Pressure
Alistair strode through the entrance to the public garden at the west gate of Denerim. His plate armor had been polished until is gleamed, the midday sun shone brightly, making its light reflect around him, lending to the illusion they were desperately trying to create. Leliana and Zevran had already entered, and were quietly continuing their already very successful campaign of rumor building.
Normally, this sort of thing would have Alistair's knees close to knocking, but not this time. His entire life, he had been told to stay hidden, and never to draw unnecessary attention to himself. There were times he had suspected that the vocation chosen for him by the Chantry had more to do with the fact that he would forever be concealed beneath a Templar's helm; his startling resemblance to his father unseen. It went against his nature to seek attention. Today was different; today was the first real action he was taking toward rescuing his wife.
When he reached the center of the garden, Alistair was pleased to see that there were at least one hundred people milling about, and he turned to follow the pebbled path to the statue of The Silver Knight.
He was definitely drawing attention; of that much he was certain. He carried his helm under his left arm; his sword and shield, which now bore the crest of the Theirin family, were hung on his back. People were whispering to each other behind their hands, and a young boy outright pointed at him, tugging at his father's sleeve.
Finally he arrived at the end of the path, where less than a dozen people were gathered. Alistair made a point of walking with reverence to the base of the statue, and then solemnly placed a shining gauntlet-clad hand flat against it. He then dramatically bowed his head. After a minute or two, Alistair felt someone was watching him, and peered out of the corner of his eye. His heart leapt with excitement as he saw there were now at least twenty people watching him, some not even hiding it. It was time.
He dropped his hand and turned to depart, and, on cue, Leliana's familiar voice loudly called out, "Who are you?"
Alistair stopped, hesitating for just a fraction of a moment. Slowly, he turned to face the direction the question had come from, making eye contact with several observers as he did.
"I am a Grey Warden," he replied, putting as much strength in his tone as possible.
"Why are you here? The Blight ended," replied a young man to his left. "It did end, didn't it?" the young man asked nervously.
"There is no Blight; fear not, for the Hero of Ferelden- your Warden Cousland-has seen to that," Alistair answered. "I am here because there is a grave injustice being done upon not only she, but to others who are faithful patriots!"
The crowd rumbled, and a few people shook their heads and began to walk away.
"If you're a Warden, then why do you care about justice? I thought your job was killing the Darkspawn!" called another voice, this one Alistair recognized as Zevran's.
"I care because my father struggled for far too long to remove oppression and injustice from his Kingdom," he said, and waited for that to sink in.
"HIS Kingdom?" asked an older woman behind him. "Who is your father, Warden? Exactly who are you?" she demanded.
"My name, dear lady," Alistair said charmingly, "is Alistair," and he paused for effect. "Alistair Theirin," he finished loudly, and he bowed to the woman, before turning to leave.
"You saying your da was King Maric? The King Maric of Ferelden?" called another observer.
"He was," he replied, holding his head high, giving the crowd ample opportunity to see how very much he looked like his father and his half brother. There were gasps, and a few chuckles.
Alistair turned back to the statue of King Calenhad, and, with true dramatic flair, he drew his sword from its sheath, and placing the hilt over his heart, he then pointed its tip toward the stone Knight in a showy salute.
The gathered crowd fell silent, and Alistair, returning his sword to it sheath, turned without another glance around him, and left the way he came.
He worked his way to the outside edge of the central garden, choosing to avoid the main path on his way out. Once he reached the arched gateway, Leliana pulled up at his elbow. A few feet further and they exited the gardens altogether, spotting Zevran leaning against a wall.
"Well that was, by far, the campiest display I have ever had the misfortune to witness," quipped the elf. He pushed off the wall and walked with them, as they returned to the back alley of the village adjacent to the City's gate. They had stashed Alistair's clothing and their supplies within several rotting crates, and it was imperative that Alistair change out of his ostentatious plate as soon as possible.
"I thought it went rather well," defended Alistair. "I mean, I certainly had their attention, and that was the point, wasn't it?" he asked. He raised his arms, and the two rogues deftly began aiding him in opening the buckles and hooks that held his armor onto the splintmail beneath.
"You were BRILLIANT, Alistair, absolutely perfect!" Leliana chirped excitedly. "The crowd just did not know what to make of you, but you looked very much the part," she said. "Some might say that you looked regal" and he shot her an annoyed glance at the compliment. Leliana smiled and shrugged her shoulders, "What?" she said with mock innocence.
"Alright, Templar," Zevran sighed, hoisting the chest plate off of Alistair. "Let us make our way to the inn, and get inside our rooms," he said, as he placed the plate into a burlap satchel they had. "We have some waiting to do, for Teagan's contact, and I'd rather NOT do it where the guards are so close. Someone may spot your pretty face, and then, well, not so good," he finished.
