Part Five Chapter Four
The tinctures were well received.
Upon his inspection, Ignacio admitted he had not expected Zevran to follow through, but the selection provided was impressive.
The knives, or little dogs as they were sometimes referred to, were all in various states of injury. The young man was not interested at first, but concern washed across his face as it dawned on him what the housemaster truly wanted.
"A Hound's life is one of trial and woe," was how Ignacio phrased his explanation, rolling up the linen packet and passing along a small parcel of gold in payment. "The strong emerge with a fighting chance, but it must be built from grit."
It was simply the way of things. And as housemaster, his job was to see that the young recruits' training was done correctly. Bruises and cuts lined the bodies of the young boys. Several had early signs of infection from broken bones, contusions, and other scrapes on their shaven scalps and thin faces. Innocent eyes were devoid of emotion, only observing the young man as he examined them with a sense of contrition. The sight brought forward memories of his own anguish when he began learning the art of the duel with Taliesen; only then he was older and had the added benefit of a kinder sword master who would end on a high note if he saw his pupil too discouraged. And never had he sustained serious harm in the process.
"My supply nigh will cover this," Zevran said with a grimace, "What you need is a cleric."
Ignacio chuckled lowly, shaking his head, "Neh could this House afford such. Prayers are all that is on offer."
When he looked over, he saw it. There was a faint hint of anxiety in the eyes of the housemaster, though his outward body language was just as relaxed and dismissive as any other time Zevran addressed him. The older man glanced at one of the boys and rested a hand on his bowed head. The child did not move, but the young Crow had to wonder if there was some gentleness there. And then the coldness set in again when he realized how he could have been that child were his circumstances any difference. His gut clenched.
"I will do my best to get you what you require," Zevran finally returned. Ignacio turned to him with a nod.
The Duel Strings were set on a path of high profile errands. No longer receiving treatise from the Vancor, their contacts were assigned directly by retainers of House Arainai or the Guild Master. The thought of working with Taliesen again distressed the young man, but he hid his flourishing resentment behind a perfected mask of charm and indifference. The housemaster of Arnii was not interested in his remorse any longer anyway, and so he was certain his complaints would fall onto hollow ears.
Still, even with the notoriety and esteem of colleagues well above him, Zevran often felt treated as though he was little better than a porter. This was one such day, as he found himself again at the foot of House Mele to deliver a parcel from Gynn. Their conversation was barely civil as the Guild Master eyed him from his desk with a sneer and outlined his expectations of House Arnii's wayward ward. Taliesen was present for that too, but this time chose to stay quiet as the young man was chastised for his perceived lack of attentiveness at a reception garnered just for him – and at great expense, the elder was quick to add!
Such disrespect would not be tolerated. Zevran was walking along the edge of a cliff in Gynn's eyes, and the subtle rebelliousness was not lost on him.
This package was a token apology and to be delivered by the young man himself. Zevran swallowed his pride and accepted the rebuke in the moment, afraid that the scolding might have been over the uncouth scene with the merchant's wife on the balcony. However, with the truth at his back, the young man now steamed over the situation as he paced the block. He never spoke with Luis Mele directly that night, and this was where the insult stemmed. A formal introduction must be done, lest grievances were shared with Eoman later. Plucking up the courage, he ascended the steps and lifted the lever at the grand entrance.
A servant welcomed him, took his cloak and offered refreshment. The behavior was so reminiscent of his youth, the young man stuttered slightly on his reply. Accepting a drink was customary though, and he was allowed some time in the atrium at least to gather his wits before someone would return to direct him to the parlor.
He waited for what seemed like an eternity. The morning sun peaked over the roof of the enclosed garden, rays of bright light casting the well in stark contrast with the shadow beyond it. Rich orange and lilac flowers were in bloom amongst the specially cultivated greens recently reaped for the kitchens. Inspecting the row of foliage, the young man noted several common vegetables he tended and often cooked with as a child. He learned, as he got older, how to add volcanic rock to the soil to help some plants absorb nutrients better, while others he would have to carefully preen off the caterpillars that attempted to eat the buds before they could fruit.
Life was different then. It was all he knew.
"Crow," a meek voice echoed into the atrium, "The Lady will see you now."
He quirked a fine brow, but followed the servant anyway through the tall hallways and into an open parlor on the ground floor farther into the compound. The room was decorated with an opulent array of plush low couches positioned around a central rug. An enormous painting of a storm battered ship preparing to weather a wave covered one wall, and beside it stood the elegant figure of Isabela.
