Zevran
Upon my return to the nest of the Crows, there is a great cackling and cawing and flapping of wings as the other murderous birds rearrange themselves on their perches, watching me with their little black bead eyes. They do not assail me directly, no, they are not so foolish, but they vie amongst themselves for position and my rise has not passed unnoticed. There are more than a few of my dear Crows who are guilty of envy and more than a few, I think, who would like to scratch me with their talons and peck me with their sharp beaks 'til I am bloody. I have heard tell of honour amongst thieves, but I know from experience that there is little in the way of constancy amongst assassins. We possess other virtues, of course, but we must keep our loyalties...flexible.
I have achieved the rank of Master, a promotion long overdue, and I now number among the select few who sit upon the Council of Crows and may take rooms within the Palazzo dei Corvi. The palazzo rests on the outskirts of Antiva City, but once you cross the black wrought-iron gates and enter upon its sprawling grounds, you will discover that it is a city in its own right and a fortress, too, if need be. I am here at the behest of Ferelden's spy network and these past few months, I have been attacking this fortress from within.
I took my first stroll through the grand hall of the palazzo when I was but an apprentice, little more than a skinny adolescent cutthroat with a wicked blade and bold, bragging tongue. Of course, most of my time then was spent in much less lavish quarters, wood bunkers little better than sheds, where one might take an evening's amusement in watching the fleas dance on the mattresses. The instructors would sometimes herd us out into the palazzo courtyard to conduct training exercises, games that usually stained the sand with blood. As a child, I would look up at the palazzo in wonderment, marvelling at its fluted columns, its gracious high windows accented with marble flourishes as white and graceful as the inside of a lady's wrist. Now I walk these corridors and I look out those same lovely windows but I do not enjoy the view.
It is most unfortunate, but I begin to savour the sweet tang of vengeance. That is a dangerous thing for a fellow in my precarious position, a prodigal son newly returned to the Crows and the youngest among the masters. Recently, I have caught myself entertaining ideas about what I will do when I take over Crow operations, what an utter delight it will be to kick up my feet on the polished mahogany desk in the main study and arrange for certain necessary changes, a bit of organizational restructuring, if you will. This behaviour shows some lack of professionalism on my part, of course, for as they say in Ferelden, one should not count the chickens before they are hatched (My, but I do love those quaint Fereldan proverbs!). I believe that one is quite apt, for it is unwise for me to count the dead while they still draw breath and I will have to step over quite a few corpses before I am crowned King of Crows.
When I am not occupied with my gleeful delusions of grandeur, I act as an agent of Ferelden in the negotiation of a new Antivan trade agreement. You see, there are some contracts regarding the export of lyrium that cannot be signed without spilling a certain amount of red ink. Indeed, I have received word from Sapphire that my latest mark will be none other than the wicked old Prince of Parmia, Barthelomeo Rienza, notorious for his excellent taste in art and terrible taste in friends. They say that pregnancy has a way of calming the storm in a woman's heart and bringing forth her maternal nature, but my darling EIendra is as pragmatic as ever, putting pen to death warrants while she knits baby booties, and she seems to take special joy in presenting me with new challenges.
Unfortunately, I suspect that I will need aid in this latest venture, for it would appear that the good Prince of Parmia favours only the fair sex. I am loath to confess it, but it seems that even a certain comely but decidedly male elf, in spite of all his skill and bountiful charms, will not be tempting enough to lure the ancient gentleman away from his cohort of guards. This is why I may need to involve a young protégée I have been teaching, a deadly elven damsel named Nerissa whose loveliness and cunning make her an ideal candidate to serve as lethal bait.
I meet with her here in the palazzo's great hall, under glittering chandeliers and gilded ceilings covered in frescos of legendary murders. She looks quite toothsome in a crimson gown, her pale breasts cupped beneath a tight bodice and a cascade of red-gold hair sliding down her back in gentle waves.
"You look most radiant this morning," I tell her. "Have you just disposed of a wayward noble, perhaps? Or have you been partaking in other pleasures?"
She smiles at my flattery. "Imagine whatever wickedness you please, Master Zevran. Shall we walk as we plot?"
"Yes, I always enjoy a little exercise to go along with my conspiring."
I escort her down the hall and under the high-vaunted archways that lead into the palazzo's galleries. Here, portraits of historical personages and our aristocratic 'benefactors' hang in ornate frames, sneering at any who should care to look upon them. As we converse, I examine Nerissa carefully, evaluating her responses. She is capable enough, I think, for the job I would give her, but I doubt she will last long as a Crow. Underneath the careless mien we Crows cultivate from the cradle, there is something fervent and eager about her, something that is seeking and will never find what is searching for. It is sad and I have seen it before. She has the eyes of a starved child.
I believe that she will perform well in the task I propose, that she will kill very beautifully for a while, but I have been lucky in this short, cruel life and I know that most young Crows do not share my good fortune. Whatever I bear in place of a heart, it will not break for her or for anyone still living, but I find it wearisome to witness the deaths of the young, the poor and the lovely. I'd much rather be cavorting about, facilitating the demises of the old, the obscenely rich and the gouty – it pays good coin and it's better for the soul.
