That Which Is Valued Most

by Mandimal

When kings and commoners clash, it is never just a random turn of events. There is always someone behind the scenes, directing the flow. This is the story of the man who would save Thedas, whether it wishes to be saved or no, and the story of the men and women that follow him. A Collaboration with Deacon Rayne

6. Changes

The next morning dawned cold and shadowed as Pellinore led Beth across the camp to a small, open air stall. She could hear the singing before they even got near, the voice of a very young man- clear and sweet and trumpeting an extremely bawdy Orlesian drinking song. A short, fat figure was hopping from one foot to the other in time to the music around a chair that appeared to be on wheels. "Don't worry. Bayard's harmless even if he is a little…strange." He felt compelled to reassure her.

"You don't have to warn me of 'strange' in this place, Lieutenant Pellinore."

"You've not seen us at our best," Pellinore caught himself and thought for a moment "Although, maybe the Captain would say that because you've seen our uniqueness, you have seen our best."

"Yes," Ceyrabeth replied frostily, "His calling dark magic to reshape my ears against my will felt very unique indeed."

It was good that it was a short walk to Bayard's stall because it was a very silent one after that. Pellinore hailed Bayard, who immediately stopped and theatrically whirled around. The little man, with many elaborate bows, gushed his joy to see Lieutenant Pellinore again and to finally meet the young lady that caused such a stir about camp, "Why, it is almost as good as being back at court!" He assured her with a wide grin.

Almost without knowing how it happened, Beth found herself seated in the wheeled chair and Bayard was examining her hair with exclamations of delight. "Such shine! Such heft! Why, half this glorious mass alone would bring a king's ransom in the Summer Market of Val Royeaux!"

"You sell…hair…in Val Royeaux?" Ceyrabeth asked with mild disgust.

"But of course, Madame! You do not think we magic our beautiful wigs from nothing, do you?"

"Well, it has to go. Captain's orders. It's up to Ser Ceyrabeth what's done with it after that," The lieutenant informed him.

"It's all yours." she waved the consideration away. Bayard's face lit like a lamp.

"You are a paragon and a saint, mamselle, to warm a man's heart as you do with your golden words and generosity. But, ah! I have thought of a small thing," The man's fingers rapidly braided a thin strand about the width of Beth's finger. He tied it off at the end then snip! And he handed the length to Beth. "A souvenir. Now….here we go!" With a slice of the Orlesian's shears, a waterfall of ruddy gold fell to the floor. It didn't take long before Beth was completely shorn, the back of her head a mass of artful spikes and the front just brushing her jaw. "Voila! You are a work of art in any civilized capitol in Thedas, mamselle."

Beth glanced in the mirror he held out to her to be polite, but stopped cold when she saw the face looking back at her. The face of an elf. A face she had never seen before. She touched trembling fingers to her reflection and thought how utterly strange it was that she would not recognize herself.

Oh Maker, save me.

She had to focus on something else and as she saw Pellinore seated at the small table behind her busily scribbling away, an idea formed in her head. "May I?"

Pellinore glanced at her, surprised to hear her voice was calm, even pleasant. "By all means." He handed her a featherless quill and piece of parchment with some ink.

Ceyrabeth scribbled a brief note on the parchment and folded it. "Could you make sure Captain Sul gets this? I'd do it myself, but frankly if I never saw him again it would be too soon."

"Yes yes, you go Lieutenant and I will escort the young lady safely home." Bayard stepped between them with another flourishing bow and offered his arm to Ceyrabeth. She took it, though the difference in their heights almost made her have to bend to do so, and the last Pellinore saw of them they were heading toward the Templars' tents with Bayard talking a mile a minute. He turned away toward where he knew the Captain was housed and though he was loathe to disturb him, he knew he would want to know that his orders had been followed without incident.

Atiya answered his gentle knock on the outside post of the tent, thanked him for the information and took the note from him. She ducked back inside and relayed the information to Sul. "Pellinore says she took it with good grace. Bayard was unmolested in any way."

"Unsurprising. She is of a disciplined nature," Sul replied non-committedly, "Mostly."

"Yes, and right now she has turned that disciplined nature against you."

"Ser Ceyrabeth will be tended to in time, but your concern is noted Atiya and appreciated." He indicated the note. "That is mine, I imagine."

"Yes. I can dispose of it if you'd prefer." Atiya offered.

"Your vigilance is commendable…." Sul's tone was light and only slightly sardonic, "…but unnecessary in this instance. I have never shied away from unpleasant words." In reply, she handed the packet to him. It took just a fold or two to open; a long braid glimmered red-gold in the candlelight as it coiled around two simple words:

Trials 1:1.

