Chapter 7
They made good time to the City of Amaranthine. What normally would have taken half a day's walking was considerably lessened when they hitched a ride on the back of a farmer's wagon going to the city to sell crops.
Hawke bought a couple of zucchini from the farmer's stall in thanks for the ride and tucked them in her pack.
"Zucchini?" Anders said, wrinkling his nose as they walked through the market. "What can you do with zucchini besides make awkward jokes? You can't even eat it like an apple or something."
"Zucchini's good for you," she said, with a laugh. "Besides, you don't remember my mother's zucchini bread. Cinnamon, sugar—oh it's the best thing fresh from the oven."
"You bake too?" Anders stared at her.
Hawke laughed. "No, no. I'm afraid not. I took after my father mostly—fighting and sticking my nose where it doesn't belong. Bethany took more after mother. I'm sure with the combined efforts of my pleading and your puppy-eyes, we can get her to make some for us."
"Great," Anders deadpanned. "Bread stuffed with a stringy vegetable. I can hardly wait."
Hawke grinned. "Well, I know for a fact that you love it." She captured his hand in hers and they walked around the market, replacing some of the supplies they hadn't had time to replenish since he'd fallen ill. It was nice to feel like a "normal" couple for once. Hawke had nearly forgotten what that felt like between the constant running and hiding over the past two years. She tried to tell herself not to get too comfortable, that they wouldn't be able to stay here, but it was hard when the sun was shining and the man she loved was finally free of that cursed spirit.
They approached a dwarven armorer tucked in the corner where the city's south and east walls met. Anders glanced around, his eyes falling on a dilapidated building not far from the stall.
"That's where the templar attacked the Commander after I was conscripted," he said, gesturing. "I thought my phylactery was there. But it was just a ruse. I was lucky to escape that time."
Hawke frowned, something was niggling at the back of her mind, something she should have thought of a long time ago...
"Welcome to Glassric's Fine Weapons and Arms," said the dwarf, bowing at the waist. "Please, feel free to peruse my wares. You won't find finer steel or armor anywhere else in the city."
"I'm here to pick up a special order," Hawke said. "The House Tethras shield."
The merchant's eyes widened. "Ah, of course. I'll be one moment." He ducked around the corner of his stall, rummaging in a lockbox, then returned with a wad of letters tied with twine.
"Thank you," Hawke smiled, taking the letters and putting them carefully in her pack. "Do you happen to sharpen blades here as well?"
"I do indeed, ser—"
"Hawke, we need to go," Anders hissed in her ear. She glanced around and froze. A trio of templars were working their way through the stalls further down the market. They were moving slowly, obviously looking for something, or someone. They paused to question a man with blond hair further down.
"Another time," she said hastily to the dwarf, and striving to remain calm, she and Anders walked away.
"In here," he murmured and they ducked into a door set into the wall. "It leads to the guard walk," he explained, shutting the door so only a crack remained.
"Anders, we should—"
He held a finger to her lips. "I want to hear if they're actually looking for me. If they are, we run. If not," he waggled his eyebrows, "we can tumble out of here after awhile with our clothes disheveled and our hair mussed."
"Incorrigible," she muttered with a smile, but there was still worry lurking behind her eyes.
The templars passed by not long after, and Hawke held her breath, straining to hear their conversation.
"I'm telling you, he's here somewhere in the city. Hunters know these things," said the tinny voice of what sounded like a female templar.
"Well we've seen no sight of him or even found anyone who's seen him or the woman he's traveling with," said another.
"We can't even find a consistent description of her anyway." A third voice sighed. "Let's just head back to Knight-Captain Leroux. He has the maleficar's phylactery—he can perform the ritual again."
Hawke and Anders stared at each other with dawning horror. "They have your phylactery!" she hissed. "No wonder they kept finding us—why didn't I think of before? I'm an idiot!"
"And this Leroux fellow must be nearby," he mused, his body taut as a bowstring and his voice attempting to think through this rationally. Last time had been a trap, and he did not want to put himself in that situation again.
"Please tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking."
"Would that I could, but I think you're onto me," he jested softly, bumping her shoulder with his. They watched the templars getting close to them, questioning fellows as they went, and he chewed his lip in thought. "How good are you at pickpocketing?"
