Chapter Eleven

A Prince Among Thieves

The men were all huddled about the small table when Cyrano and Solona arrived downstairs again. Ratham and Emilio were arguing a particular point that somehow involved rope ladders and flash grenades. The guard thought whatever it was absurd and seemed to think that emphatic finger-pointing would make his opinion abundantly clear.

Everyone fell silent when they took notice of Cyrano. He remained at the foot of the stairs with a hand gripping his belt and back straight. Every single Antivan head bowed while arms crossed over chests in salute. Solona quickly ducked off to the side to stand beside Alistair by the fire. She fidgeted with her hair as if she were deathly afraid it were mussed beyond all reasonable doubt. The bard barely concealed a smirk.

"Signore, our hearts rejoice that you are awake." Emilio came forward and knelt at Cyrano's feet, his black head aimed at the floor. "Aleix was still uncertain when he returned to us."

"I could not fail with the aid I was given." He looked about him at the others, at the faces still reluctant to look at him fully save for Alistair, Aleix, and Ratham. He cleared his throat almost awkwardly. "What, have I grown two heads? Am I without any pants?" He flung out his arms and turned as if for inspection. "Peace, my friends, it will not harm you to look me in the eyes as a man."

"You are returned to your full capacity," Aleix clarified with a shrug. "Surely, you remember now the discipline you drilled into these men when they were still boys."

"I don't need servants," Cyrano put plainly as he hauled Emilio to his feet by the arm. "This is not Antiva, and I am no longer a Prince."

Emilio shook his head as his eyes bravely met those of his master. It was an odd feeling, Cyrano realized, to have to reconcile two lifetimes with each experience that struck him as new and familiar all at once. He remembered those eyes as being more fearful once...fearful and grateful and brimming with the innocent admiration of a child. Now, they had a keenness to them that bespoke of long years of pain and determination, and that admiration had turned into a sort of pride like that a son would feel for his father. There were a thousand stories in those eyes-in all of them-as Cyrano finally noticed that all the Antivans were now looking directly at him.

"You are a Prince," Emilio confirmed, "even though a harlot may have stripped you of mind and Sovereign. But if you will not have servants, we will be your honor guard, for you must be protected all the more now that you are free."

"He has a guard," Ser Ratham growled.

Cyrano couldn't hold back the smile that time. His eyes glinted in the firelight as much as his exposed teeth.

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your tone, my friend? And here, all this time, I thought you were set to guard me from doing something foolish?"

"My duty was always to keep you alive, assassin. Those orders came from my king, and I will continue to carry them out until instructed otherwise."

Assassin. And there he went being impersonal again. Hadn't they grown past this part? Wasn't there some difference in the group dynamic that let him fit in just that little bit better where the Fereldan could see him as something other than what he had done for a living? He had a name...

...and what was that, exactly? Solona had made a very good point at asking what that was before he'd stopped her mouth with his own. He was both Cyrano and Sebastian: bard, assassin, and Prince. Each bit of it felt as natural as all the others. It was the conglomeration that was alien and surreal as if snatches of both men were out of dreams. He was alright with it so long as he didn't think about it too much, the resulting confusion threatening him with a wave of vertigo. In either sense, he had never been anything but himself. He was the man he was born to be in Sebastian; the man he had wanted the freedom to be in Cyrano. Somewhere there was a happy medium, some aspect of himself that could be the man he needed to be.

For all that, he couldn't blame Ratham for regressing back to the level of familiarity of their first meeting. Flames, he might just insist people call him by various titles or some random alias. It made little difference.

"What was all the fuss about earlier?" he asked, desperate to change the subject.

Ratham snorted. "Your faithful were intent on destroying La Veridad. I was trying to explain to them exactly how bad of an idea that would be."

"We must prevent Ines from escaping," Emilio spat back, his temper quickly rising to the point it had been. "That is her ship, dog lord, and it is bad enough that there is evidence someone has been aboard."

Cyrano stepped forward to put himself between Ratham and Emilio but kept it so that it looked like he were about to resort to his usual thoughtful pacing. The Fereldan guard had his duty, it was true, but the young Antivan was consumed by his own passionate loyalty. It was flattering. But it was also a hindrance if their scant few was all there could be against an untold number of Crows. And the Crows would come-it was certain. Cyrano knew enough from his lessons with Aleix to understand that any blood mage would be aware of the loss of their own bound demon. There would be more than just bother in the market to worry about.

And with that in mind, why was there concern that Ines would flee? On the contrary, he would expect her to come after him with even greater fervor than ever. She had lost him completely. He knew the truth. Her pet demon was destroyed. And if he knew anything about Ines, it was that she did not renege on promises-especially those made to herself.

