Gregory pulled his hood over his face, listening carefully to the sounds of the alley. A few rats fought over a rotting apple, but besides that, the streets were silent. As carefully as he could, Gregory lowered himself off the window sill, dangled for a moment, before falling to the alley.
Of course, it didn't go as plan- Gregory landed awkwardly and fell onto face.. Groaning, he took account of his body- nothing broken, nothing sprained. A little bruised, but otherwise unhurt. Minrathous was filled with precarious ledges, uneven roads, and dangerously pointy statues; Gregory learned quickly to minimize that damage of any encounters with the oddly deadly architecture.
Gregory pushed himself to his feet and stalked down the alley, trying to stay in the shadows. Forty one, forty two, forty three, he counted the house numbers as he passed beneath them. Once in awhile, he could hear snippets of muted conversations floating from open windows. Did they know what was happening just outside their walls, who was walking in their alley? Did they care?
At house forty seven, Gregory stopped and knocked on the door three times, paused, then knocked twice. After a minute, the door cracked open, and a piercing blue eye peeked out into the darkness. Appraising him for a moment, the door widened and revealed a voluptuous woman, her hair and neck covered painstakingly with a deep blue scarf. Her apron was dusty with flour, and her face was twisted in a frown.
"You're late." She said.
"No, I'm not!" Gregory protested in a fierce whisper. As if to prove him wrong, the clock struck one o'clock, a single chime humming in the air. He cursed under his breath and said, "Sorry, I'm not used to scaling across rooftops in the middle of the night."
The baker scoffed. "Come in." She let him pass by her, into the dark kitchen. A small fire crackled quietly in the fireplace, casting a soft orange glow over the sacks of flour, the cheap iron utensils hanging on the wall, and the beat-up wooden counters.
"Smells good." Gregory said awkwardly. The baker eyed him skeptically, and he examined his feet, unable to meet her gaze. He did not look like a revolutionary, or a slave smuggler, he knew.
"Here," she said after a moment. Ambling over to the sacks of flours, she began carefully moving them aside. Gregory came up beside her, helping, until a small, wooden hatch was revealed from under the sacks. The baker pulled a ring of keys from her apron, carefully selecting one, and unlocked the hatch. When she pulled it open, three pairs of eyes glinted in the firelight, shining with fear. Gregory leaned down.
"It's alright." Gregory said. "We're going to get you out."
The three elven slaves seemed to shrink closer to the ground. Gregory tried to smile reassuringly, but it failed. Eventually, one rose, and extended a hand towards him. A boy, maybe seventeen, with black hair grimy in the dim light. Gregory took his hand and hoisted him out, then his companions- another boy and a girl. All three were starving, little more than a bundle of bones. Their clothes were worn threadbare, shapeless and stained with blood, sweat, dirt, and urine. The girl, with the first boy's black hair and cool blue eyes, had an ugly cut across her cheekbone. The second boy was in better shape than the other two, his arms muscular and his hands bearing the callouses of a warrior or a smith.
"We must be quick." Gregory said. "The carriage is waiting for us over two streets."
"Why so far?" The baker asked.
"To avoid suspicion." Gregory reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sack of golden pieces, handing it to the baker.
"I don't need this." She said gruffly.
"No, but I'd like you to have it." The baker took the sack and shook out five pieces before handing the sack back. Gregory sighed, but didn't protest. "Come," he said, walking to the door. Suddenly, huge booming knocks echoed through the bakery. Everyone froze.
"Madame Revilia!" A voice called. "Magicum Guard! Open up!"
"Go!" The baker whispered angrily. She pushed the elves and Gregory out the door and grabbed a knife from the hanging rack. "I'll buy you all the time I can."
A Soporati with a knife against the Magicum Guard? Gregory's heart ached, but he wrapped his arms around the elves and began to run.
