Just a quick note for this chapter: I was going to write some "Antivan" (Spanish) in order to be consistent (I used French for Orlesian earlier) but I did not want to butcher that language. I can do that to French or English because those are my langagues, but not to someone else's! Also: some readers may find the contents of this chapter disturbing (M rating, definitely)... -artemiskat

Chapter Thirty-Three
Bittersweet Madness

9:37 Dragon

"The jewel of Antiva."

Leandro stood on the railing, one hand held tightly to the ropes of the ship's masts, the other shielding his eyes from the morning sun, rising behind the rooftops and spires of the city before them.

"Antiva City," Tristan said quietly and without emotion.

Leandro let go of the ropes and hopped down from the railing to stand beside Tristan. He pumped at his chest, unable to tear his eyes away from the city they were quickly approaching. "The motherland. The home of my mother, my mother's mother and all my ancestors!"

Tristan followed the Antivan's gaze. A bridge manned with towers and men guarded the city's harbor. Part of it rose above them to allow their ship through. Antiva City rested on the coast of Rialto Bay, buildings sprawled on every level of cliffs before them. At the highest vantage point was a palace overlooking them all. Leandro had never stepped foot in his homeland before. He'd been born and raised in the slums of Llomerryn, and thus Tristan figured that Antiva City must really look like a glittering jewel to him.

"Are you crying?" Tristan asked, seeing a gleam of wetness underneath Leandro's eyes.

"This is an historic day for me, my friend. I never thought to see my homeland."

Truthfully, Tristan had never thought to see Antiva either, but tragedy had drawn him to the shores of the foreign country. He hadn't expected Leandro to follow him, yet once the man had learned he was going to Antiva, it had been hard to shrug him off.

"Well," Tristan replied, "get a hold of yourself. We need clear heads and eyes at the back of our heads. This won't be a stroll through the meadow."

"I will." Leandro wiped at his eyes and tugged straight his leather armour. "I will."

…

The streets of Antiva City were crowded. Bodies filled every free space. Scents Tristan had never encountered before permeated the air around them, mingling with the smells of sweat, leather, and seawater. An indecipherable number of languages travelled through the space around them. People dressed in finery shared the narrow walkways with the poorest scum who begged beneath balconies garlanded with colorful flowers. Horses carved a path through all and armored men patrolled with watchful eyes.

"Antiva City," Leandro said, pausing dangerously in the middle of everything. The fascination was apparent on his face as eyes, opened wide, searched out with eagerness every nook and cranny.

"Why have you stopped?" Tristan asked with annoyance as people roughly shoved past him.

"The city is amazing. And larger than I expected. However are we going to find your friend?"

Tristan grudgingly admitted that Leandro had a point. His mouth was halfway open to answer when a commotion up the street scattered the crowd. Women screamed as a man on a rearing horse fought off another man who'd jumped up behind him and now had a dagger poised at the rider's neck. The armored men looked on but did nothing to stop the murder. As the horse landed back on its front feet, blood splattered through the air and the rider crumpled to the ground with a thud. The murderer jumped off the horse, wiped his blade on the shawl of a poor unfortunate woman who happened to be standing nearby unable to escape in the heavy press of the crowd, and then fled into a narrow alleyway.

"And no one is chasing the murderer," Leandro mused with a grin.

"Because he's not a murderer, but an assassin."

Leandro turned to Tristan with understanding. "A Crow."

"If we follow him…" Tristan made his way to the alleyway. It was a little easier to move around now that the crowd had been scattered, but even so, the assassin was long gone.

"Maybe he left a trail of blood?" Leandro suggested with a shrug.

"Let's find out."

And so they plunged down the dark alleyway, searching for one bird among a flock.

…

The alleyway had not left them a trail of blood to follow, but it did lead them to a poorer level of the city. Here the dwellings were made of wood, and here children ran frolicking through the mud spattered streets that smelled of rotten fish. It did not look like the kind of place the Crows would set up shop, but it was all they had to go on.

"It is said that to speak of the Crows, is to bring them out to play. So, Leandro, why don't we speak of the evasive birds?" Tristan felt the gaze of the people on the streets linger on him as they walked past. "Ask them where he is."

"Are you sure?" Leandro asked. "I'm not afraid, but is it not too early?"

"We've been wandering the streets for hours. My patience wears thin."

Leandro nodded and then turning to the people on the streets, began to shout, repeatedly, in Antivan, "Tell me where to find the elven assassin."

Many people turned away or averted their eyes. Some made signs of warding. One woman hissed at Leandro before running into her house.

Leandro dangled a small pouch of coins in front of the small crowd. "I will reward anyone who tells me where to find him."