"Are you sure I can't persuade the two of you to simply storm Drakon with me?" asked Alistair. "I mean, you DID succeed last time you did so, and we are so close," he stated.
"I would rather not die, impaled on the well trained sword of one of O'Donnell's guards, thank you all the same," replied Zevran. "My friend, I know it is difficult, but we are heavily outnumbered, and, if rumors are even close to true," he continued, "the men and women at Drakon are again the skilled group they once were," he finished, passing the heavy burden to the much larger man.
Alistair easily slung the pack around to his shoulder and walked with his companions, his thoughts on the fort.
"Well, I would think," he began carefully, hoping that the seed he wanted to plant in Leliana's mind took, "that some reconnaissance would be, uh, beneficial. I mean, for all we know, she's not even in Denerim," Alistair continued. "We've always assumed that this is where Fergus and Annie were taken, but it would be good to know for certain, and you know what they say about assuming?" he asked.
Leliana looked thoughtful, raising an elegant eyebrow. "You know, Zev, he does have a point," she said.
"No- we have a plan, Leliana, and it's a very good one!" Zevran replied, shaking his head. "Alistair is simply using your incessant curiosity against you. He doesn't want to wait now, so close to…"
"To what?" Alistair interrupted, his voice full of mock innocence. "I just think we shouldn't-what did Annie used to say?-Ah, 'go in blind'. That's all," he defended.
"Yes, I think it's a very good suggestion," Leliana agreed, and Zevran rolled his eyes, knowing it would be impossible to change her mind. "We shall go late tonight, alright?" she chirped and walking ahead of them, a little spring in her step as she considered her new mission.
Alistair smiled with enormous satisfaction, for if all went well, he would at least know for certain where Annie was and if she were safe. He turned to look at Zevran, "Ha!" he said.
"I knew it!" Zevran snapped. "You did that on purpose!"
"You bet your Antivan arse I did," Alistair laughed. "What? You're not the only one who can play games?"
"You used to be much less able," Zevran complained.
"Yes, well," Alistair replied, slapping the elf on the back. "I learned from the best," he offered.
"Another compliment?" Zevran said, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Come, let us go," he huffed and walked forward.
"What makes you think I didn't mean Leliana?" Alistair teased, and laughed at the expletive he heard in reply.
xXx
Queen Anora of Ferelden leapt to her feet and marched to the edge of the dais.
"Tell me again what happened?" Anora demanded of the husky merchant before her. She was dressed in blue tufted silk, her lustrous blonde hair up high in a bun, and she looked every inch a Queen, except for the horrific scowl that marred her face. "Speak, fool!" she commanded. "Where were you exactly and what exactly was said?"
"As I stated, Your Majesty," said the man in a small voice. "I was in the west garden, meeting someone you see," he explained, "and this big brawny bloke walked right up the statue of the King Calenhad," he said.
"AND?" his Queen demanded.
"Oh, uh, yes," he stammered. "He uh, well, he was obviously a warrior, he was so big, you see, and he wore this really beautiful set of plate armor" he elaborated. "He fairly glowed, and then so you know, there were a fair number of folks watching him. Anyway, someone called out to him and he said he was a Grey Warden, and that his name was um, ah, Alfonso Theirin," the man, now pale from nervousness, said with a brief nod.
"Alistair, you imbecile!" snapped Anora. "This was today?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am, it were just before my lunch," he replied. "I'm fairly certain," he said hesitantly, "that he said his name was Alfonso. But for sure he said Theirin, that much I am absolutely certain of," he continued, nodding his head earnestly. "And Maker, he sure does look like his Da, that much is true. I saw King Maric once, and I'm tellin' you.."
"His da, as you call him, was some stable boy from Redcliffe!" she interrupted menacingly. "You had best be sure to tell anyone you hear retelling this ridiculous tale that your Queen told you that," she finished, and then gestured to her guards, who silently escorted the man out of her audience chambers.
"Bartholomew," Anora said loudly, calling in one of her more trusted secretaries. A lanky, red haired man hustled to the front of the dais and dipped a quick bow.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" he asked softly.
"Has there still been no word from McClaire?" she asked, rubbing her temples, as she began to pace.
"No, ma'am, none," he answered. "The usual correspondence from Highever did arrive, and I took the extra step of going through it personally, but alas, nothing," he explained.
"Then send him a bloody letter asking him why he has seen fit to not complete his orders!" she bellowed, and then turned and stomped to her writing desk. "Never mind, I shall do so myself," Anora stated, and grabbed her quill.
After a minute, she dusted the parchment, and passed it to Bartholomew. "Here, take it personally and make sure he gets it," she commanded.
