Sorry for a long break. I know I repeat this all the time, but I assure you that I DID not abandon the story. What, now? When they're finally getting closer to getting closer? Not likely!

The last chapter was Crossroads, and it's not just because Air and co. are at "crossroads" but also because the story itself is on the crossroad as well - it will be mostly AU from now on. So if you hoped they'll go to the Landsmeet and fight and end it all in a chapter or two, too bad. I'd say we're starting the last third. XD

Thanks to ShebasDawn for her ideas on military camp. And a big hug to my wonderful friend Seika for beta reading it. :D

Crossing Swords

Airam called the meeting of army leaders, humans, elves and dwarves together, in three days. He wanted some time to think about the strategy before he introduced it to everyone else, he explained when Eamon asked about the wait. Zevran was dying of curiosity, but no matter how hard he pestered Airam, the only answer he got was a smirk and sage advice that everything comes to he who waits. Zevran expected Airam would spend those three days in the library–after all, it was a perfect excuse to stay buried neck deep in books.

The next day–if three hours before dawn could be called a day–he woke up to the soft click of the lock at his door. He tensed, but relaxed a bit as he recognized Airam's steps, followed by Rask's panting.

"Zev?" Airam's voice whispered.

"What's wrong?" he whispered back, already out of the bed.

"Nothing, nothing," Airam hastily assured him. "I'm just going... for a walk. Want to come with me?"

For a walk? Zevran lit the candle on the nightstand. Airam was wearing the robe Zevran had given him, plus one of those funny Fereldan fur caps with earlaps – Zevran would rather die than wear that – but no staff or a dagger, and only small pouch tied to his belt. Most curious.

"Why would you want to go for a walk at this hour?"

"Because Morrigan still refuses to teach me how to shapeshift into a bird," Airam snapped. "Are you coming or not?"

"I am coming, naturally," he said, reaching for his leathers. "To the town? Or just a walk in the fields? Come now, there's no one listening here, and I need to know what should I equip."

"To the army camp. I want to see the situation first-hand, and without anyone putting up the show for the sake of the Commander. So I decided to go undercover and to check myself."

"Undercover? Then I better put on servant's clothes instead of leathers, no?"

"You... won't argue with me? You won't tell me it's dangerous and foolish?"

Zevran chuckled at the surprised look at Airam's face. "Would it work?"

"Of course not. But you never agreed so quickly before."

"In truth, I was expecting something like this. I'd be disappointed if you complied with all Eamon says. And it is a good idea. You are already thinking as a general. Why would I argue with that?"

Airam didn't answer, suddenly more interested in the dagger sheaths Zevran was buckling: one at each forearm, one at each thigh, two on the chain he fastened around his torso.

"Six daggers? What are you, a walking armoury?"

"Six daggers and two knives in my boots," he corrected him. "That should be enough, yes. And a few bombs. Poison gas or fire? What say you, hm?"

"I say you're insane."

"What is the second rule of an assassin?"

"Always expect the unexpected."

"Then why, if I may ask, didn't you take any weapons?"

"Well, I'm taking you."

"Oh?" Zevran quirked his eyebrow. "You thought there might be a danger, at this walk of yours, and decided that there's no one better to take with you than your ridiculously awesome bodyguard?"

"Actually, I have Rask for that." Airam's eyes crackled with laughter. "But then I thought, 'I should take Zev, it's always good to have an extra meat shield around if something happens'. Are you finally ready, silly assassin?"

"Not yet." He took another pair of sheaths, and, ignoring Airam's protests, buckled them at the back of the boy's belt. Then he handed him daggers, checking that they were well covered by tunic but easily pulled out when needed. "Now we're ready."

oOo

Getting into the camp was much easier than Zevran expected; the guards gave them one bored, indifferent glance, asked if they were servants, and let them in without waiting for reply.

"Servants?" Airam asked when they were out of the guard's hearing range.

He just shrugged. "I've never been in an army camp, either. These men serve under their banns, no? It wouldn't surprise me if banns had their elven servants with them. I think we should pretend we're servants for now. It will be easier to move around. "

"All right. Let's get started, then. I want to see how they live here and what they do, everything."

They looked around. The clusters of tents of all sizes spread like weird mushrooms at both sides of the road as far as they could see. In the centre of each cluster there was one big tent, crimson or purple or dark blue, with a few smaller, white and yellow tents at each side and dozens of regular grey tents, much like their own, scattered around without any order or structure. Narrow trampled paths ran between and around the tents in all directions.

