I: The Gallows
"Fare thee well, wastrel!" The Captain shouted, now wearing a blue overcoat. He leaned down over the railing, saluting. "May ye live in interesting times!"
The ship turned then, absconding the Captain from view as it slowly sailed out from the Gallows to loop back to the docks. To deliver cargo, no doubt.
Not five minutes after he stepped off the ship that had carried him across the Waking Sea it had cast off again. Martin cursed himself that he didn't think to bribe the Captain into sneaking him directly into the city. Better to deal with one man than with the Templars.
Instead he found himself standing alone on the docks with pack over one shoulder, his hammers tied to his belt. He left his crossbow dismantled in his pack – no use for it here. The fore wall stood before him, portcullis raised – a group of men in half plate loitered around the edges. As he drew closer he saw their armor was uniform with orange padded shoulder guards. Not Templars, Guardsmen.
As he drew near one of the men approached him. Bald with a hook nose, his face pockmarked. "Look what we have here boys," he cackled and sniffed at the air dramatically. "Smells like dogshit."
"Ferelden." Another guard snickered.
The bald one looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on the hammers. "But not the usual refuse to pour out of that shithole. This one's got coin. You a political?"
"No," Martin grunted, shaking his head. "I need to get into the city. Who do I talk to?"
The man laughed cruelly. "'Who do I talk to' he says." The man spat, a wad of browned phlegm landing at Martin's feet. "You talk to us, mongrel. We're the bloody city guard."
Two of his mates, a man and a woman, pushed themselves up off their positions and slowly moved up and around Martin to either side. Martin didn't react. You look, they smell blood. He was ready, itching to kill – but what if I do? I'm trapped in this bloody fort with no way out.
"You got arms. Equipment and the like," the first guard said, gesturing towards Martin's pack. "Hand that bag over, and maybe we'll find you someone to talk to. Otherwise…"
Martin noticed the guards that hadn't stood had turned away, pretending there was no confrontation before them. This is common, he realized. He suddenly felt a sense of return, as if he'd stumbled not on Kirkwall but on Howe's Denerim. Odd, that feeling.
"You hear me?" The bald guard snarled, taking another step closer, his hand on the sword at his side. "Hand over the bloody pack. I won't ask again."
"No, you won't." A woman's voice from his right. There was strength in that voice, righteous indignation. That and South Reach. Ferelden.
"Butt out, sergeant," the bald guard hissed. "We're doing our jobs here. Captain Jeven said – "
"You are a guardsman, Arren." The sergeant said. "You're meant to question and inspect, not harass fereldens." Martin turned his head enough to catch her in the corner of his eye. All he could see was bright ginger hair.
"Oh I see," the woman to his left sneered. "Sarge's just lookin' out for her fellow ferelden. Maybe you want more of your kind here, but this isn't dog country-"
"Not one more word out of you, Mill." The sergeant interrupted, tone acid. The guardswoman immediately shut her mouth.
"That's better," the sergeant continued. "Now you three, get back to the barracks. You're relieved."
The third guard spoke. "But-"
"That's an order, guardsmen."
The two soldiers flanking Martin turned and headed back through the portcullis immediately. The bald man, however, stood defiant for a moment. "The Captain will hear of your interference, ferelden." He turned to Martin, locking eyes. "And pray that I don't see you again, mongrel."
He turned and headed back, through the portcullis and out of sight. The other guardsmen remained in their places as the sergeant stepped up to him, completely in his field of view.
She was a woman of considerable size, nearly six feet, with thick arms and a thicker jaw. No wonder the guardsmen had backed off. She shook her head and muttered. "Idiots." Then she turned her attention towards Martin.
"Sorry about that. Some of the boys are rougher than they should be. Can't blame them. Sheep will do as they're told."
Martin shrugged. "It worked out. Thanks."
She nodded. "My job. Speaking of…" She looked Martin up and down, frowning at him. "State your business in Kirkwall."
Exile. "Looking for work," he replied instead, shrugging. It was true enough in a way.
She grimaced, disapproving. "Mercenary then? You'll find plenty of work here. There's a lot of disorder in this city, and nobles are always looking for a good sword to clean up their corner." She sighed in frustration. "Should be the guards job, that."
He shrugged. I won't go hungry, at least. My gold won't last more than a month. Less if I need bribes. "So how do I go about getting in?"