Still, no one budged. A small group of children stopped playing, dropping their sticks all at once so that it was the only noise other than Leandro's voice. A mother grabbed her son and rushed him as far away from Leandro and Tristan as she could possibly go.

"Name him." Tristan whacked Leandro in the shoulder.

"Patience, my friend," Leandro said before turning back to the crowd, gesturing dramatically with each further word he spoke. "The elven assassin was once a Crow. Then he went to Ferelden and battled alongside the Hero of Ferelden, defeating dragons upon rooftops, an army of monsters, and evil warlords. He has since returned to his homeland. You know his name."

"Zevran?" A little girl stepped forward. Her face was streaked with dirt, her clothes dirty, and her hair long and loose, Tristan unable to discern if her true hair color was black or if she was just dirty, but her eyes were large and hungry and they rested on the pouch of coins dangling in the air in front of her.

Leandro crouched down to the girl's level and beckoned her closer. "Yes, child, Zevran. Do you know of him?"

The girl nodded, never taking her eyes off the pouch.

"These coins can be yours, if you take us to him."

She fidgeted with her hands, looked from Leandro to Tristan and to the pouch of coins and rested her hands on her belly. She was hungry, no doubt. And although Tristan could not understand what was being said, he knew Leandro was close to getting what they needed.

"La Puta Copa," the girl finally said.

"La Puta Copa?" Leandro repeated.

"Sí," the girl replied. She held her hands palms up for the reward. "I cannot go there. You can find it yourself. It is easy."

"What did she say?" Tristan asked.

"He's at the Whore's Cup." He tossed the girl the pouch of coins. "Be careful with that. Take it home right away to your parents. Point us in the right direction, now."

The girl nodded and then pointed down the street. As Leandro straightened up she ran off, clutching the pouch of coins tightly to her chest. Tristan hoped she wouldn't get robbed, but the girl seemed quick for one so hungry. And no one seemed to follow her.

"A tavern, then?"

Leandro laughed. "I'm guessing it's more than a tavern with such a name."

"It figures Zevran would be hiding in a brothel. Well, let's go find this Whore's Cup."

…

The Whore's Cup was every bit as lively as the Pearl in Denerim, but it was much more daring than the Pearl could ever hope to be. The scantily clad prostitutes dangled their wares – their bare breasts mostly, or if they were men, their manhood – and shouted out in articulate detail all that they could perform and all the fantasies they could fulfill. Tristan could not understand a word they were saying, but judging by the suggestive ways they gestured, these whores were some of the more creatively talented ones he'd ever seen – and he'd been to Llomerryn, a den of sin and debauchery. The only difference here was the tasteful way things were done.

Besides the whores, many patrons sat around the brothel, and unlike the prostitutes, they could not be described as refined. They were riff raff, working types of men, and all they seemed intent on doing was leering, chugging down some kind of Antivan ale or wine, and singing loudly and happily. Some fished through their pockets to claim a tumble behind the sheets – for every whore stood before a closed off section of the room where they performed their duty.

"Upper class whores for low class men, that's something you don't see every day," Leandro remarked as they walked through the brothel, searching for a place to sit. He raised a brow at a particularly pretty elf who reached out to brush her hand against his arm.

"It's all a farce, Leandro. Don't be deceived by appearances." Tristan pulled his friend away from the whore. It was all an act, a thinly veiled disguise. These whores were the same as any other whore, no matter how grand their portrayal. They took a seat at a table. Tristan searched the room with a careful eye. His impatience grew when he didn't find who he was looking for and he slammed his fist onto the table when he could hold it in no longer. "There's no sign of him anywhere," he said through gritted teeth.

"He'll turn up," Leandro replied without a hint of worry.

"Maybe he's not even here, not even in Antiva." Tristan reached for the pouch around his neck and squeezed it. What if he had come there for nothing? What if he never found what he sought?

Leandro shrugged. "Where else would he be?"

"I don't know."

Tristan's eyes wandered around the room once more. Most of the patrons were men, with one noticeable exception; a woman with short black hair, sitting at another table with her back to them.

"What does Zevran look like anyway?" Leandro asked. He could not keep his eyes off the elf that had propositioned him. She, in return, had not given up on him and pressed her red stained lips into a pout. "I'm not sure what I am supposed to be looking for."

"Blonde, tanned skin, tattoos on his face. An elf. Arrogant swagger. You'll just know when you see him." Tristan released his grip on the pouch and waved his hand in front of Leandro's gaze. "If you ever take your eyes away from her."

Leandro grinned. "I'll take your word for it then." He continued to stare at the whore, who flipped her long, blonde hair behind her and trailed a finger around her nipples.

