"And this is it: The Golden Pandion," Twyla swept her hand out with a flourish as she and Leandra stepped out onto the deck of her ship.
"The Golden Pandion," Leandra echoed. "Now, who came up with the name, and what does it mean?"
"That was me," Anders flashed her a smile. "We were all bandying about possible names, and the 'Sea-Hawk' was the most popular, but there's already several ships registered with that name or one like it. So I remembered that a sea hawk is also what we call an osprey, and there was a myth about a king named Pandion who was turned into an osprey by some god or magister or other, and there you have it."
Faced with the problem of rescuing a hundred and fifty odd people, and no ship to ferry them back from Seheron, Twyla had simply gone out and bought a brand new one for three times the going rate. The person this stunned most was Isabella, who had protested that it could not be done, that ships were commissioned months or even years in advance, not made for sale at market like dishes or ribbons.
At any rate, this meant the ship had no lingering miasma of slavery about it, psychic or otherwise, but was clean and shining, smelling only of fresh wood, tar, paint and varnish.
"It is a beautiful ship," Leandra observed, as she was given the grand tour. Something was wrong, she knew it intuitively, but she did not know exactly what.
Geniuses rarely sprang up at random; usually there were several intelligent people among the clan. Malcolm Hawke had been one of these, but Leandra was another. She knew quite well that Twyla had not gone rail thin and bald simply out of nerves, and that the recent bout of 'bilious fever' which left her bed ridden for several days had not been what she and Anders both said it was. However, Leandra also understood full well why they had not told her exactly how sick her one remaining daughter was.
Something about this rescue mission did not set quite right with her, but she could not tell just what or who was the cause—not yet. Isabella was going, of course. As the captain, and as the only person with exact knowledge of where she had left the refugees, she had to. Anders was going, given the likelihood that some of them would be sick or hurt, and so too was Feynriel , who was turning out to be very good at calling spirits. Some of the refugees were Dalish, so Merrill was going to vouch for their bona fides.
Dagna had recently invented a navigation instrument she called an 'encompass' which she wanted to try out in the real world, so she was going, and Varric was going because he was, well, because he was Varric. Since Twyla was going, so too was Fenris, as her bodyguard.
But why was Twyla going? As Leandra saw it, rescuing the refugees was the right thing to do. They were bringing along provisions and water, they had a boat big enough to carry them all, and they had healers on hand—all that was good and sensible. They were going to go to Seheron, pick the refugees up, and take them somewhere they would be free and safe. That was the plan.
Did they really need Twyla along to do that?
Isabella still looked dazed as she looked around at her new vessel.
"Still hard to believe it's real?" Leandra teased her.
"No-well, perhaps a little. I knew Hawke was rich, but even so, to be able to afford all this at a moment's notice?"
"Oh, I know how she did that," Merrill chirped. "Researching things is like drawing a map as you go along-you find a lot of places along the way that you had no idea were there before you get to where you wanted to go in the first place. It turns out that coal and diamonds are made of the same stuff, only diamonds have their multiatomies lined up so they look prettier. She sold some of them-almost all of them turned out very yellow, which people don't like as much as the colorless sort. I think yellow is much more cheerful. One turned out blue, and she's having that one cut and set for-." She suddenly clapped her hands over her mouth. "I shouldn't have said that, not in front of-I shouldn't have said that, either." The way her eyes rolled in Leandra's direction spoke for her.
"It's all right," Leandra said, amused. "Something that your children made for you is always dearer to a mother than something they just went out and bought. I will remember to be surprised when I get it."
"You will? That's good. It's exactly the sort of thing I would blurt out. I do that a lot." Merrill scuffed her toes along the deck. "I'm sure everyone has noticed."
"It's all right, Kitten," Isabella patted her on the shoulder. "Listening to you is like birdsong—it cheers the place up."
One of the crew, hastily hired from the soberest available men in various dockside taverns, scrambled down a hatch to inform them, "Scuse me, Captain, but there's a lander named Hayder up here says he wants a word with ya—and he brought friends, bout twenty of them, I'd say."
"That dog!" Isabella frowned. "Castillion won't have gotten my letter yet, and even if he had, he couldn't send Hayder here that quickly, so he must have set him on my trail weeks ago. I was afraid of this. Still—twenty of them, plus their leader. We can take them!"
"And get blood on that nice new deck?" Twyla raised an eyebrow.
"Sweet thing, it's likely to get blood on it sooner rather than later," Isabella reached for the daggers on her back and headed topside.
