Fenris tried to keep his irritation from showing on his face as Alistair Guerrin left the Councilman's office. He had believed the bartender when he said that he and his adopted father hadn't spoken in years—but finding Alistair here now seemed too odd a coincidence for Fenris to swallow. Had Alistair lied? Or had he really chosen this moment to see the Councilman after years of silence between them?
Answers, he suspected, would not be forthcoming from Eamon Guerrin. The Councilman had made more than a few public statements about the Guard's treatment of suspected apostate mages, and every budget he put before the City seemed to take funding from magical safety and put it towards other, less controversial areas of spending. Fenris was operating on the assumption that Eamon would as soon see him fired and begging on the streets as asking questions in his office.
The Councilman cleared his throat. "To answer your earlier question, Detective, this is the first time I've seen Alistair in many years. We enrolled him in a boarding school as a teenager and haven't seen much of him since." He looked at Fenris sternly, with that sense of indignation and entitlement that only Denerim's wealthy could summon in the face of questions from a guardsman. "I suppose you're here to ascertain whether I have any enemies who might have come at me through Alistair?"
"Do you?" Fenris asked mildly.
"I doubt it. They would be far more likely to target my biological son Connor, or my wife Isolde. And I haven't received any threats lately. We do turn over anything suspicious to the City Guard, of course."
"Of course," Fenris murmured.
Eamon leaned back in his chair. "Do you have any leads on the attempted robbery?"
"The investigation is being aggressively pursued," Fenris replied, testing the nib of his pen on a notebook page. "If you wouldn't mind, there are a few background matters I was hoping to clear up."
Guerrin spread his hands wide. "Anything the Guard needs."
Fenris could not resist a slightly needling question. "Why adopt Alistair, if you intended to have so little to do with his upbringing?"
That got a reaction from the Councilman. He scowled furiously, as if Fenris had crossed a line. It was usually the expression someone made when they felt guilty. "I fail to see why that is relevant to your investigation, Detective," he snapped. "My wife and I took Alistair's care very seriously."
So his wife had something to do with the decision to send Alistair away. Interesting. The simplest explanation, of course, was that Alistair was indeed Eamon's by-blow. But that didn't quite fit for Fenris. For one thing, Alistair looked nothing like the smaller, plainer Eamon. For another, if Eamon was trying to hide his role in Alistair's parentage, adopting him was a strange way to do it. And earlier Eamon had referred to Connor as his "biological son"—the implication being that Alistair was not.
"Could Alistair's biological parents have reason to harm him?" he pressed.
"I sincerely doubt it. They're dead," Eamon said shortly. "At least, his mother is. She was a lovely young woman—she worked on my first campaign for City Council. When she died in childbirth I thought it only right to make sure the boy received proper care. She never told me the father's name. I gathered that their relationship was, ah, brief."
Too much explanation, Fenris thought, dutifully writing down the outline of Eamon's story anyway. I would have thought a politician would be a better liar.
"His mother's name would be helpful," Fenris said as he scribbled.
"Sara Cavell. That's C-A-V-E-L-L. But I really don't see what this has to do with—"
Eamon's words were cut off when the door to his office burst open, revealing an agitated, dark-haired man, dressed in wool trousers, dark red suspenders, and neatly pressed shirtsleeves.
Purely out of habit, Fenris let power flow into his lyrium tattoos; his hands flared faintly blue as he steeled himself to respond. Eamon, however, seemed unalarmed. "Loghain, will you ever learn to knock?"
Fenris raised his eyebrows, letting the power fade. Loghain Mac Tir, the legendary retired general, had stepped into his son-in-law's Council seat after Cailan's Theirin's death in a sporting accident. From what Meredith had told him, Loghain was vocal on matters of public safety, though not so concerned about magic as Meredith might have liked. Still, Fenris welcomed the opportunity to meet the man.
Loghain, however, appeared to regard Fenris as just another piece of furniture. His bright hazel eyes bore into Eamon as he stalked into the room. "Eamon, when in the Maker's name are you going to get back to me about Stannard's proposals?"
"Loghain, may I introduce …"
"I am tired of your stalling, Eamon. You know how important …"
"May I introduce Detective Fenris Leto of the City Guard?" Eamon said loudly, cutting off whatever Loghain was going to say.
Loghain blinked, then focused at last on Fenris. "Oh. My apologies. I thought you were one of Eamon's many assistants." After a beat, he offered his hand. Fenris shook it, trying to conceal his irritation. Apparently Loghain was among those Denerim humans who assumed any elf was there to render service to a human. Even one with silver hair and very visible lyrium tattoos.
"Councilman," he said, his voice clipped.
Loghain appeared to recognize that he had caused offense. "My colleague Meredith Stannard speaks highly of you, Detective," he said, with just a bit too much insincere warmth. Fenris inclined his head, pretending to be flattered by the compliment.
"Well. I won't take up more of your time, Councilman Guerrin," he said, standing from his chair and flipping his notebook closed. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Councilman Mac Tir, a pleasure."
As Fenris walked out of the City building, his brain fairly hummed with speculation. Though Meredith Stannard had done him more than a few favors, he was not part of her inner political circle; he had little insight into what Eamon and Loghain had been talking about. But that didn't stop him from being curious. Was Meredith finally going to succeed in placing all Denerim mages, even those that did not use their magic, under the control of Denerim's Department of Magi?
Fenris himself thought the idea was sensible. Tevinter, his homeland, was a place where magic ruled—quite literally. Those with family connections and magical talent could rise to status and wealth. Mostly, they used their magic to wage silent, secret wars with rival families, carrying out assassinations and ruining business plans.
But magic was also handy for crushing the powerless masses beneath them. Or for turning a desperate teenager like Fenris into a living weapon.
He didn't really know if he had been desperate—it was just his best guess. He could remember nothing before the moment he woke twelve years ago, gasping in agony as the lyrium seeped into his body. He had never learned what the Tevinter magister responsible for this experiment had hoped to create, but Danarius had not been disappointed to discover that his work had given him an amnesiac slave with unnatural strength and the ability to reach into someone's chest and crush their vital organs. Fenris had spent six years hovering behind his "benefactor," intimidating Danarius's foes and killing when ordered to do so. Then he had escaped and spent three years on the run, travelling from Tevinter through Orlais and into Ferelden before finding a generous protector in Meredith Stannard.
He was smart enough to realize that Meredith had helped him because his life story supported her quest to change how Denerim dealt with its mages. But he did not fault her for that, not when her goal was so important.
Mages cannot be allowed to roam free. They may swear they will not touch their magic, but the temptation will always be there—and when they break, others will pay the price.
Fenris's feet slowed, and then stopped. He looked up to realize that he had unconsciously paused across the street from a liquor store—one he frequented more than he probably should. Thinking about Tevinter and Danarius usually led him deep into a bottle of whiskey and into a long evening of worrying about what would happen if Ferelden's mages were set free to follow Tevinter's example.
But this time, Aveline Vallen's no-nonsense voice cut through his usual monologue. A City Guard is not a place for carrying out one's personal vendettas. We are here to protect the people of Denerim.
He growled in frustration. His interest in mages was hardly a vendetta. It was a rational concern.
But perhaps if he cracked the Guerrin case, he would be taken off that damned task force and allowed to return to his work.
With that hope fresh in his mind, Fenris took a deep breath and turned his head, forcing his eyes away from the displays of liquor in the store's window. He resumed his walk, heading for the Guard house as quickly as he could, putting distance between himself and temptation. Eamon Guerrin hadn't been particularly helpful, but there had to be other leads to follow.