"I'd much rather see Anora on the throne that a bastard of Maric's, that would be unprecedented!" The nobleman's excited exclamation rises above the hum of surrounding voices.
Not particularly reassuring, is it. Though it could have been expected.
Alistair returns Ned's look with a wry smile. "And here I thought I would be getting a hearty welcome with a feast." He takes a sip of the warm spiced wine. "Could you remind me once more why I ever agreed to this?"
And this is just the beginning. "Oh, that will come; just you never let them learn about your socks."
Both keep their voices low so as not to draw attention: the Gnawed Noble Tavern is overcrowded tonight, despite the sleeting rain. The noblemen who have arrived for the Landsmeet, the bright young people of Denerim, opportunity seekers, nosey types – all have gathered to gain advantages, coin alliances, or merely gather and spread gossip.
Alistair gives him a hurt look. "Isn't it most aristocratic, not to take care of one's underclothes?"
"You should have spent some time with my mother, you'd quickly find out the contrary," Ned mutters. The joke comes naturally, though accompanied by the usual pang of pain, undulled by time.
Though I suppose that even she would find you hopeless in this respect.
Ned drinks from his cup: the warmth descending to his stomach drives away the chill he always feels with the memory of his parents. Almost a year since…
As if provoked by his thought, the quarrelling noblemen again raise their voices, in the heat of argument and wine not minding whoever might be listening.
"But you cannot deny that the King's advisors did die in a suspiciously short period of time! Bryce Cousland, Urien of Denerim, even Eamon –"
"Eamon's not dead," the older man snorts.
"But fell seriously ill at that time! A coincidence?"
Ned tightens his grip on the cup. "No, I don't think that was a coincidence, either," he grits through his teeth.
"Well, if the guy mysteriously disappears over the night, that will definitely not be a coincidence," Alistair remarks under his breath with a grin. "Who is he, by the way?"
Ned furtively surveys the improminent features lined with a fair beard, then rakes his memory for faces not seen in a time. "Bann Sighard of the Dragon's Peak, I should think," he assesses at last. "My father considered him a good and honourable man."
Alistair slightly raises his brows. "Then I hope that he really does not disappear overnight, he looks like a potential support for our cause. Actually, a dozen of such Sighards would come handy. And who might be that spiteful bald mongrel?"
"Bann Ceorlic," Ned replies without further looking. "He has to keep a low profile, because of his family history." Seeing Alistair's enquiring look, he explains: "His father betrayed and murdered Queen Moira – so I suppose his son would never dare to come within ten miles of anything vaguely resembling lack of loyalty."
"Well, he does seem… convinced," Alistair observes as they keep overhearing further pieces of the conversation:
"You're being very foolish. Why would Loghain leave half our own army to die when a Blight threatens? I take him at his word: The battle could not be won."
"Oh, my. Who would have thought that this was exactly what he did. I hope the guy's not going to bet money on his conviction – or maybe I do, we do need re-funding."
Alistair's sarcastic remark comes as Ned is taking another drink. When he catches his breath again, he glares at his fellow Warden: "Next time you try to kill me, could you possibly choose a more decent method? If I am to die, I hope it will have nothing to do with clove and cinnamon."
"Don't worry about that. Archdemons are not notorious for spicy tastes."
"Oh, thanks for cheering me up so much."
"You're always welcome."
Their banter is interrupted as Bann Sighard, flushed in the face, storms out of the room. Ned mouths down his cup. "Time to go," he decides. "Can't wait to tell Eamon what bright news we bring."
The streets are empty as they return to the estate. As they reach the first floor, Alistair hesitates. "It's getting late. Shouldn't we leave that for the morning?"
From where they stand, Ned can see the light under the library door, meaning Eamon is still up. I see, Leliana's waiting. "As you wish. There is certainly nothing that could not wait for the morning." He hides a smile, seeing Alistair rush off.
As Ned turns to his own room, he can also see the light under Morrigan's door: she's probably preparing one of her herbal concoctions, her eyes narrowed in concentration, her hands moving with elegant precision, her neck arching in the curve he would trace with his fingers –
Realizing that he has stopped involuntarily, Ned takes a deep breath and quickly passes by the door, to his own cold bed. I'm really not in the mood to be turned down tonight.
Enough time for bad news tomorrow. Either of them.
Though when the next day comes, the tavern gossip turns out insubstantial, compared to the story brought by the servants from the market when everyone is gathered for breakfast:
Bann Sighard's son disappeared during the night.