"It's not the ship you should be worrying about," Cyrano replied at last, looking to each man in turn. "I assure you, once the lady boards and finds one very important thing missing, there will be the Void to pay." His attention fixed on Ratham, and he held out a waiting hand.

It took the soldier only a moment to catch on. His blue eyes widened a fraction, and he hastily dug the portrait out from where it had been secreted in his armor. If there was anything sheepish in the way he handed it over, Cyrano ignored it. Instead, he unrolled the slightly flattened canvas with a particular level of care before showing it to the others. Responses varied from hastily whispered prayers to Andraste to curses in fluent, flowing Antivan.

"Taking it made sense at the time," Ratham muttered.

"For entirely separate reasons, perhaps, but the result is still the same. If all the nonsense in Denerim has been happening for why I now believe, it won't be long before we have...much bigger problems."

"Bigger?" Alistair asked from across the room. The perplexed expression on his face was exaggerated by the play of shadows and firelight. "Should we be expecting an invasion of Antivan Crows on account of the jealous wrath of a blood mage?"

"Sire, I'm quite afraid the invasion has already happened-that much has been confirmed, and you know it. What is left to do is draw out the head of the snake. Both of them."

"Both!"

Ratham crossed his arms over his chest. His brow had furrowed again, and he had that stern look of one annoyed at being kept out of the loop. "And what could your past have possibly revealed about the present situation?"

Cyrano shrugged. "Little more than motive, I promise you. But it does make it easier to accomplish what we had initially set out to do. Rudolfo di Malogna-the current Prince of Rialto-is particularly fond of living a very fine life. So is Ines."

The plan came easily enough. The trick was convincing the young Fereldan king that it was a good idea. They would all have to put on such a brilliant performance that it would shame the greatest mummers and bards of Orlais. Cyrano would play his role. He would be this favored Prince, and Alistair would publicly proclaim him an ally of the realm. This would be Antiva pledging its support of a broken Ferelden. No nation could recover from a Blight without foreign aid. It was known.

Ferelden had not yet properly celebrated its victory. Feastday revels did not count in the least, and the lack of funding was a paltry excuse. They would celebrate-the Prince of Antiva would fund it himself-and any foreign dignitaries that happened to be nearby were more than welcome to attend.

"And would this Rudolfo not be a little put out that he is suddenly funding such an expensive affair?" Ratham asked, though his tone did not imply he felt any particular disapproval. On the contrary, a hidden smile threatened the corners of his mouth.

Cyrano waved the notion away. "It is merely the lure to get his attention. He will know he agreed to no such thing and will wonder why the King of Ferelden has the gall to say so. It is likely that he will seek audience, and we can continue our charade from there."

"You're going to throw me to the dragons," Alistair breathed, aghast, as he came clomping over. "No good man would ever-"

"I never said I was a good man." Cyrano took a seat at the small table and helped himself to the bottle of wine that the others had already broken open to pass the time. It was a rich red, and the basketweave around the gourd-like base betrayed its Antivan origin. He inhaled deeply before he savored that taste of home. "And these are not Tevene we are dealing with. To those particular dragons, I would never feed you. No, sire, these are Antivan Crows-easy enough prey for any mabari dog lord."

He paused long enough to finish his drink. The others looked on expectantly, the younger Antivans wide-eyed and barely keeping themselves in check. They had waited over ten long years for this. For some, that was half their lives. They could barely stand the seconds it took to swallow wine.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" the young king demanded. He crossed his arms over his chest, and those amber eyes of his took on a particular hardness that Cyrano appreciated. He was quickly growing into his role quickly, this unassuming young man, and that would play greatly to his favor as the years wore on.

"You will play the magnanimous host. But that is not all. You will introduce me as the Prince of Rialto. Of course, there can be only one, so I apologize that there could be some turmoil at this point. Rudolfo is a known firebrand. I will diffuse his temper but not destroy him. Our further success relies on him still being alive and also will depend on if he brings Ines for this initial encounter or if something further must be done."

Ratham had taken to pacing the floor while all this was deliberated. The guard's demeanor had softened considerably from earlier, and this plan seemed to be much more to his liking despite that it was no less dangerous. It kept the issue on their own terms, upon their battlefield of choice, and it forced the worst of the Crows currently set against them to come out into the open. That was...if it worked.

"Is your presence truly enough to antagonize them?" the guard spoke up thoughtfully. "To this point, your plan operates on the notion that the sole reason these Crows are here is for you, to keep you a slave to this Ines. I don't understand what was working for her so well before that she should cling to you, now."

Aleix softly cleared his throat. "Sir Ratham...you question the motives of a woman long driven insane. My men and I have watched her long enough to know that, yes, she does hunt for our Prince as fervently as ever, though her reasons number the stars and change on a whim. All that matters now is that we bring it to a permanent end."

"By having Cyrano pretend to be himself?"