She turned and narrowed her eyes at him. "Pretty good, I guess. Why?"
He nodded towards the crack. "That one there is wearing his keys on the outside like a dare."
"That's because no-one would dare to rob a templar!"
"How do you feel about that 'tumble out like lovesick fools' thing as a ploy to bump into our fine fellows there and nick that set of keys?"
She frowned at him. "We don't even know where they're going! And they said someone recognized you!"
"We could always give it a shot," he shrugged one shoulder, watching them get closer as they moved away from questioning one of the city guard. "It's now or never, sweetcheeks."
She looked back out and sighed. "If we get caught after all this running I'll be the one who kills you, not them."
"How reassuring," he deadpanned, and before she could retort, leapt on her, shoving her out the door to collide with the templars, lips locked on hers. Taken by surprise, she fumbled, throwing out her arms as the door banged against one breastplate adorned with the flaming sword and she fell into another.
"Watch it, you fools!" The one she had banged into shoved her away, and Anders swung her across his body like a dance until she backed into the third one, the one with the keys. She spun and laid her hands on his breastplate and feigned the worst gutter accent Anders had ever heard.
"Pardon me darlin' I's quite sorry, y'see, but my man here is turrble handsy!" Anders watched her fingers lift the keys from his belt.
"Get out of my way, harlot!" Her target shoved her back at Anders, who kept his head low, bobbing in a bow and mumbling how sorry he was, they didn't mean any harm. The jingle she was unable to mask as she shoved the keys into her sleeve was lost in the sound of clinking chainmail as the templar removed himself from her grasp. Anders held fast to her shoulders and tucked his face against her neck, watching them tromp off.
"Quick, I don't know how long before they'll notice, and that was a rather memorable heist," she hissed at him.
"'Turrble handsy'?" He chided, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and slipping away.
"Well I could've said clumsy as an ox, but I was in-character." Backtracking, they looked out the front gates and could see no sign of the templars. "What now?"
"Now we ask around where the templars are hiding."
"I'm surprised they aren't staying in the Chantry."
"Oh no, when hunters are on a trail, they do not defile the House of the Maker with their blood magic."
She stopped him, laying a hand on his arm. "Stupid idea or not, we have the keys. If we can find out where they are, we can destroy your phylactery and you can be free of them."
He gave her a sad smile. "My entire life has been spent running. Even, apparently, the parts I don't remember. I don't know how to... not."
She shrugged, trying for the bright side. "Well think of it as a new experience."
He scoffed. "I think I'm about full-up on new experiences lately. How about we do something more familiar and screw with some templars? That never fails to bring a smile to my face."
"We'll need to get word to the Keep," she added. "If they think you're in Amaranthine, that's the next place they'll stop."
"Right. There should be a messenger service around here... might cost a few sovereigns though."
They headed deeper into the market, finding the messenger service easily enough. Hawke scrawled a message quickly. Alistair, she wrote, those greedy cousins we've been avoiding the past few years have shown up. They may show up at your door looking for handouts. Love, Marian
Anders snorted, reading over her shoulder. "That's your idea of a cipher?"
"We're in a hurry, in case you didn't notice," she huffed. He pulled the parchment away and scrawled a few lines at the bottom in an undecipherable text.
"That's real Grey Warden code," he said with a smirk.
Hawke rolled her eyes and dug through her coin purse for the payment. "Give this message to the Commander at Vigil's Keep or Warden Nathaniel Howe."
"And it's Grey Warden business," Anders added, narrowing his eyes at the messenger. "So be quick about it."
They watched him leave until Hawke grabbed his hand. "We still have to find out where the templars are hiding." They walked further. Hawke seemed to be looking for something, finally finding it in a shallow alley behind the Merchant's Guild board.
"Inscribe a spirit glyph, here," she said, tapping a nondescript brick on the wall.
"Why?"
"The Mages' Collective always leaves warnings for apostates when templars are on the prowl," she explained. "We got used to doing this when we were on the run."
"Handy." Anders focused his mana and wrote the swirling lines against the brick with his finger. "I'm surprised they helped us."
"They weren't happy about it at first," she admitted, "but they came around when mages innocent of any crimes started being slaughtered without cause." Her eyes darkened. "Those first few months weren't... pleasant."