"If we can make it out of the alley," Gregory said. "We'll make it." That dream seemed out of reach, the elves were struggling to walk. The muscular elf picked up the girl, and they managed to pick up speed. As they were nearing the corner, the baker exploded into a ball of flame. The elves shrieked and stopped, but Gregory grabbed them by their arms and pulled them along.
"There's nothing we can do." He said, furiously trying to keep his guilt in check. If he had left earlier, if he had been more careful. She had been no one, only a woman with a kind heart, a willingness to risk something for others. He had been sloppy, careless, unprofessional, stupid, stupid, stupid-
From the flames, three dark figures appeared in the alley. As Gregory and the elves rounded the corner, one of the figures spotted them, shouted incoherently, and launched a ball of flame. It missed, but the elven girl still screamed.
"Hurry!" Gregory called. Down the next alley, another left, over the fence, straight for a block, then another right. The elves stumbled, fell, but always got back up, always kept running. The last alley ended in a brick wall.
"We're doomed!" The skinny elf gasped. Gregory ignored him, bent down, and lifted the heavy iron cover to the sewers. "Get in," he gasped through gritted skinny elf went in first, and then the muscular one lowered the girl down, gently.
"Hurry," Gregory said. One of the guards appeared from around the corner.
"There!" He shouted and lobbed another ball of flame. It struck the muscular elf dead in the chest. He howled and beat at the fire, but nothing helped. Gregory tried to stop himself from retching from the stench of burning flesh as the now-dead body fell to the ground. Gregory lept into the sewer, carefully adjusting the cover once inside the pitch black.
"Neras…" The elven girl wept. "We left Neras."
"He's dead, Iseni." The boy said, holding back his own tears. "We can't do anything for him. Now be quiet."
Gregory lit a ball of veilfire, burning a few inches from the palm of his hand. The sewer stank and the water ran brown under their feet. The brick lining was covered in grime and mold. In the distance, small pairs of beady eyes watched them, fearless.
"We must hurry," Gregory whispered. "This way." He led the elves to the north, as quickly as he could shuffle. If the guards came after them now, it would be an easy kill. But if they could make it a few feet away, the guards would have to shuffle after them. They had a fighting chance.
Gregory tried to focus on the sewers, but his mind replayed the boy's death over and over. The bubbling flesh. His eyes wide and white with pain. He could see the bone, glinting and cracking in the obscene heat. There had been no blood, but Gregory bore the stain of that death all the same, like all the other deaths he'd seen.
I wish Cassie was here, he thought with a sigh. She would be able to shake of the death, she would be able to fight the guards and beat them down into a bloody pulp. She would make a joke of the sewer, lighten the mood, lift the spirits of the elves. But it was only Gregory- poor little Gregory, who could read books and manipulate the Fade, but had to hide in sewers from any fighting.
After five minutes of crawling through the much, Gregory stopped under another sewer cover, lifted it, and was blinded by the now dazzling-light of a fire.
"Sorry, lad." A spindly old Ferelden man bent down, offering his hand. Gregory took it and lifted himself out of the sewer, dripping onto the cobblestones. A few feet away, a patchwork carriage latched onto a burly brown mare.
They both helped the elves from the sewer and into the carriage. The man built a small compartment at the floor of the carriage, big enough for three elves.
With only two, it will be a pleasant journey, Gregory bitterly thought. Still, he helped the elves inside.
"Where are we going?" The skinny boy asked.
"If you can make it out of the city," Gregory said. "Cumberland. Then you're free to go where you choose."
"But my sister and I have no one!"
"Find an alienage, or a Dalish clan. I'm sure they'll take you in."
"Please, sir." The boy laid a hand on Gregory's, his eyes pleading. He was handsome, in a way. Maybe eighteen. His eyes were so pure, so open. Just like…
"I'm sorry." Gregory brushed him away. "You'll have to find your own way." Gregory turned away and quickly jogged off.
"Till next time!" The Ferelden man called after him, before covering the elves and readjusting his cabbages.