"In all my splendor." The bard waggled his black eyebrows to emphasize his wolfish smile. "It must be the most elaborate of charades...and is probably best fine-tuned at the palace." He got to his feet and looked to Alistair. "Sire, if you would not mind, it is perhaps best that we return."

There were none to argue the point. Dusk had already fallen, and there was still the issue of finding Bann Teagan to consider. They were hours late for that particular rendezvous. Anything could have happened. The Gnawed Noble could be burning. The mercenaries could have slaughtered a good number of the city guard. The Chantry sister could be dead.

The Chantry sister.

Cyrano kept close to Ratham as they left the hovel in groups of threes and fours. Solona had decided it prudent to remain with Alistair while Emilio took her place at Cyrano's side. The bard questioned each man in turn on the intelligence that had been gleaned from that morning's situation-especially with regards to the prisoner they had all heard reported.

"We were at the Chantry today," he stressed, his voice low as they took a shortcut through the Alienage. "There was no concern-no especial concern-from any of those Sisters regarding the welfare of one of their own. Neither did they fear us, being two men armed to the teeth and of any possible affiliation. Nor did they come bursting over for the Chantry Mother to plead to me-a Grey Warden with a sword a common lutist could identify-to give aid. Either they never noticed that one of their sisters was captive after having tried to show these miscreants the error of their ways, or she was always ever an impostor."

"I beg your pardon," Ratham sputtered.

"Bait," Cyrano enunciated. "The point of fact, my friend, is that someone wanted to attract a very particular crowd to the market. A Chantry sister as the damsel in distress would bring whom? A young king who had once been a Templar? The warriors and nobles of Ferelden who hold Andraste and her faithful in the highest regard? A wayward bard who it is known can leave no damsel in any state of distress lest his amorous pride be shattered?"

He halted them all when they reached the long bridge that would take them to the market square. The portion that had collapsed on account of the Archdemon had been covered with strong beams of wood and anchored into the existing, healthy stone. Aleix looked on curiously while Alistair gestured emphatically to the portcullis just beyond the river and damaged bridge. Cyrano shook his head and explained his suspicions. It was best for the whole lot of them (Teagan included) that the market be totally avoided. If there was some other route to the palace, they should most certainly take it.

Plans changed in an instant. They retraced their steps back to the entrance to the lower districts and took the winding road in the shadow of Fort Drakon to approach the palace from the rear. It was an awkward thing for the king to have to be so covert about getting into his own home, but there it was. A city crawling with Crows forced that upon the best of men at the worst of times.

The palace grounds were quiet as were the inner halls. Servants moved about in their routine tasks, and guards bowed with reverence as Alistair passed. Even the false Antivan Wardens got salutes of absolute respect. No one had the heart or inclination to explain the truth of the matter. It was decided that a room branching off from the Landsmeet Chamber would make an excellent base of operations for the planning of the entrapment. The funding for such an undertaking was yet a mystery as Cyrano truly had no such wealth-an issue Aleix made sure to address. To pretend that they did required a level of organization that they had neither the time nor the influence to build. As a result, their charade would have to be all the more clever and all the less taxing on the Fereldan royal coffers.

A guard was sent to fetch Teagan from where the bann had set up a barricade in the market. Alistair's uncle arrived within the hour with a heavy tread and a pronounced sharpness to his gaze.

"You!" he exclaimed, pointing directly in front of him. Despite the sureness of the gesture, Alistair and Cyrano both were confused as to which of them was the object of the nobleman's ire. "We still have a hostage situation because you could not be bothered to follow one simple plan!"

"The only hostage situation any of us needed to worry about was handled impeccably," Alistair spoke up with a firm glare to match his uncle's. Despite the familial ties, the king was still the king. "Master Rideri thought me kidnapped-which I truly almost was-and he and the others made the wise decision to investigate. What we've learned since shines a completely different light on the whole matter that I really think you should hear about."

And so he did. The whole lot of them took it in turns to explain what was going on with Cyrano leaving his particular involvement up to Aleix. Teagan's eyes grew wider and wider, and it was evident at the same time that his astute mind was processing this as fast as any man would have been able. In a plea for trust, Aleix even revealed that he was a blood mage with both Solona and Alistair to vouch for his discretion and sincerity. The hour was late by the time they finished.

"So, all this time we've been harboring a fugitive Prince who knew he was a fugitive but had no idea he was a Prince." Teagan raised an eyebrow as he circled Cyrano with his hands clasped behind his back.

"It is nothing to be overly concerned with," Cyrano replied with a shrug. "Princes are a copper a dozen in a place like Antiva. It only matters here because of Ines."

"And you think that, by inviting this woman and...Rudolfo di Malogna here, you can rid us of the issue of the mercenaries entirely?"

"I do."