The brick seemed to melt, and she stuck her hand inside the opening. "Ah..." She flipped through the various letters: the usual requests for lyrium and potions ingredients until finding the one she was looking for, marked with a bright red templar insignia.
"'Warning to all,'" she read aloud, "'the templars have arrived lately in our fair city of Amaranthine. They are staying at the Crown and Lion Inn. Be advised to avoid the area and lay low until they have moved on. Maker guide you and keep you, brothers and sisters,' and so on."
"I know that inn," Anders said, gesturing vaguely behind them. "It's across the street from the Chantry."
Hawke ran a hand through her hair. "It would be with our luck. We can't just walk in the front door, can we?" She put the documents back inside the hidey-hole. The brick reformed over it.
Anders grinned. "I have an idea. Last time I was here, there was a smuggler's tunnel just outside the city gates that led directly into a storeroom at the Crown and Lion. We can get in, get the phylactery, and be out of the city before any stupid templar is the wiser. And," he rubbed his hands with glee, "I have a surefire itch hex I can cast on their smallclothes."
"An 'itch hex'?" Hawke snorted with laughter. "I've never heard of such a thing."
Anders drew himself up with a sniff. "I'll have you know that showy fire blasts and lightning strikes are for amateurs. Any apprentice at the Circle will tell you that the true war is waged under the templars' noses with itch hexes and acne hexes and unfortunately-placed rash hexes." He winced at a memory. "There's the true reason I became interested in spirit healing in the first place. I didn't dare show my face to Helena looking like that."
"Helena, hmm?" Hawke raised an eyebrow, trying to school her face into a stern frown but failing.
"Oh, er, she was an apprentice in the Circle when I was, um, very young and stupid," Anders said hurriedly, eyes shifting away. "She was quite ugly, though, with many unsightly bulges."
She laughed. "Alright. Itch hexes galore. But this tunnel: what if there are smugglers who may be less than happy that their hideout has been discovered?"
Anders shrugged. "Details!" he said airily. "But we cleared out the whole operation last time. Even if they've come back, we're more than a match for a couple of thugs."
"Alright." Hawke smiled. "Let's do this."
They headed out of the city proper, into the little village that had sprung up around the city gates like some sort of fungus—close to the walls, in the shadows of the turrets.
"I think it's this one," he nodded at a boarded-up little clapboard shack with an abandoned chicken coop to the side, fencing trampled down and coop long since abandoned. He walked up and jiggled the door latch as unobtrusively as possible, but they were being watched by a man with they didn't-want-to-know-what in his beard and very few teeth. "I can't tell if he's staring or what," Anders hissed, looking over his shoulder and chuckling. She craned her head back from where she was covering his break-in attempt to see the man had tilted his head curiously.
"I think he's looking at my ass."
"It does look good in those breeches," he conceded.
"Are you going to break in or just play with the latch some more?"
"I don't see you helping," he whispered back.
"I always let Varric do that shit. I'm crap at locks."
He sighed and reached up under his hat and withdrew two hairpins, sticking one between his lips and using the other to jimmy the lock before inserting the second one and twisting his wrist, soliciting that clicking sound of a properly picked lock. "Ah-ha."
They slipped inside the shack, shutting the door behind them. "Did you really just pick that lock with hairpins?"
"I'm not completely without skills!"
"Yes, but you had hairpins. In your hair."
"Where would you like me to keep them? In my trousers? I can tell you, that'd probably be a bit uncomfortable."
She shrugged in agreement and looked around the room. There was no obvious exit unless they wanted to climb out the window with a spectacular view of the city wall. She stayed away from it with the strange feeling that if she were to look out, their friend the curious beggar might pop up and look back.
"Now, I think..." He moved over to a stack of crates, and started hauling, pulling, and shoving. "You going to help me or just stand there and look pretty?"
"Is that really an option?"
He huffed. "Get over here. I think I liked you better when you didn't sass me."
"Too bad," she jibbed and winked at him, moving over to help him haul the crates, revealing the trapdoor, also padlocked.
He stood up straight, scratching under his hat. "I seem to remember this one was a real bitch. I think we actually stole the key. Then again, we were going for stealth..."
"And we're not now?"
"Welllll I don't see anyone with a key, so the old freeze-it-and-bang-on-it trick may be in order."