She turned upon their entrance. Today, she was dressed in crème and olive, the folded pleats of her dress hanging off of her figure like a tapestry, cinched inward only at her waist with a wide golden brace. Her hair was curled and donned atop her head with delicate flower pins. Her face was still painted, though more subtly, allowing her natural beauty to shine through her broad grin.
"You may leave," she stated to the retainer, and the pair was left alone.
Zevran glanced around the room, unsure if he should be there. He was to meet the master of the House, not his wife. The woman seemed to catch on intuitively, though.
"Luis regrets that he nigh can meet with you today," she began formally, a crass smile emerging soon after, "In truth, I doubt he remembers you at all anyway."
"Well, then that is a relief, yes?" The young man sauntered forward to a side table and set the parcel down on the dark wood, "I am simply here to deliver this from the Guild Master."
"It is an apology he desires from you, no?"
Zevran turned to leave, but stopped at the rebuttal. Was she referring to Gynn or Luis, he wondered. He chose to make an observation of his own, "You seem quite perceptive, or do you listen in on all the conversations around you?"
"If it is an apology he wants, you can give it to me," Isabela replied, settling on the couch between them.
Irritation was again nipping at the base of his scalp. He feigned brief smirk as he turned back, "Nigh do I see the point."
Isabela snickered and patted a spot beside her, conceding, "Come, sit with me. Perhaps I was a tad manic the other night. I was simply so eager to meet you after all of the tall tales this fine City has on offer!"
"Which ones?" Zevran mused, still somewhat hesitant. Should anyone discover him philandering with a merchant's wife – should Taliesen know – there would be consequences. But the thought of angering the housemaster no longer held him so still as it used to. There was a beautiful woman before him beckoning to share a seat, and an entire city of Shem who would be angered by this action.
He moved around the table, the expression on his sharp profile becoming more feline with each step, "You neh answered my question the other night."
Isabela appeared to be thinking as she half closed her eyes with hum. Tilting her head up to him as he slowly approached her side, she pouted, "I am bored."
"Bored?" Zevran looked down at her and slowly sank onto the cushion. Reaching an arm back to grasp the back of the couch, he positioned himself to face the woman, "What could possibly bore such a lovely creature? You have the world at your fingertips. Were our slippers exchanged, I would live like a king!"
"Of course you would!" Isabela scoffed, gesturing at him flippantly, "You are man! You can do whatever you like."
Zevran dared catch her hand mid-swing, bringing her fingers to his lips in reverence. The motion noticeably subdued Isabela, and she relaxed back into the seat as the silence began to soak in. The young man kept her hand lightly close to him, placing small kisses along her knuckles, amber eyes keenly on her for any response. And the woman watched him, the subtlest of blushes creeping up her tan cheeks.
But the moment was gone in an instant as she gently pulled back, her tone dampened by some unknown emotion, "You are free."
The ludicrousness of the statement caused Zevran to let out the air in his chest. It was a sigh that seemed to fill the room with all his regret, "Neh are any of us free, my dear."
"Do you know what it is my husband trades in?"
Did he care? Zevran turned back to the woman, her attention more on the grandness of the parlor as though it explained so much.
"He trades in the lives of others," she said before looking over at him, conjuring a smile that did not reach her eyes, "It was how he acquired me. It is what fills this home with such grand treasures. It is what garners his friendship with Valisti so unique."
Luis Mele was a smuggler. Such a profession was not unheard of in Antiva. Indeed, entire Houses made their name brokering trade deals on drift across Thedas. And the manner of drift was unimportant. People, things – they were all commodities in the end. It was a person's requirement in life to find their own worth.
The Crows might take special note of his stock then, Zevran suspected. He gave a dismissive tisk.
"He ignores me now," his attention was refocused when Isabela spoke up again, "He says I am too demanding, yet he refuses to release me."
"Demanding," Zevran repeated, unsure where such a refined woman might find herself, were she released from the confines of marriage. Like the Daedric porters and servants, women were a hidden feature of the City, only emerging during the great fall festivals in colorful troupes and on the arms of their male counterparts to and from the Chantry. They were like the flowers in the garden, temporary visions. To be without company said more about the station of the woman than the finery of her clothes or the coin in her purse.
Isabela hummed again and shook away her thoughts before redirecting her words, "I seek distraction from my boredom, is all. It is why I visit Tern under the guise of a barmaid."
"That is quite dangerous, my dear," Zevran replied. "Were something to happen to you, the City would cry out in despair."