"Who are they?" Nerissa asks, pointing to a pair of portraits hung in a murky corner.
"Why, you do not recognize Artemisia Forzia, the Queen of Swords?"
She gives a charming smile, her teeth showing like pearls. "Not in the least."
"But surely you know of the Red Prince, the man who commissioned her assassination?"
"Who?"
Young people these days. They are so very resistant to culture, as if possessing the benefits of an education might dull their swords, temper their poisons or mar their pretty faces. One might think that they never had the chance to steal books from the learned people they assassinated. I myself once pilfered a very nice set of encyclopaedias from a target's library and so I know most everything about the world. Well, with the notable exception of things beginning with the letter 'T', for some filthy wretch filched that volume out from out of my room.
"Come, I will tell you the grisly tale," I tell her. "I should not like to see you miss out on a shining moment in the history of our fine Crows, a pivotal achievement in assassination that defined an entire age."
I lead her over to the two portraits, one of a solemn young woman, black-haired and pallid of skin, and the other of a swarthy man of middle years, haughty in his plumed hat and red velvet breeches.
"The young woman who you see before you is the Queen of Swords, a pious soul who spent all her days on her knees praying in the Chantry and all her nights avoiding sin with such skill, that her old goat of a husband went quite mad."
"Mad? What did he do?"
"Oh, for several years, he was under the impression that he was an elf. He even went so far as to clip the tips of his ears into points. He'd rage at his courtiers, calling them 'shem' and telling them that they stole his homeland."
"How peculiar."
"Indeed. Now, considering her prudishness and fanatical piety, it should not come as much surprise that our dear Lady of the Swords looked upon the Crows as a tumour, one that should be cut from Antiva's body politic."
I point at the painting of the Red Prince beside her. "This wicked, degenerate creature was the great patron of the Crows at the time and he was most displeased at the Queen of Swords' righteous crusade to wipe out our organization. And, my dear Nerissa, I believe you are well aware what Crows do to resolve problems."
She smiles. "We don't simply negotiate?"
I remove a set of silverite throwing daggers from the belt at my hips. "The Red Prince hired the greatest assassin of his age, a man known only as The Maker's Hand, to claim retribution. "
Showing her the throwing daggers, I pause in my tale. "Now I will ask you to use your imagination. Pretend that these are not little daggers, but swords nearly an arm's breadth long."
I fling the first dagger into the portrait and it hits the painted woman in the throat. "That is where the first sword went. There were four, each representing a noble house of Crows. The second sword entered a little lower...."
I aim my next dagger at the black satin bodice of the woman's gown, right above the heart, and let it fly. "Right about there. It is said that The Maker's Hand twisted that one in so deep that the sword went almost all the way through the bed."
I am about to throw my third dagger to demonstrate how a sword pierced the gap between the queen's ribs, when a silken voice interrupts my lesson. "And just what precisely do you think you're doing, Arainai? This is the Palazzo dei Corvi, not some grimy brothel room."
I adjust my aim, targeting the portrait of the Red Prince. My dagger hits the villain right between his heavy-lidded eyes.
"That is not historically accurate," I inform Nerissa and she gives a nervous giggle.
"Still much enamoured with folly, I see," Master Ferdinand says, his arms crossed over his chest. "Master or no, you should watch yourself. No Crow takes kindly to seeing works of art desecrated."
I feign confusion. "Art? Where? I simply saw nasty stains on two pieces of perfectly serviceable canvas. I was hoping to clean up the mess."
Master Ferdinand frowns and I am glad to have angered him. You see, the so-called artist was his great-grandfather, a mediocre court painter who painted people as if they had absurdly lengthy torsos and a greenish tint to their complexions, like bodies in the last stage of putrification. I expect I would have disliked Ferdinand's revered ancestor almost as much as I despise him.
You see, this is the man who laughed in my face when he told me he already knew the truth behind Rina's death. This is the man who told me that the most terrible mistake of my life didn't matter, because I didn't matter and neither did she. But there will be a day, I think, when Rina will matter to him and my fate, too, will become an issue of the utmost importance to this reptile. For there will be a time when I will hold his life in my hands and then I will tell him that it is of little consequence, that no one will notice when we toss his corpse into the green slime that gloms around the docks of the Rialto.
There will be a day, yes, but it is not today and so I must listen to his reprimands and pretend that I am but an irascible rogue, little capable of forethought, indulging only my own caprices.
Ferdinand shakes his head. "Ah, yes, that is the ridiculous pride, the impudence that I remember so well. Born in the filth of an elven whore's bed and yet you aspire to toy with the fates of princes. I fear you will meet a sad end, one as shameful as your beginning."
I am about to answer him when Nerissa steps in, her doll-like body bristling with disdain. "You are an envious old man, aren't you? You fear Master Zevran and well you should, for he assassinated an archdemon and he will make short work of a fiend like you."
As much as I admire a spirited woman, I wish she had held her tongue, for it is one thing for masters to quarrel and quite another for pupils to take sides in their disputes. Without help, without protection, poor Nerissa's life will be a brief tale, indeed.