Tristan let out a sigh, putting a hand to his temple. He was beginning to think it was a complete waste of time for him to have come to the brothel, to have even come to Antiva City. Even if he did find Zevran, there was no guarantee the assassin would be able to help him. Zevran had, after all, betrayed the Crows when he failed to kill Tristan and instead fought by his side. How much could his old friend still know of the guild?

Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan caught a flash of movement as a few men took seats next to the lone woman. One bold and very drunk man tried to put an arm around her. She shoved it away.

"Maybe he's with a whore?" Leandro suggested, grinning widely as the sound of a whore in orgasm reached through the room. He licked his lips as he stared at the blonde elf. "I'd like to find out how that one screams out…"

"Let someone else pay for the pleasure of making that poxy scream."

"Like you, my rich friend?" Leandro turned to Tristan, a mischievous smile on his face.

"Neither me, nor you."

"I said to get your dirty paws off of me!" the lone woman's shout rang through the room.

Gwaren. A tavern. Brenna, in the rough hands of a drunken fool, shouting to be let go.

The flash of memory was gone as fast as it had come. Feeling the anger course through him, Tristan rushed out of his seat, letting the chair fall crashing to the floor behind him. It made such a ruckus that a hush fell over the brothel, though noise could still be heard from behind the hanging sheets. He stopped in front of the obnoxious patrons, towering over them with menace. The woman watched him with icy blue eyes narrowed in anger. His gaze trailed down to her hands, which were glowing, just barely, but enough for him and anyone with a discerning eye to notice. He couldn't let her do that. He couldn't let herself put her life on the line to fight off a drunken fool. He punched the bastard who held her in the face. The man fell back into his fellows' arms.

"The lady said to leave her alone," Tristan spat out in explanation to the surprised faces.

She flinched at his words and seemed surprised to find that he spoke the Ferelden tongue. The glow around her hands dissipated as she studied him curiously. Leandro reached his side and stuck himself between Tristan, the patrons, and the woman.

"Apologies, this has all been a simple misunderstanding…"

The punched man wiped the blood from his nose, spat onto the floor and lunged for Tristan, despite his fellows' attempts to hold him back.

"I tried to be the peacemaker…" Leandro took a swing at the man coming for Tristan. All at once, the brothel erupted into chaos, with chairs flying, whores screaming, and fists flying. To Tristan's surprise, the woman did not back down, but joined in the brawl rather eagerly.

Tristan didn't have the time to wonder at the woman, for he quickly became surrounded by angry men. He slung one off of his back while fending off another at his side. He punched the face of one holding a mug as a weapon, and kicked another to the ground. He flung a whore to the side as she ran for him, eyes wild as she held up a fire poker in the direction of his head. He tripped at one point on the leg of a broken chair and had to defend himself while on his back, the same crazy whore attempting to scratch at his face and only getting at his upraised hands before being kicked away by the loner woman. Tristan jumped onto his feet, nodded his thanks at the woman, before he had to wrestle off another drunk.

This man was a bear, stronger and taller than Tristan. As they locked arms and pushed against each other, no ground was gained by either. Tristan tried head butting the man, but only succeeded in giving himself a larger headache. The big man laughed and pushed Tristan away. He fell into the solid weight of another man.

Tristan was expecting the man to hold him down while the big man pummeled him into senselessness, perhaps even to death. But the man only offered a hand. Tristan reluctantly took it, hauled himself up with the help of the stranger, and when he turned around, he realized it was not a stranger at all.

It was Zevran.

"A drunken brawl?" Zevran smirked. "You should have waited for me."

Tristan was so happy to see him he could have kissed the man. "Zevran!"

"Why you are always intent on keeping me away from all the fun, I will never know. But now, dear Warden, it is time for us to leave."

Zevran gestured to the exit with a nod of his head. The brawl still went on around them. The big man had moved on to torment another after having seen the flash of daggers at Zevran's belt.

"Wait," Tristan said, marching into the fray to gather Leandro and the woman. It proved an effort to wrestle them away from their combatants, but once he did so he dragged them to Zevran. "Now we can go."

…

Zevran led them swiftly through the streets of Antiva City, up steep hills and down narrow alleyways, until finally he threw open a door to a tenement and gestured them all inside. It was dark by the time they walked through the hallway, lit only by a single flickering sconce. They passed a few doors, went up a flight of stairs and after turning a corner, came to a single door, which Zevran unlocked with a key from his pocket and opened.

"My home is yours," Zevran said as he entered through the creaky door into a small one room apartment. Tristan followed in after Leandro, and glanced back once over his shoulder to see that the lone woman mage remained with them. When they were all through Zevran shut the door firmly, barring it with a piece of wood.