He permitted himself a mirthless chuckle, "Still quoting scripture," He folded the letter up, "Still, a clever choice."

Atiya picked up the paper and examined the slanting writing. "'Trials 1:1?"

"I believe the line that is meant to be significant in this case is 'I will not fear the Legion, though they set themselves against me."

"Ah." Atiya nodded understanding. "It seems Ser Ceyrabeth likes to have the last word."

"She is welcome to it," He replied tossing the letter into the brazier, "The last word and the final word are not always one-in-the-same."

"As you say, sir."

.:*:.

Ser Corellan was a good man, Ceyrabeth mused…well, actually, he was too suave for his own good and too pretty to know it, not to mention thick as bronto hide when it came to cues of subtlety. But he was mostly good-natured and relatively kind, even to mages...but Arryn didn't know that. She watched as her fellow Templar sat beside the boy, telling him some overblown story about a dragon he once fought (if one word in ten were true, she would eat her helm), completely oblivious to the fact that Arryn was shrinking from him as though he had the Taint. Young Ser Keiran with his gentle, cheerful demeanor the boy could handle- Ser Corellan was a loud, distracting unknown.

She was accustomed to watching for signs of magic use, so she noticed when Arryn's hair started to stand up with excess static. She decided an intervention was a good idea for all involved. "Alright, Ser Dragon Slayer," She said, sauntering casually toward them. "Quit filling the poor boy's head with lies and go look to your armor. I saw a rust spot earlier."

Corellan jolted to his feet with a strangled noise in his throat before beelining to the tent they were using as a temporary armory. Ceyrabeth smiled at Arryn as the cry of "Argh! Maker damned bogs…!" reached their ears.

She shook her head wryly, "What a peacock…" Arryn finally cracked a smile, and the smell of ozone dissipated. "You don't have to be scared of him. In fact, I can show you how you don't have to be scared of anyone ever again."

"Really?" Arryn's blue eyes lit like veilfire, his voice almost crackling with eagerness.

"Sure." She drew her sword from her scabbard and offered it to him hilt first. "First though, why don't you go take a few swings at that practice dummy?"

Arryn dubiously accepted the blade. He hesitated for a moment before he lit into the dummy like a berserker, hacking and slashing with reckless abandon, clutching the sword with both hands. He was missing more often than not, but it was when Beth realized that he was swinging with his eyes closed that she intervened, "Woah there, tiger." She said. Her dark eyes were dancing as she gently caught his wrist. "You've got the wrong sword for two-handed fighting. Besides, fighting like that slows you down and we have to play to your strengths. I'll bet you're really fast."

Arryn scuffed his toe in the dirt. "Not that fast…"

"Oh yeah? I saw you almost dodge those guards the first day we came in. You came awfully close to getting past them. Besides, there's not much to warriors like us…" She poked him lightly in the belly, then again in the side until he was squirming and fighting giggles. "…so we're harder to hit. Not like that big ol' rock-hands Reaper Maul or Ser Mathias the Sunken."

Both men were nearby, as Ceyrabeth well knew, and good natured- if somewhat explicit from Maul's side- protests reached her ears from both injured parties. She cheerfully ignored them. "Fighting for us is like dancing. You've been dancing before, right?"

Arryn nodded hesitantly. Ceyrabeth raised her blade and bowed to him before beginning to hum a popular Fereldan tune. She went through a simple, fluid series of basic sword exercises, all the while timing her thrusts and parries to the flow of the music. "Like that." She handed the sword back and seeing he was still hesitant, she stepped behind him. She wrapped her right hand around his as it gripped the hilt, tapped his feet into position with her own. With a one-two-three they were off, Ceyrabeth leading him into steps that wouldn't seem out of place in the Palace ballroom- except for the short but deadly blade in their hands.

Arryn quickly relaxed when he started listening to the music and started to get a feel for the way Ceyrabeth was moving. Toward the end, she released him and with a quick forward thrust that would be the envy of any swordsman, Arryn skewered the practice dummy straight through the throat. "I did it!" He exclaimed, delighted.

"That you did." Ceyrabeth smiled at him. "With some serious practice, no one will be able to touch you without your permission again."

Arryn didn't have the words to thank her, but it was alright. She let him process his newfound strength and teasingly bumped shoulders with Ser Keiran, who had been watching. Ceyrabeth had taught him in much the same way at first, when he was fresh off the farm and so green he smelled of summer.

"He'd have done better if your blade wasn't so heavy." He said with a good-natured grin.

"He'll gain his muscle."

"Still…"Keiran replied. "He should have his own blade."

"If it was in my power, I'd get him one. But I'm fairly certain that my request for more weaponry wouldn't be well received."