"Where is everyone? Don't tell me they're still sleeping!" Airam looked at sky which was already turning pink like cheeks of an embarrassed maiden... or Alistair. Zevran chuckled.

"No, I think –"

The loud sound of a trumpet interrupted him. The sound seemed to be coming from the direction of the crimson tent. They headed there, trying to look as if they belonged and knew what was going on. Moments later, a big group of men, fifty at least, sweaty and loud appeared on the road from the opposite direction.

"Breakfast!" one of them yelled when he noticed Airam. "Where's my breakfast, elf?"

"No idea," Airam, "but if you're inviting me, I won't say no."

Zevran groaned inwardly. So much about pretending to be servants.

The men laughed, all except the one who called. He was a big, beefy man, not much smaller than Sten; with a bowl haircut and a few bristles that were apparently supposed to be a soul patch, which gave him a look of a slow-witted thug, but his watery blue eyes were cold and sharp. Not a man you wanted to cross; so of course, he had to be the first person Airam chose for his cheekiness.

"Dirty knife-ear! Learn your place, or I will pull those ears and throw them to dogs!"

Rask growled, stepping in front of Airam.

"Enough, Rowland." Another man stepped forward. He was of Alistair's age, and build, but he had air of authority around him; the other guy retreated like a dog scolded by his master. "Common camp boys don't have mabaris with them. They're probably... personal servants of one of them banns."

"Whores, you mean," Rowland mumbled. "How can anyone like beasts like these? Just the idea makes me sick."

"I said enough," Tobias snapped. "I'm Tobias, son of Bann Oswyn, and these are my men. Please don't mine Rowland; he's just irritated because he lost sparring match to Miles," he waved his hand towards one of the other men, "and lost his whole weeks pay, again."

The men chuckled and jeered. Rowland stepped back, though it seemed he would love to twist few necks, preferably Airam's, maybe also Tobias'.

"What a wonderful mabari," said another man. "I've never seen him around. Which bann does he belong to?"

"He's mine," Airam said proudly. There was a surprised mutter, and several men glared at him suspiciously.

"Ah... a gift, right? From your master?" Tobias asked, apparently trying to be polite. Zevran had to chuckle at Airam's expression; if these men weren't careful, they might end like ice statues.

"I don't know who was his previous owner, or if he even had one," he said irritably. "When I first saw him, he was very ill. The kennel master asked me to find some healing herbs for him and when I returned, let me muzzle him. I don't know how he managed to survive and run away from the horde, but he tracked me in the Wilds, more than a week after the battle. He's been fighting at my side ever since."

"From the horde? Wilds?" Tobias frowned. "What do you– you mean Ostagar? You were a kennel boy at Ostagar?"

That was too much. "I was a soldier, you fool; I fought at the Tower of Ishal," Airam snapped. "You have no idea who I am and instead of asking, you jump to hasty conclusions based on nothing but racist prejudices. If you lead your men like that in the battle, then I pity them. None of them will survive one hour."

All eyes turned to Tobias in stunned silence. Zevran shifted his pose, ready to pull his daggers at any moment if necessary. Airam wasn't worried at all, as usually.

It was Rowland who finally broke the silence. "I don't care whose whore he is, ser Tobias. If you don't teach him his place, I will."

At that moment, two elves appeared from the opposite direction, bearing down on the big, steaming kettle, and a big bag that clanked and jingling with every step. They shot a brief surprised looks at their little gathering, but quickly dropped their gaze and shuffled away.

Airam grinned at Rowland. "Tell you what. You want me to prove I can fight? Fine with me. But I won't fight you. Too pathetic. I'll fight... Miles, was it?"

Zevran moaned. "Airam–" he tried, but was ignored.

"But, if I win, me and my pal get your breakfast."

Tobias arched his brow at him. "And if you lose?" he asked, his voice full of suppressed anger.

"I won't," Airam said haughtily.

"If he loses, they clean latrines," one of the men suggested. They all jeered at that, and even Rowland seemed satisfied with such a punishment.

Miles was a man around thirty, not much smaller than Rowland. He didn't jeer with the others; instead, he carefully studied Airam's moves. Zevran frowned slightly–this man knew how to fight. Airam was not a rookie anymore either, and he had already refocused his energy into strength, but Zevran wasn't sure if it would be enough, this time. If they were at the same level, the man's bigger size and weight could be a considerable advantage.

