,' he amended silently, 'with different coats, in colors and sizes.' Blond-haired, a sinuous tattoo snaked down the side of the seated man's face, dark on his dusky skin.
The niggling uncertainty he thought left behind at the threshold returned; he masked it by snapping, "You, elf – where's your master?"
"My master? Occupied elsewhere, I imagine. Never fear – I am perfectly capable of taking care of you." The elf wore his cocksure smile like an invitation.
With a hot pop, the candle's wick flared brightly, bleeding swiftly streaming runnels of creamy tallow onto the wooden countertop. Sufficiently cowed by the minor show of power, nothing of the other man's irreverence showed now – the chair dropped back to all four of its legs with a loud bang against the floorboards and the elf hurriedly got to his feet. Drawing a worn pouch from under his tunic, he poured the contents into Martin's outstretched, impatiently expectant hand.
Pooled in his palm, the mage hadn't expected the chain's weight; it felt heavier than the delicate, silvery links implied it should be. Martin lifted it, admiringly, before slipping it over his head and under his robes where the worked lyrium warmed with a painful tingle against his bare skin. In time, the toxic metal might scar his flesh, but for now, it rested against his breastbone with a persistent, stinging bite.
Absorbed in his acquisition, an abrupt motion drew his attention back to the elf and by then it was far too late to do anything but hold up his arms protectively, in a frightened and pitiful show of self-defense as the other's drawn blade sought his heart. The blow's momentum pushed him backward; losing his footing, Martin stumbled and fell. The hearty laughter he heard was a discordant counterpoint to his pain and then the elf was grasping his hand to pull him back to his feet.
"A demonstration, my friend!" the other man said cheerily, with an affable thump to Martin's chest as he hauled the mage up. "Convincing, yes?"
Martin's hands chased after the elf's brief touch; he pawed frantically at his robe, patting his chest where the knife penetrated. With awed fascination, he probed the hole that went no deeper than the fabric with his fingers, until the sudden rush of terror followed by elated triumph caught up with him, leaving him weak-kneed. His legs buckled. Instantly, the elf was at his side, supporting his weight. He guided the mage gently to his own recently vacated seat while he kept up a stream of genial chatter: about the festival, the weather, praise for Martin's wit and wisdom, even as he pressed a filled copita into the mage's shaky hand.
He downed the sherry gratefully, and tapped the glass' rim meaningfully for a refill, which the other man obediently provided. The second one the mage sipped, savoring the spirit's sweet, velvety flavor.
It was unfortunate that the elf had to die, of course. Handsome and tractable enough once he'd been put in his place, his presence indicated his master deemed him expendable – their bargain was to have been a secret. Although he hovered anxiously now, eager to please, with the other man's fate decided, Martin promptly dismissed him from his thoughts. His pulse slowed as he relaxed. He enjoyed his comforts here in Antiva City, but should he settle now for anything less than Ferryman's ring on his finger, at the Circle of Minrathous? 'Invulnerable – and what other mage since…'
The glass fell to the floor; its tapered bowl shattered on impact and its contents seeped into the floorboards.
A few minutes later, the elf stepped over the dead man, with a derisive shake of his head.
Morrigan's voice cut through the narrative. "Warden, why do you permit this charlatan to fill your head with his drivel?"
Sandor looked up at the woman standing in the doorway. He, along with Zevran and Alistair, spent the rainy day assembling one of Connor's teaching tools. Despite his feeble claims to the contrary, the former Templar had absorbed a great deal about Ferelden's landscape – both geographically and politically – so putting together the elaborate puzzle was more than just an entertaining diversion to while away the hours. Alistair's rumbling stomach eventually sent him to the kitchen for supper, leaving the two elves to finish the square-edged border – which was where the witch found them.
"Alas, amante, it is as she says," Zevran confided with mock contrition, draping an arm companionably over the mage's shoulder. "I am a scoundrel and a liar." To Morrigan, he said, "You, my dear, are looking radiant this evening. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"
Pointedly ignoring the Antivan, Morrigan didn't wait for an invitation to enter the room, but instead strode in and began purposefully rummaging through an untidy stack of books at Sandor's bedside. The elven Warden felt Zevran tense and instinctively knew the cause: her apparent disregard for what he considered to be Sandor's property.
Except that she understood what the assassin did not: what Sandor wanted couldn't be bought, bribed or begged from anyone – not in the Circle when he was on his best behavior, and not now. Nominally, the tomes were his, but if the Arl demanded them – or anything in the mage's possession, even his clothing – as payment for his hospitality, Sandor would give them up without a second thought. Zevran, on the other hand, jealously guarded the few things he could call his own, and watching Morrigan flip through and carelessly discard book after book would irritate the Antivan enough to provoke an unlooked for defense on the elven Warden's behalf.
After nearly a year Morrigan and Zevran's company, Sandor knew the signs of an upcoming argument and spoke blithely now in the hopes of deflecting a verbal confrontation. "Was there something I could help you fi–"
The witch whirled around, exultant, her finger pressed to a yellowed page as she recited:
On the very day that the final stone was set into place in the Grand Cathedral of Orlais, Archon Vespasian was assassinated. For three days, every magister lord of the Imperium lived behind a wall of armored guards. When his successor, Hadarius, was finally named archon, the first enchanter of the Circle of Minrathous presented him with a gift: a silvery unadorned chain made from pure lyrium. Enchantments had been worked into the links of the chain so that donning this necklace was like holding up a shield: Blows struck at the wearer glanced harmlessly away. Unfortunately–
"–Hadarius found that the shield did not protect him against poison nearly so well." Sandor finished automatically, to Morrigan's astonished stare and Zevran's bemused one. The mage gave a small mental sigh. 'Curse and blessing, that's me; harder to forget than remember.'
