With Naia off doing a favor for Donnic, Varric had the first shift watching the Dockside for signs of trouble. Juliet was scheduled to leave Alistair in Varric's charge and return at midnight, but she found herself staying, sitting side-by-side with Varric at the bar. Something about the "road work" signs outside disturbed her. It almost felt as if someone was trying to save space—or make sure there wouldn't be witnesses parked outside.
But, like the nights before it, this one passed quietly.
"Maybe they're waiting for the weekend?" Varric theorized quietly. He sipped his drink and grimaced. "Maker, I hope not. I hope I never have to drink another damned iced tea."
Juliet tapped her fingers against the bartop with a frown. "I guess they might want more cover and more suspects. If it were me I'd go with the mugging scenario, though. Send one capable guy to accidentally-on-purpose stab Alistair while stealing his wallet." Then something dawned on her. "But that might change if I'd figured out that the target had a bodyguard."
"Yeah, that could be." Varric nodded. "Think Bianca and I should stick around for closing?"
Juliet glanced over at Alistair, looking collected but nervous as he wiped down the bar for the fourth time that hour. "Yeah. I've got a funny feeling about tonight."
Alistair was getting the sense that something was off. First, there was the supposed "road work" outside the bar. The Dockside was in a lousy neighborhood; potholes were practically a matter of principle. Then Juliet and Varric switched up the plan—maybe because Naia was away, but maybe because they shared his unease. He knew it for sure when Varric didn't leave the bar as scheduled. They thought something was going to happen tonight.
He felt calmer than he would have expected, all things considered. Which was not to say that his stomach wasn't doing somersaults. He spent most of the night obsessively cleaning, working to occupy himself as the minutes until closing counted down. On the upside the bar had never looked cleaner.
Juliet gave him a reassuring smile as they began bundling up to leave. "You think the road work is suspicious too, huh?"
"That obvious?" Alistair gave a mock sigh. "And here I thought I was mysterious and inscrutable. Disappointing."
"Don't feel too bad, kid. You've got an honest face. No one's perfect." Varric grinned and patted the strap of the battered pack slung over his shoulder. "Bianca's ready to meet the nice people. How about you guys?"
"It might still be nothing," Juliet cautioned. "Don't get too jumpy just yet."
"Should we go out back?" Alistair suggested.
Juliet nodded. "Too open out in front. I don't like opportunities for surprises."
Alistair inhaled deeply and puffed the air out in a rush. "All right. Let's go."
Juliet led the way out into the alley, with Varric bringing up the rear, and Alistair in between them like the filling in a very odd sandwich. They all looked left towards the street, then right past the dumpsters, watching to see if anyone lay in wait. When no one emerged, Juliet nodded and gestured to the right, taking them further down the alley.
They'd walked for no more than a few minutes when Varric whispered, "Uh, guys? Check out our six."
Alistair looked over his shoulder. At first he saw nothing—but then a shadow flickered and moved at the edge of the alley. Then, a second, and a third. Slowly, three human forms took shape, moving slowly but steadily.
"Maybe they're just out for a walk?" Alistair suggested hopefully.
"I doubt it," Juliet said quietly. "We've got four more dead ahead."
With a sharp intake of breath, Alistair swung his head around. The four figures were moving towards them at a menacing pace. In the dim light of the alley, he could see knives glinting in their hands.
If Juliet shared his dread, she didn't show it. "Everybody ready?"
Behind him, Alistair heard Varric rack Bianca. "Following your lead, Hawke."
"Try to leave at least one of them in one piece," she murmured. "Dead people don't answer questions very well."
Then, unexpectedly, she raised her voice. "Hi, everyone. Let's stop the skulking and talk about this like reasonable people."
All seven shadows hesitated. Then, one of them—the largest one, standing about five paces in front of Juliet—spoke up. "Wallets on the ground, now." It was a male voice, an uneven tenor.