Dawn was fast approaching, and Gregory had little time to go home, so he jogged to the Curia. The city began waking- a few women were setting up their fruit wares alongside the streets, the night guards along the walls switching out with fresh reinforcements. Gregory shrugged off his cloak and shoved it into the trash, in case some of the guards were still looking for him.
The Curia Darinia was one of the oldest and grandest buildings in all of Minrathous, second only to the dwarven embassy. Made by Archon Darinius, the original building was intricately carved from a single chunk of obsidian, reflective in the growing sunlight. The roof was tiered with embellishments of bronze dragons roaring into the sky. Braziers lit with veilfire burned along the walkways and hung from thuribles, coughing out colored, scented smoke. The building was originally only a few stories tall, and housed only a few hundred magisters. Now, the building shot into the sky like a mountain, and sat proud and defiant in the midst of the grimy city.
Gregory kept his head down, walking quickly, but few were at the state building at this hour- only the slaves in charge of keeping the senate clean. None met his face, and Gregory avoided theirs as well. Every slave was another failure for him, another chance not taken. Though, most of the slaves that tended to the Curia were state-owned; relatively well kept and with limited terms of services.
Gregory berated himself silently. It doesn't matter how well they're kept, he thought. It matters that they're kept at all. Do not make justifications.
Magister Pavus' quarters were not nearly as lavish as some of the other magisters, but they were still grand. Gregory remembered when they operated out of little more than a broom closet. Now, as Gregory approached the bronze inlaid door, he took a moment to appreciate how far he and his mentor had come.
The inside of the office was a plush sitting room, lined with bookshelves filled to the brim, and a few desks for Gregory and the other attendants to conduct their work from. The upholstery was a rich veridium wreathed with silver. To the left was a small door which led to Dorian's personal office. Directly across from the door was a huge painting of Dorian and the Inquisitor, emerging from the rift in time created by Alexius.
Dorian loved the painting ("I look like a god!" He exclaimed. "Look at that jawline, that profile- exquisite!"). But Gregory hated it. His mother- there was a whisper of her in the painting. A hint of her jawline, of the flow of her hair. Dorian asserts that it's the strongest likeness he's ever seen. But Gregory knew better. His mother had always been pretty, but in the painting, her beauty was warlike and terrifying. Her eyes were the color of the Fade, her hair the color of flame. Her skin like the hottest sands of the Hissing Wastes, her lips cruel and pink as poison. The painter had painted Andraste, not Gregory's mother.
Gregory sat at his desk and began work. A bill proposed by Magister Viren allocated an additional 10% of the budget to the war with the Qunari. Gregory summed up the bill for Dorian to read later- Dorian would vote no, of course, but the bill would pass anyway. The Lucerni were still small after all these years, and could not fight the battle against the anti-Qunari sentiment as well as the corruption within the magisterium itself.
After answering a few more letters and dinner invitations (rejected, obviously), the other attendants filtered in, blurry eyed and groaning from the hangovers plaguing them from last night. The four underlings were a motley crew- mostly Laetans who wanted a voice.
The only Altus of the group sat in the desk next to Gregory-a long-faced girl with string blonde hair and eyes the color of clouds.
"How are you this morning, Cyra?" Gregory asked.
"I demand that, for the rest of the day, no one mentions 'bones.'" She said with a scowl.
"You handle the homicide cases!"
"Yes," She sighed. "And yesterday, a man appeared before court going on and on about bones. Femurs, tibia, sternum. I will have none of that today."
"Alright," Gregory said slowly. "I'll speak none of b-" Cyra flinched and Gregory rolled his eyes. Cyra had very little patience in general, but was a good woman, and remarkably delicate with her magic.
The twins were moving in sync, as they often did. They had been working for Dorian for over two years, but Gregory still had trouble telling who was Velia and Gavia. From what he could tell, Velia's hooded eyes were a lighter shade of brown, and Gavia had a small mole on her hairline. Besides that, the twins were identical. Their cool, brown skin was shocking against their silver embroidered headcoverings and wrappings. Neither looked up at Gregory as each yawned and signed the documents on their desks.