They moved from the road to the wide area in front of the crimson tent. The two elven servants had already put the kettle on a log and took out tin bowls and spoons out of the bag, and were calmly waiting for the men to line up for their serving. But no one was interested. Airam and his opponent faced each other in the middle, while the others formed a tight circle around them. If they needed to retreat quickly, it would be a problem. Not good. Zevran didn't trust these men; who knew what would they do if their friend was losing to an elf. Rask was also anxious, crouching and growling, ready to jump to his master's defence. Zevran smiled down at him.

"Calm down, my friend. They are only playing, yes? It is not a real fight. But if you notice anyone wants to interfere, tear their neck and kill them."

Rask gave him an annoyed growl–tear them yourself, you are not my master–but Zevran was satisfied. He was sure his target audience got the message as he intended. They stepped back from the mabari, leaving a wide free area around him and Zevran.

"Here, elf." Tobias took his sword and offered it to Airam. "Unless you want to fight him bare handed?" His men roared in laughter.

"That's very kind of you, human," Airam quipped with his cheekiest grin, "but I prefer these, if you don't mind." He pulled out the daggers, and their grins froze on their faces. Zevran would bet they had never seen a cinquendea –with triangular double edge, broad enough to tear a big hole in the enemies that killed them instantly, it was a favourite weapon of Crows, but surprisingly unknown outside Antiva.

"Try not to kill him," he said to Airam. The soldiers jeered again, but it didn't sound convincing.

The man was good; an experienced soldier, and surprisingly fast for his size. But Airam was lither, and, Zevran was pleased to see, played dirty. The first time he kicked the man below the belt the crowd gasped with surprise, and then roared with laughter, cheering for him and teasing his opponent every time Airam avoided the hit or made a good move.

"Watch out for the cheeky monkey!" they called, "or he'll cut off your banana!"

The man kept his calm, as if he couldn't hear it; Airam on the other hand was clearly distracted. Zevran frowned, worried.

"Stop fooling around, Air!" he called. "If you don't finish it till I count to one hundred, you'll be doing extra exercises every free moment till the oath ceremony! You won't be allowed to even get near a book!"

Airam turned to him with shocked expression. "Two weeks?"

"One," was all he said as a reply.

Airam ducked to avoid the blow – Miles didn't stop to listen to conversations – and took few steps back. "I'm sorry, Miles," he said grimly, "the fun ends here. This cruel bastard-"

"Ten," he said.

"And a cheater!"

"Twenty."

"I hate you," Airam muttered and attacked Miles again. As Zevran expected, the extra motivation helped quite a bit – was more focused and fierce. By the time Zevran counted to sixty, Airam was completely in control of the fight; all Miles could do was to parry. There was no doubt that he would win long before-

"Hey! What are you doing, you damned knife-ears! Put it back!"

They all turned out to the distressed call. The elven servants picked up the kettle again and started to drag it away. "I'm sorry, ser. The breakfast time is over. We need to get back, or we will be punished," one of them explained anxiously, as several soldiers surrounded them.

"Would you mind if we ended this for now, call it a draw and have breakfast together?" Airam asked politely, lowering his blades.

The man sheathed his weapons as well. "I don't need your pity, elf. It wasn't a draw. You won, and that's it."

"I didn't mean it as pity, but have it your way." Airam shrugged and turned to the servants with a sweet smile. "Could you please leave it here for just few more minutes?"

The servants exchanged an anxious look and finally put the kettle back. "All right, ser, but please hurry. The main cook will peel our skin off if we're late."

Airam's face darkened. Zevran put an arm on his shoulder. "Not now," he muttered so only Airam would hear.

Airam relaxed a little, though he didn't stop frowning. Tobias gave them a suspicious look, but kept his mouth shut; a clever decision, if Zevran was asked. It didn't take long to distribute the food; the whole breakfast consisted of less than half a bowl of a sticky, pale grey mass with less than appetizing smell.

"Ahhh… home sweet home," Airam said, breathing it in, as he looked for a free log to sit. The men didn't budge at all, but they forgot Rask. He wedged between two men, oblivious to their angry insults and shifted and wiggled until they gave up and moved elsewhere, followed by jeering from others. Rask gave a happy bark at Airam and Zevran, and they joined him.

"It's been some time since I could smell this delicious aroma. Are you sure the main cook is not a Qunari?" he turned to the servants. "Because I know one who cooks the same way. Whatever ingredients you give him, the result always looks and smells like this."