"Don't bother. We know you're not muggers," Hawke said calmly. She put her hands in her pockets, seeming completely unworried. "You're here because someone hired you to cause trouble for my friend. But you're out of your league, so I'm going to give you an exciting opportunity: walk away now in one piece." She punctuated this statement with a cocky grin. "Or, we can fight. But I should warn you that I've never seen the dwarf miss with that shotgun and my other friend here used to be a Templar."
Alistair bit back the ridiculous urge to correct her.
"As for me, well, I fight dirty and go for the eyes. So. Any takers on the unbroken limbs?" Juliet waited expectantly.
The seven dark forms all shifted slightly. No one moved.
And then, from behind a dumpster about ten paces further down the alley, an eighth shadow emerged.
"Up ahead!" Alistair yelled.
The warning came too late. The newcomer had raised a hand and pulled a trigger; the quiet pew-pew-pew of three silenced bullets cut through the alleyway.
As Varric grabbed the back of Alistair's coat, pulling him down to a crouch, Juliet took her hands out of her pockets and spread her fingers wide. The hair on Alistair's arms stood on end as magic exploded in the alleyway. With stunned awe, he looked up at the spell Juliet had just cast—a swirling dome of magic that had stopped the three bullets in midair.
Maker. She's a mage.
And a powerful one, unless he really had been lousy at Templar-ing. He'd seen shield spells before, but they usually just slowed bullets down, not stopped them dead.
Juliet glanced down at Alistair, a slight grimace crinkling her expression. She had undoubtedly hoped to avoid letting him see her break the law by using her magic. He tried to look as unsurprised as possible—like someone who would never turn his bodyguard in for casting spells that saved his life.
As the shield swirled around them, Alistair heard the shooter swear in a language he didn't recognize. "Braska! Move forward!" the man shouted. "She can't hold that spell for long." Alistair suspected he was correct—the more force the shield absorbed, the harder it would be to hold it in place.
But Juliet just grinned. "You know what? You're right." Her eyes narrowed and her fingers clenched; suddenly, the shield's magic gathered behind the three bullets and spit them outwards towards the attackers. Two bullets hit the Dockside's back wall, but one struck an assailant. He howled and stumbled against the wall to support himself; injured, but not dead.
Alistair pulled his shoulders back and raised his fists as the rest of the attackers flew at them like an avalanche.
Varric was more than ready. The dwarf emerged from his crouch with with Bianca against his shoulder and fired. The closest man collapsed in a heap.
First two down, Alistair thought wildly as two more drew close
Juliet raised her left hand, a fierce, joyous grin on her face. A thin whip of magic caught one of the assassins straight across the chin, sending him spinning to unconsciousness. As she cast the spell, one attacker tried to tackle her from behind, knife in hand, but Varric was there to stop him. The dwarf swung Bianca like a bat and caught their opponent square across the shins. Alistair heard the sick, wet crunch of something being broken in the assailant's knee.
When his knife clattered to the cracked cement, Alistair scooped it up. It wasn't a sword, but under the circumstances he wasn't about to complain. He was just in time to use it—another attacker tried to launch himself straight at Alistair, but Alistair caught him square across the bridge of the nose with a hard lefthanded jab as his right hand sunk the blade into his chest. He shoved the man back, trying to take stock of what remained.
Three more down. Three left.
Next to him, Juliet began gathering magic, readying herself for the next spell.
But suddenly, it was two left.
Blue light filled the alleyway as one of the attackers behind them was lifted clean off his feet and flung into the wall. It took Alistair a moment to remember where he had seen that blue light before. Detective Leto?
A second attacker tried to grab the Detective from behind—a foolish move, for the elf simply spun round and thrust his hand into the man's chest. He froze, then collapsed with a wet gurgle.
"Denerim Guard!" the Detective shouted. "Put down your weapons immediately."
As the single remaining attacker dropped to his knees, his hands behind his head, Alistair realized two very unpleasant things simultaneously. First, the shooter was no longer in the alley.
