Chapter Fifty-Two: The Thief and the Honor-Bound

The Festival of Tides was in full swing by mid-afternoon. Every square in Qunandar was crammed full of tables and benches. Pillars and porticoes were strung with paper lanterns and wrapped in tendrils of ivy woven with blooming hibiscus. Rose petals in every shade of red imaginable had been plucked and crushed and spread over the ground, filling the air with a heady scent, and every urn within reach was stuffed full with other flowers that had pleasing aromas of their own. It was possible to get drunk of the smell alone, Taarbas decided, but he was no fool. That was the whole point. The tamassrans, after centuries of organizing this event, had everything down to a precise science. It wasn't just a matter of mingling people of desired or qualifying traits in the same space and expecting something to happen. There was always a certain amount of calculated prodding.

Hundreds if not thousands of Qunari milled about, drinking freely of the rare wine served them, chatting casually about work or the weather or the scant news of matters abroad. Taarbas kept to the seat he'd managed to snag and nursed a cup of plain water. At one point, he'd caught a glimpse of Marian and Asari descending the steps of the viddathlok to find seats of their own. He felt his face flush to his ears at the memory of his moment of weakness the night before, a moment he still yearned to savor again. After she had gone, however, he had prayed for hours to restore clarity, to seek balance in the wisdom honed into him. That didn't change how beautiful she looked in her gown of pale green with her abundant red hair flowing in loose curls down her back and over her shoulders. But there was no room for such thoughts as much as he wanted to entertain them. Not here. Not now. Not even at the Festival of Tides.

His chest burned with anticipation, his mind running faster than it probably ever had. Varric and Isabela had done what he asked of them, but the dwarf had come with distressing news. The woman had been captured, taken, and not even her assigned Ben-Hassrath had information to share. If she had found any evidence, it had gone with her and had most likely been confiscated. Worse, if any recognized her for who she was, only capital punishment would suffice.

He glared into his cup, staring at his own reflection like he hated the sight of it. He would have to continue on, regardless. Proof or no proof, this injustice could not stand. He couldn't allow it. The Qun wouldn't allow it, and if the Ariqun was already suspicious as he surmised, it might cushion the blow of punishment he received in return.

Across the square, battle drums beat out a cadence that started out hard and steady but soon quickened and layered upon itself, echoing off the buildings around. A cheer rose from the crowd as the people, some already inebriated, burst into dance. Women of all races were dressed to accentuate curves and other endowments, their dance designed to do the same. The men performed more of a hoquun, displaying their finest physical qualities in kind. Normally, the situation would have been more controlled, the gatherings smaller and more intimate, but the population issue had not been so dire since the last Exalted March against them. Every rank had vacancies, every trait was considered desirable for this new generation. So long as human stayed with human, elf with elf, and kossith with kossith, there was no cause for alarm.

Taarbas drained his water and wondered how well that plan would actually work out. There was already a kossith tanner dancing not far from him with a waif of an elven female. If it came down to a coupling, she'd be dead by childbirth. But he was a warrior. What did he truly know of such things.

After several minutes, the revelry was interrupted by a loud blaring of horns. The crowd stopped and turned, silent for a brief moment before bursting into a deafening roar of cheering. The Triumvirate were dressed in their most brilliant crimson garb and descending to a table set before the viddathlok steps just for them. Taarbas couldn't help but eye up his rival, this first chance at glimpsing him in three years. Little had changed. His frame had bulked up a bit but was still almost too small for a proper soldier's armor. He had been bred for speed and dexterity—not for brute force and strength. His horns had grown more grand and hair glossy, his hands large and suited for the two long swords strapped to his back. His new asala. The soul of an Arishok rather than a Vashkata. The one relief Taarbas felt was that Sataareth was not either of those weapons. At least one memory remained untainted.

The Triumvirate did not even get a chance to sit down before a contingent of soldiers pushed their way through the crowd. There was a rumble of confusion, sudden whisperings and people standing on their toes or on benches and tables to get a view of what was happening. Taarbas, too, found the need to rise, picking himself up just enough to see over the heads of those in front of him, to see the pathetically small form of Isabela be shoved forward between two ranks of kossith warriors, her hands bound behind her. The Arishok immediately boomed that everyone should be seated. The festivities would have to suffer this minor interruption.