Hours later, with darkness just starting to fall, Ceyrabeth entered her tent. She had just pulled a brush through her short hair when she saw something glimmer on her bedroll. It was the silverite hilt of a blade. She carefully drew the blade from the serviceable leather sheath, remembering Ser Toliver who had pulled his blade too quickly and gotten a face full of rashvine powder, but she needn't have worried.

The blade was clean, sharp, and just the right length and balance for a boy who hadn't quite come into his full strength yet. Dar'misu…the name came unbidden to Ceyrabeth's memory. She wound the thin green ribbon attached to the hilt around her finger. "So you were listening…" She whispered into the dusk with a smile. "Good to know. Good form, Captain." She sheathed the weapon, placed it under the edge of her bedroll, and blew out her candle.

.:*:.

Sul had just finished pouring the wine when Atiya entered his tent, ducking her massive horned frame to clear the entryway.

"'Aggregio Pavali'," Sul explained cordially, "A friend of mine in Tevinter introduced me to it."

"I wasn't aware a man in your position could afford the luxury of friends," The Qunari replied flatly.

"We are not friends?"

"No, we are not and we never will be. Your actions made that impossible."

Sul took a sip from the goblet and nodded slowly, "Yes I suppose they did."

"It's time to clean your wounds," She informed him shifting the conversation to a less loaded topic.

Sul exhaled, "Past time, I imagine." He sat in his chair. "Shall we begin?" He asked handing her a small leather bundle.

Silently, Atiya knelt before the man and took the bundle from him. She unfurled it to reveal a bevy of gleaming metal instruments and tools. All manner of hooks, blades, and clamps gleamed dully in the soft light of the tent's vast interior, "I will require more light."

Sul gestured to a small brazier filled with seething coals that glowed sullenly in the dark. Atiya moved to it and, gripping it in her large hands, heaved it up and deposited it next to Sul with an audible thump! "The solvent?"

"The locked cabinet."

Atiya moved to the large wooden cabinet made of wood so dark it was nearly black and engraved with a pair of dragons sinuously entwined. Their tails formed the large dark handles of the enormous piece of furniture and she lightly fingered the strange lock mounted into its twin setting: a series of concentric three disks engraved with symbols with a series of small holes.

"Your locks are becoming more elaborate," She commented placidly.

"The creeping onset of paranoia as my elder years descend upon me no doubt."

Atiya shrugged and turned her attention back to the combination lock. She regarded the different symbols for a moment then arranged the different symbols meticulously before placing her fingertips into the holes and twisting hard. The lock snapped open, a variety of bolts retracting back into main body of the lock and the doors swung open silently.

Inside was a dazzling array of vials and bottles of every shape and size imaginable from all corners of the world in a rainbow of different colors, each filled with some strange liquid or powder. Mounted on the inside of the doors themselves were large racks that held every kind of tool and instrument one could conceive of.

"You remain clever," She commented tonelessly as she reached into the cabinet and removed several vials.

"We all have our gifts."

Atiya turned to face him, "Though not all of us keep them."

Once again, a pained but sympathetic expression crossed the older man's face, "Point taken."

Atiya closed the massive wooden doors gently. Instantly the bolts snapped back into place and the lock was once again secure. She stood before the brazier, selected one of the vials and poured some into the smoldering coals. There was a flash of bright, blue light and a small jet of azure fire burst into existence before dying down almost immediately. The now-blue coals gave off considerably more light bathing the interior of the tent with a strange ambiance that bordered on the unreal.

"The tools must be properly cleansed," Atiya carefully slid each tool from its leather loop or snare and gently placed one end it into the blue coals. Almost instantly, the metal began to smoke and a strange smell like ozone filled the air. She grabbed several bowls and buckets and placed them near Sul's feet. She then knelt before the older man seated in the chair and carefully prodded the soiled samite around his eyes: blood had soaked completely through the bandages forming a visage as black as pitch, "I will have to cut these off."

Sul nodded and waited patiently as Atiya reached into the brazier and removed a pair of scissors, its twin blades now glowing faintly. Carefully, she snipped at the soiled wrappings. Every time the blades came into contact with his face, there was the faint hiss of flesh searing. Soon the scent of rotting meat filled the tent's confines. With a final cut, the bandages fell limp, held to Sul's face only by the encrusted blood.

"This will hurt," Atiya stated flatly.

"Yes."

The Qunari woman took a hold of one edge of the dangling material and began to peel it from Sul's face. Bits of flesh soon detached as the caked on blood formed a grisly adhesive. Soon red blood flowed followed by streams of black ichor as wet lumps of skin and fat fell into the network of bowls and buckets that had been set up, splattering like wax. Sul's hands tightened on the arms of the chair but remained still as strip after strip of tissue was peeled from his face in long gory lengths.