"What a canny plan!"
"And more sass!"
It took them several minutes, because she refused to bang on it with the pommel of one of her daggers and sought out some sort of rock or something that might do the job. They found a rotted hammer, and she yanked the head off the handle and wrapped her hand in her glove to keep from nicking herself with the prying edge. When they started to chip the metal, he began to freeze and warm it, trying to weaken the metal a bit more. Finally she was able to twist the lock and break it apart, ruining it, but freeing the door.
He crouched and lifted the door as they stood, looking down into the hole. "Well, ladies first," he gestured.
"You going to at least give me some light?" She began to back down the ladder.
"Oh, right," he replied, as though she had pulled him from some deep thought, and she looked up and frowned.
"You were staring at my tits, weren't you?"
"Me? Never! I'm a perfect gentleman!"
She scowled at him and he laughed, swinging onto the ladder above her and making their way down into the tunnels.
#
Anders threw some fire into a couple of sconces on the walls to light the way. Hawke had her daggers ready for any irate smugglers, but the hallway ended at a cove that was empty.
"Huh," Anders said, glancing at the pier as they cautiously walked by, "looks like smugglers do still use this space. Look, wet footprints."
"Well, we're lucky they're gone right now," Hawke said. She looked over at Anders. "Where to?"
He led the way through another series of tunnels on the opposite side of the cove. She saw the set of his shoulders tense as they neared the end and squeezed his hand. He smiled briefly then paused, gesturing at the ladder at the end of the tunnel.
"There it is. If I remember correctly, this opened up into the back of a storage room. There are guest rooms on either side though I think only the one right across the hall would be big enough to fit all four templars. Well, assuming four is all there are," he chuckled nervously.
"I'll go first," Hawke said, edging past him. "I'm not as good with stealth as Isabela, but at least if someone's in the room, they won't know what they see. "
"I'm not letting you take all the risk for me, Marian," he started to object.
"And you'd miss out on an opportunity to check out my ass again?" she said, raising an eyebrow.
Anders appeared to consider the words. "You have a point. But seriously—"
"As soon as I give the all-clear, you can come up. Now, let's find that phylactery and be done with this." She squeezed his hand again and shimmied up the ladder. Holding her breath, she tried to do as Isabela had tried to teach her—how to wrap the shadows around herself, how to blend in even when someone was looking directly at you.
Slowly, she lifted the door above her head a crack. It was still a storeroom—she could see stacks of blankets, some buckets, and a few mops in just a quick glance. No one was inside the room and the only noise she could hear was distant music playing in what must be the common room.
She ducked down to see Anders anxiously looking up at her. "Come on. It's safe."
They ascended the ladder and stood for a moment in the storeroom. Anders was shaking. She touched his arm. "Are you alright?"
"Yes… no." He took a deep breath. "I've never been this close to it before, though I've dreamed of it since the day they took my blood. I know that… in light of the things I've done, this is a pretty minor victory, but I really need one about now."
"We both do." Hawke hesitated a moment, then leaned up and brushed her lips against his. "For luck," she whispered.
"Oh, great, now my mind is definitely on the mission."
"Focus, Anders."
"Slave driver."
Hawke eased the door open. The room Anders had mentioned earlier was just across and to the left a little. She crept across the wood floor, pressing her ear against the door: nothing.
"Marian!" Anders hissed and jerked a thumb toward the common room over the balcony. She peered over. A templar hunter in full armor sat at a table eating a meal. She swallowed.
"Well, we know he's not in his room anymore," she whispered. "Let's do this quickly. I'll watch here. If he starts moving this way, I'll alert you."
Anders nodded and moved to the templar's door, fumbling with the keys they'd stolen. Hawke turned back to the balcony. She could just see the top of the templar's head and his back was facing her; a perfect watching position. The minutes ticked by.
"Hurry, Anders," she muttered. He wasn't coming. She spared a last look for the templar, who was drinking from a tumbler, and scurried to the room.
Anders was on his knees before a fancy lockbox. He turned when she entered, and her words of protest died on her throat.
"What's wrong?" she whispered, seeing his stricken face. He held open his hand. Laying on his palm was not one glass vial but two. One was clearly marked "Anders—maleficar." The other was marked "Marian Hawke."