"And what is this?" the Arishok mused loudly as he came around the table to stand before the prisoner and her retainers. He eyed Isabela up strangely, as if he thought he should know her but didn't. Taarbas hoped that his rival's memory wasn't half as good as his own.

"This viddathari was caught in your office, Arishok," a Sten responded almost mechanically. "It was presumed she was stealing, and this item was found on her person." He handed over a small object that was indistinguishable due to the distance. Many were straining to see, even more to hear. Taarbas was grateful that he could manage both. Fate was favoring him this day.

The Arishok blanched at the sight of the small object, his eyes wavering from it to Isabela and back again. His lips trembled as if from rage, but he did not speak. He inhaled several deep breaths before he even dared to open his mouth. Wise...but passion was a cruel master, no matter the form it took.

"Followers of the Way," he boomed when he had regained control of himself, "it is a thing we take for granted, that all Qunari are worthy of trust and respect until proven otherwise. But it is also true, that we must be wary of strangers...especially of those that come from far away, from poisoned foreign lands with not a wit to hold between them." He looked back to Isabela, a sly smirk playing across his angled features as that dreaded recognition glinted in his eyes. "This female has already stolen from the Qun once before, taking our most precious thing and hiding it away for her own selfish desires. And, here, she has come among us, to be one of us, and we have welcomed her with open arms. And how is this gracious forgiveness repaid? With further theft!" He turned and tossed the small thing in his hands for the Ariqun and Arigena to inspect.

"She shall be granted a trial," the Ariqun announced after a brief minute. "This...trinket you claim to be stolen is immaterial, Arishok, but still a theft." She stood to raise herself higher and make her voice heard by more of the crowd. "Are there any here that can speak for the actions of this accused Vashkata? This woman Rivaini-born and taught to live upon the sea?"

Taarbas moved forward before Marian could think to react—so he hoped, at least—and pushed his way through the throng. "I am able to speak for the accused, Ariqun."

The smirk on the Arishok's face vanished in a heartbeat as he saw him approach, his silver face dulling to an ashen gray. Hands balled into fists, violet eyes raged a crimson red around the edges. Taarbas did not allow himself to feel even the smallest sense of satisfaction in that. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

"Taarbas," the Ariqun acknowledged, nodding and gesturing to Isabela. "You are free to speak."

"I will be candid, Ariqun. This woman was working for me. Punish her for her actions if you must, and likewise punish me. But I must ask one thing before you do."

The Ariqun nodded again, more shallowly this time as her face took on a bemused expression.

Taarbas took the opportunity and turned to Isabela. "What did you really take, Vashkata, that has so wronged the Arishok?"

The look Isabela gave him was a dangerous mixture of fear, anger, and some strange bit of amusement. Gulping at least half of that down, she winked and moved one shoulder, moving her head at the same time. Taarbas had no idea how to translate her response and posed the question again, this time insisting she say whatever she needed to. Some part of him was beginning to doubt, to worry, and he pressed his own shoulders back to feel the cold metal of Marian's shield and the stiff hardwood of his bladed staff.

Something in the pirate snapped. It was visible...and audible, her body suddenly shaking with a peal of musical laughter. "Your Arishok has not been a very good boy, Ariqun," she said in a playful tone that was almost frightening to hear. "He won Seheron for you, but sacrificed Kont-Aar to the Imperium to get it. He knowingly did this, and I have the-"

"She lies, Ariqun," the Arishok boomed, bursting forward to stand immediately before the table. "And you would trust this...this Nameless to speak for her? This mocks us, Ariqun. It insults all Qunari to allow this to continue! Punish her! Punish her, now, for this theft and that of the Tome of Koslun!"

While in the throes of his outburst, the Arishok did not see Isabela wink to Taarbas again, mouthing to him, this time, where she had stashed this much-needed evidence, that thing that would hopefully save his life and hers, both. It was with great hesitation that he reached two fingers into her bodice and pulled forth the sealed letter from the Tevinter Imperium. The soldiers directly behind him saw and gaped and did not stop him as he broke the letter open and read from its tilting script over-accented with flourishes. He read aloud, clearly, enunciating every syllable as he translated directly to Qunlat. He watched the Arishok carefully, taking in even his stillness as a reaction, noting his bearing, the veins in his hands, the spacing of his feet upon the ground. When he had finished reading, there was utter silence in the plaza, the crowd gaping and in shock that their kin had been sold unto death like the unfortunates in Rivain would be sold into slavery. All for control of an island, an island they had waited years to possess and would have waited still more, knowing that it would come to them with time.