"Are you all right?" Tristan asked the mage.

She grinned back at him. "Are you?"

"The fair Champion of Kirkwall," Zevran trailed an appreciative hand against the woman's cheek before turning to Tristan, "and the Hero of Ferelden – in my palace, at the same time. What a lucky day."

"Palace?" Leandro looked around the tattered looking apartment in disbelief, at the same time he rubbed his cheek, where a bruise was forming, a result of the brawl. "If this is a palace, I wonder what the inside of the palace on top of the city looks like."

Tristan felt the woman's eyes on him as he paced around the room. So, Zevran knew her and she knew him. And she was a Free Marcher. None of which truly concerned him at that moment. There was only one thing he needed to know at that point. It was what he'd come to Antiva City for.

"That palace is a Crow's nest. They keep all their secrets there – and more," Zevran replied to Leandro's ponderings. "Many have died in that gilded cage."

Tristan stopped pacing in front of Zevran. "If I needed to find a certain assassin or two, would that palace be the key?"

Zevran laughed. "My friend, I could not in good conscience let you get one foot near that place."

"Why do you need an assassin?" the Champion of Kirkwall asked.

He turned his eyes onto the woman. "It's not what you think."

"He would just hire me if he needed someone assassinated, wouldn't you?" Zevran smirked in his direction.

"I need answers and then I need vengeance." Tristan was reluctant to say any more. Even if he had stood up for her earlier, he didn't quite trust the woman who was the Champion of Kirkwall – that title did not mean anything to him. Her eyes were fastened to him still, and he pointedly glared at her now. It did not deter her, she only let out a little chuckle.

"Your brother had the same look. He didn't trust me either."

"My brother?"

"Yes, that little twit named Ronan. He reminded me of my own twit of a little brother."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "Half-brother." Any other time he might have wondered how in the world Ronan knew the Champion of Kirkwall, but he didn't ask.

"If you must be so precise."

She settled herself into a chair. Evidently, she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Zevran noticed Tristan's impatience and grasped the Champion's shoulder. "Hawke can be trusted. She is a friend of mine."

"Fine," Tristan relented. "My patience is at an end."

"Then unburden yourself."

"Assassins were sent after me three years ago."

"And yet, unsurprisingly, you stand here before me," Zevran remarked. "Go on."

"They failed to kill me, you're right in that, but they did kill someone close to me. For that, there is a debt to pay, payable only in blood. Their blood. I lost their trail soon after they fled. They thought they killed me, but they forgot to make sure of it. I need your help, Zev, in finding them."

Zevran regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. The agony of the wait sent Tristan's thoughts racing. Zevran had to help him. He was the only chance Tristan had of catching up to the bastards. He needed to see them pay. He promised Brenna they would pay. And by the Maker, he would make them pay. Slowly, painfully, and torturously.

"I am flattered, truly I am, my dear Warden, but what makes you think I would know where to find these assassins?"

Tristan was shaken from his dark thoughts. "You are a Crow. Or you were. If you don't know where they are, you know how to find them. How to draw them out. And you owe me."

Zevran sighed. "And was not helping you to end the Blight repayment enough on my part?"

Feeling his frustration rise, Tristan reached for his sword hilt. Zevran held his hands up in a show of peace. Leandro braced himself to interfere, and Hawke stood up to stand by Zevran.

"You tried to kill me," Tristan said.

"And I failed. That is in the past. I kid, Warden, I kid."

"Then help me." Tristan let his hands fall to his side. He wandered away from the others in the room and ran a hand through his hair. This was not going as he planned. But when did things ever go as they were planned?

"You think they are Crows?" Zevran asked.

Tristan faced the others and nodded. "The woman especially looked to be Antivan, perhaps Rivaini. The man, I'm not so sure." The man had been fair skinned, red headed and spoke the Ferelden tongue with ease.

"Do you have their names?"

"Only what they told me." Which had been a lie, in the end. A horrible betrayal that had cost Brenna her life. "Arn and Perdita," he said, unable to hide the hatred and disgust in his voice.

Zevran stared off into space, like he was thinking on what little information he was given. "Perdita, that is just a play on the word for lost."

"It figures." Tristan could not suppress a disbelieving laugh. "They were husband and wife, lost in a snowstorm."

"The man's name, though, it is lately one often spoken of in Crow circles. You are lucky my friend, for I think I know who you speak of. There is a man who goes by many names – Dionisio, Goyo, Pepito, and even…" Zevran turned to him, brows raised in a smug manner, "… even Arn."