"If you recognized his ramblings repeated the legend you unearthed not even a fortnight ago – the one that kept you up a night and a day searching for, when you recovered that necklace from that man who lead Denerim's blood mage cabal," she demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Zevran, "why do you allow him to integrate himself into it for nothing more than his own self-aggrandizement?"
"If I have embellished the story slightly, where is the harm? And who is to say such a thing did not happen to me in Antiva?" the assassin countered testily. "There was indeed a Senior Enchanter Barvera – you may inquire with the Circle of Magi and discover he is most definitely dead. The Archive of the Crows is a den of wonders and with the right contacts–"
Despite the implication, neither Zevran nor Morrigan expected Sandor's input at this juncture; they were content to bicker with one another over the finer points of truth, myth and the assassin's ego. Which was just as well; the elven Warden had no desire to reveal his thoughts on Zevran because his own foolish daydreams placed them in a badly written parody of a fairy tale with an impossibly happy ending. 'It's my story,' his thoughts tinged with a sadness he'd never vocalize, 'and in a few months Alistair will be the hero and everything else will be… settled one way or another. It doesn't hurt anyone to let me pretend–'
"–or do you disagree, mago?"
Caught woolgathering, Sandor's eyes darted from Zevran to Morrigan, both of whom looked at him expectantly for an answer to the question the Antivan had asked that the elven Warden hadn't heard. He opened his mouth, prepared to give a noncommittal answer which would probably prolong the debate, but in the resultant pause, Zevran took the choice of words away from him.
"There, you see? My Warden does not mind if I take certain… liberties." The Antivan shot Sandor a sly glance, his droll tone laden with innuendo as his arm tightened around the mage's shoulder, drawing him closer. "There is always room for a bit of Zevran self-insertion, yes?"
Sandor clamped his mouth shut abruptly – he didn't trust himself to speak without laughing – while Morrigan's face took on a pinched look, not unlike Wynne's after delivering a lecture about Grey Warden responsibility and morality. "As it seems nothing short divine intervention will encourage you to be silent, I will perform a miracle of my own, and at least spare others the burden of listening to you!" She stormed out, the door shutting with a loud slam, behind her.
"Now, where was I? Ah yes… have I told you of the time," Zevran said, turning to the mage with a mischievous gleam in his eye, "I spared the life of a handsome Grey Warden?"
"No," Sandor answered, with an equally lighthearted grin. "But I'd like to hear how that one turns out."
This story very nearly never saw the (public) light of day. It is my entry into the Asunder writing contest which I've been too embarrassed to share until I was done "fixing" it (which entailed much editing, the addition of an actual codex quote which the contest didn't allow and overall about 500 more words, total, which put me barely over the contest's original limit). Even now, though, it's difficult for me because despite what I can try and tell myself: that it didn't actually fit the intended requirements (this is a Zevran and Warden story, not really a mage story), that it criticized the source material (DA2 elves are ugly) and a dozen other excuses, it was read by a Bioware writer and deemed terrible (I'm pretty sure I broke nearly all of David Gaider's "Don't do this when you write" rules). And let's face it - no one wants to know they're terrible. So instead I wallowed miserably and endlessly edited... (even after editing, terrible story is still terrible. Just saying.) I do send sincere congratulations to the finalists, one of whom is my best friend, jenovan, whose story was amazing. If there is another contest, I'm sure my story will be equal parts Zevran and Warden and I will still strive for the crumb of validation, unless we have to write about Hawke and then I will just say, "Bollocks!"
But Zevran wouldn't let it (or me) go (although he's rarely quiet. That's a muse for you). What this story did do was give me a chance to really examine the role Zevran's taken on for me - that of the storyteller, which is canonically, given to Leliana - and why. I won't detail it all here, but, for example, one of the reasons is because it's his way to try to ground Sandor in the "here and now." After spending the latter part of his tenure in the Tower virtually mute, it is far too tempting for Sandor to retreat to what's familiar - silence and books. And whereas Leliana will tell a story, Zevran makes a conscious effort to engage his listener - pausing for questions (to ask or answer), detailed explanations of specific landmarks or circumstances (the minutiae) or verbal lessons (because on some level he believes Sandor is exceedingly naive and is a danger to himself). Another reason is far more obvious - Zevran tells stories about himself because he's incredibly vain and likes being the center of attention. But, hand in hand with that, is that most his stories deal with him being an assassin (ie killing people) because while he's at peace with himself and what he did/does, he can't quite believe that there won't come a point where he reveals something and it turns Sandor away. So, you get a mixture of ruthless truth and heroizing (that's not even a WORD). There are other reasons, but overall, I did learn from writing this (I maybe didn't improve but I did learn), so... as I said, Zevran finally said it was time to be brave and post it up and move back/up/on to what we were working on BEFORE the contest.
I feel like there's more I want to say but now I get down to writing the end notes, I'm nervous all over again and have forgotten whatever it was I wanted to say. Thank you to all the readers and reviewers; I probably don't say it enough but it does help during the darkest days of no motivation, to know that there are people out there who do enjoy what I've taken the time (and pains) to put down on paper.
S, Z and I thank you for taking the time to read this chapter. If you're so inclined, feel free to review (a critique is just as valued as praise). I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).