The Arishok slowly turned, the look in his eyes dangerous, a sharp edge to his voice. "And is that all you present, Nameless? It is a horrifying story to those who would believe you, but it could only be that you and this thief planted that document or even betrayed us to the Imperium yourselves. How long did you report you have been abroad? Three years? That is plenty enough time to sell your brothers for a few worthless sovereigns."

"That is not the only evidence I present, Ariqun," Taarbas continued, refusing to back down and handing her the letter complete with blood-red seal. "I also present myself."

"Yourself!" the Arishok exclaimed, feigning laughter. "You are evidence? Of what?"

Taarbas turned and regarded him flatly. "I am Taarbas. I am the lie you told our brothers and sisters before you even faced Tevinter. I am your brother in the barracks and your comrade in the army. I am the Kithshok you murdered, and I am the past you hoped would die."

"You are the liar and traitor, Taar-bas," the Arishok spat, flinging that final syllable like a poisoned dagger. He reached behind him and drew forth his swords, the soldiers immediately backing away and dragging Isabela with them. "And as you insist on corrupting those around you, you force my hand. Qunari! Tal-shok!"

At the word, not even the Ariqun could interject. Taarbas laid hand to his staff and moved with his opponent as the Arishok began to circle. Passion runs hot in those untempered, and the military commander was the first to make his move. He spun in quickly, confident, a small smile on his face that hinted at some morbid pleasure Taarbas was fairly certain he knew the reason for. It was the word of one of the Triumvirate against a nameless, the skill of a seasoned warrior against a weapon gatherer. The flurry of blows jarred his arms as swords connected with staff, but he met his opponent move for move, feint and parry.

He still fought like Vashkata, rapid and precise, jabbing forward like he wielded daggers rather than swords, and any sweeping attacks were meant to eviscerate rather than cleave. It also made him leave few openings that Taarbas could exploit, and even with a staff, he couldn't trip him or catch him off balance. The crowd was pushed back still further as each began to use the environment to his advantage, standing up on benches or leaping down from the tabletops. Taarbas got lucky once, vaulting off the butt of his staff to kick out at his opponent, knocking the Arishok back a few steps and forcing him to catch his breath.

It wasn't enough of an opening, and all it succeeded at was angering the commander even more. With a shout, the Arishok spun in again, slashing down and out quickly and making Taarbas work for every block. It was a tactic, a ploy. He above all others knew the exile's weakness, and he must have hoped it could be exploited through sheer exertion. When waiting him out didn't work, he moved again—too quickly for Taarbas to recover from a deep lunge with his staff. But instead of stabbing out with the shorter of his two swords, the Arishok turned it in his hand and jabbed with two of his fingers out and up, deep into the scarred flesh between two of Taarbas' ribs.

Taarbas found that he couldn't breathe. Bile filled the back of his throat and he barely had the time to react before the Arishok's boot connected with his gut as his swords came down at once to knock the staff from his hands. He went flying backwards, landing face-down in the crushed rose petals as the world around him became little more than white noise. Through a haze, he saw Isabela break free of her captors and charge forward, the Arishok kicking her back as well. He couldn't see, but Marian's voice seemed to carry over the din of the crowd, his name repeated over and over. No...not his name...the rank forced upon him.

Air simply wouldn't come in anything but gasps and wheezes. The Arishok was stepping closer, his voice saying something in low tones but it was unintelligible through all this...this chaos. His mind, he couldn't think, couldn't reason. He needed to breathe! His weapon was gone, and the rules carried that he would have to do without or die. Fighting for precious air as he was, he found himself falling into a spiral of hopelessness. Closer. Closer. The boots in the blood-red petals were agonizingly slow in their approach, the inevitable death blow taking too long in its delivery.

Remember who you are, Qunari.