"Let me try a different approach first," Twyla reached for the fan tucked into her belt and snapped it open. "We can always start slinging blades and spells around if it doesn't work." She started up the ladder.
"What? What are you going to do?" Isabella followed her, and everyone else followed Isabella, Varric commenting cheerily on the view of her backside, which earned him a saucy grin. Up top, Twyla drew herself up as tall as she could go, her eyes narrowing and her chin thrust out, idly waving her fan.
"Ah, Isabella, there you are," oozed the nondescript man in leather armor at the head of the pack of assorted ruffians, focusing on the pirate to the exclusion of all else. "Nice new ship you got here. Wonder how you paid for it? That's the question Castillion's gonna be asking—."
He got no further than that, because Twyla cut him off. "Remove yourselves. I do not care to have you cluttering up my ship. You offend the eye."
"Wha—?" he gawked, as well he might. Leandra was quite proud of the dress her daughter was wearing, inspired by and colored like a ancient figured redware wide cup. "Who's this fancy piece, then? Brought your best girlfriend along, have ya?"
"I do not believe you understand this situation. This is not Captain Isabella's ship. It is my ship. I should also add that I am a magister. I repeat: Remove yourselves." Twyla's fanning became choppy, like an annoyed cat flicking its tail. Leandra was impressed; her social training had included the flirtatious Language of the Fan as practiced in Orlais, a series of signals one could send across a crowded room. Twyla had taken it further, as she handled the fan as if it were a literal weapon.
"You're a little behind with the news, Hayder," Isabella was forced into the unfamiliar role of diplomat. "This is Magistra Hawke, who is negotiating to buy my entire cargo. I'm brokering for Castillion."
"Whut cargo?" Hayder sneered. "You've gone and buggered up another run, haven't you?"
"I still believe you do not understand," Twyla cut in again, snapping the fan shut with the finality of a spine breaking. "If I, the buyer, am not concerned about where the cargo currently is, yet I still intend to make payment, I do not see why you should be. Moreover, you are still cluttering up my deck. This is Minrathous, and I am a magister. You are trespassing on private property, and I have the right to punish all of you as I see fit. Should I choose to turn you inside out and keep you alive for the next twenty years in endless silent agony just to observe the workings of your internal organs, the most my peers would say about it is, 'Interesting. How did you do it?' Is this not so?"
She turned to her friends, and with the eye Hayder could not see, gave them a huge wink, her mouth quirking up in a half-smile. They scrambled to agree, nodding for all they were worth. Fenris in particular looked both horrified and disgusted.
"Should you think of slaughtering us all first—well, even should you somehow prevail, the punishment for murdering a magister makes my ideas seem almost merciful." She tapped the closed fan in her palm impatiently. "If you have any doubts about my ability to pay, you are free to ask about me around the city. You might also ask what happened to the last group of people who tried to kill me out of hand. Do not make me tell you to leave again."
Hayder's skin took on the slick glitter of a man who is suddenly awash with fear. "Is that—," He made a gesture for his people to retreat, and they nearly fell over themselves to do it. "V-very sorry to have troubled you."
Isabella shot Twyla one look of admiration and awe before pursuing Hayder down the gangplank. "Just one moment, you. I'm sending off a message about this to Castillion tonight." She poked the unhappy man in the shoulder. "If you've queered this deal, I'm going to suggest he throw you in as a bonus. He's a man who would sell his own grandmothers up the river, and probably did, so don't imagine he'd think twice about selling you. And if so, I hope the Magistra gelds you and makes you wear your testicles as earrings."
Having had the last word, she turned on her heel and marched back up the gangplank.
"Sweet thing," she dimpled at Leandra's daughter, "that was superb." She hugged Twyla around the shoulders. "Now that I know how well you bluff, I'm going to clean you out at Wicked Grace."
"Who says I was bluffing?" Twyla shot back.
Leandra smiled to herself as she watched the scene. That did answer her question about why her daughter had to go along. Twyla was the leader, and whatever situation they encountered, she could get them out of it, somehow or other.
And yet, the sense of something being wrong still nagged at her.
A/N: So yeah, it's been a while since I last updated this story. First, plot bunnies hijacked me and made me start a new fic about Ser Cauthrien and Loghain in which Cailan gets his ass handed to him, called The Lieutenant, and then someone I love a lot had a major health crisis with a predicted slow recovery, so I've been taking care of him. If you like my work, The Lieutenant could use a bit more love, and if you like this one, things should be moving forward again. Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers, and thank you for being patient. Love ya! And I apologize for the chapter title.