She gestured towards the portcullis. "Lieutenant Gatton's in charge of new arrivals. His office is off the main courtyard." She turned and headed through the gate. Martin followed.
The grand entranceway led immediately through a small tiled corridor, dingy and unimpressive. Probably a choke point, in case the castle gates fall. He looked up and about, catching sight of murder holes both above and to the sides. Aye. Has to be.
"So, you come directly from Ferelden?" the Sergeant asked.
"Aye," he replied simply.
"If you don't mind my asking, were you at Denerim?"
He tensed, for a moment feeling Asala gripped in his hands yet again. "I saw the Blight end, yes." Maker please let her leave it there.
She looked at him over her shoulder, measuring him. "Mercenary or not, you did a good thing. I wish I could've seen it through myself."
He ignored her, instead glancing at doorways that began to appear at either side of the corridor – they too held murder holes. I'd hate to attack this fortress. This is a meat grinder.
The corridor ended abruptly in stairs that widened as the two ascended in silence. Ahead he could see sunlight shining down, casting the shadow of another portcullis down the staircase. They exited into an open courtyard, pillars with more massive slaves flanking either side. Bronze misery atop stone misery. Still no signs of wear, on the statues at least. Ahead more staircases rose towards the central spiked keep.
She stopped and headed right towards an alcove, marching in silence. As they reached one of the slave statues, its bronzed agony radiating heat in the sun, she stopped. A simple wooden door stood closed ahead. The Sergeant stepped up to it and knocked loudly before shouting through the murder hole.
"What is it, damn you?" An aged voice barked from within. "If that's you again Arren, fuck off! I don't need to tell you a third time."
"It's Aveline, Lieutenant," she sighed. "A trader just brought in a new arrival."
"Oh. Alright then," the man shouted. "Wait a moment," a pause. The door opened and a half naked woman darted out, passed them, turned right and disappeared around a bend.
A man stepped out. He was middle aged, balding – with a short sword strapped to his leggings. His white undershirt was untucked, flowing in the light breeze from the courtyard. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked to Aveline. "That will be all, Sergeant."
She stood at attention, somehow expressing disapproval through a stoic face. "Sir," she replied, turning on one heel and marching back down the corridor.
The Lieutenant turned to Martin. "Come on in, I'll get you situated." Martin smelled sweat, drink and sex as he entered the man's office.
"I'm Gatton, if you didn't know," the Lieutenant said over his shoulder. He pulled a chair up from the floor and propped it in front of a long, splitbark desk. His office was cramped yet cozy, the harsh stone of its walls covered with black tapestries bearing the orange symbol of Kirkwall. As he sat, Gatton kicked his legs up onto his desk.
Martin sat stiffly.
"So, you looking to enter our fine city?" He lightly tapped his forehead in a 'that's obvious' gesture, twiddling his fingers up in a mock salute afterwards. "So, standing order – find out your business. So – state it."
"Looking for work," Martin replied, gesturing to his hammers. "Only way I know how."
Gatton did the little forehead salute again. "Obvious, but you know, formalities. Ferelden clearly, otherwise that ship of yours wouldn't have dropped you here." Gatton had a smooth demeanor, friendliness oozing from him almost sickly. "How long do you plan to say?"
Martin sighed. "Just get on with it. I know how this works." He growled, exacerbated.
Gatton shrugged amicably. "Hey, Captain's orders, mate. I'll just list you as 'undecided.'"
Martin leaned back in his chair, eyeing the Lieutenant. A little man, he thought. Flexing his little power. I wonder how he'd feel with his feet clamped between my hammers.
Gatton lifted his hands, placating. "Calm yourself, the worst is over. Now we get on to your entry." He clapped his hands together. "Right now, you're stranded in the Gallows, separate from the city proper. Only way across is the ferry – which won't let you on without the go ahead. Now the ferry's got the boatswain, the captain, its crew – and then there's the fine gentlemen of the guard of who I am proud to be their chief representative. All of whom work to facilitate your arrival." He leaned forward half a foot, bowing awkwardly.
Here it is. "Simply put," Martin said. "You're asking for a bribe."
"It could be called that, yes." He replied with another casual shrug. "That is the way it has been. Lucky for you the rush is over. Less people want into the city, less cost to those wanting."
"How much?" Martin stared.
Gatton placed a worn finger down onto the desk and kicked his legs off. He leaned forward in his chair, matching Martin's stare.
