B is for Barter
-v.
to trade by exchanging one commodity for another
"Tell you what," she smirks at the man. "You pretend those crates of Antivan brandy were always meant for Athenril, and I won't joke in the Gallows courtyard about some small time hood who slits his wrists for profit."
"Sod off, you blighted Fereldan. It's not true. Besides, what's to stop me from telling them about your sister, if you do?"
"Nothing," she tells him. "But then you'll have to learn to piss while sitting."
His hand twitches on his battered whitethorn staff, but she is quicker. One dagger glints at his throat, the other at his groin. She exerts just enough pressure that any sudden movements will pierce flesh. "Ask yourself," she says evenly, "what making the brandy available to the Coterie is worth to you."
They stare at each other a moment, and he lets the staff drop. "Dog country bitch."
"Glad to hear we have a deal."
Later that month she makes sure certain rumor channels are abuzz with talk of blood magic among the freelance merchants at the docks. It doesn't take the templars long to follow the carefully laid trail, and she watches from a safe shadow as they ransack his hovel and take him away more dead than alive.
"Was it you, Marian?" Bethany has of course heard of it. Everyone has. Another apostate, dragged off in the night due to whispers and hearsay.
She sips at one of Corff's brews and shrugs. "They found proof he had been neck deep in blood magic."
"I'm your back-up on every job, Marian. I was just outside. I heard what he said."
She looks at Bethany a long time as she chooses her words, the din of the tavern fading in the concentration. "I'm not taking chances, all right? He wasn't even good enough to get in with any of the guilds, but was scavenging off whoever he could and selling to the highest bidder. You can bet that he'd have squawked to the wrong person the moment something went wrong."
"And he won't now? Getting hauled away to the Gallows is the definition of that."
"Beth, he's a confirmed blood mage," she says gently. "They won't bother to question or listen. You know that."
"Yes, I know." Upset, Bethany looks a lot like Carver. She smooths away an invisible crease from her tunic and stands. "Maker, Marian, who made you judge and jury?"
Marian downs the rest of her drink with a grimace, grateful for the raw burn. She watches Bethany's slight form weave through tipsy dock hands and noisy Pit workers, and stifles the urge to run after her. Her cleverness, for all its recent exercise, has limits, and one of them is making Bethany understand that she refuses to lose another sibling, that whatever the price is for that safety, she'll pay.
Of course, protecting Bethany means cutting ties with Athenril. Too many thieves, not enough thickness. Their year is up regardless, and it'll take a whole lot more than an elven smuggler to keep the templars away.