Asari's voice came unbidden from somewhere in the mental maelstrom. Her smile. Her touch on his scar.

You are more than this.

Marian. Her copper hair in the sunlight, the smell of it when he'd held her. That look of purest contentment when she gave him her shield in exchange for his crimson sash. Her shield. The metal was hot against his back as it absorbed the heat of the sun.

The Arishok stepped closer.

Coughing and still fighting for air, Taarbas forced his hands beneath him, pushing himself to his knees. The Arishok halted, his stance casual as he watched his opponent struggle, his face aglow like this was some secret joke between them.

"You have nothing, Qunari," he said, his voice little more than a murmur. "You have no soul, no rank, and no weapon. Accept your fate, and there might be some hope of honor granted you in death."

Taarbas made it the rest of the way to his feet, shrugging the heavy metal of the Amell shield onto his left arm. He turned to regard the Arishok even as his breath came in shallow, rattling gasps. "My soul you see before you," he returned, his voice hoarse but functional. "My rank you bestowed yourself. And you are a fool to think me without a weapon." And, inhaling the deepest breath he could, he charged forward, bashing the Arishok across his smirking face with the shield, spinning and ramming it into his stomach before turning one last time and bringing the pointed edge of the bottom down as hard as he could into the crook of the stunned warrior's elbow.

He felt the metal bite deep into flesh and sinew, smelled the blood and heard the bone crack. The Arishok howled in pain, and the sword dropped from that hand to hit the stone with the ring of steel. Drawing another breath, Taarbas reflected on everything he learned from watching Marian. There was something she had done, a move with sword and shield that left no defense open and gave the opponent no time to counter. He had no sword, but he held that same shield. And the claws of his right hand would suffice. His opponent still reeling, he moved. He rose up on the balls of his feet, coming in again in a sort of spin that brought the edge of the shield slicing through the Arishok's abdomen, his claws swiping across his face, and the shield back again to bash the vashedan fool in a shattering blow to the jaw. And he kept it up. His own rage was taking hold, keeping him going where air could not, as he mercilessly laid into his opponent with the bottled fury of one betrayed.

At last, the Arishok fell to the assault, his face bloodied and his arm useless. His other hand clutched at his stomach to try to staunch the bleeding there even as he glared defiantly upward.

"Finish it," he slurred, his broken jaw nearly failing him. "Take your honor with my life."

It was spoken like a challenge or a threat. Taarbas stared down at him, his boot planting his former brother-in-arms to the ground. His chest rattled with his ragged breathing, his ruined lung filling with fluid. His eyes met those of the Arishok, diving inward to try to glimpse the threads of his inner spirit. All he found was anger. All he felt was loathing.

"You are not worth dying to me," he replied, shoving himself away from the fallen Arishok with what strength was left in him. He turned to regard the Ariqun, his body wavering from weariness, but he walked toward her all the same. His head was held high, his shoulders set. He would accept his fate as she dictated. The crowd was deathly silent.

"Taarbas!"

Isabela's voice cut through the air like a freshly forged blade. Turning was awkward, but Taarbas managed, blinking away the stars beginning to clutter his vision. The Arishok had gotten to his feet and retrieved one of his fallen weapons. A moment later, he was charging forth, screaming out a war cry that was barely intelligible.

Adrenaline surged forth and gave him enough strength to defend himself. The Arishok's sword beat down harmlessly on the shield as Taarbas stepped out and around, turning and bringing the shield down one last time on his opponent's exposed back. There was another cracking sound, a gurgle, and Taarbas jerked the shield free as the other fell limply to the ground, his spine severed.

He didn't hear the crowd's reaction, didn't hear or see the soldiers move forward to inspect the scene. He merely collapsed to the ground, himself, landing face to face with the glassy stare of the only true enemy he had ever known. His comrade. His brother. Gentle hands were suddenly on his arms, his back, tugging and pulling until he was rolled over. Everything was so bright, a whiteness blinding him from somewhere above. But he saw her face. Marian crouched beside him with Asari beside her. Both were worried, but Marian was absolutely frantic. He felt himself smile.

"Do not...worry, kadan," he breathed, somehow finding the strength to reach up and caress her face. There were tears there. "You...are my true soul."

And there was nothing more.