The servants exchanged another anxious look. "No, ser… he's a human," one of them peeped. "And that's not a speciality, it's just porridge."

"Truly? And here I thought it was a glue for leather boots," Zevran muttered, dabbing at it with the spoon.

"See how ridiculously awesome us Fereldans are? Our products are always universal and practical. I bet you can't say the same about Antivans!" Airam quipped haughtily, bravely tasting some. "Come on, Zev. It's not that bad – this one at least has butter in it. - No, you can't have it," he snapped at Rask, who put his head on Airam's knees and whined. "I know how much you scrounged from the kitchen boys last night, you glutton. It's a miracle you can still walk."

Zevran sighed and tucked in, aware that everyone was staring at him expectantly. "Mmmm… you were right. It's just like Sten's cooking."

"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Tobias blurted out after a while. The men stopped eating and listened – the question was apparently on their mind as well.

"You tell me," Airam replied with a smirk. "How could an elf know to fight?"

Tobias shrugged. "An elven mercenary? I've heard it's quite a bit cheaper. I'd never do it myself, but I know some bards hard on money hired few of your kind, before Ostagar."

"No wonder we lost," Rowland mumbled, spitting. Few others murmured in agreement.

Zevran couldn't help chuckling at Airam's disappointed expression.

"Let's start from the other end, then. You know who is the Commander of this army, right?"

"Arl Eamon is," said one of the men.

"Well, officially it's the crown prince, Alistair Theirin, the brother of late king Cailan," Tobias corrected him. "But it's Arl Eamon who acts on his behalf; the prince is too busy for that."

It was Airam's turn to gape. "Arl Eamon? Not the Warden Commander?"

"The Warden Commander is travelling with the prince Theirin," Tobias explained. "But what does it matter to you? Who are you?"

"No one important, apparently," Airam muttered. He got up and returned his bowl to one of the servants. "I can help you cleaning it, to make up for the time you lost because of me," he offered.

"T-thank you, ser, but that won't be necessary," the servant replied, throwing an uncertain look at the frowning Tobias.

"It's all right," Airam assured him as if he didn't notice it. "I need to visit the other parts of camp anyway. Coming, Zev?" He took the bag with the bowls, ready to go, when Tobias stood up and stepped into his way.

"I'm afraid not. I can't allow you mess about camp until I know exactly who you are and what are you doing here."

Airam scowled and sighed. "As you wish. I'm bad at this undercover thing anyway."

"At least without beautiful maidens admiring you," Zevran teased him. "Allow me to introduce us, then. This knife-ear, ser Tobias, happens to be Airam Surana, the Warden Commander and the Captain General of the King's army; I dare say that right now, he's the most important guy in Ferelden. And I'm his humble bodyguard, Zevran Arainai."

"If you're humble I'm a Qunari," Airam muttered.

The revelation didn't have a desired effect, however. Nobody believed them.

"I don't deny that you know a bit of fighting, but the Warden Commander is a mage. You better stop pretending to be him, or I'll have to arrest you," Tobias said.

"And I've heard he dyes his hair to some weird colour," someone else added. "Crimson or pink or something like..." the man's voice trailed off and he took a step back as an icy aura whirled wildly around Airam.

"Pink? Pink?! Who says my hair is pink?"

"Such terrible lies!" Zevran agreed. "First of all, it is not dyed."

"Zev."

"Second, it is not pink at all. It is most lovely aubergine shade," he added, pulling off the cap from Airam's head. "And if you want to see his magic, I dare you to comment it," Zevran finished with a sly smirk.

Airam's ears turned pink. A few men chuckled uncertainly, looking at their leader. Tobias was almost as white as Airam. "The Warden Commander and his assassin!" he breathed.

"Ah, you finally decided to use your brain? I'm so glad. Now, then. Let's get back to business. I want to inspect camp without everyone knowing. Keep my presence here a secret. That is an order. If you violate it, you'll have to bear consequences. Am I clear?"

The change was immediate and absolute, as always. The elven brat was gone, and in his place there was the Warden Commander, resolute and not tolerating any impertinence. This was the stance and tone practiced into perfection through dealing with Morrigan and Sten – these unfortunates had no chance to resist. Ah, the look at their faces! Zevran didn't bother to hide his amusement. So full of disdain just a moment ago, and look at them now, all humble and embarrassed and apologizing, even the racist bastards like Rowland.