The last bandage was removed and tossed into the brazier, the collected blood and oils of Sul's skin bubbling and hissing angrily. Atiya dragged the fire closer to see more clearly and her eyes widened.

"For someone in your condition to look so, it must be grave indeed," Sul said quietly.

"Yes," Atiya murmured softly and took out fresh bandages to staunch some of the blood as she examined the damage. The flesh around his eyes and the immediate area was black and sickly with a pulpy appearance like rotten fruit. Necrotic tissue had swollen to form bloated cysts filled with black ichor. Veins pulsed and throbbed over the glistening skin and deep furrows of exposed muscle tissue, riddled with cancerous growths shuddered and trembled with each of Sul's inhalations. As Atiya peered closer at a particularly large mass just above Sul's left eye, it abruptly burst and black and yellow pus flowed down his face, thick and noxious which she quickly wiped away.

"The infection has spread," Atiya announced after regaining her composure, "The tainted tissue will have be amputated and scoured clean," Atiya gently took the man's ravaged face, "You must control your emotions: your anger and pain only feeds the Taint."

"Noted," Sul replied with eerie stillness, "Proceed."

Atiya removed a small length of leather and inserted it into Sul's mouth. He bit down and nodded his readiness. She removed a large scalpel from the flaming sconce and placed the tip of the blade just above the bridge of his nose. Taking a steadying breath, she pushed the blade into his face. His teeth ground against the bit in his mouth and the wood of the chair creaked as he squeezed the armrests. Atiya sawed her way a millimeter at a time until she reached between his eyes. Flesh sizzled and popped as blood and ichor streamed from the incision as she cut around down the edge of one eye and then the other and then up towards his hairline, forming an inverted "y". Taking a small fishhook, she pierced the flesh in several places and slowly peeled it back, pinning it in place and laying the tissue underneath bare. Retrieving several small clamps, she meticulously pinned several more pieces of corrupted flesh in place.

"Do you believe Elthina will cooperate?" Atiya asked and took the bit from his mouth.

Sul smiled without humor at her attempts to distract him, Unless she wishes her pet pupil's role in the massacre at the Starkhaven Tower known to all, she will submit," His smile turned scornful, "It's what people like her do best, after all."

"Will anyone actually believe that a high-ranking member of the Chantry would adopt a unilateral position of non-involvement in a time of great unrest?"

"I think you overestimate the Orlesian Chantry's sense of civil obligation. But to answer your question, Elthina will continue to do what we tell her to do. She ensured that Meredith was made knight-commander and she will ensure that she remains so to fuel the flames of discord. At Elthina's core, she is fearful: afraid of what people will think of her actions and how those actions reflect on her and the Orlesian Chantry. Her carefully maintained visage of piety conceals a paralyzing fear embedded into the core of her being. I believe we can count on her to do exactly nothing exactly when we need her to do it."

"And First Enchanter Orsino?"

Sul's face grimaced, either from pain as Atiya continued to impale flaps of his skin on hooks and pin them to his face or the onset of a sudden and violently intense loathing for the First Enchanter, "A weakling and a hypocrite. Just enough indignation to rile Meredith without enough conviction to actually challenge her. If he were half the champion of the oppressed he purports to be, he'd have galvanized the citizenry against the Templars ages ago, especially given how utterly ineffectual Dumar is," He scoffed and almost shook his head before Atiya tightened her grip on it, stopping the motion before it had even started, "Dumar and Elthina are the perfect people to reign over Kirkwall; completely obsessed with the opinions of others, desperate to curry favor with anyone who will support them and terrified of losing whatever perceived prestige and power they believe they possess."

"And the First Enchanter's relationship with the Necromancer?"

Sul gave a careful shrug so as not to disturb Atiya as she clamped down another piece of skin and began to peel it back from the musculature, "Proof of Orsino's hypocrisy. The fact that he condones the madman just illustrates the fact that the elf lacks the courage of his convictions. Knowledge of his relationship with Quentin if brought to the Circle of Magi would be more than enough to ensure that he is stripped of his rank and put to the Brand."

"And yet…?"

"Quentin's depredations are more fuel to the fire that we have so carefully worked to nurture within Kirkwall," Sul explained, "Murderers rampaging through the streets at night cause the kind of fear and turmoil that will be necessary to ensure that our plans come to fruition in the Free Marches. As much as it would please me to see that miserable excuse for a mage reduced to a drooling moron, Orsino's weakness and cowardice continue to serve our goals."

"Innocent people are dying," Atiya replied.

"Innocent people will always die," Sul retorted, "And a great deal more are going to die before this is all over," He shifted his weight, "Blood is the currency of change, Atiya, and the change we seek to manifest has a high price indeed," He gestured to his partially flayed face: pale skin stripped away to reveal darkened muscle tissue, "As you can see."