"As do I," Alistair confirmed. "My only concern-as I'm sure it is yours, Uncle-is how expensive this farce will turn out to be. How will we decorate for this? How will we even feed everyone, for we can't leave out even those in the Alienage, not if we're going to also make the claim that this is to celebrate the ending of the Blight."

Teagan paused to ponder this over for a long moment. His pale eyes studied the floor in earnest beneath a furrowed brow until he let out a long breath between pursed lips. He then took in each and every face around him, both familiar and otherwise, letting his attention settle on the Antivans the longest. Despite his confidence in the plan and knowing his enemy, Cyrano shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had won over the king easily enough, but here was a man long familiar with the various nuances of both good and bad politics. Help or hindrance came with a breath.

"There is one thing I know of that could help," Teagan said at last. "There were some...gifts...sent to your brother, Alistair, that managed to go unnoticed despite Loghain's fanaticism. I never thought I would say it, but they could be what saves this foolhardy plan. Follow me."

He led them through several corridors and then downwards, spiraling around what seemed to be one of the many towers. Cyrano tried to keep some idea of where they were or how deep they had gone, but there was little to tell him anything. Unlike the stairway that had brought him up from the dungeons on that most fateful of days, this tower had no landings, no other doors, and a distinct lack of dampness. At the very least, the sewers, moat, or river could be nowhere close.

They came to the bottom at long last, and two guards quickly sprang to their feet from where they had been playing dice at a small table. Teagan waved them at ease and gave instructions to have the door opened. They looked to the king who nodded his acquiesce.

It was a massive thing made of a dark wood and held together by wide iron plates. As it groaned open with a slowness that betrayed a certain amount of protest, Cyrano caught a glimpse of the center, which was also a thick plate of iron encased on both sides by the thick wood. Not even Qunari gaatlok could have blasted through such a thing. This could only have been the entrance to the coffers.

The Bann of Rainesfere grabbed a torch from the wall and led them all deeper within. A long corridor stretched away from the massive portal and branched off in many different directions.

"These passages used to connect every palace in Denerim with Fort Drakon back in the time of the Imperium. Most entrances were walled up long ago by paranoid Orlesians, but what remains serves our purposes well enough." He paused at another door and unlocked it with a key he carried himself. "What remains of your brother's legacy, Alistair, is nothing if not...colorful."

He stepped into the room and slowly made a circuit to light any surrounding torches. The others filtered in one at a time, each reacting in his or her own way. Cyrano's face lit up with pure delight. Alistair let loose a single bark of laughter before investigating the sundry about him. Ratham blinked with a particular level of disbelief, and Solona clapped her hands to her mouth in amazement. Aleix let loose a low chuckle while his Antivan brethren muttered various things out of confusion and wonder.

"Have we stepped into a carnivale, your eminence?" the mage asked of Teagan as he gestured to colorful banners that hung from the walls.

"Why in the world would a Fereldan king have so many things from Orlais?" Cyrano asked while rummaging through a chest brimming with silks and soft velvets, each and every bit of fabric stitched together into one grand outfit or another. Further exploration revealed barrels of fine wines, crates of armor and weapons, shelf upon shelf of rare books, and enough wigs to disguise an army.

"For the same reason Loghain found it prudent to start a civil war in the face of a Blight. The Empress Celene was terribly fond of Cailan and not in any way that the Hero of River Dane approved of."

"So the rumors were true," the bard breathed as his hand brushed over a particularly tempting doublet of golden brocade where the sleeves were slashed with black and white satin. Beside it was a wooden box elaborately engraved and painted in delicate pastels. Inside this was a thing of beauty that took his breath away for more than just its appearance. Oh, how the Empress had been kind to them!

Cryano lifted the contents of the box with a reverence none but a true lover of the arts could understand. He raised it to his face and turned slightly to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It was fine work and undoubtedly worth every piece of gold Celene had paid for its commissioning. The leather conformed to his features like it had been molded just for him, the sueded lining soft against his skin. The ribbons were of a fine linen instead of the usual slippery satin implying use for the stage instead of masquerade, and the black of the mask itself was so complete, it was as if a shadow had engulfed all but his eyes and mouth. His broad smile did nothing to express the true extent of the pleasure he felt in that one single find.

Il Capitano, has it truly been so long?

Alistair came up beside him with a quizzical look marring his features. "Are we adding a masked ball to the plan?" he asked as he found a mask of his own: a red and yellow affair with intricate tendrils of ivy painted about the outer rim and twirling away from the corners of the eyes. He raised it to his face out of pure curiosity.

"That could make for an appropriate setting, yes," Cyrano replied a trifle absently as he held various bits of clothing up to himself to see how well they played along with the mask. "But I believe I've just come up with a way to thicken the plot quite nicely-and we can use everything in this room along with it. Sire, are you at all familiar with the commedia?"