"No need to worry, we're not offended," Airam assured them. "Now. Tell me what you normally do during the day."

"That depends. We are all assigned different tasks," Tobias explained, still pale. "For example, I help at the headquarters, with administration. Some help the smiths, or carpenters and tailors, or in the warehouses; some are sent scouting, we don't want darks horde to catch us unaware, and there are patrols-"

"Then why do you need servants?" Airam interrupted.

"Well they… do many others things soldiers can't… and higher officers have personal servants…" Tobias writhed uncomfortably and quickly returned to the previous matter. "Then, in the afternoon we have drills and training and at seven dinner is served; after that we have free time to rest or play cards, or go to town, if we get the leave."

Airam mused over it for a while. "We'll join you. It's the fastest way to learn more about camp and you. Let's split and meet here in the afternoon for training. I'd like to see what you do. What do you think, Zev?"

He thought it was a terrible plan, but he could not say that aloud. So he just nodded. Airam went to the warehouse; Zevran decided to check the production of armours and swords. The men they were assigned to didn't seem happy about it. Especially Rowland the elf hater, who worked in the forge. Oh, he was humble and obedient now, but his eyes glistened with cold hate. If he could, he would throttle Zevran, for being an elf and for daring to be important in spite of it. Zevran smirked at him maliciously. A poor compensation for not being with Airam but at least he wouldn't die of boredom.

oOo

The smiths and other craftsmen were at the outskirts of camp, in a wide area enclosed with a strong wooden fence and massive gates reinforced with iron, now wide open. Inside was a big yard surrounded with rows of shops, warehouses, stables–and, judging by the deafening roar, the mabari cots in the far right corner. The wagons and carts rattled by, loaded with all kinds of supplies and raw materials. Humans and elves, equally exhausted, scurried around, paying no attention to Zevran and Rowland.

When they entered the forge, the difference in temperature was so high it almost knocked Zevran off his feet. Rowland told him something he couldn't catch over the noise and went to talk to another giant of a human. Zevran guessed it was the boss here. After a while the man came over to Zevran and measured him with eyes and asked who he was. Zevran gave him the name of one of his former marks, trying to act as humble as possible. They agreed with Rowland that it would be best to keep the pretence of Zevran being a man servant for one of minor nobles in camp who was sent to the forge for punishment. It was obvious the smith didn't buy it for one second, but he didn't question it. Smirking, he pointed Zevran to the bellows: he was to keep the fire hot.

It was as hard as it was unpleasant, but there were not easy or pleasant jobs here, and the smith was equally acerbic to humans and elves. The elves were hauling in heaps of charcoal for the fire or pumped the bellows; humans were processing and hammering iron. How anyone could want to be a smith and do this voluntarily was beyond him. When the smith announced lunch break, Zevran had had enough for the rest of his life. The next time his crazy kid wanted to play elven slave, he was more than welcome to do it, but without Zevran. Especially if lunch was worse than anything Sten could ever produce, even with Alistair's help. Disgusted, he prodded the greyish unidentifiable mass on the plate, trying to decide which was less damaging: eating it or faint of hunger, when the smith approached him.

"You did good today, ser Arainai. I was a bit surprised. Didn't think you had it in ye to stay fer a whole day," he said, patting Zevran on the shoulder.

"You know who I am? Did Rowland tell you?"

"Not all Fereldans are like that racist bastard. Some of us have ears and brains and know how to use them," the smith declared proudly. "Let me introduce myself. The name's Jaycob Halder, the main smithy in this Makerdamned smithery. .Now, I'd guess you came for different reasons than to toil away at the work of a smith, am I right?"

Ah, finally someone clever, who could recognize an important person! Zevran's mood immediately improved. "Always pleasure to meet someone wise," he said benignity. "As you guessed, I'm here for a purpose – to find-"

"Them's at the castle realised they can't have a war without weapons, eh? 'Twas about time someone cared, those bastards at the guild sabotage us, even a master smith of my level can only do that much with six journeymen, how am I supposed to make weapons with eight men? Eh? But do they care, no of course not they just come and make orders; Jaycob we want this, Jaycob, you need to do that, what am I, a bloody mage?"