"Personally, ma'am?" he asked, horrified. "I rarely travel, you see, I don't get on well with horses, so," he stammered and then slowly stopped as he registered the incredulous look on his Queen's face.
"Surely, you do not expect ME to do it? I realize that I must do almost everything myself, as I am surrounded by incompetent twits, but surely you can seat a horse?" she screeched.
"Yes, ma'am, forgive me, I shall see to it myself," he stammered, bowing low, and she waved her hand in dismissal.
He closed the door to the audience chamber quietly, and stalked off toward his quarters, all the while his upset growing at what the Queen had tasked him to do. Dramatically, Bartholomew threw open the door to his quarters and he stomped over to the bureau, jerking it open. Piling his clothing on the top, he stopped and looked at his reflection in the mirror.
He wondered if the regular folk knew what a horrible woman their Queen truly was, that on top of everything she usually demanded, she saw fit to order him to be at the mercy of a brutish horse and the elements?
"Has she ever once said 'thank you'?" he asked his reflection. "Has she ever once acknowledged what you do for her?" he asked, shaking his head. "No! And why is that? Because she's an aristocratic, nasty, prune of a woman, that's why!" he answered himself.
Bartholomew glanced down at the note in his hand, and thought for a long while. He had listened to the report of the man from the garden, and, aware of the rumors swirling concerning the Couslands, Bartholomew suspected what could really be happening at Highever. A thought occurred to him, and with shaking hands, he very carefully separated the wax seal of the note without breaking it.
Half an hour later, Bartholomew was packed, but not for the journey the Queen had ordered him on. Instead, he stood in the outer offices of Captain O'Donnell. His Lieutenant watched him pace nervously, and after several minutes, much to Bartholomew's great relief, O'Donnell strode into the office.
"Ser," Bartholomew said, approaching him quickly. "This is best in your hands now, I think," he said, as he thrust the letter into O'Donnell's hand. O'Donnell read the letter, his eyes snapping to Bartholomew's.
"You do understand what you are handing me?" O'Donnell asked slowly.
Bartholomew nodded. "I do," he replied. "You do understand that I will not be returning to the Palace?" he asked.
"I do," O'Donnell answered.
"If you are the just man that I have heard you to be," Bartholomew began hesitantly, "then you will forget who gave this to you?" he asked.
"I will," O'Donnell replied and his eyes followed Bartholomew to the doorway of the office, before he called to stop him. "I hear, that secretaries and scribes are very well paid in the Anderfels," he said.
Bartholomew did not look behind him, but nodded his head. "Thank you," he replied and left.
O'Donnell sighed heavily and cursed under his breath. "Murphy," he said, turning to his Lieutenant. "Do you still have that missive we drew up for Bann Guerrin?" he asked.
"Yes, Captain, I do," Murphy replied.
"Send it," ordered O'Donnell.
xXx
Four days later, Teagan Guerrin sat in his estate office, and again read the missive signed by Captain O'Donnell.
"I can scarcely believe this," he mumbled to himself as he finished reading the lengthy letter. Quickly, he walked over to his sideboard and poured a shot of whiskey that he threw back fully. Sighing, he poured another shot, and returned to his desk.
"In for a silver, in for a sovereign, as they say," he said aloud, and picked up his quill.
For the next several hours he worked on multiple letters, writing to each of the political powers in place both in and out of Denerim, applying subtle pressure to some, and calling in favors from others. He made detailed pledges for this or for that, offering to return to talks about grain prices with one minor Bann while pressuring another about road access. Everyone and anyone who had any political capital in Ferelden received their own correspondence; no one with any influence was left out.
"Seymour!" Teagan called, and after a moment, the secretary who had served Bann Guerrin for years entered. "I need each of these bound, prepared, and sealed," he told the stately older man. "Make sure it all leaves today, I want no delays," he stated. "Also, tell the maids to prepare me for travel, I want to leave for the capital at first light," Teagan ordered.
"Yes, my lord," Seymour replied. "May I enquire as to the urgency, ser?" he asked.
Teagan smiled conspiratorially at his secretary, "Yes, I have called for a Landsmeet," he replied. "Anora's time is over," and he grinned widely before departing for his rooms. "It's time to get things done, Seymour!" he called happily.
Seymour watched with no small pride as the Bann disappeared down the hallway. "It seems so, dear boy," he said and sat down to begin his master's work.
As always, a glowing, warm, and gooey thank you to Lisa for her Beta. Lovely, Lucisous, Lurid, Languid, Licorice, Lobotomy, and Lieutenants all begin with capital L!
Thank you to each of you for taking the time to read and review. I wish each of you a very Joyous and Happy Christmas, and I hope that Santa brings you everything you wished for!