Tristan's pulse raced. The need for vengeance coursed through him. He strode toward Zevran, stopping only inches from the elf. Arn was not the one who had killed Brenna, but if he found Arn, he could find Perdita. And he could find out who sent them. "Then show me where the bastard lives."

"So you're going to walk up to this guy's house, knock on his door, and kill him?" Hawke chuckled behind Zevran.

A mad grin seized Tristan. "Sounds like a good plan."

"No, no I cannot let you do that," Zevran said.

"Why not?"

"First of all, I don't know where Arn lives or even if he is the same one you speak of. Second of all, he is an Antivan Crow. If you are trying to assassinate a Crow, he will always be one step ahead of you."

"Not if he doesn't know I'm coming."

"But he knows he failed in killing you."

"How would he know that?"

"Oh, my dear Warden, the Crows have little birds watching every corner, every shadow, every place in the city. There is not a soul in the city they do not know." Zevran turned to Leandro. "Even your friend here. His name is Leandro, isn't it?"

Leandro crossed his arms, an uncomfortable look overcoming his face. "So they know who we are. Big deal."

"Yes, big deal it is." Zevran sat down on a ratty looking old sofa. "Arn will be on guard. He will be expecting you. He won't risk himself in any way. It will be hard to draw him out. Hard, but not impossible."

"So what do you suggest?"

Zevran turned his eyes onto Hawke and he grinned. "She can help."

Tristan shook his head. "No. She doesn't need to be involved. I will not put her in danger."

Hawke frowned. "Excuse me, but I think I can decide for myself whether something is dangerous or not. I am the Champion of Kirkwall. I've dealt with thugs, Qunari, and all manner of crazy. I think I can handle a single Crow assassin."

"It's not your fight."

Hawke moved closer to Tristan. Her blue eyes met his own in determination. "The fight in the brothel was not yours."

"That is different." Tristan would not budge. Nobody else need get involved in his affairs. Vengeance was his alone. How many times did he have to make that clear? "I was saving you from your own stupidity. If they had seen you were a mage…"

Hawke gripped his arm and her gaze turned fierce. "We are cousins, you and I."

"Are we?" Tristan nearly snorted out loud at the ridiculous idea. But the look in her eyes, the set of her jaw was serious.

"Yes. My mother was an Amell, just as you are. And because I have no other family to fight for…" Tristan detected a hint of sadness in her eyes. He didn't know where it came from or what it was borne of, but it was there nonetheless. "…I will fight for you. If you will have me?"

Tristan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could feel himself relenting to Hawke's wish, if only because it would bring him closer to Arn. And so he held out his hand when he opened his eyes. Hawke took it and they shook in agreement.

"Now," Hawke said, smirking, "we'll see who's saving who from their own stupidity."

…

Only a night later and Tristan stood in the shadows of a darkened alley, waiting, watching for Arn to be lured out of hiding. Zevran stood by his side, calmly twirling a dagger in his hand.

"Why is the Champion of Kirkwall in Antiva City?" Tristan whispered. Hawke waited in a beam of light coming from a window above and across her. She stood not so very far from them, Leandro leaning against a wall beside her.

"Why is the Hero of Ferelden in Antiva City?" Zevran replied with a small shrug.

"You know why I am here."

"I guess you did not hear of what happened in Kirkwall then. Hawke carries a burden, much too large for any woman." Zevran flipped the dagger and replaced it at his belt. "It was one of your Wardens."

"What?" Tristan couldn't hide the confusion he felt. "I've not heard nor paid any attention to any news for some time. I've had much more important things on my mind."

"Important to you, yes. I have no doubt about that." Zevran shrugged. "But the world goes on even if you are stuck in a state of revenge. There was a mage uprising in Kirkwall. Though, they say the mages were forced to such a last stand only because of one man."

"Last stand? What are you talking about Zevran?"

"Your old friend, Anders. He shattered the Kirkwall chantry into a million little pieces, the Grand Cleric and everyone else in there with it. The Knight Commander ordered the destruction of all the mages in the city."

Tristan closed his eyes and sighed. "The Right of Annulment. Anders, what have you done?"

"He's started a war, that's what he's done. Your kind are rising up against those who tethered them for so long." Zevran elbowed him in the arm. "They need a leader."

"It won't be me." He studied Hawke, trying to let go of the thought that he was responsible for Anders' action. He hadn't been there when Anders left the Grey Wardens. Maybe if he had… Hawke wore a dress, cut low over the breasts and worn tightly to form. She'd curled her hair and placed a wilted flower behind her left ear. She was posing as an Antivan noblewoman and Leandro was her servant. He wore a wide brimmed hat that hid most of his face, in case he would indeed be recognized as having travelled with the Hero. They were the bait to lure out Arn.

