A Magician and a Gentle Man, by xahra99.
An Anders-centric Dragon Age fan fiction written for the annual 20,000-word-plus scifibigbang ficathon.
"Can a magician kill a man by magic? Lord Wellington asked Strange.
Strange frowned. He seemed to dislike the question. "I suppose a magician might," he admitted, "but a gentleman never would."
-Susannah Clarke, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell.
Chapter One:
Anders stepped back and surveyed his work with pride.
The booth's tiny interior looked both tawdry and cheap. Gauzy scarves hung from the ceiling and the freshly whitewashed walls were freckled with large blue stars. An amethyst geode was displayed prominently on a table next to a deck of creased pasteboard tarot cards, a stack of tortoise-shells and a crystal ball the size of an apple. The air smelt faintly of patchouli. A freshly painted sign above the yellow curtain advertised a name that was neither Anders nor the name that Anders had been born with.
He caught sight of his appearance in the shop's tiny window and studied the reflection carefully, examining his likeness for flaws. Cheap crystal beads glittered in his ears and around his neck, spilling over the shoulders of a frankly ridiculous coat with a fur collar. Clear-lensed spectacles with brass frames completed the ensemble. Anders was working on a beard, but that would take time. He looked false as a copper sovereign.
Anders nodded in satisfaction and decided that if he hadn't been cursed with magic, he'd have made a half-decent hedge wizard.
He hadn't planned to stay in town at all. It had just worked out that way.
Easthill was a small market town in the Ferelden hinterlands; indistinguishable to anybody but a local from several others in the area. The town had five inns and only one chantry. The chantry held a single cleric with poor eyesight and a tolerant temperament. It was as close to perfection as Anders had ever hoped to find.
On his second day in town he had begun to tell fortunes in the inns in return for food and drinks. By sunset he had told a fortune that had been so uncannily accurate it had surprised even Anders, who had taken his cues from his client's tense and immaculately powdered face. She had suggested moving to the marketplace. Anders had followed her advice.
That had been three months ago.
Anders had been in Easthill ever since. It was the longest he had stayed anywhere except Calenhad since he'd been twelve, and he was beginning to hope against all evidence that the Templars would overlook him. True, they still had his phylactery, but even the Templars had to prioritise their mages. Anders, barely out of his teens and notorious only for his facility with escape plans, was nobody's idea of a threat.
First Enchanter Irving had never seen Anders as anything more than an amusing inconvenience, but the Templars were a different tale. They'd find him eventually. They always did. After all, they had his phylactery. But right now, he was free. It was unfortunate that freedom meant freedom to starve as much as it meant freedom to spend his days how he chose, but there were far worse ways to spend time than fabricating pretty lies for pay.
Anders made a few last adjustments and ran a critical eye around the tiny cubicle. Everything was in place. His stomach growled, reminding him forcibly that there were errands to be run before the day's business began. He drew the curtain at the front of his small shop, collected his pail from its hiding place beneath the table and headed to the market.
The sky overhead was as blue as cornflowers and faded like worn linen round the edges. The streets were already beginning to fill. It was market day, which meant good business. Anders smiled and jingled a handful of copper coins in his pocket as he walked along.
A few of the townsfolk hailed him with shouts or friendly nods. Anders nodded back, keeping a sharp ear open for any snatches of gossip that might be of use later. He waved at the town midwife as she walked by with her bag of medicinal herbs. He'd always found other healers to be likely allies, should the need arise.
The marketplace was filling up even as he reached it. The earth-packed square was already bright with awnings, and a few traders had even laid their blankets on the steps of the market cross. Business was brisk. The stallholders were friendly and relaxed. Their clothes, if ragged, were of all colours and shapes, not just Circle robes. Anders even saw a few dwarfs. The air was thick with strange scents and filled with conversation. The people of Easthill gossiped freely. They didn't have to look over their shoulders for Templars, and they talked about all sorts of things that weren't mentioned in the Tower.
"Nice sunrise this morning," Anders heard a woman say to her companion. "The weather's beautiful today."
That was another thing. Nobody in the Tower talked about the weather. There was no weather. No wind. No rain. No shops. No trade.
No music, Anders thought as a flute player began to play an inexpert tune, no poetry, and certainly none of those unnaturally-coloured little drinks with umbrellas that they serve at the Three Kings.
He winced as the flutist hit a flat note, and wondered if the Tower's lack of musicians was a blessing in disguise. Anders had always been far too wary to try any number of things on his previous excursions from the Tower, including alcohol, drugs or close relationships, but his ambition was to try everything some day, no matter how illegal or depraved.