Atiya shrugged fractionally and removed a large, curved blade from the flames and forced the edge under the swollen masses that had taken root in Sul's face. With a sharp twist of her wrist, the blade sprang open causing four metal spikes to burst forth. He screamed as Atiya wrenched the spikes as deep into the gory wound as possible and then pulled with all her might. The growth and the surrounding tissue was torn nearly completely free of his skull, dangling by only a thin thread of pitted skin which she severed with the scissors. She peered into the wound: blood bright and red gushed from it. She nodded her satisfaction and removed a brand from the brazier. Standing, she held him down with one hand and pressed the glowing brand into the open wound. His entire body shook as the pain robbed him of his ability to scream. After an agonizing several moments, Atiya removed the brand and examined her work and Sul nearly collapsed out of the chair, rendered completely limp from the pain. A monstrous scar had agony formed, angry and red, but clean. She reset the spiked tool, set it into the fire for a moment and regarded him with a critical eye, "Shall we continue?"

Sul raised his head and nodded. Atiya removed the tool from the brazier and examined the next growth.

An hour later, the last of the diseased tissue had been removed. Sul was breathing shallowly, the upper portion of his face a mass of bright red scars and inflamed flesh with smoke trailing away from it in thin foul-smelling wisps. Carefully, Atiya made a small incision into each puckered scar and nodded in satisfaction as each bled bright red. She critically examined the small shards of glass that formed the latticework replacing the man's eyes, "The shards will also have to be removed and cleansed."

Sul simply nodded as Atiya removed a pair of small round speculums and affixed them into Sul's eye socket. She adjusted the instrument and examined the shards, "It is fortunate you do not possess eyelids, which makes this easier. Unfortunately, the muscles that would control your eyeball still react normally to external stimulation so the restraints are necessary."

"I do not require an explanation, kadan, merely your accommodation. Please proceed."

Carefully, she removed a long thin spike from the fire, half its length glowing blue and smoking faintly and began examining the shards.

"I assume you remember the correct sequence?" Sul asked mildly.

"Certainly," Atiya reassured him and then she pressed the tip of the needle just under Sul's eye socket and angling it up at a 45 degree angle, slid the length of heated metal under the bone and began burrowing upward. Sul gasped at the agony and heat. The needle met resistance briefly as it came into contact with bone. Atiya twisted the spike and applied more pressure. There was the soft crunch of bone and Sul jerked once before the instrument finished its trip through the man's face, its tip now lodged behind his eye.

"How does it feel?" Atiya asked.

"It's excruciating," He informed her in a calm but strained voice, "Which means it is firmly lodged in the bone and not the brain itself. It will prevent any shards from tumbling backwards into my skull. You may proceed with extraction."

"Yes, sir," Removing a small chisel and mallet from the blue flame, she gently tapped experimentally against each shard of iridescent glass in Sul's eye socket. She felt one small piece near the center of where Sul's pupil would be had he possessed eyes shift slightly causing her to nod once. Inserting the very corner of the chisel adjacent to the shard, she tapped it lightly with the mallet: once, twice, thrice and the shard fell free from its mounting.

"Tilt your head forward," She instructed as she removed a small bowl made of obsidian that possessed several small grooves along the smooth, concave surface of its interior. There was a faint sound as a piece of glass, no bigger than a thumbnail fell from Sul's face and landed in the bowl. It trailed a thick strand of viscous black ichor behind it, "Keep your head forward and let it drain."

Sul gave a slight nod of his head to indicate he heard the instruction as Atiya brought the obsidian bowl to the brazier. Carefully removing a pair of tongs, she collected a single coal from the burning fire and placed it within the bowl. There was an angry hiss as drops of tainted blood boiled away. When it was over, she took a small pair of tweezers and with exacting care, arranged the shard into a small groove perfectly shaped to accommodate it.

"One down," Sul murmured softly, "Twenty-nine to go."

After several hours, the deed was done. Atiya dabbed at an errant drop of black ichor near the corner of Sul's eye socket and dropped the rag into one of the buckets on the floor, now filled to the brim with a noxious tarlike substance: the extract that had been drained from Sul's face and eyes.

Sul's empty eye sockets looked cavernous in the blue light of the brazier. Atiya carefully maneuvered the last tiny shard into its allocated groove in the bowl. Every piece was accounted for.

"Now to purify," Atiya commented tonelessly. Sul managed a wry smile.

"I'm familiar with the process thank you."

Atiya gently placed the bowl into the roaring azure flames. Soon the bowl began to take on an eerie glow and the scent of ozone intensified.