"And it won't be Hawke," Zevran replied, following Tristan's gaze.

"What has she to do with what happened in Kirkwall? She is the Champion, but that surely doesn't mean she could have prevented what Anders did."

"He lived with her for years. They were lovers."

"I see." He thought that might explain the sense of sadness emanating from Hawke. "I'm afraid to ask what happened to Anders…"

Zevran chuckled. "I too, my dear Warden, have been too afraid to ask that of Hawke."

Tristan turned to Zevran with raised brow, searching for answers from the elf.

"One does not mess with the Champion of Kirkwall, even if one is the famous, ridiculously awesome Crow Assassin who fought by the Hero of Ferelden's side to end a Blight."

Tristan would have replied, yet the sound of approaching footsteps and the appearance of a man with them stopped him from taking even a breath. The man wore a red leather jerkin, his shoulders armored in metal and his arms covered in leather or perhaps drake scales. A plumed helmet covered his head, his face hidden behind a faceplate that revealed only his chin. Leandro straightened up and moved to stand in front of Hawke, but she held her arm out in front of him, keeping him at her side. The mysterious man came to a stop in front of her. He searched the shadows, looked left and right, and then when he thought all was safe enough, he focused on Hawke.

"I am here," he said. His voice was heavily accented, not like Tristan remembered Arn's voice at all.

"It is Dionisio," Zevran confirmed, however.

"But is it Arn?" Tristan could tell nothing unless he could see the man's face, which had been seared into his memory and rested there like a blot of ink that could not be erased from parchment. The only way to get rid of it was to tear it into pieces.

"My mistress is pleased." Leandro tipped the edge of his hat in greeting. "She has need of your abilities."

"And she cannot speak for herself?" Dionisio continued to stare at Hawke.

Hawke reached into her cleavage and pulled out a bag of coins. She held it out in the air between her and Dionisio. "I can. I asked for you specifically because you speak my language."

Everything had been arranged by Zevran and the many ordinary citizens in his pay. One had approached the Crows to relay the message to Dionisio that a hefty reward could be his. Tristan had his doubts the plan would work. If Dionisio was Arn, then anything having to do with Ferelden would surely rouse his suspicions, wouldn't it? The promise of coin, however, had proven so far to outweigh any possible risks.

Dionisio snatched the bag away from Hawke's hand. He drew open the bag, looked inside, took a coin out, felt it in between his fingers, and then placed it back in the bag. He hid the bag on his person.

"Good enough?" Hawke asked.

Dionisio nodded. "More was promised."

"And more will come, should you do what I wish."

"And what is that, dona?"

"I want you to kill my husband."

Dionisio took Hawke's hand and raised it in the air between them. He leaned down toward it, intending to kiss it as a sign of his agreement, only Hawke stopped him midway with her other hand, tapping the faceplate of his helmet. Dionisio looked up at Hawke, his head tilted to the side in apparent confusion.

"Before she comes to any further agreement with you, she wishes to see the face of the man who will kill her husband," Leandro explained.

"But, dona, I…"

"I heard you showed your face to Dona Anabela." Hawke pulled her hand away from Dionisio, feigning affront. "I will see your face, too, or there shall be no deal."

Dionisio straightened out. "That was before."

"Before what?" Leandro goaded. "Are you frightened of something? Someone?"

"Dionisio is not afraid of anyone!" He stamped his foot on the ground as if to emphasize his point. "Give me another advance of coin and I shall consider your request."

Hawke pretended to think about it before she lifted her skirt, exposing her bare legs and another bag of coins attached to her thigh. She trailed her hand over thigh. "You can take this from me with your own strong hand if you show me your face."

"Ah, Isabela taught her well," Zevran remarked as he failed to suppress a chuckle. Tristan whacked him in the arm as warning. But Dionisio did not hear. He was transfixed by Hawke's leg.

"Well?" Hawke teased.

Dionisio's reluctance all but dissolved. He flicked the faceplate of his helmet upwards, exposing his face, but he was still too far and too much in the shadows for Tristan to get a good luck. Hawke seemed to know this. She beckoned him closer, bringing Dionisio into the light, reaching for his helmet and plucking it off. She let it drop to the ground. The clanging noise as the helmet hit the ground rang through Tristan's ears.

"It's him," Tristan whispered hoarsely.

His breath came fast. His heart beat faster. He clenched his fists so hard he thought he might just rip through his own palms. He felt a strong urge to tackle Arn to the ground and strangle the man to death. He burst forward to do just that, yet found himself being jerked back by Zevran. He couldn't be seen, not yet. They didn't have Arn in their grasp. Not yet.

Zevran stepped into the light. "Dionisio, what a surprise!"