"Twenty sovereigns."
"Twenty? For Kirkwall?" Martin asked in only partial disbelief. He had expected to get robbed, but not out of more than half his coin.
"Bless the Maker for your fortune that Kirkwall isn't Val Royeaux," Gatton mused. "The costs would adjust significantly."
"You want twenty sovereigns to give me a ferry ticket," Martin said, voice a near whisper. His hands clenched upon the hammers involuntarily, his knuckles whitening.
"Think of it this way," the Lieutenant said, measuring each word. "You're not just buying that ticket. You're buying the undying friendship of the guard. Well, this guard." He pointed to himself with his thumbs and grinned, his eyes never leaving Martin's. "That and any ship that might be willing to take you onward would charge you more'n double that. Double that figure if you want to go anywhere 'sides Ferelden."
I could kill him, Martin thought. His fingers itched to draw hammers then blood. Break his blade, crush his skull. He could not stop me.
Murder holes sprung to his mind, choke points and Templars and guardsmen… I cannot kill them all. He had tried in Denerim – and what had that done? Nearly condemned both himself and Carys to a brutal death in Fort Drakan. He exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he had held and relaxed his fingers. I am better than that.
"Well?" Gatton drawled, waiting.
Martin stood and flipped his pack onto his chair, then reached in to flip the hidden pouch at the bottom. One of many places he hid his coin, soon to be empty.
The pouch was heavy in his hands as he spilled it out into his palm, counting out twenty gold sovereigns. Gatton's eyes widened with pleasure, gaze fixated on the coins as they clinked. With the coin counted Martin dropped it on the table.
Gatton hungrily leaned forward and pulled the coin into a drawer in his desk. He produced a key from a pocket and locked the drawer then stood facing Martin. He grabbed a jacket off the floor and gestured with his hand towards the door. "In the spirit of our new-found friendship - and the end of my shift - I'll set you off proper in our fine city."
Martin stepped towards the door, blocking his exit. "I'll take my ticket first. You aren't just walking out with twenty sovereigns in your desk."
Gatton tsked. "No trust among friends then. Very well, if it will ease your mind." He stepped back to his desk, grabbed a sheet of vellum and a pen from within a different drawer and scribbled quickly on it. He handed the 'ticket' to Martin with a flurry.
"Now then, may we proceed?"
Martin considered. Best I'll probably get. He stepped out of Gatton's path. "Lead the way."
Gatton nodded amicably and led Martin out of his office, locking the door behind them. He began to prattle as he led Martin through the empty courtyard under the shadow of the imposing keep. "Heart of Kirkwall, this is. Genuine tevinter build, all of it – and home of the Templars and our Circle. Most'll pay lip service to the Viscount, saying Kirkwall's ruled from his keep, but don't be fooled. Knight-Commander Meredith holds the reigns and rules from right in here." He kicked at the base of one of the weeping statues. "This shite's been standing for a thousand years or more, word is – and I ain't ever heard of any work done on these things. Magic, I say. Might be the Circle keeps it up, maybe not. Fitting if true."
Martin tuned him out as they passed through yet another passageway lined with murder holes, this time at the opposite end of the courtyard from Gatton's office rather than from the front gate. Is everywhere as fortified as the front? The passageways were dark and foreboding.
"And so the Captain put us here, right when you fereldens –"
"This is a Circle, is it not?" Martin interrupted, more to silence the man than anything else. Though he did genuinely wonder. "Where are the mages? Or the Templars for that matter?"
Gatton glanced back at him. "It's no free day, friend." He slapped his head in his apparent signature salute of realization. "Ah, my apologies. I forget that Circles are different in other parts." They descended another set of stairs as Gatton spoke. "When the mages act up, so I'm told, the Knight-Commander puts them in their place. They stay in the keep 'cept on Free Days. I've been here the last two weeks, morning 'till night, and I only seen them move about maybe three. Free Days."
Fereldan's Circle from what he understood had been relatively lax, except for the requirement of most mages to remain at the Tower itself. A Circle, not a prison. It seemed Kirkwall's Knight-Commander is harder than Greagoir. With good reason, perhaps. He remembered abominations, demons – death stalking the halls as the torn Veil brought nightmares to life even as they fought their way ever upwards.
But it could be you, he thought. It could be you. Another voice, her voice. Fools that allow themselves to be chained. They are not like me. Not like us.