With that, the fullness of her laughter filled with room, and the young man could not help be delighted by it. Isabela's entire face bloomed with the shift in her mood as she leaned her chin onto the palm of her hand and considered him, "I am more resourceful than you might believe."
He raised his brows in surprise, "Nigh am I to question."
Isabela bit her bottom lip, the pearliness of her teeth like small talons on her skin, "I would like to know you better."
Zevran jerked away in jest, a faux sense of modesty overcoming him. He peered at her out of the corner of his eye, chortling, "Yet another quite dangerous diversion."
"For us both, no?"
He had to wonder what game she was playing, if she was attempting to lure him into a trap. Access to the wife of a man so close to his benefactor could be a test to see where his boundaries lied. Then again, shoving propriety back into his betters' faces sent a chill of exhilaration through the young man. If they were to determine his worth only by what they deemed suitable for him, to be done away with at the first instance of failure, then perhaps Zevran should reward himself for all that he had done in the process. After all, was it not a prince who taught him to take pleasure where he found it?
To be undone by beauty is the greatest triumph of the Maker.
His voice purred in his long awaited response, "Perhaps we could be each other's distraction then, yes?"
And her smile glowed, "I think I would like that."
Spring was fully in bloom. The strong breeze harkened the southerly passage of ships and nomadic tradesmen to Dockside, bringing with them the seasonal trade from Rivaine and Tevinter. After many years of service, Zevran's morning duties were finally lifted for that of a Rivaini maid. But this did not stop him from visiting the Nevarran brothers daily to take up some of the free time he was given since House Arnii's recognition. The mornings were spent with fond banter and heckling of the patrons.
"You should become a merchant, my friend," Izeek piped up one morning. Nabul snorted into his honeyed tea and continued to wave off the gnats with his fan. Although the day was still cool, the tiny bugs hovered closely around the various powders.
Zevran grinned unabashedly, "And what grand things would I sell? Expensive things, I hope?"
"Aye," Izeek's emphatic nod turned more conspiratorial, "the finest potions for fairest ladies!"
The trio chuckled at the obvious jab. True, there was never a shortage of young and old women alike, mostly maids or local residents making their rounds at the spice stalls, stepping in briefly to check the Nevarran's other wares. If Zevran happened to be present, he would attempt to coax them into buying something extra along with their requested herbs – even just the smallest of trinkets for themselves for all of their hard work over such thankless tasks. If the customer was a man, he would issue a mild guilt trip over how overworked his wife must be, and she deserved better than a miser at the stall. These exchanges were often treated with tittering amongst the clientele, particularly the young women, a good swat from an elderly grandmother if he went too far, and a hearty laugh from the husbands who chose not take him too seriously anyway. And, of course, the occasional ginny for his effort.
Sometimes, these interactions resulted in much larger purchases though, such as one woman who walked away with a rare Orlesian pin adorning her golden curls. She was a shipman's daughter, sent off with her small entourage of fishermen's wives in search of good dry rubs for their stock whilst on their long journey south to Denerim. Zevran thought the item would suit her, and took it upon himself to fit the pin into her hair, spinning some tale about how the last beautiful owner was bequeathed the gift by her adoring lover. So heartbroken was she when her lover died, that she tossed the pin into the sea, only to be found by happenstance within the fishing nets the following season. A brass hand mirror was produced from nowhere then, and the young man ran his finger down her cheek to show her reflection, all the while staring into her soft green eyes and telling her how fetching she appeared.
A parcel of gold was dropped onto the counter.
So effective was his pleasant nonchalance, it became a running joke amongst the stalls that all women would one day meet the great Charm of Tern and fall under his will. The Nevarran brothers certainly filled their coffers around his charisma. He was a welcome sight.
"Here," Izeek offered, handing the young man a bottle of ink, "Take this as payment for today."
"But I have done neh a thing," he protested.
"Take it! Use it!" the Nevarran waved at him before adjusting his headscarf, "I know you have been thinking about another marking. You should find your brother and ask for a favor, I think."
Zevran scoffed and wondered how Izeek could be so observant. What he said was true, but the young man was at a loss about how best to approach Ren. The pair still rarely spoke to one another, and since Santinalia, the Daelish fellow was absent from the tavern. He never did hear from Taliesen about where his son was sent.
He took the gift in kind and went on his way. The Grand Master called the Duel Strings for an errand in Rialto, and the Crow was using the morning as a distraction from his growing unease. Perhaps pondering over how he could use the marking ink would help temper him around the housemaster. And then upon his return, he could refocus on other things that mattered more.