Arn twisted his head at the intrusion. His eyes opened wide in shock. His mouth opened to reply, but Leandro knocked him over the head and sent him crumpling to the ground unconscious.

…

Zevran's apartment was not nearly big enough to hold the simmering rage Tristan felt. Finally, one of the assassins was in his grasp. Back and forth he walked, thumping his feet on the floor, calculating all the things he would do to Arn, who lay passed out on the floor. He felt the others around him, could see the underlying fear in their concerned faces. What was he going to do? What was he capable of? Tristan himself was not sure. He only knew that the rage within him would be released. Would it be a pretty sight? He highly doubted that.

Arn stirred on the floor. Tristan paused his maddening pace. His hands shook, begging for him to release some of that rage in a fury of magic. But there remained some rational part competing within him, and for the moment, it won out. He needed to find out certain things before he could get his long awaited revenge.

Three painful years I have waited for this moment.

Arn groaned, placing a hand on the back of his head where Leandro had knocked him over with the handle of an axe. His eyelids fluttered opened and closed. Tristan walked in front of him, bent to his level. Arn's eyes were dazed, his head must be swimming in a dizzy torrent, but when everything seemed to clear, he let out a pathetic mewl at the sight of Tristan kneeling before him. Arn tried to scramble away, yet he turned around only to have his path blocked by Hawke and Leandro. In panic, Arn reached for where his sword should have been, and when it was not there, crumpled to the ground.

"We've already gotten rid of your weapons," Tristan said. "Place him in the chair."

Leandro lifted Arn up from the ground and shoved him into a chair which Hawke placed before them. Arn would not look up at Tristan. When he noticed how the man shook, Tristan felt a surge of delight run through him.

"Do you want us to tie him?" Leandro asked.

Tristan shook his head. He walked over to Arn, lifted the man's chin to look in his frightened eyes, and chuckled. "No, he won't get away. He won't dare try."

"I did nothing…" Arn croaked.

"Then why are you shaking in your breeches at the sight of me?" Tristan laughed. Arn had no reply. The man only jerked his head away from Tristan's hand. The enjoyment Tristan received from seeing Arn squirm wasn't nearly enough to squash the rage billowing within him though. It begged to be let go. It clouded his mind. It made him dizzy with anticipation.

Revenge, he thought. For Brenna.

"This is a spell I rarely use," said Tristan, bringing his hands up in Arn's line of sight, forcing a magical glow from them. "You best hope I don't botch it."

"No please… no!" Arn attempted to stand up.

"Hold him down," Tristan nodded to Leandro and Hawke, "this could get ugly."

The dark purple glow treacherously encased Arn, like a safe cocoon, and then it burrowed into his head. Arn froze where he was, unable to move, unable to do anything as the spell worked its way through his mind, rending it, coursing terrifying visions through his memory, sending fear down his spine and through his limbs. When it exploded from his mind in a burst of millions of glowing particles, he clutched at his head, tearing at his hair, trying to throw the visions out of his mind. He fell off the chair, screamed, and writhed on the ground. After a moment, he calmed, finding a moment of safety as he curled into himself. A moment that would not last.

Tristan pulled Arn up from the ground, gripping him by his shirt and shaking him violently. "Where is she?"

"Who?" he whimpered in reply.

"Your woman."

"I have no…"

"Your wife. Your pretend wife." Tristan pushed Arn back onto the chair so violently that it shattered into pieces, leaving Leandro and Hawke scrambling backward for cover from the flying shrapnel. "The bitch who killed Brenna.

"I don't know…"

Tristan held his hand out. Zevran, who'd been watching the whole interrogation quietly and to the side thus far, sidled closer to him, placing a pair of brass knuckles into Tristan's palms. Tristan fit it over his fingers and closed his fist, making sure Arn saw the way he tested the crude weapon in the air.

"You'll be wishing for horror after this," Tristan told the cowering assassin.

"Please, no…" Arn hid under his arms, or at least tried to. Tristan punched him, the sound of the metal rings crushing bone all too apparent to all around.

"Where is she? Where is Perdita?"

He continued to pummel the assassin. Without realizing it, he wasn't giving the man a chance to answer his query. But his rage, his need for vengeance, was too great and too blinding. And too deafening. The sickening crunch of bone beneath his knuckles did not reach his ears. He never would have done this to someone before. He was a monster and he reveled in it. Only Zevran's tight hold around the bend of his elbow pulling him away from Arn stopped him from dealing an early death to the assassin.

"The whole point of torture is to get what you need, not to kill," Zevran calmly pointed out. Even for someone accustomed to getting information out of people in such a way, the elf looked slightly surprised at the lengths Tristan was going to.