There was a sharp rapping sound just outside the tent.

"Enter," Sul instructed calmly.

"My apologies Captain," Ceyrabeth began crisply as she ducked into the tent, "Lieutenant Pellinore said…" Sul turned his eyeless face towards the elf and the woman froze in her tracks, "Blessed Andraste…!" She managed to choke out.

"You were saying?" Sul asked mildly unable to keep a bemused expression from his lined face.

"I…..I… "

"You….?"

"What….has happened?"

"A long and difficult story for another time," Sul answered before gesturing to chair, "Please, sit lieutenant. Mind the buckets, they contain a substance that would best be avoided by the living."

Ceyrabeth could not repress a frown as she peered into Sul's empty eye sockets, "But you seemed as though you could see…"

"Not as you understand sight. I can sense you: I can hear the fabric of your cloth and feel the air shift and change as you move through the space of a tent."

"Yes, sir." Ceyrabeth pursed her lips. In her attempt to regain control of herself, her voice turned formal. "Thank you for explaining. You have orders for me?"

"The Horde is on the move," He said softly, "Lothering will be destroyed. Begin the evacuation. When the spawn tire of slaughtering villagers, I don't want them turning their attentions to us."

Lieutenant Vallorin saluted smartly, wincing only a little at the sight of Sul's empty eye sockets, "Yes sir! Lieutenant Pellinore also wished me to inform you that there's a man—"

The elf was shouldered out of the way by a short man in garbed in armor and great helm.

"—here to see you."

Sul moved his face to focus his attention on the new man, "It's all right Lieutenant. I've been expecting him. You're dismissed."

The lieutenant sent the short human a withering look. She then stiffly bowed and departed.

"What happened to your eyes?" The short man asked.

"I misplaced them," Sul replied, "Bazeley."

"In the flesh."

"We are far from Amaranthine."

"Yeah? Last I heard you'd shacked up with the ox-men. Hadn't heard the Legion had returned."

"You weren't meant to. It was not your business."

"Information is my business."

"Perhaps you should consider a change in profession."

Bazeley smiled bitterly and cast a look about the tent, "Nice place you have here."

"Are you here for a reason Bazeley?"

Bazeley clicked his tongue in thought then nodded, "Yeah, well, you mentioned a change in profession?"

"You've not the discipline for an assassin of any merit or the fortitude to be a mercenary. You lack both the connections to deal with lyrium or slaves, and you lack the knowledge to be an effective purveyor of the occult. You've become a bounty hunter," The eyeless man stated matter-of-factly.

"For a bloke with no eyes, you see too damn much," Bazeley commented sourly.

"We all have our burdens to bear," Bazeley reached for the bottle of wine on the table, "Do not touch that!" The man froze as Sul's tone cracked like a whip, "It's for a guest that will be joining me later."

The bounty hunter gave the eyeless man a shaky smile. "Right. Sorry then."

Sul gestured, "Atiya, please bring our guest something to drink," The Qunari woman bowed once and headed out. Bazeley gestured at the departing woman with a dirty thumbnail.

"Still got that pet—?"

"You do not want to finish that sentence."

Bazeley shrugged as Atiya returned with a single goblet of mead placing it before the man and departing without a word.

"The last time I saw you," Sul commented softly, "You were fending off Ser Tammerly and six of his bannermen on the Pilgrim's Path."

"Yeah, nice of you to help out."

"We were business competitors," Sul replied coolly, "You gambled that you would beat me. You were wrong."

"'If you cannot afford to lose-," Bazeley tiredly recited from memory.

"—you should not play the game'," The older man finished.

"Someone told me that once when I was a lad."

"You should have listened."

"How the in name of Andraste's flaming arse was I supposed to know that you'd contracted the Howlers ahead of me?"

"Anyone hoping to conduct business on the Pilgrim's Path should be well appraised as to what the local drake runners are doing. The Corsairs were taken by fever last winter. That left the White Howlers as the only bandits still operating in the area."

"And you, what, paid them to attack my caravan?"

"On the contrary, I paid them to avoid your caravan."

Bazeley frowned, "I don't get it."

"It's very simple, Bazeley. Someone had already paid the Howlers to attack your caravan. When I disrupted that plan, I wanted to see if the person responsible for orchestrating their attacks over the last few months would come personally."

The other man frowned for a bit then his eyes went wide, "The Ox!"

Sul inclined his head slightly.

"You used me as bait?!"

"You sound surprised."

"I had nine bolts of the finest silk heading to Mervis! It cost me a fortune!"