Zevran blinked. If there was a competition in talking, this man would be a serious competition for Dagna. He might even win, in fact. "But the soldiers–"

"Thugs and idiots! Farmer boys! What do they know about the smithery? Less than my little toe, that's what they know. Smithery is an art, it's not something you can learn it two months! These thugs? Bah! All they know the difference between the anvil and the hammer! It's a good thing we're fighting them monsters and not Orlesians, they'd die laughing at the weapons of our king's army!"

"Then that would be a good thing, no?" Zevran offered, amused.

"That funny to you, is it, that my name will be ruined and I can close my forge and what will then my family and families of my apprentices live of, eh? They'll all starve and die like hungry kittens; it would be more merciful to drown them now. And it's all fault of those bastards at the guild, refusing to give me proper men and lower the price for material!"

The smith was getting angrier and angrier by every word; if he didn't calm down, he'd have a stroke. That would be troublesome – too much explaining that he didn't assassinate him.

"I apologise," he said. "But, things are going to change now that the Warden Commander and the King is here, I promise that. They'll make sure you get everything you need. Please tell me everything about the guild and the troubles-"

"They better do if they don't want to become mincemeat," the smith murmured. "All right, listen carefully..."

Zevran suppressed a sigh and forced himself to look as encouragingly as he could. This would be long, long talk… He hoped Airam was having more fun.

oOo

When he got back to Tobias's part of camp, Airam was already there, surrounded by a little crowd of devoted admirers. Apparently he had become friends with everyone in the warehouse and amazed them with his unusual strength and willingness to help. Zevran chuckled. Business as usual, there.

"You don't happen to have an extra strong lyrium on you, do you?" he mumbled softly, when Zevran sat next to him.

"No." He wanted to add something about the price of showing off, but when he saw how exhausted the boy was, thought better of it. Instead, he ordered Tobias to arrange a wagon that would take them back to the castle. It was sign of how exhausted Airam was, that he accepted it without a single objection.

"I thought you wanted to watch them training?" he teased once they were seating in the wagon that rattled back to the castle.

"Yes, but as the Commander of Grey I have more pressing matters I need to solve," Airam replied haughtily.

"Oh? And what are those, if I may ask?"

"Getting a more satisfying dinner, for example. What was that grey mass for lunch? Or did you have something else?"

"No, your descriptions matches my lunch perfectly. In truth, I decided I prefer not to know what it was."

They both laughed, but then Airam frowned. "Eamon says most of the money is spent on food, so that was a nasty surprise. Not that I expected anything luxurious, but I thought it would be, you know, edible."

Zevran agreed. And when he remembered all the intrigues and sharp practices the smith had told him about, it was obvious something was wrong here. They would need to have a look at that, but how? It would require someone competent and loyal, who would know local conditions, and yet would be able to pass around Eamon… even if Eamon wasn't directly included in it, it seemed he didn't have big control over it…

Their musings over it was interrupted by a sharp call. The driver stopped, and they turned around to see what was going on. To their surprise, there was a very angry Morrigan storming towards them like a goddess of thunder.

"Morri? What are you–"

"I am here to tell you that you should sneak into the castle, go into your room–with your silly assassin as well–and wait there for Erwin and others."

"What? Why?"

"And when you meet the annoying fool do tell him that if he ever uses me as a mail pigeon again, I will not show mercy to him."

"Okay. But–"

But she just threw a glance of pure disdain on them, turned into a raven and disappeared. They paid the driver a few coins to shut him up and hurried to the castle. Zevran led the way, Airam carefully repeating his every step. Fortunately there were no guards on the bridge and the yard was almost empty... except for a few elven kids. One of them smirked, bowed, and bolted into the castle. Ah. Erwin was a truly clever guy.

They had barely closed the door behind them, when there was a sharp knock and Erwin, Alistair and Bann Teagan entered. Interesting.

"What's going on and what have you done to Morri?" Airam asked, glaring at Erwin. "I thought she'd roast me alive!"

"I merely asked her to find you and give you a message, and when she refused, I told her what I think of that attitude," Erwin said innocently.

Alistair burst into laugh. "He shocked her into obedience," he clarified. "I was surprised she didn't poo on him as she flew out."

"She's too clever to do something like that," Erwin snapped. "Anyway. I wanted to meet you before Arl Eamon does."

"Why? I want to meet him and have a serious talk with him. He owes me some explanations," Airam said.

"Why don't we all sit down and listen to what Bann Teagan has to say first," Erwin suggested. "It is most interesting, I assure you."