They continued in silence, Gatton's outpouring of history and trivia apparently cooled by Martin's question. They passed around a corner, down another set of stairs, up again, through a small courtyard until finally they emerged at what seemed to be the western side of the fortress isle. A small dock looped lazily along the outer walls, a single wooden gangplank connecting the castle itself and the docks right at the single sized gate they passed through. There was a portcullis, but it hung suspended above the small portal.
"Would be closed and guarded, if'n it was a free day," Gatton explained, evidently noticing Martin's interest.
Haphazardly tied to the dock sat a small vessel, no more than three dozen paces long and one dozen across. Its wood was battered and greened, a sharp contrast to the spotless trader that had deposited Martin at the Gallows not half an hour before. Upon its single mast a mottled grey sail fluttered below yet another flag that bore the draconic etchings of Kirkwall. Half a dozen portholes lined the lower deck facing them.
Gatton effortlessly, even excitably bounded over the rickety gangplank and onto the dock below. Martin followed hesitantly, feeling the wood shift under his weight as he stepped across. Apparently few leave the Gallows this way – or at all, he mused.
They made for the ship, Gatton continuously sure in step while Martin measured each with care. More than one plank shifted as the gangplank, threatening to throw him into the waters below. Even this dock does not want me.
As they finally stepped alongside the ship several crewmen bungled into sight, presumably from below decks. One man with a particularly lopsided face only partially hidden by a woolen cap called down. "Oi, Gatton!" His was crackly and slurred. "You're early. If you're looking for Linde-"
"No, no," Gatton called, waving his hand dismissively. "I am not. I in fact wish to return to the city with my companion."
"But Gatton," the man swooned, eyes widening. "She says you ain't had your full hour yet and can make it up – "
"Hush Simon," Gatton interjected. "And you'll get that what's left. We have more important business." He gestured to Martin with a flourish. "We have a productive new citizen-" he glanced to Martin with the word. "That requires transport to his newfound home."
A second sailor waddled over beside Simon, his dark pate nearly concealing his broken nose. "Productive, you say?" He shouted, causing Simon to visibly recoil. "Does that mean – "
"Yes, yes!" Gatton bellowed, still boisterous. "Drinks are on him this night! Prepare him the luxury accommodations!"
Several other sailors appeared, whooping and cheering. "Three cheers for the stranger!" the broken nose sailor roared. The men beside cheered with abandon as two made their way to the side and threw down a net ladder. The boat was still three or four paces from the dock.
Without hesitation Gatton leapt from the dock, hitting the hull lightly and grabbing hold of the ladder. He turned his head towards Martin. "Follow me!" He then scrambled up and over the top, on to the ship.
Martin blinked. He'd only been on boats maybe a dozen times in his life, to sea only once - but even then he was sure this was unusual. Is it not? He looked down into the dark, churning bay.
"It's but a leap, Martin!" Gatton called, leaning over the side of the ship. Only one other sailor stood beside him, the one with a broken nose.
"Scrape and crow, here and though!" The broken nose sailor slurred absurdly.
Martin took in a breath and decided. He leapt.
He smashed his gloved hands into the hull of the vessel as the bridge swayed with his momentum. Cursing, he decidedly kept his eyes up and scrambled with numbed fingers over the top.
Gatton grabbed Martin's back and pulled him the last of the ways over. Without pause he took Martin's arm and led him to starboard. "Behold!" He shouted, flourishing his arm dramatically. "Your accommodations!"
Sat up beside the rail stood a stool, padded with a battered and browned cushion. As Gatton flourished, a sailor hastily dropped another stool in place beside.
Martin sat, without thinking. He had stopped questioning, and just went along.
"Ey lads!" Gatton bellowed in a fiery voice. "Man the oars and take us to the city! Lowtown, if you please."
"Aye," they shouted as one.
"Where the piss and ale flow in equal measure!" A voice shouted from below decks. The sailors burst out into fits of laughing as they busied themselves with their work.
Gatton slid into his stool beside Martin, still smiling amiably. "And when we get there, sir, I'll show you the sights! East Wharf, Harlot Alley, but most of all your new home. The Hanged Man! Shittiest den of inequity in the city, but it's the place to be for a sellsword like you."
The deck shuddered and shifted underneath them as the oars met water. They began to rock and sway. Martin heaved at the sudden motion while Gatton laughed.