Second, Detective Leto was looking straight at Juliet Hawke—an apostate mage with magic flaring between her hands.
A mage. That is … unfortunate.
It quickly became clear that the bodyguard and her friends were more than a match for the people Zevran had hired, and that was even before the glowing Detective joined their fight. When he was certain they would lose, Zevran did what any well-trained Crow would do—he quit the fight to regroup and come up with a new plan.
His flight took him to another alleyway, a dark, dead-end sliver of street that seemed safely away from any possibility of witnesses. Methodically, he began dismantling his gun, pocketing some pieces to drop down the nearest storm drain and throwing others in the nearby dumpster. Even if the bullets were recovered, they would be nearly impossible to link to him.
As he threw the silencer and the rest of the clip into the dumpster, he suddenly realized what he had done. Out of pure instinct, he had thrown away a perfectly good chance accomplish what he had come here to do—to get himself killed on assignment.
Helpless, exhausted laughter seized him. He leaned his head back against the filthy wall and chuckled mirthlessly, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to grapple with what that meant.
It seems some part of me still wishes to live. How unexpected.
"Um. Hello. Hi there. You OK?"
Zevran actually jumped. He hadn't done that in years.
With a mounting sense of dread, he turned his face towards the sound of the voice. The pretty elven bar patron was standing in the mouth of the alleyway, dressed in jeans and a puffy winter coat, her head tilted curiously. Her eyes quickly focused on the remaining pieces of the gun in his hands.
Braska. Of all the times to find a bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Well. Good evening." He dropped the remaining pieces of the gun to the ground; he couldn't reassemble it in time to be useful here. "It seems you've caught me in a rather compromising situation. And not the one I would have hoped."
"I have bad timing. People complain about it a lot," the woman said with a little shrug. "So. Any chance you'll wait nicely while I yell for the guard?"
Zevran bit back a laugh—this wasn't really funny. "Ah, I am afraid not." All friendliness slid from his face, leaving only a deadly sort of resignation. "Walk away, my dear. This is more than you can handle, and I do not wish to hurt you."
Zevran took a step closer to her, then another. The woman might have pulled her shoulders back just a bit, but she stood her ground. He liked her for that.
"You think you know what I can handle?"
Another step forward. "Get out of my way," he said softly. "As I said, I do not wish to hurt you—but you are hindering my escape, and that is unwise."
She said nothing, just stared back at him, her green eyes bright and clear.
After a moment, Zevran sighed. "I am sorry."
He stepped forward and moved to close his hands around her upper arms. His intent was to shove her, hard enough to send her tumbling to the ground, but not so hard that he would do her serious harm.
Instead, however, the woman uncrossed her arms and slid from his grasp as easily as if she'd been made of water. Before he could compensate, she struck out hard with one palm, catching him across the bridge of the nose. Bright light exploded in his field of vision; everything danced with white spots as the sensitive nerves howled in fury.
He staggered back a half step, shaking his head to clear the pain and dancing spots. When his vision cleared, he saw that the woman was still standing between him and his escape—but now her fists were raised and her feet were planted in a fighter's wide stance.
Zevran felt a delighted, wolfish grin spread slowly across his features. "So. You and the bodyguard are working together?"
The other elf raised her eyebrows. "Good guess."
He chuckled. "I have been doing this a long time, you know. Do you really think you can hold your own?" Slowly, he began circling towards her left, his own hands raised and at the ready.
She shrugged, a little smile of her own playing on her lips. "Well. I guess we're about to find out."
Juliet collapsed her spell and drew its mana back into herself the moment she saw Fenris standing in the alley, but it was too late—far too late. The lyrium underneath his skin made the Detective painfully sensitive to magic. There was no way he hadn't realized what she was doing—what she was. His expression was calm and neutral, but she knew that he had to be thinking something.
At least he hadn't arrested her yet. That was probably good.