Ferdinand laughs. "What a fond, silly child, you are, my dear Nerissa. Were I you, I would watch the company you keep. Your new friend has a disquieting tendency of slitting the throat of any woman he gets too sweet on."
He turns away, confident that he has enjoyed the last word, and I raise my last throwing dagger, aiming it for the back of his neck.
It is not the knowledge that I would surely die that stills my arm. It is not the awareness that I would have failed my mission for the sake of avenging a few careless words. It is only Nerissa's hand clutched around my bicep that keeps me from throwing it all away for the unmitigated pleasure of putting a blade through Ferdinand's lying throat.
"Don't," she whispers. "Not yet. Not here."
I lower my blade. Smiling at Nerissa, I cradle her hand between both of my own and kiss it. "And suddenly you are become so wise, my sweet. I wish you had displayed such a caution and forbearance but a few moments before, for I fear you have angered him and it may go badly for you."
"He hates to be called 'old'," she says. "In any case, I do not care for him nor will I fear his jealousy."
"Ah, but you should, Nerissa. He may be long in the tooth and his hairline may be making a quick and cowardly retreat from his forehead, but he has seen much in his years and will be a formidable foe. It would be best if you honeyed your words and made him your friend again."
"You counsel me well, but I shall not," she says, raising her chin as if she might make herself taller and more imposing by sheer force of will.
I chuckle at the boldness of uncompromising and uncompromised youth. "Then we shall have to be allies. It is not healthy for you, my dear, to make a powerful enemy unless you possess a stronger friend."
She nods her head, giving my hand a little squeeze before she lets it go. "Yes, that would please me greatly, Master Zevran."
"This 'Master' business, it sounds very kinky, no? Perhaps it is best you should simply call me 'Zev'...unless you wish to tease me with wicked thoughts."
Nerissa offers me an impish smile. "It may be that I do, Zev."
I grin. "Yes, I thought so. For as innocent as you look, you are a Crow, nonetheless, and must always have an ulterior motive. Perhaps we shall discuss such things later this evening, in a more conducive atmosphere?"
"Such as your quarters?"
"That would be one possibility, yes. Would that please you?"
She bites her ripe lips, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "I think it might be the source of some considerable pleasure for me."
"Then I shall look forward to the occasion with much anticipation."
There is a pause in the conversation, as Nerissa approaches the portrait of the Queen of Swords and retrieves my daggers from the canvas. When she returns, she looks paler than her wont and I know that she is questioning her trust in me - with good reason, given the facts of my past.
"About what Master Ferdinand said...is there any truth in it?"
I measure my words with some care, for while I will not lie, never in this, I do not wish to scare her. "There is a grain of truth in almost every lie, Nerissa."
"Zevran, you wouldn't do me harm, would you?"
"No," I tell her. "I am not that person."
She lowers her eyes, masking her thoughts beneath blue-veined lids and pale lashes. "Then what was Ferdinand referring to? You implied there was truth in his lie."
"When I was but a little older than you are now, I made a grievous mistake. It is one that I would never repeat."
"I see."
"You must excuse me if I do not wish to speak of it."
"One day, perhaps?"
"That may be so. Until then, please trust that I would never hurt you."
Nerissa gives me a wry look. "Unless you were paid to do it."
"I doubt there is enough gold in all of Thedas to tempt me."
"Yet we all have our price, don't we?"
I shrug my shoulders. "We would not be Crows if we did not."
"I'll see you this evening in your quarters," she says. "We shall talk more then."
"Yes. I have a job for you in mind, as well, if you are interested. I shall confide the details to you in more intimate surroundings."
"I'm sure I'll enjoy listening to what you have to say. Adieu, my friend."
Nerissa turns on the high heel of her satin shoe, a cloud of red-gold hair swirling behind her as she hurries back towards the Great Hall, no doubt running late for another appointment. She doesn't have Rina's intoxicating danger, the dark glitter behind her eyes that enchanted and enticed me, but I find that her kittenish charm and her strange vulnerability disarm me - that is a threat in itself. I am so fond of wooing perilous beauty, of playing myself false by giving into my softest impulses when I should harden myself to this wicked world.
I shall prepare for our assignation this evening, where I will tell Nerissa the details of my plan to assassinate the Prince of Parmia. She need not know why he must die or who I work for, only that she will be paid and that I will shelter her from any of Ferdinand's machinations. Once I have a partner-in-crime, I shall be able to report back to Sapphire and let her know that the mission may commence.
Sapphire will no doubt be pleased at the news, for she is impatient, wishing to make the messy business of killing as efficient as her clean, cold espionage. Of course, I can't imagine that she will be fond of Nerissa, for she casts scorn and aspersion upon all my female companions and will surely dismiss her as another 'empty-headed little minx'. Ferelden's spymaster is more charitable to the men in my life, a trifle less sharp-tongued, although I fear that I shall have to help Elendra end another Blight if I wish to earn a word of praise from the insatiable Sapphire. I expect the days ahead will be nearly as challenging as my role in that arduous quest – for it is not a simple matter to arrange the murder of Crows.