Oblivious to the shock, Tristan grinned at Arn. "Not yet anyway."

Arn looked at him. His right eye was firmly shut, crusty with blood and already puffing up in a purple mess from the beating he received from the brass knuckles. It could not hide the stark fear running through him.

"Tell me, Arn, Dionisio," Tristan raised the assassin up once more, "whatever the fuck your name is."

"I…" The man could barely speak anymore.

"Speak up," Tristan rumbled.

"I killed her," Arn managed to finally rasp out.

"You killed Perdita?"

Arn nodded weakly.

"Why?"

"I couldn't let my failure be known."

"You had to have known I would show up sooner or later."

"I thought you wanted people to think you were dead. And I didn't think you'd bring a posse with you if you came after me."

Tristan laughed. "I don't believe you." And he didn't want to believe Arn. For if Perdita were dead already, it meant vengeance had been stolen from him. How was he to make it up to Brenna? The life of this pathetic fool wasn't nearly enough to satisfy. He'd wanted to get the one who'd taken Brenna's life.

The man could be lying, of course, to save his lover from Tristan's wrath. So Tristan would burn the truth out of him. A fireball, borne of rage and hatred, appeared from the depths of his palm. He let it burn there for a second, watching it glow on Arn's fearful face. And then he sent it onto Arn's hand, scorching the air, wrenching a scream from deep within the assassin's throat. Until Zevran put the fire out with a bucket of dirty water. The scent of burnt skin permeated the room.

"Have care, my Warden. I only have one home."

Tristan glared at Zevran before turning his attention back to the wounded assassin.

"It's the truth," he rasped out pitifully in reply to Tristan's searching look.

Zevran pulled him aside. "I believe he is telling the truth. Failure to the Crows is akin to a death sentence. Besides, he doesn't look like the kind of man who would bravely endure all manners of torture to protect his love."

Tristan grudgingly admitted to himself that Zevran spoke reason. The cloud of rage within him was subsiding. Now, he found he just wanted this to be over with. He didn't know what he was doing anymore. The truth that Perdita was already dead had withered his enthusiasm. Now, he was just disgusted with himself. He turned back to Arn.

"Who hired you?"

It took a great effort, but Arn managed to hock a rather large ball of spit toward Tristan.

Tristan wiped the spit from his face. "You want more?" He let his palms glow the same dark purple color of before, in warning to Arn that horror would not hesitate to depart from Tristan's palms to invade his mind again. Arn shook his head fervently and backed away as much as he could, stopping when he hit Leandro's legs. "Who sent you?" Tristan asked again.

"Anonymous…"

"Bullshit," Tristan interrupted. He let the horror spell float in the air between them. "Who gave you the orders?"

"An elven bitch," Arn replied as he held his hands in front of his face to shield himself from the spell.

"An elf? Tell me more."

"Some high class servant."

"Where did you meet?"

Arn seemed reluctant to say anything more so Tristan let the spell spin high in the air only to come down to stop just inches from the top of Arn's head. He decided reluctance was not worth enduring another horror spell, as Tristan hoped he would.

"In Ferelden," Arn answered. "But the elf had an Orlesian accent."

Tristan shared a look with Zevran. A high class elven serving woman with an Orlesian accent? There were many of those, but only one who served someone who might have a bone to pick with Tristan. He just didn't think that person ever capable of such vengeance.

"What did she look like?" Tristan prodded.

"Dark haired, slanty brown-eyed, pouty lipped elf. She was dressed in fine silks and such. Swaying hips good only for the touch of a horny noble. Even then probably wouldn't let just anyone touch her."

"Did she have a name?"

"No…"

"You're sure?"

Arn nodded weakly. He was barely able to hold his head up straight anymore. "S-she just went by E."

Tristan glanced at Zevran. The elf was thinking the same as him, for he nodded. And so it was all he needed to know. This had gone on too long. Tristan pulled out his sword, without any showboating, without any warning, he stabbed Arn in the belly and twisted. The man grunted in pain, his screams having long ago been wrung out of him, and clutched at the blade of the sword, as if to pull it out. His hands were cut, blood poured from his wound. It was the end and he knew it.

"May your intestines be a feast for Crows." Tristan pulled his sword out. He met Arn's eyes, saw the pleading look there, and by the Maker, he pitied the bastard. He ran the blade of his sword against Arn's throat.

It was finished.

"Was that wise?" Leandro asked as Tristan stood up.

He wiped his sword of the vile blood. But his hands would forever be stained with what just happened. "I got everything I need."

"So who sent the assassins against you?" Hawke asked.

"The Queen of Ferelden," he replied.