"I had heard rumors that the silk trade was brisk in Amaranthine," Sul mused, "Most likely due to Celene's atrocious fashion statement at her fete last Summerfest in Halamshiral. Ferelden nobility for all their declarations of patriotism always seem eager to parrot the fashions of the west, no matter how gauche," Sul shook his head reprovingly, "Slippers bejeweled with emeralds and pearls indeed."

Bazeley said nothing, glaring at the eyeless man over the rim of his goblet as he sipped, "Still don't know why it had to be my goods that you baited the Ox with."

"Because I had hoped that you and yours would have been up to the task of slaying the wretch."

The bounty hunter peered into his mead as if attempting to scry the answer from its topaz depths, "We weren't prepared to fight mounted knights. I was the only one to escape. The rest of my boys were run down."

"And that is why you lost your goods and why Ser Tammerly eluded the death I had so dearly wished for him."

"What'd the Ox do to get on your bad side?"

"The man is a pig. He deserves to be someone's bacon."

"Ser Tamra would agree with you on that one."

"Yes," Sul said softly, his brow furrowing.

"What?"

"Ser Tamra is sly and resourceful, but if she attracts the wrong kind of attention—"

"Like the Ox?" Bazeley interjected.

"Like the Ox," Sul admitted, "She could place herself in imminent peril."

"Want me to keep an eye out? I don't think you have any to spare," Bazeley grinned.

"Had your business acumen matched your glibness, we would not be discussing this particular matter."

"….okay, fair point."

"But no, I have agents in Amaranthine and Vigil's Keep. I should be able to keep Tamra out of harm's way and arrange a suitable decoy should those efforts fail."

"What's your interest in her anyways?"

Sul shrugged fractionally, "She's clever and moral. That's enough to garner my interest, especially when it occurs within the ranks of the Ferelden nobility. Speaking of which," Sul commented smoothly, "I understand you're continuing to make life difficult for Rendon Howe."

Bazeley spat, "That rat bastard needs a good being killed."

"Difficult, now that he has the support of Teryn Loghain, the new power behind the throne," Bazeley's mouth dropped open and Sul smiled tightly, "You didn't know?"

"That explains why the little shit's fortunes have been improved. Did you hear he'd been made teyrn of Highever?"

"I had. Are you aware of how he became thus?"

"No."

"He massacred almost every last soul at Castle Cousland…with Loghain's assistance in the form of at least two companies of his own, handpicked from his own reserves and wearing Howe's colors."

Bazeley blinked rapidly for a few moments processing this, "Maker's balls."

"Whether or not that actually happened or no is what I wish for you to learn."

Bazeley narrowed his eyes suspiciously his wariness allowing him to overcome the discomfort of the sight of the two gaping eye sockets staring back at him, "What are you on about?"

"Rendon Howe is a craven but he's not completely without intelligence. He may have acquired some form of leverage to be used against his current master in the event their relationship sours."

"And what would that leverage be exactly?"

Sul smiled faintly, "I have a suspicion."

"So what's the job?"

Sul stood and walked across the dimly lit tent with a confidence that belied his blindness and took the other man by surprise, "When I was in Minrathous, an acquaintance of mine informed me that there'd been an arrangement made between elements in Tevinter and here in Ferelden."

"What's a Vint doing here?" Bazeley asked, taking a long drink from the wine goblet.

"Negotiating an arrangement with Loghain to reintroduce slavery."

The other man spewed a mouthful of mead out of his mouth, coughing and choking, "He…what?!"

"There's a magister with a pet slaver who cut a deal with Loghain's people. "

"How do you know these things?" He asked, aghast.

"I intercepted one of his agents and persuaded her to divulge the information."

Bazeley shook his head to clear it of visions involving Sul's methods of 'persuasion'.

"Calm yourself," Sul reassured Bazeley, "There was no need to resort to coercion. Once I supplied her with enough funds to facilitate her departure from the country, she spoke freely."

"Speaking of funds..."

Sul tossed a small pouch to the other man who caught it in his free hand, "30 gold sovereigns. Find the slaver; an elf named Devera and her magister master."

"Where do I start looking? Amaranthine?"

"No, information like this would be disastrous for the Teryn if it fell into the wrong hands."

"I'd say it already has," He gestured at the eyeless man with his wine goblet.

"I can't afford to confront Loghain openly. My resources are plentiful and growing, but not enough to challenge the throne."

"What about your allies amongst the nobility?"

"Loghain and Howe will need to establish the logistics of funneling slaves from Ferelden back to Tevinter. It'll require trial and error. So they'll take people no one will miss at first until they've established a reliable conduit."

"Meaning….?"

"Elves, Bazeley, they'll start with elves and move on to more lucrative slaves once they have their route established."

"That means raiding the alienages."

Sul nodded thoughtfully, "There was recently an uprising in the Denerim alienage."