As he watched her, she forced a smile and tried to hide the fact that she wanted to throw up. "Detective. You show up in the strangest places."
He inclined his head with a little smile. "Perhaps I do." He reached for his handcuffs and began to approach the single conscious attacker. "I, however, did not choose this one. I offered Miss Tabris a ride. She asked to be brought here. Imagine my surprise when we arrived to the sound of gunfire."
Juliet's worry about being arrested was suddenly replaced with a new and much more terrifying fear. "Naia? Where is she?"
"We split up to find you more quickly," Fenris said—slightly distractedly, for he was handcuffing the assailant. "You took care of this group swiftly, however. I'm sure she will find us …"
"The shooter got away," Alistair interrupted. His eyes met Juliet's in shared panic. "Come on. We've got to find her."
Juliet half expected that Fenris would order her to halt, to stay put while he figured out what to do with an apostate mage that he'd worked side-by-side with for a good chunk of his career. She wasn't going to do that, of course—not with Naia at stake. Maybe he knew it, because he said nothing as she, Varric, and Alistair began racing down the alley.
It was Juliet who found the small dead-end alley first. She raised her hand to summon Varric and Alistair—and then found herself frozen in place as she watched what was unfolding inside.
The two elves were engaged in the fastest fistfight Juliet had ever seen. One of them would strike out, the other would dodge, a second strike would be blocked, and then the rhythm would reverse. The back-and-forth was almost like a dance, and for a moment, Juliet could only watch, utterly mesmerized.
It took her another moment to realize that Naia was losing.
Naia was a smart, instinctive street fighter, and she had the speed advantage over her opponent. However, the assassin was stronger than she was, and better-trained. When Naia blocked his blows, it was always at the last moment, a just-barely evasion of his strikes; the assassin, on the other hand, seemed to anticipate her moves.
Just as Juliet had that revelation, the assassin broke through Naia's defenses. His palm landed squarely against her neck and he shoved her back against the wall, a delighted, predatory grin on his face. "I win."
Naia smiled back. "You sure about that?"
Juliet knew her cue when she heard it. She snapped a strand of her magic through the air, cracking it like a whip against the back of the assassin's neck. It was one of her father's favorite spells. Done gently, it would disorient. Done firmly—as she had just done it—it would knock the target out cold.
The assassin's body jerked in surprise, then immediately swayed and began to collapse. Naia, to Juliet's surprise, caught him beneath the arms and softened his collapse to the ground.
"Took you long enough to get here," she said as she straightened. "Fuck, he's tough." She touched her cheek as she said that, and Juliet saw the beginnings of an ugly black eye forming.
"Why didn't you yell for help?" Juliet asked, stepping closer to get a good look at the injury.
"I thought it would be easier for you to sneak up on him if he wasn't watching for you. Besides, I knew you'd find me sooner or later." Naia grinned unrepentantly.
Juliet gave her partner a flat, exasperated look. She'd said something to Varric once about Naia's infuriating disregard for her own safety. Varric had stared at her for a minute, then laughed so hard he fell out of his chair. Juliet was self-aware enough to realize that laughter was probably the right reaction when the pot called the kettle black. Still, it didn't mean she had to like it when her best friend got hurt.
"I've got ice back at the bar," Alistair offered, wincing as he got a good look at Naia's face.
"No need, Mr. Guerrin."
Fenris entered the alley on silent feet, his eyes sweeping the scene as he pieced together what had happened. "We have medics back at the Guard house—where you will all be giving statements. You are not being charged with anything," he added as Varric opened his mouth. "At least, not yet." His eyes flickered over to Juliet; her stomach clenched.
"My clients and I will keep that in mind," the dwarf said. When Fenris returned his attention to the unconscious assassin, Varric met Juliet's eyes and nodded slightly, then put one finger over his lips, pantomiming silence. She took a deep breath.
Well. I guess I've always known I'd find myself here someday. At least I've got a good lawyer.