Across the room, another mage poured a large glass of wine. "Greg, you want any?" No one called Gregory 'Greg' except for Titus. Gregory turned, smiled, and shook his head at the man. "You need to loosen up, Greg- you look like shit."
Titus did not look like shit. He never did. The Laetan's family was originally from Rivain, and Titus looked as such- his skin was a warm umber. His hair was dreaded down to his waist and each lock ended in a golden bead. Titus was the most beautiful man Gregory had ever seen- save for Dorian, perhaps.
"Cyra," Titus said after taking a long sip of his wine. "Do you go out dancing?"
"Never." She answered, more concerned with how straight she could line up the papers on her desk than with Titus' incessant chatter.
"You should. We all should. I found an excellent tavern just a few miles away. The band plays this lovely tune that makes me think of the bombs of the Qunari."
"That sounds dreadful." Cyra said, confused.
"It is. Everyone gets frightens and leaves. That's the best part- they leave their drinks behind." Titus laughed and the gold beads shook and shone like sunlight. Titus smiled at Gregory warmly. "Perhaps you and I could go sometime- mhm?"
For a heartbeat, Gregory wanted so desperately to say yes. But then, the cold hands of reality shook him out of his lovesick daydream. "Perhaps another night." Gregory said simply before spinning around. Titus sighed dramatically and drank the rest of his wine in peace.
It had been much the same for the last year or so. Titus flirted almost as much as he talked or drank. The only problem was, he only flirted with Gregory. And of course, Gregory would melt under Titus' charming smile. But it would never last, before the memory of Tavin came suddenly into Gregory's mind and ruined it all.
Tavin. Almond shaped eyes, skin soft as new silk. That last night, standing over the bed, his dark hair like a frame around a sorrowful painting. Forgive me, the final words before-
Gregory bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to stop his spiral into painful memories. "Are we ready for the day's briefing?" He asked, standing quickly, shuffling his papers.
"Magister Pavus isn't in yet." Cyra said. As if on cue, Dorian swung the doors open. Gregory suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. No doubt, he had been waiting for the most dramatic moment to burst in.
"Good morning, my young pupils." He said, sweeping his short cape over his shoulders, folding it nicely over his arm. "Titus, I told you not to open that vintage until after noon."
"But it's such a glorious morning, Master Pavus."
"No doubt just a continuation of a glorious night, judging from your grin." Dorian reached over, took a sip from Titus' cup, then said, "The day's briefing, if you all would."
As Dorian sat at his own desk- a heavy, mahogany thing with a peacock decal across the front- in his own office, Gregory considered his friend's face. Still painfully handsome, much to Dorian's delight. His hair was shoulder length, held back with flimsy golden clips and strands. Silver now streaked through the ebony locks, specked through his beard and moustache, but his face was still relatively smooth.
He sipped at his tea as he looked over the day's agenda. "He's calling us into session?"
"So it would seem." Gregory said.
"Radonis hasn't been present for a senate session in four years," Dorian sighed. "I don't like the sound of this."
"Mae would like to meet after the session to discuss a few issues."
"Yes, very good," he waved Gregory away. Before Gregory was able to leave, Dorian said, "How did the delivery go?"
"Less than perfect, but well enough." Gregory said neutrally.
"Good." Dorian replied before returning to his papers.
That had been the setup since the beginning. Dorian and Mae knew next to nothing about the slave smuggling. It was for the best- no amount of torture could force them to reveal information they did not have. Sometimes though, Gregory wondered if they did not really care. When they spoke of the horrors of the Imperium, slavery was mentioned, but only in passing. Yes, they said, slavery would eventually be phased out, but now there were bigger challenges to face.
You're being too harsh, Gregory said to himself. He sighed, brushed a hand through his hair, and stepped back into the main room.