"All right, then." Airam sat on the bed, cross legged. Zevran and Erwin joined him, while Alistair and Teagan sat in the big, comfortable armchairs–though Teagan fidgeted like a fresh caught fish thrown on the live coals, all ghastly and opening and closing his mouth.

"Go ahead, Bann Teagan, please. You have my undivided attention."

"Well... I guess there's no polite way to say this, so I'll be blunt. My brother is... not very fond of... non-humans, as I'm sure you have noticed by now. And he is not happy that what he calls 'Fereldan army' is under command of an elf. Even an ordinary human would have been a heavy blow, but an elf, that is too much for him. He will never accept an elf as his equal."

"But isn't Loghain from a peasant family?" Alistair asked.

"Indeed. Which is exactly the reason why my brother would not accept another one. He was always convinced that it was a grave mistake to give such power to a commoner. Unfortunately, Loghain's actions after Ostagar further confirmed him in his opinion. He is convinced that a Captain General of Fereldan must be a proper noble. Or, at least, of its human part. The non-humans are just necessary evil–extra buffer between Fereldans and darkspawn, and he does not care who commands them."

The temperature in room dropped considerably–and as there was no fire in fireplace, it was quite unpleasant. Zevran shivered and nudged Airam.

"Are you trying to completely ruin my complexion and hair? Stop it."

Airam's ears turned most adorable shade of pink as he quickly cancelled the icy aura surrounding him. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled and turned to Teagan again. "And you don't share his opinion?"

"I used to, but since I saw certain elven commander in action, I have changed my mind," he replied with a small smile. "However, it did not convince my brother. He believes that the only thing it proves is how incompetent I am."

"Hmph. So that's why everyone in camp believes he's the highest commanding officer. He wants to replace me!"

"No, he's not that big fool. He doesn't want to replace you himself, but he already has a perfect candidate. Does the name Fergus Cousland mean anything to you?"

"It does ring the bell, but I can't remember where I heard it..." Airam frowned, trying to remember.

"The Teyrn' Cousland's of Highever firstborn, yes?" Zevran asked. "The one who avoided the massacre, because he was at Ostagar. People in the north believed he'll return and free them from Howe."

Airam looked at Zevran, surprised. "Well! Aren't you a handy source of trivia? All right, then. From now on, you're officially my external memory."

"A Cousland... yes, I see how he would be a perfect candidate. Couslands are... were, the second most powerful noble family in Ferelden, loved and respected by most. Model Fereldens, you could say. It wouldn't be difficult to convince nobles to choose him over Airam. Couslands would regain the name and influence they lost due to Howe, and uncle would get an easily controllable commander that would do whatever he wanted. That way, even if Airam remained the Captain General, he'd be practically helpless."

Alistair looked at Erwin, who nodded. "Very clever analysis, Your Highness," he said, and Alistair beamed with satisfaction. "The first step will be to make Bann Fergus the commander of Redcliffe forces, I believe. We should find a way to prevent-"

"No. Oh, this will be good." Airam grinned like a cat who caught a mouse and now was deciding how to eat it. "This is so perfect! Almost as if I arranged it, hehe. No, we'll let Eamon do as he wants! Actually, Bann Teagan, do you think you could convince your brother to step down and make Bann Fergus the commander before that's the day after tomorrow? I'd love to see his expression, but I don't want to bring him death. Especially as it was us who revived him and it wasn't exactly easy. No, let him believe he won... for a day."

"For a day? What have you planned now? Don't you think it's about time you told us about this secret strategy of yours?" Erwin glanced at Zevran, but he just shrugged.

"It's easy. You've heard of the 'mixed unit tactics' that the Riviani used with great success for almost two hundred years now, right? Well. I decided to apply it to our army... with slight reform."

He looked around and bent forward. They all bent forward, holding their breaths. "We will have mixed races tactics," he declared triumphantly. "There will be no 'human army' at all. There will be only army. The Wardens' army."

There was a shocked silence that lasted all through Airam's explanation. Zevran couldn't help grinning. It was just as crazy as he expected from his kid. But, it made sense. Alistair was the first to agree; Erwin needed more convincing and Teagan only agreed, Zevran suspected, because he was loyal to the king. But, in the end they all accepted it and carefully planned every step of their little conspiracy.

He almost felt sorry for the Arl, but then again... no, not really. It was his own fault for challenging the craziest Warden Commander in Thedas. This game would be fun to follow. And if something went wrong... well. The castle is full of slippery stairs, no?