Especially those things that were illegal or depraved. The more so, the better, as far as Anders was concerned.
There were many choices in the real world that simply weren't available to a mage. Choice was frowned upon in the Circle, because mages always somehow chose to be slavering Abominations. Anders had no idea why. There were so many other options.
He looked around the market at the array of goods for sale, and guessed that the selection would be much wider in Thedas or Kirkwall. He didn't care. There was so much, so many choices, that he thought he might possibly burst if faced with any more options. He chose a stall at random, and pointed to a pile of wizened apples.
"Three, please."
The apple-seller smiled at Anders as she passed him the fruit. "They're good today."
"I'm sure they are," agreed Anders. He gave the apple-seller a wide grin. The seller, a short woman with the dark hair and curvaceous figure of a native Ferelden, smiled back, barriers crumbling beneath his relentless cheerfulness.
"We don't get many of your type around here," she said, handing him another apple free of charge and causing his blood to freeze briefly before she added "It's a long way from the Anderfels, after all."
Anders let out a breath he hadn't realised that he'd been holding. "You've been?"
She shook her head. "No. Though I've heard it's a cold and lonely place. What brings you here?"
Anders shrugged. "Business," he said casually. He was relieved when she nodded and the interest faded from her eyes.
"Well," she said, "have a good day."
Anders waved. "And you."
He left the stall quickly, thanking the Maker that most Fereldens did not travel and had never seen a mage in person. It was simple to blame any erratic behaviour on the strange customs of a different province where people were odd and looked different. Most people looked the other way as long as Anders didn't actually wear Circle robes and walk around carrying a staff.
He finished the rest of his shopping, filled his bucket at the well and headed back to his stall, crunching on the apple as he walked. When he had stowed his groceries away in the little space available he sat down at the table and began to deal the cards, legs sprawled out nearly to the wide open door.
To his surprise the cards held no ominous threats of Templar incarceration or demonic possession.
Anders shuffled through the deck, reciting the meaning of each card in his mind for practice. He might act the charlatan, but he had at least some pride. If he was going to fake it, then he'd be the best fake that he could. He picked one card from the pack to examine the picture, recognising the ageing features of King Maric Theirin in the Emperor's face. The Empress bore a similar resemblance to grey-haired old Queen Rowan.
"Dear lady," he intoned under his breath. "I see a handsome man in your future, one who will bring you great joy. Your husband, perhaps?" He paused, waiting for his imaginary customer's response. "You are not married? Then the cards are certain that you shall soon be wed-"
He turned over another card, winced, and shuffled past the Tower with the ease of long practice. Images flickered beneath his fingers as he turned the simple shuffle into a flamboyant display of sleight of hand. The high priestess was a robed Divine, the Magician a staff-holding Circle mage. Justice was depicted as a spirit of the Fade, wearing pale armour that reminded Anders far too much of Templar mail for comfort.
He shivered and shuffled the cards back into their pack. Each pasteboard square fell neatly into place face-down. The ornately patterned designs on the backs of the cards completely obscured the tiny ink marks that Anders had placed there for easy identification.
He swept a tendril of hair from his eyes and looked up as a client arrived, assessing the woman instantly. Attractive; but not too beautiful, rich; but not close to really wealthy. She had a scar on the third finger of her left hand where a wedding ring had been recently removed, and a sad look in her eyes that put Anders in mind of the mages who had just been made Tranquil, as if she had only recently began to understand what she had lost.
She smiled at Anders, a polite little curve that erased the sadness from her eyes for a handful of seconds. "Good morning," she said, calling Anders by his other fake name, the one that wasn't Anders. "I've heard that you tell fortunes."
Anders forced a smile in return. "Sounds like you've come to the right place," he said, standing to pull out a seat for her opposite to his own. He made sure that she was settled, observed the usual pleasantries, and waited until she twisted her handkerchief nervously and said "Some-some things have happened. It would help me to know what to do."
Anders pounced. "Then let me tell you why you're here. You're recently widowed." His eyes flicked to her figure beneath the tight woollen gown, recalling snatches of tavern gossip as he did so. "You've had one-no, two," he added hastily as she began to frown, "children. Your husband's death's left you without support and you've had to break up your household. Now your parents are prepared to take you in. It's a generous gift, but your husband's family have offered to make you a partner in your father's business. You're worried about the future of your children and you're not sure how to proceed. Am I right?"
Her mouth fell open in surprise. "That's amazing."
"It's my business," Anders told her. "Now how shall we proceed? I have cards, crystals or an array of other methods. Which would you prefer?"