The other man scoffed, "Apparently the elves didn't appreciate being used as sport for the bored kids of the nobility."

"Apparently so," Sul conceded, "It wouldn't surprise me if additional armed men are discreetly sent to 'reestablish order and ensure public safety'."

"Slavers?"

"Almost certainly," Sul pursed his lips in thought and then beckoned, "Come," He turned and briskly exited the tent, his stride confident despite his blindness.

The blind leading the… Bazeley thought about for a moment then shook his head not wanting to dwell on the matter further as he followed the older man out.

"Light," Sul said softly as he entered the command tent. Instantly, two guards lit torches and placed them inside the sconces within the confines of the enormous tent. Sul paid them little heed as he strode to the massive oaken table

Bazeley eyed the enormous fixture appraisingly, "Where'd you get this great thing?"

"Tribute from Xenon the Antiquarian," Sul murmured quietly as slowly ran his fingers over the contoured surface area of the map, frowning in concentration, "A token of his esteem."

"Who's that?"

"Less of a 'who' and more of a 'what', actually. He runs the Black Emporium; something of an exclusive curio shop in the Free Marches. He specializes in rare and exotic antiquities."

"And he sent you this…?"

"Likely to earn my favor."

"Did it work?"

"For the moment," Sul conceded, "He tells me his agents found it in the ruin of an ancient elven fortress up in the Frostback mountains west of here along the border of Orlais. "

"How in the Void did he get a giant table down a bleedin' mountain?"

"Thaddeus."

"Who?"

Sul waved him off and tapped a spot on the map, "Here. From Denerim along the North Road…," He traced his finger along the road, "….to the Port of Highever, newly acquired by Rendon Howe."

"If Loghain and Howe are in league-."

"They are."

"—then whole bit with slaves was a long time in the making. Clever."

"If you say so," Sul replied, his brow furrowed in concentration, the expression looking bizarre with the vacant eye sockets.

"Where's he going to send them?"

Sul sighed and tapped the map thoughtfully, "You can't sail to Tevinter from Ferelden with a hold full of slaves, not without half of them starving to death."

"It is a high-risk cargo. That's why—"

"They are not cargo Bazeley," A dark shadow settled across Sul's face as he straightened and turned his face towards the other man "They are living people, are we clear on that?" His tone was lethally soft.

Bazeley swallowed around a suddenly dry throat as he peered into the cavernous depths of where Sul's eyes should have been, "Yes, sir."

Sul held the look a moment longer and then turned his attention elsewhere, "I shall have to think more on it. In the meantime, return to Amaranthine and keep me appraised of Howe's movements and those of his agents."

"Hey, I'm not part of your damn legion," Bazeley protested.

"Thirty gold sovereigns says otherwise," Bazeley shut his mouth with an audible clack and threw back the last of his mead, scowling, "Besides you should get out of bounty hunter profession."

"Oh yeah, why's that?"

"Larkin's alive."

The goblet hit the floor and rolled away.

…..what….?" Bazeley managed to choke out.

"Larkin is alive."

"But…..but the dragon….and the volcano….and the firestorm…"

"Was apparently insufficient."

"Sweet Maker!" Bazeley stammered wiping a shaky hand across his damp brow.

"I think perhaps you should try your hand at becoming an information broker and not becoming business competitors with a creature like Larkin."

"Yeah, yeah, I think so, yeah."

"You'll need a new nom de guerre."

Bazeley looked at the Captain with the expression of a man who'd been stabbed in the gut, "A what?"

"An Orlesian term," Sul explained patiently, "It means 'alias'."

"Oh," The sweating man looked around the interior of the tent and at the row of banners mounted on the far wall and their heraldic markings, "How about that?" He asked pointing to one depicting a pair of black wolves against a yellow and green background.

"I would advise against masquerading as a member of the de Chalon family," Sul stated mildly, "Gaspard is not a man known for his temperance."

"Well, how about just 'Black Wolf'?"

Sul pursed his lips and shook his head, "Black Wolf is the name of a male prostitute in Llomerryn."

"How do you know these things?"

"Information is my weapon," Sul offered as an explanation, "'Dark Wolf'."

Bazeley considered and then nodded, "'Dark Wolf'. I like it."

"Good. You have your instructions."

The newly-christened Dark Wolf nodded and moved to the exit.

"Ummm, what should I do if I meet up with Larkin?"

"Swallow your own tongue," Sul stated unhesitatingly, "Because it will be far kinder than anything that lunatic has in mind if he decides to make you his new plaything."

Dark Wolf gingerly rubbed his throat and then nodded once before hurrying out. Sul listened to the man's departing footsteps crunch on the gravel before setting his shoulders back with a faint sigh. Time to return to Atiya.